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thathelplesshomeschooler · 3 years

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humans are space orcs (with magic!) *skillz to pay the billz pt 1*

5wow i have been gone for a hot minute but i think i’m gonna tryn write more on here, but school’s starting up again soon so we’ll see how that actually goes. anyway, without further ado, here is another short story or sum, based on how some people can cook, and how some absolutely cannot

also i had to resist so hard from writing that’s what she said at the end so i will have to console myself with writing it up here.

***

The VIV Narrtor was docked at a WayCenter Station for repairs after a gamma burst from a neutron star had fried nearly all the sensors. As it was the humans had decided to designated this as their “vacation” and had put their money together and were renting a small abode for the duration of the repairs. Not wanting to miss out on any possible research, Drerzii had insisted that he and Tygeria rent the room across the street from the humans.

And so Tygeria found herself the windowsill with a pair of “binoculars” as the humans called it, in her hand. Currently the humans weren’t doing much, in fact it appeared that only one of them was up and active. Uhris, clad only in his undergarments, was in the sustenance preparation room, making ready the pot of dark, steaming liquid that the humans drank every morning. She and Drerzii had suspected it to be either some sort of religious ceremony or a necessity of their species, much like how the dular always had to eat from a plant native to their planet before they ate anything else or they would die. However, neither of them had mustered the courage to ask the humans. If it was indeed a private matter, it might not be appreciated if they suspected they were being studied so thoroughly. And an angry human was not something Tygeria wanted to see.

As she observed, the rest of the humans slowly arose from their slumber, except for Taurus. Being the largest of them all, Tygeria suspected that he likely needed more rest than the rest of them in order to move his mass around. She noted her thoughts on a holotablet.

When she resumed her observations, she noted that Uhris was preparing sustenance, and quite a large amount. He must be feeding the entire group. It was strange she thought, since his records didn’t indicate that he had been trained in sustenance preparation, but he seemed quite adept in his actions. Perhaps he had trained in secret, hoping one day to be employed as a sustenance prepare. These “chefs” apparently were quite coveted in any group.

The group spent most of the morning hours indoors, but what they were doing exactly Tygeria couldn’t say exactly. They were certainly enjoying themselves at the very least. Around midday Uhris and Enara walked out of the building. Tygeria leaned forward, her interested piqued. “Drerzii, Drerzii! They’re headed this way.” Her carapace tingled with mixed fear and excitement. They’d been found out. Surely the humans would be angry at being spied on. Drerzii rose from his resting state.

“My dear Tygeria, you surely must be mistaken. The humans-” He stopped as he peered out the window, “Oh. You’re quite right Tygeria. But do calm yourself, I doubt they mean us any harm. Likely their simply curious. Their species’ natural inclement is towards curiosity rather than violence; however, I suppose we should be prepared. There, I have a clear line of communication to command should anything happen.”

Tygeria appreciated his actions, but her carapace still tingled. A minute later there was a knock on the door. She walked quickly across the room and opened the door. Uhris and Enara stood in the entryway.

Uhris switched his hand from scratching the back of his head to giving them a little wave. “Uh hey. Anne pointed out that you guys were staying across the street from us, and we all agreed that we couldn’t just let you guys stay here.” It was exactly as Tygeria feared, the humans were angry about being spied on. Drerzii’s flashing colors echoed her fear. “So we- Drerzii you okay? You’re putting on a whole light show my dude.”

“Oh, yes, I’m quite fine. For the time being at least.”

“Erm, yeah, whatever that means. Anyway, we’re about to have lunch, so we wanted to know if you guys wanted to join us. We might do something later, but we haven’t decided what yet.”

Tygeria lowered her head so it was on eye-level with the human. It didn’t make much of a difference to her, what with her infrared vision, but apparently it was a human gesture. “You don’t intend us any harm?”

The two humans looked on in confusion. “N-no? I mean why would we want to hurt you? We just wanted to know if you wanted to eat with us, but if you don’t that’s fine too.”

Tygeria was taken aback. Did they not know? “Because we were obs-”

“Of course we would be delighted to enjoy you for a meal. I unfortunately am unable to consume at the current moment, but I would be delighted to participate in your fellowship.”

“Oh. Great, well you guys can head on over then. Enara and I are just going to get some groceries, but we’ll be back in just a few minutes. The door’s unlocked so just head right in”

And so the humans headed off toward the provisions center of the station while Tygeria and Drerzii made their way to the humans rooms. Upon entering the room they were met with ferocious laughter. The terrifying sound of mirth coming from all three of the humans. Taurus, who apparently was in the middle of a story glanced over towards the door, his predatory eyes moving by pure instinct. He motioned with his hand. “Come on over guys, I was just telling them about when I managed to get a screw jammed up my nose.” It took a few minutes of recap for Tygeria and Drerzii to understand the situation, but it was incomprehnsible why the humans found it so funny.

Uhris and Enara arrived shortly after the story was finished. Both had bags filled with consumables in both hands. Taurus hooted from across the room “Uwu, y’all look like a couple, walking in with your groceries.”

Uhris breathed heavily through his nose, what Tygeria believed was called a “snort.” “If I was Jason maybe we’d be a couple.” At that comment Jason started coughing and Enara’s face grew red. Perhaps, Tygeria thought, this has something to do with them ‘liking’ each other.

“Anyway, we’re going to get started on lunch. Y’all just sit tight. Also Tygeria you should be able to eat this, we got food that’s edible for you too.” She clicked her thanks.

It was very considerate that the humans would use sustenance that she would be able to ingest as well. She was, however, concerned. Among her kind she was known to have rather specific preferences. However she couldn’t risk offending the humans by not eating any sustenance they prepared. But as they worked in the kitchen, her olfactory senses began to tingle. The smells of whatever it was they were making piqued her curiosity. How could one prepare food so that it would have such a smell? Was this some form of communication between human. Perhaps it was just a byproduct of whatever processes they were using to prepare the sustenance.

She peered over to see both Uhris and Enara moving efficiently through the kitchen, handing each others utensils and ingredients as they worked. Occasionally one of them would take a small utensil and taste some of the sustenance, then make a small adjustment to the ratios of ingredients. Sometimes they would ask each others opinions or hand something off to the other. Tygeria was astonished at the ease with which they hurried through their movements. Uhris placed his creation in the heating unit and turned to the rest of them. “Alright, so this should take just a few minutes to bake, and then we’ll be good to go.”

Taurus set out dishes for everyone to eat on, except for Drerzii, who had declined on account of his metabolic processes not being in service for the time being. Once Uhris had deemed the time to be right, he carefully pulled the sustenance from the heating chamber and placed it upon the table. Enara came from the kitchen and placed what she had prepared next to Uhris’. “Just wait for it to cool down and then go ahead and dig in.”

With a laugh Jason raised his hand, “So what exactly is it that we’re eating.”

Uhris bared his teeth, then quickly changed his expression to be less frightening for Tygeria and Drerzii. “What we have here is a magherita flatbread, made completely by hand, with non-native ingredients. I subbed uthara for tomatoes for both the garnish and the sauce, and used tehari cream instead of cheese. And the crust is, actually I don’t know what it is, it just said it could be substituted on my holotablet. But Enara, tell them what you made.”

“What we have here is a fruit salad, also made with ‘non-native’ ingredients, as Uhri put it. And I put in some of the spices they had at the compound for some added flavor.”

Jason laughed, “So basically we’re having alien pizza and alien fruit salad? This is really gonna be the test guys.” With that he took out the first section of the ‘flatbread’ and took a bite. His eyes opened wide and he made a sound deep in his throat. With a mouth full of food he said, “Oh yeah, thish ish the sh*t you guys.”

What exactly that meant, Tygeria wasn’t sure, but the rest of the humans began consuming the sustenance, and so Tygeria took one of the squares and took a bite of it herself. Her carapace tingled with delight. The flavors burst in her mouth, sweet and salty combining perfectly. She hummed with delight, this was beyond what she would have imagined the humans to be capable of. She then took a portion of the ‘fruit salad’ and ate some of that as well. It complimented the flatbread in a way that she didn’t know was even possible. She quickly secured another few servings, making sure she would have enough for later on. She would have to savor the taste whenever she had the chance. But she couldn’t help but to hum even more as she continued to feed on it.

“Well it looks like we have one very happy customer.” Uhri said.

* * *

The rest of the day the group simply stayed indoors and talked about a myriad of subjects. Enara’s skill in the kitchen had come about simply because she liked to cook as a past time. It was, as she said, “A pleasure to see my work put smiles on faces. And even better if I can make the food healthy.” Uhri had apparently worked in his family’s business of making food for special events, something called catering, and had picked up his skills from his years helping around the kitchen. He volunteered to make another meal for dinner, but before he could start Anne stopped him.

She stepped into the kitchen and turned to him “It’s been a while since I’ve made anything for anyone else, but I’d like to try to make something for you guys.”

Uhri shrugged, “Knock yourself out.” Tygeria was startled by this. Why would Anne hit herself so hard as to knock her unconscious? She was about to raise her concern when Uhri spoke, “I didn’t mean it literally. It’s a human saying, kind of like good luck, or go right ahead.”

She hummed her acknowledgement, but was still confused as to why anyone would say this.

Taurus paused, “Wait Anne, I didn’t know you could cook.”

“Well I did live by myself for two years in college. And I got sick of instant ramen after the first semester, so I had to learn.”

This made sense to Tygeria, humans apparently had to fend for themselves once they reached a certain age. Their parents would assist but for the most part they were on their own. Next to her Drerzii trumpeted with delight. “Why, Tygeria I have been fastidiously taking notes of this whole occasion, and I would like to mull over them with you later. We can see what our thoughts are, but this entire time has been so enlightening.”

A few short minutes later Anne huffed out of the kitchen a steaming platter in her hands. The smell coming from it was just as strong as the one coming from the earlier dishes, but not quite so delectable in nature. Anne plopped it down in the middle of the table and introduced the dish. “It’s a bean casserole, or at least as close as I could get to one with what we have.”

Jason was again the first one to take a bite. He slowly pulled his utensil out of his mouth. Anne beamed, “So, what do you think?”

Jason shook slightly, “It’s definitely something else. You’ve got a real flavor there I’ll tell you that.” He timidly placed another portion in his mouth, shutting his eyes as he did so.

The others began to eat, and had similar reactions. Slow, and usually taking a drink of water after every bite they had. It was a completely different reaction to what they had before. Before she could take a bite, Drerzii whispered in her ear, “Tell me what it tastes like.”

So she put a large portion on her plate, and another large portion in her mouth. If it was anything like the bliss she had tasted earlier she would have to start eating the humans food more often. Unfortunately, it was nothing like what she had eaten earlier. It was as if whatever the flavor was meant to be had become evil and was attacking her mouth. And the way it felt, it was incredibly dry, parching her mouth. She quickly grabbed a cup of water and downed it, trying to suppress the taste and texture. She turned to Drerzii and spoke quietly, not wanting to offend Anne, “It’s awful. I would not recommend trying it.” She looked back to see Anne staring directly at her. Her predatory hearing must have heard Tygeria’s report.

“Is it actually that bad? I know I might have fudged some of the spices, but was it actually that bad?”

Tygeria started to panic. How could she tell the human that it was possibly the worst thing she had ever tasted? Humans were easily offended when it came to things they made themselves. It wouldn’t do for her to insult the food. But she could thing of no other honest alternative. Right as she was about to confirm, Taurus spoke. “To be honest Anne, it’s not great. It’s pretty dry and you overdid it with the flavoring. But trust me it’s not as bad as my grandmothers cooking. That was a culinary nightmare. I can at least eat this.”

Anne nodded, liquid gathering at the bottoms of her eyes. Tygeria tilted her head, she had heard that liquid spilled from humans eyes when they got emotional, and the action even had a name. So she asked, “Are you going to cry?”

Instantly Anne stood straight, and shook her head. “Throw the food away. I’ll just go out and grab something pre-made.” With that she dashed out the door.

“Did I say something wrong?”

“I mean, yeah, you aren’t really supposed to ask people if they’re going to cry.” Taurus said, “But at least we don’t have to finish the food. God it was disgusting, I thought I was going to throw up.”

Enara struck him on the shoulder. “Don’t say that, she tried her best.”

“I mean am I wrong?”

Enara raised her hand as if to cuff him again, but slowly let her arm down. “No, not really, it was pretty terrible. I’m going to go find her, but let’s do try to cheer her up when she comes back.” And with that Enara rose and left the room. As soon as she had Uhris spat out a slimy, semi-chewed portion of the food. “That shit was nasty, I couldn’t bring myself to swallow.”

Tygeria wondered how any human could take the risk of attempting to prepare sustenance of the potential for disaster was this, this massacre of the tastebuds.

#HUMANS ARE WEIRD #humans and aliens #humans are space orcs #humans in space #humans are space australians #humans #space #Aliens #space story #humans are crazy

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waithyuck · 3 years

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touch

pairing: ghost!zhong chenle x reader (f) *halloweenie special*

genre: supernatural au, fluff (with suggestive tones)

word count: like 2k cuz I suck

warnings: one lil mention of murder, themes of haunting, suggestive content (like kissin and some heavy petting, but nothing explicit y’all), non consensual touching (not in a sexual way, more like ‘omg I think a ghost touched me’ yk), explicit language, chenle is a lil lonely ghost boi, reader simps for him,,,,and forms a relationship,,,,with a ghost,,,,

