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jiminrings · 3 years

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omg omg omg... what if jk sees yn WALKING TAE HOME?? like it looks like that but they’re just passing by his place or something and he’s actually walking yn home ?? and to make matters worse jk THOUGHT it wasn’t like that but someone told him “oh yeah she’s walking him home, she’s always done that with him” sorry if it’s not an original idea

cold senior!y/n x stem major!koo masterlist :D

it’s raining at a party and jungkook gets the wrong idea

“good evening.”

yoongi sQUAWKS at the shock that’s mere inches away from his face, having only woken up from his afternoon nap that ended up with him waking right before dinner

why were you all up in his face

what the fuck was that for ://

“god, never do that to me again,” he grumbles at the abrupt awakening even if it’s his system that told him to, only a convenience that you happen to be there when he was starting to shift in his now-shallow slumber

“guess what!!!”

oh you’re squealinG??? alright that must be good

it’s nice to hear you excited anyways because you haven’t been for a long time ever since j*ngkook lol

“just show me,” yoongi sits up fully from his position on the couch, rubbing the remaining sleep off his eyes

normally, you would be pissed instantly because him not guessing just spoils your whole excitement

but tHIS time you don’t look bothered at the slightest, proceeding to take his faux disinterest in stride

the door clicks open and seokjin strides in like he owns the place, trying to immerse himself in the situation he’s walked on as fast as possible

you squeal in regard, eyes now switching between him and yoongi before you whip out something from behind your back

“i got a lunchbox!!!!”

you thrust the lunchbox (you recreated it in the way you receiver it) to yoongi’s face and he flinches momentarily, eyes focusing on the lunchbox first before his mind processes your words

“that is a really shiny scarf it’s — wait what??”

you,,, gOT A LUNCHBOX????

..... and it’s not from him??

yoongi looks at seokjin and the way he looks perplex but definitely sure confirms that it isn’t him either

“so someone — you received a lunchbox. huh.”

WOOOOOOW

you nod earnestly, admiring the shiny scarf and the handiwork of an embroidery that’s your name on it

“yup! i was with taehyung when i noticed it on the corner of the room.”

oh god

seokjin scratches the back of his head and it’s a dead giveaway that yoongi notices, something sketchy definitely up in the air that shouldn’t be there

“yoongi! come here for a sec. i have a uh, question about weed :-)”

jin is nOT good when it comes to segues

he takes the liberty to pull aside a yoongi who has question marks knitted on his eyebrows, his gaze immediately trained on him once they’re far enough away from you

“long story but!!!!! that jungkook kid gave y/n the lunchbox. taehyung just happened to be there.”

you see

yoongi could only digest multiple things from a single sentence at once

but the problem is, he’s digesting EVERYTHING from jin’s sentence and he didn’t want to

he’s just gonna omit the parts he hates the most :D

“y/n. taehyung gave you that lunchbox. say thank you to him tomorrow morning.”

NO??????

jin sputters because that is clearly not the truth he’s just said

and apparently, you seem to think so to because you just laughed at his cutthroat statement

“no he didn’t,” you heartily laugh, putting down the lunchbox before crossing your arms across his chest

no way

both jin and yoongs freeze this time because does that mean you already know who gave the lunchbox to you??

and if you know who, and if you’re laughing right now,,,, does that mean you’ve already forgiven jungkook????

pls say no

“i already thanked taehyung, yoongs,” you smile at the fresh memory, “but two seconds later, he told me that he WASN’T the one who made it for me. he said he’s good at baking, but horrendous at cooking!!!!”

...

.....

“....... so you really don’t know who it is?”

“nope! not a clue :D”

whew

yoongi thinks you should never get to know who it is

jin thinks you shouldn’t know who it is tHIS early

yoongi dodges the topic easily to refrain from dwelling on it any longer, about to send an angry text full of queries to jin later on

“mmm. what was the lunch?”

“my favorite!!!” you beam and even whip out your phone to show them the picture of the food you ravaged hours ago

you turn your eyes to jin, giddy in excitement while yoongi’s holding your phone-holding hand to zoom into the picture

“and it’s just like your recipe!!!”

.. hehe

..... that’s because it his

goddamn jungkook managed to recreate it like his recipe???? hmm commendable

alright yoongi’s angrily looking at him rn

maybe he’ll send an angry paragraph text this time >:(

“weren’t you concerned like... since you don’t know the person? what if they poisoned your lunch?”

yoongi suggests in an attempt to make you think rationally, away from his insistence that you should nEVER know that jungkook made you your favorite

“then i got a good meal out of it.”

that’s not,,,, that’s not a good answer

b-bestie ??????

both yoongi and jin are speechless and the former takes the lead once more, clearing his throat because the conflict of this lunchbox thing is presenting makes his head ache

“anyways, there’s another party tonight.”

you raise your hand quick in the prospect of unwinding for free

“i’m in!!”

