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[flywolfwriting]

Just Pretend - Prolog

“I could always rely on you and you could always rely on me.”

Crowley stared into the crowded pub, seeing nothing. He’d spent most of the day replaying the night, like running his finger over a blade just to see if it was still sharp. It cut every time, just how quickly everything had gone to shit.

The dance plan had gone so well; Nina and Maggie had realized they would work together, even if there may or may not be some delays to that development. Crowley had even felt like there might be something there with Aziraphale, like perhaps the angel was ready to move forward finally. Something Crowley hadn’t fully realized he wanted until Nina made the comment.

It wasn’t the first time someone had assumed he and Aziraphale were partners, and they’d always shut it down because they couldn’t be, not without risking total destruction. But things were different now. Now they could be them. The four years since Armageddon didn’t happen had been so promising. They didn’t have to hide. Sure, he lied to Shax about talking to Aziraphale, but that was because she was - obviously - a demon, and therefore unhinged.

As was proven last night.

Crowley wished Beelzebub had just told him why they wanted Gabriel in the first place. He probably wouldn’t have believed them, but maybe it would have made a difference. Maybe they could have avoided all of this… except for the Book of Life thing.

If only Gabriel hadn’t gotten off the elevator. He should have walked into Hell completely naked with a box, not Aziraphale’s book shop.

Satan but even thinking his name hurt.

Crowley threw back the rest of his drink. He’d chosen a cheap whiskey; he couldn’t bring himself to do what he was doing to anything worth drinking - and that was getting absolutely sloshed.

The bartender made last call, and Crowley slapped his glass back onto the table with a sour look. All day and all  night he’d been here, watching the door, hoping to see Aziraphale come through it with an apology on his lips, and Crowley would have forgiven him.

He shouldn’t have been surprised to be disappointed. Aziraphale always came back, but this time felt different. It felt more permanent.

Crowley stood and made his wobbly way from the pub, dropping heavily into his car.

“Take me somewhere far away from here,” he said, and the Bentley listened.

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[flywolf33]

Check out my profile on Wattpad, I'm Flywolf. https://www.wattpad.com/Flywolf33?utm_source=web&utm_medium=tumblr&utm_content=share_profile My parents like to tell this story about my second grade parents' night, where the class set out the little stories we'd written and illustrated and the parents got to wander through and read them. All of the kids had one, maybe two little books on their desk, and then they got to mine and there wa...

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[flywolfwriting]

Just Pretend - Ch. 2

It took almost half an hour standing on the sidewalk to work up the courage to walk through the door.

The door was locked and Crowley could feel the wards’ resistance, but the shop remembered him and opened the way. It surprised him how little had changed. Fifteen years was no small amount of time, especially when someone new to earth was involved. A few newer works littered the crowded bookshelves, the chairs had been replaced, and the rug covering the gateway to heave was larger, but other than that things appeared to be untouched. It almost felt like home.

But it didn’t smell of Aziraphale.

Yes, the angel’s scent had almost become that of the books themselves, but there was always that hint of fresh linen and warm summer rain as a constant undercurrent - an undercurrent that had been replaced by the sharpness of new paper.

He shouldn’t have come here. The knife might not cut as deeply but it was still sharp and he was sitting here picking at the scabs. Crowley was just turning back toward the door when someone spoke.

“Oh! It’s you!”

He glanced back to see the same small angel standing at the end of one of the aisles. They no longer wore the crisp white constable’s uniform, but it was undoubtedly Muriel. They now wore pressed trousers and a lavender button-down with their dark hair braided and draped over their shoulder. Crowley looked them over. “I was just leaving,” he said, making once again to leave.

“Wait!” the angel said, taking several steps forward and stopping only when Crowley had done so.

He raised an eyebrow at them.

“I didn’t know you were back in London,” Muriel said after a moment of floundering.

“Not for long,” Crowley said flatly. “Just passing through.”

“If you’re looking for Archangel Aziraphale I can call him-”

The moment they said his name Crowley grimaced. “Please don’t,” he said, interrupting the rest of their offer. “Goodbye.” He turned and pushed back through the door, ignoring both Muriel’s spluttered protests and the shop’s wards tugging on him as though trying to pull him back in.

He shouldn’t have come in the first place.

Crowley made his way across the street. The record shop was gone, but Give me coffee or give me death was still open. He slipped inside and took a moment to observe the place, not unlike he’d done with the bookshop.

The decade and a half since he’d last been by certainly showed here; the layout of the seating area had changed, and a small nook in the front corner sported padded benches and shelves of vinyls next to an old-fashioned jukebox, which was currently silent. A few vinyls spotted one wall, highlighting the nook. Two teenagers stood behind the counter, one bouncing about making drinks and the other standing at the register looking bored.

It was the latter that called out to him. “Oi, you! You gonna order or stand there looking dumb?”

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Ao3

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[flywolfwriting]

Upon These Wings Ch. 9: Hints and Clues

I’d cried myself into exhaustion by the time night fell. My nest was so dark I could only make out the shapes of things and still I could not sleep. Dark had tried calling me down once, but he quickly gave up.

Even though I’d been up there for hours, the anger and hurt still clenched in my stomach. I thought they were my friends, finally, but they didn’t seem to want to be. It wasn’t fair. Here were the only two people who had any idea what I’d really gone through, who were just as trapped here as I was, and yet I was so incredibly isolated from them. And now Dark was trying to alienate me from my project team. My relationship with most of them was polite at least, but what about Jada? I liked her, and I thought she liked me. If Dark was right, she was ignorant at best, playing me at worst.

I hated how utterly alone I was.

The keypad’s faint beeping snapped me from my thoughts. I sat up as the door swung open. Jakes’ silhouette remained burned into my eyes as the door clicked closed behind him, loud as a gunshot in the silence.

He was three steps into the room before I fully processed what was happened and scrambled to my feet, wings scattering pillows behind me in my haste. “J-Jakes!”

He paused. “Three,” he said curtly, “or is it Dawn now?”

Fear began creeping up my spine. Something was very wrong here.

That fear quickly turned to annoyance and then anger - Dark was sitting down there somewhere messing with my emotions, tamping down my rising fury and stoking the fear. He wasn’t even trying to be subtle. Infuriatingly, it worked, and despite my attempts to control myself I began slowly backing away from the director invading my room.

“Stop,” Jakes commanded, resuming his approach.

I continued my retreat. “What do you want?” I asked, and I hated that my voice trembled.

“Stop,” he insisted, suddenly taking several large strides and reaching for me.

I stumbled backward, tripped on a pillow, and fell through the glass into open air.

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[flywolfwriting]

Love is Patient, Love is Blind Chap. 6

Jon was quiet the whole time, staring blindly at the ceiling as Martin talked. Sometimes he’d make a face, or open his mouth like he was going to say something, but in the end the most reaction Martin got was the clenching of fists in the blanket. 

The silence in the room when Martin finished was the heaviest he’d experienced - and given his experience with silence, that was saying a lot. 

Jon finally began asking questions, most of which led back to his skeptical paranoia and he ended up accusing Martin of neglecting his work ‘as usual’ in favor of concocting this elaborate lie and taking advantage of Jon’s injury. He tried to get up again, but Martin was able to get him back down long enough for Mayla to give him a mild sedative. 

She gave Martin a little bit too. 

—----------------------------

Basira arrived in the middle of the night, which Martin discovered when he blearily stumbled down the stairs to make breakfast and found her sitting at the table with Mayla and Berritte. All three looked up as he hit the bottom stair and froze. Her narrowed eyes told him that the other two had told her everything. 

He didn’t have the energy to do more than blink at her before fumbling into the kitchen for tea. Mayla slipped upstairs and Berritte vanished through the glass doors into the garden. Basira leaned against the counter behind him. 

“Tell me what happened.”

The kettle was still warm. Martin selected a morning tea and poured the water over it, enjoying the ritual. Part of him hoped Basira would leave, let him wallow in his misery alone, but she was patient. 

“He woke up and panicked,” he said. 

Basira’s silence was daunting. 

He sighed. “He couldn’t see, and he thought… he thinks Michael stabbed him. That wasn’t long after you met us. You remember how paranoid he was.”

“He was right, though,” Basira pointed out. 

“But he’s not now,” Martin said, dunking his tea bag. “He just… it hurts, being reminded he once thought I’d lie to him. Especially like this.”

Martin hadn’t turned around so he couldn’t see her face, but Basira’s voice softened. “I’ll talk to him. He seemed to trust me at the time.”

He nodded mournfully, remembering when he and Tim thought she and Jon were hooking up. He heard her move towards the stairs and he spun around. “Basira-”

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[flywolfwriting]

Love is Patient, Love is Blind - Ch. 1

At first, they weren’t sure Jon would make it.

Martin woke up in the basement of Hilltop Road, curled around Jon’s body in the same protective embrace he’d held him in at the Panopticon what felt like only moments before.

It was Jon’s body and not Jon because his heart wasn’t beating. He’d needed to die to cut the tether, so that’s what he’d done.

Martin didn’t know how he’d gotten Jon’s heart going again. He’d learned enough from caring for his mum to know that CPR didn’t work on people who died from physical trauma. Restarting your heart didn’t matter when you’d been killed by blood loss.

But Martin panicked and tried anyway and somehow it worked.

He immediately bundled his shirt over the wound to stop further bleeding and found an old wired phone at the bottom of the stairs. Praying it worked, he dialed the one number he had memorized: Basira’s.

By some miracle, she picked up.

“Martin?” she’d said, incredulous, and then spent the next minute trying to calm Martin down enough to understand what he was saying. “I’m on my way, keep him from bleeding out.”

Five minutes later there was a knock and, surprised Basira had been so close, Martin dashed upstairs to let her in.

It wasn’t Basira.

A man with a large briefcase and long coat stood on the step. “Basira called me. Where is he?”

“I- w-what? Who are you?”

The man pushed inside impatiently. “Dr. Midec, a friend of Basira’s. Now, take me to your friend so I can keep him alive.”

“Boyfriend,” Martin muttered as he led the doctor down. He opened his case to reveal an array of medical equipment. Martin watched him work, trying to stay out of the way and help where he could. Please don’t die, Jon, you promised together, don’t go where I can’t follow, hold on Jon, hold on…

And  then the doctor was asking for Martin’s hand to prick a finger and test blood type. The time it took to process was the longest five minutes of Martin’s life, even as he watched the doctor set up a field transfusion kit just in case.

