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why-this-kolaveri-machi · 3 years

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i’m an idiot. i screw everything up.

Titans 3.03

still here, still doing this. these reviews take a fair bit of time that i cobble together across days (like, ten minute chunks during breaks, etc) and i tend to struggle to keep up with episodes as they come out. this means that by the time i’m done with one, most of my stuff is jossed (or geoffed in this case? idk) or outdated and the post sinks like a stone into oblivion. so! i’m going to change things up a bit with this one and write as i see the episode rather than collecting my thoughts later. in my experience with spn, that was a faster way to get them done.

anyway. let’s see how it goes! *shadowboxes*

SPOILERS ahead.

1. an auspicious start with some grave-digging!

digging up a grave and breaking open a coffin is some serious, back-breaking work--that dick did it on his own, likely straight after that fight with red hood, is a testament to the sheer intensity, stamina and discipline that he’s capable of. like, we like to joke about dick cooking cauliflower crust pizzas and making gar and rachel spar and memorise sun tzu--and despair at the obvious consequences of some of bruce’s parenting skills--but imagine crime-fighting almost daily without any superpowers, performing some of the most intense parkour in bulky, uncomfortable armour, doing detective work, pushing through every last barrier of exhaustion and then getting up to repeat it all over again the next day. dick probably thought he was going extra-easy on rachel and gar.

1.5. then again, dick probably had a hundred different easier ways to confirm whether jason was still buried or not, from using equipment to merely asking connor to have a quick look with his x-ray vision. but, no, he’s too caught up in confusion and terror, not really having come to terms with jason’s death in the first place, leave alone the possibility that he could be alive after all. he can’t possibly let the others know until he’s confirmed it himself, even if it means digging all through the night until his arms are jelly, thinking over and over again about jason’s eyes, jason’s voice, from behind that red mask.

... besides, dick has good reason to believe that he could’ve been hallucinating. wouldn’t be his first psychotic episode, after all.

that just imbues this sweaty, desperate, fingers-scrabbling-in-gravedirt scene with that much more poignancy, and a fair bit of bone-chilling terror. dick is horrified to realise that jason’s grave is empty, but a part of him is also probably relieved.

1.75 (... also it’s curious that we’re never shown any of the team asking to see jason’s grave after they come to wayne manor. i guess it’s because the writers--and the audience--know that jason is actually alive, but these people don’t know that. i don’t know if it’s sad or infuriating or both that they’re barely shown mourning him.)

2. oh GOD the sheer TENSION in kory saying, “i don’t want to say it, but--” and dick quickly interrupting, “it was jason. i saw him,” and hank giving him this loaded sidelong glance. i love how dick’s precarious mental health from last season is still this big elephant in the room but at least nobody’s blowing up in his face and questioning his every decision yet

2.25. i love the relative matter-of-factness with which they’re discussing a possible resurrection. and, of course, ra’s al ghul is brought up and quickly dismissed

(still wouldn’t put it past this show to bring him up at the very last second as the real real mastermind)

2.5. “maybe they can bring donna back” OH KORY

2.75. didn’t they have this same conversation about killing/not killing rose last season? man, the og titans make me tired.

and i don’t know if it’s just hank, but there’s a definite in-group/out-group vibe going on with the og titans, where they’re not only ready to consider killing anybody who threatens the group but makes it difficult for new people to fit in. donna and kory got along well with each other, but the dynamics between hank/donna/dawn and gar/rachel/rose were somewhat strained, and with jason, they were really fucking terrible. it makes sense when you think about how the titans started and how they broke up the first time--both were fairly disruptive events, i’d imagine, in that they probably got together to break away from their mentors and strike out on their own, and when they split up, it was the first time they felt directly responsible for the loss of an innocent life.

but the titans that dick is leading now is explicitly about mentoring a young generation of heroes, about second chances and found family. dick definitely wants to reach out to him first, and i have a feeling he’s going to be forced to make some sort of terrible Choice later on in this episode.

2.8. (honestly tho, this also seems like hank struggling with his own guilt re: jason; if red hood is not the kid that he failed, it’d be easier to fight him.)

HANK NO

4. honestly this season is already ticking off so many things on my wishlist, but i really wish dick would sit down with the newer members of his team and trust them with important information the same time that he’s telling them to the other members. gar searching for help and reassurance from a man who just dumped all of his responsibilities on his son overnight and went AWOL is a sad sight

4.25. has it only been just 48 hours????? wow! jason’s definitely been planning the red hood gig for a long time now...

5. ezekiel, my man! shady looking guy gets into your cab without a destination in mind... no problem, get right in! said guy gets a call to go to the observatory when he’s barely even looked out of the window so far at gotham... yep, a damn tourist! i want more ezekiel in this show.

5.25. (of course jason has upturned table lamps all along the floor... we have to *gritted teeth* balance the TEAL with the ORANGE don’t we?)

5.5. “dick’s a fucking psycho--he could be following you right now.” hank... has no objection to that lol

5.25. hank, hank... this is bad-decision-palooza. i can’t imagine that hank actually thought that jason was reaching out to him for help, given that the last time hank and jason had any substantial interaction hank had been one of the people accusing jason of sabotaging the team. but for him to go seek out jason and go along with his demands without any backup, weapons or equipment? not the best idea he’s ever come up with.

(add to that getting into the swimming pool of a condemned gym... oh yuck.)

((yes, i have enough self-restraint to not cap his ass.))

(((cap his ass! HA!)))

5.5. do you think jason has bugs/monitoring equipment planted in wayne manor to monitor the titans, or remote access to the cave’s systems? wouldn’t put it past him.

6. oh man, hank came back before dick and the others could meet ezekiel! this is TRAGIC

6.25. i mean, it’s plot-convenient that connor was able to give so much information about the bomb from just looking at it once, but i also like to think it’s the luthor-side of him coming to the fore. it also reminds me of that (in)famous scene from the new52 run of Nightwing comics, where a bomb was attached to nightwing’s heart and luthor disabled it by killing nightwing (temporarily). it’s a neat little callback.

6.55. “where i come from, you go after family? there’s no mercy.” BUT THAT’S THE PROBLEM ISN’T IT

6.75. i mean, dick’s making sense: this is a game, and they need to get it off playing out on jason’s terms. but having a member of his team in his face, doubting his reasoning and every decision? a very familiar sight.

6.8. krypto with an a+ sense of humour? also a very familiar sight.

7. wayne enterprises... providing the military with... bombs that can be implanted in humans? a BIIIIG yikes. i guess it’s not too many steps above developing clandestine intra-dermal trackers and implanting them in your own sons, and bruce probably thought they could be used as part of negotiation tactics, but still... YIKES.

7.5. on the other hand, conner being asked to build a deactivation advice seems part of a growth arc that started from last season... he knows so much, but part of growing is learning, and part of learning is using what you know to create something new.

8. oh man, my heart broke at hank going “i’m an idiot... i screw everything up.” like. for him to go like this, after being brought down to such a low last season? struggling with pain and addiction and his relationship with the love of his life? it’s so sad.

9. oh, oh, oh! ronnie from schitt’s creek! i love her!

9.5. “one of jason’s minions” took his body out of the morgue... how deliciously morbid that he planned out his own death like this!

10. TALK TO HANK, DICK

honestly, tho, i’m quite impressed with dick here. trying to think beyond just the most alarming part of the crisis at hand, keeping his cool, delegating tasks, frequently touching base with different members of his team... well done.

10.25.... whoops, spoke too soon. i’m genuinely confused here, tho. where did the van full of gold bars come from? why did they stop there and get out? how did dawn even know about this?

on the other hand, it’s cool to know dove has bulletproof feathers!

10.5. eh... curran walters isn’t really selling red hood’s menace to me so far. but then again, if titans version of red hood is vulnerable-kid-with-father-issues-trying-to-overcompensate, then yeah! yeah, it makes sense.

11. “when bats have sex, they gotta have something to hang from” OH GOD HANK

... because i want smiley!gar on my blog :)

11.5. awww. i feel sorry for hank but NONE of these fuckers deserve gar except maybe kory

12. ohhh FUCK! look at jason being exactly one step ahead of the titans at every turn. nice.

no really, i love the building stakes and the building mystery - i feel like the deathstroke arc from last season should’ve been more like this. the flashbacks about jericho and rose came too late and after too much build up, which resulted in a very underwhelming and confusing season throughline.

13. HANK AND DIIIIIICCCKKK

“you’re doing your best by me. always have.” WAILING HERE

it also kills me to think that hank thinks that his imminent death is because of his failure to keep the team together (when he was clearly struggling with his own issues and was spiralling towards rock-bottom) and his fear that he will once again be the cause of the team falling apart.

also:

14. “i grew up... you can, too. you just have to face your fear.”

yep, got scarecrow’s grubby little fingerprints aaaaalllll over this.

14.25. nightwing’s got specialised batarangs! yay! (somehow i can’t see this universe’s dick calling them “wingdings”)

15. NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

oh man, that was devastating. well done, show. fuck, well done, jason.

this is going to bring up all sorts of “if onlys” for the team. i can’t wait for some fucking aftermath.

#titans #titans spoilers #dick grayson #hank hall #dawn granger #garfield logan #conner kent #jason todd #a tragic jalebi #meta

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imagine-darksiders · 3 years

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Homesick - Chapter 2

Behind the door.

Warnings: implied child abuse, abusive parents, blood, nosebleeds, angst, themes of childhood trauma, ptsd

Tags: Darksiders, DeathxAzrael, hurt/comfort, angst, Reader, Found family, Reader needs a hug

Chapter 1

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“What lays beyond that door?”

Azrael's innocent question causes you to stiffen and your steps falter on the landing, knowing precisely to which door he's referring, but unwilling to even spare it a backwards glance.

The momentary delay hardly lasts for more than a second and goes seemingly unnoticed by the angel, whose gaze appears too focused on the locked, mahogany door that stands quiet and guiltless at the furthest end of your landing. Hanging back near the top of the staircase however, with eyes sharp and turned just enough in your direction that they catch the hitching of your chest, Death does notice.

Then, he blinks, and you're suddenly twisting your head over a shoulder to look beyond Azrael at the door in question, a smile on your lips but not in your eyes.

“Oh, that's just a storage cupboard,” you say casually, waving a dismissive hand through the air and continuing your journey to the opposite side of the house, “I've been in and out of there all week stacking boxes of junk up to the ceiling. Now, come this way, all the best human-y stuff is stock-piled in my bedroom.”

You're too quick to disregard the door, too eager in turning to walk towards your room on stiff legs and Death wishes the angel would turn to look at you so he might also see what the Horseman sees, if only to confirm that he isn't imagining things.

Alas, letting out an intrigued little hum, Azrael clasps his hands loosely behind his back and sweeps after you, all the while pivoting his head this way and that to take in everything your humble home has to offer.

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

You had so nearly forgotten what the joy of discovery looks like in another person. To see the eyes of someone else grow wide and bright with unbridled wonder at a world you've long since lost a taste for.

Azrael's fascination at the most mundane of human objects manages to put a genuine smile on your face, though the ensuing pain still throbs like the beat of an insistent drum every time your cheeks press against your bruised eye.

Luckily, the angel appears to have missed your subtle wince.

After first having dragged him away from your television, you've managed to introduce him to many of humanity's other wonders that lay dotted around your bedroom.

Before long, Death had even slunk inside to join you both, taking up the mantle of an uninterested observer and absently perusing your book collection in the corner whilst keeping a surreptitious eye on the goings on of his companions.

You've perched yourself comfortably in a bean bag, content to simply sit back and observe whilst Azrael explores your room, his wide, white wings folded neatly against his back in order to spare some of your ornaments from being knocked off their shelves.

“This... ursine mammal,” he says, pausing beside your bed and poking a finger into the fur of an old, stuffed bear sitting atop your pillow, “Does it serve some purpose?”

You're too preoccupied with fighting back a laugh to answer him right away, and by the time you realise he's watching you expectantly, Death pipes up in your stead, cutting off any explanation you might have offered.

“I imagine it's only there for decoration,” he muses, casting a critical eye over your bookcase and the dozens of unread stories scattered about on the shelves, “But then, I have to wonder if half the things in this room aren't just ornamentation.”

Knowing what he's implying, you spare the back of his head a scowl. It isn't as though you've had a lot of time to read those books he gave you, not between rebuilding your own home and helping humanity come to terms with life post-apocalypse.

“Ah!” Azrael's head shoots up and he tears his eyes from the bear, glancing towards you instead. “It is symbolic, no? In resembling a most ferocious predator, this bear represents the perfect guard for your home.”

He looks so damn pleased with himself, you almost don't bother to correct him, instead wrestling your grin into a pensive frown and nodding slowly.

“Uh, sure! That is a pretty... exciting way to look at teddy bears.” Hopping to your feet, you make your way over to the bed and sweep a few of Azrael's primary feathers aside, picking up the toy bear and squeezing it to your chest. “But mostly humans use these for comfort at night, when we sleep. We usually get given them as children. And, as we grow older, I... guess we just get too attached to get rid of them. Most humans keep their childhood toys long into adulthood.”

“Why am I not surprised,” Death huffs, shaking his head with a smile hidden beneath the bone-mask, “You humans will get attached to anything that sits still for long enough.”

Azrael, on the other hand, looks as though you've just revealed to him one of humanity's greatest secrets. Rubbing his chin in thought, he says, “Remarkable! I've heard that humans are rather famous for the bonds they forge with other species, yet I never imagined that could extend to inanimate objects as well.”

“Yeah, you'd better believe it,” you smirk, placing the bear down on your pillow once more, “Someday I'll have to tell you about the woman who married the Eiffel Tower.”

At once, the Archangel blinks hard, eyebrows nearly disappearing into his hair line. “A tower? Surely that’s a jape?”

So perplexed is his expression, you throw back your head and let out a bark of delighted laughter. “What are you, Shakespeare? Nobody says ‘jape’ anymore, Azrael!”