a/n: FUCK IT ITS FINALLY DONE. FUCK. is this edited??? HAHAH. no

< previous

~12/17/2020~

~~~~

moving out on your own for the first time was hands down probably the scariest thing you’ve had to do in your short life. sure, finding a place that was relatively cheap had you excited at the possibility of having a sense of responsibility, and getting away from your parents was a definite plus, but the entire prospect of being alone was, well, terrifying.

you probably should have asked more questions when agreeing to move into said place; a one bedroom apartment that was big enough to fit you and you only. it was cute and clean, and it was all you needed with the minimal amount of things you had.

the cheap price didn’t raise any red flags in your admittedly stupid and naive brain, but it definitely should have. you cursed yourself looking back at not inquiring about exactly why it was affordable.

about two weeks in is when some weird shit started to go down.

you expected there to be the usual noises that occur in an apartment building, but the ones you heard in the early hours of the morning, every morning, seemed a little bit different.

it sounded like small sniffling, like crying, and sometimes the floorboards would creak softly outside your bedroom door, scaring you beyond belief. you even went as far to ask you neighbor if they had been crying every night, to which she looked at you like you had gone nuts.

the touches started not too long after that.

you felt like you were going insane, but you would swear on whatever god you needed to that there was something touching you at night.

light, feather like traces across the skin of your arms, light presses against your face and shoulders, and the occasional cold poke against your legs had you almost ready to give up on the apartment entirely.

you couldn’t leave though; if you were to break the contract you signed, you would lose an incredible amount of money just for vacating early.

you tried to convince yourself it was just your imagination; stupid childlike paranoia from watching horror movies as a kid.

however much you tried, nothing would be able to convince what was before you currently, was part of your imagination.

“woah, what the fuck?!” you screamed, your eyes widening at the sight of the extremely pale boy standing a few feet in front of you. “who the fuck are you?” you clutched what remained of the pile of laundry in your arms, the rest fallen onto the floor as your heart seemingly beat through your rib cage when he stared back at you in awe.

“wait, you can see me?” he asked quietly, his mouth agape as your face screwed up in confusion.

“what? of course I can see you, what the actual fuck?” you blurted back, subconsciously taking a small step backward, dropping the rest of the clothes as the boy seemed to float forward. his feet didn’t touch the ground and he seemed to slowly become more translucent the farther down his body you looked, shocking you even more.

“oh my god,” your breath was staggered as you became to realize what this boy actually was. “oh my god, are you dead?!”

“well that’s one way to put it, yeah.” he stayed out where he was, not moving forward any more into your space. “I’m a ghost.” he put both his hands up and gave a small sheepish smile. “ta-daaa…”

your brows furrowed in confusion, your idiotic human brain trying to process what was actually going on in your apartment right now.

“so wait a minute,” you started suddenly, bracing your hand on the wall beside you to keep yourself steady. “have you been the one touching me at night? what the hell, dude??” you weren’t sure how it was possible, but a blush rose to his ghostly cheeks.

“I didn’t mean anything creepy by it…” he softly spoke, looking down at his feet. “I just haven’t felt any human contact in a...very long time. I’m sorry.”

you wanted to be more angry at him, but then thoughts swirled into your mind of how lonely he must have been, and how long he could have possibly been here on his own.

you continued to converse with the ghost boy (crazy, you were aware) and came to find out that he was actually straight up murdered in this exact apartment about twenty years ago. the most surprising part was that the damn apartment building you were living in has been around that long, considering it’s shady history.

chenle was visibly upset talking about it, sparing the gory details but explaining enough for you to understand that he was killed in his sleep during a robbery turned hostile. it made your heart ache knowing that he died alone, and has been alone ever since.

sure, there were people living in this place before you, but no one stayed long, for obvious reasons. they either found out the history of the murder or were scared away by chenle who was just trying to fill the whole in his dead, ghostly heart.

“you’re gonna leave, aren’t you?” he finally asked, his voice somber.

you did consider it before, but now it felt wrong to do, especially after meeting and somewhat befriending the exact thing that was potentially going to drive you away.

“no,” you replied solidly, shocking him as his head shot up to look at you. “I’m not going anywhere, now that I know you’re not gonna like, try to kill me or anything.”

you tried to joke to make the atmosphere more lighthearted, and it seemed to work as a chuckle escaped him. you sat in silence for a few moments, before a realization hit you.

“wait, wait,” you put a hand out in front of you in emphasis, surprising the boy in front of you. “how are you able to touch things?” you paused for a moment, “and me?”

the boy, chenle, rolled his eyes at you before looking at you with a void expression. “jeez, everyone has the stereotypes so messed up. have you ever seen the movie ghost with patrick swayze? it came out in like 1990.”

you blinked at him a few times before nodding slowly, having an idea of where he was going with his point.

“yeah well, it’s like that,” he paused, coming closer to you and reaching his hand out tentatively, trying to gauge your reaction. “if we just practice enough,” He was close now, directly in front of you with his hand hovering over your arm. “we can touch whatever we want, whenever we want.” his hand wrapped around your wrist gently to prove his words to be true, and you softly gasped at the feeling, still trying to wrap your head around this crazy scenario you were living in.

“that’s nice,” you said, slightly nervous at your own reaction to him touching you. you couldn’t deny that it didn’t feel nice to have someone caress your skin so gently…

he stared at you silently, his face seemingly emotionless as he held you. it didn’t take a genius to decipher the look in his eyes, however. glistening with life and longing, looking at you like you were the only person in the world...and you supposed to him, you were.

“you’re so…” he started, his voice quiet as his other hand reached out to touch your face. hesitant at first, he drew his hand back a millimeter, before letting his fingers brush against your cheek as you sighed and found yourself leaning into him. “pretty. so pretty.”

it seemed crazy; this raw form of attraction at first sight that you were feeling. you had no doubt he was experiencing it too, just from his confession alone.

your lips parted to speak, but no words came forth as you brain short circuited, taking in his handsome features as you finally realized just how attractive he was.

the hand that was holding your wrist slowly slid up your arm, causing your skin to prickle at the sensation of his touch on your skin. it slid up over your shoulder and up your neck, to finally rest on your cheek like his other hand was now doing.

the moment was insanely soft and intimate, and even though his hands were slightly cold, the air around you both seemed to grow warmer and warmer with every passing second, almost suffocating you with each shaking breath you took.

without a second thought, you lunged forward into his space, wrapping your arms around his shoulders and kissing him softly, his hands dropping from your cheeks to rest on your waist as a surprised grunt came from within him.

‘this is so crazy’, you thought, leading him into your room as you kept your lips attached, ‘absolutely insane.’

you weren’t sure how this even came to happen; you’d never thought you’d be flat on your back against your mattress while a literal ghost boy ran his hands up and down your waist as he kissed you like a man starved. you were still slightly convinced that he was a figment of your imagination; he felt so real, nothing like what you assumed a ghost would feel like against your skin.

his hands weren’t as warm as a living humans would be, but you still relished in the feeling of his fingers gripping at the skin of your waist, holding you close to him as he kissed you without holding back.

you highly expected him to be shy and inexperienced; since he had died so young you figured he wouldn’t know what to do.

it was a stupid assumption, to say the least.

you gripped his hair gently and tried to sit up, only to have him keep you down as he sweetly moved his mouth against your own. his grip was becoming more needy and before it could go too far, you pulled back.

you relished in the sight of his red puffy lips, seemingly so alive and human, like blood was still coursing through his veins. his eyes showed wide, blown out pupils as he stared down at you, his eyes hooded slightly.

he licked his lips once before softly falling beside you, his shoulder brushing yours as you both laid in the middle of your mattress in a calming silence.

“well that was a strange turn of events.” you panted, curling your body beside him as you tried to catch your breath. who knew that a dead boy would be such a damn good kisser?

he smirked at you in response, not saying anything as he grabbed your hand in his.

“now you definitely can’t go anywhere. I’m attached.” he teased, looking at you longingly with a cheeky smile on his face. you rolled your eyes but still smiled nonetheless, knowing that you wouldn’t be going anywhere anyway, for a very long time.

you weren’t sure how this was all going to work out, but you’d figure it out as you went along, together.

#nct-writers #neowritingsnet #neothestars #nctcreations #chenle #zhong chenle #chenle fluff #chenle scenarios #nct fluff #nct #nct dream fluff #nct dream #nct scenarios #nct dream scenarios #how do I tag #halloweenie special #nct 2020 #nct u

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electricbluebutterflies · 3 years

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22 for Garcy?

This has been in the drafts for... years, probably, but here we are, I still love these two and I am emotionally messy enough to be writing them again. Usual ignore-the-ending / post-everything ‘verse, PG-ish, also on ao3.

“It’s not heavy. I’m stronger than I look.”

Technically speaking, Lucy has never had a domestic arrangement.

Sure, the years spent with the team have to count forsomething, but that was both involuntary and didn’t involve a consistent romanticelement until close to the end. Could’ve happened sooner, and she got to spendsix months trying to convince everyone else in her life that it wasn’t,but… even then, it was different. Doesn’t really count as living with a partnerif what you’re actually doing is hiding in their spaces and occasionallyaccepting affection.

But it’s over now, and they won, and now she gets to see ifthere are any actual skeletons in her mother’s house (there’s already speculationand possibly a betting pool in the group chat about what weird things she’sgoing to find), and she is not doing that alone.

There is a certain irony in this, in dragging home a partnerwho is almost everything she was probably taught to avoid but wasn’t perceptiveenough to be aware of. Flynn is older than her by just enough to matter even withher comfortably in her mid-thirties, has been through brutal hell and does notsee a point in pretending otherwise, only charming when he wants something, andthen there’s the whole physical structure of him to deal with. The man isdefinitely someone else’s nightmare come to life, and sometimes Lucy thinksthat might be part of the appeal, the romantic cliché of trying to tame thedangerous a little.

Not that she’s done any taming so much as made sure she’shis favorite person, but y’know. Details.

Point is, she needs to clean out the house and sell anythingof value before trying to get rid of the house itself – the curse of being theclosest surviving family member, and no she does not know how everything stayeduntouched for a year and a half but there are questions Lucy does not ask inthis life – and having the assistance of someone more physically capable thanshe is might be an asset for moving hundred-odd-year-old furniture. At least,that was how she phrased it when suggesting the idea last week when plans werebeing laid and it became apparent he had none. At the time, their hesitantromantic involvement wasn’t even worth mentioning as a reason he should go withher.

It’s not… it’s not like anything else she’s ever done, sheknows that. There have been really good kisses but not more than that becausethin walls and caution and uncertainty if her IUD has expired, and a warmprotectiveness to it, and she’s not sure where they go from there. She wasn’tsleeping alone once they came back here and he followed her upstairs withoutquestions, but they haven’t turned in new directions and if they end up justbeing rather tactile roommates she could live with that. She’s not going topush through that tangle of unresolved issues.

But right now, as she paces the formal dining room shethinks her mother may have used twice in her lifetime and her partnerleans against the wall and watches her, she wants more. And isn’t that alwayswhere it goes to hell. If there’s one thing Lucy has learned from the nearly-three-yeardetour her life took, it is that she should not want things because the momentshe realizes she does is the moment it goes horribly wrong. She should not wantthis other person, even with his near-feral sense of loyalty, to break her patterns.She should not want to keep him. It will end badly, she is sure.

“Would it make you feel better to break any of that?” Flynnasks, breaking silence and gesturing towards the decorative china cabinet.

“Worth too much,” Lucy shrugs. “Wouldn’t help anything.”

The problem with this whole cleanout project is there is noeasy place to start. Taking on the more public parts of the house first makessense because she’s less likely to find anything odd down here but thatdoesn’t mean she won’t, and that just builds a sense of dread as she works herway up the spiral. Today is the first day they’re even trying; the previousthree days have been an attempt at reacclimating to a quieter life, completewith a near-traumatic trip to a supermarket. Perhaps this self-isolation isn’ta great idea for their respective personalities, but…

“What about that statue? What is that?”

Lucy glances at said statue, and honestly hell if she knows.It looks vaguely Greek but probably isn’t, and she is reminded that she doesget her lack of consistent aesthetic sensibilities from that side of thefamily, and… screw it, might as well find out what it is. She takes a few stepsover and tries to lift the thing, and-

“Don’t… let me do that.”

Oh she should’ve known this would activate her partner’sinstincts. Damn him.

“It’s not heavy,” she points out. “I’m stronger than I look,and… I think this may have actually been intended as a lawn ornament.” And nota good quality one either, to the extent Lucy feels capable of judging suchthings. Suspiciously lightweight and might break if she dropped it, which shehas no plan to do but-

“Do we want to keep it?”

She sets the object down and looks at it as if she evencares. “Not really?”

“Is there anything in this room you do like?”

“No?” She feels scared to say that out loud, like she’s temptingghosts to come out of the walls. “I don’t… I don’t know what we even need. But allof this can go.”

“Alright.”

They’re both quiet for a few moments, standing there closebut not touching and uncertain. Being able to make so many choices in successionis honestly terrifying, Lucy is realizing, and she’s not sure she likesthe control. See, this is why she couldn’t do this project on her own, becausenothing would ever get done. Even with help she’s not sure they’ll getanywhere, but-

“There are boxes out in the front hallway, if you could getthose for me?”

And then she is alone, and she can’t remember the last timethat happened. Even if only for a minute, it feels wrong. She’s gottentoo used to living on top of other people, the chaos of it all, becoming somekind of family because that was the only way forward. Now she could go dayswithout seeing another human being, if she wanted. She gets to choose that too,and she’s not sure-

A hand on her shoulder brings her out of her spiral, tetheringher as always. She isn’t alone, not in any way that counts. The two damagedones clinging together like they did on the bad nights when she was in theworst of her unraveling and he was quiet and kind like she should’ve seenbefore she made her mistakes and-

“We don’t have to do this all at once,” he murmurs. “Or atany speed.”

“I have nothing else,” she counters. “And you’re…”

“Here with you,” he says before she can come up with somemore bitey phrase. “As long as you’ll let me be.”

She breaks.

See, the thing is, Lucy had always expected to do thisproject alone. When she’d been younger and oblivious to the amount of evilweirdness her bloodline was tangled up in, she’d assumed the timing would be alittle different, but she knew the score. She was the good responsible daughter,the one who would get the short straw when something happened. And as she’d gottenolder, and made consistently questionable romantic choices none of which lookedlike a future…

The reality of the situation as it has actually happened,the fact that she does have someone on her side, is too much to acceptright now.

She lets herself be held because words are not going tohappen right now, lets him pet her hair and be a comfort because she is notsure what else to do. How does one tell a partner, a potential-but-not-quitelover, that there was never any plan for this part? That she, prone toover-planning as an anxiety workaround, never thought she’d bring anyone hometo deal with this particular curse of eldest daughters? She’s not sure she can.She’s not sure she can avoid it either.

“I’ll deal with it,” he says after a while. “If that’seasier. Take everything to that antique dealer you were mentioning and-“

“I can’t ask that of you.”

“You’re not asking. I’m volunteering.”

Lucy takes a moment to envision how that would go down, Flynn’shistorically unpredictable people skills meeting the nightmarish world ofpretentious assholes who try to under-pay for antique furniture. It sounds likea disaster waiting to happen at best.

“I’ll let you maneuver everything into the truck,” shecounters. “But I’m doing the talking when we get there.”

“They’ll try to take advantage of you.”

“I’m not leaving you outside like a dog I’m just… notletting you threaten anyone you don’t have to.”

He hums low against her body, contemplating. “I can livewith that.”

“Good because I’m not giving you a choice here.”

He brushes his lips against her forehead, and for a momentshe can believe they’ll get through this intact. “Whatever you want.”

#ebf talks to anons #garcy #ebf writes fic

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clean-bands-dirty-stories · 4 years

Text

Breathe ~ Doctor (part 4)

A/n: I will get to requests soon, I promise. I just want to get to Donna in this series, because I have PLANS it’s going to be great.

Word Count: 11,000+

MASTERLIST

"Shit!"

"Language please, we are still in a school." Y/n turned around to see the principle that still made him feel so incredibly uncomfortable to be around, and tried once again not to look as terrified of the man as he felt.

"Right sir, sorry." Y/n offered a small smile and the other man continued on his way. What a relief.

He was still wrapping his finger as he walked into the cafeteria. He had cut it on accident, and though it was small it was in such a place that it had bled quite a lot before finally calming down enough so he could plaster it. He got his food, passing Rose who was working as a lunch lady, and the two shared a look. Rose's was irritated, and Y/n's was amused. Next Y/n looked around the room to find the Doctor, making his way over to sit across. "How was Physics?" Y/n asked.

The Doctor's eyes fell to Y/n's finger. "How was mechanics?"

Y/n had applied for the mechanic job, same as Rose had gone for lunch lady and the Doctor had aimed for teacher. They'd all gotten it. Mickey and the Doctor had taught Y/n enough about how to fix things that mixed with that and his impressive ability to pick up on simple things pretty easily, he was actually quite good. Only two days in, even the weird staff members that gave Y/n the same vibe as the principal did called Y/n when they needed help with something, instead of the janitor like they had for years.

"You know there's more this gig than just tightening screws and helping the English teacher figure out how computers work. Mr. Bele, the janitor, has actually been teaching me some plumbing stuff. I think I'm properly working." He was rather proud, and it made the Doctor smile. Y/n caught movement in the corner of his eye and looked over to see Rose approaching. "Unlike some people."

She was at the table in a few seconds, pretending to wipe off the surface when she'd just passed four empty tables who needed it far more than this one did. Y/n held in a laugh for her sake - she seemed irritated. "Two day," she reminded. "We've been here for two days.

"Not everything is running from death and facing down mythical beasts," Y/n said casually. "Sometimes it's just scooping lunch and waiting for the right time."

Rose rolled her eyes. Unlike Y/n, the Doctor didn't seem hesitant to irritate her further as he motioned to a spot on the table with his plastic fork. "Sorry, could you just... there's a bit of gravy." She wiped at the wrong thing, and the Doctor pushed it even further. "No, no, just there." She glared a him and he grinned.

"Doctor." Despite her obvious irritation, she did find the right spot and wiped it up.

"Blame your boyfriend, he's the one who put us up to this," the Doctor reminded.

Y/n tried to hide his smile. The three of them were involved, that was obvious, but they hadn't ever made anything official or used labels. Since Rose was technically dating Mickey and hadn't officially broken up with him as well, the Doctor and Y/n had been teasing her about it occasionally. All in good fun, of course, but it still made her scoff every time.

"Have you seen anything to prove him right then?" Y/n asked, resting his chin in his palm as he popped a fry in his mouth.

"Yes actually. One of the kids in my class this morning, got know;edge way beyond planet Earth," the Doctor began.

"You eating those chips?" Rose asked.

Y/n rolled his eyes. "How can you think of food right now? There's a child with extraterrestrial knowledge, Rose."

The Doctor smiled at that, but allowed Rose to grab a few off of his plate anyway. Y/n smiled to himself at the way they so easily invaded each others' space. It wasn't a problem at all for them. "No worries," he dismissed. "I didn't want them anyway they're a bit... different."

"Oh but they're gorgeous." Her mouth was full but also curved in a smile and Y/n chuckled under his breath, shaking his head at her. God she was adorable. "I wish I'd had something like this in school."

A hum came from the Doctor. The kind that told them he wasn't fully paying attention. His mind was somewhere else. "It's quite well behaved, this place."

Y/n had noticed it too. "Yeah, every time I go into classes to fix something they all just sit there and... stare at me. It's not like they're threatening, just a bit unnerving. Just sitting there, patiently waiting for me to finish. I've heard stories about how kids use their phones and talk during lectures, let alone when there's nothing going on. I don't know Rose, is that the norm?"

She nodded, far used to Y/n asking questions about things that he should have experienced but never did. "Yeah one time the teacher needed help with something and two kids snogged in the back of the classroom the whole time. One kid used to throw pencils at the back of my head during class, until I moved seats."

"Yeah I thought they'd all be happy-slapping hoodies. Happy slapping hoodies with ASBO's," the Doctor input. "Happy slapping hoodies with ASBO's and ringtones, yeah?" He seemed quite proud of himself. "Don't tell me I don't fit in."

Before Rose could tease him, the head lunchlady approached, her eyes on the blonde at the table. "You are not to leave your station during a sit in."

Rose stood. "I was just talking to this teacher, and his mechanic friend."

"Hello," the Doctor greeted as Y/n smiled, nodding politely rather than voicing something. It was pretty reflective of how they usually worked, with Y/n tending to sit back and blend in and the Doctor sticking out like a sore thumb and grabbing all the attention. It wasn't a bad thing, just what was normal. The whole thing with the wold had been rare. A nice rarity though.

"This professor here says he doesn't like the chips," Rose added, shaking her head. It seemed to be some attempt at a joke to break the tension. Something the other woman could relate to maybe.

It fell short. If anything, she seemed offended. "The menu has been specifically designed by the headmaster to improve concentration and performance. Now get back to work." And with that, she turned around and left.

Y/n blew air out of his mouth, eyes wide as he looked back to Rose. "See?" She said to him, shaking her head. "This is me." She began to leave, walking backward so she could motion to her apron and uniform. "Dinner lady," she added with a grumble as she turned her back to the two men, heading back to the kitchen.

"I'll have the crumble," the Doctor shot back.

The last thing they heard from her was, "I'm so gonna kill you." Y/n covered his laugh, trying to stay third party to their banter as usual. Sometimes he had his fun as well, but he tended to be laid back enough to play peacekeeper more than anything.

The Doctor leaned into him, snagging his attention. "What?" Y/n asked upon seeing an odd look in the Doctor's eyes.

The Timelord just smiled. "What do you think it would have been like, this? School and such?"

Y/n scoffed. "Terrible, from what I hear. Especially for me." He messed with his food, distracting himself as he always did when he had to be vulnerable. He only ever did it for Rose and the Doctor, but it was still hard - even for them. "I think I have anxiety." A short, bitter laugh. "I've never really had to face it of course, with being as apart from society as a human who lives on Earth can be. It kept me alive and made me really functional, living on the streets as a child. I learned to steal pretty quickly, motivated by my hunger and constant paranoia that I'd get caught. I didn't trust anyone, not even those I probably should have. Kept me alive though, I bet. Something like that, in a place like this? No. I would have crumbled for sure. Wouldn't have been able to read aloud or say the answer when I was called on or been able to make any friends. I probably would have sat in the corner every day, in every class, and prayed I wouldn't get noticed." His smile dropped. "Kids like that... they struggle in school. People are mean."

The Doctor reached over and took Y/n's hand. "Well, I'm lucky. You've got some very good survival skills. That instinct of yours has saved my life more times than I can count, I'm sure."

"Nah." Y/n chuckled to himself. "You'd have been fine without me. Figured something out, I'm sure."

"Yeah," the Doctor agreed. "Thanks to you I didn't have to, though." He smiled. "Lots of people have you to thank for saving their lives as well, Y/n. If nothing else, you do well in this life."

That did cheer Y/n up actually. "I hope it'll always be that way. I'd hate to slow you down."

At that, the Doctor actually laughed. It was low and quiet, unlike his usual laugh, but far more domestic. Calm. It was a laugh that didn't need to be showy - it was good enough to be familiar. "If ever comes the day I'm not trying to keep up with you, then I'll start to worry."

Out of the corner of Y/n's eye, there was movement. He looked over to see some of the kids looking between the two men and their hands. Y/n suddenly got rather bashful, attempting to pull his hand away. The Doctor only held on tighter. "You know, we're in public," Y/n noted.

"Yep," the Doctor agreed.

"Showing affection," Y/n added, nodding to their hands.

"Indeed." The Doctor smiled and Y/n thought the man odd, in a pleasant way. The way he wasn't afraid to be himself was rather refreshing - especially when the plan had been to be polite and pleasant, but otherwise act as strangers.

Y/n spent the rest of lunch enjoying the moment. Word would spread, but these kids didn't seem the type to prod, even though children of this age should be at peak curiosity, yet to develop a social censor. The perfect disaster for pushy, nosey kids asking questions they probably shouldn't be. Not at this school though. For now, they could enjoy the exchange and that was enough.

Then lunch was over and it was back to business.

A little bit later, Y/n was pushing his cart down the hallway to go around his usual round to check if anything was out of place that hadn't been noticed - this was used most for normal schools where kids pulled pranks, but at this school he could use the guise to get information wherever he could - when he was stopped by the Principal, who had a woman at his side. "Ah yes, Mr. Doe," the older man greeted. "Miss Smith, this is our handyman. He help the janitor quite a bit - had some training in more things than cleaning and basic plumbing. Helps with the cooling and heating, and when machines break down or are hard to understand. Since when did things get so advanced, am I right?" He chuckled softly, but didn't get a response.

The other two were too busy staring at each other. "Sarah Jane," Y/n whispered, eyes wide.

Sara, though she knew for a fact that she couldn't know this man in front of her, felt that... maybe she did, actually. There was something familiar in his eyes, aside from the raw and obvious recognition that he looked at her with.

The principal seemed surprised. "You two know each other?"

"I-" Y/n panicked. If he said yes, Sara would surely be confused. But if he said no... well obviously that was a lie. How could he explain that he knew her, but she didn't know him? "We met briefly. I have a fantastic memory, when it comes to faces. Like a steal trap. I'm sure you don't remember me, but I dare say I could never forget a face as pretty as yours." It was probably odd to flirt with her as she was quite a bit older than he was, but he couldn't help it. He had someone else's memories, and the feelings that came with them.

"That makes sense," Sara voiced. Her words seemed a little distant though, her eyes boring into Y/n's, as if searching.

A little panicked, Y/n looked away. "Nice to see you again, Miss Smith. I hope you won't think me rude, but I must be off. Got work to do." He nodded to the principal. "Good day." Then he left, feeling Sara Jane Smith's eyes on his back the whole way.

Things were about to get very interesting.

"Kenny?" Y/n was surprised to see the spikey haired boy looking so shaken. Y/n had a habit of making friends with people as he went, in a way that Rose and the Doctor didn't. They were friendly and formed attachments, of course, but Y/n had an aura about him that made those who were lost or scared or confused flock to him for protection and understanding. It just so happened that those who were in such states in the line of things the Doctor and his two companions did, often had the most information. Y/n's friends were often full of just the information he needed, and they trusted him so much that it wasn't very hard to get it out of them.

Like now.

"I think I'm going mad," the young boy squeaked.

Ah yes, the staple sentence that meant someone had seen something important. "Now why's that?"

Kenny seemed to debate for quite a while, until Y/n rested his hand on the young boy's shoulders, encouraging him to talk. "I heard something weird in one of the classes, so I went to investigate. And... well I looked under one of the desks and there was some sort of... gargoyle, or bat or-" He shook his head. "I spooked it I think. It stood up and it was one of the staff." Y/n's eyes went wide. "He told me to go. Am I losing it?"

Kneeling down, Y/n got very serious. "You've not lost anything, Kenny, do you hear me?" The boy hesitated, then nodded. "I believe you. I do." That seemed to make Kenny quite relieved. "Now go to class and leave it up to me. I'll figure this out, promise." He hesitated before adding, "And Kenny? Don't tell anyone else what you saw, or that you told anyone. Do you understand me?"

The boy seemed unsure, but nodded again. "Okay."

"Good boy." Y/n let out a breath of relief. "Run along now and get to class. I don't want you being late." Kenny did go off, and Y/n turned back to his cart, looking at it a second before continuing on.

Did this mean he had to admit Mickey was right? God he hoped not.

"He said... a bat?"

"Or a gargoyle," Y/n confirmed to the Doctor's question. "Anything come to mind?"

"No." He frowned at the door they were about to go into as Y/n took the lead, using his keys to unlock it so they could all get in. He seemed worried by his lack of knowledge. If they were all being honest, it made Rose and Y/n just as nervous to see it. The Doctor was rarely caught off unawares and when he was... Well it wasn't good.

Once inside, Rose found a good joke as always to lighten the mood. "Oh," she whispered, her words mixed with laughter. "It's so weird to be in a school at night. Kinda spooky." She giggled, nudging Y/n who smiled. "When I was a kid I used to think all the teachers slept in school."

"Alright team," The Doctor began, shifting focus back to what was important. "Oh-" he cut off, making an odd face. "I hate people who say 'team'. Uh- gang? Uh... comrades."

"Squad?" Y/n offered.

"No," the Doctor shot down. "Anyway, Rose, go to the kitchen and get a sample of that oil. Mickey, the new staff are all maths teachers, check on the maths department. Y/n, look around to see if you can find any traces that could give us more clues on these bat or gargoyle creatures. Anything at all. I'm going to check out Finch's office. Meet back here in ten minutes." He took off, leaving the other three alone.

Rose hesitated around Mickey. Y/n didn't know where the two were at anymore, since Rose, Y/n and the Doctor had become... official? Weren't they? I guess they'd never said. It was quite confusing now that he was thinking about it. Rose still seemed to care about Mickey, so there was that. Even now, she checked in one him. "You going to be alright?"

"Me?" He brushed off far too eagerly, as if he'd been waiting to show that he was cool and capable. Something gave Y/n the idea that Mickey was doing so specifically to seem more cool and collected than the Doctor. Jokes on him, the Doctor was neither of those things and tended to actually be rather unhinged and chaotic. Y/n wasn't going to correct Mickey though - it was funny to see the man scramble and make a fool of himself. "Infiltration and investigation? I'm an expert at this." He began to walk off and Y/n was a bit impressed at how calm and confident he was being... until Mickey came back to ask, "Where's the maths department?" Rose pointed him in the direction as Y/n did a bad job at hiding his mocking chuckles.

When Mickey was gone, Rose rounded on Y/n. "What is your deal?"

"What do you mean, I've always been at odds with Mickey," Y/n pointed out.

"Not like that," Rose argued. "You're usually at least polite if nothing else. And you can't blame this on the Doctor, because you were the one who backed me up when Mickey called and the Doctor tried to dismiss it. You respect Mickey, deep down. And you care about him. The only time I've seen you act like this, lashing out by being petty, was when we were younger and you were upset but wouldn't tell me. So, Y/n, what's your deal?"

Y/n wasn't sure when she had gotten so perceptive of him. Perhaps she'd always been this way. He knew how they always worked though. She wouldn't press if he asked her not to, and he couldn't risk this coming out. He didn't even know it was bothering him as much as it apparently was, but it didn't matter. His current... condition had to stay a secret. "Nothing, really. We have to-"

But Rose had changed too, just as Y/n had, and the usual way she let things slide didn't seem to be what she was okay with anymore. "We haven't kept secrets in ages now. You can trust me Y/n. That's what partners do, right? They talk to each other? Communication and all."

Partners. Wait, what? "I thought... you and Mickey-"

Rose offered a shrug ad a sheepish smile. "We've loved each other for years, you and me, and now we also love the Doctor. That's... a bit chaotic, I'm not going to lie. It's going to be hard enough loving two men who are equally reckless, I can't deal with the drama of someone else too. I... adore Mickey, I really do. He was good to me for a long time. But I've seen what wasting time and waiting too long can do, and if you two are eventually going to have to say goodbye to me then I am going to soak up ever damn second I have until then. I'm tired of wasting time, Y/n. It only hurts more in the end."

"Oh." Y/n rubbed the back of his neck, smiling to himself. "Okay."

Rose rolled her eyes. "You're adorable, truly, but you're not going to distract me. I want answers."

A panic flashed through the man and he did the first thing he could think of. He grabbed Rose and kissed the living hell out of her. When he leaned away, she looked a little dazed which is what he was going for. "I'll tell you. I really will. Just... not right now, okay? I can't do this right now, especially because there's too much else going on. I'm sorry." Then he took off toward the halls, ready to look around to find something that would help them all out.

He did find something. He opened the door, revealing a sight that made his blood run cold. Then he heard a scream, and he booked it over, running in to see Mickey. Before the boy could explain his exclamation, the Doctor joined the scene a second later, Rose and Sara Jane on his heels.

Y/n froze. "Sara Jane." He cleared his throat, able to handle it much better the second time around - especially with eyes on him. It sounded less like someone greeting an old friend, and more someone just saying hello in general.

"James," she greeted back. "Mr. Doe, I mean. Sorry, I got your first name from the principal quite by accident. Since you used mine I figured-"

"No worries," Y/n rushed. "It's - uh - not James though. It's actually Y/n. I went by a fake name myself. The Doctor stole John though, so I went with James instead. Different enough that no one would call me out for the obviously fake name."

"Oh," Sara Jane realized. "John Doe." They both chuckled, but the sound was cut off by an irritated Rose, who seemed to be very much not enjoying the exchange between the two.

"Why did you scream, Mickey?" She demanded, turning attention back to the reason they were all there. Unfortunately, Y/n did not miss the odd way the Doctor looked at him, confused by the interaction between the two.

Mickey seemed suddenly wanting to disappear. "Sorry, I uh..." He moved aside to let everyone see in. "You told me to investigate, so I started looking through these cupboards and all these fell out on me."

"Oh my god they're rats," Rose realized. "Dozens of rats. Vacuum-packed rats." Y/n had to agree with her wonder at it all.

"And you decided to scream?" The Doctor stood, looking at Mickey with a raised eyebrow.

"It took me by surprise," Mickey defended.

"Like a little girl?"

"It was dark! I was covered in rats!"

"Nine, maybe ten years old. I'm seeing pigtails, frilly skirt."

"To be fair," Y/n piped in, feeling this wasn't fair on Mickey. "There's a lot of tension and people tend to die on these adventures of ours. I don't blame Mickey for being tense." Seeing Sara Jane had put him in a rather good mood if he did say so himself, even if he refused to admit it. It countered his anxieties about having the Doctor's memories and brought him back to normal.

"Can we focus?" Was the nest thing said, and that came from Rose. "Has anyone noticed anything strange about this? Rats in school?"

"Well obviously they used them in biology lessons. They dissect them," Sarah Jane pointed out. "Or maybe you haven't reached that bit yet. How old are you?"

That took Y/n off guard, but before he could play peacemaker Rose shot back with, "Excuse me no one dissects rats in school anymore. They haven't done that for years. Where are from, the Dark Ages?"

"Anyway!" The Doctor butt in, looking between the two women with confusion. Y/n seemed to be the only one who got it, what was happening. "Moving on. Everything started when Mr. Finch arrived. We should go check his office."

"Actually." This time it was Y/n. "I found something, before we all got here. Rather convenient if you ask me, I won't lie. Now we can all go back together."

"And you're only saying this now?" The Doctor demanded.

Y/n rolled his eyes. "You shut your mouth. Between the jealousy wafting off of all four of you at all times and trying to keep the peace between all of it, I think I deserved a moment of silence for myself." Then he turned away, storming off toward the teacher's lounge where he'd seen the thing before.

"Jealousy?" the Doctor scoffed, offended. "I'm not- Y/n wait up!"

Y/n lead the way, the other four following. The Doctor was right behind Y/n, Sara Jane and Rose on either side of him and then Mickey behind them. As they walked, he heard, "I don't mean to be rude or anything, but who exactly are you?"

"Sara Jane Smith," she replied. "I used to travel with the Doctor."

"Oh!" Rose spoke with the voice that told Y/n she was getting pissed. The two women pushed ahead to be on either side of Y/n and even began to walk a little faster. Y/n didn't mind it, getting his kicks when they turned the wrong way at first and then had to catch up again. "Well, he's never mentioned you."

"That's it." Y/n stopped cold, the Doctor ramming into him. He ignored the man, facing the two women in the hallway. "You both listen to me. I'm not going to have you taking stabs at each other all night. Sara Jane, the Doctor didn't talk about you, but not because he doesn't care. He cares a lot, actually. Maybe two much. He's just got a lot on his plate at literally all times, and talking about his past hurts so he rarely does it - if ever. I already have to deal with the Doctor and Mickey, I won't tolerate this too. Sara Jane, you started this, and I want you to end it right now. Rose is just responding - neither which I condone by the way. Get your things in place." Then he turned back around and began walking again, leaving the other four to walk silently behind him for quite a stretch of time.

No one spoke again until they got to the teacher's lounge. "Maybe those rats were food," the Doctor thought aloud, actively trying to ignore the other two women and focus on Y/n, who seemed to be the only one with a level head tonight.

"Food for the gargoyle bats?" Y/n asked.

"Maybe, or-" but then the door opened and he looked around inside, and his voice died. "Rose, remember how you used to think all the teachers slept in school?" He began walking in, everyone filtering in after him. "Well, they do." Y/n was the only one who stayed out, already knowing what was inside.

Of those who went in, Mickey was the one who left first. He booked it out, causing everyone else to follow. He went right out the front doors, turning away from the school and catching his breath, hands on knees and eyes slammed close as he tried to shake the image of those things out of his head. "I am not going back in there," he stated firmly. "No way."

"Were those the teachers?" They were all out of breath, but Rose managed to look at the Doctor for more answers. He, however, was thinking it through, still trying to figure it out himself.

"When Finch arrived, he brought with him seven new teachers, four dinner ladies, and a nurse - thirteen. Thirteen big bat people." He looked back at the school. "Come on."

"You've got to be kidding me," Mickey complained.

"I need the TARDIS," the Doctor explained. "I've got to analyse that oil from the kitchen.

"I might be able to help you there," Sara Jane piped up. Rose rolled her eyes. "I've got something you should see." They all followed to her to her car, where she opened the trunk to reveal something covered in a blanket. The Doctor pulled it aside.

Two voices rang out at the same time. The first was the Doctor, which made sense. The second, unfortunately, was Y/n, who was yet again too caught off guard by surprise and too small a window of time to think clearly and stop himself. "K-9!"

Sarah Jane and the Doctor looked at Y/n, who was immediately struck with fear. God why did he have to have such a big mouth? By some mercy, Rose piped up before either of the two people now staring at Y/n with far too many question - none of which he was willing to answer - could begin asking. "Why does he look so... disco?"

That caught the Doctor's attention. "Oi!" He complained. "Listen, in the year 5000 this was cutting edge. What happened to him?"

Finally Sarah Jane looked away as well. "One day just... nothing," she answered.

"Didn't you try to get him repaired?" The Doctor sounded a little offended. It made Y/n smile to hear him whine like that.

"It's not like getting parts from a Mini Metro," Sara Jones pointed out, defending herself. "Besides, technology inside him could rewrite human science. I couldn't show him to anyone!"

"Ooh." The Doctor's voice dropped, speaking to K-9 as if the dog was alive and could hear him. Like one would speak to a real dog. "What has the nasty lady done to you?" It made Y/n smile even wider. God, he was rather adorable too, wasn't he? The Doctor reached up and scratched the metal behind where K-9's ears were. It was only then Y/n realized Rose and Mickey were confused by the whole show, rather than endeared. Y/n also noticed Sarah Jane, who stood up from where she'd been bent over before, giving Rose a look like she'd won something.