O Negative. He could save Jon.

He gladly held out his arm and nearly sighed with relief watching the blood pump through the tubing. A forever and a half later, color began to creep back into Jon’s cheeks and his breathing seemed easier. Martin started to relax, just a little.

Then Basira was there exchanging rapid words with the doctor but Martin was too exhausted to bother paying attention. He held Jon’s hand and allowed himself to drift for a while. He woke when Basira shoved orange juice and a small packet of biscuits into his hands and ordered him to drink up. He obeyed without argument.

He realized the doctor was gone. When had he left?

Basira sat next to him as he nibbled his biscuits without speaking; she seemed to understand his silence.

The doctor returned, carrying a new suitcase and a long, bagged object. He gave the suitcase to Basira and opened the bag to reveal a cot. He swiftly set it up, then he and Basira gently moved Jon onto it. Then the doctor left again.

“What happened?”

Martin blinked at Basira, who was sitting next to him against the wall again. He opened his mouth, closed it, and then tried again. He numbly explained everything to her, the words spilling out of him as if on their own accord. He told her about how after he sent them to blow the  gas line he ran up the stairs as fast as he could, how when he burst into the room at the top of the Panopticon he’d thought he’d made it on time. Then he’d seen Elias’s body and he felt like his life had ended too.

Basira’s horrified expression melted into pity as he told her about how he’d tried to get Jon to leave, get him out of the tower; how there was no other choice, that Jon held him and curled into him as they were swept away by the Web, how Jon died in his arms. That he woke up here and somehow… somehow Jon was still here and they had a chance.

And then Basira told him that it had been a year. A whole year since they stopped the Nightmare World. She explained that people remembered, and people knew that the Archivist started all of it; that even though the memory was fading, like a bad dream, there were still a lot of people who would know Jon and a lot that would want to hurt him.

“But… he saved them.”

“Most of them don’t care,” Basira said not unkindly. “It’s probably best the two of you stay out of sight for a while. Harv and I will take care of everything for you until it’s safe to move Jon.”

“Where can we go?” Martin asked miserably.

“We’ll figure it out. For now both of you need to rest. No-” she said, holding up her hand to stop Martin’s next question. “I’ll answer more questions when you’re a little more coherent. You look l ready to pass out any moment.”

Martin acquiesced, lacking the energy to argue. She wasn’t wrong.

Dr. Midec returned with a second cot, which Basira helped him set up next to Jon’s.

“I’ll be back in about an hour with some blankets and food,” Basira promised. “Nobody comes in here, so as long as you’re quiet, you should be reasonably safe. I own the property anyway, so it’s not like you’re squatting.”

Martin’s brow furrowed, but he knew she would only shake her head. She was right; he was tired. After Dr. Midec assured him he would check in every hour and Basira further promised to return with supplies soon, Martin crawled onto his cot and, with his hand firmly clasped around Jon’s, fell asleep.

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[flywolfwriting]

Paranoia Sharp as a (Bread)Knife

Jon was not a brave man, but he was growing used to the idea. Not everyone could be brave - not everyone needed to be brave. It was okay to not be brave. 

 The point was, he didn't know what had come over him. He'd been so angry about Helen, but it's not like he could have made Michael bring her back. Of course attacking him hadn't gotten him anywhere - nowhere except stabbed. Of course that's where it got him; Michael's fingers were basically knives. Of course Jon had leapt without looking. Of course he was here. 

 He'd stayed still for some time, watching for more doors, but only his normal office door remained. Jon thought about waiting for someone to find him, but he disregarded that idea quickly; he couldn't let anyone see him like this. What if whoever found him was Gertrude's murderer? They could easily take advantage of his weakened state. No, best nobody saw him. 

 That meant he had to find a way out without crossing paths with anyone and with as few doors as possible. The canteen would likely be empty; no one should be on lunch this time of day. Getting upstairs that way had the added benefit of only one door - his office. After that it would be a straight shot outside. That would be the hardest part to do without being seen, but first thing's first: the canteen. 

 Jon slowly stood, using his desk to help pull himself to his feet as he ground his teeth against the pain. He gave himself a moment to let the world stop turning, then made his way to the door. He hesitated for a long time before finally reaching out and turning the knob. 

 Nothing beyond the ordinary; just his assistants' desks surrounded by piles of books and statements, the main staircase leading to the rest of the institute on the wall opposite. It would be a shorter path, but a more populated one. Not safe. 

 He turned and staggered down the hall, one hand pressed to his side and his other using the wall for support. Each step was harder than the last. Jon had to stop and rest at the bottom of the stairs, breathing hard and struggling to hold back a whimper with each exhale. He couldn't remember ever being in so much pain. 

 How long had it been? Would anyone notice he wasn't in his office? Had he closed the door? He needed to hurry; if anyone came looking for him…

 Dragging himself up the stairs was one of the most agonizing experiences Jon had every subjected himself to. By the time he reached the top he was all but crawling, held upright only by his grip on the railing. He'd left a splattered trail of blood, but he didn't have it in him to care at the moment. Nobody but the archives team used these stairs, and all of them had already gone on break. Nobody would see the stains until tomorrow. 

 Jon rewarded his victory by leaning against the counter and taking deep breaths until he stopped crying. He still had so far to go just to leave the institute, and then he still had to get a block over to the A&E… he was lucky they were so close. 

 "Oh hey Jon, when did-"

 He whirled around and finally the pain was too much; he cried out, collapsing back into the counter and sliding down its front to land hard on his butt. He curled his knees to his chest and clutched at his side. His lungs struggled to remember how to work, drawing air in ragged gasps as Jon's side screamed. 

 "J-Jon? Are you oka- oh my god." Martin's hand was at his elbow, trying to draw his hands away from his side. 

 Jon flinched. "Don't touch me!" 

 The movement caused his vision to darken for a terrifying moment, but he saw the flicker of hurt over Martin's face as he pulled away. "What happened?" 

 Jon frantically cast about for an excuse, anything but the truth - Helen was as good as dead because he'd failed to save her. His eyes caught on the handle of a knife poking out of the sink. "I, ah, cut myself with the bread knife," he said. 

 Martin's gaze flicked to the object in question, eyebrows twitching upwards. "The bread knife."

 "...Yes."

 Martin's frowned. He reached forward again and Jon cringed away. "Let me look," he said, voice somehow soft and commanding at the same time. Jon grudgingly shifted so Martin could see, refraining from stopping his assistant when he gently lifted his shirt out of the way. Martin inhaled sharply. "I'm calling an ambulance," he said, standing and reaching for his phone. 

 "No!" Jon scrambled to his feet, leaning heavily against the counter and choking back a scream. Why did moving hurt so much?  

 Martin stopped and turned back to him. "That's going to need stitches; you have to go go the hospital."

 "I can get there perfectly fine on my own," Jon said through gritted teeth. 

 "Jon, you can barely stand-" 

 "I made it from my office, didn't I?" Jon snapped, and didn't realize his mistake until it was too late. 

 "Your office?" Martin said. "You said it was a bread knife." 

 "It. Was." 

 Martin's lips pressed into a thin line but he didn't question it further. "Fine," he said. "No ambulance, but I'm taking you to the A&E." 

 Jon started to protest, stepping forward, but his traitor legs wobbled and he collapsed again. Martin caught him, quickly adjusting to not put additional strain on the wound. 

 "You're losing a lot of blood," Martin said, face pale. 

 Jon got his feet under him again and tried to push Martin off, but his assistant wouldn't release his shoulders. 

 "I can carry you-"

 "No!" 

 Martin made a frustrated noise in the back of his throat. "Fine! Just let me help you!" 

 There was really no point in arguing now; Martin had seen, and even if he was lying about something Jon didn't think he'd go to all this trouble just to kill him somewhere else. Both of them, and the kitchen, were smeared with Jon's blood anyway. He couldn't get away with it even if he did want to murder him. Jon finally nodded. "Okay."

 "Thank you." Martin carefully guided Jon's arm around his waist and wrapped his own around Jon's shoulders to support him, leaving Jon free to press his remaining hand against his wound. "I don't drive," he said apologetically, "so we're going to have to walk, unless you've changed your mind about-" 

 "I haven't," Jon said. He needed to focus on putting one foot in front of the other or he wouldn't make it. It would be absolutely humiliating if Martin had to carry him. He couldn't let himself be that vulnerable. 

 Martin sighed but didn't argue, merely adjusted his grip on his boss and steered him down the street. They got a few looks, but for the most part they managed to keep their heads down. Or maybe Jon simply stopped noticing, focused on staying conscious as he was. 

 Only a few people occupied the seats in the A&E waiting room, so Martin guided Jon to one in the corner before going to the desk to get the paperwork. Jon sank gratefully into the chair, swallowing great gulps of air and willing the pain to go away. He wondered, if he'd actually undertaken the journey on his own, if he would have made it. He pictured himself collapsed in a gutter, bleeding out, unnoticed until someone called the police on an apparent drunk. 

 "Jon."

 He looked up to find Martin sat next to him, holding out a clipboard for him. 

 "You have to fill this out." 

 "I've been stabbed," Jon muttered blearily, taking the paperwork. "What else do they need?"

 Martin's eyes narrowed but he merely shrugged. 

 When Jon started writing his hand was followed by a smear of blood across white paper. Martin gently took the clipboard and pen back. "Maybe I should write for you," he said. 

 Jon nodded. He should be suspicious of Martin's motives, worried about the personal information he was freely telling his assistant - his suspect, the man he knew without a doubt was lying. He had the proof tucked in his drawer. Right now, though…

 He was just too damn tired. 

 He tried to stay awake. They were in a public place with cameras so there’s no way Martin could make a move against him, but he couldn’t let his guard down. Martin was just trying to win his trust, but he didn’t know that Jon knew he was lying. Still, try as he might, Jon found himself nodding off, slumping against Martin’s shoulder. 