Off on his own side of your little bedroom, Death's neck twists around slightly to regard both you and the angel as you engage in a light-hearted back and forth about the use of archaic vocabulary. He doesn't even realise that one corner of his mouth has begun lifting at the sight.

There is a truth about the Horseman that even he is reluctant to acknowledge, and that is that the constant slew of bad things happening in the Universe is... wearing. It’s wearing. To be on a constant path that always seems to lead towards battle or tragedy? Sometimes it feels as though his entire existence has merely consisted of one battle after another.

He saves one world, only for another to be torn apart, he destroys a species, and another asks him to fight their war for them, he helps the makers but in doing so, inadvertently kills their elder. Century after century - a millennia of bloody battles and terrible sacrifices and trying to keep his siblings safe - If he ever stopped to think about it...

Death’s eyes slip slowly shut.

He has worked... so hard, hasn’t he? Is it really so wrong if he enjoys these moments of fleeting repose?

All of a sudden, a strangled sound leaves Azrael's throat and Death is yanked from his peaceful reverie. “Y/n!?” the angel exclaims, his expression shifting to horrified in less than a second, “You're bleeding!”

Apparently, mentioning your name and blood in the same sentence is enough to get Death's voice to crack as he whips around properly and barks, “What!?”

Baffled, you raise a hand to your nose, dabbing at a sticky wetness gathered there whilst the taste of salty liquid drips onto your upper lip. “Oh, so I am,” you observe casually, only to have a pair of chilly hands curl unexpectedly around your forearms.

Without warning, the terrifying visage of the Horseman is looming mere inches from your face and in another instant, one of his hands presses itself to your forehead and firmly – albeit gently – tips it backwards.

“Um... Death, we've talked about this. Personal space, remember?”

The Horseman remains eerily silent as he stares transfixed at the blood oozing from your nose and you squirm uncomfortably when the grip he has on your arm begins to grow even tighter. Meanwhile, his wordlessness allows Azrael to fret aloud in the background.

“I knew this was a bad idea,” the angel mutters, pacing back and forth behind Death, never tearing his eyes from the red straining your face, “You shouldn't be having all this excitement. You should be resting.”

It's difficult to hold back your groan of exasperation as you lift your arms and knock Death's hands aside, stepping out of his reach.

“Oh for - It's just a nosebleed! Honestly, what has gotten into you two?” With a hefty sigh, you skirt around the rigid Nephilim, dodge one of Azrael's wings as it tries to curl instinctively around you and march into your ensuite bathroom.

Almost immediately, the angel tries to follow, but he swiftly has the door pushed shut in his face before he can enter and soon, they hear your voice filtering out to them from the other side. “I'm not a baby, guys! Nosebleeds are no big deal, it's just happening because of... well, you know.”

Azrael's stomach twists itself into knots at the sight of yet another locked door standing between himself and his human friend. He's about to call out for you to let him see the damage when an icy chill sweeps across the room and he turns, his mouth falling open slightly at the sight of Death staring at him through unseeing eyes.

The old Nephilim's body has gone completely still and there's a haunted look about him, as though he's lost, or perhaps trapped in another time, another place.

“Horseman?” Azrael murmurs uncertainly, feeling the cold prickle at the hairs on the base of his neck. Seconds pass and he receives no answer. Hesitant now, the archangel reaches towards Death's shoulder and, when he isn't immediately shoved away, places a hand on the frigid, solid muscle that bunches under his gentle touch. “Death,” he tries again, and this time the Horseman's head snaps up to stare at him, as if only just realising he's there.

The angel ducks his head to better catch Death's eye, his voice soft enough that only the two of them can hear it. “Are you alright, old friend?”

A long silence stretches between them with only the faint sound of running water from your bathroom tap to fill it.

Then, giving a start, Death roughly shrugs the comforting hand off his shoulder and stalks past the angel towards your window, leaning his elbows heavily against the sill and stubbornly refusing to acknowledge Azrael's concern. He doesn't think the archangel has ever been that close to him before, close enough that the subtle scent of old books and clean linen invaded his nose and chased away the awful stench of your blood, effectively leaving his mind clear once again.

'Idiot,' he chastises himself, eyes still wide behind the bone mask. How could he have frozen like that? In front of Azrael no less. Creator, he'd never live that one down. He had – for lack of a better word – panicked, and it's as embarrassing to admit to himself as it is to have been caught panicking. But...

The sight of your blood... The smell of it, sweet and strong enough that it even settled on his tastebuds...

It's pathetic, really. He is Death. He's seen and caused far more bloodshed than arguably any being in any realm. So why then does your spilled blood hold his dead heart in such a cruel and unforgivably tight chokehold?

The redundancy of taking a calming breath isn't lost on him, yet he does it anyway, tipping his head up to peer out of your window, chest rising and falling with motions he could only have picked up after spending so much time around you.

It's begun to rain, he notes idly. Tiny droplets of water patter down onto the dusty window panes and Death follows the path of one until it merges with several others and is lost in the fray.

Down in the streets below, many passers-by have dived for shelter, yet there are still two figures who remain. One is an angel, whose golden complexion shimmers when raindrops trickle steadily down his face. He's standing in the shadow of a water-logged bus stop and beside him, leaning just a little too close, is a serpentine demon, scales black and glittering like obsidian. The odd pair rest almost shoulder to shoulder underneath the bus stop's awning, each sharing a brief respite from the rain with what was once a well-loathed enemy.

Death blinks upon seeing that their hands are intertwined. Dainty, golden fingers curl loosely around clumsier claws and suddenly, the Horseman feels as though he's intruding on their secret moment, so he turns back to face your room.

Azrael has drifted closer once again and there's a knowing expression on his face that causes Death to frown. Sure enough, the archangel spares your bathroom door a hasty glance before he looks at the Horseman once more. “...Death,” he says slowly, “It's... all right, you know. If seeing Y/n’s blood upset you-”

Hackles are raised in half a second, a set of sharp teeth clack together and Death hisses, “You think I'm upset?”

Judging by the flat look he receives, that is precisely what the archangel thinks.

Despite the obvious vehemence behind Death's tone, he's careful to keep his voice down, ever mindful that you're only a room over. Perhaps getting defensive isn't the best idea.

“There is no shame in it, Horseman,” the angel coaxes softly, “Y/n is my friend as well. There has already been far too much human blood spilled this century.” He casts another, baleful glance towards your bathroom, quietly adding, “I didn't think I would be seeing it again, not this soon. And especially not from our human.”

...Our human.

Death is unnerved by how natural that sounds coming off Azrael's tongue.

Expertly, the Horseman wills his shoulders to slump and his muscles to relax, then, with an unmistakable air of indifference, he folds his arms across his broad chest and turns himself deliberately away from the archangel, glowering at your bedroom wall.

And Azrael, wise enough to read the standoffish behaviour for what it is, allows his mouth to fall shut because he knows that, as far as Death is concerned, the conversation is over.

He has a care not to release a weary sigh. But with you shutting him out physically and the Horseman shutting him out verbally, it's difficult for even the composed archangel to keep exasperation at bay.

Just then, your voice calls out to them from the other side of the door. “Ugh, sorry about this guys. It's slowing down, but it hasn't stopped yet. I'll just be a minute!”

“So long as you're all right,” Azrael replies.

When he receives no response from you and no further input from Death, he lets his head drop into a disappointed nod, pressing his lips together. Suddenly, his presence feels a little too big for the space he's occupying. He needs to think.

Azrael leaves your bedroom with a far heavier heart than he'd gone in with, raking his fingers through fine, white hair and expelling a soft breath from his lungs, as if that might alleviate the weight settling across his chest.

So far, this first visit to your home has not gone as he'd hoped it would. Through no fault of your own, mind. But trying to focus on taking in everything you show him whilst he knows you're in more pain than you're letting on is woefully distracting. That's without even mentioning the creeping sense of unease that has been hanging over him ever since he first stepped foot through your front door.

Briefly, Azrael wonders if Death had noticed the way your breath hitched slightly and your reply had an almost imperceptible, underlying tremor when he asked you what lay beyond the door at the end of your landing. He'd have to ask the Horseman about that later, when he's in a more talkative mood.

Already, the archangel can feel the beginnings of a frown forging crevasses down the centre of his forehead. He composes himself in another breath and finally lifts his eyes from the carpet, only to stop in his tracks.

That door – that unassuming door to your cupboard lays ahead of him, quiet and solid as all doors should be, just sitting there under a flickering light bulb, as though it had been patiently waiting for him to notice it.

And notice it, he does, because something about the door has changed since he saw it last, something so obvious, yet also entirely unsettling.

Where it had once been shut tight, now it stands ever so slightly ajar.

Despite everything in him screaming that he must respect the privacy of his host, Azrael's curiosity grows too bold and he finds himself treading silently down your landing, his shoes making no sound on the grubby, cream carpet. Drawing to a halt, the angel's keen gaze sweeps over the wooden door, taking in hairline cracks and mottled rot that a hundred years has left upon it like battle scars on a warrior's face. Slowly, he roves his eyes down to the dull, brass door handle and he immediately falters, doing a double-take.

Sitting atop the handle is a very noticeable, very thick layer of dust.

His brows knit together until they nearly touch and he reaches out to swipe a finger delicately along the brass. When he pulls away, he lifts his hand for an inspection and, sure enough, the pad of his forefinger is now sporting the same, grey substance.

'Why would a door you claimed to use recently have so much dust upon the handle?' The feeling of unease that had been stealthily keeping to the back of his mind now pokes its head out a little more, creeping forwards, daring him to acknowledge it.

'Something's wrong...' a quiet voice tells him.

Azrael's hand reaches out once more, except this time, it curls around the handle entirely and rests there for a moment as the angel's mind starts to race. 'Y/n.... Are you hiding something from us?'

As soon as the thought enters his head, he can't shake it loose.

Yes - he trusts you - he knows you'd have no reason to lie to him, and especially not to the Horseman. And yet... Clearly there is something beyond this door that you're trying to divert their attention from and whatever it is has you spooked.

Feeling more and more like a common criminal, Azrael keeps one ear on the room behind him and slowly begins to twist the door handle, wincing when its rusty springs catch and squeak in protest.

His wings shiver with anticipation as he pushes the door open.

What awaits him on the other side is decidedly not a storage cupboard...

“A... bedchamber?” he murmurs to himself.

Within an instant, he's hit by an oppressive wave of must and wood rot. The smell spills like liquid from the room and seeps into your hallway, causing the archangel's lips to curl, though he's quick to smooth his expression out again because there's something far worse lingering below the initial stench, something that – even after a hundred years – still clings to the peeling wallpaper and broken, dust-choked bed in the corner of the room.

It isn't quite magic, more like the residue of a dark and terrible memory. Azrael knows as well as any angel that memories can be immensely powerful things and capable of haunting a place long after the living are dead and gone. Hesitating, he takes a moment to steel himself before stepping over the threshold and entering that old, foreboding bedroom.

At once, he notices that, as with the door's handle, absolutely everything is covered in a thick layer of grime and dust, the television on the wall, the various, glass bottles that stand on a table at the room's centre, amidst which sits a single, yellowing glass.

Against the wishes of his own nose, Azrael takes a brief sniff at the air and grimaces.

Alcohol.

Even the most pious of angels would recognise it.

He dismissively turns his attention from the bottles and glides over towards a worn dresser that stands to the left of the bed, a bed that stinks of an odour he desperately tries to ignore. Upon the dresser are a vast array of what you;d once called 'photographs,' all of which sit inside basic, wooden frames. Inquisitive, Azrael bends down and peers at them, a soft smile worming across his face when he sees a familiar human grinning back up at him.

You couldn't be much older than four or five, but he'd recognise you at any age. It seems even as a child, you possessed that same, mischievous spark in your eyes.

You're standing alone, and in spite of a clear gap where a tooth has fallen out, you're beaming up at the camera so hard, he imagines your cheeks had to have hurt. In fact, the more Azrael inspects the photo, the more he thinks your expression most resembles a grimace, not a smile. He shrugs it off however, and moves on. After all, the facial structure of humans is such that they're capable of expressions far more complex than those of angels or demons. Perhaps he’s only misreading it.

The next picture sees you looking a few years older, sitting in the lap of a tall, angular man wearing a white shirt that looks to have been frequently stained by all manner of substances whilst his face is stretched into a grin that makes Azrael's skin crawl. Captured in stillness, it looks menacing and shark-like. Worse still is the large hand that seems to have secured itself like a vice around your thigh, squeezing noticeably into the little, blue leggings you'd worn that day.

You aren't smiling as widely in this photograph....

The archangel's face begins to fall as well.

Humming, he moves on to the next picture and in an instant, that creeping unease suddenly rings in his head like an alarm bell.

Again, you're older here, perhaps early into your adolescence, and the smile you'd sported before is barely there at all. The same man is standing behind you this time, and his long, gangly fingers are clamped down over your too-small shoulders, fingernails digging so hard into the bare skin, the resulting indents are even picked up by the camera.

Your lopsided wince that could be mistaken for a smile at a glance shows off one side of your mouth and in it, Azrael can clearly see that you're missing a tooth.

He may not be the most well-versed on human biology, but he's definitely heard that children only lose the same tooth once. And that the process is a natural one.

Through the lense of the camera, your younger counterpart seems to peer up past the glass frame, past the fabric of time and space and straight into Azrael's misty, pale eyes, a silent yet clear plea in the tilt of your brows and the whites of your knuckles.

'Help me.'

All at once, the archangel feels sick. He staggers backwards, away from the dresser and doesn't even notice the golden halo on his back is thrumming with protective magics, pushing them outwards to envelope your entire house.

He doesn't need Jamaerah's second sight to know that you were afraid of that man who's eyes are stained the same colour as yours. Hazarding a guess as to why you were afraid causes Azrael's throat to tighten.