Y/n was about ready to lose it on the woman. Why couldn't these two just stop for one second and let the Doctor enjoy something? He didn't get to far too often. Before he could say something, Rose did. "Okay, could you two just stop petting for a minute? Never mind the tin dog, we're busy." With that, they all got into Sarah Jane's car and headed to a nearby diner that was still open to fix K-9 so he could analyze the oil. There, the Doctor and Sarah Jane got acquainted once again. Y/n was too scared to reminisce with them, so he stayed by Rose and Mickey. Turns out, that was an even bigger mistake.

"You know what's really impressive is that she's been here an hour and I still haven't said I told you so," Mickey mouthed off.

Y/n felt his anger boil. "Probably because you didn't tell anyone anything, and you're just being a dick."

Mickey glared. The pair had only gotten hostile a few times, but had always been calmed by Rose. Rose, it seemed, was not in the mood to play peacemaker. It had been Y/n's role for too long now. "I'm sorry, YOU look at them then. Tell me that they weren't just like Rose and the Doctor."

Y/n absolutely noticed how Mickey cut Y/n out of that equation. Had she not told him the specifics, or was he just being extra petty? "Okay yes, Sara Jane traveled with the Doctor just like me and Rose do now, and things... were between them. Sort of." He scoffed. "But that was ages ago. Neither of them feel that way anymore, they're just nostalgic. The Doctor disappeared on Sarah Jane one day and just never returned. She thought he was dead, and he's been carrying that unfinished business with him ever since. There's been no closure." He sighed. "Can you imagine, Rose? Nine hundred years he's been alive, and you want him to have spent the majority of that all by himself, after watching his entire planet be destroyed? Think about how he was before we came in his life. How lonely it had to be. When the Doctor gets left alone like that... he gets too much in his head. He gets too fixated on his power and potential and how in control he is. His species is like a god to most others, and he's the last. If he'd been alone all this time, it would have gone to hid head long ago and he wouldn't be the man we know and love. Not even a shadow of him."

Rose didn't seemed cheered by that like Y/n thought, though her body did relax and her expression changed. She was still rather grim, but rather than with jealousy toward Sarah Jane, it was... worry. Confusion. All toward Y/n. "Why do you say that like you know? Like... you were there?"

Y/n didn't have an answer for that. Not one he wanted to share. "I..." He looked away. His mind was blank and he didn't know what to say. In that moment, he began speaking. "Can you imagine what its like to watch your family die right in front of you?" The room was suddenly quite silent, other than the Doctor and Sarah Jane still chatting in the background. "He has the weight of universes on his shoulders. The weight of time and space as a whole. All that ever was and will be. What is, and what can never be. He has it all in his head, swirling around in there waiting to swallow him whole. Think about how incredibly smart he is. No one is that smart anymore. Everyone we've met whose that smart was... lost, in a way. Knowledge is power, but power unused is a waste. Remember the Daleks? Just as clever as him, unable to handle the weight of emotions that comes with it, so they stripped it all away to just survive. They got so arrogant and so obsessed with the power of their minds they stopped really living, labeled themselves as the superior species, and going around destroying worlds with billions of people on it as a past time, for fun, because they legitimately believe that anything other than them is inferior and therefore needs to be destroyed. Can you imagine if it was just one of them? Alone, for hundreds of years. No one can match his intelligence or capability. When he fails, everyone else panics because he's the one we depend on to always have the answers and get it all done. he leads and everyone follows. If they know his real power, they usually do so without question and they'd be right to. The Doctor's wrath is unmatched, and his power is limitless, and without someone there to check him he'd have been lost long ago. It's just fact, Rose, and not hard to piece together. Pain changes people, and no one has been through more than the Doctor. If he wanted to, he could destroy everyone. Everything. But he doesn't, because he has people around him to remind him what is important past just facts and figures. Past logic and fixed points in time. I think that's why he likes humans so much. We remind each other."

"Two quid, love." Three pairs of eyes snapped to the side as Rose remembered why she was at this counter. She took her food with one hand, paying with the other. The trio all gathered their thoughts before heading over to a table for three, sitting down so Rose could eat her chips.

"Do you think he's only into us because of that?" Rose asked softly. "Because we ground him?"

Y/n smiled to himself. "No, not at all. I understand him. He hasn't been understood by someone stable and sane for a long time. It's usually the worst people who know what he's been through, or the people who had so much potential but have tragic endings. It's... disheartening, to say the least." He looked at Rose. "He likes you because you're all the best humanity has to offer. You care, loudly, and you do everything with your heart and never your head. You... you're the opposite of him, I guess. You're so much good. All of the good, even. A little reckless and loud, with a bleeding heart and a determination that can never be put out even in the bleakest of scenarios." Rose blushed and Y/n cleared his throat, looking away. "You know, he probably misses how big his family used to be. So many people fit in the TARDIS. I think... even if she does stay longer-"

"You think he'll invite her to come along with us?" Rose asked.

A shrug was all she got for a few seconds. "She knows things already. They had good times, the two of them. You can tell from the way she smiles at her. He gives himself to everyone he travels with, even if its just a little because they're not around long. It's like coming home to an old friend from your childhood. One who was a beacon of light in a world of darkness. Like if you and I lost touch and didn't talk for years. When you saw me again, still on good terms and missing how things used to be between us. Wouldn't you want that to not end?"

Rose didn't like that answer. Y/n thought he'd probably spoken enough at this point and the trio sat in quiet as the Doctor fixed K-9 and Rose ate her chips.

The next thing they knew, the Doctor was jumping up from his table as the robotic dog whirred to life. "All right!" he exclaimed. "Now we're in business."

"Master," K-9 said, in an electronic voice that brought memories back to Y/n he shouldn't have.

"He recognizes me!" the Doctor crooned, grinning at Sarah Jane.

"Affirmative," K-9 spoke again.

"Rose." The Doctor turned around to face the three humans sat away from him and Sarah Jane. "Give us the oil." AT his call, the three rose and joined him so Rose could hand over the little jar she'd collected earlier from the school. He took it, opened it, and went to dip a finger in to scoop it out.

Rose stopped him. "I wouldn't touch it though, that dinner lady got all scorched."

"I'm no dinner lady," the Doctor declared in such a serious voice that Y/n almost laughed. "And I don't often say that," the man added, eyes taking in Y/n's amusement. He then dipped a finger in with no harm at all, smearing the oil onto K-9's censor. "Here we go," the Doctor encouraged as K-9 began to beep. "Come on boy here we go."

K-9 spoke again, his words stuttered. "Oil extract..." he began. He seemed to be struggling. "Analyzing."

"Listen to him man," Mickey chuckled. "That's a voice!"

"Careful," the Doctor warned. "That's my dog."

Y/n smiled to himself. For a second he imagined the Doctor in a life different than this. A life the Doctor wanted but would never be allowed to live. One he never let himself think about. A life in a house, a ring on his finger and a dog barking in the front lawn. Children... It would be a nice life. Y/n could see the man playing with that dog as he did K-9, but more. Just fun, rather than gaining knowledge and analyzing data and running into danger head first. He'd have so much fun with a real dog... That life though. Y/n tried to imagine the Doctor really in it. Settling down in a house of his own. Getting a job. It would be a happy life. A stable and safe life. It would not be a life that really fit him though. The Doctor is and always would be a traveler. It was a life he'd chosen for himself, on purpose. One that fit him.

He felt eyes on him and looked over, locking eyes with Sarah Jane. Her gaze widened as she saw that familiar thing in Y/n again. The thing, she now realized, she always saw when she looked at the Doctor. She recalled her surprise when the Doctor had revealed himself to not be Y/n, realizing that the first time they'd talked, she'd subconsciously thought Y/n and the Doctor the same man. She searched Y/n's should, trying to understand. Y/n saw a question that startled him.

Are you a Timelord?

She seemed to ask it silently, scanning Y/n's face for signs. But there wouldn't be, even if Y/n was. Of course he wasn't... and yet. The question was warranted. What made a man who changed faces and personalities and age and ethnicity every time he died? Who became a new man over and over again, over hundreds of years? Other than the obvious biology that kept him consistently a Timelord no matter what face he took, the thing that made the Doctor was his memories. His mind. The way he saw life and knew things that should be impossible. If that was what made Timelords special - what made the Doctor special - did Y/n having that knowledge somehow make him special too? No, he wasn't a Timelord, but he did have a very significant piece of one locked inside of him. He had a whole other person in his mind, with a life he never lived and people he never met.

So no, technically, Y/n was not a Timelord. Not biologically. But perhaps... perhaps just a little, in away, he was. What an interesting thought.

"Are you two coming?"

The pair looked over to see Mickey, and an even more surprising sight. The Doctor, looking between Y/n and Sarah Jane with the same look that Rose wore for Sarah Jane and the Doctor. With... jealousy? Well that made absolutely no sense.

"Yeah," Y/n responded, realizing everyone else was headed back out again. "Sorry, I missed that last bit. What's happening now?"

"We'll update you on the way," the Doctor dismissed, seeming suddenly rather far away. They all left the diner and piled in the car again. During the drive, the empty spaces in the missed conversation were filled in and everyone was caught up. First to be dropped off was Mickey, then the Rose, the Doctor, and Y/n, who always stayed at Rose's when they needed to. Jackie never minded.

The night was stretching on and Y/n couldn't sleep. There was a spare room that Mickey sometimes slept in, which the Doctor took now on Y/n's insistence. They'd agreed on switching off nights, and tonight was Y/n's turn on the couch. Perhaps that was what gave Rose the courage to come into the room and face Y/n. "I can't sleep."

Y/n sat up. "Neither can I. Want to watch a movie and drink something warm?"

The blond shook her head. "Can I just... lay with you? We don't have to sleep or stay awake. I just don't want to be alone." Y/n scooted, making room for her. He patted the spot next to him, where she settled. After a second she leaned into Y/n, and he let his arm wrap around her, pulling her into his side. "You know, I've been playing it off but... there really will be a time after me, for you two. You don't die, and he... he's lives hundreds of years, I'm sure he'll be here after I die. Do you think - I mean, he and her were close once too. Do you think he'll forget me like he did her? He doesn't even talk about her anymore. I just-"

Y/n held her tighter. "He doesn't forget anyone, Rose. Really he doesn't. It's just like I said before - it hurts him to talk about his past. If he lingers in what he misses, he drowns in the sadness of all he's lost. I- you're different, I think. If not for him definitely for me. Maybe I do have forever ahead of me, but there's nothing like your first love. You'll always be with me, Rose, I promise you." Y/n sighed. "I can't speak for him though. You should talk to him yourself, after all this is done."

Rose didn't respond. Wrapped in each other's arms and held together by a promise that Y/n meant with all of his being, they finally relaxed and fell asleep.

The next morning, they all had to go back to school. They weren't wasting time pretending to do their jobs this time though. They didn't know what was happening, or when it would get worse, and no cover was worth the life of another student if they took too long.

"Rose, Sarah, you two go to the maths room and crack open those computers. I need to see the hardware inside." He took out his sonic screwdriver, handing it to Rose. "Here, you might need this. Y/n, you keep an eye on the kids. I don't want anymore to go missing. Mickey, surveillance. I want you outside."

"Just stand outside?" Mickey asked, confused.

"Here, take these." Sarah tossed Mickey her keys. "You can keep K-9 company."

"Don't forget to leave the window open a crack," the Doctor called back as Mickey walked back to the car.

"What? He's metal!" Mickey threw back.

"I didn't mean for him!" the Doctor replied. He shot a smile at Y/n, but this time Y/n did not give one back. Making fun of Mickey was losing his touch. This whole thing was getting to Y/n and he couldn't find much amusing at the moment. He'd been thinking nonstop about what he would do if Rose- I guess, WHEN Rose left them. It was a terrible thought and he very much hated it, but he couldn't shake it either.

Rose cut in on his thoughts by asking the Doctor, "What are you going to do?"

The Doctor's smile dropped as he got serious. "It's time I had a word with Mr. Finch."

That was where they parted ways. Y/n drifted through the halls, hovering around the principal's office when the man wasn't around, and then heading outside when it was break time. The alarm went off for everyone to go inside far too early and Y/n hesitated, staying back, as the kids rushed back into the building again. He had a horrible feeling in his gut. What was about to happen?

A hand rested on Y/n's arm. He looked over to see Kenny, to his relief. "Sir..." the boy hesitated. "Have you gotten any closer to stopping the bat people?"

Y/n smiled, nodding in reassurance. "Much. I promise, we're just about to figure it out. Go to class Kenny, I swear we've got this handled."

"We?" Kenny asked.

"Yeah, me and some friends. Uh, you know the blonde lunch lady with lots of attitude, and the physics teacher?"

Kenny stepped back. "You're one of them."

"What?" Y/n stepped toward him, but the boy stumbled away even further. "No, Kenny, I'm-" but Kenny didn't wait for an explanation. He just turned and ran. Y/n wanted to go after him, but couldn't. It wouldn't help much, and he had to keep an eye on the children - especially now that things seemed about ready to hit the fan. So, instead, he counted his losses and jogged into the building to see all the kids filtering into classrooms with computers that light up with green screens. He couldn't go into any of them without crossing a teacher he knew was one of the bad guys though, so he headed on and on until he found the room with the others in it.

Rose was there to greet him. "You were right." He paused, unsure how to proceed after that. She did it for him. "Sarah and I talked. She's pretty cool actually. We decided to stop fighting."

Y/n did smile at that. "I'm glad to hear it." Rose took his hand, turning and walking toward the Doctor, pulling Y/n after her. She seemed to be hovering between helping him - which she really couldn't do - and watching the doorway to make sure no children came in, which is probably what she was told to do. None of them seemed to be making much headway in any direction.

Suddenly the screens light up with green light and words that none of them could understand. Well, none of them bu the Doctor surely, whose eyes seemed to scan the screen, taking up as much as he could as it all raced across the screen almost too quick to read.

"Well, you wanted the program," Sarah sighed. "There it is."

"Some sort of code," the Doctor whispered. After a second, he stepped forward. "No... No, they can't be."

"What is it?" Y/n asked gently.

"The Skasas Paradigm," the Doctor finally said aloud. "They're trying to crack the Skasas Paradigm."

"The Skasis what?" Sarah rightfully asked.

The Doctor struggled to explain. "The god-maker. The universal theory. Crack that equation and you've got control over the building blocks of the universe. Time and space and matter, yours to control."

"What, and the kids are like a giant computer?" Rose asked, horrified.

"Yes." The Doctor seemed to not like the answer, but not just in a general way. None of them liked this, but the Doctor seemed to hate this. On a personal level. He suddenly turned away from it, not wanting to see it anymore. "And their learning power is being accelerated by the oil! That oil from the kitchens, it works as a conducting agent, it makes the kids cleverer."

The other women turned to watch the Doctor pace, but Y/n watched the screen, as if transfixed. His mind felt a little far away. He felt that same thing he'd sensed in the Doctor. He didn't just not like this. He hated it. He loathed this entire thing. "But why?" It came out soft and quiet. Maybe even a little broken. He finally looked at the Doctor, finding confusion among all the anger surging through him. "That's not living, controlling everything. It's not experiencing or learning or anything. It's... creating a world for others to live in. What's the fun in knowing what's going to happen next and controlling everything to go your way? Makes it so much more fun to improvise. Makes it... better. Life is meant to be experienced, not... I mean, authors don't experience their stories, readers do. Characters. Why would anyone choose to be the author?"

The Doctor almost smiled. "Because life is hard and scary. Some people don't want to live through that fear and struggle. They forget the fun and the thrill and the adventure, and they destroy it in favor of getting rid of those hardships. That's what so many living beings forget. You can't have happiness without sadness. They create each other. It's no fun to be the smartest in the room. To know everything and having been everywhere. The fun is in the confusion. In the chaos. In the complete lack of control."

"Okay nice psychology and all," Rose interrupted, breaking the two men away from their locked eyes and racing minds as they connected yet again in a way she missed. "But that oil, I mean, that's been on the chips. Y/n and I have been eating them."

Immediately the Doctor faced her, shooting, "What's 59 times 35?"

Without hesitation, Rose replied with the exact sane tone, "2065." He tilted his head and she added, "Oh my god." Y/n found himself enjoying this. There was still that anger, but it wasn't affecting him negatively. It cleared his mind and got his heart racing. He felt his body speeding up, and his mind running faster than it ever had before.

Y/n's anger was only fueling him, and now he was smarter than ever. Nothing could stop him.

"But why use children?" Sarah asked. "Can't they use adults?"

"The god-maker needs imagination to crack it," Y/n answered without thinking. He had tapped into the Doctor's knowledge long ago, soaking in every detail running through the Doctor's head up until the day Rose Tyler and Bad Wolf and the Doctor's new regeneration. He'd been holding back so much, afraid of exposing himself, but now he was rushing on adrenaline and smarter than ever. Not only did he have the information, but he could understand it, and there was none of his usual and there was none of his usual anxieties stopping him. "Name one adult with imagination. Real imagination. Enough to create lives and worlds and universes - stories, or games. Enough to look at one thing and see something magical. Nearly impossible in adults. Much easier to get from children."

Y/n's energy made the Doctor pause. "Precisely," he affirmed softly. Sarah and Rose both seemed surprised as well. "They're not just using the childrens' brains to break the code..." He calmed significantly, turning to the other three with a grim expression. "They're using their souls."

That. That was what Y/n had been so angry about. It clicked as the Doctor said it.

Just in time, they had a visitor. "Let the lesson begin." Y/n swung around, coming face to face with the one person Y/n wanted to see the most. "Think of it, Doctor. With the paradigm solved, reality becomes clay in our hands. We can shape the universe and improve it."

"What a rubbish idea," Y/n sassed, rolling his eyes. "The universe isn't meant to be controlled."

"The whole of creation with the face of Mr. Finch," the Doctor agreed, scoffing. "Call me old fashioned, I like things the way they are."

Mr. Finch seemed annoyed by that. "You act like such a radical and yet all you want to do is preserve the old order."

"What's wrong with the old order?" Y/n demanded hotly.

Finally Mr. Finch looked at Y/n. He paused, his eyes roaming to the Doctor again and then back to Y/n. He seemed stunned a second. Only Y/n knew why. Just as Sarah had before, Mr. Finch saw the same look in Y/n's eyes as he saw in the Doctor's. The aged look of one who had been through too much for too long and was still trying to keep going. Keep going despite a small voice at the back of the mind that begged for peace and quiet. One that would never be listened to, because peace and quiet was too terrifying and too many people needed help.

When Mr. Finch spoke next, he spoke to Y/n and the Doctor both. "Think of the changes that could be made if this power was used for good."

Immediately the Doctor was ready with a snappy response. "What, by someone like you?" Y/n let out a sound that was halfway between a scoff and a laugh in agreement.

"No," was Mr. Finch's answer though, taking both of the other men slightly by surprise. "Someone like you." There was a split second of quiet so thick it was nearly suffocating. Mr. Finch cut it off rather quickly. "The paradigm gives us power but you could give us wisdom. Become a god, at my side." He took a step closer to the Doctor. Y/n did the same, but his movements were protective, rather than an attempt to convince. To break. "Imagine what you could do. Think of the civilizations you could save. Perganon, Ascinta - your own people, Doctor. Standing tall." The Timelords, reborn."

"That's not right." Y/n stood straight, that anger in him again even stronger, but this time because he knew how much this hurt the Doctor and he couldn't bear it. This wasn't fair, and Y/n was tired of the Doctor dealing with things that weren't fair. "Everything has its time. Everything ends eventually. The Timelords earned their ending the same as everyone does. How could you ask that of him? It would be chaos. There would be no balance. True chaos. Living forever is painful, and defying death is unnatural."

"Nature, reality, chaos, balance - this could all be ours to change. The rules can be different," Mr. Finch pointed out in response. "You could be anything you wanted to be. You could get those memories out of your head."

Y/n felt all his energy drain. He kept his eyes away from the Doctor, staring purposefully at Mr. Finch while the Doctor shot lasers at the side of Y/n's head. "There's so much you don't understand. You asked for wisdom, and you're ignoring it as its given to you. This isn't some kind of play pretend. This isn't a fantasy that you get to make into a paradise where you always win. You have to lose sometimes, because other people get to win sometimes too. Life's hard and complicated and long and it sucks, but only because we have to hurt in order to know the bliss of not hurting. There's balance. There's fairness. Not always, because sometimes even fairness has to be overruled by unfairness. But that's how it goes. Everyone gets their time, and its short because there's only so much time to give. If one person's time doesn't end, there will be no more time to give to anyone else - don't you understand?"

"I do understand," Mr. Finch sighed. His eyes moved to Sarah and Rose. "You four... clinging to each other, knowing you will eventually have to part ways. This way, it'll never have to happen. No aging or death or going away. No more goodbyes." He looked at the Doctor. "How lonely you must be, Doctor, after a lifetime of one goodbye after another. You can finally make it stop." He looked at Y/n. "You can stop the hurt, for all of them. You who speaks with wisdom you shouldn't have. Who relives over and over again pain and misery that isn't yours. You can make it go away. You can forget all of it. Erase it. Undo it. Make it never happen. Happy, forever. Join us."

"I could save everyone." Y/n looked away, closing his eyes as the Doctor spoke.

"Yes," Mr. Finch encouraged.

"I could stop the war." He grew quiet, thinking about that. Imagining Gallifrey. Seeing it in his memories, but... better. As he is now, Rose and Y/n by his side. His family and friends, returned. His home gloriously breathtaking once more. Y/n could see it too, and... he couldn't speak for the Doctor this time. He knew what he would do if the situations were reserved, and he'd already said his piece. This wasn't his to have an opinion on.

Sarah Jane disagreed. "No," she argued. "The universe has to keep moving forward. "Pain and loss, it defines us. Y/n was right - we need it. Just as much as happiness and love. Whether it's a world or a relationship. Everything will have an end when the time comes. Y/n... knows." She looked at Y/n then, and he turned away from her too. In those last two words was more than what seemed to be there at first. She was not speaking about him knowing loss as she did. She was saying that he knew loss as the Doctor did. Y/n was right, she seemed to beg them all to understand. He knew better than all of them.

Suddenly the Doctor picked up a chair, rushing forward and chucking it at the screen on the wall and shattering it. They all took off running, trying to get as far away from Finch as they could. They ran and ran until they met Mickey, who asked questions there was no time to answer as the others like Finch crawled the halls, screeching and taking off after the Doctor and his companions. So they turned and ran a new direction that took them to the lunchroom. The doors were locked, and right behind them were Finch and the others. This wasn't seeming to be going their way.

"Are those the teachers?" The question came from Kenny, who Y/n had missed joining the group with Mickey when they'd all been running.

"Yeah, sorry." That came from the Doctor. Kenny and Y/n locked eyes and smiled at another. Whatever had been complicated before had been cleared up now - it was obvious whose side Y/n was on.

"We need either the Doctor or the other man alive. Y/n. Just one." Finch looked right at both men as he said their names, and got back a glare in response from both. "As for the others... you can feast."

And so began the fight for their lives. Creature came swooping down from the sky as they all scattered, trying to avoid getting caught in the way of claws or teeth. The Doctor grabbed a chair. Y/n stole his sonic screwdriver and slid toward the door, trying to get it unlocked. It was a hard time as Y/n kept getting almost attacked. At one point, he wasn't fast enough. He turned his back and pressed the sonic screwdriver to the door, trying to work on it. He was too distracted to see the claws aimed for his back. Rose only had time to scream Y/n's name before there was a loud. high pitched sound and a shot of red from the corner of Y/n's eye. He spun around to see K-9. The dog had shot the thing from the sky, killing it, and saving Y/n's life.

Unfortunately, that only seemed to anger Finch more.

Abandoning the door, they took off in a different direction that was open now that K-9 had taken one of them out. They shot off and hesitated only a moment to collect their thoughts. They couldn't run forever - they needed a plan.

As always, it was the Doctor who thought of something. "It's the oil!" He realized. "Krillitane life forms can't handle the oil! That's it! They've changed their physiology so much that even their own oil is toxic to them. How much was there in the kitchen?" He asked Rose in a rush.

"Barrels of it," she responded.

Just then, the Krillitanes made their presence known as they began to scratch and rip at the door separating Krillitane from human... and Doctor.

"We have to get into the kitchen," the Doctor began. "Mickey-"

Mickey had some sass of his own bottled up though. "What now?" he demanded. "Hold the coats?"

Y/n shot him a glare, and Mickey stuck his tongue out in response. The Doctor didn't waste time, instead ordering, "Get all the children unplugged and out of the school. Now then, bats. Bats, bats. How do we fight bats?" To that question, Kenny had an answer. Without saying anything, he hit the fire alarm. The Doctor looked around and then grinned, a laugh of victory coming from him. The rest of the group smiled as well.

With the enemy distracted, they all took off running past the door that had kept them from escaping, right past the Krillitane who were now all on the ground in pain. They ran and ran toward the kitchens. Along the way, K-9 joined them as well. The whole group was back together, and Y/n found his heart swelling as he took in the crowd. This was how it was supposed to be. A group, friends and partners, all there and caring for the Doctor and helping him save the world however many times it needed saving.

In the kitchens, they ran into a problem that quickly wiped away Y/n's good feelings. "They're all deadlock sealed, I can't open them," the Doctor told the others as he tried to use his screwdriver to open up the oil cans. "Finch must have done it."

K-9 had the answer this time. "The vats would not withstand a direct hit from my laser, but my batteries are failing."

"Right," the Doctor picked up again. "Everyone out the back door. K-9, stay with me." Y/n hesitated, but Rose caught his arm and the Doctor shot him a direct look, as if knowing he would try and stay. So he turned and he ran and he hated every second of it.

They were outside now... which meant they were safe, but also that if the Doctor needed help they had no way of getting to him.

When the Doctor came outside, there was a wave of relief inside Y/n... until Sarah Jane asked a question that made his heart plummet. "Where's K-9?"

"We need to run," was the Doctor's response as he deadlocked the door behind them so none could go back.

"Where is he?" Sarah asked again. This time Y/n was needed to grab her hand and pull her away, knowing she didn't want to move and probably wouldn't without help. "What have you done?" she demanded as Y/n dragged her along on their dash for safety. Behind them, there was an explosion.

Y/n and Sarah both stopped short, eyes on the building and pain in their eyes. The Doctor turned to Sarah to comfort her. Y/n tried to get used to this feeling. Having feelings that should not belong to him. Experiencing loss for people he didn't know. No one turning to him to comfort him, because he shouldn't need comfort to begin with.

"I'm sorry," the Doctor apologized to Sarah Jane.

"It's alright," she responded, standing tall. "He was just a daft metal dog - it's fine, really." Her voice broke with emotion and Y/n felt his heart fall. He turned away from the others to hide it. No matter what adrenaline he was on and how much he hated hiding things from the Doctor and Rose, hiding pain from others was still one of his core responses.

With the whole thing over, it was time to go. Y/n hated goodbyes. After today - after thinking about a world without them - Y/n had enough of them for now. He went further into the TARDIS into the room he'd claimed for when they eventually had to sleep. Where he kept his stuff and such. He stayed there until the sounds of the TARDIS started up and he knew they were taking off and headed for the next adventure.

Only one thing bothered him now: how long could he keep knowing the Doctor's past quiet now? After everything that had happened was beginning to add up... how long would it be before the Doctor put it together? Or someone else?

Y/n was running out of time.

Story Taglist: @shoochi @e-reads-fics

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connorswhisk · 3 years

Text

mistletoe ain’t all it’s cracked up to be

Summary: This holiday season, Bitty's devised a plan: stick mistletoe over every doorframe in the Haus.

This is fine. As long as Ransom makes sure not to walk into a room with Holster under any circumstances, it's fine.

Ugh. He hates this stupid plant.

also on my ao3

“Ok, you lost me,” Holster says. “Why haven’t you done this before?”

Bitty huffs, clearly none too happy about being interrupted. “I don’t know why you don’t want to hear about the new cookie recipe my Mama found, especially considering you’ll end up eating half of them, Adam, but fine. I didn’t put up mistletoe frog year because I wasn’t living in the Haus yet, and I didn’t put it up last year because I waited too long and the Stop ’N Shop ran out.”

“Wait, wait,” Ransom cuts in. “Murder Stop ’N Shop or Smelly Stop ’N Shop?”

Bitty sighs and gives him a Look, but Ransom just shrugs. It’s an important question.

“Murder Stop ’N Shop, who do you think I am? I don’t want my mistletoe stinkin’ like the LAX team’s locker room.”

(“Nice,” Holster says, nodding sagely. Ransom elbows him.)

“Anyway,” Bitty says. “I went ahead and got there early this month.” He lifts a sprig triumphantly. “And here we are. Pick me up.”

Holster crouches, grabs Bitty around the middle, and holds him up to the front doorframe.

(Ransom tries not to stare at the strip of skin showing as Holster’s sweatshirt rides up. It takes a lot of effort.)

“That should do it,” Bitty says once he’s back on the ground. “Thanks, y’all. I’m gonna go get baking, now.”

And he heads off to the kitchen.

“Got any plans?” Ransom asks.

Holster shrugs. “Annie’s?”

“Sure.”

They start for the door at the same time, and then Holster flings out an arm and Ransom stops.

“Oh,” he says, looking up at the cheerily green plant hanging narrowly close to directly above their heads. “Right.”

Holster steps through first, and after a beat, so does Ransom.

Holster’s smiling, eyes crinkling at the corners underneath his glasses. “With the amount of time we spend walking through doorways together, it’s bound to happen eventually,” he jokes.

Ransom snorts. “You wish,” he chirps back.

What he doesn’t say is, That’s what I’m afraid of.

— — —

It’s not like Ransom’s never kissed Holster before. They’re on a hockey team, they throw a lot of kegsters, large quantities of alcohol are consumed, it isn’t difficult to do the math. But those occasional drunken make-outs are just that: drunken make-outs. They don’t mean anything, not in the way Ransom wishes they could. They’re sloppy, and quick, and they taste like tub juice, and Holster seems to always end up spilling his beer on either himself, the floor, or Ransom, and they’re pointless, just a bit of fun, and…

And from what Ransom can remember of them, really fucking hot. When your best friend is a 6’6 Adonis with killer abs and eyes bluer than the Pacific ocean, that’s kind of unavoidable. It’s also why Ransom’s so terrified of all this mistletoe.

Kegster kisses don’t have to count, and they don’t. But under the mistletoe? A time-honored, over-done, clichéd holiday tradition? Odds are, if they get stuck under there, they won’t be drunk. And while Ransom knows that Holster will have no problem kissing him and then having a laugh about it, Ransom’s not sure how well his brain’s going to process the inevitable.

He’s in love with Adam Birkholtz, and there’s really nothing to be done about it. Ransom can’t ever tell him because it’ll ruin their carefully cultivated bromance, their fucking co-captaincy, kick everything out of sync, throw a wrench into the coral reef and eff it up entirely. Holster isn’t going to return his feelings, and Ransom still can’t come to terms with that fact.

He doesn’t know if he’ll ever be able to do that.

— — —

“Yo, you want me to bring you back some latkes after break, right?”

Ransom scoffs. “Dude, is that even a question? Of course. You’re sure your dad won’t mind?” he tacks on as an afterthought.

Holster rolls his eyes, panting a little with the effort of bench-pressing the weight across his chest. “Are you kidding me? My dad like, gets off on cooking for other people. We can’t take him to potlucks because he ends up bringing a whole buffet.”

Ransom laughs. “Nice. I’ll make sure to get my auntie to bake you some of her ginger snaps.”

Holster sets the barbell back on the hooks and sits up, grinning widely, a drop of sweat trickling its way down from his temple. “Don’t tell Bitty, but Auntie Oluransi’s ginger snaps are probably better than his.”

Ransom says, “Careful he doesn’t hear you say that, or you’ll be banned from pie-eating for a month,” and then, “Spot me?”

“Duh,” Holster says, and they trade places.

Ransom’s just about to start lifting when Holster whispers, “Dude, check it.”

Ransom pushes himself up on his elbows and glances over at where Holster’s looking. Nursey and Dex are standing in the weight room doorway, staring up at the mistletoe Bitty had stuck to the top the week before. Nursey’s eyebrows are raised and Dex’s face is starting to redden. Chowder’s standing by, looking unsure of what to do. Ransom knows they’ve got about ten seconds before the yelling starts.

“I mean,” Holster says, shaking his head as Dex shouts out an, Are you kidding me, Nursey?!?! “You’d think they’d realize that they don’t actually have to kiss. It’s just mistletoe.”

“Right,” Ransom says, lying back down to start lifting. “Just mistletoe.”

And then he starts thinking that even if he and Holster ended up in that situation, Holster might not even want to kiss him. He might just walk away.

Ransom isn’t sure which is the better alternative.

— — —

He ends up getting screwed with Jada Forrester, who usually sits near him when he’s studying in the library. Ransom’s not actually that into her - sure, she’s nice, and she’s pretty cute, and she does this thing when she’s concentrating super hard where she bites down on her lip a lot, but he’s never really considered asking her out. Holster must have gotten the sense that Ransom’s more into her than he really is.

Jada’s wearing this red Christmas dress that looks real nice on her, and she’s got a string of tinsel in her hair, and sparkly gold eyeshadow, and glitter all over her face. Ransom feels a little underdressed in his knitted sweater with the ice skates and hockey pucks on it, but his date doesn’t seem to mind, so he tries not to worry about it too much.

“This is fun,” Jada yells over the music, some bass-heavy remix of “Sleigh Ride” that’s making Ransom’s head buzz.

“Yeah,” he shouts back. “Do you want to get a drink?”

Jada nods, grabs Ransom by the hand, and pulls him over to the kitchen where the alcohol is.

“I never know what to get,” she says, staring at the table.

“Mmm,” Ransom hums, not really paying attention. He’s just noticed Holster and Pauline Fishbein making out in the hallway. It isn’t a super heartening sight.

It’s not like Holster hasn’t had his fair share of girlfriends and hookups. It’s not like Ransom hasn’t had his, either. They’re open about it with each other, give each other dating advice and consolation after bad breakups, like any friends do. It’s normal. It’s casual. It’s not a big deal.

It’s just that this is the first year that Ransom has known how he feels about Holster. And now it seems like maybe it was all a big deal, after all.

“You like him.”

Ransom nearly jumps out of his skin. “What?”

Jada hands him a snowflake-patterned solo cup of beer and takes a sip of her own. “Adam.” She nods towards the hall. “You’re into him, aren’t you?”

Ransom stares down into his drink. “Would you believe me if I said no?”

“Not really. It’s a little obvious,” Jada says, shrugging.

Ransom’s pulse quickens. “Oh,” he says, and takes a long drink of beer. God, this is awkward. “I hadn’t realized.”

“I mean, anytime I saw you in the library, he was with you,” she continues. “And half the time you were leaning on his shoulder while you worked.”

“Uh - “ Ransom is pretty sure that half of said shoulder-leaning was automatic, that he did it without thinking because he knew that Holster would let him. The realization isn’t exactly helping his case.

“It’s ok,” Jada says, nodding. “I don’t mind. I’m guessing he doesn’t know, since he set us up.”

“No.” Ransom swallows. “He doesn’t know. I don’t know how to tell him.” He looks up at Jada. “You’re not pissed off?”

“No way, dude,” she says, eyes getting big and shaking her head. “I’m honestly just here for a good time. I’m not really looking for a hook-up or a relationship or anything.”

“Oh. Ok.”

She rolls her eyes. “Man, lighten up. How likely is it that Adam’s gonna keep seeing this girl after this party?”

Ransom shrugs. “It depends. Sometimes he goes out with them afterwards, sometimes not.”

“Ok,” Jada says. “So there’s a pretty good chance he won’t. And, bro, I’ve seen the way he looks at you. I wouldn’t be surprised if he returned the feelings.”

“You’re just saying that.”

“I’m not!” she exclaims. “Seriously. Even if he isn’t into you, he’s still your best friend. I don’t think he’ll freak out if you tell him.”

“Right,” Ransom says, taking another, smaller sip. “Ok.”

Jada drains the rest of her cup. “Whatever, forget I said anything if you want. Let’s keep dancing.”

Ransom finishes off his beer, too. “Yeah, let’s keep dancing.”

They’re leaving the kitchen when Jada suddenly stops.

Ransom frowns. “What’s up?”

“Huh,” Jada says, looking up. “Mistletoe. I didn’t even notice it when we came in.”

“Oh,” Ransom says. “Oh, yeah, our teammate put them up. I kind of forgot about them.” He looks at her. “Um. You don’t want to…?”

Jada raises an eyebrow. “Shut up,” she says, gives him a quick peck on the cheek, and drags him back out to the living room.

Ransom spends the rest of the night drinking and dancing with Jada. He doesn’t catch sight of Holster and Pauline Fishbein again, and he doesn’t think much about it until he goes up to the attic at three in the morning and finds them in Holster’s bunk, asleep.

He doesn’t do anything, just turns out the light and stares into the dark for what feels like hours before finally drifting off.

— — —

Ransom manages to be in the kitchen by two. Bitty’s already in there of course, way too chipper for the morning/afternoon after Winter Screw, or any Kegster, for that matter.

“Morning, Ransom!”

Ransom winces. “Bits. Loud.”

Bitty rolls his eyes. “Oh, whatever. Not my fault you got drunk last night.”

Ransom’s about to fire something back when Bitty shoves a plate of scrambled eggs and a mug of his coffee in his hands, effectively shutting him up.

“I love you,” he says, and Bitty hums and goes back to whatever it is he’s doing at the counter.

Ransom sits down and mindlessly scrolls through his Twitter feed, shoving his face with eggs and trying to wake his brain up. He doesn’t really have much to do today, but he absolutely hates being hungover, even a little bit, so the sooner he gets out of this stage of post-Kegster blues, the better.

“Yo, are those eggs?”

Ransom glances behind him. Holster’s alone. Pauline must have left.

Good.

“Here you go,” Bitty says, swooping in and giving Holster his own plate and mug. “And that’s the last of it, so if you want more, you can make it yourself.”

“Nice.” Holster sits next to Ransom, knocks shoulders with him casually, and digs in.

“Have fun last night?” Ransom asks.

Holster shrugs, mouth full. He swallows. “Yeah, it was all right.”

Ransom looks back down at his phone. “Ok.”

“How’d things work out with Jada?”

“We just hung out,” Ransom says. “Nothing really happened.”

Holster frowns. “Oh. Shit, did I fuck up this year?”

“No,” Ransom says quickly. “It’s fine. I still had a nice time, we just…we didn’t end up doing anything.”

Holster’s quiet for a second before he nods. “Yeah, ok. Sorry, bro, I thought you were into her.”

Ransom shakes his head. “Don’t worry about it.”

Holster smiles. Ransom’s chest hurts.

“Hey,” he starts to say, though he has no idea how he’s going to finish. “I - “

He’s interrupted by Bitty blasting Beyoncé through the Bluetooth speaker, making them both wince. Nursey (who’s apparently been passed out on the couch this whole time) groans loudly, and Bitty calls, “Sorry, but it’s about time the rest of y’all got up!”

“You think Jack would let him get away with that if he were still captain?” Holster mutters.

“Dude,” Ransom says. “I think Jack would let Bitty get away with anything. That man is whipped.”

Holster snorts and knocks his shoulder against Ransom’s again. Ransom grins.

— — —

“What time is your flight?”

It’s an hour later, and they’re sitting on Holster’s bunk watching random episodes of 30 Rock. Ransom may not always get the hype, but he does enjoy watching it with Holster a lot, even if he’s not always paying attention. It’s been a pastime of their’s since at least sophomore year.

“Ugh.” Holster groans. “It’s at nine.”

Ransom shrugs. “Being at the airport at night is kinda fun.”

“Yeah, I guess. It’s just, y’know. Kegster.”

“Right,” Ransom says, smirking. “This is why I’m leaving tomorrow.”

“Shut up.” Holster watches Liz Lemon cram a sandwich down her throat, and then he says, “I’d totally wolf my Teamster sub for you, bro.”

“Dude, I still don’t really understand what that means,” Ransom says. “But thanks. And I guess I’d do the same for you?”

Holster grins and holds out his fist. “Fuck yeah, bro.”

Ransom taps it with his own. “Fuck yeah.”

And their hands don’t really stop touching even after they fist bump, but Ransom doesn’t freak out about it, he totally doesn’t freak out about it. Nope. Not at all.

It’s not like it’s never happened before.

— — —

“So. Latkes?” Ransom asks.

“Chyeah,” Holster says. “Latkes. Ginger snaps?”

“Ginger snaps,” Ransom agrees.

They’re in the living room. Holster’s about to leave for the airport. Ransom had offered to go with him and see him off there, but Holster’d told him he didn’t want to put him through the holiday season blitz a day earlier than Ransom has to, which, fair.

