#killmeorfuckoff

[stillgrows]

@killmeorfuckoff

These weren't the same tendrils Oliver had begrudgingly become used to over the years, steadily becoming increasingly accustomed to them to the extent that he was able to ignore them as part of the usual scenery of his life nowadays—or so he told himself, every single day. These were different. They weren't tendrils, even. It was more like... thick smoke? Fog? Something condensed and almost gesturing, drawing him from the street and into the cemetery.

Cemeteries were usually a safe space, relatively speaking. Everyone in them was already Dead, so what was there for him to see? Save for the occasional worker, at any rate, and even then it wasn't a particularly dangerous occupation and those who worked in cemeteries were seldom surrounded by those telltale tendrils of Death.

So this was strange. Of course he followed, wariness in his steps. He wasn't used to discovering something new about his connection to Death.

When he saw the body, apparently breathing but unconscious atop a new grave, that was the source of the foggy curls, he froze. Ah. This wasn't what he had anticipated, if anything. That was one way of communicating a point. His dark eyes drifted briefly to the new tombstone before moving back to the body, then he approached cautiously, gingerly, and knelt down by the man, heedless of the dirt on his trousers. Oliver stared at him for a moment, and he appeared to be doing nothing more than sleeping.

Oliver knew better, of course, no matter how peaceful it may have appeared. “Welcome to this world, Tim,” he said quietly, and it was delivered with all the expected somberness and weight of a eulogy. “At least you won't be going it alone.”

-----

When Tim finally stirred, he was in Oliver's flat. Getting him there had been no small feat, but he'd managed. Fortunately he'd had the time to recover from the exertion, and was now sitting in an arm chair with a room-temperature cup of tea on the side table beside him. That fog had practically filled the apartment initially with no room to escape as it searched for someone it didn't seem to realize was already there. The window was open now, allowing it to drift out into the oblivious world below.

“Good—” And as soon as he started to speak he knew nothing he could say was going to land the way he wanted, let alone well. He nearly winced. “Good evening,” he greeted, somewhat awkwardly, straightening his posture. “Ah, how're you feeling?”

There really was no salvaging this. He should have planned even a little. “I'm Oliver Banks,” he said quickly, figuring an introduction couldn't hurt. “I-I was called to you. In the cemetery.” Not quite the truth, but he could give more details later. “Thought waking up here would be a little nicer.” The here in question was a cozy flat, the place decorated with antiques, dried flowers, handcrafted goods, and crystals that spoke of someone who leaned a bit too hard into the new age movement, at least at one point in time.

[tempist-a]

mike is quiet when he slips into the bedroom, or tries to be, footsteps like a breath against carpet, door carefully shut and latched. it is a hard thing to gauge, when his ears feel full of hissing static, when he is at best composed of cracked pieces that spill in places, when the tapping of the clock or against the window adjacent will not cease. silence is always worse, too much lives in the absence of noise, but he sets his cane against the dresser as gently as he thinks he can, and slips under blankets without difficulty.

he tries not to think, to be cauterized, but it is impossible. briefly, mike’s eyes flicker back over his shoulder to the closed door, to the soft sounds of life beyond he reminds himself are merely danny settling in for the night. ( right? )

god, he is tired. every inch, very pore and ounce of marrow screams for rest, just a minute’s reprieve from this months-long vigil. it has not been safe. it may never again be safe, but at least one pair of eyes, for now, is something.

he does not look to see that tim is still asleep, merely assuming, if not hoping, as mike carefully inserts himself beneath one of tim’s arms. the space that that has stretched between them even if only for a short while was much too far. there is relief there, desperately needed comfort in familiarity. enough so that the grains of remorse to feel his partner conscious enough to shift to pull him close are easily eclipsed by the chance to simply bury his face against tim’s collar with a shaken breath he did not remember holding. his eyes burn to close, but no more than they do in constant use.

“ will you be awake for awhile? ” the threat of sleep already washes his voice hardly over a whisper, blurred at the edges. it shouldn’t matter, really, what tim does if danny is just outside, but it would be a lie to say the trust he holds for his husband isn’t a far more resilient, comforting thing.

@killmeorfuckoff​

[screenviolense]

@killmeorfuckoff​ sent: “ why wouldn’t i save you? ” // killmeorfuckoff ? Post art gallery ? 

               sasha stayed quiet, feeling too guilty to look him in the eye. they were as close as anyone could get and he’d even trusted her enough when it came to prentiss. but in a year in a place like that, where not even her own reflection showed the truth, it was hard once again to admit that she’d lost hope time and time again that anyone would even notice. it didn’t help that she had the not-them in her ear, always knowing just the moment when her defenses were down and she was at her lowest.

                ‘ i don’t know. i didn’t think anyone would or could, really. ‘ she murmured, cheek resting on her hand. ‘ you’re one of the smartest guys i’ve ever met and i don’t think even you knew what you were doing half the time in there. ‘

[screenviolense-a]

@killmeorfuckoff​ sent: “   how   long   do   we   have   to   stay   here  ?   i   wanna   go   home  .   ” // killmeorfuckoff for sasha 

            ‘ what’s with you? i thought you were thrilled at the idea of a file ‘til you drop-a-thon. ‘ at least the overtime money would make this all worth it if nothing else would. if he left, then she would be out of a ride and have to ride the bus home by herself, which she wasn’t looking forward to this late in the evening. she glanced over her wire-rimmed glasses at him, reaching over to poke him with a pen.