Swallowing hard, he tries to regain his composure. The archangel has always considered rationality to be one of the greatest weapons in his arsenal and if there was ever a time to use it, that time is now.

'Perhaps... I am mistaken,' he reassures himself, 'I don’t know human customs nearly as well as I-’

“Azrael?”

The angel gives a start and jerks his head around to face the door, only to find Death eclipsing it, his eyes blazing like twin fires.

Stepping forwards into the room, he hisses, “What are you doing in here?”

The Horseman is quite certain he's never seen Azrael look so guilty.

Instead of giving him an answer though, the angel slowly breathes, “Where is Y/n?” Soon, he droops in relief when Death throws a thumb over his shoulder and replies, “Still in the bathing room, tending to a bloody nose... You didn't answer my question.”

Beckoning the Horseman closer, Azrael keeps his voice to a hushed whisper and holds the last photograph up in front of him.

“What do you make of this?”

Azrael's behaviour strikes him as so uncharacteristically odd and secretive, Death actually hurries over to him and snatches the picture frame from his hands, making an effort not to appear curious about the room he's never been inside. The angel watches raptly as Death scans the photographs with his luminous, orange eyes. Then, all of a sudden, the Horseman's fingers tighten around the little, wooden frame, hard enough to make it splinter and Azrael knows his worst fears are being realised. He hadn't imagined it.

Death sees it too.

“You guys shouldn't be in here.”

A tiny voice, low and trembling calls from the doorway and the angel's gaze snaps up. Death, in the meantime, remains too fixated on the photograph to bother acknowledging your presence.

Azrael drifts towards you cautiously, as though you'll bolt at any second. He tries to decide whether it would be better to apologise for invading your privacy or ask you why you look so terrified.

“Y/n,” he starts, paying attention to the way your hands turn over one another incessantly, “We were only-”

“... How... How did you get in? The door was - it was locked! You can't be in here... Get out!” Your voice raises in pitch. There are tears leaking from your bruised eye, swiftly turning the skin underneath it slick and shiny and there’s still a trace of blood underneath your nose.

Death finally lowers his gaze from the photograph and holds you captive under a wide and menacing stare. “A storage room, was it?” he asks curtly, showing you the picture clutched between his ever-tightening fingers.

The moment you lay eyes on it, your back goes rigid and all the blood drains from your face. “Put that down!” you demand and lift your foot as if to take a step inside the room, but as soon as you cross over the threshold, you seem to remember something, and quickly jerk yourself backwards, stumbling into the hallway again and sucking down a ragged gasp, blurting, “Just – Just don't touch it!”

“Why not?” Death drawls and tilts his head to one side, calculating, “It can't be that important to you. You've had it locked in this storage cupboard for these past two years.”

He's pushing you, Azrael realises with a sinking feeling, he's trying to provoke you into an honest reaction, no doubt. The archangel doesn't like it, but he likes the look of that man in the photograph even less.

“That's none of your business!” you snap, heart pounding like a jackhammer against your ribs. Unfortunately, your response only seems to stir something in the Horseman, who draws his head back as though you'd struck him a physical blow and he growls, “I hate to disappoint you, but it is my business where your welfare is concerned.”

“My welfare stopped being your concern about two years ago!”

Death falls silent, jaw clenching.

He'd be remiss to say that your comment hadn't struck at a place he guards jealously. He's painfully aware of the angel's eyes burning a hole into the side of his head and he nearly squirms at the pitying look he's receiving.

It would seem that Azrael knows him a little too well.

“You never once stopped being my concern...” the Horseman mumbles, his gaze moving down to the image in his hand. A younger, smaller you peers back at him with woe caught like sleep-dust behind your eyelashes. Death's eyes shoot back up to you again, the softness gone from his voice when he growls, “Why did you lie to me?”

Tensions are high enough that Azrael doesn't think it prudent to mention you'd lied to him as well.

Apparently, a direct confrontation was not the best way to deal with this delicate situation, a fact that becomes clear when you cinch your jaw shut for a moment, gaze flickering to and fro between the angel and the Horseman.

Seeing two of your most trusted friends standing in his bedroom with a symbol of your shame and your trauma held quite literally in Death's grasp sends your heart rate skyrocketing, fear like poison dripping down into your stomach. You can hardly believe they'd invade your privacy like this. Death especially, who knows better than anyone the necessity for keeping some secrets buried.

He doesn't need to learn about that part of your history - neither of them do. You don't want to have them worrying. And God forbid they should pity you.

Squaring your shoulders, you spin about on a heel and begin to march purposefully down your landing to the stairs.

“Where do you think you're going?!” Death barks after you.

Chest heaving, you pause on the first step and cast a heavy frown over your shoulder at the Horseman, matching his ferocious gaze without a single blink. “If you won't leave that room,” you tell him, “then I'll leave this house. And I'll thank you both to be gone by the time I get back.”

And just like that, you continue to descend your staircase and disappear below the wooden balustrades. Seconds later and there's an almighty 'slam' that signals you've had an altercation with the front door before leaving through it.

For some time, the house is weighed down under a blanket of silence as the pair of unearthly beings are left to stand in the aftershocks of their actions.

“Oh dear..” Azrael's stare is vacant, worried, and he has several fingertips pressed to his lips. “I fear I've reopened an old wound..”

“No. This... isn't your fault,” the Horseman sighs, “I should have addressed this sooner. I've known for some time there was something Y/n didn't want me to know. And, I suppose, I'd always suspected that this room might lead to some answers.”

Taken aback, Azrael turns a mystified look onto the Nephilim. He'd expected Death to lay the blame upon his feathery shoulders, after all, he was the one who first ventured into this so called 'storage cupboard' and upset the proverbial applecart. Still, he finds it somewhat odd that the Horseman – a nosy creature if ever one walked the nine realms – hasn't ever tried to see for himself what lay beyond the door. Tilting his head, the angel asks, “You never thought to investigate?”

At the question, Death averts his gaze and shrugs one of his pale shoulders. “Admittedly, no, I did not.”

“Well... Why?” Azrael presses, though he already has an inkling.

After a moment of frowning pensively at the photo in his hands, the Horseman turns to look at him and he's once again thrown off by the level of emotion in those wild, striking eyes. Death really has grown since knowing you.

“I never brought it up because....”

“.... You didn't want to jeopardise your friendship,” Azrael finishes for him softly, and Death is only grateful that he didn't have to say it himself out loud.

At the same time, the two of them peer back at the photograph and the archangel is surprised at himself for the anger that boils in his lungs at the sight of that man’s hands on you. Death however, isn’t in the least bit surprised at the presence of his own rage.

“Horseman...,” Azrael says, his voice eerily calm, “You don’t supposed.... Y/n might be trying to hide something else, do you?”

"The bruise...”

Furious, orange eyes meet cool and misty white.

“It isn’t out of the question,” Azrael breathes, “A random attack from human zealots? Or-”

“- Or something a bit closer to home,” Death finishes as he tosses the photo onto the nearby bed and turns to face the door.

Outside, rain continues to hammer relentlessly on the house whilst a streak of lightening illuminates the bedroom and the two, imposing beings inside, one with dark magics crackling at his fingertips, and the other with a halo of solid gold on his back that thrums with violent energy as the glyphs on his wings begin to glow electric blue.

Without a word, the Angel of Death and the Grim Reaper slip from your house and stride out into the coming storm, their ancient minds focused solely on tracking down their human.

#darksiders #darksiders 2 #darksiders 3 #Azrael #Death #Reader #abuse #child abuse #angst #Angel #Nephilim #Horseman of the Apocalypse #Hurt/comfort #found family #demon #guardian angels

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thewayiremember · 4 years

Text

youtube

EPISODE 1

July 5, 7:20 PM – 4 DAYS AFTER THE INCIDENT

Nathaniel Blake is lying across from me. He’s 16 years old, 5.9, 154 lbs, has no allergies, and no chronic illnesses. At least that’s what his medical chart says. How I got access to that is not important. I don’t actually know the guy, but we’ve been practically inseparable for the last couple of days. Plus, even though he hasn’t regained his consciousness yet, I’m sure he complains as much as I do about being here. He just cannot express his frustration. I have it easy. I can roll my eyes and sigh as loud as I want to. But there’s no one to see it, so, what’s the point?

Nathaniel Blake was supposed to travel across the Pacific in a couple of days for his dream vacation in Australia. He has been preparing for that trip since last summer and it was kind of a big deal because that would be his first totally independent adventure. I know that because his grandparents lament about it every time they visit. He can probably hear you. It won’t make him feel better if you keep reminding him how sad it is he won’t be able to go. His left arm is encased with a cast. Luckily, the doctors said it should heal very nicely, and that he shouldn’t have any movement difficulties afterward.

I always pretend to be asleep when he has visitors, so I have a little trouble forming opinions about his friends. He has too many. They seem like good fellas, though. The guests usually come in the mornings, which works for me cause it’s easier to play dead when you’re still tired. I know they would feel a lot less comfortable talking to him if they knew I’m awake. Plus, I wouldn’t feel comfortable looking at their sad faces, either.

I talk to Nathaniel a lot. I feel a little guilty because I can’t know for sure he even wants me to talk to him, but the silence of this place really gets to me. So I made him my friend in spite of him being unconscious. He knows me really well. He can’t tell me to shut up, so, I never do. I try not to whine too much and keep it positive to cheer him up after all that sobbing he’s forced to listen to, but I can’t always help myself. My buttcheeks hurt from not really changing this half-seated position and the wi-fi dies on me every five seconds. I have plenty to complain about.

But he’s alive. And I’m alive. So, there’s that.

It’s nice to have a friend who listens so well, but I do hope he wakes up eventually. Keeping my fingers crossed.

There’s a TV hanging from the ceiling but I don’t know how desperate I’d have to get to turn it on. The ads play every ten minutes and they’re so loud it makes me even more hyper and annoying. We don’t want that. At least I have plenty of time to meditate. No… I don’t meditate, I just watch Netflix. Though I never realized staring at the screen all day could be so exhausting. Headaches are no fun. So I have to take brakes, and then I’m left with me, myself, and this beautiful ward.

And that is not sarcasm. It’s actually really pretty. Minimalistic, by budget, or design, who cares? We can see only whites, blues, and some pink-ish whites. And the light wooden window frames on the tilted wall complement those colors very nicely. There’s not a lot of space in this room, but in my opinion, it makes it cozier. We have our own bathroom that seems clean and doesn’t give you chills when you walk in. Not that we use it much, especially not Nathaniel. And for me getting out of bed is still very challenging so I try not to drink too much so I won’t have to go to the toilet too often. I have the smallest bladder on Earth.

The sun is setting and the whole mood starts shifting. I have a wide view of the lake when I look outside the window. The water reflects all the colors of the sky. A gradient of perfectly aligned hues is breaking through the clouds. It’s insane how sexy the sky can be. Lots of blues, yellows, and purples. Do you know what else has lots of blues, yellows, and purples? My chest. Not as sexy, though.

It’s been five days since I was brought to the hospital. I can’t tell if it’s a long time or not, but I feel like the recovery isn’t gonna be as difficult as I thought it would be at the beginning. When I first woke up in this bed I could barely breathe. It felt like my ribs were all shattered into pieces and my face was so swollen I couldn’t open my left eye. The bruises aren’t really fading away just yet, but I’d say half of the pain is gone. At least I can breathe, see and eat normally.

I used to be obsessed with watching medical programs. Plastic surgeries, body transformations, treating horrifying skin conditions, but they tend to be very repetitive and predictable, so I especially liked the ones when something went wrong along the way. Like that one time, the doctors were stitching up the patient’s toes and they couldn’t bring back the blood flow. And of course, it’s probably a little scripted for the sake of the show, but they did look genuinely terrified that the toes would turn black and fall out. That was exciting. Luckily, I didn’t need any surgeries. I’m pretty much just bruised up, I think. No internal bleeding, no broken bones, but they wanted to do some more tests on me and asked me to stay for a couple more days.

My parents come to visit once a day, but somehow they manage to make this place even gloomier than when I’m alone. I’m surprised they even care. Or maybe they just feel obligated to come. Like, we barely even talk. Why are you here? I mean, I DO get it. Not everybody has to like each other, not even people blood-related. And it’s fine. We’re just very different people. And if it makes them feel better when they come to check on me, that’s cool. I feel like I am understanding, but still, I’m not gonna lie, this whole situation is very frustrating.

I am aware that the problem is more on my side, cause most of the things they say wouldn’t bother me if they were said by somebody else. Today (like every day since I’ve been here) they asked me how I was feeling. Now, if any of my friends or nurses asked about it, I’d take it as an act of caring. But when the same question is asked by my parents, in my mind I go berserk. And how do you think I’m feeling? Have you looked at my face? Even though in reality I don’t feel that bad. I don’t know where that anger comes from. Maybe because they never cared before. Why now? But I just reply, as politely as I can, that I feel OK.

10:30 PM

I wear earplugs when it’s bedtime because once it gets dark and the rest of the hospital’s asleep, the heart rate monitor that Nathaniel’s still attached to, I swear, levels up in volume. I need something to occupy my mind. I just read 100 random facts on some website and did you know that by taking just one step you use over 200 muscles in your body? That means that today I used the same 200 muscles at least 20 times in three series while I had to use the bathroom. That’s a legit workout if you ask me.

There’s a group of friends skinny-dipping in the lake. I wonder how much time it will take for them to get in trouble. They are far away from any buildings, I can barely see them myself, and there’s a pretty dense forest spreading behind the lake, but that’s no less than half a mile away. Other than that, the space is quite open.

10:45 PM

I can hear dr. Gramm talking on the phone behind the door. I swear she doesn’t sleep. Or even go home, like, ever. She’s the one who takes care of me and Nathaniel. She and the whole staff… they really seem to care. It’s nice to see them coming in here so often to make sure that we’re doing OK. And here’s the thing, Nathaniel can’t complain, and every time they check on us, they make sure to adjust his body so that he’s comfortable. Sweet.