“you should be. hoseok’s the host.”

that makes it even better!!!

it apparently doesn’t for mr. student affairs because jin groans in annoyance, not really digging his school official position because he’d need to sit this one out forcibly :///

“goddamn it. jung’s throwing it? his parties are sO good that it even reached our radar when i was still a senior!”

it it reaches senior-level status of approval then that’s like,,,, the only seal of approval you’d ever need

“no way,” you’re awed at the newfound fact, not expecting that hoseok was already an A+ party-thrower even before he became a senior this year

“even namjoon liked his parties.”

namjoon THEE student registrar??? the same namjoon as in your friend by extension because he’s sort of a friend to seokjin???? :O

“really? even namjoon found his parties great??? BUT HE’S LIKE-“ yoongi finds the right substitute words to a stick up his ass in the most respectful way possible because he’s sort of friends with the guy too, “he’s like namjoon,, he’s the antithesis to hoseok.”

jin shrugs because everyone knows the saying at this point

there’s something for everyone at jung’s

“wear a face mask?” yoongi suggests to jin so he wouldn’t be recognized, knowing he’s a lil upset that he can’t come to this party because the face he boasts about is known by everybody

“no. i’m gonna look like a fucking narc, yoongi.”

alright that makes sense

he bounces back from that, waving his hand to shoo you and yoongi off

“sucks. yeah whatever. i’ll hold the fort down, just don’t do anything stupid enough for me to pick you up.”

you’re not gonna do anything stupid!! :)

jungkook’s too down to even focus at the moment

he’s at his desk and he’s supposed to study for a test tomorrow, and all the material needed for it is engraved in his mind already, but well

yeah his mind’s only fixed on you right now and not chemistry

“she thought it was someone else who gave her the lunchbox.”

jin flinches as his door bursts open, his lunch break sign posted rIGHT outside the door to avoid things like these happening

oh it’s jungkook

oh. it’s jungkook ://

“i keep telling you that counseling’s right next door, kid.”

jin himself digs the running joke but jungkook apparently doesn’t, a sorrowed look to his face that can’t be fixed by some teasing

jin ignored that obviously because it’s not like he’s on jeon’s side!! he’s just here to be as neutral and realistic as much as possible

“and besides, it’s not like you put your name on it, right?? wasn’t that your whole purpose? do it to her like she did to you?

”m-my name...,. i’ll put my name...?”

WAIT HOLD ON

jungkook jolts from his desk, an epiphany forming in his mind

he may not have understood the interaction he had with mr. kim hours ago, but after replaying it in his head for hours now (along with that part of you mistaking taehyung to be the giver), he fINALLY gets an idea

he rushes out of his room and right to the couch where jimin’s sprawled out and watching a movie

“hi jimin!!! is there a party tonight?”

jimin almost falls out of his seat from the surprise of seeing jungkook altogether, gripping his chest

“f-fuck! — yeah. yeah dude, there’s a party tonight...?”

wait why is he asking

“o-okay!! take me with you.”

WHAT

jimin’s surprised that jungkook wants to come with, let alone even ask in the first place

buuuut jimin’s a good friend and he’ll say his assurances first before he gets to asking the why aspect to this

“alright. by the way about last time, kook — i swear i won’t leave you alone this time!! i’m gonna hold my alcohol in and-“

“no, no!” jungkook interrupts and shakes his head strongly, spooking jimin for a second with how determined he looks

“you can leave me alone at the party!! i-i’ll be there on my own.”

this is his idea

he’s a man with a plan!!! he’s also a man who has your eyedrops and the various containers he made with it inside his gigantic hoodie pocket

he’s more comfortable now than he was the first time he came around at a party

he knows you’re here somewhere along the crowd and that alone brings him comfort :-)

“i’m gonna go outside. these vape juices are annoying.”

you huff the moment you get a whiff of sriracha-flavored vape juice one more time, the whole area where you happen to sit in being the most annoyingly-scented room in the whole house

who does that!!!!! who gets condiments as their fucking vape juice!!!!!

yoongi waves you off as he’s also nearing his limit too, his peeve being mint chocolate juice and he’s gonna dip as sOON as this dude at the corner tries blowing it into laughable smoke rings again

yeah that’s what fresh air smells like alright

.... and rain??

it’s raining???

wow you haven’t even noticed and practically no one else did

hoseok’s sound system must be too good for none of you to notice that it’s raining outside!! a light shower that looks like it’s gonna turn into buckets within a matter of minutes

“Y/N!!!”

a voice yells into the street and your eyes widen with how loud it is, squinting your eyes hard to try and see the source

is that-

“TAEHYUNG?!?!”

is he running towards you??

wait why is he running towards you

(tae actually found out about this party through yoongi and he heard that there were non-alcoholic jello shots and mini cake hors d’oeuvres which are his favorites so he’s sprinting)

the way that he’s running towards you and the water that puddles when he steps gives you anxiety, a worried lilt to your yell

“TAE?? BE CAREFUL IT’S-“

taehyung can’t register what you just yelled out because before he knows it, he slips

he slips suddenly in the rain and there’s a harsh twist to his ankle in doing so that makes him choke out

“WHAT DID YOU — FUCK!!^]%{^]”

oh my god

you grab the nearest umbrella in the rack from your right, speed-walking to where taehyung’s fallen on the ground

he’s visibly startled, blubbering when you get to him

“i-i’m not crying. it’s the rain.”

of course :-)

you lift taehyung without much help from him since it’s hard for him to shift his body weight into one foot, putting yourself underneath his arm

“yeah, i believe you,” you smile as to comfort him and he returns it in relief, knocking the side of his head to the top of yours because his adrenaline’s through the roof

“i’ll walk you home. or to the emergency room. your call.”