 Jon was suddenly jostled roughly awake by Martin shaking his shoulder and repeating his name, eyes wide with worry. Before he could fully process this, he was being pulled to his feet by unknown hands. Panic rose in Jon’s throat and he flailed his arms weakly to fend off his attackers. 

 “Jon! Jon, it’s okay, they’re taking you back now, it’s alright,” Martin soothed, grabbing Jon’s wrists and gently but firmly holding them still. 

 Jon’s vision slowly cleared enough that he could see the strange hands did in fact belong to doctors - doctors who were now frowning at him. They began to guide him towards a wheelchair, but the moment Martin began to sit down instead of following Jon panicked again. 

 “M-Martin!” 

 His assistant looked up in surprise, then his gaze flicked to one of the men holding Jon up. The man shrugged. “If you can keep him calm, you can come back.” 

 Jon sagged with relief and allowed them to settle him in the wheelchair. He stiffened when they reached the door but before he could protest they were pushing through into the sterile hallway of the A&E. As soon as he was settled in a bed they were attaching IVs and making calls and Jon couldn’t follow along anymore. He was just so tired. Assured that Martin wasn’t going to leave him to the mercy of the doctors Jon allowed sleep to pull him under. 

 —--------------

 Quiet cloaked the room when Jon came to, the steady beeping of machines the only sound piercing the fog. He didn’t want to wake up, but he didn’t like to sleep either; plagued as his dreams were by statements. He didn’t mind this half-existence, floating on the edge between sleep and consciousness. It was peaceful. No thoughts, no dreams… only him. 

 Jon slowly became aware of throbbing pain in his side, just below his ribs. It was dim, but there with each beat of his heart. He groaned. 

 Immediately there was motion. “Jon?” 

 His eyes snapped open. Martin sat to Jon’s left, watching him with wide eyes. “Martin, what-”

 Moving was definitely a bad idea. Pain flared through him and Jon dropped back with a yelp. Martin jumped up. “Do you need anything? I can go get a nurse-”

 “No, no,” Jon said quickly, “that’s not necessary.” 

 Martin hesitated, but sat back down. It was only then Jon became aware of Martin’s hand resting on his own. He looked down where they lay on the blankets and Martin snatched his hand away, face flushing and looking anywhere but Jon’s face. “You were out for a while,” he said with a cough. “You lost a lot of blood and needed a transfusion.” 

 Jon grimaced. “How long have you been here?” 

 “The whole time; they let me stand in the corner for most of it.”

 “Most of what?” 

 Martin shrugged, still not looking at him. “Just cleaning it and stitches really. It’s not very deep.”

 Jon wrinkled his nose, grateful he at least hadn’t been awake for that. He was not a fan of needles. “Why didn’t you leave?” 

 Now Martin met his gaze, startled. “Y-you asked me not to,” he said.

 Well that didn’t sound like him; he hated Martin. Right? But… he didn’t want to be left alone. Not here. 

 A gentle knock came from the door and Jon jumped. Fortunately it was merely a nurse checking in, smiling when she saw Jon. “Oh good, you’re awake. How do you feel?” 

 “Like I got stabbed,” Jon said flatly. Martin made a noise in the back of his throat but was once again avoiding looking at him. 

 The nurse hummed. “You’re lucky; the wound is long, but shallow. As long as nothing changes,  you should be able to go home in a few hours.” 

 Jon sighed in relief. 

 She checked the machines before leaving. She didn’t close the door, at Jon’s request. As long as he could see into the hallway, Michael couldn’t trick him with a false door.

 They sat in awkward silence for a while, not looking at each other. Martin fidgeted with his hands. “Tim called,” he finally said. 

 “What did he have to say?” Jon said acidly. 

 “J-just… they went looking for you and found your blood all over your desk. He thought maybe…” 

 “I wound up like Gertrude.” It came out flat. 

 “Erm… yeah.” 

 “Bet he was disappointed to find I’m alive,” Jon muttered. 

 “Jon, you know none of us are trying to kill you,” Martin said reproachfully. “Why would we want that?” 

 “I don’t know, why would anybody want Gertrude dead? I certainly didn’t, and I ended up with her job, which makes me the next target!” 

 Martin growled with frustration. “I wish you would just trust us!” 

 “How can I?” Jon snapped, then took a sharp breath as his side twinged. 

 Martin’s face immediately softened. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t argue. It’s just… I- we’re worried about you.” 

 Jon looked away and they fell back into silence, the machines a metronome to time passing. Finally, Jon broke the silence. “Thank you.” 

 “What for?” 

 “...Staying with me.” 

 A small, shy smile tugged at Martin’s mouth and Jon had to firmly remind himself that he hated him. “Of course, anytime. Oh- um, that is to say, I don’t want you to get hurt, just, um, if you need help. You can count on me.” His face burned red again. 

  He could be a murderer, and don’t forget he’s lying about something.

 “Yes, well.” Jon sighed. “I wonder how long they need me for.” 

 It turns out they didn’t need him much longer. They loaded him up with pain medication and antibiotics, cleaning instructions, and informed him the stitches would dissolve on their own. Thank goodness for that - he didn’t want to have them taken out. It would be too much like… well, it would be unpleasant. 

 Martin insisted on taking a cab back to Jon’s flat with him and seeing him inside and settled on the sofa, a large bottle of water and a cup of tea on hand. 

 “Do you need anything else?” 

 “No, Martin, I’ll be fine,” Jon said, exasperated. He hadn’t wanted this much help anyway. He certainly didn’t want his assistant hanging around, hovering over him in his own apartment. “Go home. I’ll see you tomorrow.” 

 Martin suddenly grew stern. “Oh no, you are not going to work tomorrow. You are going to stay right here and rest, like the doctor told you to.”

 “Martin-” 

 “Jon.” 

 They stared at each other for several beats before Jon relented. “Fine! Fine. I’ll take tomorrow off.”

 Martin relaxed. “Do you want me to stop by?” 

 “No, Martin. I’m fine.” 

 He frowned but turned away anyway. “Call me if you need anything,” he said, then left, locking the doorknob on his way out. 

 Jon stared after him for a long time, sitting in the dark of his apartment. He didn’t move until hunger drove him to the kitchen. He turned on all the lights, made sure every door was open, heated up canned soup, and settled back on the sofa. 

 Martin’s shy smile and flushed cheeks danced through his mind. “If you need help. You can count on me.”  

 Jon let out a heavy breath. “Fuck.”

-------

AO3

#The Magnus Archives #TMA #Martin Blackwood #Jon Sims #The Archivist #Jonathan Sims #MAG 47 #Jon got stabbed by Michael #hospital #blood #hurt/comfort #hurt!Jon #vaguely referenced JMart #Very vaguely #paranoid Jon #flywolfwriting #flywolf33 #my fic #please do not repost to another site #ao3 #fanfic #jmart #helpful Martin #paranoia #breadknife incident

[flywolfwriting]

Love is Patient, Love is Blind - Ch. 2

Everyone else’s nightmare world ended a year ago, but Martin’s had just begun. He’d waited for Jon to either wake up or die before, but he hadn’t been the one to kill him then. He hadn’t already lost everything. 

 True to her word, Basira had returned with blankets, food, and water. Even a small heater. He’d woken up with a duvet thrown over him. He could hear her moving around upstairs, but he couldn’t bring himself to leave Jon’s side until Dr. Midec arrived and Basira came back down.

 “You have run of the house,” she said. “The back garden is secluded enough that you should be safe to pop out for a spot of fresh air; just don’t leave the property. Lay low.”

 Martin only nodded mutely.

 “Does he… uh… need any statements?”

 Martin shrugged and glanced at Jon.  Dr. Midec was changing his bandage. How long had he been asleep?

 “Well… I hope not. All of them were destroyed with the Panopticon. The institute is a rehab center now, a place for people to get help with any nightmares they still have.”

 Martin didn’t reply. It seemed he had used up all his words when he’d told Basira everything that had happened. What he did. 

 Basira seemed to understand. Offering a mobile phone, she told him to let her know if he needed anything. She had a few agents - whatever that meant - in the area that would be able to help. She promised to always text the name and a picture of anyone new stopping by and not to answer the door if he wasn’t expecting someone. Dr. Midec had the door code, so he didn’t have to worry about him.

 Martin accepted all of this and went to sit next to Jon until Dr. Midec finished. He gave Martin a brief rundown on things to watch for and things he would need to do when the doctor wasn’t there. 

 Finally, they were left alone.

 The silence was torturous. It reminded Martin too much of the Lonely. He had to get up and do something. So he did. He made up his cot with the blankets. He draped one over Jon so he didn’t freeze. He set up the heater in the one outlet in the cave-basement they’d arrived in.

 When he couldn’t find an excuse to stay downstairs any long, he finally trekked to the kitchen. He went through the food Basira had brought th- him. It was mostly canned food and things that wouldn’t take long to cook. That was good, because Martin was sprinting down the stairs every two minutes to check on Jon, terrified he’d find him cold and pale and still.

 He made chicken noodle soup and went down to eat beside his comatose boyfriend before bundling himself in his blankets and going to sleep. 

 —————————

 “I can’t lose you, not like this.”

 The weight of Jon collapsed against him, trembling with strain. 

 “Tough! Where you go, I go.”

 “That’s the deal. Okay.” 

 “What?” 

 He knew, but he didn’t want to understand.

 “Do it. The knife’s just there.”

 A jerk of the head, toward the very thing he was trying to ignore.

 “I’m not going to kill you!”

 He’d thought about it, but dismissed it. He wouldn’t do it. He couldn’t.

 “Maybe we both die… maybe we end up somewhere else.”

 It was a lie. He knew that. Knew that he was just trying to make him feel better. Convince him.

 “Together?” 

 The cold of the steel, heavy in his hands.

 “One way or another. Together.” 

 His body wasn’t listening; something else seemed to have taken hold of him. He couldn’t do this. 

 “Are you sure about this?”

 Please tell me not to please beg me to put it down please do anything you can to save your life-

 “No. But I love you.” 

 The pained look in his eyes, begging him. For what, he didn’t know. Forgiveness? Release? Whatever it was, it wasn’t mercy.

 “I love you too.” 

 The warmth of his lips.