Since I can’t actually remember what happened to me and why I’m here, after long conversations and many check-ups on me to make sure there’s no any brain damage, dr. Gramm told me that thinking out loud makes your brain work more… efficiently. She must have read those 100 random facts on the internet as well. I’m pretty sure it was a fact nr. 48.

Well, I don’t know about thinking out loud. She probably wouldn’t be happy to hear that I traveled back in time. I think I’d be put in a different kind of hospital. So, I hope keeping a journal will do just fine.

#short story #journal #fiction #middle grade #young adult #story #lgbt #lgbtq #love #romance #diary #book #audiobook #youtube #gay #mistery #queer #time travel #mm #male romance

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novantinuum · 5 years

Link

Fandom: Steven Universe

Rating: General Audiences

Words: 1.2K

Summary: In another world, he doesn’t have his mother’s sword or shield to hide behind when Bismuth lands her strike. The bubble pops.

Steven falls apart.

Chapter 1: Pink

“So what are you gonna do, shatter me?!”

Bismuth’s tone is corrosive, boiling with hurt, as sharp as the fine point that she’s forcibly pressed against the gem inlaid in her chest. Steven’s hands quiver against the cool metal casing of the breaking point. Once assured words derail and fragment in the presence of terrifying uncertainty, his mind grasping at straws for the barest glimmer of optimism. (Optimistic thought number one: While it’s absolutely the most horrifying tool of war he’s ever had the misfortune of holding, he’s at least glad this thing isn’t a thousand billion degrees like everything else in this crazy lava powered furnace.)

“Go ahead!” she continues, tears budding in her eyes, and jerks the weapon against her gem so roughly that it clinks against the hard crystal’s surface. His shoulders seize at the sound. “Just do it!”

Whatever force of fear that once tied his tongue dissipates at the first sight of her distress.

“No!” he says, surmounting the strength to rebel against her hold, to pull the razor sharp point away from her. “Even if we don’t agree, nobody deserves this...”

In an instant, a complex series of emotions flicker across her stony features in consuming waves too rapid to identify. Confusion, maybe? A hint of relief? He dares to dream she’ll reconsider, earnestly apologize, back down and store the weapon away. Destroy it, even. They can warp to the temple together, and then everything will finally return to normal. A new normal, with her a part of his Crystal Gem family! Amethyst will have a new wrestle buddy, and Pearl and Garnet will smile a little brighter alongside their old friend!

But any hope he dares cling to is quickly incinerated under the blistering anger radiating from deep within that Gem’s tear stained eyes. She yanks the breaking point from his grasp. Heart pounding in his ears, his glance desperately skates over his mom’s sword lying across the room. Too far away, too far away! Bismuth raises her weapon adorned arm above her head and swings.

It happens so fast there’s not even time to summon his shield. Instinctively the world around him turns to pink, but he knows his limits, knows the bubble’s protection won't be enough. Not against something like this, not at point blank. Steven grinds his molars together, slams his eyes shut. He suddenly wishes he hugged everyone goodnight before going to bed. He wishes he texted his dad.

The bubble pops.

In a heartbeat, agony tears through his nerves like nothing he’s ever experienced before, radiating from his gem all the way to the tips of his fingers and toes and drawing a hoarse scream from his lips. Something within him shatters into fragments, rips away with a force unimaginable and shoves him forcibly to the warm stone. He desperately tries to raise another bubble shield but now his body is cold, cold, cold and his head feels woozy, stuffed to the brim with cotton. He catches a faint flicker of pink through the crack of his eyelids. But that solid clink against crystal, followed by that horrid, horrid sound— the unmistakable sign of a cracking gemstone— might as well have come from miles away.

When he finally opens his eyes again, he’s immediately aware of two things.

One: he’s shivering. Despite the overwhelming heat of the forge, heat he knows should be making him sweat rivers, his body convulses and his teeth chatter like he’s just come out of the snow.

Two: after her aggression he doesn’t understand why, but Bismuth is holding him. His breath hastens as he realizes this, but in his current state of disorientation he doesn’t fight it. She’s pressed him tight against her chest like he’s suddenly the most precious being in existence, her hard light form nearly burning to the touch even though Gem bodies don’t produce heat like organic life does. Paired alongside the uncontrollable shivering, he‘s pretty sure that’s reason for concern.

“I’m so, so sorry,” she cries, fat tears budding at the corners of her eyes and spilling down her cheeks. “Shards, I- I was so sure that you were somehow Rose that I almost-“ Her voice hitches, unable to complete that sentence.

A pang of... of indescribable emptiness assails him then, and a glimpse at the figure standing motionless where he once stood enlightens him on concerning reality number three.

“Steven. Steven, please tell me you can still hear me? Please tell me you’re not- I didn’t mean to- for any of this to happen, I swear!”

“W-what...” His throat constricts, horror gripping his limbs as he shakily pulls up the hem of his shirt and finds nothing but smooth, blemish-less skin. “Where’s my-?” His gemstone is nowhere to be seen. Gone. Except...

His gaze drops once more on the softly glowing, pink clone of himself that’s currently staring at him with hauntingly blank irises. He doesn’t speak a word, and his expression barely shifts at all, but Steven soon finds himself understanding his other self‘s existence regardless. He... he saved him. (Them?) Somehow, this hard light manifestation split himself apart to shove him away from Bismuth’s strike, sparing him from the brunt of the breaking point’s force. And yet...

Phantom pains from a gem he no longer possesses arc like lightning through his now completely human body. He gives a sharp whimper, his eyes growing wet. It’s almost immobilizing, reminiscent of the feeling one gets when they accidentally slam their funny bone against a counter or a door jam except it’s everywhere at once. Simultaneously, his pink double’s form glitches like a video game sprite.

Oh. Oh, no. Surely that’s not what—

Bismuth pulls his frail form tighter as he bursts into tears. Memories of a distant afternoon he’s tried so hard to forget slam to the forefront of his mind, leaving him helpless under their power. Amethyst, fracturing her gemstone when she fell on the hard edge of a boulder. Amethyst, her form glitching and morphing wildly, growing more and more unstable with every minute until she could barely speak or move. The bone chilling cracking noise that plays over and over in his deepest darkest nightmares, absolutely unmistakable in its horror, just like the sound of a car’s bumper crunching inwards. The same noise ringing through his ears not moments ago, the breaking point aimed straight at his gem.

“What do I do?” she asks fervently, her attention snapping back and forth between his two fractured selves, human and Gem. “How do we fix this??"

Steven can’t catch a breath through his sobs to even respond at first. He’s heaving so hard his chest aches. Tears streak lines through the dirt that’s caked on his face from their fight. As he desperately reaches out towards his double, a keening cry slips through his lips. The absence of his gemstone weighs on him as if something had reached its hand inside him and scooped it out like pumpkin guts. One moment he‘s whole, and the next... He doesn’t understand how any of this came to happen. All he knows— the unceasing mantra buzzing within his woozy cotton-filled mind— is that he needs him, has to reach him to become whole again—

Need— I need to...

"T-take me back," he croaks, quivering helplessly in her arms. "I- I need—"

Awareness surges into his double's otherwise blank features as he chimes in to order the other Gem. The emotionless monotone of that voice is enough to send a shudder through his bones.

"The temple. Now."

Notes:

I honestly don't know how long this will go on for, or in what direction. All I know is that I wanted to explore the idea that Gem/human Steven coming apart (as per Change Your Mind) is a sort of subconscious survival instinct, one which will only occur when Steven's about to suffer some pretty egregious injuries to his gemstone.

I figure Steven's subconscious attempts at protecting himself were able to:

A) Entirely spare his organic body from harm. (All pain human Steven feels here is flat out shock from suddenly being without his gemstone- and while they're separate he still is somewhat connected, thus can sense something's off when Gem Steven is glitching.)

B) Defend against the breaking point JUST enough that it only grazed/cracked his gemstone instead of full out shattering it.

As for Bismuth, we don't really get a chance to see her heel turn because Steven is blacked out for it. But the moment the split happened... and she saw human Steven spilled on the forge's floor, and Gem Steven cracked... it's alarming enough that it snaps her out of her rage and makes her realize that despite her confusions she genuinely could never shatter another Crystal Gem over this. The fact that she actually struck a blow this time is guilt inducing enough.

#su #steven universe #bismuth #su fanfiction #su fanfic #my writing stuff #crack the paragon

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rosemaidenvixen · 4 years

Text

You are my Sunshine

Chapter 15: Fifteen Part 1

Ao3

Jim stood in front of the bathroom mirror, gaze fixed on his reflection.

It was just a little after six in the morning, the square of sky outside the bathroom window was inky dark, but steadily brightening. Barbara was asleep in bed and Jim had already finished his nightly chores and made their lunches for the next day. All he had left to do was wait until sunrise so he could get dressed.

Jim leaned in over the sink, taking an inventory of sorts of his nocturnal features.

Changing every sunrise and sunset had been part of his life for as long as Jim could remember. He wasn’t in the habit of closely examining himself at night, normally his metamorphosis was nothing more than an event he planned his routine around.

But today was not a normal day.

Jim tilted closer to the mirror, until his flat, hooked nose was practically touching the glass; he was taller like this, by at least a foot.

It was Thursday morning, his first week of freshman year in highschool. An ordinary day in most ways except for one.

Today was his fifteenth birthday.

Jim reached up and pinched his cheek, tracking his movements in the glass. He had azure flesh like a granite statue, even after ten years that still seemed the most bizarre alteration.

Jim didn’t like his birthday, he hadn’t for a very long time. Almost everyone he knew was aware of that.

But what they didn’t know was that there was one day Jim hated even more than his birthday.

Jim slid his hand underneath his jaw; sharp tusks jutted out past his lower lip, built for crunching through bone and metal. His fingers slid further back along his mandible into the thick, coarse hair that spread down his neck and back, even starting to line his face in places.

A day just over a month after the date of his birth, a day for which the tenth anniversary was rapidly coming up.

The day he took a bath that changed everything.

The day he transformed for the first time.

His hand traveled up around his pointy ears through the forest of hair on his scalp. Last but not least were the robust, back swept horns the color of ivory. Jim ran his fingers from the base of one horn to the tip, he was pretty sure they were still growing.

Ambient light was seeping into the bathroom at a rapid pace, at any moment the first true rays of sunshine would appear outside.

Jim’s reflection blinked, round blue eyes disappeared and reappeared. Those were the same; in spite of everything. His mom had told him that was how she recognized him on the first night when she found him in the woods. Jim had the same eyes, day or night.

For all the good that did him.

Jim could tally up the changes, visible or otherwise, but it never made any difference.

Almost ten years and he still didn’t know what he was, only that he changed into it every sundown, rain or shine.

And then, from outside the tiny bathroom window, the sun came up.

Jim’s otherworldly appearance melted away, the transition was so smooth he could barely feel it.

In the time it took to breathe in and out it was all over.

And then Jim was staring at himself in the mirror; lanky, pasty skin, longish black hair, and no horns or fangs to speak of. The real him, the genuine Jim Lake Jr, standing in the bathroom at six thirty in the morning wearing a t-shirt and sweatpants that were practically falling off.

Jim stood perfectly still, managing to be mystified by the complete transformation even after living with it for years.

He was normal now, he could go outside and go to school and mingle with people, no one being the wiser.

Until sunset, when he would grow and turn blue and sprout fangs and horns and have to stay safely tucked indoors, and the whole thing started all over again.

And again.

His life wasn’t always ruled by the movement of the sun, Jim knew that. He had a vague memory of walking down the night time streets of Los Angeles, hand in hand with each of his parents.

But all that had gone off the rails when he was five.

Despite his best efforts to think back on that night, on what had happened to him, the memory was hazy, distorted by time and his own childish abilities of recollection. But no matter how faded and blurry the memory itself was, the terror of it remained sharp and crisp as always.

Splashing around in the tub.

Dropping the dark, grainy sphere into the water.

Being swallowed by darkness.

Waking up in a world that wasn’t right.

Mom coming to find him, bursting through the trees and scooping him up, he had been small enough that she could still do that.

Seeing her cry for the first time.

The miracle that happened at sunrise.

The nightmare that came back once the sun went down again.

Jim didn’t think he would forget any of that even if he tried.

He hesitated at the mirror for a few more seconds before heading to his room to get dressed.

Ten years.

Ten years of hiding in his house and keeping secrets from everyone he knew. Ten years spent terrified that someone would find out the truth.

What the next ten be like?

Almost robotically, Jim finished getting dressed and gathered up the lunches for him and Toby.

His mom had worked the graveyard shift last night, which meant that she wouldn’t be awake until nine or ten, so Jim was all on his own this morning.

Seeing no reason to wait any longer, he put on his backpack and went into the garage, grabbing his bike and heading into the driveway to wait for Toby.

Due to the fact that he was awake at an hour most other teenagers would consider obscenely early, Jim had to wait nearly fifteen minutes before Toby finally pulled up on his bike

“Morning Jim, you ready for day four of our conquest of high school?”

Jim flashed him a smile that he hoped was convincingly cheery “You’d better believe it,”

As they peddled down the street in tandem, Toby excitedly described to Jim his master plan to woo every girl in school. Despite the fact that he’d never actually had a full conversation with any of them.

Jim rolled his eyes as Toby rattled off three rules of love hunting that he had no doubt made up himself.

Of course that was what Toby was worried about, it wasn’t like he was dealing with any real problems.

Jim had to bite back a snarl. Toby got to enjoy his blissfully normal life just one house over from where Jim was on nightly house arrest; and he didn’t even appreciate how good he had it.

The sudden amount of sheer hostility he felt caught Jim off guard, causing him to wobble on his bike, nearly losing his balance. He quickly corrected himself before he could fall and hurried to catch up with Toby.