“ER please??? god, m-my roommate’s into crystals and i don’t think amethyst can help me with this.”

yeah lmao that’s your cue to start walking

you text seokjin to meet you at the hospital instead of here, having to consider the fact that an official from student affairs is picking you up and is indeed your best friend being enough of a shock for poor taehyung at the moment

jungkook’s been looking for you for the past minute ever since you stood up from the couch, following you out the door but uh,,, you’re not here??

who is here?

oh wait!!! that’s vernon at the bench by the front foor!!! he’s from his stem class :D

“was that y/n? a-and taehyung?”

jungkook doesn’t beat around the bush because he’s sort of friends with the guy too, the same guy who’s a lil giggly with the daiquiris at the moment

“hey jimin!! what’s up dude? yeah, that was y/n and taehyung.”

uhm what

jimin’s BLONDE!! how could he get mistaken for jimin?

jungkook ignores the mistaken identity, eyes anxiously pointing towards the road again

“she’s walking him home?”

“totally. she’s always done that with him.”

what

..... what

he’s trying to trust it on good faith that vernon absolutely doesn’t know what he’s talking about

jungkook’s hurt but god does that pain shoot through him instantly, getting out of the porch wistlessly

wAIT

that’s you!!! that’s still you!!!!

and you’re-

????

you’re holding up taehyung and he’s limping

your ears pick up on the sudden running behind you and that pANICS you and in turn panics tae

but that doesn’t matter

it shouldn’t.

the cabs are atleast three more blocks away and neither of you brought a car because the dorms are walking-distance

everyone that’s left at the party has got to be too intoxicated to even put a key in the ignition

the weight on your shoulder eases and it makes you stop in your tracks to see if tae’s suddenly regrouped

is that —

jungkook lifts taehyung by his other arm, the light shower of rain making his hair damp without an umbrella like yours

“taehyung’s hurt.”

it only registers now that you’re seeing jungkook and he’s right here, surprising you as a whole

jungkook’s as startled as you are, swallowing the nervousness upon seeing you to get his words out

“a-and i wanna talk to you.”

#wHAT SHOULD HAPPEN AT THE NEXT UPDATE OMG #stem koo #jungkook imagine #jungkook imagines #jungkook oneshot #jungkook oneshots #jungkook drabble #jungkook au #jungkook x reader #jungkook x y/n #jungkook angst #jungkook fluff

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elphenfan · 5 years

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Nesting (Good Omens) 7/?

Chapter One I Chapter Two I Chapter Three I Chapter Four I Chapter Five I Chapter Six I Chapter Seven

I am so sorry - I never meant to make people wait this long. Thank you to everyone who’s been following me and liking and everything <3

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His hand stroked across the feathers that he could reach again and, despite his desire to keep them open, his eyes fluttered shut all on their own and refused to open again. So, he felt his way across the feathers instead, trying to weigh and decide which one to pull.

Each feather had its own meaning when it came to nests. To some extent regarding the angel who’d begun nesting, although, since that was as often feathers that had fallen off themselves rather than having been explicitly pulled, not as much significance could be placed upon that. Not unless it was specifically made clear that the angel in question had pulled the feather out themselves.

Of course, there was something to be gleaned from them if the angel had saved the feathers that had moulted previously and had chosen one or more of them to display in the nest. But since angels so rarely lost feathers without their conscious decision to remove them, that was a very rare occurrence that couldn’t be put as much stock in.

As a matter of fact, as much if not more could be gleaned from where the nest feathers had been placed in the nest, such as at the ‘front’ of a nest, visible to all; the fateful feather he’d seen on the floor had likely been meant to sit prominently on a table or similar and had blown down from where it had been placed when the door opened.

When it came to the feather the angel who was being courted and nested for gave in return, however, there was a whole set of meanings, including whether you gave just the one feather or more, and in what combination.

Primary feathers would be a statement. Large, long, and essential to flying on account of their generating of both thrust and lift, they tended to be favoured as the receiving feather by angels who thought themselves the dominant in the relationship; someone who could manage a flight without one.

Not that was the only meaning – originally, the symbolism had been more along the lines of the recipient being the one who helped steer them in the right direction – but even Crowley knew that nowadays, angels who didn’t want to dominate rarely if ever pulled purely a primary feather. It was a statement that he did not want to make, however long and beautiful they actually were.

Gabriel would, if someone was to nest for them, be the type who would exclusively give one primary feather.

Coverts, whether primary or secondary, greater, median or smaller, weren’t as important and by some seen as too inferior a wing to be used for something as important as the nesting ritual. However, their meaning was actually far more intimate, smaller though they were, as well as cuter and sweeter, and, to a good number of angels and demons alike, communicated far more. As they were the ones that guaranteed smooth airflow across the wing, their symbolism, when given as a pair, as was the norm, was that the recipient was the one who helped the giver get through whatever they needed and that the giver helped in turn.

Secondaries were somewhere in between those two, not as small and sweet as the coverts and not as big and impressive as the primaries, for all their importance to flight. Their symbolism lay in that the recipient lifted the other up and made their existence possible.