 Then the squelching crunch of the knife as it entered Jon’s body, pushing up under his ribs. His gasp of startled pain, then blood, blood everywhere, sticky and burning hot on Martin’s hands, the smell choking him, Jon falling heavy into him as they were dragged into darkness, the feeling of Jon’s pulsing heart against Martin’s chest and then the sudden stillness and nothing but the blood drenching him-

 Martin lurched up, the soup splattering to the cold stone floor. Dr. Midec looked up from Jon, concern evident on his face, but Martin ignored him and scrambled for his boyfriend. 

 “Hey-“ the doctor started, but stopped when Martin rested his head against Jon’s chest.

 Ba-thump. Ba-thump. Ba-thump. 

 Quiet but steady, and most importantly there. 

--------------

Keep reading

#my fic #tma #the magnus archives #fanfic #flywolf33 #flywolfwriting #jmart #jonmartin #ao3 #linked #hurt/comfort #hurt jon #emotionally hurt Martin #jon simms #martin blackwood #post mag 200 #time travel ish #please don't repost to another site

[flywolfwriting]

Together

Hello! Time for another oneshot. This is inspired by a comic strip done by @10yrsyart a while ago, which you can find here.

------------

Armageddon had been averted and Aziraphale and Crowley were just returning to the bookshop to settle in for a night of drinking when the phone rang.  

Crowley flopped across his favorite settee while Aziraphale answered, but sat up when he heard the angel say, “How did you get this number?” There was a moment of silence, where Crowley stared intently at Aziraphale, before the angel said, “Well, I suppose it couldn’t hurt... where...? Ah. Yes. Okay, we will be there soon,” and hung up.

“What was that about?” Crowley asked cautiously.  

“We’ve been invited to dinner in Taddfield,” Aziraphale said, and Crowley stiffened.  

“The Anti-”

Aziraphale shook his head. “That young woman with the book, who you hit with your car, Anathema.”

Crowley blew a raspberry. “She hit me,” he said, and if his voice was a little petulant then that was his business.  

His complaint went ignored as Aziraphale collected his coat from where he’d just hung it up and gestured to Crowley to get up.  

“Angel-”

“Come on, Crowley. It’s rude to leave her waiting.”

“But we have plans.”

“We can drink together every night of the week if we so desire,” Aziraphale pointed out primly. “It’s not every day we get the chance to meet a descendant of as esteemed a witch as Agnes Nutter.”  

“But we’ve already met her!” Crowley whined, dragging himself upright and sulking after his friend. “We’ve met her twice!”

Aziraphale held the door open for Crowley and shooed him out of the bookshop before closing and locking it behind them. “Well yes, my dear boy, but now we can actually talk to her.”

Crowley shoved his hands in his pockets as they made their way to the Bently. “I bet she’s going to be talking to us,” he muttered.  

It wasn’t that he really minded going to dinner with someone, but really... he did. There was a reason they avoided extended associations with humans – beyond the business association each of them apparently had with Shadwell, who Crowley had come to find out what scamming him and really he ought to make all of his shoelaces disappear for that. No, they avoided friendships with humans because they always went sour. Humans aged and died, and had a nasty habit of noticing when angels and demons didn’t age, and sometimes they got very burn-at-the-stake-y.  

Which Crowley knew from experience. A very, very unpleasant experience. Fortunately, Aziraphale had made a timely arrival and engineered a distraction to get Crowley down.

But back to the point.  

Humans were unpredictable, as the last week should have shown. Humans with supernatural powers were even more suspect, and ones that at the very least suspected, and at worst knew, what they were...  

Disaster waiting to happen, in Crowley’s opinion.

Never the less, he drove them to Jasmine Cottage with his usual pedal-to-the-metal attitude and satisfied himself with enjoying Aziraphale’s usual complaints.  

The girl – Anathema, Aziraphale reminded him – met them outside and greeted them with a warm, if somewhat wary, smile.  

Crowley halted before the porch and glowered.  

“Whatever is the matter my dear?” Aziraphale asked from the doorway.

“Can’t come in.”

“Whyever not?”

Crowley pointed at the horseshoe over the door.

“Ah,” Aziraphale said with a small wince, then glanced guiltily at Anathema.

“I can take it down for now,” she said, albeit reluctantly, and stepped inside to retrieve a hammer and stool. Crowley wished she’d insisted on leaving it so he’d have an excuse to wait in the car. Or, better yet, go home and make Aziraphale catch the bus or a cab, since he’d insisted on coming out here anyway.  

“Thank you,” Aziraphale said warmly as Anathema stepped down and placed the horseshoe aside. He looked meaningfully at Crowley, who also mumbled a thank you and followed them inside.  

An awkward-looking man was in the kitchen. He looked up and stuttered a greeting. “I’m Newt,” he said as he shook their hands. “I was at the airbase with Anathema when-” his brow furrowed.

“He has a hard time remembering it,” Anathema explained. “I think Adam did something.”

“Hardly difficult to believe,” Aziraphale said. “There are just some things the human mind cannot comprehend. Would you like a hand with dinner?”

Crowley groaned and slunk off to the side to let them finish setting the table.  

Dinner itself was mostly uneventful, but Crowley was pleased to find that he was right and Anathema was peppering them with questions about Heaven and Hell and all the things they weren’t supposed to talk about with humans.  

Aziraphale, of course, was answering evasively, but still giving her more information than he should have.  Crowley, for his part, sat there with his arms folded on the table and tried to keep Aziraphale from wandering too far off topic.

Finally, as midnight drew close, Newt excused himself to bed and the conversation began to wind down.  

“So...” Anathema rested her chin on her palm. “Are you two like, y’know...”

Crowley, who had previously been leaned back in his chair, sat up and raised a palm. “No, we’re not ‘together,’” he said before Aziraphale could answer.  He didn’t need his best friend feeling awkward after the madness that had been the last week.  

“Whatever do you mean, dear?”  

Crowley looked at Aziraphale, hand drooping, to find the angel frowning at him. With a jolt Crowley realized what Aziraphale meant and he whipped back around toward Anathema. “I misspoke. We are, in fact, ‘together.’”  

Aziraphale finished his tea with a satisfied smile. “Thank you for dinner, Anathema,” he said, standing. “We really must be getting on, but do call if you’d ever like to get together again. Crowley, dear.”

Crowley gave a half-hearted wave to Anathema and followed Aziraphale outside, stomach fluttering and face warm.  

Together.

“Honestly, my dear,” Aziraphale said with an exasperated sigh as they pulled into the street. “Six thousand years and you still don’t think...?”

Crowley shrugged. “Didn’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

Aziraphale huffed and took one of Crowley’s hands off the steering wheel to lace their fingers together. “Oh, Crowley.”

It really didn’t feel that out of place, now that Crowley was thinking about it. Quite obvious, really. He felt a little silly. “Yeah, well...” he grinned at Aziraphale and hit the gas.

“Both hands on the wheel!” Aziraphale flung Crowley’s hand back at him and grasped at the seat, eyes clenched shut but a small smile on his face.

Crowley cackled as he accelerated.

Together.

#Good Omens #Fanfic #One shot #Crowley #Aziraphale #Ineffable husbands #10yrsyart #inspired #after Armageddon #Anathema #Anathema Device #Newton Pulsifer #Dinner with humans #angel and demon #confessions #flywolf33 #flywolfwriting #do not repost to another site #book boys #Good Omens book boys

[flywolfwriting]

"Why didn’t you just kill him?” Crowley said.

Dean eyed the former demon suspiciously. He should have known; he was always ribbing Dean about Cas when they drank. There was no use denying it to him anymore. “I think you know why.”

“Maybe I want to hear you say it.”

Dean blanched. “Why?”

“Because you don’t want to, and you need to.”

Dean glared, and he was suddenly sober so fast he was dizzy. “Hey!”

“You should be sober. Nothing counts when you’re drunk.”

“I kinda think that’s between me and Cas.”

Crowley’s tone indicated nonchalance, but he was staring at Dean so intensely it was clear this was, for some reason, very important to him. “If you can’t say it to me, here, in the privacy of Bobby’s kitchen, what makes you think you can say it to him?”

“I will next time I see him,” Dean lied.

“Can’t lie to a former demon, remember?”

“I could make you call in your favor.”

Crowley’s face scrunched. “You could, but then it wouldn’t be genuine. I want it to come from you .”

Dean growled in exasperation. “I’ll tell him next time,” he lied again.

Crowley leaned forward. “If you can’t even say it now, I don’t think you’ll ever get the chance.”

“Why the hell should I?”

“I can reliably tell you, you have to say it at least once. From experience.”

Dean hesitated one more moment, then sighed and rubbed his forehead. He wished he was still drunk, so he could write off his next words, but that was exactly why Crowley had insisted he be sober. “I-” Dean swallowed. Why was this so hard? Sam wasn’t home and Bobby was asleep. The only person here was Crowley, who Dean was surprisingly sure wouldn’t tell anyone. Cas wasn’t even here to reject him.

He already had, really, by leaving.

He closed his eyes. “I love him, okay?” he finally said, and it felt like a dam had broken. “I love they guy. I am in love with Cas and I have been for two damn years. I love him and I can’t stand that he’s gone so I get drunk and don’t talk about it and pray so hard I can’t think.”

“Satisfied?” Crowley asked.

Dean opened his eyes, nearly slumping with relief. “Yeah, actually, that felt pretty-” he stopped and tensed. Crowley was no longer looking at him; his eyes were now fixed somewhere over Dean’s left shoulder.

He whipped around, heart stuck somewhere between stopping, hammering, jumping into his throat, and dropping out his ass.

Cas stood in the doorway, expression unreadable.

“I think we need to talk, Dean.”

----------

I'm back with my Good Omens/Supernatural crossover series, Angels, Demons, and Hunters! The continuation is over on AO3!

#supernatural #destiel #Good Omens #good omens crowley #aj crowley #love confession #confession #angels demons and hunters #ao3 #my fic #please dont repost to another site #part 12 #series #snippet #exerpt #will dean be able to get over his urge to punch things #flywolfwriting #flywolf33 #fanfic #fanfiction #dean winchester #castiel

[flywolfwriting]

Battle of Wills - Martin

Enough people asked for JonMartin comfort, so here it is. Read Battle of Wills for more context. 