Jim brated himself while continuing to peddle in the direction of the school, keenly aware of Toby just ahead of him. It wasn’t fair of him to be mad at Toby. Toby had been Jim’s best friend for nearly an entire decade. Despite all the weirdness caused by his nightly transformation that he knew Toby noticed. Would any other kids his age put up with Jim’s quirky routine without asking questions? No. Toby was the greatest friend Jim had ever had. He didn’t deserve Jim’s spite.

They pulled to a stop shortly after passing the large Arcadia Oaks High School sign.; hauling their bikes up to the racks out front.

Jim squinted at the steadily rising sun while locking his bike into the rack.

Ten years.

In a month and a half it would be ten whole years of everything. All the questions, the discoveries, the fear and horror.

Jim still couldn’t quite believe it.

Locks in place, Jim and Toby went inside the building and headed to their lockers, which luckily enough, were practically next to each other.

He thought back on all the nights he practically had to run home to beat the sunset. All the excuses and evasions he had to give Toby. All the close calls.

Of course now that he was in high school, it wouldn’t be any easier.

At least when he was little there hadn’t been much that he could do outside the house without his mom. Now there would be dances and after school activities Jim would have to dodge, no doubt Toby would start asking him to sneak out so they could go to parties. And then once he graduated….

The locker door slipped from Jim’s hand as the realization hit him like a freight train.

It’s wasn’t going to stop.

Not today. Not when he graduated. Not ever.

This was never going to get any better.

A chill slowly spread out from his chest as the cold, hard truth sunk in.

This was going to be his entire life.

Jim was so out of it that he almost noticed his textbooks slipping from his grip too late. Yelping, he quickly grabbed the sliding books, barely managing to keep them from falling to the floor.

“You ok there Jimbo?”

“Oh-- uh-- yeah I’m good,”

Toby looked skeptical “You sure? Cuz I know your birthday always--”

“Yep,” Jim forced a grin “I’m fine,”

Toby didn’t look convinced, but mercifully he dropped the subject.

Jim allowed himself a small sigh of relief at Toby’s lack of prodding, but his bleak revelation still lingered.

They went in to their first class, algebra with Ms. Janeth, and took their seats.

Jim tried to compose himself.

But figuring out the truth had opened up a dam.

He was never going to go to homecoming or prom.

He was never going to live in the dorms or even go to college.

After high school his life was over.

It would be nothing but closed blinds and the same four walls until the day he died.

Jim dropped his pencil as a horrifying vision struck him.

Jim Lake Junior, age seventy, blue skin, horns and all. Living alone in the house he grew up in, never leaving Arcadia. His mom had passed away, he had lost contact with Toby a long time ago.

Jim; isolated and alone.

For the rest of his life.

Jim struggled to slow down his breathing, piercingly aware of Ms. Janeth lecturing in front of him and an entire classroom of teenagers.

He had to keep it together, couldn’t break down. Not here. Not now.

Jim dug his fingers into the sides of his desk, trying to stifle the burning in his eyes. He just had to last until lunch, then he could find somewhere to lose it.

The unisex bathroom near the principal’s office. It was just a single room with a door that locked so Jim wouldn’t be interrupted.

During lunch Jim could go in there, cry his eyes out, scream into a wad of paper towels, and get this all out of his system. That should last him for the rest of the day.

Jim tried to go through the breathing exercises his mom had taught him, but the ugly truth kpet surging to the forefront of his mind.

He was stuck like this for the rest of his life, it was never going to get better or easier, and one day Toby and his mom would be gone and he would be completely alone.

Jim bit his cheek to stifle to sound of a sob coming up.

He couldn’t do this. Jim was going to burst into tears in the middle of algebra where everyone could see him.

His fingertips had turned white from the force they were gripping the desk with. He was starting to shake all over, he had to blink every few seconds to keep the tears from spilling out.

Jim needed to pull himself together, now.

He summoned up the happiest thoughts he could think of; owning and riding his own vespa, Toby beaming in delight at his latest cooking creation, getting a tight hug from mom….

The guilt he felt every time he lied to Toby, seeing Mom working herself to the bone to take care of him, cleaning the house from top to bottom just to distract himself from the endless hours of solitude every night, spending decades of his life this way….

One of Jim’s tears escaped and stained one of the problems on his worksheet.

This wasn’t working, Jim was one small spark away from an explosion

Time for plan B. If Jim couldn’t make himself happy, then he would have to make himself sad about something else.

And there was only one memory that was potent enough to do that.

His dad.

Jim hadn’t cared about that deadbeat for a long time, but the memories of him still hurt.

Jim forced his frantic breathing to slow down while he dredged up half faded memories from ten years ago today.

Watching his dad come down the stairs, a suitcase in each hand, ignoring Jim’s questions about where he was going.

Seeing him get in there car and drive away without saying a single word, only sparing Jim an indifferent glance.

Standing at the edge of the driveway watching the car fade into the distance.

Wondering what it was he did to make his dad stop loving him.

That did the trick, he knew by now that if his dad was enough of a jerk to ditch them, then he and his mom were probably a lot better off without him, but recalling exactly how much it hurt to watch him leave distracted Jim from the hard truth that had chosen this morning to sink in.

It seemed to take forever for first period to end, seesawing between panic and decade old heartbreak the entire time, but at long last Ms. Janeth dismissed them.

Jim let out a shaky breath. One period down, three to go. He could do this.

Restraining himself from running, Jim hurried to his locker, desperate to avoid a conversation with Toby. It would be ten times harder to hide the rising tide of hysteria from him.

He spun open his locker and grabbed his books in record time. Just when Jim was feeling sure that he could make it to his next class incident free, the absolute worst possible thing happened.

A hand shot out and slammed his locker shut, a smirking face framed by blonde hair entered his field of vision "I don’t remember saying you could use this hallway today buttsnack,”

Jim had to bite his lip to keep from screaming. Today of all days, Psycho Steve just had to make an appearance.

Hastily, Jim turned and tried to escape down the other side of the hall only to have Logan and Seamus step out in front of him and cut off any escape.

Normally he could deal with Steve throwing his weight around, but not now, not today.

Jim struggled to speak without letting the raging storm of grief and fury inside him color his words.

“I...I’ve got to get to class, so I can’t really do this right now--”

“Oh so you want to throw down later? How does you and me on the football field after school sound?”

Jim dug his fingers into his textbooks so hard he could feel the sharp cover cutting off circulation. Was Steve really that dumb or had he just wanted to pick a fight from the start?

“No I--”

“No backing out Lake," Steve smirked down at him "We're going to settle this once and for all,”

Even though he was two seconds away from a complete meltdown and Steve would no doubt wipe the floor with him, part of Jim, the stupid, stubborn, angry part, wanted to take Steve up on his offer, just to wipe the smug grin off his face.

It wasn't enough for guys like Steve to have it better than everyone else. They had to rub it in their faces.

Jim glared up at Steve’s oh-so self satisfied grin.

Arrogant prick.

Steve had it great; buff, perfect blonde hair, a spot on the basketball team, plenty of cronies to always back him up.

His free hand tightened into a fist.

Steve didn’t turn into a monster when the sun went down, he didn’t spend half his life indoors so men in black from the government wouldn’t lock him up on a secret base somewhere, didn’t have to eat raw meat and metal so he wouldn’t starve. Stupid, perfect Steve had it so great, living his nights without fear, no doubt surrounded by tons of friends, actually having a future past graduation--

The unexpected wave of emotion made his eyes sting.

Focus.

Take deep breaths.

Now more than ever Jim needed to keep his cool.

If Jim started to cry in front of Steve of all people he couldn’t imagine how bad it would be.

“So what will it be Lake?”

Just when Jim had forced back his emotions enough to give a coherent reply, Toby chose that moment to show up.

“Hey, what's going on?”

Steve scowled at Toby "Mind your own business, buttsnack!"

Toby's gaze turned frosty.

Jim threw a desperate look at his friend, silently begging him to not make the situation worse.

“We’re not afraid of you Steve,” Toby followed this bold statement up with a quick wink at Jim, clearly having misinterpreted his expression.

Steve snarled “That settles it, we’re doing this,”

“No, no we’re not doing anything,”

His birthday, Toby, Steve, everything, Jim couldn’t keep himself together for much longer.

A hint of a whine had started to bleed into his tone; he needed to get out of here now.

Motions jerky with nerves, Jim darted past Logan and Seamus and managed to make it a ways down the hallway, only to have Steve rush ahead and block him.

Steve was a good deal taller than him, something he used to his full advantage while looming over Jim “No wimping out Lake. You and me, football field, midnight. Be there,”

Steve’s words hit him like a fist to the gut. It didn’t matter whether Jim was willing to fight Steve or not, he couldn’t meet him at midnight if he wanted to.

He couldn’t go to homecoming.

He couldn’t go to a play or a sports game.

He couldn’t sneak out to go the end of the year bonfire.

Jim felt whatever tenuous control he had over his emotions slip.

Who was he kidding, his life was over already.

Toby and Steve were exchanging more heated words but it almost didn’t sound real. Dim and indistinct, like they were both underwater.

Jim was never going to go to college or even move out of Arcadia, never hold down a real job, never date or get married, never have a family of his own.

Sooner or later, everyone he cared about would leave him and Jim would be alone.

Forever.

The world around him shifted back into focus “Alright Lake, are you in or out?”

A sob bubbled up in the back of Jim’s throat.

The hallway was thick with other students by now, all of them could just step outside and live their lives without fear. He was surrounded by people that had no idea what he struggled with every day and never would.

He was lightheaded, his knees were weak.

Jim felt almost like a puzzle piece that had been forced into the wrong spot. Trying so desperately to fit in, but clearly not belonging.

“You going to say anything buttsnack?” Steve sneered.

“Jim can totally take you on,” Toby said, supportive and enthusiastic as always “Right Jim?”

It didn’t matter what he tried or what he did. Jim was never going to have all the mundane, wonderful things that everyone else took for granted.

Jim sank to the ground, stirring up surprised murmurs and gasps from everyone in the crowded hallway.

He’d could pretend and maintain the illusion until he was blue in the face, but that wouldn’t change the fact that Jim was never going to have anything more than half a life.

Toby approached him, clearly concerned “You ok Jim?”

Unable to hold it in any longer, a sob forced its way out of his mouth.

He was doomed, he had been doomed ever since that awful night nearly ten years ago. It just took him that long to realize it.

Tears started to dribble down his cheeks, flushed with shame. He knew this was coming, why couldn’t he hold it together for just a little longer? Why did he have to go to pieces here, now, where everyone could see?

Crying in front of the whole student body was a surefire way to doom his high school career before it even started, but then again what did it even matter?

His life was already in tatters, had been for a long time, what was one more thing gone wrong?

More sobs come along with the tears, spilling out harder and faster.

Normal was a pipe dream, something other people got to have and Jim could only pretend at. His life would be ruled by his transformation until the day he died.

Losing any restraint he had left, Jim started sobbing with abandon, regardless Steve, Toby, and the growing crowd around him.

Through bleary unfocused eyes, he saw his tears start to drip onto the linoleum floor.

Despite all the other teens surrounding him, Jim had never felt more alone in his life.

#rmvwrites #tales of arcadia #trollhunters #fanfic #you are my sunshine #jim lake jr #toby domzalski #steve palchuck

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strikecommanding · 6 years

Note

You mentioned the college student reader had a job to pay for school. Would professor jack ever show up?

sorry to keep you waiting so long for something so boring 😪 i needed to build the story a bit more lol

previous updates and extra content

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While your school life was eventful, to say the least, your part-time jobs always remained the same. You had to hold down two jobs in order to make enough money to support yourself, and between the two, you vastly preferred your day job at a restaurant some ways away from your apartment. It was in a nice area, so you were paid a little more than minimum wage and the patrons tended to leave generous tips.

Sometimes it was difficult just to pull yourself out of bed most days when you thought about how little control you actually had in your life, but your desire to go out and do something productive with yourself was always stronger. Mingling with your co-workers, socializing with nice customers and dealing with the bad ones, it all felt rewarding at the end of the day. Beyond the obvious need for money, what kept you clocking in was the feeling of being of some use to others, even in the smallest of ways.

The lull between lunch and dinner saw very few customers, so the hostess thought to take a quick break. You were wiping down tables and noticed the stand unattended when the front door jingled open, so you quickly leapt up to greet the customers who walked in. Upon seeing none other than Hana, you started to smile, but you froze dead in your tracks when you saw who followed immediately after her.

Dr. Morrison wore a soft, cordial smile in the face of your distress, allowing his daughter to do the talking. Hana didn’t seem to notice the significant drop in your mood as she grinned and greeted you, “Surprised to see me? I always did want to give this place a try and I wanted to see if you were working today!”

You had to physically tear your eyes away from the older man behind your friend in order to give her proper attention. A forced smile tugged on your lips as you replied, “I-I’m a little surprised, yeah. Follow me, please.”

You picked up two menus and started leading them to a booth, conscious of every step you took on the way. Knowing that Dr. Morrison’s eyes were on you in any context sent a wave of tremors through your bones, and you hoped to god that Hana didn’t notice. You had yet to say anything to her about her father’s behavior, and you intended to keep her in the dark about it. It wasn’t her fault that he was like this; the truth would crush her, and you felt like you had to protect her from it.

Dr. Morrison’s knuckles brushed against yours as he slid past you and into his seat, causing you to jump just the tiniest bit. You cleared your throat to get yourself back into sorts and handed off their menus to them, asking quietly if you could start them off with anything to drink.

Hana looked you up and down before abruptly turning to her father, frowning. “Dad, I told you you shouldn’t have come here with me. You’re freaking her out.”

He let out a good-natured laugh, and you were astounded by the fact that he could put on such a genuine and decent face. You were too used to that awful sneer he always wore whenever he had you in his office and at his mercy. Rather than chime in, you stared at your blank notepad like it was the most interesting thing in the world as he spoke. “Is it so bad to treat my daughter to lunch?”