The Haus is uncharacteristically quiet. Everyone else seems to be packing to go home, too. Ransom hasn’t even started yet, and the fact is grating at the back of his mind, but he hasn’t packed because he spent the whole day with Holster, so it’s justified.

“Well,” Holster says, adjusting the straps of his backpack and stepping backwards onto the porch, roller bag in hand. “See you in the New Year, yeah?”

“Right. See you then.”

Ransom hugs him, long and tight and full, and when he leans back, Holster whistles and says, “Hey. Mistletoe.”

Ransom freezes. No. No way. Absolutely not.

He looks up, and that stupid green plant is smiling cheerily down at him, white berries glimmering, and Ransom silently and fiercely curses it, tradition, Bitty, the holiday season, and all plants in general because why is this happening this is not supposed to happen.

“Oh,” he says, barely able to hear himself over the rush in his ears. “Yep. Haha.”

God damn it, he’s spent all this time making absolutely sure not to walk through any doorways at the same time as Holster, always on the lookout for any mistletoe, Bitty’s or otherwise, and now, on the last day that it could possibly happen, he forgets.

Of course.

“Well.” Ransom clears his throat. “Well, we don’t have to - “

“You don’t want to?”

Ransom stops. Blinks. Holster doesn’t look embarrassed, or upset, or - or anything really. He’s just sort of looking at Ransom, shrugging. “I mean, why not, right?”

Fuck. Holster’s just standing here in his Falconers cap and his Samwell hoodie and that same stupid pair of sweatpants that he’s always wearing, and he’s about to leave for the airport to go home for two weeks, and Ransom is not going to kiss him, he isn’t, he can’t -

“Right,” Ransom says. “Why not.”

Shit.

Holster’s eyebrows knit together. “Hey, I mean, it’s totally cool if you don’t want to. We don’t have to kiss.”

“I…”

Holster breaks eye contact with him. “It’s fine, bro. I mean, I was halfway joking anyway - “

Ransom kisses him. It’s quick and messy and a little bit wet (gross), and it’s also really, really nice.

“Oh,” Holster says once Ransom leans back. “Ok then.”

“I’ll see you next year,” Ransom says. “Next year.”

“Yeah,” Holster mutters, blinking. His cheeks are dusted a rosy pink color, and Ransom can’t be sure if it’s from the cold or what. “Yeah, yeah.”

Ransom holds out a fist. Holster seems to shake himself awake. He grins and bumps it.

“Have a good time, bro,” he says.

“Have a good time,” Ransom repeats. He’s still not totally sure what just happened.

“Say hi to your sisters for me!” Holster calls out as he’s getting into his car.

“Say hi to yours!” Ransom calls back, and once Holster’s gone, he shuts the door, slides down the wall, and just sits.

He doesn’t know what’s going to happen now, but he does know that this is gonna be one hell of a New Year.

#just a cute holiday fic!! i love them #my writing #holsom #pairing: holsom #fandom: omgcp #my post #holster #ransom

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doorsclosingslowly · 3 years

Text

Your death is a number but I cannot count that high (10/16)

In which Obi-Wan’s day gets worse. And worse.

Zombie Savage AU | 3k | warnings for body horror, mention of sexual assault

Obi-Wan’s troopers are staying mostly out of sight, aside from the few of them doing key maintenance or still manning the helm to enable quick escape if necessary. He knows they disapprove of the fact that he’s leading Savage Opress, renegade Sith apprentice and apparent undead creature and slayer of uncounted of their brothers and two Jedi, onto their small reconnaissance spaceship. He can’t see them, but he can still feel the worrying glares.

He also knows it’s necessary.

Identifying Darth Sidious is of utmost priority.

For the war effort. For the Republic. For the Jedi Order. For Obi-Wan himself, who’s lost so much to the machinations of this Sith, from Qui-Gon a decade ago to friends and soldiers daily right now.

He doesn’t quite know what breaching into the zabrak’s head will entail, but Obi-Wan will be likely out of commission for some time, which should be much safer on the ship. Plus, they are going to leave Entralla anyway. Once they know who Sidious is, they’ll make for his location posthaste—with an optional detour to Coruscant, should he decide he needs reinforcement. If everyone’s already on board, it will speed up the process. And the zabrak isn’t currently hostile.

He’s following Obi-Wan onto the ship without another word, head slightly bowed and apparently incurious.

He follows him into a small unused cabin.

He stands there, unmoving except for the metal insectoids in his cheek.

“How do you want to do this?” Obi-Wan has always been a courteous host. Even facing the undead creature that watched Satine die, it’s hard to shake the instinct.

Opress glances around the room. Only the wriggling of his cables betrays his nerves—if that is what it means.

“You suggested this. I know the Jedi ways of entering a mind—” in theory, and it was never Obi-Wan’s focus of study, though as unexpectedly easy as interaction with the grunting and brutal Sith is turning out to be, he mustn’t expose any lack of surety without reason— “but I assume you know your own techniques for mindmelding. Your familiarity might make this easier.”

“The cot.” Opress pulls at it until it’s dead center in the small room, then strips off the bedding and tosses it into a corner. “This ship is not earthen, but at least it is currently touching the soil, even if it’s not the soil of… It should be darker here. Can you locate braziers?”

“No.” Open fire? Inside a spaceship cabin? It would take a skilled engineer an hour to even shut off the smoke alarms because they are so elementary for safety.

“Then the electric light will serve in its place,” Opress rumbles. It’s hard to work out whether he’s disappointed. “I will strip—” he touches his shoulder pad, the one that was a clone’s helmet an hour ago, and shies away as if burned— “I will lie down now. You will stand behind my head.”

Obi-Wan follows his direction. The earth, the fire, the dark, and their arrangement—it seems deeply ritualistic, and although the Sith tend towards the dramatic he’s never thought them this primitive. In a less dire situation, this would be interesting.

“You will raise your hands. I will close my eyes.”

From the vantage point right above the supine zabrak, Opress looks even more wretched than he appeared on the battlefield. Occasionally, Obi-Wan can see straight through one of the holes in his chest before thick wriggling cables block his view. The other’s filled with an emitter guard—with Opress’ saber’s emitter guard. His torso is well-covered with junkyard debris, and where skin peeks through armor or trash it only seems slightly discolored. The arms are a different matter: the left forearm is prosthetic, of course, dull and lifeless compared to the rest of him, and the upper arms are sore-ridden and blistering and shiny with blaster burns. There is a deep gash all the way lengthwise down his right forearm, stuffed with crap, and the skin at the edges is swollen and purpling black. Flecks of trash move across the gash restlessly like misshapen ants. Despite Savage Opress’ size, somehow, he looks small.

“And then?”

Ridiculously, Opress looks offended. He rumbles, “You do magic.”

“Magic?”

A deep sigh heaves Opress’ metal-studded chest. His brows bunch. He bites his lip. Then, he rumbles, almost monotonously, “I gave myself up for my brother. Brothers. I am here now, and I will not resist. Picture it. I gave myself up. I will not resist. I paid the price for his life. I offer myself for my brother. I am here, Mother, Your Weapon, and whatever Your magic—"

Obi-Wan almost chokes on his vomit. The acid settles, uncomfortably, in his esophagus. Hunts have been lean recently, and there’s not much more to bring up. What hunts—The acid resists being swallowed because he’s lying down. He’s flat on his back and it’s dark outside his closed eyelids and he is terrified. He can feel the musty air on his bare chest, and he wishes he had something to cover himself. Anything. Only this isn’t what he’s been brought here for, he knows, he will soon be bred and—he’s lucky he still has his skirt. It won’t be long now. Maybe She will accept his lack of experience, and despite the tales She will be gentle. Only some Sisters enjoy causing pain.

It won’t be long, he thinks, trying to swallow back bitter spittle, trying to even out his breaths, it won’t be long, and the green that flashes behind his eyelids and seeps deep into his bones is no more vivid than the stone under his back. It won’t be long. It won’t last. It won’t be long.

He sinks.

He—there was a purpose here. He had a purpose. He is… He is Jedi. He’s Obi-Wan.

He’s Obi-Wan, and he just entered this mind.

This isn’t real, or rather—

It isn’t now.

He needs to find out a way to navigate these memories. Find Sidious. Find the Sith’s face. The fate of the Republic depends upon it. He can’t dwell on these… revelations about Opress, disturbing though they are, for all their sake.

Sidious, Obi-Wan tries thinking. Darth Sidious.

He’s still on the slab.

Savage might not care enough about the other Sith, he decides. This seems like a traumatic memory. Maybe it’s easier to access these, and what did Savage say…? The monster slaughtered him. Killed his brother. Maul’s death.

Maul’s death, he thinks. Maul is dead. Maul gets dismembered. Maul—

The crib is the only thing upright in this room. All other scarce furnishings have been torn asunder, searched and searched and searched and turned over as if something could possibly hide under a thin strip of linen.

The crib is an altar, and he kneels before it. He’s been kneeling for days.

The crib is empty.

He failed.

The baby is gone.

No, that’s not what Obi-Wan needs. Maul is dead. Maul is—

Maul is everywhere here, suffusing the air, a green tether—

Maul is dead. Maul is dead.

“What have they done to you, brother?” Obi-Wan can feel his mouth form the syllables, mournful and hard. “How could anybody do this? Hurt you, brother?”

They left the cave the day before yesterday, and finally, finally the brother in the cargo hold gave in to exhaustion and fell asleep. Finally, finally he can inspect him, from the safety of the door’s window, in bright shiplight.

Maul is on the floor curled into a quarter circle, though it’s obvious he would have taken a fetal position if his body allowed it. His metal arachnid abdomen sticks straight down, awkwardly.

His horns are far overgrown and rough, making him look friendless and undignified, but that’s the least pressing issue.

He’s emaciated.

He only got a few tossed pouches of reconstituted spiced meat because eating too much after starving makes you sick, and he wolfed them down. He emptied the hydrosacks much more carefully, sticking his tongue into the opening after so as not to waste a single drop. Water must have been scarcer than food on Lotho Minor.

Food and drink, that’s all he could give Maul. It’s not all his brother needs: companionship, perhaps, solace and sanity, and above all healing and care. Whoever fitted his grotesque prosthetic held no love at all for Maul, for they did nothing to protect his flesh. Maul’s stomach skin is inflamed all over, in places even gangrenous or with open sores smearing pus and blood all over the floor. It’s a miracle he still lives. But he does.

Someone cut him in half and he lived and someone screwed a spider’s ass into him and he lived and someone cut him and he lived and someone screwed it in and he lived and some monster cut Savage’s little brother in half and—

Maul’s dead, Obi-Wan thinks. Maul’s dead. Maul’s dead.

He’s tiny and feverish, and Savage got him just a fortnight ago and it’s already going wrong, he’ll fail his baby brother and—

I didn’t know, Obi-Wan thinks. I didn’t. But I still need to find—

The crib is empty.

It swings, slightly, in the storms.

The body he wears is sobbing.

Maul’s dead.

Maul is worrying his lip thinking of his brother right this moment in the bright green air—this doesn’t feel like—he’s kneeling in his room, but even knowing he might be able to feel the force connection will not allow him to settle into meditation. Savage is in the grasp of Sidious. Savage has been in his grasp for weeks while Maul idled—this isn’t the Maul of these memories—and any liberation might come too late. If they succeed, which they won’t. But still, his brother—this is real. It’s not a memory. Maul’s alive—his brother survived and Maul tried so hard to keep him and—what did Maul do?!—

Focus. Sidious. Sidious’ face. Maul’s... injury?

He never thought there was anyone more powerful than his brother in the galaxy, and he was wrong. Simple hero worship, he was dimly aware, and gratitude and adoration, and he hadn’t followed Maul for his strength anyway, but still, sometimes, he’d glanced sideways and thought, You could wipe the floor with Master Dooku. If he wanted to electrocute me now, you’d kill him, because I’m with you now. I’m your apprentice. He hadn’t thought, you could take on the Mother. But he also hadn’t not thought it.

The twin disasters against Kenobi hadn’t changed his mind. Kenobi might have had the upper hand those times, but he still was a gnat. Hey what…

He’d thought that there was no-one more powerful than Maul, and he’d been happy. Maul would live. Maul’s alive. Obi-Wan just felt his presence but—

He’d thought that there was none more powerful than his brother.

And then, the monster came.

The monster who stole the toddler Savage should have raised and tortured him instead, who is just as supercilious and cruel and ugly as Savage suspected. He wears a heinous purple hood robe—he’s hiding his face but Obi-Wan needs to see it—and he just kills Miks and Jema. Maul, immediately and obviously terrified, tries to placate him with lies of servitude. Getting smashed against the wall hurts less than hearing Maul call the creep Master.

Distantly, Obi-Wan catalogues the fighting stances used by the body he’s inside and the two others, though focusing mostly on trying to get a clear view of Sidious’ face. That chin seems oddly familiar. Too familiar. Who is… The body—Savage—has other priorities, glancing back and again at Maul. Maul, who has to live. Maul’s unconscious now, and Savage won’t win, but maybe in his struggle and death he will buy enough time for his baby brother to get away—a blurred view of the face but it’s clear enough and—Maul has to get away—Palpatine—the monster whirls around—the Chancellor?!—and pain, pain—the Chancellor—pain—the Chancellor, Obi-Wan left Anakin so often alone with him and the Chancellor is the Sith Lord—pain—the—

Floor, far away, for a minute. Not long left. Only time for—a hand, grasping his, and Maul. Oh, Maul. Oh, brother.

“I am an unworthy apprentice,” ground out with the last of bis breaths. An apology. A goodbye, because he’s leaving Maul here with his old nightmare and if Savage were better, if he were just a little bit better, he could have protected… “I never—”

Maul doesn’t accept. His hand is hot against Savage’s mouth. Savage bites down on reflex and the green light rises—Obi-Wan’s seen too much of this light, what does it mean—the green light rises and Maul forces it deep into his brother, with his own body and his mind unheeding the brutality or material reality, while the vortex of magic swirls and swirls around them. Debris sticks like static to his skin—Obi-Wan can feel it and he can feel Maul giving in to anything that may grant power, and oh, Savage outside these memories is crafted and reinforced with trash and does that mean—the light pulls shrapnel and detritus left on the battlefield inside and forms—and Darth Maul forms an undead behemoth out of the almost-corpse of his brother.

Darth Maul did this.

A technobeast.

That’s what they are called, amalgamations of organic and machine matter.

Obi-Wan read of mechu-deru, and mechu-deru vitae, after the reappearance of dismembered Darth Maul when a sai tok should have ended him. A prosthetic lower body is within the remits of the eccentric darkside art of mechu-deru, but Savage the undead machinistic creature extends far beyond that and into sheer barbarism. Mechu-deru allows its practitioner to understand and influence inanimate and robotic constructs. On the lowest end…

The technobeast.

Metal and flesh intermixed to create a weaponized cyborg. A willing slave.

Darth Maul was willing to lobotomize his own brother.

He made a weapon of his brother.

That Maul could sink so…

And still, pervasively, poor Opress loves him.

Obi-Wan’s seen enough.

He’s seen the face of Darth Sidious—seen Palpatine—and he now knows the true depths of Maul’s depravity. He only has to wake up and inform the Jedi Council now. He must wake up.

He must wake—

A finger touches his forehead. It feels strange, as if his body had never before been touched. He opens his eyes in the dark musty Temple, and soon his eyes land on the Sister who won him. Who will breed him. He wraps his hand around Her neck, and distantly he is surprised both that he is angry—that he dares resist—and that his hand dwarfs her neck, but still he chokes Her and She begs, “Let me go,” but he won’t because he hates Her and then the Mother says, “Calmly, Sister,” and She repeats, “Let me go,” and he stops.

He stops.

Stops.

He stands up.

“Now, for the final test,” She who is Power says.

And They carry in a brother he thinks he should know and She who is Power orders him to kill the brother and, wrapping his hand around another neck and feeling like he should remember every single meal and every hunt and every night and every tear and every word and every laugh they ever shared, he does.

He kills the brother.

It’s Feral.

He killed Feral—

Obi-Wan sicks up his lunch. And his breakfast, for good measure.

“Did you find Sidious?” Opress rumbles from his cot.

He appears completely impassive, as if Obi-Wan hadn’t just seen him mourn the baby he lost and choke another of his brothers to death and skewered through the hearts by Darth Sidious—by Chancellor Palpatine, and they are doomed, doomed, how could this just slip by, how could Obi-Wan entrust his padawan to a monster for hours upon hours, how could the Republic just fall to his sway and if he commands Dooku then what does this mean for the war that has been destroying all of them for years—seen Opress killed by Sidious and then turned into a machine slave by Darth Maul, who’s meant to be Opress’ brother and Obi-Wan always assumed that he felt at least a modicum of comradeship for his kind, but if he’s ready to plumb these moral depths… Maul, who apparently, is also still alive.

It’s a bit much.

Obi-Wan feels faint. He pulls a chair out with the force and sits.

Opress, meanwhile, sits up on his cot. The cables on his chest wave and wrap tightly around him—a sickening testament to Darth Maul’s malice. They jitter. “You—recognized him?” Opress asks.

“I did,” Obi-Wan replies tonelessly. “It’s Supreme Chancellor Palpatine.”

“Good. Where does this Chancellor live?”

“Where does—” Obi-Wan doesn’t have the energy for this. “He lives on Coruscant.”

“Then let us go and kill him.”

“We can’t just kill the Supreme Chancellor of the Galactic Republic—” Something dawns upon Obi-Wan. He laughs hysterically. “You have no idea who that is, do you?”

“I don’t.” Savage Opress doesn’t appear any less buoyed by his gross ignorance. Maybe that is a result of the brain damage caused by Darth Maul’s ritual. “It doesn’t matter. I am the last weapon of the Mother. She resurrected me, and I shall avenge Her, and then I’ll die.”

Obi-Wan should probably tell him that Darth Maul used mechu-deru to enslave him and that’s why he’s an undead machine-contaminated monster now. He will. He will, soon, but his first duty is to the galaxy and the Jedi and the Republic, and Sidious is the most dire threat by far. He can’t afford the time to explain what he just found out to this hapless creature, and technobeasts according to the book were renowned for their power. Perhaps Opress will be instrumental in taking down the Sith Lord.

It’s not even deception. A lot of deception, anyway. Opress wants to kill Darth Sidious. That’s why he accosted Obi-Wan. The man killed him, after all. There’ll be time for truth later and—

The comm system whirrs alive. “General, we’re being boarded!”

It turns off, like there’s not even time for another missive.

Kriff.

Who could it be but Sidious?

Obi-Wan hasn’t even commed the Jedi Order.

And if he already found out then…

Obi-Wan sprints towards the door. Opress pushes himself off the cot. The air grows thicker, and thicker, and both keel over.

#savage opress #savage oppress #zombie savage au #dimtraces makes things

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ollieofthebeholder · 3 years

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leaves too high to touch (roots too strong to fall): a TMA fanfic

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Chapter 30: Tim

Tim still feels guilty a week later.

Not, it has to be said, that anyone is making him feel guilty. Quite the opposite. The group hug in the Primes’ unofficial bedroom seems to have cleared the air. They don’t exactly say anything about forgiveness or accepting one another’s apologies, but Sasha comes with them when they leave work and ends up spending the night; they build a massive fort in the living room using every pillow and blanket in the house, have popcorn and hot chocolate for dinner, and swap stories about their childhoods until way too late in the evening considering they have work the next day. When Martin hesitantly admits the next evening that he’s been having trouble sleeping, Jon reminds him of his promise that Martin doesn’t have to be alone anymore, and the three of them curl up together in Tim’s bed for the first time since Jon’s stabbing, this time with Martin in the middle. They agree after that to assume they’ll keep doing that unless one of them has a genuine need to sleep alone.

But Tim still finds himself occasionally waking up in the middle of the night and studying the peaceful look on Martin’s face as he sleeps, or watching Jon mumble and shift restlessly as he watches whatever horror the Eye is forcing someone to relive, and feeling like the world’s biggest heel. While he knows he doesn’t have anything to do with Jon’s nightmares, he still feels like they’re not so bad when Jon isn’t isolating himself, and God knows Martin’s sleep is probably better when he doesn’t feel like he’s being shut out. And while, again, Jon was the one to insist at first that it would be better for him to sleep alone while he had the stitches in and Martin had quietly gone to his own room as well, Tim still feels like he pushed them away, even if it was unconsciously. He hurt both of them and he doesn’t know how to fix it.

He knows he should say something. That’s the whole point of all this; they’re trying to communicate. If something is bothering him, he ought to tell the others. But what he doesn’t want is for Martin—or Jon, for that matter—to spout platitudes and reassurances that he won’t believe. Even though he can tell from their actions that they’re genuine.

At the root of it, that’s the issue. Jon and Martin have forgiven Tim for the way he treated them when he was angry. Tim can’t forgive himself.

Tim taps his pen against his jaw absently as he studies the file in front of him. He’s quizzed Martin Prime on the “feeling” he once mentioned getting about which statements were real or not, and in the last few days he’s been trying his hand at it. It’s slow going, and he knows it’s probably at least partly because he’s resisted the Eye harder than the others, but ever since Sasha’s intervention, he’s decided, screw it. He’s trapped here, for better or for worse, and if it means he maybe gets freaky psychic powers, maybe he can at least use them to help keep his family safe.

This one feels real. It feels bad. Tim hates it on sight, which probably means it’s a Stranger statement; he tends to react badly to those for obvious reasons. And this one deals with taxidermy, which definitely doesn’t help matters. Still, he grits his teeth and digs into it, and what he finds…isn’t comforting. The name Daniel Rawlings is one he remembers—that was one of the people who went missing near Old Fishmarket Close, the very first statement they ever researched that had to go on the tape recorders. And the description of the thing in the basement sounds a hell of a lot like the thing Nathan Watts saw—holding bodies, luring people down with creepy, repetitive phrases. The guy’s lucky to be alive. The fact that the Trophy Room apparently still exists, and is still under Daniel Rawlings’ ownership, is…not great. From a research standpoint, it’s a boon they don’t usually get, but from a practical, this-is-probably-something-set-to-destroy-the-world standpoint, it’s fucking terrifying.

Tim stares at the statement for a long moment. Whether they need to follow up on it or not is almost academic at this point; they will follow up on it, because it’s what they do. They’ll do what they can from the office, but Tim doesn’t need any kind of special powers to know that eventually, someone will go out there to investigate in person. And it’s dangerous. Someone could get seriously hurt.

Which means there’s only one choice, really.

Sasha comes back from her lunch break and smiles at Tim; he smiles reflexively back and goes through the usual routine of how was your lunch, what’s the weather like, anything interesting come up while I was out. He assures Sasha that everything is fine on their end, shuffles the folder under some of the others on his desk under the guise of neatening things up, grabs his jacket, feels to make sure his phone is in the inner pocket, and heads out of the Archives.

It’s the warmest it’s been all month, but there’s just enough of a breeze to keep his jacket on as he walks to the Tube station. Sloane Square is the nearest stop to the Institute, but it’s not on the right line, so he’ll have to change trains at Monumental, and God, this is stupid. Jon hasn’t told him to look into this statement like this, hasn’t sent him to investigate. He doesn’t have to do this, job-wise.

It also occurs to him, belatedly, that he hasn’t told anyone he’s doing this. Well, there’s a reason for that, really; Jon would either try to forbid him from heading out there or insist he bring someone along, neither of which are happening. Tim’s not exposing anyone else on the team to this, even if he’s right there with them. Better that it just be him risking…whatever he’s risking by heading up to Woodside Park. But he should at least warn someone he might be a bit late getting back from lunch. He doesn’t have to say where he’s going exactly, he rationalizes, just say he’s investigating a statement. There are four or five on his desk, and even if Sasha goes snooping through them to see what he’s working on, there’s no way they can be sure this is the one he’s poking into. They’ll probably think it’s any statement but this one. They all know how Tim feels about the Stranger.

When he sits down on the second train just before it pulls out of the station, he reaches into his pocket to pull out his phone. What he pulls out…is not his phone. It’s a small handheld tape recorder, the sort of thing you’d find in an amateur spy kit, looking like it’s brand new out of the package. Tim stares at it in stupefaction for a moment, then quickly pats himself down. His phone is not in his pocket, and he suddenly has a clear and vivid picture in his mind of it sitting on the corner of his desk, charging, because he forgot to plug it in last night.

Great.

For a moment, he’s tempted to go back. Turn around, head back to the Institute, grab his phone, come back another time. Maybe give Jon a heads-up that he’ll be a bit late getting back, if Jon’s back from lunch by the time he gets there. He doesn’t have to say where he’s going, just that he’s following up on a statement or something like that. No need to specify, right?

He doesn’t, though. For one thing, he’s pretty sure if he goes back, he’ll lose his nerve and either not go back or bring someone back with him…or worse, let one of the others go instead. He’ll never be able to live with himself if he puts anyone else in danger like that. And for another, he knows Jon won’t accept a half-explanation. Tim will either have to tell him nothing or everything. And if Tim tells Jon everything, Jon will forbid Tim to come out here.

“I can hear him now,” he mutters, still staring at the recorder in his hand. “‘There’s no need for you to put yourself in that kind of danger, Tim, and certainly no need to expose yourself to that. We can do this over the phone if we have to.’”

Except they can’t; the Stranger is at its best when it’s hidden, so if they’re not looking it in the—well, looking it in the eye, Tim guesses—it’s going to lie to them. It might lie to his face, too, but at least he’ll have the evidence of his senses. And at least he can put it on alert, maybe. The Eye sees you. The Institute is aware of you. Timothy Stoker knows where to find you.

Yeah, right. This is the stupidest thing Tim’s done since he tried to jump off the roof using his grandmother’s umbrella with the bird handle as a parachute.

He turns the recorder over a couple of times in his hands. The Primes mentioned once that their Tim hated these things—the way they kept turning up without warning, the way they would turn themselves on at random times, what they might mean. Tim’s not exactly thrilled about this one just turning up in his pocket either, if it comes down to it, especially in place of his phone. A tape recorder won’t enable him to get in touch with anyone if things go tits-up, or if he’s running late or something. On the other hand…well, it’s better than nothing. And he has to admit it’s a little bit of a comfort to know he’s not technically alone. The Primes both swear they aren’t a tool of the Eye, and he has to admit their logic is sound as to why not, but still, someone or something is listening to him, which means he won’t disappear into nothing. If, God forbid, something goes wrong, at least there will be a record. Some kind of witness.

Tim pats down his pockets and locates a pen, then pops open the recorder. Nestled inside is a microcassette tape, ready and waiting. He considers for a moment, then writes RETURN TO ARCHIVES, THE MAGNUS INSTITUTE, LONDON on the label as neatly as he can. There isn’t anywhere on the recorder’s surface to write, and he doesn’t have any tape or anything, but he hopes that will be sufficient, should someone find it and need to send it back. He considers writing his name and the address of the Institute on his arm or something, the way his parents used to do with him and Danny whenever they went out someplace they might get separated, but decides against it. Based on where he’s going and what he knows about what’s there, the balance of probability is that if he dies, they won’t leave any skin to identify him. He’ll have to settle for tucking his wallet in the same pocket as the recorder and hoping they dispose of his jacket without going through it.

Tim is beginning to wish he put a little more forethought into this. Or, you know, any forethought at all.

Woodside Park is almost at the end of the Northern line, which gives Tim way too much time to think about turning back and consider that there’s no turning back now. He’s the only one who gets off at that stop, which is certainly not eerie at all. Nope, nothing to be concerned about here, perfectly normal. (Logically, it probably is perfectly normal, but Tim is so addled right now that everything looks spooky.) He fishes out the recorder and turns it on.

“Right,” he says. “Uh, this is Timothy Stoker, Archival Assistant at the Magnus Institute, and…if you’re listening to this and don’t know what that is, well, uh, stop listening and get this back to Jonathan Sims, the Head Archivist. You, uh, you should be able to look it up. Stop listening now.” He pauses a second or two, then continues, “Okay, should be Archival staff listening now…Jon, Martin, if it’s you, I’m sorry, but I had to do this. I’m, uh, I’m at Woodside Park right now, I just got off the Tube, and…well, I’m about to go into the Trophy Room. This statement is just…it’s too freaky to leave alone. I can’t risk any of you if it’s something serious and…I’m sorry. Anyway, I’m…going to leave this thing going in my pocket, kind of try to get a recording, so that if I can’t explain for whatever reason, you’ll know what happens. I don’t know what’s going to happen. Hopefully nothing too bad, but…well, we’ll see.”

He pauses for a moment, then tucks the recorder back in his pocket and says under his breath, “Fuck.” Then he takes a deep breath, squares his shoulders, and heads down the block.

The Trophy Room isn’t hard to find. It’s exactly as the taxman described it in his statement—an aged, grimy building with faded gold lettering and a dirt-streaked olive green awning. There’s even a stuffed big cat in the window, and the only reason Tim knows it’s a tiger and not a lion, apart from the statement, is because big cats were something of an obsession of his when he was nine or ten, back when he’d considered a career as a wild animal tamer for a circus, and he made a study of the physiology of them. This is unmistakably a tiger, long-faded stripes notwithstanding. That seems to him a somewhat irresponsible way to care for something you ought to put pride in, but what does Tim know?

The bell over the door clangs raucously when Tim pushes the door open, and he is suddenly confronted by hundreds of staring, glassy eyes. Tim quite likes animals and he’s seen many of the ones in the shop live and in person, including an up-close-and-personal encounter with a moose (this one must be a juvenile, he thinks, a full-grown bull wouldn’t fit in the space it’s crammed into), but the concentration of them looking at him, all at once, is disconcerting, to say the least. But it’s not nearly so disorientating as the smell. Danny once declared he was going to buy their mother something “unique” and purchased a titan arum for her before learning that it was more commonly called a “corpse flower” for a very good reason. This place smells like they’ve got an entire greenhouse of them under the floor.

Which is better than the alternative, really.

A man comes out of the back. True to the description in the statement, he’s a “fresh-faced twenty-something”; if he’s even Jon’s age, Tim will eat the entire taxidermied moose. He raises his eyebrows in Tim’s direction. “Can I help you?”

A nagging, persistent voice in the back of Tim’s head that sounds an awful lot like Martin suggests that declaring himself to be from the Magnus Institute would be the worst decision he’s made all day, which is saying a lot. Time to fake it. Luckily, Tim’s good at that. He switches on his most charming smile. “Hi! I sure hope so. I’m looking for a Christmas present for my sister.”

Is it Tim’s imagination, or does the man he presumes to be Daniel Rawlings relax, just a fraction? “Bit early for that, aren’t you?”

“Well, I mean, I didn’t know if you’d have something on hand or if I’d have to wait for you to get something in or bring something in,” Tim says, waving at the assorted animals. “I mean, she’s kinda picky sometimes. I don’t know how this works.”

“Ah. Well, let’s see what I can do to help you.” The man extends a hand and grins. “I’m Daniel Rawlings. And you are…?”

“Nick DiAngelo.” Tim Anglicizes his grandfather’s name; it feels safer than giving his real one. He accepts Rawlings’ hand; it’s cool, hard, and very dry.

“Mm.” Tim can’t tell if Rawlings believes him or not, but he shakes his hand and lowers it. “Well, all of these pieces are for sale, unless you brought something in. You’re not a…hunter yourself, are you?”

Tim doesn’t like the emphasis Rawlings puts on hunter, but he keeps up his smile. “Nah, not my thing. Never been one for guns or the like. I like my nature alive.”

“But your sister doesn’t?”

“She’s an animal lover, but she can’t have pets at this new place she’s moving to. So, stuffed it is.” Tim waves a hand at the room. “Don’t think there’s room in her flat for a whole moose, of course, but…”

“Of course, of course. Well, feel free to look around and see if anything catches your…eye.”

Tim manages not to react to that word. Instead, he, smiles again and ambles towards a shelf full of squirrels. The animals’ eyes seem to follow him as he walks, and he knows Rawlings’ eyes follow him, too.

“So how long have you been doing this, anyway?” he blurts after a moment, turning back to face Rawlings. “It must have taken ages to do all this.”

“Oh, I inherited it,” Rawlings tells him. “An old friend of my father’s left it to me. Apparently he didn’t have any other family.”

Mentally, Tim ticks off the first item on the list—the stories tally. Which, well, of course they would. “Do you like all this?”

Rawlings shrugs. Tim tries again. “You’re lucky, you know. Falling into a business like this. I’ve been having to work my way up from the bottom. Is it hard?”

“Not so hard as it could be, I suppose.” Rawlings looks around him. “At least it’s a good, steady business. No heavy lifting.” He smiles. “I’ve got people for that.”

“Hey, are you hiring?”

“Hmm.” Rawlings tips his head to one side, studying Tim. A prickle of unease crawls up Tim’s spine. The man won’t make eye contact, but something about that regard unsettles him. “I think we might be able to find a…fitting position for you. If you’re interested.”

Tim pretends to consider it. “Tell you what. I’ll let you know after the new year? Got a big project I’m in the middle of now.”

“Of course. There’s plenty of time.” Rawlings smiles. “It’s not like the animals are going anywhere.”

Tim laughs, despite the creeping feeling of dread. “That would be…strange.”

The word slips out before Tim can stop it, but Rawlings laughs, too. He seems genuinely delighted, and even comes closer. “Here, let me help you find something that would suit your sister.”

He lights a cigarette. Tim raises an eyebrow. “Aren’t you worried about these old things going up if you drop that?”

“I’d be desolate if they did.” There’s no doubt about it; Rawlings is dropping those words deliberately, but this time he sounds amused more than taunting. He either realizes Tim knows something, or he’s just showing off his own knowledge. Neither of which is good. “But no, they’re remarkably well-preserved.”

“That’s what they said about our uncle,” Tim quips. He does get another laugh out of Rawlings for that one. “How old are they, anyway? I know you said your dad’s friend did them…”

“He owned the shop. Many hands have worked these creatures.” Rawlings strokes the moose’s nose almost reverently. “Tell me, Mr. DiAngelo, what is your field?”

“History,” Tim lies easily. “Eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, with a focus on arts and industry.”

“Ah.” Rawlings still doesn’t meet his eyes, but there’s a glitter in them. “Then I think I have something worth showing you.” He gestures towards the back.

Tim’s not stupid, despite all current evidence to the contrary. He knows from the statement that the workroom is back there, behind the office. There’s a distinct possibility that he’s letting himself be lured into a deadly trap. But in keeping with his persona, and also in the interest of getting the information he needs, he says brightly, “Great! Lead on, then.”

If he survives this, Jon’s going to kill him.

The office is small, largely dominated by an old oak desk. Seated behind it is a petite woman with close-cropped brown hair, wearing a grey t-shirt and a light jacket, bent over what look like account books. Tim has a nasty feeling he knows who this woman is.

“Sarah,” Rawlings says, confirming Tim’s suspicions-slash-fears, “this is Nick DiAngelo. I brought him back to show him the skins…Mr. DiAngelo, this is Sarah Baldwin, one of my fellow employees.”

“Pleasure,” Tim says cheerfully. This is officially too much, but he’s got to see it through now. The smell of Death By Flowers is stronger here, and he remembers suddenly Melanie King mentioning in her statement that the Sarah Baldwin who did sound work for her Ghost Hunt UK episode had a sharp, faintly floral perfume, or something like that. He wonders if she’s been living here—so to speak—all this time, if the smell of the building has soaked into her skin or if it’s something that comes from her and Rawlings and whatever else might be part of all this.

“Hi,” Sarah says succinctly. Tim also remembers Melanie saying she was a woman of few words.

“Come look at these. She won’t mind,” Rawlings assures Tim. Sure enough, Sarah seems scarcely aware of their presence as Rawlings begins showing Tim the skins hanging on the wall. And if they’re genuine, if he’s telling the truth about their origins—and Tim has no reason to doubt him—they are impressive.

One skin seems to be missing, though. The man from Internal Revenue described a gorilla skin, alleged to be from the fifth century B.C., the oldest bit of taxidermy in the world. There’s nothing like that in this room. Tim’s not sure why that bothers him so much, but reluctantly, he has to admit that he probably shouldn’t ignore it.

“…And this,” Rawlings concludes, indicating a stuffed figure on the desk—a white hare in a waistcoat, “was part of the Great Exhibition of 1851. It helped drive Victorian England mad for the craft.”

Tim doesn’t like the emphasis he puts on mad, but since this is supposed to be his specialty, he says, “I am impressed. There was a lot of fantastic craftwork at the Great Exhibition. I saw a stereoscope card once while I was doing my graduate research, but I never dreamed I would ever see something that was actually displayed there.”

“Would you like to touch it?” Rawlings asks. “You can, you know. It’s quite safe.”

Tim tries very much to look like he’s hesitating out of reverence for the age of the piece and not because he wonders if he’s going to end up poisoned, sucked into an alternate dimension, or triggering a trapdoor to the mouth of a hungry monster, but he can’t actually think of a good reason why a historian would refuse to touch, well, actual history. So he reaches out, slowly, and runs his hand over the hare’s fur. It’s stiff and wiry, the effects of almost two centuries of existence, but still feels mostly soft under his palm. The body is solid and firm. If he didn’t know better, he would swear it has a heartbeat.

“That’s brilliant,” he breathes. Hopefully he still sounds awed and not terrified. He takes a risk. “Is this the oldest piece you have?”

“Wolf,” Sarah grunts, jerking a thumb over her shoulder at the wolf pelt hanging on the wall.

“It dates back to the Middle Ages,” Rawlings explains. “We had one even older, but, well, it was stolen some years ago.”

“Stolen?” Tim is genuinely taken aback by this. “Did they ever find it?”

“No, sadly. It was never sold, at least not publicly, so who knows?” Rawlings sighs. “It was a gorilla skin, from Carthage. Brought over by Hammo in the fifth century B.C.”

“It must have been worth a pretty penny,” Tim whistles.

“Its value is immeasurable,” Rawlings says earnestly. “It means the world.”

Something about that phrase makes Tim’s blood run cold. Not it means the world to me, or to my dad’s friend, even though he guesses that’s a fiction. Just it means the world. Whatever that means, it can’t be good for humanity.

“Well,” he says, as sympathetically as he can. “I hope it comes back to you in the fullness of time.”

“Oh, I’m sure it will. If it hasn’t been destroyed…I’m sure there’s someone out there who knows where to look.”

Tim would like to go now, he decides. He’s pretty sure he has all the information he needs, and surely the Primes can fill in anything he’s missing. “I’m glad you showed me these. They’re really impressive. But I’m sure they’re well out of my price range.”

“Maybe,” Rawlings says. “But that could change. We’ll discuss that later, if you’re still interested in that job.”

Tim definitely does not like the sound of that. “I’ll be in touch about that. And I’ll be back for sure about something for my sister, once I’ve had time to…reassess things a little. You know, get an idea about her flat layout and what sort of thing would work best for her.”

Rawlings smiles. It sends chills down Tim’s spine. “Don’t be a stranger.”

He holds out his hand. As they shake again, for the first time, Rawlings looks Tim dead in the eye, and Tim realizes two things. First of all, the taxman wasn’t kidding; Rawlings’ eyes are as dead and lifeless as the animals’, and like theirs are made of glass, fixed in place where his real eyes should be. They should stare without seeing, but unlike Martin Prime’s eyes, which are still warm and expressive but stare right past or through you, these bore into Tim’s and he is one hundred percent aware that Rawlings can see him perfectly clearly.

Second…his eyes are glowing faintly, a deep and vibrant indigo, like they’re lit from within. Which is frankly beyond disturbing.

“I won’t,” Tim assures him, and means it.

He comes out of the office ahead of Rawlings and is about halfway to the door when it happens. The bell jangles again, and two men come in—two men Tim would prefer never to see again, dressed like deliverymen and crossing into the shop.

It’s Breekon and Hope.

One of them notices Tim and stiffens. “Hey, you.”

“What are you doing here?” asks the other, eyes narrowing suspiciously.

“Come to spy on us?”

“See what we’re doing?”

“What?” Rawlings asks sharply.

Tim bolts. He has surprise on his side and manages to get out the door before anyone can grab him, but unlike the man who gave the statement, he knows they’re not just going to let him get away. He considered a lot of possible fates for himself should he visit the Trophy Room, but somehow, Breekon and Hope turning up while he was there, and recognizing him, never occurred to him. Stupid. Stupid.

It’s a good stretch to the Tube station, and Tim expects every step to feel them on his heels, but either they can’t move as quickly as him or they’re not chasing him for their own reasons. Still, he hears a rumble behind him and doesn’t stop to check if it’s them or not. Instead, he sprints for the entrance to the station and leaps down the steps three at a time. He lands wrong at the bottom and his ankle buckles, but he shakes off the pain and manages to just make it to the train before it pulls out, which at least has the advantage of giving anyone who saw him come flying in a possible explanation for his hurry beyond “being chased by something out of a horror film”.