It had been a long, stressful week, and their time was beginning to run short – like their tempers. Most of the team was quick to leave after their latest meeting, but Jon disappeared into his office and Martin decided to wait for him and finish up some paperwork for their latest statement. He glanced up as Elias passed, but didn’t think much of it; Elias and on were constantly having little meetings of their own lately. Even when he heard Jon’s raised voice, Martin was only a little concerned.

 Then Elias left, looking all-too pleased with himself. Satisfied, even. Martin glanced between him and the open door and slowly moved to the office. “Jon?”

 There was a shuddering sob from behind the desk.

 “Jon?” Martin repeated, rushing in. Jon was on his knees, one hand loosely gripping the edge of the desk and the other covering his face as he cried. Martin dropped beside him, hesitantly reaching out to touch Jon’s back. The smaller man looked miserably up at him for only a moment before collapsing into him.

 Martin caught his boss and pulled him into a tight embrace, gently rocking while Jon sobbed into his chest.

 “Jon?” he murmured after a few minutes. “What…?”

 “I’m s-sorry,” Jon sniffed, sitting up, though one hand still loosely gripped Martin’s jumper, and Martin left his arm partially wrapped around Jon’s shoulders.

 “Why?” Martin asked, alarmed. Had Jon told Elias what they were doing?

 “I’ve al-always treated you terribly,” Jon said. “Always treated you like you were less than-”

 “It’s okay, Jon,” Martin said quickly. “I don’t mind, and-”

 “No!” Jon snapped, then winced. “Sorry. No, it’s not okay. You deserve better. The rest of them, too. Tim and Sasha, Melanie, Basira, even… even Daisy.” He hung his head, hand tightening in Martin’s shirt. “I should have left long ago. Everything that’s happened… it’s all my fault.”

 “No,” Martin said gently, pulling Jon back into a loose embrace, “it’s not. And I’m not upset with you or anything so it is okay,” he insisted, although it did feel good to get an apology.  

 This earned him an ill-humored laugh. “I know.”

 “What did Elias…”

 Jon sighed. “‘Correction.’”

 Without meaning to, Martin glanced at the recorder on the desk, still running.

 “You can listen, if you want to,” Jon said, and Martin guiltily looked away. “Just you, though.”

 “It’s okay,” Martin said again. “Let’s just go, yeah?”

 Jon took a deep, shaky breath. “Yeah,” he said, “okay.”

 Martin helped him up and handed him a tissue, which Jon gratefully accepted. The recorder clicked off as they left.

 Martin arrived to work early the next day, beating even Jon. He slipped into the office and took the tape from the previous night. There were a few short conversations from earlier in the day to skip through, but it didn’t take long to find the moment Elias entered the office. The longer he listened, the angrier he got, and the stronger his determination to take Elias down grew.

 By the end, however, he was horrified. Martin had always known how Tim and Sasha had felt, but for Jon… If what Melanie had said about Elias’s ability was true, it meant Jon had actually experienced first hand-

 Well, it explained his lack of composure.

 When Jon walked in and they made eye contact, Martin knew that Jon Knew he’d listened. The Archivist’s gaze flicked down in shame and Martin’s fury was back.

 Elias would not get away with this. He would not get away with any of it.

#the magnus archives #JonMartin #Comfort #Part two #Elias is a dick #Elias's mindfuckery #trauma #flywolf33 #flywolfwriting #my fic #please don't post to another site

[flywolfwriting]

The Human Way

For @twilight--trix

Maybe not the aftermath shot you were looking for, but otherwise it would have turned into a long fic, knowing me...

Hope you enjoy!

Crowley hated winter. It was cold and blustery and wet, and as if walking weren't hard enough, the almighty had to put ice on the ground.

Specifically in nonsensical places like sidewalks. 

Where people (read: Crowley) walked. 

Instead of using a miracle to steady himself as he fell, Crowley cursed whoever failed to salt the walk to have loose shoelaces for the entirety of the next year. He landed with a crack and pain lanced up his right arm. Crowley blessed under his breath and hauled himself to his feet, cradling his arm, and very nearly went down again as his ankle gave out. 

"You've got to be kidding me," he muttered as he limped the last two feet to the bookshop door and pushed inside. "Angel? You have a splint handy?" 

"Whatever for? Did you hit-" Aziraphale halted as he came around the corner and stared at Crowley making his ungraceful way toward the back and, by extension, the settee. "What happened?"

Crowley felt his face heating up and was glad for the sanctuary his glasses offered. "Doesn't matter," he mumbled. 

Aziraphale followed Crowley into the back. "Well sit down and let me see. I was a medic during the Great Wars, you know."

"Working on it," Crowley snapped, "and I know. You've patched me up several times. They're called the World Wars now anyway." He sank gratefully into welcoming cushions and kicked his right leg up, allowing his left to dangle on the floor. 

Aziraphale waited for Crowley to get settled before gently looking him over. "A few bumps and bruises, sprained ankle, and a broken wrist." He frowned. "How did you manage all that with a fall?"

"Who said I fell?"

He was met with an unimpressed look from Aziraphale before the angel turned back to Crowley's wrist. "It'll take a while to heal; at least six weeks. I could always-"

"Ngk!" Crowley ripped his hand out of Aziraphale's (ow) and scrambled off the couch and away from him. "No no no, don't you dare," he said, hastily and clumsily putting the settee between them as Aziraphale stood up. "I'll take a splint and a nap and leave it at that."

"Crowley, dear, be reasonable," Aziraphale said, following. 

"You stay away from me," Crowley warned as he hobbled backwards, broken wrist tight against his stomach and left hand extended forward in an accusing point. "Stay back."

"Crowley," Aziraphale said in exasperation as the demon nearly tripped over a stack of books. "Don't be so dramatic. It will only take a moment!"

"No!"

"Really, dear, it's not trouble; just a small miracle-"

"I'm warning you, Angel," Crowley said, bristling when he realized he'd backed into a corner. He looked wildly around for an escape as Aziraphale closed in. "Last time you healed me I thought I was going to die for good!"

"Why must you be so dramatic?" Aziraphale reached for him and Crowley ducked under his arm, hobbling away as fast as he could on a burning ankle while turning to keep the pursuing angel in sight. "You'd been impaled. What else was I supposed to do?"

"Let me discorporate, for Satan's sake! That's what I asked you for!"

"But then you'd have to go through all that paperwork, you silly thing, and I know Hell is awful to you, and I kept you from dying-"

"But I wanted to after that!" Crowley finally lost his balance and toppled over backwards. He cried out and curled protectively around his broken wrist as he landed. His glasses clattered across the floor. 

"Crowley!"

"Stop it Aziraphale!" Crowley slapped Aziraphale's hand away. He could feel tears pricking at his eyes. "I mean it!"

Aziraphale finally stopped, looking hurt. "Was it really that bad?" 

"Yes!" Crowley glared up at him. "I was dying. Slowly, and nasty, sure, but it was just a discorporation. We've both done it before. Then you had to go and flood me with holy energy and it burned, Aziraphale! I was on fire. And then I woke up in bed two months later and still had to go through human recovery." And sure, he'd entertained that idea while he'd been hanging on those bars, but it hadn't been pleasant. He'd gotten to spend time with Aziraphale, who'd taken it upon himself to care for the downed demon until he was back in dorm, but it had been difficult and painful. 

Aziraphale stood dumbstruck. "I didn't realize…" he swallowed. "You hate Hell so much, and I know how they treat you, so I thought it would be better…"

Crowley sighed. "I really don't know which would be worse," he said. Aziraphale grimaced and offered Crowley a hand, which the demon accepted. "Will you just help me do this the human way?"

Aziraphale looked torn, but nodded and without warning scooped Crowley into a bridal carry. 

"Hey! Angel!"

"You've already walked on that ankle more than you should have," Aziraphale said primly, organizing Crowley into a half-ball cradled in one arm. He snapped and the table was suddenly full of medical supplies, which he began picking through with his free hand.

Crowley's face warmed. "You, err… can set me down now."

"I could," Aziraphale agreed, "but you would just get into trouble, so I'm going to hold onto you."

Crowley opened his mouth to protest. "Gnn," he said. 

Well, his wrist was burning terribly, and his ankle had swollen magnificently and was throbbing, and it was comfortable in Aziraphale's arms, so really, what was the harm? 

Aziraphale took his time finding what he needed, then gave Crowley some pain meds, gently deposited him on the settee, and got to work. The worst part was making sure the fracture was properly lined up, but after that it wasn't so bad. 

Crowley was just starting to doze off when Aziraphale finally finished with his ankle. "There you go, my dear. Don't get up for a while." He turned to go. 

"Angel…?" Crowley slurred in his semi-cionscious state. 

"Yes."

"Thank you," he mumbled, "for this and… for last time. Even though it hurt."

Aziraphale smiled. "Of course. Now, get some rest and I'll make tea when you wake up."

Crowley didn't need to be told twice. 

#Good Omens #my fic #flywolfwriting #flywolf33 #ao3 #aziraphale #crowley #fanfic #ineffable husbands #do not repost to another site #hurt/comfort #broken bonea #twilight--trix #fluff #angst

[flywolfwriting]

Mercy or Murder

Crowley had been discorporated before, but never like this.

Those times had all been fast – hanged for witchcraft, drowned, neck broken in battle – unfortunate accidents, but quick. He’d been killed by an angel exactly once, and they’d decided never to do it again; Aziraphale had pushed Crowley off a cliff (because Falling once hadn’t been traumatizing enough, apparently) to prevent another angel from smiting him, which would have destroyed Crowley as completely as a bath in a church.

Yes, he’d experienced death before, but never slowly.

Unlike humans, Crowley knew what was coming next and that he’d be back in a few years, so really he had no reason to be afraid. Then again, he knew what was coming next and Hell’s punishments for losing a corporation were… severe.

So okay. Fear was rational.

The day had started off so well, too. He and Aziraphale met for breakfast and were walking to the park when the angel suddenly half-tossed him into an alley and told him to run. Crowley hesitated just long enough to smell ozone as another angel materialized before scrambling away. He sprinted through narrow cobblestone streets, trying to put as much distance as he could between him and the holy beings. He glanced over his shoulder to see if he was being followed as he rounded a corner and tripped. He tumbled down a set of steps, bounced off a stone wall and flew down a second set toward a tunnel being dug under the river-

And he was impaled on a pair of metal spikes jutting from the wall at an angle. The tunnel was still under construction so he could only assume they were meant to become torch holders.