There were many more nuances to it than that, of course, and Crowley was perhaps slightly rusty on what those were, or at least whether they’d changed significantly, but he thought he knew what to do. It helped that it wasn’t what he ought to do, by the standards of other angels or just mere convention, but it was what he knew to be right for the two of them.

What he, Anthony J. Crowley, wanted to communicate to his love.

It was just as well that composite and complex meanings could be drawn from the combination of feathers.

Eyes still closed, he inched his hand across by feel and his vivid mental image of how his wings looked until he came to the feather group he wanted. There he sought out, guided by his mental image, the softest and prettiest feather of its type and tugged.

Normally, the plucking of the reciprocating feather would be done shielded from the view of the nesting angel so it would remain a surprise until they were presented. Crowley wasn’t just okay with Aziraphale being able to see him choose, however – even though his eyes were still closed, he could feel the weight of the gaze on him – he was actually happy that it was happening this way.

It would allow him to show his angel that he was putting thought into this, as much as he possibly could. Show him that he was a hundred percent behind this decision without any hesitation or reservations.

If Aziraphale could find the courage to build a nest that was meant for Crowley, then Crowley could find the courage to equally bare his heart, through his choice of feathers – and the order in which he plucked them.

The first that he closed his fingers around, carefully so as not to damage any part of it, was one of the median coverts, close to where the wing met his body. He pulled, mindful to keep it whole while still doing it hard enough to dislodge it without causing too much pain. Nevertheless, he couldn’t help flinching a little as he tugged and thereby, he almost missed the small intake of breath that came from Aziraphale.

He knew the symbolism lying in the feathers, of course.

“Crowley…” he whispered, his voice a little odd. Coverts were usually given in pairs, after all.

Managing to open his eyes at last, the demon held up his index finger on the hand that held the now free, relatively small feather. Rather than giving it to the angel straight way, he placed it very delicately on one slim thigh.

The angel’s face fell a little at that, but Crowley held the finger up again, signalling that he ought to wait.

Now that his eyes were open, he could watch Aziraphale’s eyes track his fingers’ movement back up towards the still outstretched wings. They were wide and warm, filled with interest, naked hope and joy and astonishment, as though he couldn’t quite fathom what was going on.

Crowley knew precisely how he felt.

The second feather he closed his fingers gingerly around was a primary, the prettiest of the bunch. It wasn’t the longest or the largest, but it was by far the one that always looked the best of the lot of primaries when he inspected them and so it was the obvious choice. The only choice, really.

The intake of breath from Aziraphale was rather more noticeable at that and his eyes flickered over to the ginger’s face as if to wanting to make sure that the other knew what he was about to do.

Crowley didn’t say anything, nor did he nod. Instead, he moved his fingers up a little to a better spot and tugged once, with enough force to pull the feather out smoothly. Again, he couldn’t quite help wincing despite being a little better prepared this time. They were not meant to go, even though they could grow them back, and he could certainly feel that.

But it didn’t matter. He would happily do it, would suffer pain infinitely worse than that if he could somehow help his angel.

When it was free, Aziraphale’s eyes were, if possible, even wider and he was holding out his hand. Not in any way demanding but rather anticipatory; it was evident that he thought Crowley had finished plucking the feathers he wanted to give.

He hadn’t.

Once again, he placed the feather on his thigh, on top of the other, as gently as possible.

“Crowley, my dear,” Aziraphale said, a minute quaver in his voice that could be awe or slight admonishment. Or perhaps just a smidgeon of tears, or any combination thereof.

“Aziraphale,” Crowley returned, pouring as much warmth into his voice as he could without making it seem like he was giving into the implicit plead.

He was about to reach for the next when he saw one plump hand, the one not still tangled with his own, start to creep towards his thigh, slowly enough that he wasn’t meant to spot it.

“No,” he said, without reaching out to intercept it and sure enough, it stopped on its own.

“My dear,” the angel said again, now sounding a little pleading. “Enough.”

“No,” Crowley repeated, shaking his head slightly. “Not yet. Wait. Please.”

He wasn’t done yet. There was a purpose to this and he was going to see it through. The pain would fade soon enough, relatively speaking.

However, looking at the anxious and concerned expression creeping its way across Aziraphale’s face, he realised that he shouldn’t prolong it longer than necessary. Yes, this was important but there was no need to make the angel worry unnecessarily.

So, to that end, he gently and reluctantly untangled his hand from the angel’s, who at first tried to keep them together. Something which sent something warm blossoming inside the demon’s chest, which was already close to incandescent.

Then he reached out with both hands at once. He’d already plucked a feather from each wing, with a bit of difficulty on the second, as he’d had to curl the other wing around to be able to reach, all without smacking it into the angel. It helped that it had been a primary, at least.

Now, he reached for one from each, again going by feel rather than visual. He couldn’t look at both at once, even if he tried. In any case, he was determined to keep looking at his angel.

The two feathers he was going for would be the last and they would tie them all together. Hopefully in a way that would be interpreted as he intended, but he couldn’t see how it couldn’t be. Then again, with their track record…

One hand closed around a second covert, this time a greater one further out on the wing, which made reaching easier, while the other found a secondary feather. Taking a deep breath, he pulled, a noise escaping him despite his efforts as pain shot from both places at once, which mingled with the one still emanating from the two other spots where he’d taken wings from.