He collapses into his seat and catches his breath as the train pulls away, heading back towards central London. Once he’s breathing normally, he takes stock. His ankle throbs, but the pain is relatively mild. He’ll live and, most crucially, he’s not in the back of an ersatz delivery van…or worse. Tim honestly can’t say what he would have done if they’d caught him, but he’s glad he doesn’t have to think about it.

After a moment, he reaches into his pocket and checks for the recorder. It’s stopped, which might mean it cut itself off when the danger had passed, or might mean he hit the end of the spool, or might mean he screwed up and turned it off and it didn’t catch what happened in there at all. He’s going to have to hope he got everything, though, because no way is he risking playing this on the train. There are other people here, after all, although not many. He does rewind it, though, and he’s comforted to hear the length of its backwards spool. There’s something on it at least.

He makes the connection with seconds to spare; the Central line is a bit more crowded, so he ends up standing near the door, which does at least mean he’s the first one off at Sloane Square. He tries to hurry without running—the last thing he wants is to draw attention—but even now, he finds himself glancing over his shoulder periodically to see if anyone is following him. Luckily, it appears he’s managed to give them the slip. For now, anyway.

As he gets closer to the Institute, he slows up and tries to straighten up his appearance. The last thing he wants is to make it look like he had to run for his life, or might still be running. He’s got the tape if Jon doesn’t believe what he says, but maybe he’ll get lucky and he can avoid having to play it, so Jon—and Martin, for that matter—don’t have to know how close a shave he just had.

Yeah, right. And maybe he’ll finally get that phone call about his audition for Jersey Boys.

He’s still limping as he reaches the Institute and lets himself in the door to the Archives. For just a minute, he pauses when he comes in, wondering why they swapped out the light bulbs for novelty green ones…but no, he blinks hard and the lighting goes back to normal. Just the regular old Archives, rows of shelves littered with files, pod of desks in the work area, three people grouped around it. Tim’s not sure what’s going on, but from the looks of it, Sasha and Jon are sitting down and Martin is fussing.

Martin looks up as Tim comes closer, and his face goes slack with relief. “Tim!”

Sasha’s head whips around. “Are you all right?” she asks.

Tim tries for a grin. “I’m not dead.”

“Yeah, that’s not exactly comforting. You get why that’s not comforting, right?” Martin tugs at his hair in evident frustration. “Wh—” He stops and presses his lips together tightly for a second.

“You’re late.” Jon’s voice is soft but accusing. He gets to his feet and wobbles for a second before steadying himself against the back of the chair.

Suddenly worried, Tim takes a step towards him. His ankle chooses that moment to remind him that he’s already fucked it up and buckles under him, nearly sending him to the floor. He doesn’t fall far before Martin is there, catching him and half-dragging, half-carrying him over to his chair. “You’re hurt.”

“Master of the obvious,” Tim tries to joke, and then he sees the look on Martin’s face and realizes what’s going on. They’ve all realized that Martin has acquired the ability to compel people to tell him things, especially about how they got hurt or why they’re scared; he’s trying to learn how to control it, just like Jon and Sasha are trying to learn to control their new powers, but Jon Prime warned them already that it will be harder for them to not let it slip in involuntarily when they’re upset or stressed. Martin is trying very hard not to force Tim to tell him anything. It’s a courtesy Tim doesn’t think he deserves, but he swallows down on the guilt. “Just twisted, I think. No big deal.” He eases away from Martin and stands; it hurts a bit, but he’s at least able to do it on his own.

Martin lets him, but he’s still hovering, around both him and Jon. Jon stands facing Tim, looking grim. “You didn’t have your phone with you, Tim. We couldn’t contact you. It’s been two hours.”

Tim winces. “I didn’t realize I’d left it behind until it was too late to come back, and then I just…I thought I’d be back sooner. Sorry, boss. I’ll make up the time.”

“I’m not worried about the time, Tim!” Jon throws his hands up in frustration. “I’m worried about you. You were gone longer than you should have been, and we had no way of getting in touch with you, nor any idea where you were.”

“I—I was going to text you, but—”

“No, Tim, we didn’t know where you were,” Martin emphasizes. “Sasha tried to Know where you’d gone and gave herself a nosebleed. Jon tried and passed out! I-I finally asked downstairs, and all he’d say was that you were safe and on the way back, but that’s really not as comforting as he made it sound.”

“I know how you feel about…all of that,” Jon says, his voice sounding strained, “but we were worried. We were scared. Especially since…” He gestures at the files on Tim’s desk. “I wasn’t sure which one you were investigating.”

And Jon’s avoiding actually asking questions, too, out of fear of forcing Tim to answer against his will. They’re all better than he deserves, he thinks distantly, and it would serve him right if—no. He’s hurt them enough.

“The Trophy Room,” he says quietly. He reaches into his pocket and fishes out the tape recorder, which he hands to Jon. “Pretty sure I got the whole thing on there, but I haven’t had a chance to check.”

“The Trophy Room? The taxidermy shop in Barnet? The one we’re pretty sure is a stronghold for the Stranger?” Martin’s voice rises in pitch. “Are you out of your mind?”

“What were you thinking?” Jon says, clearly upset. “You’ve read that statement, you know how dangerous it is. If I had wanted someone to go there to investigate, I would have sent someone, and you would have been the last person I would choose—”

“I wasn’t going to let any of you go out there,” Tim argues.

“Tim, you’re already marked by the Stranger,” Jon says sharply. “Remember what they said? The marks make you a bigger target. It means they’re more likely to try something on you. That—whatever it was in the basement, the anglerfish thing—if Rawlings had opened the door, it might have lured you down. My God, Tim, you could have been killed and we would have had no idea where you were.”

If Tim did this to make himself feel less guilty, he failed spectacularly. He inhales sharply and tries to meet Jon’s eyes. For just a second, they seem to glow a vivid and vibrant green; Tim blinks and they go back to their normal brown. “I—I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking about that, I just—all I could think about was that I needed to protect you all. I knew someone was going to end up investigating all this, we couldn’t get the truth over the phone, and I—I didn’t want to risk one of you going over there. I knew it was dangerous, but…I haven’t done enough, so I thought it had to be me.”

“Tim.” Jon’s jaw works for a moment, and then he just surges forward and hugs Tim tightly.

Tim hugs him back, feeling the tears pricking at his eyes. A moment later he feels the comforting weight and warmth of Martin’s arms around them both, but instead of making him relax, it just makes the tears flow harder. He doesn’t deserve this.

He must say that aloud, because Jon releases him and steps back to frown at him. “Don’t deserve what? What are you talking about?”

“This.” Tim gestures to Jon and Martin hovering around him, then to Sasha, who evidently was part of the hug, too, at least peripherally. “I didn’t—I fucked up, Jon. I shoved you all away and I made you feel—I was hurting, so I hurt you without any reason, and I—”

“We were all hurting,” Martin interrupts him, his face tight with sympathy. “And we all did things to hurt each other—”

“You didn’t,” Sasha points out.

“I could’ve stepped in any time, or spoken up about what was bothering me, instead of acting like I thought you’d hurt me if I tried,” Martin says. “I didn’t. I let myself class you all in the same category as my mother, and that isn’t fair to any of you. I know better. What happened this month between us is as much my fault as anyone else’s and I’m not going to sit by and act like I’m the victim in all this, because that isn’t fair to anyone. Including me.” He takes a deep breath. “We’re a team. We’re a family. We’re supposed to work together, right?”

“Right.” Tim swallows hard and wipes his eyes. “No more unauthorized field trips. Promise.”

Jon nods. “Thank you.” He glances at the tape recorder. “I’ll listen to this later, if you need me to, but meanwhile, why don’t you tell us what happened?”

Tim sighs. “Might want to sit down. This could take a while.”

#ollie writes fanfic #leaves too high to touch (roots too strong to fall)#tma #the magnus archives #canon typical stranger content #guilt tw #implied past emotional abuse #tim stoker stop being a dumbass challenge

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crimson-dxwn · 4 years

Text

Room 8297 (Fox/Mouse Companion Piece)

When you try and write a little companion one-shot and end up creating an OC complete with backstory and appearance…

So @detroitbydark and I were having a little convo about what the nurses on Mouse’s ward think about the constant Coruscant Guard presence and I got a little carried away. She was gracious enough to let me write a little scene from one of the nurses’ POV.

Warnings: Angst. A lot of it (I’m a dramatic bitch). Medical stuff, nothing explicit.

Word Count: 1,900 ------------------------------------------------------------------------------ It was finally the end of her shift. It had been another frantic, exhausting day. The Medcenter was understaffed and it seemed like Tekla always had one more task to do, more charting, endless paperwork. She allowed herself a stretch from her gray-wrapped lekku down to her toes before lowering herself into a seat. She’d been getting ready for sign-out to the night shift when an alarm went off from one of her rooms. SW-8297.

Mouse, she’d heard one of the soldiers call her. A strange nickname, but the men guarding her door said it with such fondness that Tekla couldn’t help but attach it to her patient too. Only in her head, of course. Tekla hadn’t been out of school long, but she prided herself on her professionalism and bedside manner. As she checked the alarm on the screen before her, other nurses hustled around, busy with last minute vitals checks and scribbling down notes for the next shift.

Tekla checked her wrist chrono. She’d given Mouse her last dose of pain medication an hour ago, which should have kicked in by now. Luckily, the woman was young and healthy and had been recovering well. By far the strangest part of her stay had been the fact that she was under constant guard.

According to her chart, she’d been mugged on her way home from work. Tekla had overheard the medics saying that the man had been caught, so she wasn’t completely sure who or what the red-and-white-clad clone soldiers were watching out for. But they kept watch nonetheless. An endless rotation stood perfectly still at attention, never faltering, never a piece of armor out of place. Their discipline was impressive. Working at a civilian Medcenter didn’t give Tekla a lot of chances to interact with them, but she knew from the Holonet News that they had helped liberate Ryloth from the Separatists in the early years of the war. They seem like good men. Their brothers probably saved my family. As Tekla walked the unit, she would occasionally get a peek at their guard changes. Usually the men spoke briefly for a while, laughed and joked sometimes. They seemed more concerned with her patient’s well-being than randomly assigned soldiers would. They must know her.

Sighing deeply, she rose from her seat at the nurse’s station and headed towards 8297. It was more likely that the alarm was from a malfunction or Mouse moving around in her sleep than anything serious, as she’d been prone to nightmares over the last week. It wasn’t uncommon after being attacked. Mouse’s overnight nurse, Miri, had told her at the beginning of her shift that the slight woman had woken the night before, disoriented, screaming. The trooper on watch had been able to calm her down without having to use any meds, but she’d still slept poorly. Tekla prayed Mouse wasn’t having another nightmare. Her thrashing tended to spike her pain to unbearable levels. She was getting discharged tomorrow, or that was the plan at the moment, and she needed all the rest she could get. The last guard outside Mouse’s door had been attired differently from the rest, with inverted armor colors and a dark visor adorning his helmet. Tekla thought she spotted the Senate seal on one of his shoulders as she’d rushed by earlier. She was good at noticing patterns, and she knew for sure she’d never seen that armor before.

The injuries her patient had arrived with had been serious - a through-and-through shot to the right abdomen and a blaster graze on her left shoulder. She’d spent days in a bacta tank, and even after that she’d needed inpatient care. No cuts, bruises, or scrapes though, except for some transparisteel lodged into the back of her neck. No scratches from fingernails, no dirt or grime on her shoes or clothes. Working on Coruscant, Tekla had seen her fair share of assault victims. Mouse’s injuries were unusual for a mugging, to say the least, but who was she to argue with the Jedi that brought her in? Jedi don’t lie…do they? She continued to ponder her blasphemous question as she made her way towards Mouse’s room. Regardless of the suspicious nature of her injuries, whoever had shot her was no professional, judging by their aim. The woman was lucky the bastard didn’t know their way around a blaster - guess it wasn’t much of a shock they’d caught the man so soon.

As she entered the hallway, the absence of a guard outside Mouse’s room immediately took her by surprise. Probably just another nightmare. The pain meds likely aren’t helping either. That didn’t stop Tekla from increasing her pace. Until she reached the doorway, that is. Voices were just audible, one male which she didn’t recognize, and the other female, which she knew immediately to be Mouse’s. Unbearably curious, she stopped to listen for a moment.

“…leave once I do.” “Yes, that was the deal,” she heard the male voice say. “You’re not going to come back,” replied Mouse. “No, cyar’ika. I’m not.” Tekla felt the finality in his statement, all the way from the doorway.

After a moment of silence, Tekla poked her head into the room. The trooper was in bed with her, blood-red armor still on save for his helmet and a glove. They were curled around each other, face-to-face, her with one hand on his neck and his ungloved hand stroking softly through her hair. His eyes were closed, brow knitted ever so slightly, as if he was in pain too.

Tekla may have been new, but she certainly wasn’t stupid. He and Mouse were together. So this was the reason she had what amounted to an honor guard outside her room. They looked so peaceful, lying together on the bed. There was no way she could disturb them like this. Mouse’s vitals had been stable up until now and her color was good. Better, actually. From the door, Tekla could see the small woman’s chest rising and falling slowly. Leaving them for a little while longer isn’t going to hurt anything, she thought to herself. She felt intensely voyeuristic, even though they were both fully clothed and Mouse was mostly tucked under the blankets. He’d been courteous enough to leave his twin pistols on the table by the window. She was glad; blasters made Tekla nervous. Both of them looked like they needed rest. Who was she to say that having him there wouldn’t help Mouse get better?

Then, right before she turned to leave, the clone’s eyes snapped open and met hers. They flicked to his blasters on the table beside her, protectively down to Mouse in his arms, and then at the floor, shame flashing hot as he looked away. But he didn’t move a muscle - she even thought she saw him tighten his arms around Mouse ever so slightly. Tekla lowered her eyes in response and carefully closed the door just a bit more to give them some privacy.

—————

She made her way back to the nurse’s station, which by now was packed with everyone getting ready for sign-out. Her coworkers were chatting excitedly, eager to head home, exchanging gossip and stories from the day they’d been too busy to relay earlier. Tekla wondered what had to have happened between Mouse and the trooper for him to take so long to come see her, and then to leave her? It seemed incredibly cruel. She moved to sit, and a familiar voice wrenched her out of her musings. Le-Tii, one of the veteran nurses on the unit had taken the chair next to hers and was eyeing her suspiciously.

“You know patients aren’t supposed to have visitors past 1700, Tekla. You’ve been here long enough.”

“She’s fine,” Tekla offered. “I didn’t want to disturb them like that. Plus he’s not exactly a visitor.”

The stout man huffed in annoyance. “Please tell me they at least had their clothes on.”

“Yes!” Tekla was flabbergasted.

“Hm. Good,” he picked at his nails, clearly bored. “’cause I’m not quite sure I approve of my taxes paying for the Republic’s finest to screw my patients in their downtime.”

“Well I think it’s sweet,” Tekla retorted. She felt some sort of protectiveness over Mouse. She was so patient and kind compared to some of the other patients that she cared for, and the woman had obviously been through a lot. How much harm could one night with him do?

“He’s a Commander, you know. Guards the Chancellor personally,” the man said, opening a ration bar, “If you look close on the Holonet you can tell it’s him. His armor’s different.”

A lowered voice from behind her back had joined the conversation.

“I bet he’s the one who shot her.” Looked like Miri was here for her shift.

Tekla gaped as the meaning of Miri’s words sank in. She felt better about her reaction when she looked over at Le-Tii, who was sporting the same expression.

“No, hear me out. She’s been here, what, over a week? And he’s come here three times. Twice I saw him turn on his heel and rush out before he even got past the nurse’s station.”

“That’s ridiculous, Miri.” Tekla couldn’t believe what she was hearing. She shook her head. “No. Why would he-”

“-when do they ever need a reason? She woke up screaming his name last night and he hasn’t come to visit her once.”

“That’s a horrible thing to say.” The thought terrified Tekla. It hadn’t crossed her mind in the whole time she’d been caring for Mouse. She thought back to the image of the two lovers lying in the bed together, to the look in the man’s eyes when he saw Tekla in the doorway. No. There was no way he did this.

“It’s not horrible if it’s the truth.” Le-Tii offered, finally deciding to contribute to the conversation.

“Well I just checked on them and she’s actually looking better now than she did the whole day, so take that as you will.”

“I’ll believe it when I see it,” Miri replied, indignantly as ever.

The human woman was always fond of reminding Tekla that she had more experience than her. Something in her manner told her that the other girl had something against Twi’leks. Or maybe it was just non-humans...and clones, apparently.

To Tekla’s relief, Miri dropped the subject and they began their sign-out routine. Right before they handed off their last patient, Tekla noticed a flash of red at the corner of her vision. He’s leaving, she thought, poor Mouse. He walked past the nurse’s station, head studying the floor, trying to be inconspicuous. He wasn’t successful. Almost every head in the group turned to watch as he made his way to the lift. A bizarre silence made its way over the usually animated group. Not once did the visored helmet turn back.

“Good riddance,” she heard Miri mutter under her breath. “All those things know how to do is kill.”

—————— -Later that night-

Tekla hesitated before she typed the word into the search bar on her datapad. Cyarika. She hoped she spelled it correctly.

The results popped up and she studied the first entry: Mando’a to Basic Dictionary. Cyar’ika: n., beloved.

#Gen is a dramatic bitch on main #inspired by DetroitbyDark #fic #TCW #companion piece #Fox x Mouse

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pulpwriterx · 4 years

Text

BEN SOLO ALL THESE YEARS

Rey decided to stay on Tattoine.

The desert, after all, was her home.

Poe went back into the spice business, and even branched out to include good booze and cigarillos.

Finn joined him in yo ho, you ho, a pirate's life for me.

And in their business?

They needed a good scavenger.

A year or so went by.

Finn and Poe bought themselves a posh bachelor pad in Anchorhead, but Rey preferred solitude.

She knew that that both of them would have been willing to give her a shoulder to cry on, and the benefit of a man's company.

But after the way Ben died in her arms, Rey wasn’t ready to hold a man, again.

The old Skywalker farm didn’t look like it, but it was a nice place to live.

It had been Ben’s home, after all.

He had left the outside looking run down and desolate, like no one lived there, but past the blighted door in the dusty courtayrd, it was a different story.

Typical Ben.

When you took off his mask, he had another mask on beneath that, and beneath that was a big story, a tall tale, and a pack of ever-evolving half-truths and outright lies.

He had restored the old farm, on the inside, and underneath, where the farming equipment and tanks had been, he kept a smuggler’s treasure trove.

Tunnels filled with all kinds of swag, from booze and cigarillos to old Rebel Alliance and Imperial Uniforms, and less innocent cargo like crates of blasters and pallets of coaxium.

There was also five years of food and supplies, and one of the tanks had even been converted into a vault. It was full of credits, black molded chests of Imperial gold coins, money from all over the Galaxy.

Ben had left the farm, and all it’s contents to Rey Skywalker.

He had also left the Millenium Falcon to Rey, but she hadn’t the heart to fly the ship she loved so much.

With both Ben and Han Solo dead, neither with a final resting place?

The ship was like their tomb.

The Falcon, and Ben’s secret refuge, with it’s hidden treasures; they were all, in some strange way, his legacy.

When Rey wasn’t whizzing around the stars with her friends, she led a peaceful, solitary life as the guardian of the legacy of the family that gave all for the peace that finally broke out in the Galaxy.

Besides, she wasn’t wholly alone.

Poe always let BB8 go with her, to keep tabs on her, and Threepio and Artoo were glad to finally get to go home.

It was a special place for her.

In the two years between when she and Ben killed Snoke, and when they killed the Emperor?

They used to meet at the Skywalker Farm.

Their bonds remained unbroken, even after she had rejected his offer to join him, and they had grown closer, not just through the talks, and the laughing, and the stories, most of which were lies.

Yelling.

Pointing fingers.

Sneering.

Cursing.

Stamping feet.

Breaking things.

Throwing shit about.

Lightsaber duels.

Even the bad times, even the shit times were precious to her, now.

Rey would sit, quietly, watching the twin suns, and think about the past.

Like the time they had a horrible fight through their bond, and called each other vicious names, and threw things at each other, and smashed up their own gear, in a rage.

But then Ben had said.

“I need to see you in person, Rey.”

“Why? What can we do in person that we can’t do through our little talks?”

“We can make love. Don’t you want to? I do.”

“There is nothing like love between us, Kylo Ren!”

Ben had given her the Solo shrug.

“Then we can fuck. I'd rather fuck. I was just trying to be chivalrous.”

And somewhere in their laughter, they had agreed to meet at the Skywalker farm, on Tattoine.

Rey had no idea that Ben had a home, and it became their refuge.

Rey would lie there, in Ben's big, brass bed, and close her eyes and think about when he was there, beside her.

Those stolen days and nights where they would laugh, and fight, and screw, and cuddle under the fur blanket in the cold desert night and plan for a future they both knew would never happen.

Sometimes, she could almost feel his big body, lying there beside her, and she could smell his scent.

Hear his voice.

Feel the way her little body had moved under his big, strong hands.

Of course she would also lie there and think about their lovemaking and take care of her business.

She could have had Finn, or Poe, but Ben was like an animal, like a man in the state of nature; he had been born without shame, and he had unchained a passion in her that Rey had never known she possessed.

Not that she had been a prude, but her interest in men, and her occasional dealings with them had been, well, ordinary.

Now who the hell would she find to satisfy the unchained, shameless desire that Kylo Ren Ben Solo had awakened in her?

Rey often cried, bitter tears.

But that was life.

Love is death, life is pain, and somehow you muddle through.

***

In the second year since Ben died, Rey was walking down a busy street in Anchorhead when she saw Chewie.

They hugged, and Rey was truly happy.

She took him to Poe and Finn's and they tried to get information out of him, but Chewie would only say he was working.

As he left, he asked Rey a very honest question.

“Are you happy?”

“I am content, Chewie. I have friends, work, a place to live, enough money, and I have peace.”

“But are you happy?”

“No. Happiness died with Ben. A lot of things died for me, with Ben. Love. Hope. Any interest I had in men, poor Poe, and poor Finn. But I still have life. And I can still enjoying being content with it.”

***

A few nights later, Rey had a dream about Ben.

It was a wild, sweaty, deeply pornographic wet dream that she woke up from in the throes of the kind of an orgasm women could only have in their dreams.

Or, if they were lucky, with bad men like Ben Solo.

She sat up, throwing the blanket off.

“Rey.”

Rey's heart sang an aria.

“Ben! You found your way back? When will I be able to see you?”

But there was no reply.

Leading her to believe, alas, it had only been a beautiful dream.

***

When he had come to Oneness with the Force, Ben Solo found trouble in Paradise.

Master Yoda thought he was ready for the next step.

Master Obi Wan argued that he was too young, and had resolved none of the conflict that had brought him to ruin.

Master Anakin was more direct.

“Though a man, he is still a child. And his life has been suffering and tragedy. He is young, he has found love, and we should not cheat him of the life he has fought so hard to win. Send him back. Let him be Ben Solo, and live his life. He has many years to find the New Path.”

Ben tried to speak, to say what he wanted, but found he could not.

“Young though he is, yes, but what life for him? Redeemed from Kylo Ren in our eyes. But what of the material world? If return he does, atone he must. But a bullseye on his back there will be!” Yoda insisted.

“That is a problem, Anakin.” Obi –Wan agreed.

“Then we will send my grandson back without healing his body. It will be broken. He will atone with his suffering. We will send him to a distant planet to make his recovery, alone. Dependant on the charity of strangers he once oppressed. Then let him make his way to more familiar planets, back to his identity and his home.” Anakin suggested.

“That sounds reasonable. We will give my namesake a test. But, Kylo Ren is dead. Ben Solo should not have to pay for his crimes. Then we will make it so the memory of his mask is preserved in the minds of all. But not his face. “ Obi-Wan suggested.

The others agreed.

“Speak now you may, young Skywalker. Until you find your way back, Skywalker shall you be called. Well? Back do you wish to go?” Yoda asked.

“Yes, Master Yoda. Back I wish to go.”

“Humor you have. Need it, you will.”

“But will I have to endure doctors? Needles?”

“Fear in your face, I see? Tortured you were, young Skywalker? Then your fear you must overcome. Back you still wish to go?”

“Yes, Master Yoda. I will face my fear.”

“And Ben? No cheating? If your women, strong in the Force as they are, happen to find you? Or your family? We won’t keep them away. But if you call to them? You forfeit this chance.” Anakin told him.

“Wrong that is! In his sleep, will young Skywalker’s soul cry for help! No. Also must we use the Force to interrupt his bond. Until his test is finished. Though he will call? No answer will we allow to come.” Yoda decided.

“I agree. Only by doing the evil that Kylo Ren might have done will you forfeit your chance. Good luck, Ben.” Obi-Wan said

“I have always been with you, my grandson. If you need my strength during your trial? I will answer your call.” Anakin assured Ben

Then, Ben fell into something like sleep.

***

He had a horrible dream, of waking up bloody and bruised on collapsing Exegol, limping or crawling out of the cave he was in, and then escaping in the still flyable remains of a crashed X-Wing

He woke up in a bacta tank, and panic seized him.

He started banging on the glass walls, screaming through the breather in his mouth.

The noise brought a Rodian in a white coat.

“Hey! Hey Dan, the big guy is awake! By the Force, he looks terrified.”

A guy his age with a moustache rushed into the room.

“Then let’s get him out. It’s OK, big fella. You’re safe. You’re in a Resistance hospital. There’s no more First Order. Nobody’s going to hurt you, here. Hurry up, Needo, help me, before he cracks the tank!”

The machine Ben was suspended from pulled him out, and he ripped all the wires off of his body, and crashed to the ground.

“No! No doctors! Get away from me!” he shouted.

Reduced to crawling away.

But there was nowhere to go.

“Its OK. There’s no torture droids here. You don’t have to get any injections. We're not going to bring you to the point of death, then put you in a bacta tank to fix you up, and then do it again.”

“You know about that?”

“The Empire did it to me the first time. I have a scar like the one on your other leg. But mine is only a few inches long. You must have really suffered.” The grey haired man said.

“I did. Where am I? Who are you? How much longer will this plexi-cast be on?”

The Rodian came with a long orange smock with the Resistance symbol on it, folded on a wheelchair.

“I’m Dan Antilles. I’m your doctor. You crash landed here, on Hoth. And you need another three weeks with that cast. Let me help you up. Now you might want to put this smock on, big fella. This is the size we usually use for Wookies.”

The Rodian helped Ben put the smock on.

It had long sleeves and it was fleecy and soft on the inside.

“I know you want crutches, but the break in your femur was bad. So, if you like being in the shape you’re in, and you want that leg to hold you up, later? Wheelchair. Nobody has to push you if you’d rather wheel yourself.”

Ben sat in the wheelchair, lifting his leg onto the platform for it.

“I can wheel myself.” He said.

“Good. I’ll show you around the place, and back to your bed.”

“Do you have a name, Big Guy?’

“Ben. Ben Skywalker.”

“Are you a Skywalker from Tattoine or a Skywalker from Arkanis?”

“Both. My grandfather was from Arkanis. His father died, and his mother became an indentured servant on Tattoine. We’re free, now, though.”

“Yeah, my family are from Corellia, but most of by father’s war buddies were from the Outer Rim. Tattoine, mostly. OK, Ben. It’s good to have you back. You scared us a little; we thought you might leave.”

“Me too.”

***

Snow.

Watching it snow.

Lying propped up on pillows, leaning against the wall, last cot on the ward.

A cot with a big “W” on it.

For Wookiee.

Techanically, Ben was a Wookiee, when Chewie became his godfather, he was adopted into Chewie’s clan.

Ben was thinking about Kashyyyk, actually, while watching it snow.

Thinking about how he might still be welcome, with Uncle Chewie.

Trying to get his spoon under the cast, to scratch his leg.

Watching it snow.

Blanket up to his chin, one knee up.

“...so, what happened was, there was like, a reason why Ben Solo killed Kylo Ren. More than just, you know, the war. Ben Solo and Kylo Ren, they were at the Jedi Temple together. They were friends. But they had a lightsaber fight over either the Force or a girl. I hear different things. And that's’ why Kylo Ren wore the mask because Ben Solo cut his nose off and scarred up his face...”

“Zak, can you stop talking about men? Why do you think I have my blanket pulled up?”

“You thinking about your nurse?”

“Can you stop talking to me? Forget it.”

“Sorry, Ben.”

“It’s not your fault, Zak. It’s this place.”

He looked out the window again.

Snow.

“I think about your nurse, too. She’s a big girl. She has to be six feet tall. And, like 200. But it’s in all the right places. And she’s a Twi’lek.” Zak said

“I’d like to jump into that girl and drown. Why isn’t she your nurse?” Ben asked

Zak shrugged.

Ben heaved himself off his cot and into his wheelchair.

“Well, I think I’ll go try to take a piss without pissing all over myself.”

“Good luck, man.”

***

The days bled into each other.

Ben finally looked inside the chest, under his bed, on the ward.

In the chest was his lost lightsaber, the blaster Uncle Lando had given him, his blaster belt, his lucky Sabacc dice, a couple of pair of coveralls, his boots, an X-Wing helmet, a money belt for under your clothes that had 500 credits in it, and a mess kit.

The X-Wing helmet had a number on it.

His Uncle’s.

“Humor you have. Need it, you will.” Ben muttered.

The plexi cast on his left leg came all the way up to his balls, and his leg always itched like it was on fire.

Meanwhile, no one asked him if he was related to the Jedi Master Luke Skywalker.

When two weeks, and then two more passed and no celebrated persons came to claim him, people assumed that he was some distant relation.

They didn’t release him until after the cast came off, in another week.

Nobody had come for him, and he didn’t call for anyone, so he just left on his own, on a transport with hundreds of other displaced men and women with nowhere special to go.

***

The tiniest hint of a fly in the Force Ghosts’ ointment came around the time that Ben was leaving the Resistance Hospital.

General Leia-Organa Solo, also Senator Leia Organa-Solo, returned to her office on Coruscant as Senate staffers were packing up her things.

One boy almost dropped a picture of her, and Han, and Ben, and Leia caught it.

“Don’t look so frightened. I’m not a ghost.”

“But you’re dead, Senator?”

“I’m a Skywalker. We don’t just die, like other people. We have many deaths and many births, and live many lives inbetween? Less philosophically? I have too much to do to die just now. Maybe in another forty years, or so.”

The next day, after her first appearance in the Second Republic Senate, to announce that she was running for Prime Minister, Leia had an unscheduled visit in her office from Wedge Antilles.

“This had better be really important, Wedge.”

“I think it is. I don’t want to get your hopes up, but I was talking to my son, last night. He saw your broadcast and it made him think of a patient of his. A man his own age that hasn’t been far from his mind. A big guy, about two meters, nearly six and a half feet tall. Long dark hair. Dark eyes. Had lots of battle scars. This kid landed a burning X-Wing on Hoth, came out of it with his flight suit in shreds, dragging a broken leg, raving about Exegol, killing them all, and finally being a free man. Spent three weeks in a Bacta tank, recovering from a whole slew of injuries, and another three weeks in a cast up to his nuts. The patient said his name was Ben Skywalker, that his father was a Corellian starpilot and his grandfather was a Skywalker from Arkanis who grew up on Tattoine. As soon as the cast came off, Ben Skywalker got on a transport with a bunch of other kids with nowhere to go and no one to see, and left the planet. And it wasn’t until Dan saw your broadcast that he made the connection, and called me about it. Does that sound like anybody you know, Leia?”

“It does. I’ve been sitting here all day, full of blind, stupid hope. Thinking that if I’m alive, then Ben might be, too. Waiting for that call.”

“Who the hell else would it be?”

“I don’t know, Wedge. But it sounds like he’s running.”

“You need help chasing him?”

“All I can get. We need to find this Ben Skywalker. But if he is my Ben? What the hell do we do, then? Poe Dameron and Rey spread it all over the Galaxy that Ben Solo fought and killed Kylo Ren and the Knights of Ren, and then he died and became One With the Force. And the smart little bastard wore a mask, most of the time.”

“Let it go, Leia. Any way you slice the pie? Kylo Ren is dead. If Ben Solo isn’t? Give him a chance. He killed Snoke. And the Knights of Ren. He saved Rey. He saved you. And he helped Rey kill Palpatine. I think he deserves it.”

“Well, Chewie will be happy. I’ll talk to him, first.”

***

As soon as the transport landed, Ben began his wandering.

At first he figured it as a kind of penance, for his many crimes.

He stopped wearing shoes, or cutting his hair and beard, and all he wore was a black hooded robe, closed with a belt from which hung a metal bowl and cup, a holstered knife, and his lightsaber.

At first Ben just begged, and wandered, changing his robes for coveralls and working on freighters for his passage from planet to planet.

But as time went on, he slipped into a lonely madness.

He took to standing on streetcorners and preaching about the evils of the old world.

By this time a small crowd would have gathered around the very tall, very gaunt man, with wild eyes and a booming deep voice inside a nest of black hair and black beard.

“It was not the Force that did this to me! No, it was the order than we tried, for centuries to put on it. Dividing it, and ourselves into Dark and Light. Jedi and Sith. Empire and Republic. First Order and Resistance. It was this blasphemy against the balance and unity of the Force that brought our Galaxy into three generations of interplanetary war! And this Second New Republic is built on the truth! The truth there is no Dark, or Light. Jedi, or Sith. Only the Force, United. As it lives in all of us, and everything! As we find the balance, within ourselves, in accordance with our form and our nature. But I know there are those that preach the old heresies. When you hear them, think upon me!”

That’s when he would unbuckle his belt and take off his robe, showing them all his scarred, gaunt, filthy body.

Ben had even made the scar of the wound that Rey healed in the ruins iof the Death Star appear in his flesh.

“Stop and look at me! I am the mistakes of the past! My mother’s brother tried to murder me, and I murdered my father in turn! With these hands! These hands! This creature you see before you was once a man! Envied by men, desired by Women! Who desires this creature, now? Who envies this wretch, now? Who? Look on me and know it is time for old things to go. You must let the past die! Kill it, if you have to! Look upon me, and remember my words.”

Sometimes they would throw money in his bowl, sometimes throw things at him.

He hoped that a crowd would martyr him, but no one ever took him seriously enough to kill him.

He slept in alleys and doorways, stowed away on ships, and felt less than human.

Ben’s will to live left him as his madness spiralled out of control. He hardly ate and hardly slept, and his starving body devoured fifty pounds of his flesh, leaving him wiry, rawboned and gaunt.

He hardly felt human, or even humanoid, anymore, because he was hairy, and smelly, and filthy, and he scavenged through garbage to eat, like some wild animal.

At the end of a year, he ended up on Tattoine, intending to make a grand end to it.

He would give his sermon, throw off his robes and slit his wrists and his throat with a dirty piece of glass from the street.

But another vagrant warned him that the city fathers of Anchorhead had recently hired a former First Order officer as their chief of police, and although the new Chief understood smugglers were the lifeblood of Anchorhead, he was cracking down on street crime, con men, muggers, preachers, pushers, unregistered whores, and so on.

Ben quietly wished his former comrade well, and gave up the ghost.

But life clung, annoyingly to his skeletal frame.

He lay in the same doorway for three days, and three nights, and on the third night he knew that he was near death.

“Ben.”

He saw a bluish light in the cold, dark desert night, and rolled his eyes upward.

The face he looked into was very much like his own.

If not for the fair hair and light eyes, it might have been his face.

Ben knew his rescuer, immediately.

“Grandfather. Have you come to take me home?”

“No, Ben. I have come to comfort you, in your suffering. I understand suffering. I understand the peace that comes from enduring suffering, and triumphing over it. But I want you to live. You have suffered enough. I release you from the restraints that we have put on your bond with Rey Skywalker. Call for help. I will wait with you, until she comes. Rey will take you home.”

***

“Rey. Rey, I need you.”

Rey sat up in the dark, and knew this was no dream.

She saw and heard Ben; she saw him through their bond.

But what she saw and heard was horrible.

His face was drawn and filthy, and the hand that reached to her looked skeletal.

He was swathed in a filthy robe, lying in a dirty doorway, in a back street of Anchorhead.

“I see you, Ben. I hear you.”

“Help me, Rey. I want to come home.”

Rey jumped out of bed and threw on her clothes.

“I’m coming, Ben. Wait for me. Don’t leave me, again!”

***

Rey stopped her speeder by the dirty doorway and was surprised to see the tall, broad-shouldered hulking Force ghost of Anakin Skywalker.

Gently, he picked up his broken, emaciated grandson, and carried him to the speeder.

“Master Anakin!” Rey gasped.

She watched him wrap Ben in the blanket she had brought, and gently lay him in the back seat of the speeder

“Take my grandson home. And don’t let him out of your sight until he’s well, again.”

“But I don’t know anything about healing! I don’t know who to call! I don’t know what to do! Someone has to help us!”

“There’s an old man living in my friend Ben Kenobi’s old shack. He claims to be a Jedi Healer. I will go there, now, and send him along to the Skywalker Farm. I am sure that he will be able to help you.”

Anakin Skywalker walked off towards the moonlit desert, and dissappeared into a little whirly of wind-driven sand..

***

Rey sped home, in a hurry.

Threepio helped her to carry what was left of Ben Solo into the house.

“Shouldn’t Master Ben have a doctor?”

“No, Threepio! No doctor! No medical droid! No bacta tank! No needle!”

Ben was terrified, but it was the first time he had spoken.

Rey was glad that he was alive enough to speak

“Alright, Master Ben. No doctor. Master Rey, what about the man in the kitchen.”

“He’s not a doctor. Master Ben hates doctors. Don’t talk about doctors! Help me get Master Ben into the bathroom, and tell that man to start doing...whatever it is he’s going to do. Have Artoo heat up some batha broth for Master Ben. Then you and Artoo go back to the shed. It’s too much for you.”

Rey slammed the door on the dithering droid, and went through the bedroom and back into the bathroom.

Ben had managed to get his robe off and get into the bathtub.

He was covered in bruises and scratches, and you could see his ribs and his hipbones.

What was visible of his face out of the rat’s nest of tangled hair and beard was suffused with all the misery the human race had ever endured.

Rey turned the water on.

“Let me die, Rey. Now that I’m home. I don’t want to live.”

“I want you to live, Ben. This is my miracle, not yours.”

“Grandfather wants me to live. Do you? Really?”

“Yes, Ben, I do! I love you!”

“Then maybe I will live a little longer.”

He lay quietly in the warm water as she scrubbed the dirt off of him, and didn’t protest even though she had to wash his hair and comb the tangles and rats out with oil several times, and then wash it, again.

It was either that or shave his head.

One of the Skywalkers had left his straight razor there, and Rey had polished it and sharpened it; why she wasn’t sure, but now she carefully shaved the filthy, matted beard away from Ben's gaunt face.

“Don’t shave it all. Kylo Ren didn’t wear a beard.” Ben told her.

It was the only thing he said, but his sad eyes watched her movements.

She helped him get out of the tub, and dried him.

“Thank you.” Ben said.

Ben leaned heavily on her as they made there way into the bedroom; he was still much larger and heavier than her.

But Rey didn’t complain.

She propped him up with pillows, and fed him sips of milk and sips of broth.

“Glass.” He said.

She handed him the glass of milk, and he gulped it down.

“Don’t, Ben, you'll get sick!”

He reached for the bowl, and sniffed it, like a dog, then put it back down.

“No. Meat.”

“You’ll get sick!”

Ben slammed his fist angrily on the nightstand.

“I’M DYING! MEAT, GODDAMN IT, GIVE ME MEAT!”

Bellowing like an angry Wookiee.

A Wookiee.

Chewbacca was Ben's godfather; he had been adopted into Chewie’s tribe, and had a Wookie name.

Kallaurra.

Angry Wild Warrior.

But she didn’t know where Chewie was and Han and Leia were dead.

“Alright, Ben. Your Uncle Chewie taught me how to make a Wookiee stew. I’ll fix you some meat.”

Rey went out into the kitchen.

She felt helpless and alone.

I don’t know him. I don’t know him, at all.

Rey closed her eyes.

And she called to Master Leia.

As usual, there was no response.

Then she called to Master Luke.

“I’m right here. I told Ben Kenobi, and Master Yoda. Make sure Ben is with Rey. Father agreed with me. They didn’t listen.”

Rey opened her eyes.

Master Luke was sitting at the table.

“No matter where I go? I always seem to end up, right back here. On Tattoine. Now I’m here in the same house.”

“You’re the JedI Healer? When did you come back?”

“Right after I thought I died on Ahch-To. I got the same treatment Ben did. It wasn’t my time. I wasn’t ready. Next thing I knew, I was alive and well, and back on Tattoine. In Ben Kenobi’s hut.”

“I wish I would have known you were so close by.”

“I wish I would have told you.”

“Master Luke, did you ever take care of someone in Ben’s condition?”

“I don’t know what Ben’s condition is.”

Rey explained.