The bars entered his back and poked through the front of his shirt, just beneath his ribs and the other a bit lower, suspending him at an angle. The only noise Crowley made was a gurgling noise, as the air was forced from his lungs from the impact with the first wall.

Crowley knew such an injury would discorporate him so he didn’t make an effort to free himself; it would only hurt more. So he waited.

And waited.

And waited.

Darkness fell. Fear began to set in, now that he had the time to think. Crowley understood why humans fought so hard to live. He didn’t want to die. More than that, he didn’t want to die alone. He wished Aziraphale were here; maybe the angel could even help him, patch him up and nurse him back to health so he didn’t discorporate at all. It would be a slow, human recovery, but it beat what he faced the next few years while waiting for Hell to construct him a new body and finish the paperwork.

It was a nice fantasy.

Crowley swallowed, throat dry. He needed to go find the angel; at least make sure he knew where he was and he’d be back, that the other angel that had appeared didn’t find him. He took as deep a breath as he could muster, braced his hands against the wall behind him, and tried to lift himself off the metal beams impaling him.

His scream echoed off the cobblestone and his arms gave out, settling Crowley back down on the bars. He panted and trembled, trying to catch his breath around the sobs shaking him. Crying only made it hurt so much worse.

No angel, then.

Black tinged the edges of Crowley’s vision, though if it was from pain or blood loss he did not know. A small pool had already formed under him. It couldn’t be long now, right?

“Hello?” a voice called from the bridge above. He was out of sight, but Crowley would know that voice anywhere.

“Aziraphale?” he croaked, hoping the angel would be able to hear him.

Footsteps started down the stairs. “Crowley?”

The angel appeared around the corner on the stairs and froze when he saw him. “Crowley!” he rushed to his side. “Whatever happened?”

“Tripped,” Crowley groaned as Aziraphale examined him. “Can’t get off. Tried.”

Worried blue eyes flicked up to his. “I heard a scream. Was-”

Crowley nodded. “Yeah.”

“Oh dear.” Aziraphale looked down. “You’ve lost a lot of blood,” he said quietly.

“Been here a while,” Crowley said. “Gonna die, probably soon.”

“How long?” Aziraphale asked, face twisting.

“All day.”

The angel paled. “I’m so sorry, I would have looked sooner, but-”

“’ss okay, angel,” Crowley sighed. Cold was creeping into his limbs now. “’m jussst glad you’re here.” His eyelids drooped. Not long now.

“Crowley, hold on. You’re not going to die, okay?” Aziraphale said, tapping his cheek.

“I’ve been here too long,” Crowley mumbled, then squinted as the angel moved. “What’re you… Wait! Wait-”

Aziraphale grasped him by the shoulder and hip and lifted him. Crowley shrieked as the metal bars tore free of his body. Aziraphale lowered him gently to the cold cobblestone ground, where the demon sucked in great shuddering breaths; he didn’t have the strength to sob – not now.

“Sh, sh, I’m sorry,” the angel whispered, cupping Crowley’s face and wiping tears from his cheeks.

“Just- just make it fast, please. Don’t- don’t let me linger,” Crowley pleaded. “It hurtsss.”

A pained look crossed Aziraphale’s face. “I don’t like killing you.”

“I don’t like dying. But drawing it out… isss worssse.”

A look of determination came into Aziraphale’s eyes. “I told you you’re not going to die,” he said with a sharp inhale. “Take a deep breath.” He placed a hand over each of the gaping holes in the demon’s abdomen.

“What-” Crowley’s eyes widened as he realized what Aziraphale was about to do. He started hyperventilating. “No no no, angel, angel please, pleasssse don’t, no-”

Holy power surged from Aziraphale’s glowing hands and searing pain comparable to the Fall poured into Crowley.

He wailed.

AO3

#Good Omens #Crowley #Aziraphale #gore #slow death #discorporation #reference to falling #reference to past discorporation #Good Omens 1800s #ineffable husbands #best friends #ao3 #flywolf33 #flywolfwriting #fear #blood

[flywolfwriting]

Take My Hand, Hold On Forever - Ch. 4

Tim limped out of Jon’s office. The paramedics had given him mild painkillers and stitched shut the worst of the wo-  injuries. Injuries. He couldn’t think of them as worm holes if he ever wanted a decent night’s sleep again. As it was, he wouldn’t be for a while. 

 “Hey Martin,” he said as he approached the entrance where the other assistants stood, “Jon wants to see you next.”

 What little blood was left in Martin’s face drained away and he nodded, bidding Sasha goodbye as he answered the summons. “Get some rest,” he told Tim over his shoulder.

 “Yeah, yeah,” Tim waved him off.  Like that’s going to happen.

 The cab he’d called was waiting out front. “I almost left ya,” the cabbie said as Tim gingerly slipped in. 

 “Sorry.”

 “Where to?”

 Tim gave him the address and leaned his head back on the seat.

 —----------------

 Marie had had several hours after her date to do schoolwork and get ready for work, but between catching her mum up and enduring Kate’s typical ‘third date’ teasing, she got exactly nothing done and now both she and Kate were going to be late. 

 “So when’re you two doing dinner?” Kate asked from the bathroom.

 “I told you, we’re sticking to having lunch on Fridays for a while. We’re both busy,” Marie said. “Now hurry up! I’m waiting on you!”

 “Just grabbing my shoes.”

 Five more minutes, then. Marie rolled her eyes. “I’ll meet you outside.” She pulled open the door and froze. Tim stood in the hallway, hand extended to knock. 

 “What the hell happened to you?” she gasped.

 Somehow, in the few hours since she’d seen him, Tim had managed to get himself wrapped up like a mummy. His clothes were peppered with bloody holes, and he wore a deeply haunted expression. 

 “Can I come in?” he asked quietly.

 Marie stepped aside, mouth agape as he passed. From the way he moved, he was clearly in pain. 

 “Sorry, I didn’t hear what you-  holy shit! What the hell happened?” Kate stopped in the hallway, one shoe on and the other in her hand. 

 “Workplace accident.”

 “Tell Jim I’m not coming in today,” Marie said, guiding Tim to the couch and helping ease him down. 

 “Right,” Kate said faintly. “What should I tell him?”

 “My boyfriend’s sick and I need to take care of him.”

 Tim blinked. “Oh, I forgot you have work, I’ll just-”

 “No,” Marie said severely. “You stay put right there.”

 Tim, who’d half stood up, sank back onto the couch. 

 “Let me know if you need anything and I’ll send my sister over,” Kate told them, stuffing her foot in her other shoe and disappearing out the door. Marie locked it behind her. 

 “I’m going to change out of my uniform,” she said. “Don’t move.”

 Tim gave her half-hearted finger guns.

 She didn’t take long, only hesitating for a moment before grabbing the pair of sweatpants, t-shirt, and hoodie she’d recently stored in the bottom drawer of her dresser. 

 Tim was waiting on the couch. He looked up in confusion when Marie held out the clothes in her hands. 

 “I, um,” she coughed. “I bought these last week, after our date. Since you don’t fit in mine, I thought it would be good to have something else on hand…”

 A slow, tired smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “Expecting me to stay the night?”

 Marie flushed. “Given how we met- you know what, whatever. Stay in your bloody clothes if that’s what you want.”

 “No, no,” Tim said, pushing himself off the couch with a grimace. He accepted the outfit, his fingers lingering over Marie’s. “Thank you.”

 She looked away and swallowed. “You’re welcome. Now, go get changed and I’ll make some tea.”

 He silently obeyed, stepping into the bathroom while she put the kettle on.  I’ve known him three weeks and he’s been undressed in my flat twice.  

 She quickly shook that thought off.  Bad Marie. 

 Tim hobbled out and dumped his old clothes in the garbage before returning to the couch to wait for the tea. When it was ready, Marie sat next to him and they quietly sipped the soothing chamomile for a while before she spoke. 

 “What happened?”

 “Work accident.”

 “Bullshit.”

 Tim eyed her. “It was.”

 “I know it’s not that simple. Who did this to you?”

 He swallowed. “You’re not going to let this go, are you.”

 “No.”

 “Even if it puts you in danger?”

 Marie just stared at him. 

 He sighed, shoulders slumping. “You’ll think I’m crazy.”

 “Spooky stuff?”

 Tim clutched his tea tightly. “Her name… was Jane Prentiss,” he said. “She wasn’t… she’d been infected - or  infested, I should probably say. It’s more accurate.”

 Marie’s brow furrowed. 

 “I told you we take statements, right?”

 Marie nodded. “About things people can’t explain. You said they’re hoaxes.”

 Tim took a deep breath. “They’re not. Well, most of them are, but some genuinely are supernatural. We’ve had a few over the last year that are… well, to put it bluntly, people getting eaten by worms.” Tim’s voice shook. 

 Marie suppressed a shudder. When she looked up again, she realized Tim had closed his eyes and looked slightly ill. She tentatively reached out and touched his thigh. He jumped, then wrapped his hand around hers and held on like she was the only thing keeping him tethered to the earth. 

 “It’s okay,” she said quietly. “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.”

 But Tim quickly carried on. “Martin went to investigate one of the statements a few months ago and missed a couple weeks of work. He kept texting Jon to say he was sick. Then he randomly comes running into the archives and the next thing I know he’s living there.” He wasn’t looking at Marie; just staring into his tea. 

 She quietly waited for him to continue. 

 “He said he’d been trapped in his flat by Prentiss, that she’d stood knocking outside his door for two weeks. When she finally disappeared he grabbed a handful of dead worms and ran.”

 “I don’t understand. Worms?”

 “Prentiss is -  was…  a hive. A living hive. The worms… they lived inside her and she… was kind of them, too. And she infected others, only they all died.”

 Marie mulled this over. “So, the night we met.. When you said you needed to let them know you weren’t eaten by worms…”

 “I meant it.”

 “Right,” she said faintly.

 “That was the first time in months I got Martin to leave the archives.”

 Marie hadn’t been to the Institute, but she couldn’t imagine it would be a very comfortable place to live. “He must have been very scared.”