At that, she visibly perked up and began eagerly leafing through the menu. “Your treat, huh? I’ll make the most of it then.”

For the most part, you were tuned out of their conversation, as you were too busy trying to figure out why exactly they decided to dine here, of all places. Maybe Hana truly did want to give this restaurant a try, and she’d unknowingly brought your tormentor right to you. Or maybe Dr. Morrison had already known that you worked here. You wouldn’t put it past him to find out where you worked, and the thought that he might know any number of things about you chilled your blood. It reminded you that his grip on you extended beyond the confines of the school.

You were brought back to the present by Hana’s chipper voice calling your name. “What would you recommend as a starter?”

You cleared your throat and tried to regain your composure, and it was easy enough if you looked only at your friend while completely ignoring her father’s presence. “Um, the arugula with fresh fruit is a favorite, especially now that strawberries are in season–” you informed her before catching yourself and shaking your head. “Wait. You’re allergic to strawberries. Right. My bad.”

Hana looked up at you with a bright grin, and for a moment, you felt assured. “You know me too well.”

Your responding smile was genuine, at least until Dr. Morrison joined the conversation. He cocked his head like he was curious, but you knew the sinister nature beneath that feigned look of concern. “Are you all right? You seem… out of it.”

It took you a moment to work up the nerve to look at him, and when you did, you felt like you were about ten inches tall. The tension in the air was palpable for just you as you quietly answered, “I’m fine, sir. It’s, ah… been a long day.”

The corner of his lips quirked up in a crooked, slimy smile that made you sick. “We’d better not work you too hard then.”

He practically had you trembling, but Hana was there to unwittingly defuse the situation by reaching across the table and lightly slapping her father’s arm. “Oh, leave her alone, Dad. Like you know how hard it is to work in food services.”

You were able to hold it together just long enough to receive their orders, which you passed along to the chef. Finally, you had a moment alone, at which point you excused yourself to the restroom to have a brief breakdown in solitude.

In a lonely stall, you crouched down into a squat and held your head in your hands. As horrifying as it was to see Dr. Morrison at your workplace, you couldn’t afford to go back out there without wearing your best face. Not in front of your boss, or your co-workers – especially not in front of Hana. The truth would break her heart, and you wanted no part in that.

In time, you managed to put yourself back together and headed out to the kitchen. Their appetizers were ready, so you picked them up along with their drinks and returned to their table with the best neutral expression you could manage. You nearly made it back to the kitchen scot-free when Hana called for your attention, and then you were forced to stay behind for a little while longer. She looked around. “It’s pretty dead around this time, huh?”

You followed her gaze as it swept over all the empty tables and you shrugged. “Yeah, it starts to get busier in a few hours.”

“So it’s okay for me to monopolize your time for a bit, right?” she remarked with a grin, clearly innocent in her request but unknowingly putting you through more discomfort than you were currently equipped for. “We never get to hang out anymore. I had to track you down at your job just to get to see you.”

You laughed half-heartedly and fidgeted with the hem of your apron. “Well, you know me. Always busy.”

“Still, it’s good to make time for your friends,” Dr. Morrison spoke up, causing you to stiffen and immediately drop your arms back at your sides, like two useless weights. If he noticed his effect on you, his expression didn’t give anything away. “You’re both still young. Enjoy it while you can.”

You weren’t sure how to respond to that, but thankfully, Hana filled the silence for you. She made a face at her father and commented, “It’s because you talk like that that you seem hundreds of years older than you really are. That’s why no one wants to date you.”

His laugh at his daughter’s playfully scathing remark seemed to be genuine, and you figured it would have been acceptable for you to laugh along with them if you weren’t so inside your own head at the moment. He shook his head and replied, “I’m too old to be going out and dating. That sort of thing is best left to the young, and I missed my chance.”

Hana rested her chin in her palm while idly poking at her food before looking up at you and offering context. “Dad went straight into the military once he turned 18. How long did you serve, Dad?”

“20 years,” he said, pausing only to take a sip of his water. You were still uncomfortable around him, but Hana’s presence helped you see him in a different light. Without her, he was just a monster who was responsible for a tremendous amount of stress in your life, but now you could see him as just a person. This change in perspective helped you keep quiet and listen as he explained, “Right after dedicating my life to my country, I dedicated it to my education. They both took up so much of my time that I never really had the chance to socialize or meet anyone.”

You shifted your weight onto the other leg, taking in his words. “Sounds lonely.”

Dr. Morrison looked up at you, perhaps surprised to hear you chime in, but his eyes were off of you just as fast. Instead, he turned his attention to Hana, who responded with a sweet smile. “It was. Life just isn’t fulfilling without family, so I adopted Hana. It was the best decision I ever made.”

Her smile somehow managed to grow even wider as she reached across the table to gently place her hand on top of his. You instantly looked away, like you were witnessing something you didn’t deserve to see. Your own family situation was nowhere near as loving, so it was a bit foreign to be privy to this sort of affection. “It’s still lonely sometimes,” she remarked, a touch of sadness in her voice. “But it makes you value each other that much more when you’re all the other has. There’s no one else I’d rather have beside me than dear old Dad.”

You were more or less numb to her sentiments, but you did your best to try to understand. Then, the shrill sound of a bell being tapped repeatedly from the kitchen grabbed your attention. Straightening up, you informed them that you would be back with their entrees in just a moment.

You couldn’t help but feel a bit distraught after hearing Hana’s side of things. As much as you loathed Dr. Morrison for how he treated you, you were forced to remember that he was somebody’s father, and that he wasn’t such a source of evil in other people’s lives. The idea that you hated someone who meant so much to Hana made your chest feel tight. On one hand, you knew your feelings were justified, but on the other, you felt like you needed to try even harder to hide your discomfort from Hana. You couldn’t let her ideal image of her father be ruined.

The rest of their stay at the restaurant went mostly without incident, as you dropped off their food and explained that you really couldn’t stick around to chat for much longer. Dinner rush was just about to begin, so you tried to avoid their table for as long as you could by tending to the other customers. Only when they finished their meal and requested the bill did you have to return to them.

You were coming back from the register with Dr. Morrison’s card and his receipt when you noticed Hana was missing. She’d probably gone to the restroom, unfortunately leaving you to interact with her father on your own. You swallowed hard and steeled your nerves as you approached, hoping to drop off his things without having to linger. Of course, it could never be that easy, as he reached out and snatched your wrist before you could get away.

You pursed your lips to hide the gasp that threatened to surface, and you glared past his silver-rimmed glasses into his cold, impassive eyes. The mock concern in his tone didn’t reach his gaze. “Poor thing, running yourself ragged in a place like this just to get by.”

With a scowl, you easily snatched your hand back from him. “I was doing just fine before you showed up.”

He leaned back, clearly unaffected by your hostility. “I could make your life so much easier if you would only let me. If you’d only stop refusing me, I could take care of you.”

His words both unnerved you and made you sick. Did he thinking he was doing you a service with the way he was treating you, and that you were in the wrong for resisting him? Instead of asking for clarification, you spat, “You almost had me fooled with that sob story. You almost got me to see you as a man instead of a monster.”

“I think you’re in dire need of a new perspective,” he remarked. His eyes on you were so intense that you lost your nerve and looked the other way. “Maybe I’m not as bad as you think I am.”

Before you could even think to offer another scathing reply, you noticed Hana returning to the table and immediately backed off. You cleared your throat and turned to her with a pleasant smile, trying to shake off your nerves. “Thanks for dropping by. I swear, I’ll try to make time to hang out soon.”

“It’s a promise,” she grinned, gathering her things so she could head out. Dr. Morrison almost followed her, but he just had to stop to get the last word with you.

“I left you a tip,” he murmured, far too close for your comfort. When you tried to back up, he grabbed your wrist and held you in place. “Consider it a taste of just how kind I can be. If I feel like you need more, I know exactly where to find you.”

You only seemed to be able to pull your hand back from him because he decided to let you go. After ensuring that you were sufficiently unnerved, he left you with a chilling smile and a slight nod. You watched him leave, like you couldn’t even think to move until you made sure that he was gone and off the premises. Finally, you cleared your throat and began wiping down the table, at first merely glancing at the bills folded neatly beneath the salt shaker.

Then your eyes blew wide open once you got a closer look. That was unmistakably a $100 bill sitting atop the pile, and you reached for it with trembling hands to examine just how much money he’d left you. It was a $500 tip overall.

You were hit with a number of warring emotions as you leafed through each crisp bill. You thought about how easy it must have been for him to make a profit like this, something you would normally have to slave over. That he had the nerve to flaunt his lifestyle by leaving you such an outrageous tip made you furious, but that anger was extinguished by the idea of how much easier things would be for a while. Grocery expenses would be taken care of for at least a couple of weeks, and you could probably turn down overtime shifts both here and at your other job. You suddenly had more free time to look forward to.

Swallowing your pride, you slipped the bills into your pocket and resumed wiping down the table. You hated that man, but you couldn’t just overlook the fact that his actions, regardless of the intent behind them, would only make your life easier. You couldn’t, in good faith, accept that much money without showing real graciousness to the person who gave it to you, even if he did make your life a living hell.

#ask #anonymous #mine #teacher student relationship #age difference #professor!jack morrison #yandere!jack morrison #jack morrison x reader

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abloodymess · 7 years

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Tobe Hooper made the best horror movie, he also made the best horror movie sequel (with all due respect to Don Coscarelli and the great Phantasm sequels), and he also made the best made for TV horror movie. Not only that but he made a ton of great idiosyncratic horror movies through his career, some better than others, but all certainly interesting and could not have been made by anyone else (can you believe Lifeforce was made at all!? Who makes a movie like that!?). A true oddball, with a unique vision, that changed the landscape of cinema, not just horror cinema, all cinema with the release of The Texas Chainsaw Massacre. So with Tobe passing I thought I would share my favorite bit of writing on that particular film in its entirety.

Anecdotal: the concept of one’s own death loiters in the brain of a middle-aged man a lot more frequently than that of his twenty-something counterparts. Once you hit 40 there are, statistically speaking, more days behind you than in front of you, and as much as you try to run in the opposite direction, your mind will always eventually face front to dwell on the non-negotiable black nothingness of oblivion waiting for you at the end.

Not surprisingly, this mindset changes the way one watches the beloved horror classics of one’s youth. Moments of cinematic carnage take on a gravitas that the 18-year-old you couldn’t possibly have absorbed. When we’re young, death is scary but abstract; a dark unknown. In our 40s, death is a fact. It has by now reached out from the shadows and taken a few of our group. It surrounds us, moving toward us as we move toward it. In middle age, we’re always painfully aware that death is waiting, that it’s the one true certainty in life.

Death's inevitability is sitting right there in the title of The Texas Chain Saw Massacre. There's no ambiguous "nightmare" or “legend” or "night of terror" in that title. Right there on your admission ticket, it’s printed in black and white: Death is coming. En masse. With that one title, you’ve been told the what, the where and the how. (An opening dateline provides the when; you will never get the why.) The film that follows is not an escapist, spooky funhouse ride. It’s a funeral dirge. And no one gets more existentially fucked up by a funeral than the middle-aged.

That’s an interesting wrinkle, as The Texas Chain Saw Massacre is, through and through, a young people’s movie about death. It stars and was made by people mostly under 30, and was ingested primarily by a young audience who, in 1974, recognized it as the primal fairy tale it was. “What happened to them was all the more tragic in that they were young,” John Larroquette's voice tells us in the opening narration, and a young, draft-age audience nodded in agreement. Certainly that was my take on my first viewing, at age 12. In the VHS heyday of the early ‘80s, I found The Texas Chain Saw Massacre to be unnerving in its visual and aural assault, altogether different from the other movies in my rental pile. Of the many films that sparked an early interest in the craft of filmmaking, Tobe Hooper’s 1974 masterpiece was likely in my top three, though I struggled to articulate what was so special about it. It wasn’t exactly fun, or heightened, or overly stylized with the kind of polish that telegraphed “film production” to the viewer. It felt like you were seeing genuine homicidal insanity onscreen. There were no safe, cathartic thrills to be found. It made me feel small and helpless. That’s probably why it wasn’t on rotation in my VCR the way, say, the Friday the 13th movies were.

As the power (and appeal) of certain slasher franchises faded with my adolescence, The Texas Chain Saw Massacre continued to cast a spell. Time did not render any of its moments cheesy or hokey for me; the film’s unblinking lack of sentiment served it well in that regard. When more advanced moviemaking technology started to throw the rough edges of my other horror favorites into sharp relief, here was a film that never stopped feeling real. With each new video transfer, its deceptively primitive visual style was revealed to be more detailed and sophisticated than we realized, VHS “purists” be damned. Its soundscape never became dated because it is singular in the history of the genre; nothing has sounded like it before or since. The sound design is near-flawless, impregnating even the quiet moments with a droning sense of doom. It’s the heavy silence of a funeral director’s office, or an oncologist’s waiting room. It’s the noisy silence of blood pounding in your ears during a panic attack.

It's the one film that never became "just a movie" to me, but not for my lack of trying. I’ve attended multiple Q&As with the makers of the film. I’ve watched at least three documentaries, and read at least two books on its making. I’ve digested all the outtakes, and I’ve met every living principal cast member. I even once drove an hour to the relocated farmhouse, ate a meal in its dining room and wandered both floors. Despite my many attempts at demystification, its hold on me remains. In my 40s I now find the film resonates most powerfully in the moments leading up to the characters’ deaths. Pondering your own end, that terrible awareness that you’re rushing toward a point in the future where you will no longer exist. Unease, quiet dread, guilt, confusion, panic, abject terror: The Texas Chain Saw Massacre has become, for me, a mosaic of the feelings the idea of oblivion stirs within me. These days, those feelings are where I experience true horror, and I find that the film still delivers on that front.