           ‘ or is it only fun when we wear our pajamas and bring snacks, not actually work? ‘

[pageburnt-a]

                   “ EVERYONE’S FUCKED AND THEY DON’T EVEN KNOW IT. ”

*    ⟢  @killmeorfuckoff​︱ starter call !

[revvnant]

@killmeorfuckoff​ / the place where the fear is

Careful with the makeup, the mask and the glasses; the hoodie, the gloves, and the air fresheners shoved into his pockets and sewn to the insides of his clothes. He smelled like Christmas, and a new car, and cinnamon. He smelled like antiseptic and formaldehyde. At least he knew where he was -- he’d been here once before, and he’d never forgotten it. Chelsea, that was. Not this place. There had been no reason to visit this place when his mother had wanted them to meet her family and see the school where she’d grown up, and his father had insisted on their going to all the tourist traps just to explain to him, in detail, why they didn’t matter. He’d been so young he hadn’t cared. He’d just been obsessed with Peter Rabbit and Paddington Bear and the big red busses, which had probably broken his father’s heart, that being the opposite of what he’d wanted. ( The start of a trend. )

       He kept his coughs to a minimum in the library, until the references led him to the entrance to the archives, where he hovered, hand raised to knock. He stood there for a full minute until someone approached from behind. “--e-excuse me. S-- hh-- s-sorry. I was looking f-for-- th--e archives.”

[vcrtigoes-a]

@killmeorfuckoff​ sent  /   ♙ : Sharing a bed

" oh piss off, stoker, you can’t tell me you didn’t check the reservation. ” or ... had that been his task? alright, it wasn’t as if either of them had only one job to get this done when there were enough adjoining statements, files, and photographs to make two boxes of its own. 

quick field research, elias had recommended with all the abruptness and grace of someone who simply didn’t want either of them around and none of the care if they knew it. it was fine - mike hardly objected the notion of fresh air so long as the sky remained clear. 

( it ought to, so long as he willed it, the vast would keep him safe - yet the silent, strobing flicker at the edge of his peripheral some nights presented another reality. it had put him here. )

it occurred to him for a moment, to offer up the notion he really didn’t need to sleep, but his own sense of discretion keeps him quiet. not as if it was something he really felt like arguing about anyway. at least it was only tim; had it been someone like the archivist, originally intended, only one of them might have come back. for three days, most of it spent trying to locate and persuade leads into the whereabouts of some fenced cursed artifacts, well, he would live.

“ if you steal blankets i’m putting you out the window. ” easy enough to assume the flippant comment as jest as he draped his coat over a chair. it only mostly was.

[behld]

@killmeorfuckoff.      no one should have to feel responsible for the entire world.

should means less than nothing nowadays when their reality is such as it is;      he is exhausted,      atlas’ burden pressing on his tired shoulderblades,      towering tape recorders pushing him down until he is entirely buried beneath their weight,      unable to even reach towards the surface      —

he hasn’t slept in some time.      it’s probably the only reason tim’s gotten through to having a conversation with him;      jon’s defenses are not what they would be were he well-rested.      he can’t summon the energy to put up walls between them,      and is having trouble remembering why he bothers to in the first place;      in this haze,      it is both an undeniable fact and an impossibility that tim could be trying to kill him;      don’t they have matching scars from prentiss’ worms?      doesn’t that mean something?      whether it means trust or not,      that’s beyond him,      but it must mean something.      everything must.

‘      doesn’t matter,      ’            jon says,      voice weighed down with his sleeplessness,      the wry laugh that emerges nothing short of depressing.      of course he has to be responsible for the world.      because everything is real,      all of it,      every goddamn tape-recorded statement in these archives.      because his childhood demons are coming back to haunt him.      because he’d seen prentiss and seen mr spider and seen the thing calling itself michael and probability means that there is so much more out there,      so many deadly things out to kill them all,      and if he is the only one with the accumulated stacks of knowledge to stop it all,      then      ...      he has to do something,      right?      he has to.

he tries to smile at tim,      but it comes out more of a grimace.      he stops trying.      too much everpresent fear gnawing at him to form an expression even approaching happiness;      jon should know that by now.            ‘      maybe you’re right.      maybe nobody should have to be responsible,      but i would argue,      as well,      that nobody should be attacked by whatever prentiss was;      nobody should be       —      anything that happens here,      anything the fools who wander in to give their statements suffer through.      so of course if i’m      —      if i’m in a position to study it,      to find out anything about      —      about any of it,      don’t i have a responsibility to do so?      ’

christ,      it isn’t the job he signed up for,      not by a longshot.      it always did seem strange to jon that he,      underqualified and quite content in his research position,      should be chosen as archivist.      he’d hidden his qualms beneath a mask of false confidence and dismissal,      but that facade has long since cracked.      he’s so tired.            ‘      i can’t do anything else,      tim.      ’