For @vancityfire13, may your day be as magic as you.
.
All too well.
Natasha feels the gentle push and pull of the waves lapping at her feet. The coolness of the sand underneath her and the sun setting in front of her allows her to take the only breath she’s been able to take in what feels like weeks.
She’s thankful it’s August, lovely things happen in August. It had been a cruel summer and the feel of something new, something enchanted, had her feeling hope for the first time in a long time.
It felt unusual to be alone. She just needed the world to be quiet. Setting a timer on her phone, she marks fifteen minutes. Enough to try and tap into the happiness that she knows is somewhere within her.
There’s no one else here, even though the day had been warm, she seems to have lucked out and come to the only place devoid of people. There’s an air of peace that only the quietness of the beach can give.
Natasha closes her eyes momentarily. The wind is soft in it’s embrace as it gently runs over her.
She feels it.
She hears the sea.
She smells all the of the scents the beach has to offer.
It feels like a blank space, a clean slate.
She just wishes she was the kind of person that could find the happiness where it sat and keep it with her. A work in progress, she thinks with a grim smile, taking stock of her current state.
If you’d asked her a day ago, she would have said that she felt like a mad woman. But today? The red had turned into green and then feeling wasn’t a colour at all. Okay, she thinks, I’m okay, but maybe that doesn’t encapsulate everything. She doesn’t want to lie to herself.
Feel your feelings, the therapist had told her once, but truthfully she wasn’t so sure what that meant. Nothing inside was telling her to run. Stay with me, the feeling whispered, stay, stay, stay. This feeling she could abide by.
The tide pulls back slowly, as she digs her feet into the sand, burying them in. The water pools, cool around her feet. Her skin on the side of her feet is scarred and she momentarily stares at it, distracted.
“Thought I’d find you here,” a voice comes.
She turns, unsurprised. “Right where you left me.”
It’s true, Natasha supposes, they’d parted ways on a beach. It felt, maybe fitting, that they meet again on one. There’s always been an invisible string, pushing and pulling them; together, apart.
“Safe and sound?”
The laugh that escapes from her lips is unconscious, she almost doesn’t want the levity, and shakes it off allowing her mask of indifference to reappear as she hugs her legs.
Natasha remembers the first time she saw a beach, twelve years old and in wonderland; awed at the expanse of the ocean.
Never in her wildest dreams could she have imagined something so beautiful, dangerous, and treacherous; much like her. She still feels the same.
The ocean crashes, and she ignores everything momentarily, trying to come back, be here, in this place and time. The coolness of the water helps to ground her and she watches a shell float in and out.
If this was a movie, she’d have a message in a bottle to throw out to the sea, or scream until her voice went hoarse. Instead, she stares toward, forcing herself to come back, breathe. The quiet vibration of her alarm helps.
She feels different when she’s alone. Not lonley, but more contemplative perhaps. It’s rare. Having someone with her, the feeling dissipates and she’s brought back to why she’s here in the first place.
“Speak now.”
Her voice is quiet and carries in the waves.
She feels the ground shift and the weight of another nearby.
“I did something bad.”
The voice is melancholic.
“What you did, what you said, it’s not bad,” she sighs, “you were right, sometimes I feel like I’m only me when I’m with you.” The weight that had been on her chest shifts, the lightness of having said it out loud, makes her feel, different.
“I like being me,” she says it, and realises she means it. She is Natasha Romanoff, for all of what that means. Her experiences, her life, the people around her, they are all carried with her, for good and bad. She breathes, it’s not a bad feeling that settles on her.
She may have stormed off once the words were said, angry at their bluntness, but she’d wondered at what she was really hurt by. This love, this life, it was never simple, or easy; but she thinks there’s a simple joy in living it.
“Call it what you want, I shouldn’t have said it.”
There a pause, as she ducks her head, staring again at the scars on her feet.
“Not like that anyway.”
Natasha shrugs. The silence embraces them both as the sun continues to set.
“It’ll be dark soon.”
The statement is redundant but breaks her thoughts up as she turns and nods.
“It’s time to go, isn’t it?”
Standing, Natasha holds her hand out, forgiving all the harsh words and hurt feelings.
Sum: A stupid morning hike, a promise, a sunrise, and a ring. The day your life changed.