“I have seen men as sick as Ben, and I’ve tried to heal them. Some get better, Rey, and some don’t. They have to want to live. But I’ll do everything I can for Ben. Before I founded the new Jedi Temple, I studied Jedi healing. I wanted to save lives to atone for the hundreds of thousands I had taken. And I have taken care of Ben when he’s sick. And I also know how to get him to take medicine. You make something he likes and put it in his food.”

“But we don’t have any medicine.”

“I brought some.”

Master Luke reached into his pocket and got a white cylinder, which he put in Rey’s hands.

She opened it.

It was full of capsules.

“What are they?”

“No. The green capsules are vitamin pills. The orange ones are bacta. Just pop them open and put them in the stew I’m going to show you how to make. It’s a Wookiee recipe that Ben likes. Chewie showed me how to make it.”

Master Luke made a stew with bantha broth, vegetables, a whole nerf tenderloin, and potatoes.

He showed her also how much of the pills to put in.

“Don’t let him gobble it. Feed him a spoonful or two, and wait a half hour, to see if it makes Ben sick. If not. Let him eat the whole bowl. Don’t give him any more tonight. If he’s not sick, tonight, he can have three of these big serving bowls, tomorrow. It’s not too much. Ben’s almost the size of a Wookie, so he eats like one. If his stomach is still alright, tomorrow, then he had have some bread, too. And don’t give him anything to drink but blue milk. If his stomach gets upset, crack one of these purple capsules into some blue milk, and get him to drink it. Make some more of the stew after this pot runs out. After a week, Ben should be able to eat normally. Don’t expect him to gain weight all at once. And don’t overfeed him. The bacta and vitamins should make him well in about a week. But it might take a couple of months before he gains his weight back.”

“REY! WHERE THE HELL IS MY FOOD! MEAT! DYING!” Ben roared.

“Is that a good sign?” Rey asked.

“I think so. Don’t tell Ben I was here. We’re still not on speaking terms. I’ll come back to check on him, another day. Oh, and one more thing. As soon as he feels better, he’s going to want to make up for the time you two were apart. That’s not going to happen for him, with his body in the state it’s in. Tell him to be patient. When he’s healed and gained some weight? I’m sure everything will straighten right out.”

“I wish Ben had a Jedi healer to stay with him, tonight.”

“He has one. You are a Jedi. And you have healed him, before. But be careful, Rey. Ben’s life force is at a low ebb, and he’s very sick. You can try to ease his pain, but don’t try to heal him, entirely. It would drain too much life out of you.”

Master Luke got up.

“This is the no fun part, Rey. Ben needs you, now.”

“I don’t mind at all, Master Luke. Ben is alive. I still feel better than I have for a long time. I have hope.”

“That’s good, Rey.”

Luke stood up, as if to go

“Uncle Luke? I know you’re there. I feel your presence.” Ben called out

They both froze.

“I’m sick, Uncle Luke. Are you a Force Ghost, or are you the Jedi Healer that Grandfather was going to get to come here and help me?”

“I’m the old hermit down the road, Ben. Do you want me to come to your room? I know we didn’t part on good terms. But Rey’s nervous about being alone with you, tonight.”

“Would you mind staying with me, Uncle Luke? Everybody else is dead.”

“I don’t mind at all, Ben. I’ll stay here as long as you want me to. I remember where my room is.”

***

As Master Luke had suspected, Ben wanted to gobble the food.

His instinct to live and his hunger had overwhelmed his will to destroy himself.

“No, Ben.” Master Luke said.

More patiently than Rey would have, as he moved the bowl away.

Ben tried to grab at it.

“No means no. Don’t get grabby with me.”

“But I’m hungry!”

“You can’t gobble the food up, Ben. You’ll be sick, and that might kill you!” Rey told Ben.

It was a very long half hour.

Ben kept trying to get the bowl, and Master Luke gave it to her and she had to move away from the bed.

He cried.

“Don’t cry, Ben. If you feel alright, you can have the whole bowl, soon. And another glass of blue milk.” Rey assured him.

“I’m hungry! I’m fucking hungry, and I’m too weak to get out of bed and take it! Where’s my mother, Uncle Luke? Why won’t she talk to me?” he sobbed.

“Your mother is...always with you, Ben. And you’ll get better. Rey and I will make sure.”

The half-hour passed and Luke gave Ben the whole bowl of food, and a glass of blue milk.

“Eat slowly, kid. You start gobbling, and I’ll take the bowl away.”

As he ate, slowly, for once, Ben told them what he had done for the past year.

“Why?” Rey asked.

“Rey! Don’t ask why. Ben is suffering. He doesn’t need a reason.” Luke told her.

“I have one. I was asleep in a bunkhouse, with a bunch of other men on this freighter. And I realized that killing Snoke, and his troopers, and all his toadying fucking followers I killed on my way to slaughter the Emperor didn’t make up for killing my father. Sure, Snoke influenced me. Told me to do it. But I had a choice. And I chose to kill him. I killed my father. Whenever anyone would say that to me, that killed my father? I would just think, no, Snoke made me do it. But I did it. I did. I killed my father. I loved him more than anybody in the world, even though he was kind of a shitty father, and sometimes I hated him for it. And I killed him. In such a way that he doesn’t even have a grave. When I realized all of that? It broke my mind.”

Ben snapped the wooden spoon in half.

“Just like that.”

He handed Rey the bowl and the empty glass.

Luke took the spoon, and put both halves in his hand, and closed his palm.

When he opened it, the spoon wasn’t broken.

“Your mind will heal, Ben. Just like this And before this year is out? You will see Han and Leia again. I don’t know how. But I know you will.”

“I did see Dad. He forgave me. I just can’t forgive me.”

“Ben, you saved me. You saved the Galaxy. Without you I could never have defeated the Emperor. You’re a hero. Han is proud of you. So is Master Leia. Stop torturing yourself.” Rey begged.

“Ben, you said it was time to let old things go.You’re not taking your own advice. This is how the Sith broke you. You don’t have to break yourself. You’re free. You won.” Luke told him.

“I’m tired. I think I need to go to sleep. I had better try to get to the bathroom, first. Rey already has to take care of me like I’m a baby. I don’t want to piss the bed like one.”

Ben managed to totter into the bathroom.

Rey wanted to hover over him, but she knew he was humiliated that she was seeing him like this, at all.

She waited.

He made his way slowly back to the bed and lay down.

“I’m going to go, now Ben.To my old room. I’ll be back when you wake up to see how you are.” Luke told him.

He put his hand on Ben’s forehead.

“Sleep, now. And have good dreams.”

Ben fell asleep.

Rey walked back to the door with her Master.

“Will he die in his sleep, Master Luke?”

“No. Sleep will heal him. We’ll let him sleep as long as he wants to. I think I’ll go say hello to my droids. Let them know that they’ll be coming with me, when I go home. I could use the company. And you have Ben, now.”

“They’re your droids, Master Luke.”

Master Luke opened the door and walked out into the courtyard, and beyond.

She watched him, retreating into the setting suns, heading for the old shed.

He wanted to help Ben, but also?

He was glad to be home, in spite of himself.

Rey understood.

***

She went back to the bedroom.

Rey got undressed and got into bed with Ben.

She pulled up all the covers, so he would be warm.

He woke up, for a moment.

“I haven’t slept in a bed since I left that freighter. And I haven’t slept in my bed, here, for what seems like an age. I think I might sleep for a long time.”

“As long as you need to, Ben. I’ll be here.”

Rey stayed awake until he was asleep, and for a hour afterward, making sure he was just asleep.

But then she fell asleep, too.

***

Ben slept all through the way through another day, until the morning after that day.

Rey kept checking on him, and so did Master Luke, but he moved around in his sleep, and he snored, and once he got up and drank some water, so she knew he was just sleeping.

That morning he walked stiffly into the kitchen, dressed in a baggy cream tunic and brown trousers.

He had a cloth belt wrapped many times around the waist so that the clothes, although they were the right lengths for him, didn’t fall off him.

“Ben, those are my father’s clothes.”

“I know. They were still here, when I came here. I wear them, all the time. The desert preserves things.”

He had bathed, and dressed but he hadn’t shaved.

“I’m growing a goatee. To distinguish Ben Solo from Kylo Ren.”

“Everyone knows that Ben Solo killed Kylo Ren. Nobody’s going to come after you, Ben. You’re a free man. You earned it.” Master Luke told him.

There was a weird sense of calm, and dignity about Ben that she’d never seen in him, before.

He thanked her politely when she gave him the serving bowl of stew with the serving spoon.

Rey had gone out and bought the most fine, expensive loaf of rich, black, seeded bread that she could find, and put it on the table.

Ben snatched up the heel, and turned it over in his hands, and then he put it under his nose and sniffed it.

“I don’t remember the last time I had bread that wasn’t stale. Or mouldy.”

He ate the slice of bread, slowly.

Rey wanted to cry.

There were tears in Master Luke’s eyes.

But she didn’t want Ben to become hysterical.

So she carried on eating her cereal and blue milk.

“Have another piece. With your stew.” She encouraged him.

“Chewie used to make this for me. When I was a kid, and I’d get sick. It’s a Wookie recipe.”

“I know. He taught me how to make it.” Master Luke told Ben.

After he ate, Ben got up and walked out onto the hot sand, barefoot.

Rey supposed he was used to it, by now.

But he came back.

“I have to get used to boots again. I still have mine.”

***

Ben didn’t like to stay inside, too long.

He got restless.

And when he slept at night, it was like he was dead.

After a week, Luke was right, he was much better and he had gained some weight.

Before Master Luke went home, he brought Obi-Wan, to talk to Ben while Luke was giving him a final once-over.

Their Master returned and brought Obi-Wan with him.

He spoke with Ben while Luke was examining him.

“Were you seeking a vision, Ben? Or were you trying to be a vision?” Obi-Wan asked.

“I was trying to be a vision. I wanted to spread the word about the New Path. And the Force United. And to warn people not to go back to the old ways. I wanted to use my body to show them. So I made all the old wounds and scars reappear.”

“You’re on the right path, Ben. But you must not use suffering to make your point. Yours or that of others.” Obi-Wan told him.

Ben nodded.

Master Luke pronounced him much better.

He took Artoo and Threepio and went home.

After that, Rey and Ben were on their own.

Ben quickly started getting his body to do what he wanted, again.

He took long walks in the desert.

After two weeks, he was running, in nothing but a pair of shorts, running over the burning sand, barefoot and mostly naked.

But he stopped being antsy when he was in the house.

***

Rey had to go buy some food, and Ben wanted to drive her speeder to Anchorhead.

When they got to the store where she bought the bread, and the old baker saw Ben, he came out from behind the counter.

“I can’t believe it! Young man, what’s your name”

“Ben Skywalker.”

“Was your grandaddy Anakin Skywalker? Son of Shmi Skywalker and Kylo Skywalker, who died a warrior on Arkanis, and that started all the trouble his family got into?”

“That’s me.”

“I knew your granddaddy, then. We were both slaves, here. The Jedi took him away to become one of them. But he wanted to be a pilot. Me, I got sold to a baker. Now I’m a free man and this is my shop. But Ani used to come here to visit his mother. You look so much like him. Is he still living?”

“No. But he became a pilot. And a Jedi. He died a Jedi, at the end of Clone Wars and became one with the Force.”

“I suppose that’s what he wanted. But it still makes me glad I became a baker. Did you go to that Jedi Temple? Out on Yavin-4?”

“I did. But it wasn’t for me. Too may rules. So I left, and stuck with what I love. The stars.”

“So, you’re a starpilot too? Good for you, son. Ani would have liked that.”

“I’m sure he does.”

***

Time passed them by.

Ben continued to fight his way back from the brink of death.

He fought so hard, and regained his physique and his strength so quickly that Rey began to suspect he was healing himself, using the Force

Ben had always been strong in the Force, but he had become both more accomplished and more powerful than before. There was a new light in Ben's dark, ancient eyes, and a new kind of power animated him.

The Force was with Ben, but in a form Rey had never encountered.

But, neither she nor Ben were thinking on that, or the New Path of the Force United that they were, arguably supposed to be making a way for.

No, the weightiest problem at the Skywalker farm was much less cosmic.

Most people did not know that Rey and Kylo Ren had been star-crossed lovers.

And no one knew that it wasn’t just one last kiss that Ben Solo bestowed upon Rey before he died.

That was the elephant in the bedroom.

“Rey?’

She was asleep.

“What, Ben? Have you been awake all night?”

“I can’t sleep. What if I killed it?”

“Killed what?”

“My cock.”

“I’m sure you’d be fine with another woman.”

Ben hadn’t heard that.

“How could I just let it go, like that? Fuck, I haven’t even jerked off for six months! I don’t even remember the last time I got hard. I killed it. I lost my mind, destroyed my body, and killed my cock. And I’m ugly again, and I disgust you.”

“Ben, you are not ugly. You have never been ugly. That’s all in your mind. Go to sleep.”

“Then why are you so cold, all the sudden?”

“I didn’t want to hurt you. You were like a human skeleton.”

“I’m fine, now.”

“Go to sleep, Ben.”

Ben swore.

He got out of bed.

“Where are you going?”

He jerked the bathroom door open, angrily so that the knob smacked into the hole it had already made in the wall.

“Fuck it! I'm going to go into the bathroom and try to get it up for somebody I know who cares about how upset I am, and wants to try to make me a man, again! Me!”

But then?

He had a better idea.

And he got back into bed with Rey.

“Wait! I know what this is about. You think the last time we fucked, it killed me. That you killed me. Now, you're afraid if you touch me again, I’ll just die. Right?”

“Ben, I…you did die.”

“I was going to die anyway. I figured I might as well die hard.”

Rey couldn’t help laughing.

A little.

“Besides, how many times have you tried to kill me? As many times as I told you I was going to fuck you whether you liked it, or not. Funny how it always seems to turn me on when you try to kill me. And when I act like I’m going to fuck you whether you like it or not? You always like it. The first fight we ever had? I wish I knew that you almost cutting my face off with a lightsaber was foreplay. If I had? Instead of offering to show you the ways of the force, I would have told you that if you came with me, I was going to tie you to a table, again, and slide my tongue up your sweet Rebel cunt.”

In several years of very dirty talk, and horrible arguments and insults, that was both the dirtiest and the most horribly insulting thing Ben ever said to her.

She slapped him in the face, and he laughed.

“Don’t you dare, Ben Solo!”

“What? Don’t try that high and mighty shit on me. I’m the guy who fucks you. I know what you like. And you know, you never asked me what truths I brought back from the other side.”

He pulled the covers off the bed, and grabbed Rey by the ankles and pushed her legs open.

“Never gave a minute's thought to the Force United. Or the new path. But I’m not going to make the same mistake twice. I’m not gonna ask you if you want me to teach it to you. Because I know what you want from me.”

Ben put Rey’s legs around his shoulders.

“I’m just going to slide my tongue up your sweet Rebel cunt. I know you like that.”

If Ben's intent was to inflame them both?

It worked.

He rose to the occasion, and Rey felt anything but cold.

She was still in the throes of the orgasm he gave her as he was sitting up at the bottom of the bed, saying:

“Hard as beaker fucking steel. It worked!”

Yes.

It had.

“Ben, you horrible bastard, I’ve wanted you so much for so long!” she told him.

“Yeah. I know.” he told her.

***

All around the Skywalker farm you could hear the sound of a woman, screaming

And a man’s savage, guttural voice.

“Do you feel it now? Do you feel the raw power of the Dark Side?”

The woman’s screams grew louder and the man uttered a deep, dark, Satanic laugh.

He pinned her to the bed with his big, powerful body, and she locked her arms and legs around him screaming every time he thrust into her.

Faster.

Deeper.

Harder.

“Can you feel my power? The power of the Force United? Is this the way you want to get fucked, little scavenger? Fast and dirty and hard?”

More screams ripped from the woman’s throat.

“Yes! Yes! I feel your power. Your power! More!” the woman sobbed.

“My power? Who’s power? Say it! Fucking say it!” the man ordered, snarling through gritted teeth.

“Ben Solo! Oh, gods, gods, Ben fucking Solo!”

The woman screamed for joy, the man gave voice to another guttural laugh, and it resolved into a roar like the sound an angry Wookie makes before he tears your arms out and beats you to death with them.

Then, it was quiet, again.

***

Rather prudishly, Rey pulled the covers up to her neck.

In contrast, Ben lay on top of them, naked, his arms behind his head, his eyes closed, a happy, untroubled smile on his face.

“That was worth fucking waiting. You are one hot little piece of ass, Little Rebel Girl. You had better come out from under those covers. I’m not done with you.”

“Can’t I go back to sleep, now?”

“Why?’

“Ben, you don’t understand. You were born without shame. I’m embarrassed. People don’t…I…I mean, I enjoy making love as much as, well, any woman, but…you have no idea what I am on about, do you?”

He turned on the light.

“Rey, I understand your ‘Who? Poor little me?’ act is what’s kept you alive through all these years, and it keeps people out of your hair. But don’t play it on me. I know better. I’m also the guy who fights with you. At your side and as your opponent, remember? So you can mince around Tattoine, acting like you are the little scavenger, a little war widow, just getting by, spending her life in elegiac genteel exile. Living with the memory of her lost love. But we both know it’s bantha shit.”

“Oh, really? And how would you know, Ben?”

“Rey, you slapped my face in a room full of smoking corpses and pools of blood and told me to quit fucking talking and kiss you. Then you wanted me to fuck you, on Snoke’s throne. You hardly gave me time to get rid of the mess and drape the curtains over the throne! I mean, there I was, on my knees, with one foot resting on a dead man, and you’re pulling my hair and calling me a Sith bastard and telling me you’re going to come in my mouth, so I had better lick it up. Then, when I got up? You would have thought I poured honey all over my cock the way you went after it. You broke the zipper on my pants, getting it out. I had to hold your nose so you’d open your mouth so I could pull my cock out, because I thought if I came in your mouth before I fucked you, you’d cut me in half. I mean, I could hardly believe my luck. I felt like the luckiest man in the Galaxy. Who knew you were the kind of girl who loved to give head and liked it doggie style on the throne of the Supreme Leader? I thought I might have been in love with you before that day. After? I was done. You had me. For the first time in my life, I was crazy in love.”

Rey bit her lip, to keep in a laugh, a scream of outrage, or both.

“I was carried away in the moment.” she sniffed

“This went on for longer than a moment. Hell, the first time I told you I could take what I wanted, you looked at me like, oh, Daddy, let’s fight first, and I might kill you later, but take me now, I’m all yours.”

“So what if I was immediately attracted to you? A lot of women have been!”

“Not when they were strapped to a table, killer. Rey, I was your enemy. I was the bad guy you were fighting against. I gave the orders that almost wiped out the whole Rebel fleet! And even after that, you came here to meet me every chance you got! And we never talked, here. We talked when we were light-years away from each other. When we were together all we did was fuck. I was the Supreme Leader, I could do what I wanted. Go where I wanted. Nobody questioned me. I killed three generals who asked me what my business was with the Rebel girl. Those bloodless Imperial fucks stopped asking me stupid questions about my Little Rebel Girl after that. You were training to be a Jedi. You were the big hero of the Resistance. And you risked all that to come to Tattoine and fuck me out in the desert. When you had two guys, right there, who would have dragged their balls over hot coals just to get a shot at you. How long did the moment last? Two or three years? That’s a long karking moment, isn’t it?”

“It’s because I love you, Ben.”

“I love you too, Rey. But you are not a poor, meek, winsome little scavenger. You are a hot-blooded Force warrior. A two-tone, blood-glutted, cock-hungry hellcat who likes fast ships, bad men, high adventure, a damn good fight, and a real hot fuck. Be who you are, Rebel Girl. Some other guys might get turned off by that, but I’m Kylo Ren, remember? I love it when you’re bad. Hell, I killed myself at Exegol, satisfying our mutual battle lust. But I figured, what a way to go!”

“That’s why I was never going to touch another man, ever again. I killed you, Ben.”

“I came, and then I went.”

Ben laughed.

“It’s not funny! You gave me life and I took it back from you!”

“You didn’t kill me, Rey. Sheev Palpatine killed me. I knew I was going to die in that cave. I knew it before I brought you back. But I thought, hell, if I have to die, I might as well do it after a great victory in battle and a great fuck with the Valkryie I love. My Little Rebel Girl. And it’s not going to happen again, because I am now the most powerful Force sensitive being in the galaxy. Well, next to you. So do me a favor, and drop the act. It turns me off, and you’re insulting yourself.”

“Ben Solo, you are such a bad man!”

“Through and through. Did you think Kylo was the bad guy and Ben was the good guy? The best you can say about me is that I’m the good bad guy. Rey, my father was a ruthless pirate. My grandfather was Darth Vader. I’m bad right down to my bones.”

“You wont tell anyone else about me, will you, Ben?”

“They already know. They’re just too terrified to argue with you. Damn, I have to piss.”

He got up and went to the bathroom.

Rey shifted around a little.

Thinking about what he had said.

Ben came back to bed.

He got under the covers, kissed her, and rolled over on his back and shut out the light.

Rey was a little disappointed, until Ben hauled her on top of him.

“OK, Rebel Girl! Your turn to be on top!”

***

The one thing that people all the way to Anchorhead would tell you about Ben Skywalker was that he had to be related to Ani Skywalker, because he looked just like him.

His hair and beard were black, and hsi etse were dark, but other than that, he was Ani all over again.

He wore the same kind of desert pilot’s clothes; in fact, Ben and his wife were poor; he might have been wearing Anakin’s clothes that he found at the old Skywalker moisture farm.

Young Skywalker and his wife, who was a nameless scavenger from Jakku before he gave her his had come right from the wars.

Ben had lived out on the old place for years, but during the wars, he was always coming and going.

When he came to the cantina in the village without his wife?

Once he had a few pitchers of beer, he'd show you all his scars.

Take his pants down and everything, and the foolish boy didn’t wear underwear.

He had moods, but those scars meant he came by those moods, honestly.

He said he was a pilot, but all he seemed to be doing was getting his old wreck of a ship fixed up.

You might see him, running through the desert, barefoot, bareheaded, and slathered with sun protection, wearing only a pair of regulation Imperial exercise undershorts.

When he got to the village, he’d stop by the cantina for lunch.

“Training. I eat too much, and I drink too much, so I have to train like a goddamn Sith just to keep from turning into a big day tub of guts. That, and the Little Rebel Girl I married? She’s horny as an Askajian whore with a Twi'lek mother. She was a real killer, in the wars. If I ever quit banging her two, three times a day? She’d burn down the planet. But she keeps me in shape. Best exercise there is. Doing push-ups with girls. Before I met Rey? Hell, I had two or three women a week, just to keep me happy. Hell of a woman, my Little Rebel Girl. Better run home before she thinks I’ve got a girl on the side.”

Then he’d drink another pitcher of blue milk, finish his four sandwiches, and run home.

But what Ben was most famous for in the village was fighting a full grown Wookiee, and winning.

He made a lot of money doing it, too.

Ben Skywalker was the local character before the war was over, but taht wa sto be expected.

He was a Skywalker, after all; they were all characters.

In short?

Nobody suspected a damn thing.

***

After having lived by her wits from the time she was 14, and then becoming a Jedi, a warrior and the savior of the Galaxy?

The last thing Rey thought would make her happy was being a wife and keeping a house.

But somehow, just now?

It did.

At first Ben's moods were a problem, but when she discovered there were four of them, it became manageable.

Brooding Mystic, Wild Man, Happy-Go-Lucky Pirate, and Sexual Death Star.

Sometimes all in the same day.

And she had to admit, the fact that Sexual Death Star was a regular daily mood made it easier.

Ben naturally had a lot of stamina, and he was well endowed, but Rey always thought he had made sure to become a good lover to make it up to a woman for his moodiness.

But Ben knew himself, he had stocked his home with all wooden plates, bowls, and cups, and a stoneware pitcher that she he said he had thrown at a stone wall before buying.

So he got mad, sometimes and threw things and yelled?

It didn’t bother her.

Ben was always hungry, so he was always cooking, and there was always enough to eat.

They stayed in bed for days, sometimes, making love, and being goofy and just being together.

And she had not just a room, but a whole farm.

She and Ben had cleaned it up, and fixed everything, and even the old rusting farm machinery looked like art.

Ben worked on the Falcon, his ship now and there was a lot of work to do, because Rey had let it sit for a year.

Ben talked about getting in touch with “Uncle Chewie” he was thinking about getting back to work, with Rey as his scavenger.

He had a scheme in his heart, and that was a good sign.

But neither of them were ready to leave.

They went to the market in the old speeder, and brought fresh bread, and sometimes, when the moon was bright they had lightsaber duels out in the desert, and then they’d make love like lions, under the stars.

The stars that still belonged to them.

It was a beautiful little life, with just the two of them, but one day, the west wind from out behind Tattoine’s twin suns blew Chewbacca in to Mos Eisley, and there was a radio message from him.

He was coming out to the Skywalker Farm, and when he got there, they should be on the Falcon and ready to go.

Rey knew, then that everything was about to change.

#reylo week 2020 #destiny #resurrection #soulmates #post tros #Ben solo lives #ben solo redemption

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soveryanon · 4 years

Text

Reviewing time for MAG175!

- Once again, I really loved how it felt like the sound effects were giving their own “statement” of the domain, by telling us (a bit in advance!) what the words were saying. You could remove Jon’s words, and it would still have been a horrifying dive into that desolated landscape, the surroundings themselves threatening you – it came to the point that the occasional clatter was inspiring dread since the noises felt like they might attract the native creature, and you really didn’t want it to come closer?

(I’m not absolutely sure about the Air Raid Siren in the background, but I thiiiink their cycles were regular, with a new round of them coming every 2 minutes or so? Really eerie to think that it had not stopped, while it wasn’t able to protect anyone from the incoming disasters since they were already there; and at the same time, they kept going… because, precisely, it was still an extinguished domain that kept extinguishing itself, that Leah was still there at this point so it could still get worse and even emptier? The signal is supposed to stop when the threat is over – it made sense that it would keep going since The Extinction was there and accomplished.)

- Things in common with previous statements dealing with cases suspected to be Extinction: the “Inheritors” as natives from this world.

(MAG134, Adelard Dekker) “Every single shrivelled ashened face was contorted in a scream of agony, every sharp and jutting jaw cracked and twisted in an expression of horror – of understanding not just of their death, but the end of everything they knew. It was clear that they had been this way for years, if not decades. Bernadette says she was sure that nothing had moved in that dead city for a hundred years. She was mistaken. I have never envied you your position, Gertrude. I have never coveted your gifts, as I know the terrible costs that come with them. But honestly, trying to get a description of these… things, these “Inheritors” from Bernadette Delcour made me wish I could just pull the image from her lips, like you would have been able to. In the end, she would say nothing of them, except that [STATIC]: “There is nothing done in the history of humanity that deserves the things that come after us.” […] It used to be part of The End, perhaps, when The End of humanity was to be the end of all things; but now, the fear is not of a rapture or a revelation; it is of catastrophic change. A change in our world that will wipe out what it means to be “us”, and leave something else in its place.”

(MAG149, Judith O’Neill) “There were no people in there, but… that’s not the same thing as it being empty. Instead, there were… figures. From a distance, they looked like human beings, standing impossibly still. But getting closer… quickly revealed the lie. It was just the rough shapes, cobbled together out of a hundred different pieces of garbage: a broken metal clotheshorse for a ribcage; a… plastic chair leg for an arm; rusted screws for teeth. In some cases, it looked like someone had gone through a lot of effort to match anatomy with construction. I saw one with a broken water-cooler where its stomach would be, and another had a pair of oxygen tanks standing in for lungs. They were completely still, but there was something about them that made my mouth dry up, and my mind scream to run. [STATIC] It didn’t feel like they were statues. It felt like they were choosing not to move.”

(MAG175) ARCHIVIST: “Fauna: the thing that lives. Something lives in the Anthropocene age: [METALLIC GROAN] not a twisted reflection of a natural world, [RUMMAGING CLATTER] not a parasite or a scavenger or a cockroach, but a native. [SNAKE-LIKE HISSING] Something born in the sloping shells of sagging concrete towers, that tastes the tang of rusted iron in the air and knows that it is home. [RUMMAGING IN SMALL ITEMS] Something that does not know or care what a human is, any more than mankind thought of the creatures that once lived in the shells they found on the beach. [SCUTTLING] It moves through the stacks of garbage like a beetle through filth, and its smile is all-too familiar, though its eyes are dark and empty. [SNAKE-LIKE HISSING] It cannot be seen in its entirety, for it keeps itself covered, [SCUTTLING] but its long, unfurling tongue may be seen emerging, pink and bristling with long, hair-like taste buds, [CLATTER] hunting for something old enough to eat. [NEW ROUND OF AIR RAID SIREN IN THE BACKGROUND] [SNAKE-LIKE HISSING] [METALLIC GROAN] It whispers to itself in the dark, and sounds like snippets of old toothpaste commercials, and adverts to join the army. It is hard to tell if there is more than one, [METALLIC GROAN] but either there are several of them of different sizes, or there is just the one, and it is getting bigger. [RUMMAGING, SCUTTLING] [SNAKE-LIKE HISSING] It is our replacement, and it is welcome to the world. […] [Leah] ignores the burning pain in her forearm, where the thing’s rough tongue has torn a section of her skin clean off.”

… Technically, there was something facepalm-worthy to the fact that one of the last living things from the old world was a seagull, but also:

(MAG175) ARCHIVIST: “Fauna: a mouldering seagull. [BIRD CRYING IN THE DISTANCE] Larger than any related specimen to be found before the Anthropocene age, this bird has been rendered flightless by the tightly woven plastic netting, [CLATTER] that winds around and around its torso, digging into the skin beneath the feathers, and bulging over the strange lumps and tumours that cover it. Its feathers have turned an oily black, and its vestigial eyes are pale and sightless, [NEW ROUND OF AIR RAID SIREN IN THE BACKGROUND] relying instead on the sounds its prey makes as they traverse the noisy junkpiles of discarded landscape. Its beak has become hard and its edges are serrated, allowing it to tear apart the tin cans and hard plastics that shield its food with ease. Its legs are long, and many-jointed, allowing it to move across the uneven ground, and its throat is blocked with concrete – preventing it from crying and letting it move amongst the ruins in complete silence. It nests in the rusted-out hollows of fleeing cars, constructing intricate shelters for its young, out of corpse-hair and wiring. Its eggs are rusty, covered in slime, and its chicks are born with plastic rings around their necks. They smell like ammonia and salt, and their name is meaningless, as there is no longer such a thing as the sea.”

… AOUCH for 1°) what happened to it, how it… “transformed” as a species due to everything human-related that had been inflicted to it, 2°) especially with the chicks “born with plastic rings around their necks” – that was a terrifying image, indeed.

(So, were the cries of birds we could hear in the background belonging to the Inheritors, or other birds, since the seagull had concrete in its throat “preventing it from crying”?)

- There was something absolutely haunting to the statement in the rhythm itself: the professionalism of the catalogue vs. the slight despair of the parts dedicated to Leah, between the sections she was writing. And the part with the rib!! Jon’s narration slowed down, dragged, sounded captivated by the rib, and really made you feel like there was a big mystery with that bone, something important?

(MAG175) ARCHIVIST: “Item: [SQUELCH] a forgotten bone. … Whooose is this…? Pale white and… stained with thick black tar. A human bone, that much is… clear, too big to be a child’s, at least. Can a bone seem familiar…? The shape of it echoing through your mind, like a… face seen only in dreams…? [NEW ROUND OF AIR RAID SIREN IN THE BACKGROUND] It may be followed up to a ribcage, still sticky in places with soapy cadaver fat, and closing around a crumpled beer can where the heart should be. There’s a skull as well, yellowing in the thick dust of the open air. Strange… Everything here is either bone-dry from relentless heat, or damp through from decomposition and stagnant decay. Lifeless yet decaying. The world we’ve left behind… Leah considers the bones for some time. Does she know them…? Are they hers? If she had been quicker, more forceful in her warnings, might they still be alive? Her pencil is broken, but her notes, her warnings from this new world are far from complete. She snaps off another rib, [STATIC RISES] and continues writing.”

Was it reminding Jon of his own discarded rib (and was it a nudge/an attack on him from The Extinction)? Was it Leah’s own ribcage, as she had transformed without noticing? Was it the reminder of the death of other people? Was it the “beginning” of an Inheritor? No idea, but the picture of Leah ultimately discarding the questions to snap a bone and use it as a new pen to keep up her work was very striking.

- Also haunting: the fact that Leah’s catalogue almost “humanised” inanimate objects, since they were described with their illogical aspects (the bulb still emitting light) and… almost told the story of what has happened by themselves, and at the same time didn’t at all? But the statement was about a present situation (an Extinct world) with remnants of what used to be – we could recognise the human activities which had caused some of these disasters, we were told of the purpose these items used to serve… and it was all senseless in that new world. It was really chilling that the “Anthropocene era”, here, wasn’t described by what was living and prospering in it, but with the death, decay and annihilation that had resulted from it.

- Obligatory HEAVY SNICKER because of the umbrella:

(MAG175) ARCHIVIST: “Item: [FAINT METALLIC CLINK] a laughable umbrella. Look at it! [FAINT METALLIC CLINKING] What does it think it’s doing here, lying there, broken, skeletal? [FAINT METALLIC CLINK] There hasn’t been rain in fifty years. […] Stupid umbrella…! Does it think there is a monsoon coming? Does it even remember what a cloud of water vapor looks like? [FAINT METALLIC CLINKING] The clouds that pass now are oily, and stink of sulphur, waiting for you to stop paying attention before they climb down your throat and settle in your lungs. Perhaps this idiot apparatus thinks it can protect from the relentless heat of the sun! But its fabric is torn and ruined, hanging from the snapped metal limbs, desperate for a breeze to stir it from its… complete stillness. [NEW ROUND OF AIR RAID SIREN IN THE BACKGROUND] Take a moment to sneer at this corpse of an umbrella, [FAINT METALLIC CLINK] and wish for a moment you had water enough within you to spit on it.”

… Did an umbrella hurt you in your childhood, Jonny.

Hilariousness aside (it really worked with Jon focusing all of his hatred on that item, you know Jon would be the kind to have a visceral negative opinion over something mundane), it… really worked as an allegory both for Leah’s work and for Jon’s journey. It’s about a damaged item which has lost its purpose in a new world, which can’t serve its initial purpose anymore, which exists but can’t do anything anymore. Just like Leah, writing the state of the new world in her “report on everything for nobody” (it’s too late, The Extinction has already happened), and Jon, only able to describe the horrors of the new world.

- Leah sticking to her catalogue even though the disaster already happened really reminded me of Jon in his function as Archivist (Jonah had called him “a living chronicle of terror” in MAG160, for example). Why is Jon compelled to “pour out” the domains’ statements? We still don’t know why and what that does exactly: is he creating more terror through the tapes, in the same way that Leah’s catalogue could technically be used to spread the terror of the Extinction world?

- ;_; I really really wasn’t expecting an Extinction domain, big surprise!

I really like how the question of it being “real” or not real enough was handled: when Adelard first described it in MAG134, it made a lot of sense as a Fear, and even more as a Fear strengthened by contemporary feelings (with the growing awareness of the destruction of humans being caused by humans themselves).

(MAG175) MARTIN: What was it like? ARCHIVIST: What? MARTIN: This place’s… [INHALE] Its statement. ARCHIVIST: Nothing too surprising. It’s a domain designed to eke fear out of those afraid of a world… [INHALE] destroyed by human hands, it, uh… It dwells on it. MARTIN: Hm. [SILENCE] [WET SQUEAK] … So it was real, then? The Extinction. ARCHIVIST: Of course it was real…! A–at least in the sense that… it was a thing people feared. Whether it was strong enough in its own right to be considered at a level with Smirke’s Fourteen or… whether it was on its way to getting there, I… [SHUFFLING] Maybe. This sort of thing is always… muddy.

And I really like how Jon was nuanced about it: acknowledging that it’s a real thing since it’s a real fear, but that it’s harder to evaluate whether it was on the same level as Smirke’s Fourteen when The Change happened: in a lot of ways, it feels like Smirke’s taxonomy had arbitrarily shaped the divisions in Fourteen for UK-based people and that for the next two centuries, monsters and avatars mostly referred to that division to organise themselves. The major difference, maybe, is that we never really met a human who decided to serve a fear they identified as “The Extinction” and turned into a servant of it, terrorising people through it to feed it in turn, and trying to shape the world in that image: Adelard had mentioned that he wasn’t sure that The Extinction was hiring avatars yet (MAG113: “I don’t know if my little ‘theoretical’ is strong enough yet to start taking avatars, but this one, as you’ve no doubt guessed, turned out to be Terminus.”), but it didn’t mean a lot – maybe there were already avatars out there and he hadn’t met them, and maybe if Adelard had written and propagated his ideas about The Extinction, a few people would have decided to serve it because they feared and reveled in it in turn.

Anyway, I like how Jon’s words didn’t exactly feel like a big “reveal”, more like a confirmation, since… a lot of these interrogations and hypotheses had been brushed upon by Adelard, Peter and Simon in season 4:

(MAG134, Adelard Dekker) “This Fear is new. This is a fear of extinction. Of change. It used to be part of The End, perhaps, when The End of humanity was to be the end of all things; but now, the fear is not of a rapture or a revelation; it is of catastrophic change. A change in our world that will wipe out what it means to be “us”, and leave something else in its place. Mankind will warp the world so much it kills us all, and leaves only a thousand years of plastic behind. Technology will strip us of what it means to be human, and leave us something alien, and cold. We will press a button, that in a moment, will destroy everything we have ever been. Animals are witnessing the end of their entire species within a single generation. These are new fears, Gertrude, and a new Power is rising to consume them. The Extinction. The Terrible Change. The-Future-Without-Us.”

(MAG144) MARTIN: Another… statement. Another side to… Peter’s “Extinction”. I think. I… Y– I– [HUFF] I, I couldn’t follow some of his reasoning, but I think it was about… nuclear weapons, or… or maybe doomsday’s weapons…? In keeping with the theme, I suppose.

(MAG149) MARTIN: Looks like Gertrude’s handwriting? Start of a letter to… Dekker, thanking him for sending Judith to her, though… it doesn’t look like it was ever finished or sent. [PAPER RUSTLING] “I assume this is another one he was trying to use to prove The Extinction? It… certainly has something in it. Mankind’s trash giving rise to something terrible. And again, fear of the other, inanimate humanoid figures. That’s all very… Stranger, isn’t it?” [SIGH] [LOW]… It’s never simple, is it…?

(MAG151) SIMON: “When is a new Power born?” Well; when does it feel like its birth would be right? When enough creatures suffer a terror of it that feels distinct, that feels truly its own… then it would probably feel right for it to emerge into its own. Or perhaps there’s a ritual, if it feels right to enact some sort of birthing ceremony, some… apocalyptic midwifery. MARTIN: And how close is it, do you think? SIMON: Can’t be sure! Peter thinks very close indeed, what with all the current “hubbub”, and I’m inclined to agree. […] Peter seems convinced that The Extinction is different. That its actual birth will be as bad or worse as another power fully manifesting. He believes its advent will be heralded by all sorts of disasters and catastrophes, and global upheavals, and whatnot. That kind of things. MARTIN: Sounds like a rich feeding ground. SIMON: Well, exactly! Peter, however, seems to think that it will upset the balance that we all have an awful lot invested in. And he’s not at all certain the world as we understand will come out the other side.

(MAG156, Adelard Dekker) “My first assumption would have been The Flesh, based on the cannibalism and strangeness of the bodies involved, but… something about this idea of some sort of “famine world”, its location within a made-man ruin, the whole… societal aspect of it… I’d be inclined to chalk this up as a genuine Extinction manifestation. But I don’t know. Am I drawing wild conclusions, trying to fit the account into my own preconceptions? Keen to know your feelings on the matter.”

(MAG157, Adelard Dekker) “so… perhaps you were right about The Extinction. I’ve been hunting it for decades now, and… while I have seen evidence of its influence in other Powers, I have never found anything to genuinely prove its emergence as a true Power of its own. Perhaps it is an existential fear that flows through the others like a vein of ore; or perhaps the birth of such things is longer and more complicated than I believed. For all that though, I cannot regret the time I have spent seeking it. I have done my duty; and none may ask more of me. I am proud of the work we have done, and it has been an honour to do it alongside you.”

(MAG159) PETER: Maybe that’s why, when I crossed paths with Adelard Dekker, we ended up talking, and he told me his theory of The Extinction – something that stayed with me even after he died pursuing it. The thing is: the Loneliness I crave, that fills my heart with that… reassuring unease, relies on distance from other people. But a world without people at all, or at least anything I would recognise as people… it is meaningless. Without the lighted window in the distance, how am I to see myself apart from it? No. Such a world would be terribly dull, and scares me in a very different way. A fear I am happy to offer up, of course, but one that I would prefer not come to pass. My instinct was much like the others: I thought that if I could complete my ritual first, then the potential birth of the Dreadful Change would be meaningless.”

