Characters: Dennis Whitaker, Michael “Robby” Robinavitch, Jack Abbot, Trinity Santos, Cassie McKay
Tags: Hurt/Comfort, 20th Century, Medical Practice, Vampire AU, Sick Dennis Whitaker, Slow Burn, Past Jack Abbot/Michael Robinavitch, Angst With A Happy Ending
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Summary:
For Dennis, the world has just upended. For Robby, it’s another day in Pittsburgh, circa 1900.
Or, so he thought.
But there’s something about Dennis that is driving him mad, toppling the carefully made tower he has crafted from his painful past. So Robby dives head first, figuring maybe this will be the end of him—it wouldn’t be so bad. He’s been chasing his own end for a long time.
But Dennis deserves to live.
And maybe Robby will find a way to live right along with him.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Chapters: 4/4
Fandom: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims, Georgie Barker/Melanie King
Characters: Jonathan Sims, Martin Blackwood, Alice "Daisy" Tonner, Jonah Magnus, Georgie Barker, Melanie King
Additional Tags: Returned AU, Memory Loss, Angst, someone had this really horrible idea and i had to go with it, Suicide, Post Season 5, Non-Graphic Violence, Emotional/Psychological Abuse
Summary:
Occasionally when someone dies in an act of selfless heroism, whatever God or Fate is out there before you are claimed by The End can restore your body, return your soul to the world of the living. Some say it was a way of honouring their act, others believe it was because they still had a part to play in the grand scheme of things, while a few folk whisper that they come back with a new purpose. But whatever the reason, they called those chosen the Returned.
Only the Returned lose all their memories while being brought back.
Jon sacrificed himself to save the world. Now both Jon and Martin have to live with the aftermath.
Monday, September 21, 2015 - Lori Morimoto (George Mason University) presents: Situating Hannibal within the ‘Fullerverse’: Now More Than Ever Seems It Rich to Die
In Media Res is doing a week of Hannibal posts, starting off with mine on the Fullerverse (which, if you read my comment below my own post OMFG you’ll see I’ve been mulling over a lot since I wrote it). This is basically the mid-term result of all the rewatch posts I keep making where I’m all WHY ARE YOU DOING THIS TO ME SHOW WHAT IS LIFE WHAT ARE FEELINGS OH MY HEART FINE KILL ME I DON’T CARE ANYMORE WHATEVER STUPID SHOW NEVER LEAVE ME.
Coming up this week:
Tuesday, September 22, 2015 - Kirsty Worrow (Shrewsbury Sixth Form College) presents: “It’s Beautiful” – Hannibal’s Seduction through Visual Pleasure
Wednesday, September 23, 2015 - Rebecca Williams (University of South Wales) presents: Cooking with Hannibal: Food, Fandom & Participation
Thursday, September 24, 2015 - KT Torrey (Virginia Tech University) presents: Mambo Italiano: Hannibal’s Sumptuous Season 3 Slide into Romantic Excess
Friday, September 25, 2015 - Melanie E.S. Kohnen (Independent Scholar) presents: Hannibal, Slash Fandom, and Queer Media Visibility
Come read a story! Here’s a bit of a taste (from ch. 9)
Rain is just beginning to pelt down on them in sheets when they finish and run back up to the cottage, tumbling inside windswept and breathless. John hangs his jacket on the hook by the door and wipes wet drops from his glasses, then turns to put the kettle on; and there's Sherlock, ruddy and tousled and eyes alight, ducking his head to glance out the window below the eaves. Suddenly, John's transported back twenty years, leaning up against the wall of a dim London entryway and laughing, breathless and alive and so very nearly in love he can taste it. He'd forgotten -- no. He'd boxed it away and put it on a shelf, never to be opened and examined. It's a memory that had warmed him in the days before, tortured him every hour afterwards, and only Sherlock's preoccupation with getting his wax jacket off and hung helps John keep the startled flash of his eyes to himself.
He clears his throat.
"Tea?" John asks, and Sherlock answers with a distracted nod.
"There was a storm here a few years ago as well. Eroded the beach, it was so strong - the sea churned, muddy… I'd never seen anything like it before." He's smiling to himself as he speaks.
"Any damage?"
"Mm. Fallen trees, mainly. No casualties, but a few people had taken shelter in the village hall and returned to water damage."
A strong gust rattles the seaward window, and in its wake John hears him say, low, "Glorious."
He shakes his head.
"You know, most people would be worried."
Sherlock looks back over his shoulder, a devilish grin spreading across his face.
"We're not 'most people', John."
John shrugs, old resignation weighing the gesture down.
"You're not, certainly. I'm as ordinary as they come."
He tries not to squirm under Sherlock's suddenly deductive gaze. John’s shoulders are slumped - very nearly bent - his face pale, and Sherlock's eyes rake over the length of his body, taking in every tired detail. And then, unexpectedly, his expression softens.
"Never," he says quietly, shaking his head. There are other, unspoken words, his steady gaze willing John to hear them; tears - always too ready these days - spring to John's eyes. He whirls back around to the counter and busies himself with the tea until he can bring his traitorous, trembling lips under control. When it's steeped, and John has calmed, he carries their mugs over to stand by Sherlock at the window, silently handing him one as they watch the roiling waters below.
For a time, there's nothing to be heard but soft sips and the muffled roar of the sea. His admonishment notwithstanding, John's not immune to the siren strength of the worsening weather. As a boy, he'd always run into the storms, not away, glorying in the visceral thrill of charged air and beating rain. Harry, with all her audacity, had always shied away, but not John; and now, even with the passage of time, with the loss of Mary and fewer years ahead of him than behind, he can feel it once again - a distant electricity coursing through his veins.
"So placid on the surface," Sherlock murmurs into the silence, looking ahead. "The unchanging sea, setting time by the sun. Almost boring in its regularity, but fathomless and endlessly mysterious. We may never know all the creatures who make their home in its depths - and, John, how wonderful is that? And when it's riled, like now, it's almost divine in its wrath. Churning and crashing and ripping the earth away… "
He falls quiet. Throughout this short soliloquy, John's breath has grown shallow, eyes unseeing, and he doesn't know why; but the old charge is there, palpable between them, causing John's fingers to clench, and clench again.
"Poseidon," Sherlock says, then looks down at John. "Do you see?"
John glances up at him, quickly shifting his gaze back to the window. He sees, and observes, better than he ever had in the past. But he has no idea what to say, so he lets the steady, swift pounding of the rain on the glass speak for him instead.
News in my life: me and my lovely writing partner/enabler/evil person who keeps me in this fandom Denice (forverhazboo) now have a new quickfics blog, where we post things that we write while we're bored at work! Lots of drabbley oneshots, usually zarry. Come read! Come give us prompts! Come tell us everything we're doing wrong! Whatever floats your boat.