A/N: Its been a minute since I wrote some fluff; I’m really not sure if this counts as angst? but I really only wrote this to cheer myself up so I don’t mind that it’s bad, but If you hear pathetic, lonely sobbing it's me :3
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You could be warm, safe and snuggled in bed right now. You could have woken up at a normal time. But no. Today was the day Natasha had the bright idea to wake you both at an ungodly hour, and drag you away from comfort, onto a hike.
“Where…are…we..going?” you pant, eyes half shut trailing the redhead who dragged you out here in the first place.
“You’ll see, Detka.” Nat laughed, pacing up the hill with ease you envied.
The sun wasn’t even up yet.
Being up this early felt like a punishment, and your eye bags proved it.
Finally the summit was in sight, no less than two hours of walking, complaining, and nearly falling off a cliff got you here. But why? You still didn’t know.
You shook your head, positive there were leaves tangled in your hair.
“Ok, we’re here. Now what?” you ask, meeting Nat at the edge of the hill. All that walking just to end up on a dark hill, over looking the sleeping city, it seemed stupid.
“Hey come here” Nat laughed, taking your arm and pulling you in next to her.
“Watch the sun.” She said as you rolled your eyes.
The city was dark, not how you knew it. Loud, bright, a headache made of steel and glass.
The bustle of everyday traffic yet to begin, the shouts of people looking for a reason to argue, left quiet. It felt strange seeing everything so peaceful, the scattered lights of apartments, people starting their day, cars moving though the streets, lamp poles littered with rubbish.
You felt so small seeing everything like this. And then the sun came.
The first few rays shot through the city like golden arrows, sparks that bounced off every building, every window and every street. The moment they shone, more would appear as the sun drifted higher, welcoming the new day with an amber hug.
“City of gold.” you breathe your mouth gaped and eyes wide.
“Beautiful isn't it?.” Nat says, “I used to come here every morning, before I met you, to get away from everything, the noise, the people..” she trails off and you wonder.
“So that's why you brought me here?” you ask, your eyes still on the view before you.
“To get away?”
“Not exactly..” Nat whispers and you realise she's no longer next to you. In a moment of confusion you turn to see what feels like a dream. Your heart seems to gasp with you when you realise.
She’s on one knee. In her hand a box. Before you can speak she does;
“Y/N. I’ve wanted to do this for so long. I love you more than air. I want to be with you forever. I brought you here to ask... Will you marry me?”
Tears fell before words, your instant sob of “YES!” came without a second thought, before tumbling into Nat's arms.
You held her tight, as if she would disappear the moment you let go. You were so happy, nothing else mattered, the woman of your dreams, the love of your life, wanted to marry you.
The sun covered you both in its light, the heat of its rays enveloping you in much more than a hug. you felt that nothing could ever go wrong, your sobs of joy into Nat's shoulder held a promise, to love her forever.
It felt like hours before you pulled away, even if it was only minutes. You couldn’t seem to stop smiling. “I love you so much Detka.” Nat whispers cupping your cheek and wiping your tears off your sun lit face. “Can I give you the ring now?” she giggles as if you forgot.
“Yes, god yes, I love you so much.” you say, still sniffling as you watched Natasha pick up the small velvet box.
It opens to reveal the ring, she slides on your finger. It was almost too perfect. The hourglass ruby, resembling a widows mark, the gold band that seemed to wrap around your finger like love placed it.
Your eyes didn't want to leave the stone, and tears again fell from your eyes, not that you cared.
“Nat.” you whisper, your voice so delicate it could shatter. ”It’s so beautiful.”
“I’m so glad you like it, my love.” she says, placing a kiss to your forehead.
“I love you so much Nat, I can't wait to marry you.”
i am not good at writing prompts, but how about something with the idea of inevitability? (this is so vague and i am sorry lol)
This prompt slaps no need to apologize. Also I turned this into something about a pair of platonic soulmates bc I’m a huge sap at my core. Also also this is not a ten and donna fic but also It’s not not a ten and donna fic ya know
~*~
“Do you believe in fate?”
She shifts from her position of being sprawled over the arm of the couch into something that sort of resembles sitting up, mostly so she can gain enough leverage to poke him in the thigh with her foot. “What, are we at that point in the night where we start discussing weird philosophical questions? I had no idea it was anywhere near that late.”
He slumps further into the other end of the couch with a bit of a hum, and swats off her next attempt to poke him in the side. “It’s only 9 o’clock, but I am at the level of tiredness that it may as well be 3am.”