 Tim huffed out half a laugh, then winced. He carefully set his tea down and touched his side. “Yeah. We all were, but him and Jon the most.”

 “If she kills people, why didn’t she kill Martin?”

 Tim shrugged, which resulted in a hiss and his grip on her tightening. “I don’t know,” he said. “The thing is, he said he lost his phone before that, which means… Jon thinks it was her texting him, instead.”

 Marie had so many questions, but thought it best to wait to ask them. Instead, she softly said, “And today?”

 “Today,” he said, his voice shaking again, “I got back from lunch, and suddenly Sasha was tackling me and we were surrounded by worms, and Prentiss was right there. Sasha went for help and I ran into Jon’s office. Only, that’s where they’d come in. There was a giant hole in the wall, leading to some tunnels we hadn’t known were under the institute.”

 Marie had already set her tea aside and was turned fully towards Tim, both hands wrapped tightly around his one. He was still staring blankly ahead. 

 “Luckily there were some CO2 canisters stored in the office and I could kill the worms before they got to me. I went into the tunnels, but it’s all hazy. Lots of CO2 in an enclosed space. I found Jon and Martin though, and we tried to escape. Martin got separated from us, and Jon and I went up through a trap door. We thought we’d gotten away, but…”

 “She was there.”

 He nodded. 

 Marie didn’t know what to say. Was Tim going to die? Was that why he’d come here, to say goodbye?

 “The fire alarms were going off, and then the CO2 fire suppression system. Elias and Sasha got to it just in time to kill them before they-” he faltered. 

 “Before they got too deep,” Marie finished for him, relieved. “Will she come for you again?”

 He shook his head. “She died with the worms, and Elias had her cremated to make sure.” 

 Marie sighed, the knot in her stomach easing. 

 Tim finally looked up at her. “You believe me?”

 “Am I throwing you out and calling the men in white coats?” she shook her head. “I don’t think you’d make something like that up.”

 “I could be delusional.”

 “Could be,” Marie agreed, “but you’re covered in bandages and your clothes were full of little holes. I think you’re telling the truth.”

 Tim just stared at her for a moment, then down at their hands, then back up at her. “Did you say boyfriend?”

 Marie flushed. “I- er, yeah. S-sorry.”

 “Don’t be,” Tim murmured, slowly leaning into her side and adjusting until he could comfortably rest his head on her shoulder. “I like it.”

 They sat there in comfortable silence for a while, Marie increasingly aware of her heartbeat, until she said, “Stay the night?”

 Tim looked up at her without lifting his head and managed a weak smirk. “Not sure I’m up for that kind of activity tonight.”

 Marie spluttered. “That’s not- I- I- I mean- I don’t- I didn’t mean that!” she finally managed. “I don’t really do the whole ‘third date’ thing.”

 He chuckled. “I know, I was kidding.” He made a face. “Truth be told, I… I don’t really want to go home.”

 “Is that why you came here?”

 “The cabbie asked the address and I just… gave him yours. I didn’t really think about it. There was nowhere else I wanted to be.”

 Warmth curled in Marie’s chest. “I’m glad you thought of me.”

 Tim’s mouth twitched. “I’m always thinking about you.”

 “Why don’t I fix some dinner, and then we can put something on the telly until bed? I haven’t seen the latest Doctor Who,” she offered. 

 “That sounds nice.”

 “You can take my bed,” Marie added as she extracted herself from under him. Tim immediately began to protest, which she cut off. “The couch is definitely too small for you, and you need your rest.”

 “I don’t want to put you out of your bed.”

 “I’ll be fine out here.”

 Tim hesitated. “We could… we could always share.”

 Marie stopped and raised an eyebrow at him. 

 He held up his hands in defense. “I promise I won’t try anything. It’s just… I don’t want to be alone.”

 Marie chewed on her cheek for a moment. She had no doubt if she said no he would drip it then and there, and maybe that was the reason her answer was what it was. “Alright,” she said, “but my bed’s not very big. We’ll have to squeeze.”

 Tim half shrugged, and Marie headed into the kitchen to make dinner.

_________

Next Part

Previous Part

Beginning

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#flywolfwriting #TMA #The magnus archives #Take My Hand Hold On Forever #chapter 4 #ao3 #oc #tim stoker #jane prentiss #jane prentiss attack #canon typical worms #marie is very patient #Tim has some trauma

[flywolfwriting]

Okay but I'm still very proud of this line.

#good omens #flywolfwriting #flywolf33 #ao3 #fanfic #good omens crowley

[flywolfwriting]

Take My Hand, Hold On Forever - Ch. 2

Tim spent the next several days thinking about Marie, and how easy it had been to fall into friendly banter with her. He’d made an ass of himself, and Sasha had predictably teased him mercilessly for it, but Marie had rolled with it. Kate’s timing had not been ideal, though Tim probably deserved the extra dose of embarrassment. He hadn’t really wanted to leave; he wanted to talk longer, keep making her laugh. 

 It was probably wishful thinking, but he thought maybe she hadn’t wanted him to go, either.

 “Oh for God’s sake, Tim, just take her bloody umbrella back and ask her out already,” Sasha said.

 Tim started, then frowned at her. “What?”

 “You’re getting that dewy-eyed look again,” she leaned back in her seat and folded her arms with a mild scowl on her face. “I’ve never seen you like this.”

 “I do not go dewy-eyed-”

 “Sasha’s right, Tim.” Martin said, appearing around the corner with a stack of books. “You do.”

 Fate must hate Tim because right at that moment Jon emerged from his office with a book in hand. He took one look at his assistants and sighed. “Is Tim mooning over that girl again?”

 “‘That girl’ has got a name, and it’s Marie, and I do not moon, thank you,” Tim snapped.

 “I thought you were with those two records people at the police station,” Jon said, waving a hand vaguely. 

 “Not really,” Tim shrugged. “It was more a… temporary arrangement, if you know what I mean.”

 Jon shook his head in exasperation. “Just get back to work, please, there’s lots to do. Martin, put this book away for me please.” He set the volume he’d been holding on the corner of Martin’s desk and turned to go back into his office when Elias appeared at the bottom of the stairs. 

 “Jon, good. Come upstairs. I want you to take a statement.”

 Jon’s brow furrowed. “Who?”

 “Dr. Lionel Elliott, from King’s College. Do try and be… how did you put it? ‘More lovely’? He is a fellow academic, after all.” Elias disappeared back up the stairs. 

 “Not as if I don’t already have enough to do…” Jon grumbled, following their boss. 

 “A live statement? That’s exciting!” Martin said, staring after the other men.

 “We have more important things to discuss,” Sasha said, rounding on Tim with glittering eyes. “So?”

 “What?”

 “Are you going to go ask her out, or what?” 

 “Look, I was just a guy who walked her home, sat awkwardly in her living room for half an hour, and took her umbrella. She’s not going to want to go out with me,” Tim reasoned. 

 “Methinks the man dost protest too much.”

 Tim  hmphed  and spun his chair to face away from her, only to be confronted by Martin’s smug expression. “What?” 

 “Oh, nothing,” Martin said, dragging Jon’s book across his desk and examining it. “It’s just funny, seeing  you  lost for words for once. The tables have turned, hm?”

 Tim’s eyes narrowed, a blush creeping up the back of his neck.  No, damnit, stop that,  he scolded himself. “You  still  haven’t told us who  you like,” he said.

 The jibe worked. Color tinged Martin’s cheeks and he quickly buried himself in his work while Tim just grinned. He was still curious of course; if it was him, he was sure Martin would have said something by now. He  had  made it clear he was receptive. He wasn’t sure about Sasha, still, but who else…

 A wad of paper hit the back of his head and he spun back around. “Don’t get distracted, Tim,” Sasha said. “You’ve never been this juvenile about asking someone out. You’re Mr. Confidence. What’s the deal?”

  “Do you usually make a fool of yourself?”

  “I must be special then.”

 “Tim?”

 Tim blinked and focussed on Sasha, who was now giving him an almost concerned look. Maybe more confused. “There’s a lot of ‘not usually’ with her,” he admitted.

 “So what are you going to do about it?”

 Tim sighed, glanced at the umbrella on his desk - he’d been carrying it around the whole weekend - and thought about what he’d do with anyone else he was wooing. 

  Ask them out for drinks .

 “Take her umbrella back,” he said, grabbing it and standing. It was sunny out today, as befit July, so he didn’t need his jacket, but he’d brought it anyway.

 “Right now?” Martin asked.

 Tim glanced at his watch. “It’s close enough to lunchtime for me to run to the pub. It’s not far.”

 “What if she’s not working?” Sasha prodded, leaning back in her chair and kicking one heel up onto her desk.

 “I’ll figure something out.” He flashed his friend one of his toothy, confident smiles. “I always do!”

 Sasha hummed skeptically but waved him away.

 “Good luck!” Martin called after him. 

 Tim spun around, walking backwards long enough to give Martin a double finger-gun. “Don’t need it.”

 He hoped. 

 The walk was only about fifteen minutes, but it seemed both too long and far too short. 

  Just ask her out for drinks, he thought, repeating this mantra like it would make a difference. Something in him said no. Still, it was what he was used to, familiar ground. Drinks were safe. 

 And then he was outside the pub. The sign hung beneath an old-style gas streetlight lending the pub its name, with an arrow pointing at the small set of stairs leading down to its entrance. The black door was propped open, allowing the smell of food and beer to waft into the walk. 

 Tim stepped down, the sound of traffic fading into the quiet din of the pub as he ducked inside. It wasn’t terribly busy; a couple tables were taken, and only two men sat at the bar, chatting amiably and eating chips. The bartender looked up and saw him, eyes narrowing. 

 Tim smiled and strode across the room - careful not to hit his head on any of the fans hanging from the dangerously low ceiling - and stopped beside the counter. “Hello,” he said brightly. 

 “What d’ you  want?” the bartender said gruffly. The two men looked at them curiously. “Had to close early on Friday because of the scene you made,” the bartender added, ignoring their audience. 

 “Don’t worry, I don’t plan on staying. I’m just looking for - there you are! Just who I was hoping to see.” His smile widened. 

 Marie had just emerged from the back, cheeks pink. “Hey, Tim,” she said quietly. 