Make no mistake: the movie still offers plenty of straight-up terror for all age groups. Unpredictable, unknowable chaos reigns in Hooper’s film, a marked contrast from the subgenre it helped birth. Later slasher films would evolve into a rigid set of rules by which characters would live or die; abstinence was rewarded, vice and promiscuity were punished. In a way the slashers came to really epitomize the ‘80s mindset, nearly right-wing in their code of conformity. They reassure a status quo; they're downright comforting in their predictability. This is not the case with The Texas Chain Saw Massacre. There are no ground rules as per Wes Craven’s Scream; no one is safe. Our heroes don’t fit the stereotypes of slasher victims, and aside from Franklin’s wheelchair-bound whining, the characters are fairly nondescript. But beyond that well-trod observation, even more unsettling is that these are good kids. They’ve heard reports of grave-robbing in the area, and they’ve gone out of their way to make sure their grandpa’s remains are undisturbed. They are checking on their dead grandpa. It’s a sweet, human, honorable goal. The film does not care. 84 minutes later, they’re all fodder for a saw that’s still swinging when the screen cuts to black.

This is a horrifying notion in more ways than one. These characters - good, bad, indifferent, pretty, fat, annoying, carefree - are all going into the sausage grinder. WE’RE all going into the sausage grinder. Like dumb cattle, oblivious to the signs all around us, one by one we willingly march toward our own screaming, bloody ends, slaughtered without ever understanding what’s happening to us. But part of The Texas Chain Saw Massacre’s enduring power is the horrible glimpse of omniscience it gives us, and in that clarity is revealed a universe prodding us down the cattle chute from day one. Right from the opening frames, the protagonists’ deaths have been set in motion. The Hitchhiker (Ed Neal) rattles those bones and displays that skeleton, and it’s a beacon. Relatives from miles away descend on the graveyard to check on their loved ones’ remains (who knows how many of these well-meaning people ended up as furniture in that house, their cars piled up under that tarp in the backyard). With his cemetery folk art, the Hitchhiker has summoned Sally (Marilyn Burns) and her friends to their doom, with neither side even aware of it. Later, Franklin (Paul Partain) tells the group that his and Sally’s grandpa sold cattle to the slaughterhouse where Leatherface (Gunnar Hansen) and his family worked, and eventually we come to find out that the two families were essentially next door neighbors.

On recent viewings, that last detail chills me the most. The film is rife with omens - the astrology readings, the ramblings of the graveyard drunk, the radio station that broadcasts literally nothing but reports of carnage and mayhem. But more than anything I can't shake the weird angle of these characters dying horribly simply because of where their grandfather happened to live (and die). That vanload of victims had been tied to their cannibalistic murderers for decades before August 18, 1973. Whatever it is that’s gonna kill you, the film reminds us, has probably happened already, and there’s nothing you can do about it. You were always going to end up on that meat hook.

Movies, we like to tell ourselves, are a kind of immortality. Films last forever, and sequels and reboots keep things alive long after the end credits. In the world of cinema, we're seldom asked to confront the actual end of anything. But discarding all the sequels, the remakes, the sequels to remakes and remakes of sequels, The Texas Chain Saw Massacre remains one of the most confrontational films about death ever made. Forty years on, the film offers no comfort in its bleak message: you might live or die at any given moment, and when you finally take the dirt nap it will likely be an unsentimental, arbitrary bit of happenstance. But sooner or later you will end. Once you are dead you will no longer matter to the world at large, and odds are most people on Earth will never know about your experiences. Moreover, time will eventually claim not only you and everyone you love, but the entire planet. The whole of human existence will be nothing but an imperceptible blip on the universe’s radar as our tiny planet of cruelty and chaos is one day swallowed by the angry sun we see erupting in the film’s opening credits.

@PhilNobileJr

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terresdebrumestories · 7 years

Text

Chapter 10/24: Breakdown

✗ TECHNICAL DETAILS

FANDOM: Marvel’s MCU SERIES: SEADLA Verse, version 2.0 RATING: Mature WORDCOUNT: 4 626 PAIRING(S): - CHARACTER(S): Tony Stark, Nick Fury, Bruce Banner, Steve Rogers, Tony’s therapist and the rest of the avengers in the background. GENRE: Plot twist. TRIGGER WARNING(S): Mentions of suicide and generally low self esteem (Check the AO3 listing for a glimpse of what’s to come). SUMMARY: In which things are revealed, and none of them are pleasant. Also, Tony may or may not make Steve cry, but it’s not like he cares.

DEDICATION(S): As always, to the first version’s readers, to the people who leave comments on the fic three years after its last update, and to 2012!me, who needed to write this fic a lot.

SEADLA ON TUMBLR: [Chapter 1] [Chapter 2] [Chapter 3] [Chapter 4] [Chapter 5] [Chapter 6] [Chapter 7] [Chapter 8] [Chapter 9]

Tony stares at the therapist—is the guy even a real professional, or was he just acting?—until the world starts swimming, his ears buzzing with the same white noise that deafened him after his jeep blew up on an unnamed desert road. He watches the room swim in a strange kind of slow tango, arc reactor desperately trying to split his chest open even as he tries to make sense of Steve’s wide eyes and pale face. He fucked up—he fucked up and he’s screwed, and the thought of it is almost enough to pull him to his knees.

He reaches for Lorna’s—Loki’s, it’s Loki’s—knife in his pocket and clenches his fingers around the handle hard enough to hurt while he tries to breathe the storm out of his lung, the blankness out of his brain.

He hasn’t told anyone about Loki—not Pepper, who’s seen him through more shit than she should have had to, not Rhodey, who’s undoubtedly going to kill him for the omission, and with good reasons to boot. The only moment Tony even used the name—ha. He really should have guessed, shouldn’t he? Kebradalvin’s presence should have been a dead giveaway! Oh, how stupid can he get?

Months. Months of therapy, of spilling his guts out to a stranger because he thought it’d be safer than trust any of his friends with the mess of him and now—this? Well fucking done, Tony, way to prove you’re actually the idiot you thought you were.

“You said you weren’t keeping tabs on us anymore,” Bruce says from his seat at the very edge of the kitchen.

His voice is full of the same quiet challenge he’s used to coax more than one arrogant dick think of their following words with a lot of carefulness. On the side, Fury gives Bruce a wary side-eye, and Tony wants them both to shut up—to slip into silence and leave what’s left of his world alone. Hell, he’s just about ready to start praying right now—indulge the wobbliness of his knees and call for whoever happens to hear to come and get him out of this nightmare—but Fury steals the rug from under him when he says:

“We at S.H.I.E.L.D came to the conclusion that Iron Man’s safety required special monitoring.”

Tony manages to brace himself on the wall before he actually falls, but it’s a close call—and it doesn’t even really matter anyway. The room blinds him with its harsh lights, overexposed and burning at his eyes harder than the lamps thrown into his face in a darkened cave until he has to swallow against the sudden urge to vomit.

Four months—four months of his life—the thought seizes at his throat, his stomach, his chest, presses at him until he has to gasp around it, drowning in all the things he should never have said, never have confided, and he can’t make himself stop, can’t get air—

“Can’t breathe,” he gasps through sheer miracle, sliding halfway to the floor before Bruce springs out of his chair and stabilizes him, leaving Steve to try and open Tony’s collar.

Tony, meanwhile, can’t—won’t—look anywhere, at anything but Bruce—Bruce, and the way his eyes look like they’re trying to catch Tony and not let him go. Bruce, whose voice is steady and solid when he tells Tony to breath—come on, Tony, in through the nose, out through the mouth, we’ll get there.

It hurts—breathing hurts, looking hurts—but Tony wrestles himself back into some semblance of control, forces his lungs through one, two, three cycles of controlled breathing before he stops feeling like he’s about to have an out of body experience. The whole of him screams, like an exposed nerve rubbed raw, and a small part of his brain wonders if Bruce, who first used the metaphor, feels half that terrified when he hulks out.

If yes, tony is never asking the Big Guy to come out again.

“I have trouble believing you did this for Tony’s sake,” Bruce says after Tony calms down a little, the evenness of his tone keeping Tony anchored there.

Steve’s fingers hurt where they dig into his biceps. Clint and Natasha haven’t made a move either way.

“You don’t have to believe it,” Fury replies with a slight shrug.

Tony grips at Bruce’s shoulder as tight as he holds Loki’s knife, and wishes one or two Norse gods would crash through the ceiling right now. They don’t, though, and so he clings to the tremors of anger in Bruce’s voice when he summarizes:

“You lied to us, breached the doctor-patient contract of privacy—if your boy here is even a real doctor—and set Tony back months in terms of personal progress, and you’re trying to tell us it was all for his sake?”

“I’ll have you know I am—”

“If you’re not a fraud you’re a piece of shit,” Bruce cuts off with uncharacteristic profanity, “either way, you’re seriously starting to annoy me.”

Whatshisface the maybe-therapist shuts up with a squeak and Tony—oh, Tony could kiss Bruce right now, if he weren’t too busy trying to think straight without going into another panic attack. He’s not going to prison—or wherever S.H.I.E.L.D wants to take him, that’s certain. He’s seen the kind of cage they built for Bruce. He’s seen what they think of when faced with a problem—he’s not going down without a fight.

It’s a new though, the refusal to die, but there’s no time to examine it—Tony pulls it close instead, wraps it around him like armor while Bruce—skinny, puny little Bruce with the strength of a nuke beneath his skin—continues to stare Fury down, every line of his body rigidly refusing to give Tony up.

“I think we’ve all noticed Stark’s abnormal behavior,” Fury says, as if he hasn’t heard Bruce’s barely-veiled threat, “and considering he’s mentioned wanting to bone a guy higher than Erik Lehnsherr on the public enemies list—”

Tony gags while the others gasp, mostly because he can almost hear it again—the way he wished Loki weren’t such a complicated person and—no, stop. Shut up—focus. Focus, or give yourself time to get there.

“I was thinking of dating actually,” he manages through the tight lump in his throat, mind racing over possibilities, “just so we’re clear.”

Fury twitches at the touch of sarcasm—it’s good. Piss him off, he won’t be thinking quite so well, will he? Shit, Tony was so stupid though, so naïve—for fuck’s sake Tony, focus!

“Do you really think it matters?” Fury asks with a raised eyebrow, “Did you think we hadn’t noticed you dropping off the radar on the regular? And your behavior hasn’t been going better—

“It’s called depression and suicidal tendencies,” Tony counters, the familiar, thin veneer of sarcasm holding him up against the thought of Fury rattling off all the ways he’s still failing.

If Steve’s face is anything to go by, though, it’s already too late. He steps away from Tony and Bruce, eyes wide as saucers, and while Clint and Natasha aren’t moving any more than they have since the beginning, it’s still easy to guess their surprise in the glance they share.

Think, Tony. Either Fury’s genuinely mistaken—unlikely, considering his resources and the ample evidence that Loki on a mind-controlling spree is far from being that subtle—or he’s deliberately pretending for a reason. The first problem would be easy to solve—a couple of hours, at most.

If it’s the second one, Tony needs to get out or he’ll definitely be doomed.

“Look,” Fury start, looking as genuinely regretful as they come, “I didn’t want to come through this, but you’re not giving me a choice. We are taking your assets into custody.”

“The Iron Man is a private property,” Bruce says, the threat in his voice more evident, you can’t—”

“It’s a private weapon,” Steve counters, kind enough to wince when two unknown agents slip into the kitchen.

He says something else next, but Tony’s brain doesn’t bother tracking that, caught up on Fury’s words. We’re taking your assets into custody. Not the suits. Not the armor. The assets. Dummy. Butterfingers. You.

Jarvis.

Tony’s eyes widen as if in slow motion, and then he’s on his feet, running out of the kitchen as he shouts for Jarvis to put the tower on lockdown, Fury’s rage-filled voice roaring for the agents to catch him. Tony manages to slide one of the bulletproof doors back to the hallway, at least two or three guards slipping in after him—damn, he should have made this whole process faster.

Ten more steps, barrel past another doorway—only two guards and the horrifying sound of crushed limbs follow him into the living room. He has to slam the hidden door hidden next to the chimney into somebody’s face to delay them by a precious few seconds, and clatter down the stairs with a hurricane in his lungs.

He wishes Pepper were here—he’d make a joke about actual secret staircases and forget about the phantom weight of a car battery in his hands—but by the time he realizes she’s too far to reach he’s already in the workshop and screaming his core processor access code. Think, he tells himself as he shoves the hidden panel closed behind him and locks it just in time to keep attackers out, damage control, what would Pepper do?

S.H.I.E.L.D doesn’t get Jarvis—it can’t, not ever. Tony has seen the kind of things they did with only their best brains to work on it, and the thought of Jarvis’ decades of advance on any other technology in their hands sends chills down his spine. Tony has to keep him out of anyone’s reach, that much is clear—at least this way, even if he does something horrible, it’ll be on Tony’s head, and no one else. Come on, what would Pepper do?

Not get involved with Loki, for starters. But if she did—if she somehow took a hit to the head and got herself in that situation, with the same profound conviction that Jarvis cannot be allowed into foreign hands, well...it’s not like Tony hasn’t thought of it on his own. One step down, a couple more to go. Now, as Pepper keeps demonstrating, the key to a successful career is time management, right? Right. Let’s manage time, Tony.

“Jarvis,” Tony asks, fingers clenching and unclenching around Loki’s stupid knife that won’t hold its fucking promises, “how long until Fury’s goons get in there?”

“The two in the workshops are currently being kept away from the tools by the house units,” Jarvis replies with a little more trepidation to his voice than usual, “but one of their bullets is bound to hit home, eventually. Best case scenario, you have a little over ten minutes, sir.”

“Let’s assume we’re on worst case,” Tony pushes through gritted teeth.

“Two point fifty-seven minutes.”