She’s agrees with the sentiment, for it had been a wonderfully exhausting day. Basically all of the days since she (re)-met him have been that way, them scrambling for hours with some grand adventure only to find themselves reticent to actually properly go to bed once it’s over. She thinks she would rather like to live the rest of her life this way, even if she never a decent amount of sleep again. Who needs it. “And, what, the sleepier you get the more you want to discuss the Big Ideas? You’re just like Grandad.”
“Your grandad’s a lovely fellow, I’m honored by the comparison. And you haven’t answered the question.”
With a huff, she tells him, “Sorry, mate, but if you’re going to be demanding answers from me right now, I’m going to need you to grab me a cup of tea. Actually, wait, no, I’ll go get it. For all your talents , you can’t make a decent cuppa to save your life. Literally, during that one thing.”
As she gets up, he shoots her a grin. “So you admit that I do have talents. Also, make a cup for me too?”
She flips him the bird and refuses to look back as she heads to the kitchenette, and he calls out, “You’re an angel!,” knowing full well that she always brings him a mug as well. Then, after a beat, he trails after her, because why would he spend the next six or so minutes alone when he can instead lean his head on her shoulder and press up against her side. She gives him a patronizing pat on the head, but leans in as well, enjoying the warmth against the slight chill of the night air.
They’re silent as the kettle boils, and as their tea steeps, enjoying the various buzzes and beeps on an environment that’s never truly quiet. They settle down into some chairs, and she immediately positions herself so she can place her feet in his lap. She never thought of herself as clingy before, but when you’ve been lonely for years, you tend to take every moment of togetherness that you can get. Plus, when they’re not touching in some way, one of them tends to get themselves in trouble. After a few sips of tea, she’s feels as she’s back to a level of cognizance where she can ask, “Why fate? Why not some more light-hearted fare like ‘what happens to us after we die?’ or ‘is there some sort of higher power out there or are we all just muckin’ about hoping for the best?’”
He pauses for a moment, much more considering of his words than usual. It speaks to how tired he must be. “I dunno. I suppose I was just thinking about how, despite incredible odds against it, we met twice, and how I feel this sense that the universe is bringing us together. And, well, I don’t know how I feel about fate, and I hoped your opinions on the matter might clarify some things for me. After all, speaking with you is the closest I can get to speaking with a better version of myself.”
“Ugh. Sap.”
He snorts into his mug “Like you’re any better. You cried the first time I called you my best friend.”
“I don’t think I asked you, actually, and you cried when I told you the same thing, so shut up. And, I guess to answer the fate thing I don’t quite know either. I think I believe in something like fate, but that’s not quite the right term.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah, fate or destiny or whatnot seems a bit too. Extreme? There’s too much predestination to them, not enough free will, and I don’t think every little thing we do is already written in the stars or whatnot. I think we do have choices to make, and that those choices matter, and that things won’t turn out the same no matter what. But, I also think that there’s something, sometimes. I agree that there’s this sense of the universe bringing us together, and I don’t think it was something so banal as simply incredibly good luck. I Think I believe in something more akin to, I dunno, inevitability.
I mean, sure, there’s death, taxes, the like but. The best way I can describe it is that when I first met you, or, not when I first met you, that was a while fiasco, but the first time we laughed together, I remember rather distinctly thinking Finally. Finally I’ve met the person that I was always supposed to meet. Like no matter what, no matter where we were, if we had been born in different times or different places, we were going to spend at least some of our lives together. Like it was, well, inevitable. Does that make sense?”
“I think it makes perfect sense. And I like to think that you’re right, that some things are always going to happen, especially us. I can’t imagine a universe where I never get to meet you. I don’t think it’s one I’d survive.”
“I get exactly what you mean.”
He raises his mug, and asks, “To inevitability?”
She beams, and clinks her mug against his. “To inevitability.”
as a little Writing Warmup here’s a snippet of a tma pride and prejudice au that I’ll probably never get around to properly writing enjoy:
Desperate to get his mother on any other line of conversation, Martin inquired as to whether Basira Hussain had visited in the time that he’d been away.
“Oh yes! She came by with her father just yesterday. He’s such an agreeable sort of man, don’t you think, Mr. Stoker? Always has something to say to people, I find that so much more worthwhile than those people that think silence and stoicism is the height of respectability. Just because you can’t think of anything to say doesn’t mean that you’re so far above the rest of us.”