“Crowley!”

“It’s… alright,” he managed. He also managed a smile, somehow. It really was okay, even if it hurt.

“No, it most definitely is not!” Aziraphale didn’t look angry, though, and as he helped bring them down to join the others on Crowley’s thigh, it didn’t seem as though the feathers were unwanted.

As soon as they’d been placed, however, he reached back up and, hesitating only briefly, he touched his fingers to where two of the feathers had been removed.

Crowley watched him, eyes wide in turn, not even remotely expecting that to happen. He was also trying not to react to the sensation of having the other’s fingers touch him there, which was made more difficult by not only the pain that still throbbed but both the sensation of having an angel touch something so tied to his own fallen angel status and that of Aziraphale touching him somewhere so, well, intimate.

It made for a very peculiar combination of feelings, pain mingling with cold burning and warm and pleasant tingling.

“Aziraphale,” he said, his voice soft and just a little strangled.

“Hold on just a moment, dear,” Aziraphale muttered, his eyes flickering up briefly to the ginger’s face before focusing back down on his hands, a light frown of concentration on his brow as he smoothed his fingers ever so gently across the affected area. He hummed in his throat, soft but with a purpose.

Normally, he would, just like Crowley, snap his fingers to facilitate a miracle, even if the directions of the snap were, obviously, opposite, and of course, he could do that now. Easily.

But that was not what he did.

Instead, he let his fingers rest over the wounds, pressing lightly into it while still humming.

Something tingling and cool but simultaneously itching and warm spread through him, taking the pain with it and leaving a feeling of relieving numbness both in the places that were touched but also the other two spots where he’d plucked the other feathers. But it didn’t stop there.

The hum rose in volume a little, then, and Crowley couldn’t suppress a loud yet strangled gasp as he felt the itching return, more intense than before and then –

Then he could feel something grow. Not a quick resetting of his previous state, not a fast and sharp miracle that left you wondering whether something had been amiss in the first place.

A slow, itching but not painful regrowth of the feathers he had plucked. He turned his head to look, to make certain what he felt was really happening and sure enough, he could see them grow, starting from the calamus and the interlocking barbs to where the calamus became a rachis and the barbs became vanes. Each one a perfect duplicate of the one that he had only just pulled from his wings.

His gaze flicked down quickly to make sure and indeed, all four feathers were still on his thigh.

But that was – that wasn’t how things were done!

“Aziraphale!” he exclaimed in protest. Which was rather a moot one, given that they’d already been grown back and everything, but the point was still there, he felt. “You can’t – you shouldn’t!”

Aziraphale, who’d pulled back a little to look at his handiwork, blinked, eyebrows raised as though he didn’t understand what the problem was. “Shouldn’t I? You were in pain, dear, when you shouldn’t be. I was merely setting it right.”

“Healing is one thing. But not growing them back!”

“Why not?” the angel asked, still sounding innocent.

“Why – because that…that undermines the whole bloody thing.”

What was the point of the feathers being plucked from him if they were re-grown moments later? It was supposed to have significance, that they were important to him, essential to attaining flight and yet he was willing to pluck them for his nestmate-to-be. It was supposed to show the equal commitment to the relationship that the nesting angel had displayed through said nest.

But Aziraphale shook his head. “No. It does not. Does it cheapen the nest that the feathers there are ones that have fallen off rather than ones I’ve intentionally plucked?”

“No of course not!”

“Well, then – “

“No. That’s different. Far, far different. Reciprocating feathers are supposed to be plucked with intentionality – “

“And you did, my dear,” the blond interrupted. He carefully grasped Crowley’s bony hands in his, his fingers overlaying warm palms. “You plucked four of them when it is exceedingly rare for angels, now as it has ever been, to go beyond three and certainly not from all three sets of feathers.”

He hesitated suddenly, a blush creeping its way, deep and obvious, across his cheeks. However, he was smiling the happiest little smile Crowley thought he ever had.

“There can be no doubt of your sincerity or commitment, and I don’t see why you should be in pain with them gone or while they, maybe, regrow, just because that is the way it is traditionally done.”

Crowley couldn’t help it; he gaped at the angel, not quite believing what he was hearing. At the same time, though, his heart was suddenly going, if not a mile a minute, then at least a kilometre.

Did he truly just say that? Not only the acknowledgement of Crowley’s sincerity – which, quite honestly and when he thought about it, the angel couldn’t be blamed for if he’d been unsure of previously – but the implications about Heaven, through how it was ‘traditionally done’?

He’s already decided to nest for his hereditary enemy – and really, how does that phrase even make sense for angels and demons? Inherited from whom, exactly? God? – which, should anyone from Heaven work out, will be a far greater and, some might say, only real threat, especially since you’ve accepted it. Compared to that, how that ritual went and whether it complied with traditions is rather an irrelevant side note.

But it proved the shift in mindset, one that spoke of his own sincerity, at least to Crowley’s admittedly rather befuddled and tired mind. To be honest, though, he knew he’d feel the same if he was fresh as a daisy.

The blush on the angel’s cheeks deepened.

“Well, I…I know I did overstep, but perhaps you’d forgive me – “

“Angel.”