So ;w; Adelard was right and wrong at the same time. There was such a thing as a “Fear Of The Extinction”, strong enough to become some people’s living nightmares. But at the same time, the division into Fourteen or Fifteen didn’t really work anyway, so it was doomed to be “muddy”, as Jon said.

… What is interesting is that:

* … “Beholding” is still all-powerful in that world – granting Jon, its “pupil”, way more powers than any other, and ruling over the domains and the fears.

* Jon is still sticking to the 14+1 division. He described domains with the names from Smirke’s taxonomy during the journey – he’s aware that the blob of terror is multi-facetted, yet still clings to the categorisation.

* Due to Jon being confident when he was describing the domains as belonging to x or y Dread Power, I thought that Jonah’s invocation in MAG160 had shaped the world with these neat categories:

(MAG160, Jonah Magnus) “Bring all that is fear, and all that is terror, and all that is the awful dread that crawls and chokes and blinds and falls and twists and leaves and hides and weaves and burns and hunts and rips and bleeds and dies!”

So, the other Thirteen Fears, under Beholding’s reign (“All under The Eye’s auspices, of course – we mustn’t forget our roots.”), and Jonah specifically schemed to get Jon marked by the Fears following the list of Fourteen to prepare that ritual, in the hope of avoiding the Fifteenth (“All Fourteen, as I had hoped I could complete it before any new Powers such as Extinction were able to fully emerge.”).

… Yet, at least one out-of-the-box Fear managed to still sneak in through. Which means that:

1°) Jonah didn’t exactly create what he wanted! The Extinction is there with the others anyway. As Jon had told Martin in MAG160:

(MAG160) MARTIN: I, I don’t know if it’s just here, or if it– ARCHIVIST: No. … No, it’s everywhere… They’re all here, now. I can feel… all of it.

They’re “all here now”.

2°) Jonah’s ritual didn’t really work on Jonah’s terms. Was it really necessary for Jon to get marked by the Fourteen Fears, would like, ten have been enough anyway, as long as there was a sufficient amount of aspects, to get all the fears into our world? Did the ritual “accidentally” count as an Extinction mark on Jon, allowing it to get brought through too? Was the ritual actually dependent on Jon’s own feelings, and The Extinction got pulled in because he still thought it could be a genuine threat? (Jon began to doubt about it while receiving MAG157’s letter, with Adelard confessing that he might have misunderstood, and Jon feeling like Martin had been lied to; but Peter admitted to him that he was genuinely afraid of The Extinction in MAG159, thus confirming to Jon that he had been honest on that part.)

(But damnit, I was “hoping” (that’s a strong word) for The-Extinction-not-being-invoked being a potential way to reverse the equilibrium and undo the apocalypse in a way or another… And nope, not an option if it’s already there with the others, uh.)

- Wow, Jon felt mercilessly right about the state of the world / whether The Extinction was a legitimate fear as something that could have become concrete without supernatural interferences:

(MAG175) MARTIN: But what about the real world, were they right? ARCHIVIST: … I–I’m not sure I follow. [NEW ROUND OF AIR RAID SIREN IN THE BACKGROUND] MARTIN: I mean… Right, if none, if none of this had happened, if the world had just… carried on? [WET SQUEAK] What would have happened, was… was all that fear justified? [SHUFFLING] ARCHIVIST: [SIGH] I can’t know the future, Martin, not even a hypothetical one. MARTIN: But… you know what was going on, what was happening. [WET SQUEAK, SHUFFLING] O–out of everyone, you’re the best place, you–you’ve got the info to make a pretty damn educated guess…! ARCHIVIST: … I, I don’t know what you want me to say, Martin. Yes, i–it was bad, worse than most people thought and [INHALE] things were only going to deteriorate. Was the end of humanity actually imminent? I… Probably not? But we were well on the way and… it would have been the end of an awful lot of things.

It’s a bit of a change for Martin to ask about what-could-have-been this season: Jon has usually been the one to dwell on that, with Martin stopping him from spiralling (MAG161: “Can you imagine…? If we’d had this…” “But we didn’t, though, did we.”). It makes sense, though, since The Extinction was closer to Martin’s own storyline and the time he spent researching it in season 4, and the fact that, both in MAG174 and MAG175, we’ve seen he still had frustrations regarding that whole arc of his:

(MAG174) SIMON: But I’m not one to tell you how to live your eternity. MARTIN: … No. You’re not. Because I’m done listening to you! SIMON: I’m sorry? I’m not sure I follow. MARTIN: All those lies you told me… You helped to do this, you turned the world into your… your playground! SIMON: Hum… Not to be a pedant, but if you recall, I was actually doing a favour for Peter. And if Peter had won, none of this would have happened. Also, not to make excuses but they weren’t exactly lies, just… oversimplifications of complicated truths! And guesses. … A lot of guesses. [FOOTSTEPS] … A–almost all guesses really, now I come to think about it. MARTIN: Shut up! I don’t care. SIMON: Goodness! We’re rather tetchy, aren’t we?

(MAG175) MARTIN: [TINY SIGH] So Peter was lying. ARCHIVIST: [SIGH] To a degree. But, mostly, he was just like anyone else who tried to take the scope of human terror and… package it neatly into little theories. All his talk of “emergence” and “birthing a new power”… it’s just people being scared.

… Mainly: Martin feeling cheated, feeling like he had been manipulated and lied to both by Peter and Simon. I’m glad that his own feelings are resurfacing a bit lately, because he has reasons to feel angry of his own…

(- There is also Elias, in the list of people who lied/misled him: Martin had gone to ask him whether or not Peter was telling the truth in MAG138, and Elias had pushed him in that direction. Martin doesn’t have to hate Elias “only” for the pain he inflicted on Jon and for destroying the world – Elias made Martin a cog in his scheme to bring forth the apocalypse, and that’s enough to warrant Martin’s wrath. In that exchange:

(MAG175) ARCHIVIST: … I don’t know how kindly any god would look upon what we’ve done. [SILENCE] MARTIN: … Thanks for that. [SILENCE] ARCHIVIST: … Sorry.

I wonder whether Martin felt attacked because he was seeking comfort in the idea of a benevolent divinity (and was denied it, because humanity as a whole has done… too many awful things), or because he personally felt that “we” as including (Jon and) him specifically – as an unwilling participant in the mechanism that ended up bringing the apocalypse, separating the Archives Team and preventing them to deal with Peter&Elias together and ultimately used to lure Jon into The Lonely?)

- Overall, I really liked the talk about religion:

(MAG175) MARTIN: … Jon. ARCHIVIST: What? MARTIN: … Do you know if… like… gods, religion, the afterlife, all that stuff. Do you know if any of that was real? ARCHIVIST: … Really rolling out the big questions today! MARTIN: [CHUCKLING] Sorry! It’s just… [WET SQUEAK] This place just brings it out in me, I guess. [STATIC RISES] ARCHIVIST: … If there is a god, or gods, or an existence beyond this world… The Eye can’t see it. It sees the fear of it, but… nothing of its truth. [SILENCE] MARTIN: So… is that a no…? ARCHIVIST: It’s an “I don’t know” – although… [INHALE] People’s faith… [EXHALE] It hasn’t saved them. Not here. MARTIN: … True. ARCHIVIST: [INHALE] Why do you ask? Didn’t think you were at all religious. MARTIN: Oh, I’m not. [WET SQUEAK] Mum was, but I… I–I don’t know. With everything going on, it… certainly feels less far-fetched…! Besides, at this point, I’d take any help we can get. ARCHIVIST: … I don’t know how kindly any god would look upon what we’ve done.

Because it didn’t exclude the idea that any god(s) existed – the show is not claiming prerogative to answer that question – and provided an explanation for Jon not knowing that in a way that made sense in-universe. Jon deals in information linked to fears, not in absolute and metaphysical truths, and so he only has hypotheses to provide in that area.

I also love how ;; It really fits for Martin’s mom to have been religious but him being less categorical. Goes well with his overall sense of guilt, especially when it comes to his mother, uh?

Also, SOB that Adelard was probably in Martin’s mind since:

(MAG157) “This is the last time you will hear from me. You must trust me on that and not come looking. Not that you would; I know you’re too smart for sentimentality, especially after what I have to tell you, but I feel it worth saying nonetheless. Perhaps I’m simply prevaricating, trying to cling on to a few more precious minutes of life – but that’s not me. I know what awaits me, and must have no hesitation in going to my reward. [SCOFF] I know you’ve never had much patience for my faith, but perhaps it will provide you some small peace knowing I face my death gladly, knowing I have done my duty before God.”

We don’t know whether Martin was made aware of this statement (it was sent to Jon), but Martin had read MAG156’s statement in which Adelard had referred to his faith, so he knew Adelard was religious. Setting-wise: they were crossing an Extinction domain, and the previous Extinction “specialist” had ultimately died with the conviction and peace of mind that he would join the afterlife with his God… so I’m guessing that case was probably dwelling in Martin’s mind. (And potentially: whether his mother was also likely to have reached peace.)

- Jon reaaally tried to answer that question about religion, since he used his powers – we could hear static:

(MAG175) ARCHIVIST: If I try, [STATIC RISES] I can… see the edges of reality, but… I can’t hold its full scope in my mind. [STATIC DECREASES] MARTIN: And beyond it? ARCHIVIST: Beyond what? Reality? [NEW ROUND OF AIR RAID SIREN IN THE BACKGROUND] MARTIN: … Yeah. [STATIC INCREASES] ARCHIVIST: [SIGH] I don’t know! Maybe nothing. [STATIC FADES] [WET SQUEAK] MARTIN: … Jon. ARCHIVIST: What? MARTIN: … Do you know if… like… gods, religion, the afterlife, all that stuff. Do you know if any of that was real? ARCHIVIST: … Really rolling out the big questions today! MARTIN: [CHUCKLING] Sorry! It’s just… [WET SQUEAK] This place just brings it out in me, I guess. [STATIC RISES] ARCHIVIST: … If there is a god, or gods, or an existence beyond this world… The Eye can’t see it. It sees the fear of it, but… nothing of its truth. [STATIC FADES] [SILENCE] MARTIN: So… is that a no…?

It also came with a few reminders regarding his powers. Jon had already pointed out multiple times that he can’t see the future:

(MAG164) MARTIN: And will she? ARCHIVIST: I–I don’t know, th–the future, th–that’s… that’s not something I can see.

(MAG169) MARTIN: Oh, it’s not just your revenge though, is it? Destroying her… it would help all those people in there, wouldn’t it? ARCHIVIST: … Maybe? It’s… [INHALE] Like I said, I can’t see the future. It wouldn’t free them, if that’s what you’re asking. “Free” doesn’t really exist in this place.

(MAG175) MARTIN: What would have happened, was… was all that fear justified? [SHUFFLING] ARCHIVIST: [SIGH] I can’t know the future, Martin, not even a hypothetical one.

And that The Eye’s powers are limited and fundamentally biased:

(MAG140) ARCHIVIST: … Why am I always the last to know about these things? BASIRA: By this point, I just assume the Eyeball tells you. ARCHIVIST: That would imply it tells me anything useful. But no, I’m stuck knowing [STATIC] how your year eight PE teacher died.

(MAG154) ARCHIVIST: [INHALE] Hm. [SIGH] I’ve, uh… I’ve been doing a lot of thinking, after what happened with Daisy last week. About… what I can do. What I am. What feels… right. I’ve found a– [SIGH] I went back to Eli– er, Peter’s office. To that box of tapes; started rifling through. And I started to try and pay attention to the ones I… wasn’t drawn to. The tapes I instinctively wanted to discard. [SIGH] There was one, this one, that my hand… pulled back from. I–I dropped it, twice, when I went to pick it up. Even now, I’m… [AUDIBLE FORCED SMILE] struggling to press play…! I am the avatar of Awful Knowledge And Revealed Secrets… so what does it not want me to know…? [LONG SIGH]

(MAG175) ARCHIVIST: Martin, I have the whole scope of human knowledge available to me and… [SIGH] I’d struggle to give you a simple answer to most of this stuff. And even if I am omniscient, I’m starting to realise that… doesn’t mean objective. [WET SQUEAK] MARTIN: Hm. … [SIGH] I guess it’s hard not to bring your own baggage to this sort of thing. ARCHIVIST: I don’t know if it could even exist without the baggage…! You want to talk about psychological projection, try viewing the metaphysical world through the lens of a being that is, by its very nature, a reflection of your own obsessions and fears.

So mmmm… Are we heading towards a confirmation that Jon feeling like he can’t do anything “positive” or “better” is directly caused by The Eye limiting the perception he has of his own options, like The Eye had tried to prevent him from listening to Eric’s tape which informed of a way to cut ties with The Eye?

- … I do disagree with Martin that Jon was beginning to sound like Simon, because REALLY, he sounded a LOT like Oliver:

(MAG168) ARCHIVIST: “You know, of course, where I am. But know that, even you, will all your power, cannot keep the world alive forever. All – things – end, and every step you take, whatever direction you may choose… only brings you closer to it.”

(MAG175) MARTIN: So you don’t think it would have been the end of the world? ARCHIVIST: “The end of the world”…! Now there’s a concept. Everything ends, I suppose. [SHUFFLING] Even this place. Can’t last forever. Eventually… it will die as well. MARTIN: … You’re starting to sound like Simon.

For someone who can’t see the future, Jon really seems to have ingrained Oliver’s ideas of The End: that it would win, that it would catch up on everyone, that it had to happen to exist as a fear. As soon as the end of MAG168, Jon had accepted Oliver’s idea that the victims of his domains would indeed die as announced (“I feel badly for those that exist in his domain, o–of course, I do, but… At least, their suffering will be over, eventually.”) although… it had not been demonstrated?

So if we’re talking about biases: did Oliver’s conviction contaminate Jon and is it currently making Jon believe his stance? Because Oliver was convinced that The End would kill… but he’s an avatar of his patron. Of course he’ll believe in its all-powerfulness. It doesn’t mean it’s true.

- Amongst the lighter stuff, I’m laughing that Martin has now learned to weaponise the fact that distances and the laws of time&space escape him — which was usually played against him, and Jon even teased him about his difficulty understanding…

(MAG163) MARTIN: … Oh, I’m knackered. ARCHIVIST: Are you? [FOOTSTEPS STOP] MARTIN: I– … Hm. … Well. Okay, well, no, no, I suppose not; but, I–I think I should be. ARCHIVIST: Yup! MARTIN: How long have we been walking? ARCHIVIST: [INHALE] Fourteen hours and… twenty-three minutes. MARTIN: What, seriously? ARCHIVIST: Yes. I… don’t think it means much out here, though. MARTIN: We should… probably rest. ARCHIVIST: Maybe. I… I don’t know, I– … I don’t know if we can – “rest”. It feels more like… hm, “waiting”. MARTIN: [SIGH] […] ARCHIVIST: [DISTANT] Try to keep up! MARTIN: Yeah, yeah…

(MAG164) MARTIN: How much further do we still need to go? [STATIC INCREASES] ARCHIVIST: A long way. Through many dark and awful places…

(MAG167) MARTIN: Anyway, my “flesh prison” [CHUCKLE] would like to stop for a bit. How far until the next… “domain”? ARCHIVIST: A while. If you want to stop, it’s as good a place as any. MARTIN: Nah, I just… need a moment. [SIGH] One where I’m not just… relentlessly pushing forward. ARCHIVIST: [LONG EXHALE] Alright. We can stop.

(MAG174) MARTIN: [SIGH] … [BAG JOSTLING] Is it much further? ARCHIVIST: [SMALL CHUCKLE] Yes. MARTIN: Urgh…! ARCHIVIST: I’m not entirely sure what you were expecting, it’s The Vast. The clue is in the name! MARTIN: Yes, alright…! ARCHIVIST: Just be glad that this is one of the domains that actually has ground to walk on. MARTIN: Whatever. [DISTANT LOW-PITCHED IMPACT, FOLLOWED BY GUSTS OF WIND] S–so how far are we from the other side? And–and don’t say time and space don’t work here, that’s a cop-out and you know it. ARCHIVIST: [SIGH] Fine! Three days. MARTIN: Thank you. [SILENCE] … Wait. Wait, what counts as a day? ARCHIVIST: [CHUCKLING] What an excellent question! MARTIN: Oh my go–! You can be infuriating sometimes, you know that?

… — to take his well-deserved break this time:

(MAG175) MARTIN: You know what? [FOOTSTEPS STOP] I am sitting down. ARCHIVIST: [CHUCKLE] Are you… sure, that thing is… That’s not in great shape. MARTIN: Neither am I. I have been on my feet for a literally uncountable amount of time.

He’s right! He has learned! They’ve indeed been walking for a “literally uncountable amount of time” <3

- Loved the couch, loved the scene overall:

(MAG175) [FOOTSTEPS] [BAG JOSTLING] [SHUFFLING] [CREAKING, WITH DAMP SPLOSHES] MARTIN: Mmhph… ARCHIVIST: [CLIPPED] How is it? MARTIN: … Great…! It’s great. [WET SQUEAK] Lovely couch. ARCHIVIST: Right. Well. Rest up, I suppose…! [SILENCE] MARTIN: It’s two-seater…! ARCHIVIST: Yes it is! [WET SQUEAK] … Hard pass. Thank you. [AIR RAID SIREN IN THE BACKGROUND] [SILENCE] [WET SQUEAK]

* You could SEE Martin’s blank face, dying inside, regretting his choice with his “great”.

* The “splosh” sounds whenever Martin was moving were absolutely AWFUL =D

* Jon probably knew exactly what that couch was made of.

* Jon, you COWARD, you could have sat in his lap!! (I thought it was the case since there was some shuffling and their voices sounded closer afterwards, but no, Anil-confirmed that Jon stayed standing, aww.)

- Iiiiii wonder whether Jon being keen to give Martin his break had to do with him already knowing that Daisy&Basira were close. ;;

- Okay, so. It’s coming. We already know that Daisy’s case was… not good, Jon already knew that it had gotten worse and that Basira had been pulled into it:

(MAG160) MARTIN: Some–somehow, I don’t think Daisy will be worried about “jurisdictions”…! ARCHIVIST: I– [SIGH] I don’t think she’d come here. [RATTLING SOUND] Doesn’t look like this place has been used for years. MARTIN: [POINTEDLY] And if she does? ARCHIVIST: [SIGH] … Well. At least, we’ll know where she is. MARTIN: Wh…! [NERVOUS CHUCKLE] ARCHIVIST: Besides, I’m more worried about the other Hunters. Or the… “Sasha”-thing. Last I heard, they still hadn’t found any bodies. [INHALE] A lot of destruction, a lot of blood… [EXHALE] But that’s it. [MORE WOOD SOUNDS] MARTIN: … You think they’re still out there. [SILENCE] ARCHIVIST: Hopefully a long way out there. … But I think we’re okay.

(MAG164) MARTIN: Okay – okay, okay, ‘kay, let’s… let’s try something a little bigger, then. ARCHIVIST: [EXHALE] Alright. [SILENCE] MARTIN: Is Basira alive? ARCHIVIST: [INHALE] MARTIN: Is she… in… o–one of these places? [STATIC RISES] ARCHIVIST: She’s alive. Out there, not… trapped in a–a hellscape, but… moving. [STATIC DECREASES] Hunting. She’s… she’s looking for Daisy. She’s a few steps behind. MARTIN: And Daisy? [STATIC INCREASES] ARCHIVIST: Bestial. Brutal. [STATIC DECREASES] [INHALE] Carving her way through the domains of other Powers, following the scent of blood. … Oh, Daisy, I’m sorry… MARTIN: What’s Basira going to do? [STATIC INCREASES] ARCHIVIST: She… thinks she’s going to kill Daisy. Like she promised. [STATIC DECREASES] But she’s conflicted. MARTIN: And will she? ARCHIVIST: I–I don’t know, th–the future, th–that’s… that’s not something I can see. MARTIN: O–kay. Good to know.

(MAG175) MARTIN: [SIGH] Let’s get out of here. This place is making me a bit too… existential. [WET SQUEAK] [SHUFFLING] ARCHIVIST: Wait. MARTIN: What? ARCHIVIST: [SIGH] Where we’re going, the, uh… the next “domain”, I… I’ve been meaning to tell you, but it’s… well… [NEW ROUND OF AIR RAID SIREN IN THE BACKGROUND] MARTIN: Spit it out, Jon. ARCHIVIST: Basira and Daisy. We’re close. MARTIN: Wait, what? Wait, really? B– Th–that’s brilliant! What are we waiting for, let’s go! ARCHIVIST: Uh, y–yeah, i–it’s… It’s not… it’s not going to be easy, things aren’t… good. MARTIN: Oh my goodness, really? And here was me thinking the apocalypse was going oh-so-swimmingly! ARCHIVIST: Yes, alright, I just meant… MARTIN: I–I know what you meant! I can still be keen to see our friends! ARCHIVIST: … True. MARTIN: Besides, we can help them now. [SHUFFLING] [FOOTSTEPS] ARCHIVIST: [SIGH] Yeah. [SILENCE] [BAG JOSTLING] … Yeah.

* I’m having both fluffy feelings and sigh-worthy feelings regarding Martin saying he has “friends” because:

(MAG170) MARTIN: You, you are Martin Blackwood; yes. You–you didn’t choose to be here. Jon is coming. I am Martin Blackwood, and I am not lonely anymore, I am not lonely anymore! [SHAKY BREATHING] I want to have friends, I… no, I have friends. I’m… I’m in love, eh! I am in love, and I will not forget that, I will – not – forget.

;; Are you sure, honey.

Though, technically: Melanie had listened to him and calmed down in MAG118, following his plan. Basira trusted him a bit towards the end of season 4 and had been a bit softer towards him with the death of his mother. Daisy and him managed to talk in MAG142 (although Martin had to reject her and deny that they were getting along due to Peter’s presence two episodes later). There were embryos of something, I… kinda hope we could see that flourish?

- My hypothesis regarding Daisy&Basira would be: Daisy still a savage beast (like we heard during The Unknowing, pre-Coffin, and when she turned back into one again in MAG158). She might still be after Julia and/or Trevor, depending if they were still alive (we know, at least, that their bodies weren’t found by the police and since the Not!Them was still Not!Sasha, it hadn’t taken either of them). Basira’s degree of “freedom” is a big question: is she able to not be tied to a domain thanks to her connection to The Eye? Or is the pursuit of Daisy, never-ending, torturing her with the promise she made to Daisy to kill her, a Hunt domain by itself? The Hunt is about the chase, and the “innocent” pursuit turning people into Hunters has been a reoccurring thing, so… Basira could have been taken over / “imprisoned” by and in Daisy’s hunt?

- Whether someone dies soon (there… are huge red flags for Daisy, she asked to be killed when she lost herself 18 episodes ago and she had an arc about her own choice and accountability in season 4), I can’t help but think that we’re getting Team Archive members soon? It’s been established that Jon is limited by his own perceptions, and Martin has been considering and clinging to the idea of help:

(MAG164) MARTIN: But I actually meant the whole… being friends thing? I mean, I don’t see why– ARCHIVIST: Martin, she’s… a cruel… vicious monster! MARTIN: Yes. Yes, she is. But who else is there? ARCHIVIST: [SIGH]

(MAG166) MARTIN: Just, what do you want? ANNABELLE: I want to help you, of course. [SILENCE] MARTIN: … No. Thank you. ANNABELLE: It’s a hard place to find yourself in, maybe I can be of some… assistance…! MARTIN: You can assist me by giving the… “creepy phone” thing a rest…! ANNABELLE: He is more powerful here than he’s ever been, isn’t he? [PAUSE] And you’re not sure what that means for you. MARTIN: [INHALE] I’m hanging up now.

What Jon and Martin would need is probably… other perspectives. There is still Helen running around (and she has the means to follow Basira too, the same way she can follow Jon&Martin, since Basira also traversed the Distortion’s corridors to return to the Institute after MAG135); Melanie&Georgie are somewhere (at the Panopticon already? On the other side of the crack at Hill Top Road? Hidden within Helen’s corridors?); and now Basira&Daisy’s hunt might come to a close. Daisy doesn’t have a lot of chances to survive, but I don’t think we’re done with Basira, given how she got the worst of it during season 4 (she wasn’t the only one getting manipulated by Elias, but unlike Jon, she didn’t achieve any small victories; she didn’t manage to protect anyone at all).

There is only The Spiral and The Hunt left when it comes to domains, both could get crammed into MAG176 since some of their agents are roaming around a bit more freely and we’re entering the hiatus afterwards (it could be a way to make Arc I the journey through the domains, and reaching the Panopticon starting Act II), so… we’ll see. Arc I could end with Daisy’s death, with a reunion, or with Helen pulling someone into her corridors by force ;;

We have currently a big opposition between Jon’s cautiousness, slight despair, and conviction that he can’t help anyone; and Martin’s hope (sometimes expressing itself as frustration) that they could do something positive, that Jon’s powers could help them. So far, it feels like Jon’s stance has been winning, as he demonstrated to Martin that there was “no better”.

But: it’s also true that Martin managed to pull himself out of the Lonely House’s influence with the tape recorder’s and Jon’s combined help. Jon has been revealed to be able to eradicate avatars/monsters with his ability to turn the Fearful into the Afraid. Jon had previously managed to use his compulsion as a way to free someone from a Fear’s influence: he compelled Tim to centre him and made him aware of reality in MAG119, and he made Martin see him in MAG159. So… there is still a tiny tiny hope that he could do something positive regarding Daisy (even if Basira still has to kill her afterwards).

I LIKED DAISY POST-COFFIN, I’ve never been expecting her to Live Forever with the crimes and abominations she committed, I still don’t expect her to survive for long anyway, but I’m not ready to see her goooo ;___;

- … last point is “????” and “!!!!” and I wanted to put emphasis on it, because.

THERE WAS A SOUND BETWEEN THE TWO TAPE-SEQUENCES IN THIS EP???

(MAG175) ARCHIVIST: [SIGH] Right…! [CLICK.] [TINY SHUFFLING] [CLICK–] [FOOTSTEPS, PUNCTUATED BY SOME JINGLING AND CLATTER] MARTIN: You know what? [FOOTSTEPS STOP] I am sitting down.

That’s new and ???? – usually, there is only the… void? A bass sound, but nothing else.

But there was definitely some shuffling in-between, and WHAT WAS IT?? I’m not excluding that it could be an editing mistake (Jon&Martin’s footsteps beginning a few seconds earlier, for example, without the crunch of the ground), but if it’s not and it was intentional… is this confirming that we-the-listener are listening alongside someone listening to the tape after the recordings, and not during the recordings themselves? The beginning of MAG079 had hinted at that, with Martin’s pre-recorded poem getting written over by Tim&Martin’s recording (+ the overall fact that we hear the [CLICK] of the tapes: if we were only listening to the sound of the tapes, we wouldn’t hear the tape recorders clicking on and off, since that is not a sound that we can hear on the magnetic band itself). Who is listening? Why would we hear them now? Are we coming closer to an answer or a big hint about that…?

… MAG176’s title definitely puts Daisy, Hunters and/or more generally The Hunt to mind, and Daisy’s struggle during the second half of season 4. Regarding the more “classic” meaning, though: is it about Daisy&Basira’s relationship? Is it about the “statement” of the domain (if there is one), in a biological meaning?

#1 #2 #3 #4 #5 #the magnus archives #tma season 5 #mag175 #tma liveblog #long post/

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my-whumpy-little-heart · 4 years

Text

Persistence - 8

No BTHB prompt for this part. Find the masterlist for this series here, or the previous part linked in the first line.

Tag list (dm or ask to be added or removed): @whump-tr0pes, @burtlederp, @castielamigos-whump-side-blog, @doitforthewhump, @shameless-whumper, @endless-whump, @theycomeinthrees, @faewhump

CW: creepy whumper, painful wound cleaning, mild gore for brief description of stitches, stockholm syndrome-y vibes (but the whumpee is just delirious, not attached), pet whump mention (again, not actually)

“You’re gonna make such a good mage for me, aren’t you? Just for me, that’s right…”

Somewhere just beneath the surface Floyd desperately wanted to shake his head no no no a thousand times over, but he settled for dry heaving onto the floor next to him before blacking out.

Floyd opened his eyes and everything set in slowly. Arms pressed against him and the cuts all along his body, holding him against someone’s chest. The sharp haze of pain clouded his senses, the world a buzz of noise and color around him.

Eventually he felt the ground rise up to meet his back once again, and he must have passed out again. When he woke, he was being moved around from behind.

“Wha… what’re you doin’...?” Everything was still bleary, but it looked like there was another person in the room standing right in front of him.

“Trying to help you,” he recognized Percival’s voice in his ear, “Now sit up before I drag you by your hair.”

Drowsily, Floyd rolled over and started slowly pushing himself up, but lethargy still clung to his autonomy. He slumped back to the ground, trying to peel his eyes open long enough to see the world spin around him, but it was too little too late. Fingers reached and twisted in his hair, and sharp sparks of pain jolted him to his senses.

The grip tightened and shoved him into a sitting position, Percival’s hands coming around to grab Floyd’s upper arms, an iron grasp pulling him to sit upright.

He blinked in surprise, still dazed by the sudden movement, and noticed that there really was a second person in the room. Narrow, tired eyes looked back at him, glancing before--He? She? He really couldn’t tell--turned back to the table in the corner of the room. His stomach churned at the memory of being strapped to that same table not even a day ago, and he leaned unwittingly back into his captor’s chest.

“Hey, hey, none of that now. Casey’s gonna stitch up those cuts, and you’re going to hold still for them so they don’t mess anything up,” Percival chided, shifting him closer as Floyd tried harder to pull away.

“Nnh- I… what do you mean they? There’s only one pers’n here…” he muttered, finally stilling when he realized he was far too weak to get away.

“Yes. Casey is one person, they go by they, and it’s in your best interest to respect that, Benedict,” he hissed.

“Don’t bother,” came a bored voice above, slurred and careless as they turned away from the table with supplies in hand, “it’s not like your pet’s gonna understand the fine intricacies of human decency.” Casey chuckled quietly to themself as Percival’s face twisted.

“Hey, this one’s not a pet. He’s just a pet project I’ve taken, ah, special interest in.” He pulled a hand through Floyd’s hair as he said it, pulling back on greasy red curls so the boy looked up with a shiver.

Casey stood over him, a needle with some sort of thread in one hand and a bottle of ale in the other. They bent down and he eyed the bottle warily, thirst threatening to overtake him. Alcohol wouldn’t do much to rehydrate him, but to have any liquid at all would be a blessing.

“See that, darling? I saved some ale just for you.”

“Yeah, whatever. Hold it still; it’s not gonna like this,” they sighed, uncorking the ale and kneeling up to get a better look at Floyd’s body. He shivered, feeling bare under their critical gaze. He cringed when they peeled his pants back from dried blood and cuts, rolling them up to have better access.

They reached back for the ale as Percival held him carefully still, and only when it lowered towards his legs did he realize it wasn’t to drink. Casey tipped the bottle and translucent red streaks poured over his legs, mixing with darker, viscous fluid and sliding neatly into slices all the way down to the deep wounds in his heels.

It was a small, cool pressure like the saltwater, but then it was hot and steaming and sharp and overwhelming. He could feel every single pinprick of pain as alcohol flared and raged, as opposed to the hazy, deafening torment of salt. His muscles locked up at the awful sensation, shivering as he clenched his jaw and tried to swallow down a cry. The breathy whimper that came out made him wish he’d just screamed instead.

Floyd gasped deep, hitching breaths when it finally faded into a dull thrum up and down his leg. It was done, and he took his time to calm down before the stitching started. He could make it through this, and maybe mercifully pass out once it was over.

Casey’s hands wrapped around his ankles, and Percival’s around his shoulders, and he’d been spun around before he could protest. His back now faced out, and that left him staring forward into his captor. Agitated cuts on his legs pressed into the floor under him, but he couldn’t shift before he felt the unmistakable sensation of more liquid rolling down his injured back.

Before Floyd could even think, his hands were fisted in Percival’s shirt, head pressed to his chest, and eyes screwed shut as ale seeped quickly into the deepest wounds. This time he let himself shout when it sank in, writhing against the pain. Percival’s chest shook with laughter he couldn’t hear. His arms circled around Floyd’s back in an awful mockery of a hug, hands skimming over cuts and fingers with long, cracked nails pressing cruelly into them. He yelped and shivered every time, feeling them slip under his skin where he never should have been able to feel.

“You do know there’s no point in me cleaning its cuts if you just stick your dirty fingers right back in them afterwards, right?” Casey grumbled, busying themselves with threading the needle. Percival laughed again and moved his hands back up to massage at Floyd’s shoulders.

“Let up, Casey,” he clicked his silver tongue, waving them off, “didn’t you see him? The first hint of pain and he came to me to support him. I think it’s sweet.”

Floyd shivered uncomfortably, flushed with embarrassment and anger. Of course he used Percival to support himself; that freak was the one holding him in the first place. He didn’t have another option.

“...wish it wasn’t you,” he muttered, too scared to confront his captor with anything else he was thinking.

“Oh, Benedict, you poor thing,” Percival pouted maliciously, cupping Floyd’s chin in his hands and tilting it up to look him in the eyes. “There’s nobody else here who would even bother to hold you while you cry. Is seeing my face really such a price to pay?”

He averted his eyes in a silent concession.

“Then why didn’t you just say so in the first place?!” he exclaimed, the shift in his tone just startling enough to drag Floyd’s gaze back up to him. “I can do that for you, darling.”

Percival’s eyes flashed with hot, swirling magenta tones before he faded from vision. He… he turned invisible. That wasn’t what Floyd wanted at all.

“...alright, I’m just gonna start on the stitches so this doesn’t take forever. Hold it still,” they sighed, placing a light hand over one of the wider cuts and positioning the readied needle. Percival pushed his captive back against his chest, looping arms under his shoulders and nodded.

“Go on,” he gestured.

Face buried in his captor’s chest, he struggled to draw deep breaths before the needle slid in, tugging through the corner of a slice. It felt… wrong. It didn’t hurt so much as it tingled, sending his stomach fluttering at the sensation. He held his breath as the next stitch slipped through, slick now with his own blood, pulling sickeningly at skin as the last one tightened further.

Stitches painted a canvas across his back, moving on to another when they closed the first wound. Slowly, Floyd felt himself falling out. His tense muscles went limp, only jumping at occasional deep pricks of the needle, and he closed his eyes. If he imagined hard enough, he could almost pretend the sturdy frame he was curled up against wasn’t his captor, but Ray. The long strings of hair that tickled the back of his neck were Ray’s dark curls, and the sharp scent left on his shirt wasn’t vinegar, but the salty, sandy smell of everything Ray wore.

Slowly, his hands loosened from fists in Ray’s shirt, and wrapped around his midsection in an embrace that the recipient leaned eagerly into. He could hardly feel the needle sliding through his skin anymore, and focused more and more on the comfort of his captain, holding him close after this terrifying nightmare was over. Kind, and warm, and soothing, like a father to his son…

“Alright, that’s it. I could get the ones on its legs, but they’re small and I’m bored,” Casey said, pulling Floyd back to reality. He blinked, realizing that the man he was up against was visible once again and the illusion shattered. He had been hugging Percival,and burying himself in that awful vinegar scent, and feeling his arms around him. At the smug look on his tormentor’s face, Floyd let go of him as quickly as possible and scrambled as far away as his sluggish limbs could get him. He’d just willingly hugged the man who kidnapped and fucking tortured him, and imagined he was someone he admired.

Anger flashed in Percival’s eyes, and he flew forward kneeling right over Floyd and catching his shoulders to keep him from moving any further.

“Don’t. Tear. Your. Stitches.” he seethed. “Casey worked very hard to make sure you don’t bleed out or get very, very sick aside from what I’m going to do to you. So, if you ruined their work this quickly after getting it done, I’d be loath to let you get away without severe punishment.”

He left the threat hanging in the air, but Floyd nodded quickly, face still flaming. He didn’t need examples. He already had them bruised, cut, chafed, and slowly scarring across his body. He didn’t need any more. Percival smiled, dismissing Casey before he spoke.

“Perfect. How do you feel about a meal, then?”

Next part

#whump #pirate whump #Persistence #Benedict Floyd #Percival #Casey #not sure if they're gonna be a recurring character yet...#but they're a big mood tbh #creepy captor #creepy whumper #painful wound cleaning #stitches #tw:stitches #delirium #sleep deprivation #not the focus but this boy has not slept decently for like two days now #so that's definitely showing through #uhhhh i think that's all of the tags #yeah percival got a little more intimate than usual in this one #and I was writing this while calling my friend and complaining that things were getting too domestic #so i mean obviously we're gonna have to make him hurt a lot more to pay for that #after he actually eats something so he doesn't starve #percival would hate to have floyd too out of it to appreciate his torments :))#oh i know what I forgot!#pet whump mention #there #perfect

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banashee · 3 years

Link

Please mind the tags and warnings for this one!

Four Late Night Confessions (+ one mutual "I Love you")

For all the trouble Clint has gone through in the last 20 years, getting an opportunity like this is pretty much the chance of his life. Even if he wasn't running out of luck and chances, he'd have taken it. Sure, Clint had been shot at and bleeding profusely when they offered him to work for SHIELD and start a new life, but even then, dizzy and in pain, not to mention half-starved and exhausted from months on the street, he'd known it might be his best - maybe only - chance.

Now, one year later, Clint is stuck in a safehouse in the middle of nowhere. It's late at night, and he spends two hours tossing and turning on the thin, lumpy mattress before he gives up and kicks away the sheets. Sitting up on the edge of the bed, Clint groans in annoyance and rubs a hand over his face, through his already messy hair and back over his face. Letting out a long breath, he remains sitting there for a short while, then he finally makes his way out to the living room.

The howling wind from outside creeps in, settles in his bones and makes Clint shiver in the cool air. He regrets not having put on a hoodie or socks, but he is also too stubborn to walk back now.

To his surprise, the light in the small living room is on, and when he enters the room, his handler has made himself comfortable on the couch with a thick book in one hand and a steaming mug in the other. The room smells of coffee, and even though Clint shuffles in quietly, Phil looks up from his book as soon as he does.

“Oh, hi. Can’t sleep?”

“Hey Boss. Not really, no.”

“There is more coffee in the kitchen, if you want any.”

It’s nice to be known, Clint thinks, and makes his way across the room to go get himself a mug. There is no way he is going to sleep tonight, anyway.

“Thanks.”

On his way back to the couch, Clint pulls a book out of the shelf and he doesn’t really look at what it is. For one, he’s not sure he will be able to focus on the story. He also never had the opportunity to read a lot when he was young, which means he doesn’t know a lot about books to begin with.

So, he just reads whatever he can get his hands on - thankfully, SHIELD safehouses often have a small selection of books, if only because some agents left whatever they finished behind for the next person to enjoy. Over time, Clint figures out what he likes - so far, he knows that he enjoys most fantasy and sci-fi books, and that dramas bore him to tears. He tries to stay away from those, but is otherwise open to pretty much anything.

As it turns out, he grabbed a cheesy romance novel this time - oh well. As long as it keeps him occupied, he figures it’ll be fine.

Except, it isn’t fine. Well, the book is. But Clint is not.

No matter how hard he tries, he can’t stop thinking. His brain is running wild and he can’t stop thinking how he even got here. The mean voice in the back of his head keeps telling him that he doesn’t deserve to be here, doesn’t deserve to have this job. This chance.

‘You should have died years ago.’ it snarls at him sometimes, in the middle of the night when he lies awake and can’t calm down. The thing is, as hard as he works and as much as he is terrified of making a mistake and losing it all, Clint is also happy.

He’s got a purpose in life, 3 meals a day and a warm place to sleep. He’s got a room on base to get back to. Sparse and impersonal as it is, it is still a home to him.

There are people who actually give a shit if he lives or dies, which is honestly still new to Clint. Especially since he started working with Phil exclusively, he has learned what it is like to have someone who cares on a personal level. His handler is a very rare combination of competent badass, warm, honest, caring and protective.

It is this mix of characteristics that made Clint like and respect the older agent from day 1, and it is definitely this combination of characteristics, paired with the fact that Phil is easy to talk to and that they spend a lot of time together, on and off the clock, that caused Clint to develop a huge crush on him in no time. But he’s got a lid on it - he has to. There is no way he can lose what he found.

Without noticing, Clint has been staring at the same book page for about half an hour now and he’s got no idea what even happened in the plot. Also, his coffee has gotten cold by now. He curses under his breath and puts his book down in frustration.

‘So much for calming down’ he thinks and resists the urge to toss the book across the room. As much as he wants to do something like this sometimes, he hates useless violence, even when it doesn’t go against people.

The short fuse he inherited from his father is unfortunate, but Clint actively tries to work against it. Anything that separates him from his old man is a good thing in Clint’s opinion - it’s enough that he looks like he did. There is no way he’ll allow himself to develop the same patterns of behavior.

The book in his hand, cramped in white-knuckled, is shaking.

“...Clint? What’s wrong?”

He didn’t even realize that Phil stopped reading and is right in front of him now, without touching, but close enough to easily do so if it should be welcome.

It takes Clint a while to find the words for what is happening, and he isn’t even sure if it makes any sense. After minutes of total silence, and Phil looking more and more concerned the more time passes, Clint lets out a long breath of air.

“Since I joined… I’ve never been so happy. I’ve also never been so scared. I just - I don’t want to mess this up.”

He doesn’t look at Phil when he says this, already embarrassed as soon as the words leave his mouth, but he knows that his handler - his friend - won’t judge him for it.

The constant noise and vibrations of the jet feel like a jackhammer in Clint’s brain. He wishes, not for the first time, that he was physically able to screw off his head and several limbs for the duration of the entire flight, store them somewhere soft, quiet and comfortable and then reassemble himself upon landing. No such luck.

He doesn’t even manage to sleep, even though he knows it’ll be many hours until they arrive back at base and there is plenty of time for a long nap. Clint turns in his seat to bitch about it to Phil, but the older agent looks tense and gravely as he puts his phone away in his suit jacket.

The words get stuck in Clint’s throat, and instead of saying anything, he watches as Phil steps closer and sits down heavily in the seat next to him.

He almost asks “Are you okay?” but he doesn’t - he knows the obvious answer is “no” because their OP went wrong in so many ways, it’s a near miracle they’re both only lightly injured - let alone alive. The same cannot be said for the dead civilians.

Clint knows, before Phil even says anything, that he is feeling responsible for it. And really, after a few minutes of silence, Phil sighs with a shake of his head and tells Clint,

“I fucked up. I’m sorry.”

In reality, there was nothing they could have done - the intel had been wrong from the start, and there had been no way they could have known until it was too late.

But Phil is running this OP, he is responsible for the calls made and the outcome will be on his head. It is a special kind of guilt, one that is hard to live with, even though he’d had to learn it early on in his career. Coping is an entirely different story.

Right now, he is devastated. Agent Coulson is shoved back somewhere in the back of his head, while Phil, the human being, is trying to deal with it all.

Clint doesn’t answer verbally, because he knows all of these things, but he scoots a little bit closer until their shoulders are pressed together. He offers company and comfort, resting his hand on his leg, open and palm up. It doesn’t take long for Phil to take it and Clint can feel the slight tremors running through him. He squeezes, just firm enough to be reassuring, but otherwise gentle.

Neither of them talks for the rest of the flight.