“Uh huh. Did she happen to stay for dinner?”
“Oh, no, no. She already had plans to go out, always flitting about to restaurants and what not. Seems a terrible expense, my children are quite skilled chefs and it’s much more economical, but I’m not one for judgment. The Hussains are lovely people, it’s just a shame that their Basira is quite so stern. Of course I find her company quite gratifying, but she is also a family friend, and I’m rather accustomed to her temperament.”
Tim looked a little lost, but kept his conversational smile intact. “She seems a very pleasant woman.”
“Yes! She is, she is, don’t mistake me, but she is rather...dry. Mrs. Hussain has often said that she’s envied my Sasha’s charm and beauty. You know, I’m quite surprised that she’s not already married? Plenty of men and even some women have shown interest in her, and there was this one man when she was only 19 who we all swore was going to propose, but it just fizzled out. Perhaps nineteen was too young to be married. But, if I recall correctly, he did still write her several very pretty verses.”
With a groan, Martin added, “Oh god, that’s right, the poetry. That was the moment any sort of affection ended, at least on Sasha’s side. I wonder who first figured out that poetry was the absolute fastest way to kill a blossoming love.”
Jon chimed in, which was just great, with, “I was under the impression that poetry was a method of developing love. After all, aren’t you yourself a fan of the genre?”
Ugh, of course Jon was the sort to come across as so utterly dismissive of anyone who cared for a more Romantic writing method. Martin wants to say, “Yes, actually, and I can actually tell when you’re being mocking, thanks,” but he goes for a somewhat more civil, “Well, calling poetry a ‘genre’ is a bit like calling novels a genre, but that’s beside the point. And yes, I am, I’ve even penned a few verses of my own, though I have no great talent for it. That’s precisely why I know how well it can send someone running. Sure, if there’s already deep dedication from both parties, than a poem serves to enhance what’s already present, but applied to soon at is comes across as far too much.”
Jon gives a hint of smile and comments, “I’ll have to keep that in mind.” What on Earth is Martin supposed to do with that?
PROMPT! the first time the s1 archive gang hangs out outside of work (any variation of the group, doesn’t have to be All of them)
This is only the Archive Assistant sqaud, bc I’m sorry Jon, but no bosses allowed. Also it’s VERY silly and soft bc sometimes u just wanna write nice things u know
(also also fuck I lovecompletely missed that this said “first time” they hang out but uhh. I hope u like it anyway.)
Tim Stoker like to think that, sometimes, not to toot his own horn, but he can be something of a genius. When a cousin’s cousin had offered to let him use their cozy little cabin for a night or two in exchange for help with moving, he had been struck with what could only be humbly described as “inspiration of the most divine nature”. For, as nice as a Friday evening away from it all by himself sounds, it’s so much nicer for a Friday evening away from it all to serve as Archival Assistants Bonding Time™. Or well, more like Tim and Sasha, Who Are Already Best Friends Forever, Figure Out What Martin’s Deal Is, Because For A Guy So Chatty, He Sure Is Mysterious Time™, but that’s not nearly as catchy. Truly, his plan was brilliant, bringing two compatriots and an excessive amount of food and drink to a spot away from the prying eyes of the world and bosses, and feast in the openness and silliness that comes from having a great fucking time.
His plan, and his genius, were tragically derailed. While he knew on their drive up that the air was rapidly getting cooler, Tim couldn’t have even pretended to predict that an hour into their stay would bring a freak blizzard that means they’re snowed in for the next three days, which was 3 times longer than he had accounted on spending with his coworkers/friends. There was more than enough food to last them, and almost enough alcohol, but as Sasha so kindly put it:
“First you make us reenact the first scene of every bad teen slasher movie, now there’s a fucking white out. If we lose power, I’m telling you, there is absolutely going to be a murder.”
“Pfft, no way. The guy who owns this place is one of those weird ass prepper types, there’s a back up generator for the back up generator. And even if we did lose power, we’re all much more the “huddle for warmth under a shared blanket in front of the roaring fire” types than the “get panicked and stab someone in darkness” types, right? Back me up here, Marto.”
Martin, who at three shots in is both hilarious and mean, directs his response to Sasha. “in the event of a black-out I vote we kill Tim. I can take him down and you can finish the job.”
Sasha tips her cup at him, saying, “I like the way you think,” at the same time that Tim yells out, “Hey! Why am I the one dying?!”