 “Hey, Marie,” he replied, voice softening. “Got a minute?”

 She glanced at her boss, who waved her away with a grumble. “Just don’t take too long.”

 Marie nodded and beckoned Tim to follow her before heading to the corner booth, as far from the bar as they could get. “What are you doing here?” she whispered as soon as they were sat facing each other. “He blames you for missing out on a whole night’s revenue, you know.”

 “I gathered,” he said, “but I didn’t start any fights.”

 “Kate says a couple guys picked a fight with that table because you called attention to them grabbing me,” Marie said. “That’s why the pub closed and she was home so early.”

 Tim hummed, eyes drifting to the bartender, who was furiously wiping down the counter, before settling back on Marie’s earnest face. He propped his chin on his hand and smiled lazily. “Can’t say I’m sorry.”

 Marie sighed. “You didn’t say what you’re doing here.”

 “Oh yeah. I wanted to return your umbrella,” he said, holding up the object in question. 

 Marie’s eyebrows rose. “I did tell you to keep it,” she said.

 Tim shrugged. “Well, it was a good excuse to come back here. God knows the food isn’t worth it.”

 Marie’s lips pressed together, but her eyes sparkled.

 “Actually,” Tim said, trying for casual as he leaned back and draped one arm over the back of the booth’s seat, “I was hoping you might come to lunch with me.”

 He was just as surprised as she clearly was; he was going to ask her to drinks,  drinks, not lunch! Why did he say-

 “Okay.”

 Tim blinked. “What?”

 A shy grin was slowly creeping across Marie’s face. “Okay, yeah. I’d like to get lunch. Is, ahh… is Friday okay? I don’t have class until two.”

 “Yeah, Friday works great,” he said, and he knew his stupid grin was back.

 Marie glanced over at the bar, where her boss was now glowering at her. “I better get back to work before Jim gets too mad, but I can give you my number?”

 “Of course,” Tim said without hesitation, sliding his phone across the table.

 She quickly tapped in her number, handed it back, and stood. “I’ll… see you Friday?”

 Tim stood with her. “Yeah. Talk to you later?”

 She smiled and nodded, then waved as she returned to work, checking on her tables on her way back to the bar. 

 Jim scowled at him and Tim responded with the cockiest grin he could muster before leaving, a spring in his step. 

 He didn’t realize he still had the umbrella in hand until he was back at the Institute and Sasha was ribbing him for it.

 ------

 “So?” Kate asked from her perch on the counter, “what did he want?”

 “He said he wanted to return my umbrella,” Marie said. “If Jim catches you up there, you’re in for a world of trouble.”

 Kate shrugged but hopped down. “Good, we haven’t got another. Where is it?”

 Marie grinned. “He took it with him.”

 “ Marie, we need that umbrella!” Kate whined. “You can’t go insisting he keep it when- why are you grinning like that?”

 “Oh, no reason,” Marie said calmly, tucking her water bottle back under the sink and making for the front of the house. “Unrelated, I’ll be out Friday afternoon.”

 Kate zipped around in front of her, trying to block her path. “Uh-uh, you don’t get to drop that and leave! He asked you out!”

 “We’re doing lunch,” Marie said, dodging around her best friend. 

 Kate followed, pausing to shout into the kitchen. “Karim! Marie’s got a date!”

 “With the tall guy?” Karim replied. His words were nearly drowned by a couple loud whoops from the rest of the kitchen staff. 

 “ Kate,” Marie admonished, face heating up again. Everyone at the pub had gotten much friendlier with her since Friday’s incident, and had even invited her to a team dinner scheduled in a few weeks. 

 “Yep!” Kate called back, grinning wickedly.

 Karim finally appeared in the doorway, covered in pot roast sauce. Marie’s nose wrinkled, but he was talking before she could say anything. “I  told  you he’d be back. Nothing woos a man quite like demanding he strip in your living room.”

 Marie was  definitely  blushing now. “That’s not how it happened!” she protested, but he and Kate were too busy laughing to pay her any mind. “You guys are children,” she grumbled, turning away to go check on her tables again. There wasn’t much else she could do when it was this slow anyway. 

  I’ve got a date,  she hummed to herself, and this thought carried her through the rest of her shift in a chipper mood that even Jim couldn’t ruin. When she finally got off work, there were four new texts waiting for her. 

  >This is Tim.

>Sorry, I forgot to actually give you your umbrella.

>I look forward to seeing you Friday. Where would you like to go?

>Let me know when you get home so I know you’re safe, please.

 She smiled at her screen. 

  <Don’t worry, Kate’s with me this time.

 Tim immediately responded. > Have I been replaced as the dashing hero-cop?

 “What are you laughing at?” Kate asked, pulling her jacket on. 

 “Nothing. Let’s go,” Marie said, stuffing her phone in her pocket and herding Kate out the staff door. 

 When they got home and Marie was settling into bed, she shot one last message back to Tim. 

 < Made it home, no heroes needed, dashing or otherwise.  

 She tried to quell her disappointment when a response was not immediately forthcoming; it was nearing midnight and Tim was probably in bed. She plugged her phone in, turned out the light, and rolled over to go to sleep.

 ------

 Tim stood outside the King’s College administration building. He took another moment to review his notes; a group of students with filler names, an apple with teeth… Jon was skeptical, of course, but he was doing his due diligence. Tim wondered how much of that was to keep Elias off his back.

 At least there were no worms here. 

 Tucking his phone away, Tim strode through the double doors and up to the first desk he saw. The man behind it was small and wore a nametag that read “Alec.”

 “Excuse me,” Tim said, “I’m looking for an Elena Bower. I called earlier.”

 The man blinked at him, then glanced at his computer. “She should still be in her office. I’ll call her.”

 “Thanks.” Tim drummed his fingers on the counter while he waited. 

 “Ms. Bower? There’s a man here for you.” He looked up. 

 “Timothy Stoker,” Tim said helpfully. 

 Alec repeated this into the phone, then said, I’ll send him up,” before returning the phone to its  cradle. “She’s expecting you. Third floor, room 321.”

 “Thank you,” Tim said again, waving as he went. The stairs were easy to find, and it didn’t take long to arrive at Ms. Elena Bower’s door. 

 “Come in,” she called, standing and smiling as Tim entered. “Lovely to meet you, Mr. Stoker. Please have a seat.”

 “Tim is fine,” he said, sitting and glancing around the room. It was oddly office-like for the admin. He would have expected something more like Alec’s setup. Then again, he hadn’t spent a lot of time in the admin building at Trinity.

 “Then I insist you call me Elena,” she said as she returned to her own seat. “What can I do for you? On the phone you said you had some questions about one of the anatomy classes?”

 “Yeah,” Tim said, and if he hadn’t spent so much time since Danny’s death lying, he would have felt guilty. 

 Well, he  did  feel guilty, but he was used to it by now.

 “Are you looking to enroll? I can put you in touch with the registrar’s office if you’d like.”

 “I actually have a few questions about one class in particular- taught by Dr. Elliot, last year?”

 Elena frowned. “Dr. Eliott? He…” she trailed off. 

 Tim flashed her a bright smile, the one he knew usually dazzled whoever was on the receiving end of it. It clearly worked, as a hint of color crept into her face. “I know it’s a bit unusual, but I was hoping you could just give me a bit of info? Maybe the student roster?” He asked, leaning his elbows on the desk.

 “That’s not really the sort of records we can give out,” Elena said.

 “I’d just like to verify if the class existed. Dr. Elliott’s account was…”

 Elena smiled sympathetically. “He did have an anatomy class last autumn that rather put him off teaching for a while.”

 “I’m just following up,” Tim hedged. Normally by now he’d have been laying on the flirting, using his good looks and excellent charisma to get what he wanted. But today it felt… wrong. He kept thinking of Marie, and he couldn’t muster the will to lay on the charm today.

 That was a first.

 “Well…” she hesitated. “I’ll get you the names at least. I do know which class you’re referring to. They were an odd bunch. Showed up to class even when he wasn’t there to teach.”

 Tim smiled again. “Thank you so much.”

 “Yes, well,” she said, flustered, and turned to her computer. “Where did you say you work?”

 This was always the challenging part. “The Magnus Institute.”

 She glanced at him, eyebrows raised. “Isn’t that-” she caught herself and offered an apologetic smile. “The Magnus Institute is well known in these circles.”

 Tim said nothing, just kept smiling. There was a reason Jon sent him to do these things instead of coming himself or sending one of the others. Sasha got defensive and Martin… was Martin. Who knew how he’d reacted in a given situation. 

 Besides, Martin didn’t really leave the archives anymore.

 Elena pulled him out of his thoughts with a confused hum. “That’s odd.”

 “What?”

 “The records are gone,” she said, leaning in to squint at her screen.

 “What?” Tim said again, but in a very different tone.

 “They’re gone.” Elena looked up at him, brow creased. “I remember that class, and assigning them to Dr. Elliott - he was very unhappy to have to teach, you see - but the records are just…  gone.”

 Tim pursed his lips. “Do you remember any of their names? What they looked like?”

 Elena shook her head. “They were really weird, specifically because of how unmemorable they were. Just off-putting, really, and Dr. Elliott was ever so upset.”

 Tim sighed. “Yeah, makes sense. Well, thank you for your time, Elena,” he said as he stood.

 She quickly followed suit. “Oh, is that all? Can I help you with anything else?”

 “Regrettably, not today.” Tim took her hand and shook it again. “I’ll be sure to call if I think of anything.”

 “Oh, alright,” she said, sounding disappointed. “It was good to meet you! Do come again.”

 Tim nodded amiably.

 Once back outside he paused to check his phone. One new message from Sasha, asking if he’d found anything. He told her he hadn’t found much and set off to hail a cab.

 His phone buzzed again as he was reaching the Institute. 

 > There’s a cafe not far from my flat that serves really good sandwiches, if you’d like to meet there.

 Tim smiled. 

 < That sounds great. What’s it called?

 The response was not long in coming. 

 > It’s called Star Bean. Have you been?

 “Tim!”

 He glanced up to see Sasha waving at him from down the walk. He quickly replied ‘no,’ tucked his phone away, and walked with Sasha into the Institute.

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