He is a sniper. Not exclusively, since he’s got plenty of useful skills, but the matter of fact is that, occasionally, part of Clint’s job is to kill people.

He is good at it, because he never misses. And this is why Clint is so careful, always reading and re-reading the mission briefings, picking the plan apart with Phil again and again until he knows every single detail by heart.

If he takes the shot, he knows it will be a kill shot - no questions there. So he wants to make sure that the necessity to rid the world of another human being outweighs all other morals.

Usually, this takes a special kind of training and coping techniques. It’s not an easy or comfortable job, but Clint can usually deal with it because he knows that the people who end up in his scope do so for a very good reason. Usually, he doesn’t lose sleep over it, because he knows the circumstances and the backgrounds.

He never enjoys it - he would be wrong in his position if he did. But if pressed, he would admit to being relieved - in some cases even satisfied - to know that certain individuals are no longer around to hurt people.

Sometimes, there is no kill order in place. In those cases, Clint takes the shot because he knows it’ll be either one of his fellow agents, an innocent person or himself who will be going home in a body bag if not the person he takes out. It happens.

The point is, while it is certainly no walk in the park, Clint can cope with these situations.

Right now though, he is kneeling on cold tiles, head stuck in a toilet while he throws up whatever he managed to choke down earlier. In his head, there are two main thoughts that are at war with each other, screaming at him and each other, leaving Clint shaking and disgusted with himself.

The thing is, they didn’t know that the weapon smugglers ran a human trafficking ring as well. They didn’t know, not until they entered the other part of the building and were met with the terrified eyes of a few dozen people who had learned to expect the worst whenever the door opened.

Clint is choking and coughing, clutching the cold porcelain with shaking hands. He knows that this OP ended up pressing all the wrong buttons for him. Too many things that hit just a little too close to home, too much that makes him think back to - no.

In the warehouse, Clint can't remember a clear thought, he acts out of pure instinct. Things turn into a blur at some point, and all he knows it that he somehow freed all the people who were hurt by those fucking bastards, and then…

A kind way to put it would be that Clint went on a rampage. By the end of it, none of the traffickers is left alive, and he doesn’t feel a smidge of guilt about it.

After the fact, as much as he wants to say that they deserve it, Clint is terrified that this OP broke something in him. What if he crossed a line? What if there is no turning back?

Another wave of bile raises up his throat and he spits and coughs until there is nothing left anymore.

He is completely out of it, and he doesn’t even realize that the bathroom door is opening. It is only when Phil is next to him, rubbing small circles into his back that he catches on to the fact that he’s got company. It doesn’t stop him from shaking apart.

“I killed 15 men today.” he chokes out, not even looking up. His gaze is blurry and cast downward.

“I killed 15 men to protect the people they hurt. But I didn’t feel anything while I did it.” And this is the part that terrifies him most.

Clint doesn’t regret what he did, but he is afraid of his own reaction - or lack thereof - in the situation itself.

Adrenaline is one hell of a drug, he knows this. Clint is no stranger to getting things done and dealing with the feelings and the aftermath later, but this mission was an extreme situation, and frankly, he is way too shaken up now to think clearly.

Breathing is incredibly hard, and moments later, Clint finds himself falling apart.

‘That’s a new low. Sobbing into a toilet bowl while being drenched in unspeakable things after a complete clusterfuck of an OP’ the mean voice in his head is sneering at him, but even now, Phil doesn’t leave his side. He keeps touching Clint, gentle and in an attempt to comfort, but he remains silent. That’s okay though. What do you even say after a day like this? It’s not like either of them knows a certain answer.

It comes to no surprise that Clint is on mandatory leave after this, and that’s how it is until the shrinks and Director Fury say otherwise.

Phil has blood on his hands.

Not physically, at least not anymore - he is freshly showered and is wearing standard issue clothes while he is waiting next to the hospital bed for Clint to wake up.

Just a few hours before, he’d been soaked in blood that wasn’t his own, desperately holding onto the man currently unconscious, hoping he’d survive long enough for help to arrive.

There had been some time in between - well. Phil is fast.

Right now, he is trying to keep his breathing carefully even, staring downwards and in front of him. He is carefully holding Clint’s pale and limp hand in his - there are scrapes and bruises, both from his time in the hellhole and from the IV line. Without even realizing it, his thumb is slowly stroking the cold palm of the other man’s hand.

Phil would be lying if he claimed that he wasn’t - isn’t - utterly terrified of losing Clint. The two of them have known each other for many years, have worked together for almost as long. They know each other, care about one another, certainly more than is strictly professional. And maybe - just maybe… Phil doesn’t dare get his hopes up.

Truth be told, right now he only wishes for Clint to wake up again, anything else can wait.

Phil has had a lot of time to think, in the past few years in general, what with them being what they are. Then, he found his asset and best friend missing, which led him to tear the country apart to find him again. And he did, weeks after his disappearance.

He finds Clint in an empty warehouse, tied to the ceiling in nothing but stained, ripped underwear. He had been unconscious at the time, pale and way too skinny, beaten bloody and with limbs that look twisted and broken.

Thankfully, Clint is safe now, and it looks like he is slowly waking up. At first, he starts stirring, eyes still closed but twitching. His hand in Phil’s is twitching weakly and the beeping of his heart monitor speeds up, but all of this tells Phil that he is alive - Clint being alive is all he wants right now. Softly, he squeezes his hand again and then says,

“Clint, you’re safe. Please wake up.”

His hand is twitching again, but this time, his eyes are fluttering open. Clint’s breath is shallow and erratic as he is blinking against the dimmed lights in the room. He is panicking, which sadly doesn’t surprise Phil. He knows that waking up in a panic happens to Clint more often than not, even when he isn’t coming back to himself in a hospital bed after a no doubt horrifying experience.

It is in the middle of the night, not that Clint would have any sense of time right now.

Carefully, Phil squeezes his hand and tells Clint again that he is safe, repeating himself over and over until his wandering gaze stops and his heartbeat is slowing down a bit. His eyes settle on Phil, and Clint smiles weakly at him. Even though his face is a swollen, black and blue mess, the relief is obvious.

“Hi.”

Even with this short word, Clint’s voice is breaking and almost non-existent. Talking hurts - he gratefully accepts the straw from the waterglass that Phil is offering him.

“Hey. Try not to talk, okay? You’re safe and I’ll be right here. You’ll be okay.” he promises, and it seems to ease a little bit of tension in Clint. He nods, indicating that he understood, but he is way too exhausted for anything else. He drifts back to sleep, holding the other man’s hand as tightly as he can manage in his sorry state. Phil squeezes back, and brushes a bit of hair away from his forehead with soft fingers. Clint is almost entirely asleep, but he still leans into the touch.

It’s when he can manage to stay awake for longer than 5 minutes that they talk a little bit. Clint listens to his list of injuries and scheduled surgeries with an almost stony face, but Phil knows him well enough to be able to tell that he is scared. Scared of losing his ability to shoot, losing his ability to be “useful” and therefore, losing everything he’s worked and fought hard for in the last decade.

Even after so many years, Clint still seems to think so little of himself. It makes Phil want to go back in time and murder a few people.

“What about - them?” Clint asks one night, and it is clear that he wanted to ask this for a while.

“I took care of it - they won’t hurt you again. Or anyone else, for that matter.” Phil tells him, and it is the truth. It was messy, no doubt - but he would do it again. For Clint, he would do anything.

“...Did you-?”

“Yes.”

Mutely, Clint nods. He doesn’t ask any more questions, mainly because he trusts Phil and doesn’t need any details, but also because he isn’t sure if there even is a proper response for this. Instead, he leans close against Phil, who wraps an protective arm around him while Clint is falling asleep once again.

+1)

“I was scared it would be too late.” Phil tells Clint quietly, and shifts a little closer to him.

They’re still in the small room in SHIELD medical, and although Clint is getting better, they still don’t want him to leave yet. He gets more and more frustrated and even more cranky every single day, and Phil is trying his best to be there as much as possible. He knows why Clint hates medical, and he can hardly blame him for it. Too many bad past experiences.

“Me, too.” Clint confesses, and sighs unhappily. He’ll have a lot to work through, but for now, he mainly wants to get out of here.

“While I was there… I kept thinking, I never even told you that - uhm. That I love you. Because I love you, Phil. I love you a lot.”

Phil is speechless, but he smiles at Clint, surprised but utterly happy to hear this. It makes his heart beat so fast, he is glad that he isn’t the one currently hooked up to machines. They would go crazy, no doubt.

“I didn’t want to die before you know that.” Clint continues, and Phil tightens the hug around him - he’d started to lay down next to Clint while he is stuck in the hospital, offering warmth and comfort, and it very much looks like he made the right call. Clint leans into him while Phil tries to find the right words.

“I don’t want you to die at all. Because I love you, too - so much.”

He can feel Clint smile against him before he hugs back just as tightly as Phil hugs him right now. He wishes he could touch him, hold onto him properly, but his arms are still in casts and bandages, so he’ll have to wait for a little while longer. But Phil is here, with him, and that is all he really needs right now.

“Our timing is fucking awful, you do realize that, right?”

The statement is so very Clint, not just because of it’s incredibly dry delivery, and it actually startles a laugh out of Phil.

“Well, yes, that’s one way of putting it. Better now than later, though… I’ve wanted to tell you for ages, but…” he doesn’t finish the sentence, but he doesn’t have to. Instead, he leans forward, fully intending to cuddle closer to Clint, but the archer goes for a kiss instead. His lips are dry and chapped, but he is warm and alive in Phil’s arms, and that is all that counts.

The kiss surprises Phil a bit, but it’s certainly not unwelcome. He kisses back, slow and gentle, letting Clint decide how much he wants right now, not just because he is afraid of accidentally hurting him. He would have let him take the initiative in any other case, too, and there are plenty of reasons for it.

“Fuck, I really want to get out of here.” Clint says later, and Phil presses a small kiss against his temple while he makes himself comfortable against his shoulder.

“I know - soon.”

Clint leans into the touch and hums happily when Phil scratches his scalp with blunt nails.

“Until then, I’m not going anywhere. Promise.”

19 - Confession

Warnings: - hints at Clint's shitty upbringing - implied/references child abuse - blood and violence - talk about death and killing - mental health issues - vomiting - human trafficking (not graphic but still upsetting) - hospitals

#banashee writes #marvel fanfiction #65 Random Prompts #whump #angst #hurt/comfort #friends to lovers #phlint #clintcoulson #tw blood #tw injury #tw violence

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therainroguefanfiction · 4 years

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༄ How To Save A Life… » original

Genre: Slice of Life, Angst

Word Count: 2,003

Pairing: None

World: Original

WARNING: This fic mentions anxiety, social anxiety, loneliness, self-harm and depression.

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It’s amazing, how such a simple gesture can mean so much to a person. They may not even realize the impact that they made, despite how big it may be. Human beings have the power to connect in a way that goes beyond any other species, but they don’t always choose to do so. With a simple act, a person can change another’s life, whether for good or bad. That kind of power is dangerous, so I suppose it’s a good thing that most human beings don’t realize they actually possess such a thing.

The more I think about it, the more it scares me. But I guess that doesn’t mean much, seeing how afraid I am of other humans in general. I really didn’t like other people, and I absolutely hate the way they make me feel when I’m around them. I go out of my way to avoid other people, and I make sure that I don’t get into any type of fights or altercations with others. I seem to have a skill, though, that makes people hate me with every fiber of their being. It’s been that way since I was a child.

Back then, I strived to get close to other people; all I wanted was a single person I could call a friend. It didn’t work out like I had hoped or like it always does on television. I didn’t fit in with any of the groups around me, even though I went out of my way to change myself to fit them. I did many things I shouldn’t have, that I still regret to this day, just to get them to like me, but they wouldn’t, they refused to accept me. They used me for what they could get, got a good laugh, and then dumped me to the side like roadkill.

It was frustrating, sure, but more than anything else, it just plain hurt. It wasn’t physical, so there was no amount of medicine that I could take that would cure the pain. I refused to do drugs and I refused to go out and get drunk just to forget. I suppose what I did choose to do was just as bad, though. Instead of drugs or alcohol, I turned to cutting. It terrified me every time I placed the smooth blade to my pale skin. Even though I was in so much pain, I didn’t want to die.

I was afraid to die.

I loved the world, I just hated the people in it.

Still, I slid the blade across my skin despite my fear. It was never deep enough to put me in harm’s way, which proves how much of a coward I really am – it’s pretty sad. It was no deeper than a cat scratch, but it still stung and throbbed, and little diamonds of blood covered it like a blanket. It was enough to make me feel better, for a few minutes, before I started to feel stupid for what I was doing to myself. That just made the situation worse.

I already hated myself for various reasons – fat, ugly, and above all else, unable to do anything right, just to name the main ones – and now I had cutting to add to my list. I was a despicable human being, I still am, but at least I can handle it a bit better now. I don’t cut anymore, though it does cross my mind occasionally.

Perhaps that’s a side effect of the crazy pills that I’m on now.

Though the pills do ease the fear of human beings, it can’t take it away. It’s still there, lingering just beneath the surface, waiting for me to feel safe and secure before it winds its black arms around me like death coming from the shadows. It grips my throat until I can’t breathe, and chains my heart so tight that it hurts every time it beats.

Sometimes I would envision myself in a barren wasteland, filled with nothing but rock formations that towered over me like skyscrapers. I could see chains binding my wrists to a metal plate in the ground, one that refused to budge so much as half an inch. The ground would crack beneath me, and lava would begin to seep through, but I couldn’t run away.

I could never run away.

I often wondered if someone could come to my rescue, to take me away, but I hated how that sounded. One thing I didn’t like – besides people -, was being a damsel in distress that needed a knight in shining armor to come to rescue her. Really, I’d be fine with just having someone that was a true friend, but after a while, I started to doubt the meaning of that word. I actually looked it up, and the definition only filled me with misery, knowing that I’d never have such a relationship.

Sure, there were people that tolerated me and my smart ass quips, like my co-workers, but something deep down told me they didn’t actually like me. I’m positive they only act nice because we have to see each other every week, and often are put together on projects. The day goes by in a painfully slow manner when you’re working with someone and there’s nothing but lightning between you – sadly, I know this because I just recently learned the true nature of my friend, who believes she’s done nothing wrong.

But I’m probably mostly to blame, anyway.

I guess I got a little off point, here, and for that, I apologize. I’m sure my ramblings mean nothing to you. So, let me spare you further hell, and begin telling you my boring, bang-your-head-against-a-brick-wall story.

Everything began when I was twenty-years-old, working at the local J.C. Penneys in the mall. It was my second job, and although my bosses were lenient and pleasant to be around – most of the time -, I still hated it. Not only because I was lazy, but because I hated having to deal with customers. Dealing with the people I worked with was one thing, but having the thought of being thrown onto the register with a customer was like staring my own death in the face.

Wait, I take that back. I’d rather stare death in the face than be on the register with customers.

Thankfully, this rat has learned to hide and run from customers – which would probably get me fired if anyone knew I did that since the company was one of those customer first types. That’s also why I do my very best to keep these thoughts tucked away from prying eyes. I mean, I hated being out there with people, but I needed the money. And in what other job would you be able to cower in an air-conditioned stock room by yourself, with no one to deal with but the massive racks of clothes that needed to be priced? It was heaven, really, but it didn’t happen very often.

I guess in a way I rely on my co-workers more than I should. With them around, I can roll the customer off onto them and get away scot-free. They don’t mind since they can actually handle having a simple conversation with other people.

It was the beginning of Spring, the beginning of April, and although it had been slightly chilly as of late, Florida was beginning to warm up. I didn’t mind the rare thirty-degree weather, it was the eighty-degree humidity covered weather that sent me to the floor panting and begging my family to move to Antarctica. I was very sensitive to heat, of any kind, which is another thing I can add to my pathetic list.

Nothing really special was happening in my life at the time, not like it ever did at any other time. I woke up last minute, rushed off to work, grit my teeth and tried not to harm myself just to be sent home, and when I finally would make it home, I’d flop in front of the computer where I stayed until it was time to go to bed.

See, rather than being one of those kids that goes out and parties the night away, having sex with every guy that smiles at her, I’ve always been the nerdy kid that sat at home, with no friends, playing video games and screwing around online. If anything, that’s the only thing I can say I like about myself. Of course, I probably would have done those things if I had actually had friends to coax me into them – I cave easily, remember?

That Monday, I expected the same routine.

I was only working six hours, so I just bit the inside of my cheek and decided to bare it, just like I did every other day that I worked at this godforsaken clothing store – I didn’t even like fashion, for fuck’s sake. That should be pretty obvious since I only ever come to work in t-shirts, jeans, and dirty sneakers that were falling apart – thank you, Walmart, for your wonderful quality in shoes.

I said goodbye to my mother, and promised to call her which I had no intention of doing – I mean, come on, I only get fifteen minutes, and I fully intend on spending those minutes trying to stay alive!

Since it was seven in the morning, and the store did not open until ten, I was forced to stand there looking like an idiot, pushing the little white button until my supervisor came power walking to the door with the keys. The older woman would smile and greet me with the typical good morning routine before telling me what I would be doing that day.

After her explanation, I’d take the elevator to the second floor – and god was it slow – before heading to the pricing office. Just like always, my team was already back there, scrambling around getting pricing books and sheets, picking out the cart they wanted, and trying to find a scanner that actually worked – those were few and far between, believe me.

The women would greet me, but it was nothing beyond a simple ‘good morning‘. Though I wanted to say something else, I never did, because I never knew what to say, and I knew I could never hold a conversation without doing something I’d regret. It was easier just to keep it short and simple. Seeing these women did make me feel a bit happy, even though we weren’t friends. I liked their presence, and they could be rather funny when they worked together.

Today we were looking for clearance in the Men’s department. Apparently, we had about fifty sheets of stuff to find, though I was sure we’d only be successful in about half the list, if that.

When nine-forty rolled around, I attended the meeting just so I could sit down for a few minutes, though nothing they discussed had anything to do with my team and, to be completely honest, I could care less about who got the most ICAPS, and who got the best reviews on the survey.

Good for them.

Give ’em a damn cookie and move on.

I took my time after the meeting ended because I decided to take my break now, so I could have fifteen more minutes without the threat of customers. I always did this when I worked six-hour days; it was starting to become a routine.

With those fifteen minutes, I spent them in the air-conditioned break room, in the back corner – or emo corner, as I’ve officially dubbed it -, trying to collect my thoughts and prepare myself for the horrible experience I was going to be throwing myself into it. It took a lot to calm myself down, but I managed it, just like always.

If only I had known how different that day was going to be.

If only I had known what was really going to happen to me that day.

I really should have stayed home.

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📜 Read more by checking out my masterlist 📜

#original #writing #creative writing #writeblr #scenario #scenarios #slice of life #angst #one shot

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elcorhamletlive · 5 years

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I can finally post this!

fandom: MCU (Post- Avengers 2012) tags: Fluff and Humour, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Idiots in Love, POV Tony Stark, Stony Loves Steve 2019

summary: Tony is thrilled about his new relationship with Steve. He's on cloud nine, in fact. It's so amazing he can believe it's real.

He just wishes they could... Uh. Touch a little. Just a little.

Ok, so, here’s the thing: Tony never, in a million years, thought Steve would say “yes”.

Not because of some exacerbated insecurity or anything. As anyone who knows him can attest, Tony is far from oblivious to his appeal. He knows he’s an attractive man, and that he could charm his way out of nearly anything, if he wanted to.

He also knows he’s good at flirting. He knows how to be seductive without being inconvenient, how to be flattering without exaggerating, how to be suggestive without pushing any boundaries. He has mastered his technique over years, practicing with many different people. He never had any trouble getting a date, and, to be completely honest, he doesn’t think he ever will.

But.

There is a huge difference between dating, in its usual simple, casual meaning, and the utterly other-worldly, mind blowing, frankly almost terrifying concept of dating Steve Rogers. Dating is easy, but dating Steve – going out for a movie with Steve, holding his hand, kissing him after the night is over, asking if he wants to come up to the penthouse… If you ask Tony, there’s an entire universe of distance between these two ideas. They’re barely in the same astral plane.

And Tony—Tony doesn’t even know what possessed him to ask. It had been an insane impulse to rival every single one of his most self-destructive habits. There he was, in the kitchen, filling himself with coffee, when Steve walked in with a book in his hand, sitting on a stool. He was wearing his grandpa clothes, his brow was furrowed and his blond bangs were falling a little on his forehead.

Tony watched him, and at one point he closed his book and fished out the tiniest notepad from his pocket. He wrote something down, tongue sticking out from the corner of his mouth, deep concentration as his fingers brushed his bangs to the side, and Tony had thought: Oh. Oh, I wish I could have him.

That hadn’t been a new thought – actually, it bordered on repetitive at that point, echoing in his head anytime he watched Steve do basically anything - but it apparently resonated with something in Tony’s sleep-deprived brain, because the next thing he knew, he was rambling about reservations that he had made for him and Pepper, and how Pepper had cancelled, and how he missed eating steak, and if Steve wanted to have dinner with him.

And Steve said yes.

And that—well, to say it caught Tony off guard would be an understatement. He had just stared at Steve for a moment in silence when FRIDAY helpfully jumped in to inform him of the reservation's time. Steve had smiled, and Tony had gaped at him like a fish, and, just like that, he had a date with Steve Rogers.

The hours that followed were some of the slowest of Tony’s life. He had been a pile of nerves in a way he didn’t remember ever being before a date. He found himself trying on the suit he used to meet the president and finding it incredibly ill-fitting.

Then, at 6:38, he was ready, exactly twenty-two minutes too early. Fortunately, Steve, being who he was, had also shown up to meet him in the living room early, so Tony didn’t have to wait for long.

Dinner was… surprisingly great. Granted, Tony was almost vibrating off his chair, but Steve didn’t seem to mind. He had been outraged by the prices, which Tony found both exasperating and adorable, and after a moment of initial awkwardness, they fell into an easy, natural banter. Steve was a great listener, Tony found. He heard everything Tony said with the utmost attention, but he wasn’t always quiet either – he’d interject with a blunt wit that made Tony grin a little ridiculously at times, and he’d nod at Tony’s rambling as if it were worth listening to.

The restaurant worked, too. It was a discreet bistro not too far away from the Tower. The food tasted delicious, and Steve cleaned up his plate with such voracity that Tony simply had to convince him to order dessert. Steve complained a little, saying it wasn’t fair to let Tony pay for everything, but Tony won the argument, promising he’d let Steve pay next time (Steve didn’t even blink at the suggestion that there would be a next time, which, really, made Tony feel like floating off his seat).

All in all, it was a great choice, even though it was far from the place Tony would have picked to take Steve on a first date – though, to be fair, Tony wouldn’t have been able to rent out the Louvre on such little notice anyway.

By the time they got home, though, Tony’s anxiety had resurfaced again. Even as he grinned at Steve and continued to talk normally, his hands twitched hopelessly in the pockets of his jacket. He wondered if Steve’s occasional lingering gaze was enough of a hint of what his reaction would be if Tony tried to close the evening with a goodnight kiss.

When they got to Steve’s floor, Steve turned towards him and smiled – a large, sincere smile that knocked Tony’s breath right out of his lungs.

“Thank you, Tony. I… To be honest, I don’t remember the last time I had that much fun, in this time.” And he looked a little embarrassed, a little awkward, but still… almost giddy with happiness, as if he had truly forgotten how it felt to be this way. “Thank you.”

And then the elevator doors opened, and Steve got out, and there was no kiss but really, that had been even better. The doors closed, and Tony rested his head on the wall and smiled like an idiot at the ceiling.

That had been date number one. Date number two happened almost a week later, after Rhodey managed to convince Tony Steve wouldn’t want to drop everything and go to Paris with him just because Tony thought anything New York had to offer simply wasn’t good enough. Tony then finally caved and, rambling about how Pepper had talked up the MET’s latest exhibit at the office, asked if Steve would like to go see it on Friday. The way Steve’s face lit up at the suggestion made Tony mentally promise Rhodey a dozen new upgrades for his suit.

“Dude,” Rhodey had laughed when Tony informed him of it that night, “You are so screwed.”

Tony had rolled his eyes and ignored him.

By the time Friday arrived, he was already regretting following Rhodey’s suggestion – what was so great about the MET, anyway? And even if Steve liked it, Tony couldn’t stand art museums, not even the Louvre, so wasn’t this proof of the unavoidable truth that they were ultimately incompatible? It had to be, right? Really, he should just cancel the whole thing and spare them the inevitable misery.

Except then Steve showed up, with a button up shirt and a leather jacket and a bright smile, and Tony’s brain promptly melted and leaked right out of his ears, so. They ended up going.

As the hours went by, walking with Steve through the MET’s hallways, watching the way he frowned thoughtfully at a few pieces and stopped to analyze every detail, Tony’s thoughts changed. Museums could be fun, he realized. Museums could be… witty, and smart, and sweet. Really, museums were so, so…

Rhodey is right, Tony thought, watching Steve struggle with his phone settings to attempt to take a selfie with a painting and having to fight back an honest to god sigh. I’m completely screwed.

The following dates only consolidated that reality. He and Steve went to the Natural History Museum, to Coney Island, to the Brooklyn Bridge. The city Tony knew since his childhood seemed to gain new life when he was exploring it through Steve’s eyes. Steve had so many stories, and so many interesting insights about how things had or hadn’t changed, that it made Tony feel that New York was, suddenly, the most interesting place in the world. He started to spend most of his time at the Tower, only going to Malibu when Pepper really, really demanded his presence.

And Steve. Through these adventures, Tony found out so much about him – little things like his favorite ice cream flavor (rocky road), the kind of movies he liked (mostly sci-fi and fantasy, but he was also fond of animations), the fact that he liked buying the newspaper to do the crosswords. He learned things about Steve that Steve himself couldn’t tell, like the way he walked, the way his eyes crinkled when he laughed, the way he brushed his bangs off his forehead when he was nervous or embarrassed. Things a person could only learn by spending time with him, which Tony was doing in ever-growing levels – and yet, worryingly, it never seemed to be enough.

And, yeah, it was a little… weird, at times. Tony had never dated – or hell, even been attracted to someone for so long without moving things to the physical side of the equation. With Steve, though, that side didn’t seem to exist at all. Two months after their first date, they were going out at least once a week, and they still hadn’t kissed, or, shit, even held hands.

Tony had thought about it (by God, had he thought about it) but anytime he thought he could take the initiative, something on Steve’s demeanor would seem to stiff, too skittish, and then it wouldn’t seem like a very good idea.

read the rest on ao3!

#stony #stevetony #steve rogers #superhusbands #tony stark #my fics #reblogs are love

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youllallriseintheink · 4 years

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Into the Void

So. Chapter 1 of the bodyswap to the death AU is here. I can’t lie, this one has a lot of setup. Sorry about that. The next chapter is going to be much more exciting. It centers around Allison, and my Allison is pretty twisted.

Also, I’ve decided to do this as a sequel to Defining Memories so that the group will have a reason to know the first thing about each other. Don’t worry if you haven’t read it, though, all the information you’d need from it is made clear in chapter 1.

Chapter 2 should be out be Friday at the latest. I know that weeks is a long time to dwell on a comedy AU, but I want to finish this and can only write so fast.

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It was 7:00 pm on a Sunday evening when Joey Drew found himself pulled straight out of his regular life and into a purple, mystic void. Strangely enough, this wasn’t the first time this had happened: about two months ago, he and twelve of his employees had been gathered into a void just like this, then allowed to leave once they had watched each others’ memories.

This was different, though. Then, well, the mystic void had seemed a little much, but Joey had been expecting some supernatural events. You could even say he’d unleashed them. Now? Joey was clueless, and his heart was like a lead hammer pounding at his chest. What had he done?

“What’s going on, Joey?” a voice asked. He turned to see that it was Henry, and the other eleven people from last time were there, too, looking confused and, in most cases, worried. Joey’s throat was so tight that wasn’t sure he could speak. “We’re just here to watch more memories, right?”

Just then, a maniacal laughter emanated from all around them, loud and high-pitched.

Oh, absolutely not! The void mocked. It was jaunty and garbled and high-pitched. I paid you my favour, and you didn’t pay me back. And you didn’t put me away properly, either. So I’ll tell you what I’m going to do: now that you all know each other a bit, we’re going to play a game. You hear?

“Joey, get us out of here!” Sammy yelled. There was fear evident in his voice. “Do it. You know how, right?”

Joey stared vacantly into the void as it laughed and laughed at them.

No one here is getting away until you entertain me. Now, here’s what’s gonna happen. I’m going to take your souls, and put em’ in random bodies. And you’ll want to keep up the performance of being whoever you’re supposed to be, because at the end of the week, you’ll all get a chance to guess each others’ identities. Anyone who can guess more identities than their identity was correctly guessed will be put back into their bodies. Anyone else, the voice giggled, DIES! I’ll give you all, hmm... about two minutes to work out the practicalities. Bye-bye!

The thirteen people got a good look at each other, perhaps so they’d recognize who they were five minutes from now. Strangely, the strongest reactions in the room seemed to be nervousness and stunned shock, most likely because the reality of such a bizarre scenario hadn’t sunk in yet.

After a while, Thomas spoke up on the practicalities of the situation. “Alright. Here’s what I propose we do,” Thomas said, trying to sound perfectly calm. He wanted nothing more than to wring Joey’s neck, but now was not the time. “Let’s all write any important information about how to handle each other’s lives on pieces of paper and leave them taped to our own lockers, or offices, or whatever it is we have. That can include any meds we have to take, how to interact with family members, details about work, whatever. Alright?”

Allison’s sobs were the only answer.

Thomas blinked, and the next thing he knew, he was still hearing those same sobs, albeit in a somewhat deeper voice, but he was in an apartment he didn’t recognize and looking at the face of Sammy Lawrence. Looking down at his own hands, he saw very thin arms coated in inky black gloves.

“Oh, Sammy, what’s wrong?” Thomas cooed in the girliest, most sympathetic tone he could muster. The game had begun.

The next day, the thirteen took to their roles. Thomas hated his new body. Susie hadn’t been kidding about not producing body heat because she was made of ink, and he was freezing cold whenever he was outside of her well-heated apartment. On the plus side, the note said that Joey Drew had her scheduled to do some bit parts for an upcoming episode because he hadn’t been able to find a replacement voice actress yet, so at very least he wouldn’t have to do her usual performances and meet-and-greets as Alice Angel. He barely knew a thing about this studio’s characters, and he sure as hell wasn’t going to sing.

Sammy didn’t mind being Allison too much. He could sing. He had a feeling that living with “Thomas” wouldn’t be such an issue, either. While he was experimenting with his new singing voice the night before, Sammy caught “Thomas” bundling up in a heavy sweater and heading out to stargaze in the crisp night air. “He” walked so delicately when he thought no one was watching, and the way he was holding “his” arms to his heart- there was no doubt about it. This was Susie rediscovering life in a human body. He even caught her feeling her pulse, unaware that she was being watched. It crushed Sammy’s heart to see, but at least he’d figured out an identity.

Allison didn’t like Sammy, and not just because of the air of snobbery she got from him, or all the contemptuous looks he gave to Tom. By his memories, it didn’t take a genius to figure out that he’d had a part in Susie’s death and rebirth. Now that she had his body, well, she’d figure out a way to make things even. She knew she would. And in the meantime, there were certain ways that she planned on taking advantage of it.

Bertrum had ended up the body of the lyricist, Jack Fain. He supposed there were worse things- writing song lyrics sounded like something he could learn. He, like many of the other players, had to ask where his office was. To his dismay, he learned that he had no office: he usually worked in the sewers. Was there anyone in this company who wasn’t either incompetent, a psychological mess, disrespectful, or massively lacking in self-respect? Worse, he had no idea where to put his note, since, as Bertrum could work out ride designs at home and only ever came in occasionally to check on the Bendyland workers or meet with Joey Drew, he had no office or locker. He had to find whoever was piloting his body so he could tell them about the dinner party with the Georgian investors on Thursday evening and make sure they didn’t ruin it. Thus, Bertrum found himself working as close to Bendyland as he could without setting off anyone’s radar, hoping to catch a glimpse of himself.

On the other hand, Jack didn’t mind being Bertrum. He worried about how things were going with his husband and adoptive kids, of course, and the situation was scary in general, but at least his form put him at an advantage. This way he would have an excuse to interact with “Lacie” for as long as he needed to in order to figure out her identity, and wouldn’t need to interact with too many other participants of the game. He could focus on designing attractions that weren’t rides, since he had no mechanical knowledge, and keep his profile down for the week, and he would be just fine, he hoped.

Norman was relatively unafraid. He was Shawn- more or less a best-case scenario. Shawn’s job didn’t require much skill, and he was gregarious enough that it wouldn’t be out of character to interact with almost any of the players. Plus, from years of watching from the shadows, Norman knew almost everyone’s secrets- this was a bloody game and Norman took no joy in that, but it was his game.

Shawn was Lacie. Okay, someone he knew well and who wouldn’t interact with other players much. A fair deal. He could handle this. Thankfully, she had been outside when the transformation had occurred, so no one who knew her personally heard Shawn’s existential screams.

Lacie barely knew Norman beyond his reputation for watching people and rarely talking, but he seemed pretty easy to pretend to be. She had to ask a coworker what her job was, and almost laughed when she got the answer. Much of it was sitting high and mighty above the recording studio, which periodically contained four of the players of the game. She’d been terrified at first, but all things considered, she’d have to really screw up to lose this game.

Joey also thought he had a good deal, playing Henry. Joey knew Henry so well, and already knew wife and his children (they loved their uncle Joey). Heck, Joey had even envied Henry’s home life. And Joey knew how to draw, and how to put on a persona. It seemed like a best-case scenario! That was, until it was ten a.m. and Joey was sick to death of drawing. Henry had an ability to do repetitive work for hours that Joey quite simply lacked, and Joey found himself without an excuse to visit anyone. Often, during his first day, he would just walk somewhere where he knew other players would be, and just stand there, watching, hoping for a clue to anyone’s identity. It was a very un-Henrylike thing to do, but at least it wasn’t Joeylike, either. He was fairly certain that he wouldn’t be guessed for it.

Henry, in the meantime, was thrilled to be Joey. He’d worried himself to the point of vomiting the night before, thinking about how he’d have to contribute to the deaths of others for a chance to see his family again. But now, he was planning- working out misguided, Joeylike decisions that would test the nature of the players, starting with the music department. He was ready to do anything to secure his life, and being someone this powerful could only help.

Grant was in full-on panic the second he was out of the void, and the noise from that brought over a somewhat familiar-looking golden retriever to lick his shaking hand in concern. Grant had moved to another room and shut the door to keep the retriever out. It had startled him enough that he’d almost struck it, and he had no intention of hurting someone else’s pet. As soon as he came down from panic, he realized where he was: Wally’s home. Alright. This could be worse. All he had to do was clean the studio and pretend to be goofy and energetic. For a whole week. He hoped he could keep it up that long.

Wally wasn’t faring much better. He knew he couldn’t handle the studio’s finances, and he didn’t know anything about Grant. Since it had been so long, Wally couldn’t even seem to remember Grant’s memories. The note he’d been left didn’t help. Most of it was pretty mundane: the first two bullet points were about where he kept his medications and a list of scheduled meetings. The next one read,

Do not get help with my job. I have a reputation to maintain. At least, don’t get help with anything too simple.

Not exactly what Wally wanted to hear, but still a clear message. The next point, however, was a lot more cryptic.

Expect a visit at 10 a.m. on Monday. Have the second folder in my filing cabinet (the blue one) out. Have the door closed.

Well, it was 10 a.m., and Wally did have the folder out and the door closed. He heard someone twist the door handle. “Slide it under the door.” Came a deep, gravely, and very artificial-sounding voice.

Wally tried opening the door, but whoever was on the other side of it was holding it shut. Knowing that he needed to find at least one identity to stay alive, he pulled harder, but whoever was on the other side of it was much stronger than him.

“Don’t even think about it. I know exactly who you are, and if you open this door, I will tell the other eleven. Just slide that folder under the door, and keep the door closed for five minutes afterwards.”

Slowly, carefully, Wally obeyed. On the other side of the door, Grant picked up the folder and backed away slowly. He felt sorry for whoever he’d threatened, but these forms needed to be complete before the end of the week, and he was quite sure that Joey would kill him if they weren’t done properly. The second he was around the corner, he collapsed against the wall in relief. Hopefully this would be the most ridiculous thing he’d have to do this week.

“There you are, Wally,” a voice came.

Grant quickly hid the folder behind his back. “Thomas! Uh, hi!” Was that how Wally greeted Thomas? He hoped so.

“Uh, hi. So, your note probably said something about how I’m supposed to teach you to maintenance the ink machine.” Indeed, it had. “Well, that would be pretty useless, now wouldn’t it? Listen, I’ll promise not to try to figure out your identity if you can answer me this: do you know anything about machinery?”

Grant had worried that being caught ten feet from his office would have been a dead giveaway. Maybe “Thomas” was just that desperate. “Sorry, no,” he said.

“Okay,” “Thomas” said. “Guess I’ll just have to teach him next week. Best of luck not dying.” Susie left, making sure to walk heavily, as Thomas would have. She’d just have to make sense of Thomas’ instructions on her own. Maybe calling GENT or getting some books on machine maintenance from the library would help. One week. She had to keep the ink machine, whose pipes and various machinery extended from one end of the studio to the other, in one piece for one week, plus keep up with the pipe installations Joey had wanted. Plus find at least two identities (she wasn’t sure how long she could hide her true colours from “Allison”), and keep her own hidden so that she could survive.

This was going to be a week.

#body swap to the death au #my fanfiction #joey drew crew

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