Sasha tells him, “Duh. This whole thing was your idea, which makes you the Dr. Black* of this situation. Any good mansion murder mystery dictates the the host dies first. Then, in a moment of entirely unplanned synchronization, her and Martin start chanting, “Host dies first! Host dies first!”
“Okay, you know what? Fuck both of y’all, it’s not my fault that you’re both thoroughbred city slickers that can’t handle being in a cabin with plumbing and running water and electricity. Didn’t either of you go camping as kids?”
Sasha replies “No I’m far too pretty for that,” while Martin bursts out laughing. It takes about 20 seconds for him to settle down. Wiping away a tear, he elaborates, “Sorry, sorry, just. Can not imagine my mother on a camping trip. I mean, sure, she probably hoped at one point or another that I’d be lost in the woods as a child, or maybe even now, but I think that’s a bit different.”
Tim leans over the kitchen counter, placing his chin in his hands as he says, “Oh shit, Martin lore. Spill the deets.”
Sasha, who’s loyalties tend to sway towards whatever’s most interesting in the moment, piles on with, “You called her your mother, not your mum. That’s means she’s pretty much a right bastard, or a member of the aristocracy, which is just another term for right bastard but you got to grow up as a rich kid. Am I right?”
It’s clear the the two of them have made a grave mistake. All joviality flees Martin’s expression, and he shrinks down both his physical presence and his voice to something that could easily be overlooked if someone wasn’t paying attention. “Oh, um, well, I definitely didn’t grow up as a rich kid. And, it terms of the ‘right bastard’ thing, she’s not- er. That’s to say, she’s- she’s sick and. She’s doing the best she can, given, given everything.”
Martin pointedly looks at his hands while Tim and Sasha panickedly look at each other. They go to either side of him, and when he doesn’t flinch away, they each place a comforting hand on his shoulder. Tim immediately feels the itch to fill the heavy quiet, and he happens to know he has quite the talent for blazing on ahead after these kinds of moments. It’s how he’s survived basically party for the past decade. “Ooookay, I’m gonna go ahead and say that all depressing familial reveals shall be held off until at least the second night of being trapped. While Sasha may have irritatingly few skeletons in her closet in that regard-”
“I have Tory grandparents?”
“We all have Tory grandparents Sash, that’s absolutely nothing. As I was saying, while Sash’s family is boring and semi functional, you and me are gonna do some fuckin’ commiserating on our journey from work friends to friend friends. However, I’m going to have to be 40% drunker, go through a decently strong hangover, and then once again get hair of the dog drunk before I can even start to consider heading down that path. And in that spirit, I think it’s time to start up the drinking games. Truth or dare might end up a bit too heavy for our needs, but Never Have I Ever should suit us just fine. I know I’m gonna regret saying this considering Sasha is 100% going to target my ass, but I think we should establish that whoever puts all ten fingers down first has to chug the rest of the box wine.”
Sasha pipes up with, “Ugh, no, not drinking games, that’s such twenty-something bullshit. I expected better from you.”
“Hey, Martin is a twenty-something, so that still works fine actually-”
“Tim!”
“What?”
Martin’s directing wide, bordering on frantic, eyes at him, and Tim is almost certainly missing something, though he can’t for the life of him figure it out. Sasha’s head is bobbing slightly between the two of them, and shes apparently able to parse what Tim has not. “Oh! Martin, uh, I already know that you’re 2, and it’s cool.”
“Did..did Tim tell you or?”
Tim scoffs out an “I wouldn’t!” even though there’s a distinct possibility that, entirely on accident, he would, and Sasha makes a reassuring coo. “No, no, babe, nothing like that. It’s just that, uh, the Magnus Institute is kind of notorious for not doing any background checks pretty much ever, so when I get a new coworker, I..do it myself.”
Martin’s face blanches, and his eyes somehow get even wider. “Oh god, please don’t tell Jon or Elias, I know I don’t have the credentials, but I really need-”
“Woah, woah, I’m not gonna do that. First of all, archival assistant squad, we ride together we die together in a snowed in god forsaken log cabin, secondly, it’d be hypocritical as fuck if I got up your ass about qualifications. Not a single one of us is qualified for our jobs, not even Jon. Maybe especially not Jon. It’s like, raise your hand if you have a degree in library sciences. No one? Okay, cool, that’s not weird at all for an archive. Actually, maybe bring that up next time he gives you shit. He’ll be all like ‘bluh bluh, you didn’t document this spooky bullshit well enough, it’s not up to the High Standards here at Spooky Bullshit Emporium’ and you can be like ‘whatever buddy, you’re an English major, what do you fuckin’ know?’. It’ll be devastating. He’ll be devastated.”