Aziraphale shut up immediately.

“Angel, you – you are incredible.” He could feel a smile break out onto his face, one which would turn into a grin if he let it.

However, he needed to school his face back into something calmer; he still needed to give the feathers to the angel, however much tradition could be altered. This was for him, not tradition.

And for him, he wanted to do this as right as possible. Even though it wasn’t a surprise, even though Aziraphale was already perfectly aware of the implications and symbolism of the feathers on their own and together and even in the order they’d been plucked and he’d technically not achieve much, if anything, by giving them to the angel at this point.

That didn’t matter, however. It was the gesture of giving it, or them, to the one who’d nested. The acceptance of the nest itself and through it, the angel who’d done the nesting, in turn accepting the giver of the feathers, sealing them, as it were, as nestmates.

He wanted the reassurance, he supposed, that he was indeed the one that had been chosen when the angel accepted his feathers.

No, wait, that wasn’t right. Not quite, at least. He did still have trouble wrapping his mind around the fact that it was indeed him the nest was for and not some other, far better angel than him and yes, from that did rise a need for reassurance, in a way, but it was more fair to say that what he wanted was proof positive.

Something to convince his head and heart that this was really happening; it wasn’t a dream, or one wrapped in a nightmare, that he was going to wake up from with his body trembling and shaking in the dual pain and pleasure of having been given what he’d so wanted only to have it revealed as the figment that it was and snatched away from him.

This was reality, as far as he could tell, and yet, in this actual reality, he was here, in Aziraphale’s nest made for him, and he was about to give the angel his feathers in exchange.

It didn’t feel like reality.

Gently and carefully, he pulled his hands from the grasp of the blond. Then, without looking down, he equally gently scooped up the feathers, again mindful not to damage them, never mind the fact that he could mend them with a snap of his fingers. That wasn’t the point.

Transferring them to one hand for a moment, he took the plumper hand with his freed one and turned it palm up. He released the hand after that and took a feather at a time up to show, regardless of the fact that Aziraphale already knew, then placed it carefully down on the open palm of the angel, caressing the skin there with the vanes.

His angel watched him, eyes as wide as saucers and as warmly burning as a newly fed log fire, the smile adorning his face growing stronger and more…awed, possibly, but not…in a negative way or…perhaps it was better to call it deeply moved, flowery as that might sound.

All of that seemed to only increase with each feather he placed as gently as the first on the open palm, even though that ought to at some point become impossible. Along with it, the…what he could only describe as love – no other word made even the remotest bit of sense – shone ever clearer and brighter, which made Crowley’s heart burn sweetly and sing.

Normally, this was all accompanied by some words spoken by the angel giving the feathers. Sometimes they were made up in the moment while other times they had been carefully prepared. Some were short, some long and rather long-winded. Almost all of them were sincere.

Crowley had indeed also opened his mouth to say something once the last feather, the first covert plucked, had been placed, to express just what his angel meant to him, at least as much as it was possible to put that into such an inadequate medium as words. When he did open his mouth, however, no words would come, despite efforts to force them.

He tried again, to no avail.

Then, as he saw the smile that threatened to take over the angel’s face, a smile that could only really be called a beam, and felt a hand take his and place it ever so gently over the feathers, the blond’s hand resting itself atop his bony one.

Aziraphale shook his head and while Crowley’s heart didn’t drop – he wouldn’t have let him place the feathers if, well – and it didn’t stop feeling warm, it certainly did something funny inside his chest.

Then he spoke.

“Dearest, it’s quite alright. You don’t have to say anything.”

Crowley opened his mouth to protest but Aziraphale interlaced his fingers with the ones that were underneath them, carefully so as not to damage the feathers.

“You don’t,” he reiterated. “You’ve already said far more than I possibly could’ve – “ thought, Crowley mentally finished, his mind filling it in without his say-so, but was proven wrong when Aziraphale continued, “ – hoped for you to say with the feathers alone, all of which are utterly beautiful to look at, too. To be quite honest, I feel like my heart will burst right through my chest and discorporate me any moment.” His continued smile was still a beam, his cheeks were redder than a sunset at the right angle and

Well, that was – well. Crowley’s heart wasn’t far behind. Or it might just float out through his open mouth with how light it felt.

He felt his face warm and though he would’ve liked to blame it on the temperature in the room or the lighting, he knew that he was colouring for a different reason altogether.

“Aziraphale,” he finally managed, tightening his interlaced fingers and ignoring the shushing sound from the blond, “I – I’m sorry it’s taken me this long to say but I want to say this. Please?”

“Oh. Yes, of course. Please.”

“I love you,” Crowley said.

After everything, it probably wasn’t necessary to say. Possibly not, at least. It might, quite honestly, even sound a little bit flat and trite, compared to the gesture of the nest and the giving of the feathers. Something human that wasn’t needed by angels, fallen or not.

That might all be true but regardless, he needed and wanted to say it; after six thousand years of feeling it inside, only burning stronger and fiercer the longer they knew each other, without any chance of speaking it out loud and certainly not to the object of his affection.

It had never seemed a possibility that he could, that it would be unwelcome, and that was the previously thought best case scenario, so now that it seemed to not only be allowed but actively welcomed, well…there was no way he wasn’t going to say it.