Too short to try going around and grabbing a suit, even if it hadn’t been a last-ditch, ‘I don’t want to do this’ reach. Alright. Pepper’s tip to a successful life number two—prioritize. Breathing first—in, hold, out, hold, in, hold, out, hold, repeat until brain starts back. Think.

Plans. They have to go. No one but Tony could have made Jarvis, but any idiot can follow a plan. If S.H.I.E.L.D wants Jarvis, they’ll need the plans or buckle up for twenty years of full-time work. Hardly the takeover they’re going for.

“Okay,” Tony gasps, blinking moisture out of his eyes, “Jarvis, I need you to send a message to Pepper, if you can.”

“The emergency line is under attack,” Jarvis warns, “Transmission not guaranteed.”

“’Kay,” Tony croaks out, eyes closing before he can stop them.

Loki’s knife digs in his palm, between his fingers. His cheeks hurt, nose itching with saltwater dripping onto the tip. His lungs are only seconds from bursting, but he manages to nod when Jarvis announces he’s recording.

“Pepper, they’re wrong, I’m not compromised, I know I’m not, it’s—”

Tony forces his mouth shut when his voice wavers. Limited time. No babbling. Go.

“S.H.I.E.L.D wants Jarvis. Not sure why but I’m not letting them. I’m sorry—don’t leave me there!”

Something bangs outside Tony’s compartment—the metal is too thick for him to hear anything else, but he really hopes none of the bots is damaged beyond repair. There’s no time for a last-minute save, anyway.

God, he’s spent so many hours hunched over the little guys, poured so much of himself into their codes, their casings, their quirks and boo-boos, what’s he going to do now they’re—unavailable, he tells himself firmly. They’ll just be unavailable. For a while. They won’t even notice. They’re just—just—they won’t notice. They won’t hurt. Come on, Tony, you can do this.

“Sir,” Jarvis says, voice oddly gentle through the speakers, “you are running out of time.”

“I know,” Tony replies.

He chokes on the words a little, bumps his forehead against the walls to clear his thoughts—it works and doesn’t at the same time—and manages to produce a pitiful gargle:

“I’ll miss you, Jarvis.”

“Initiating Project Napoleon,” a horrendous excuse for a vocal simulator intones in a droning voice, “execution in fifty nine seconds, fifty-eight, fifty seven—”

A safe box opens next to Tony’s hand, a memory card barely larger than a thumbnail rattling into it for a mere second before Tony catches it and shoves his pants down his legs—

“—thirty-nine, thirty-eight, thirty-seven, thirty-six—”

—shoves the chip and its plastic up his anus, wincing when the angles catch at the sensitive skin there and why didn’t he—why did he have to—oh, fuck, Jarvis—

“—thirty four, thirty-three, thirty-two—”

—yanks the whole thing back up, holds in a scream as the first suit explodes overhead—

“—sixteen, fifteen, fourteen, thirteen, twelve, eleven, ten—”

—zips himself up, vaguely hopes he’ll die—

“—nine, eight, seven, six, five, four—”

—closes his eyes, breathes out—

“—three, two, one.”

Acrid smoke burns at his lung with the hiss of an air-tight door opening.

Alarms howl to life.

He falls.

{ooo}

“I’m not mind-controlled,” Tony repeats for the thousandth time, forehead braced against the glass wall of his cell, “Fury’s lying.”

On the other side, Steve looks at him with infinite sadness, the kind that says he wishes he could believe the lovely lie he’s being offered but will face the truth for a friend’s sake. The irony is not lost on Tony, and he sorts of wants to smash the expression off with a crowbar.

“He’s made an enemy to the Avengers when he tried to take your suits,” Steve points out, “and he knows it.”

“And yet you’re still with him,” Tony replies, too tired to put much venom into it.

“It’s too stupid a move to be a conspiracy, Tony,” Steve insists, infuriatingly gentle though it all.

Tony hasn’t slept or sat down since he woke up here about five hours ago, which he figures explains why he can’t even bring himself to shake his head. He doesn’t even know if this is a Steve thing or a forties thing, clinging to the possibility of brain washing, but it hardly matters. He doesn’t have any way to prove this—not when they’re all working under the assumption that he’ll try and lie his way out of this mess.

They’ve been around, the lot of them. Fury, to inform him Clint got freed by a solid knock to the head, but S.H.I.E.L.D is willing to try softer treatments. Clint and Natasha snuck in—or so their poses seemed to say—to make sure his cell was as nice as a bare, sheets-free bed and the chrome equivalent of a hole in the ground can be...and Bruce, telling him the blood samples he’d taken of all of them for study purposes have gone missing.

And Steve, presumably to assess the damage by himself, like he always does.

Too bad he’s inflicting most of it at the moment.

“I’m not mind-controlled,” Tony repeats after a long silence,idly wishing he had bars to rest his arms on, “I’ve been hanging out with Loki for four months. If he really were controlling me it’d be one hell of a long-term game.”

A shit strategy, too. What do they all think, that Tony was gonna join the dark side out of pity? Please. Loki probably knows better than try that—should know better, in any case. Tony would tell Fury as much, really, if it didn’t somehow feel like betraying someone—Loki or himself, that’s still a mystery, but betrayal is betrayal, regardless.

Besides, what could he say? ‘It’s not mind-control if he spills his git as much as I do’? Best case scenario, someone would try to use that as a way to get more intel and, well. Friend. Or at least, from where Tony’s standing there’s friendship.

Loki’s radio silence doesn’t exactly say good things about where Tony stands on his priority list.

“Maybe he’s already got what he wanted,” Steve replies, “and he’s keeping you on a leash because you’re a valuable asset.”

“I didn’t take the samples,” Tony sighs, weary of that non-conversation already.

Bruce said the safe was broken into, though the means are still to be determined. If anything, Tony likes to think he’d be smarter about covering his tracks, even under mind control. Besides, from what he’s seen of Loki, he doesn’t seem the type to hold onto useless things unless they’ve got some form of sentimental value, but well. It’s not like saying that would make his situation any better. Worst case scenario, people are going to assume he’s Loki’s accomplice, anyway.

“Honestly, the guy managed to play Thor’s all-seeing bodyguard. Wouldn’t he be a little more subtle about theft?”

Not that Loki has a big history of subtlety in this world, but still. There’s showy, and then there’s stupid.

“Tony,” Steve sighs, disgustingly weary for someone who isn’t in a cell, “are you trying to imply somebody is using you to frame Loki?”

It’s ridiculous, Tony knows—that’s the only thing keeping him from saying yes. Still, he’s been thinking and over-thinking this thing through for the past five hours, and everything else makes even less sense. He can’t be the prime target of this stint—not when S.H.I.E.L.D as personified by Fury recovered so well from Jarvis’ loss. Not when everyone is still firmly blaming Loki for this debacle...not with the battery of tests, some of which he’s imagined himself, looking for magic he’s been subjected to. So, given that he isn’t dead or being taunted with the news coverage that his fall would generate, Tony is pretty sure he’s not the main objective.

The question is, who would frame Loki, and why?

Tony as a proxy sort of makes sense—he’s big, with enough resources to be a threat if compromised—but Loki already tried to conquer the planet, it’s hard to make himself more undesirable than that. Whoever is behind this, whether it’s Fury—impossible to dismiss, although something about the idea feels off—or someone else entirely, they were clearly hoping for Jarvis as a neat bonus prize. They failed, thanks to Tony’s Afghanistan-born paranoia, but that doesn’t change anything to it.

None of that solves the question of why though, and Steve seems to take Tony’s silence as a confession of guilt because he sighs and says:

“See? Even you can’t come up with a reasonable reason for us to trust you.”

“I kind of thought trust came with the ‘friends’ territory,” Tony hisses before he goes for the belt: “either I got some funny idea about us being friend or that guy Bucky wasn’t the man I thought he was.”

“Bucky didn’t try to kill himself!” Steve roars, angry snarl stopping inches away from the glass, “he didn’t suddenly decide his friends couldn’t be trusted with anything and start giving them the slip whenever he couldn’t be arsed to deal with his problems! And he certainly didn’t go from hating the enemy’s gut to pretending they were good guys in four months’ time!”

“I’m not saying he’s a good guy, I’m saying he’s not doing anything to me right now!” Tony protests, voice rising dangerously close to a yell.

Don’t do anything stupid, he tells himself, fingers clenching into fists against the glass, don’t go there.

“Right,” Steve says, voice tight and body taut, “because you’d know that.”

“I’d at least hope you guys could see I’m still using my brain!”

“Are you?”

Steve’s gaze pointedly goes to Tony’s wrist, and Tony surprises himself when he pounds on the glass hard enough to feel something give under the skin. Steve gives him a shocked puppy look, like he’d only been saying the most reasonable thing, like there’s no reason for fury to tear at Tony’s temples—his ribs, his palms—until the world drowns into a sea of red.

“Oh, of course,” Tony hisses, barely more than a breath between the two of them, “of course you’d think I’m stupid for it—”

“I didn’t say—”

“Yes you did!” Tony cuts off, bile burning at his throat like poison, “Stupid Tony Stark, with his money and his name and his brain who builds things no one else could dream of and still finds ways to try and die! Useless Tony Stark, who could do so much for the world and gets drunk and parties instead—don’t you think I’ve heard it all by now? Don’t you think I know that?”

“Tony, I wasn’t—”

“Oh, shut the fuck up, Rogers!”

Steve’s face falls, and Tony should stop, should be ashamed and hate himself—will be ashamed and hate himself soon enough—but for now he’s hurting as much as he’s ever hurt, and he’s taken it in silence long enough damnit! He’s taken it all in—the punches, the disdain, the reproaches, and fuck they’ve hurt, but to have them fall from Captain America’s mouth? From the same guy he’s admired and hated since he was old enough to remember?

Well, there had to be a last straw at some point.

“I’m a screwed up, useless piece of shit of a failure, don’t you see that? We’re not all like you—we can’t all be America’s golden boy, the poster child for everything good and righteous on this earth—some of us are just useless messes, that’s how it is! You want a lie? You want a facade? Try the guy you thought I was before this whole debacle! God, Rogers, why do you think I wanted to die?”

“Tony, you didn’t really—”

“Oh yes I did!” Tony hisses, voice dropping almost to a whisper, a thin sliver of poison he can almost feel drifting out of his body and into Steve’s ears, “believe me, I wanted to—haven’t you heard the docs? Five minutes later and I was done for, and that was the goal. But of course,” Tony continues in a more regular volume, “you don’t see that. You don’t believe that. How could you, you perfect, self-righteous ass? You don’t have to wake up every morning wondering if anybody would ever miss you, do you? I bet you’ve never even doubted you had anything to offer the world, have you? You have no idea what it feels like to be me.”

“Tony,” Steve tries again, eyes shining as his face crumbles, “I didn’t mean to—”

“You know I hate you, right?” Tony asks, voice rising with every word, “I tried to hide it—I tried to be a good teammate, a good friend, even, ha! Like I’d ever be worth that! But I hate you, Rogers. I’ve spent my entire life listening to the world rant about how perfect, how chivalrous, how painfully golden you were—all my life. Gods, the hours Howard spent looking for you, talking about you—the house was a fucking museum, your name never to be spoken in vain, and I spent so much time trying to beat you, trying to be better than you—I should have known it was a lost fight from the start! How dumb can I get, right? And the worst part is—the worst part is you—you’re—you! You don’t even have the decency to just be a random schmuck with lab-grown muscles, no! You have to go an live up to the legend! Smile at kittens, never cries, always right mister Rogers, prancing around like a gift from God while the rest of us just—just—”

Tony turns away from Steve with a strangled cry of anger and frustration, hands flailing aimlessly at his side. He wants to break something—smash a vase, rip sheets apart, kick the toilets until he dents the metal, scream into a pillow all at the same time but somehow, all of it seems so—so—stupid, and over dramatic, and Tony just—just—

“Tony, no!” Steve yells when Tony hits his forehead with the butt of his hand for the first time, “stop! Don’t do that!”

Tony doesn’t stop, hitting at his forehead again and again until a piercing headache settles in his skull for the long haul. There’s just—there’s too much. It’s all too much. The pain, the anger, the hatred, the frustration, and now Steve—what the fuck is Tony supposed to do with this? Be patient? Be understanding? Be kind? When was the world ever kind to him?

Yeah, sure, they’re the accident of birth—there’s the money, and the girls—but there’s the loneliness and despair too, there’s the betrayals and the attempted murders, and there’s the gnawing pit of emptiness inside, where he knows even Pepper and Rhodey can’t reach because they’re trying—bless their souls, they’ve been trying so hard—but Tony is just far too fucked up for it to work! And really how is any of it fair? Is that what he gets for being born filthy rich? Is that it? Some kind of cosmic punishment saying he can have one but not the other, that if he’s going to go through life not knowing what it’s like to worry about money he’s damned well gonna know what it’s like to watch everyone he loves leave though his own faults?

“Please, Tony,” Steve tries again when Tony’s hands reach for his face and settle there, as if he could make the world disappear just by not seeing it, “you don’t have to do that. This isn’t—”

“Get out,” Tony tells him, voice muffled by his fingers.

“Tony, I’m trying to—”

“Just get out. Leave me alone. I don’t want to talk to you.”

There’s a quiet gasp and a shuffle of feet, like Steve is about to protest again, but Tony doesn’t have it in him to ask again. He wipes his face instead, more surprised than he should be to find it wet, and makes his way over to the bed.

His brain feels like it’s banging at the edges of his skull when he faceplants into the mattress, the pain sharp and pointed as a knife, but he doesn’t care. He’ll hate his words—hate himself for them—soon enough, maybe. If he’s good enough a man for that. For now, the whole thing feels mostly like he’s drawn all the pus from a wound—not lighter exactly, not better by a long shot, but still feeling like it’s a first step of healing.

Steve leaves.

#MCU Fic #SEADLA #Tony Stark #Steve Rogers #MCU fanfiction #MCU #Fanfiction

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