If he was allowed, he would say it at any given opportunity.

Judging by the expression on the angel’s face as the words left his mouth, even he would have to say that there was no doubt he would be allowed.

If other angels had seen it, they probably would’ve been appalled – ignoring the fact that they were an angel and a demon and shouldn’t even be associating, never mind becoming nestmates – to know that that had made as much of an impact, as far as the ginger could tell, as the feathers had.

Which only made his heart feel even lighter, if possible, even as it ached in the most pleasant way he’d ever experienced.

“I love you,” he repeated, looking into the other’s eyes. “I love you so much, Aziraphale, my angel, so fucking much I can’t even find the words to say – mmph!”

What caused his sudden inability to say anything further was that his mouth was covered. Not by a hand but by lips pressing against his, for a definition, as his mouth had been open around the word ‘say’ and the angel’s lips therefore touched teeth as much as they did Crowley’s lips.

That could be rectified quite easily, though, and so he quickly brought his lips together and kissed back, no hesitation or uncertainty. That wasn’t to say he was unaffected by it, but his body knew how to move in such circumstances even when his brain was more or less short-circuiting. Not that it hadn’t been through quite a lot since Aziraphale had returned unexpectedly early.

At some later point he would puzzle at the coincidence that was Aziraphale returning home at that exact moment but right then and there, he didn’t spare it a thought.

To be fair, though, he had something else and entirely more important on his hands right then; Aziraphale was kissing him. On the lips, with his eyes closed and his face redder than anything that should be healthy, he was pressing their lips together…a bit too hard, actually. Crowley noticed that, somehow, and even when he tried to ease up a bit himself, to keep it sweet, not to pull away, Aziraphale followed him, as though he was afraid to break contact.

Using the one that wasn’t laced with the angel’s, the demon brought his hand up to slide it to the back of his neck, fingers immediately slipping into the blond hair that even at the nape looked oh-so-soft. To his delight, it was just as downy soft and fluffy as it looked, as he’d imagined it would be for so long.

They were both sitting awkwardly, not to mention somewhat precariously on Aziraphale’s part, as his arse was perched rather at the edge of the seat of the chair. It didn’t matter, though, not when Crowley was able to guide his angel into a…not a better kiss but one which could be slow and warm. There was no need to be tense.

Even so, Aziraphale pulled back soon after. Not that far and it did seem to be more than a bit reluctantly.

“I do apologise, I am rather out of practice with that,” was what he said, which threw Crowley for a loop.

Out of practice? Out of – who the flying fuck had he been practicing on before now and where – no. No, that was not helping. It could be for any number of reasons, including an assignment and in any case, it didn’t matter. What did matter, the only thing that really mattered, was that he was doing it here, now, with Crowley.

The demon almost missed what was said next. “I know I rather sprung that on you, too, but I just – to hear you say it, out loud, I couldn’t…I couldn’t help myself and it was probably a bit too much – “

“Aziraphale,” Crowley said, gently, moving forward, still mindful of the feathers they held, until their noses touched. “It was just perfect, do you hear me?”

“But – “

“Perfect, so shut up.”

That brought out, of all things, a chuckle bordering on a giggle. Crowley grinned in turn.

“I love you, too, my dear,” the angel said, squeezing the hand he held, “and I am so very sorry I’ve been so afraid to tell you.”

“Pretty much think that’s a case of people in glass houses, don’t you?” Crowley returned.

A small but happy smile. “Well. Perhaps.”

The ginger pulled back a little, just to be able to better see the other. “Besides, you were the one who had the balls to not just build the nest but keep it and keep building on it.”

“Crowley, really, your language does leave – wait, what do you mean, ‘keep it’?”

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seekfirstme · 3 years

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Meditation: Do you know the healing power and victory of the cross of Jesus Christ? Jesus spoke to Nicodemus of a "new birth in the Spirit" which would come about through the victory he would accomplish through his death and rising. The Hebrew word for "spirit" means both "wind" and "breath". Jesus explained to Nicodemus: You can hear, feel, and see the effects of the wind, but you do not know where it comes from. In like manner, you can see the effects of the Holy Spirit in the lives of those whom the Spirit touches with the peace, joy, and signs of God's power and love at work in them.

The "lifting up" of the Son of Man

Jesus explained to Nicodemus that the "Son of Man" must be "lifted up" to bring the power and authority of God's kingdom to bear on the earth. The title, "Son of Man," came from the prophet Daniel who describes a vision he received of the Anointed Messiah King who was sent from heaven to rule over the earth (Daniel 7:13-14). Traditionally when kings began to reign they were literally "lifted up" and enthroned above the people. Jesus explains to Nicodemus that he will be recognized as the Messiah King when he is "lifted up" on the cross at Calvary. Jesus died for his claim to be the Messiah King sent by the Father to redeem, heal, and reconcile his people with God.

Jesus points to a key prophetic sign which Moses performed in the wilderness right after the people of Israel were afflicted with poisonous serpents. Scripture tells us that many people died in the wilderness because of their sin of rebellion towards Moses and God. Through Moses' intervention, God showed mercy to the people and instructed Moses to "make a fiery serpent, and set it on a pole; and every one who is bitten, when he sees it, shall live"(Numbers 21:8). This miraculous sign was meant to foreshadow and point to the saving work which Jesus would perform to bring healing and salvation to the world.

Cyril of Alexandria (376-444 AD), an early church father, explains the spiritual meaning of the bronze serpent and how it points to the saving work of Jesus Christ:

"This story is a type of the whole mystery of the incarnation. For the serpent signifies bitter and deadly sin, which was devouring the whole race on the earth... biting the Soul of man and infusing it with the venom of wickedness. And there is no way that we could have escaped being conquered by it, except by the relief that comes only from heaven. The Word of God then was made in the likeness of sinful flesh, 'that he might condemn sin in the flesh' [Romans 8:3], as it is written. In this way, he becomes the Giver of unending salvation to those who comprehend the divine doctrines and gaze on him with steadfast faith. But the serpent, being fixed upon a lofty base, signifies that Christ was clearly manifested by his passion on the cross, so that none could fail to see him." (COMMENTARY ON THE GOSPEL OF JOHN 2.1)

Our new birth in the Holy Spirit

The bronze serpent which Moses lifted up in the wilderness points to the cross of Christ which defeats sin and death and obtains everlasting life for those who believe in Jesus Christ. The result of Jesus "being lifted up on the cross" and his rising from the dead, and his exaltation and ascension to the Father's right hand in heaven, is our "new birth in the Spirit" and adoption as sons and daughters of God. God not only frees us from our sins and pardons us, he also fills us with his own divine life through the gift and working of his Spirit who dwells within us.

The Holy Spirit gives us spiritual power and gifts, especially the seven-fold gifts of wisdom and understanding, right judgment and courage, knowledge and reverence for God and his ways, and a holy fear in God's presence (see Isaiah 11), to enable us to live in his strength as sons and daughters of God. Do you thirst for the new life which God offers you through the transforming power of his Holy Spirit?

"Lord Jesus Christ, your death brought life for us. Fill me with your Holy Spirit that I may walk in freedom and joy in the knowledge of your great victory over sin and death."

WHAT!?!

“The community of believers were of one heart and one mind. None of them ever claimed anything as his own; rather, everything was held in common.” —Acts 4:32

Go back and re-read the above verse. Then close your eyes for a moment and picture the lifestyle of the early Christians. Our ancestors in faith “were of one heart and one mind. None of them ever claimed anything as his own; rather, everything was held in common” (Acts 4:32). “Nor was there anyone needy among them, for all who owned property or houses sold them and donated the proceeds. They used to lay them at the feet of the apostles to be distributed to everyone according to his need” (Acts 4:34-35). We inherited this lifestyle in faith from the early Christians.

You might say it’s impossible to live such a lifestyle in today’s world. You would be correct. To live like the early Christians, you’d need to “be begotten from above” (Jn 3:7). You’d have to daily live the “radical newness of the Christian life that comes from Baptism” (Lay Members of Christ’s Faithful People, 10). You would need to have a moment by moment, unfailing trust in the constant providence of your heavenly Father to provide everything you need (Mt 6:8, 11). Does this lifestyle of faith resemble yours?

If we listed each of our possessions, we could probably manage to justify to ourselves a reason for owning each item. However, could we justify our surplus possessions to the poor, who need our help now; or, to the early Christians; or even to Jesus, Who made Himself poor for our sake?

Prayer: Lord, do I really trust You? Do I truly believe Your promises to provide for me? May I live my Baptism in radical newness.

Promise: “Just as Moses lifted up the serpent in the desert, so must the Son of Man be lifted up, that all who believe may have eternal life in Him.” —Jn 3:14-15

Praise: The emperor accused Pope St. Martin I of political meddling, simply because Martin taught authentic Catholicism.

Reference: (This teaching was submitted by a member of our editorial team.)

Rescript: "In accord with the Code of Canon Law, I hereby grant the Nihil Obstat for One Bread, One Body covering the period from April 1,2021 through May 31, 2021 Reverend Steve J. Angi, Chancellor, Vicar General, Archdiocese of Cincinnati, Cincinnati, Ohio August 5,2020"

The Nihil Obstat ("Permission to Publish") is a declaration that a book or pamphlet is considered to be free of doctrinal or moral error. It is not implied that those who have granted the Nihil Obstat agree with the contents, opinions, or statements

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stilitana · 4 years

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Are the others helping you?”

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

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

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

“Someone has to.”

“Do they, though?”

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

“Yes. I will be.”

“Your hand–”

“It’s nothing. Just a burn.”

“Oh.”

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

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

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

“Really, Martin, I–”

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

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

“Well, I don’t – you know, Jon.”

“I don’t think I do.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Fine by me,” Tim says.

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

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

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

“What are you doing?” Martin hisses.

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

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

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

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

“Other than what?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“This is sick,” Tim muttered.

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

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

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

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

“Nope. Can’t say I have,” Tim said.

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

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

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

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

“I don’t – what?”

“You weren’t reading off the paper.”

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

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

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

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

Jon flinched. “D-don’t say that.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No. Not really,” said Tim.

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

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

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

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

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

#links to ao3 but apparently read mores work again so i'll just slap it up here for the record #tma #the magnus archives #this was supposed to be light-hearted if you can believe that...it still kind of is all things considered

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