Martin laughs in the manner of someone who knows that they shouldn’t be, and his shoulders relax into a lower position. “Why would you want me to devastate him? I thought you guys were friends?”
“We are, which is why we all collectively need to get back at Jon for acting like such a prick. He’s always been a bit temperamental, but I honestly don’t get what his deal is, especially with you. I mean, c’mon, you’re great, being mean to you is like kicking a puppy.”
“Thanks? I think?”
Tim pipes up with, “Oooo, since drinking games are apparently too childish for Sasha, what if instead we play ‘What’s Jon’s Deal Anyway, Featuring, Seriously, Why Target Martin, The Baby of The Archives’-”
“-That feels a bit reductive of who I am and I also I think I’m technically older than Jon?-”
“-Whoever comes up with the best explanation, and by best obviously I mean most entertaining, gets an all expense paid trip from the other two to one of the charity shops I know we all frequent.”
Sasha snorts, “Wow, a whole twenty quid, who could resist such temptation. But also, I’m in, I think I have a winner and I have a violent need to out-cardigan Jon.”
Martin’s relaxation is gone again, which Tim thinks need to be fixed through aggressively passing a glass of wine towards him. He takes it without protest, takes a long drink, and says, “This seems more like 3 am conversation than a 9 pm one.”
Sasha gives an encouraging nudge, prompting another drink, and replies, “Yeah, well, I am not gonna make it to 3 am. I’ve got about an hour until the Alcohol Sleepiness sets in, and I know Tim will be right behind me.”
“Sashaaaaaa, you’re ruining my reputation as a young-at-heart, party-all-night kind of guy.”
“Babe, you’ve complained about your bones aching often enough that you’ve never had that reputation.”
“Surrounded by mean drunks, that’s what I am. I should be pitied.”
Martin shoots a glance towards Sasha, then replies, “You’d be more pitiable if this entire thing wasn’t, you know, entirely your own fault.”
Sasha nods sagely, “It’s true. If you were pitiable then maybe you wouldn’t have to die first.”
“You know what? I am uncomfortable with the energy that’s been created in this room, how about we divert some of that towards complaining about our bosses, as coworkers who are hanging out and having a good time and not bullying me are supposed to do.”
Sasha giggles slightly as she leans down and presses a kiss to Tim’s cheek. “Aw, sorry, Tim. I promise to double cross Martin when if becomes killing time.”
Tim melts a little, even as he’s replying, “Wait, when?” Martin takes another sip and says, “Whatever. I could take you both.”
How the hell are you supposed to resist a set up like that? With an over the top wink and cheesy grin, Tim says, “I bet you could, big guy.”
He’s expecting a slightly flustered reaction, maybe a higher pitched voice and a blush, if he’s lucky. He gets all of those things, but it’s Sasha saying, “Oh my god.” Martin only gives him a raised eyebrow and level stare, and Tim makes a mental note to reevaluate his dedication to only considering Martin in a strictly platonic fashion. Sasha continues talking, cutting through the..tension? with, “Okay, now I am uncomfortable with the energy that’s been created in this room. Tim, tell the studio audience what you think is up with Jon.”
Tim blinks, hard, gives a shake of his head, and says, “Oh, obviously the Jon we know is dead. His ‘promotion’ to Head Archivist was actually Elias killing him off and replacing him with a robot that has the command If: see Martin Then: be dick. Don’t worry Marto, now that Sasha is aware of the issue, she’ll surely be able to reprogram him.”
Sasha hums a bit, then says, “I buy it. I think my explanation’s better, but Elias does seem the “kill a dude and replace him” type. Like if I was gonna suspect any particular person of murder he’s in the top five.”
“Seriously? Elias? Somehow has middle manager vibes even though he’s the head honcho Elias? Mr. ‘I probably wore boat shoes and khaki shorts for the entirety of university’ Bouchard? Voted most likely to put a thin layer of mayo in between two pieces of white bread and claim it’s a sandwich Elias? The area man that’s almost certainly gone on record as saying that golf and networking are his favorite hobbies Elias? He’s far too boring to have committed a murder.”
Tim’s looking at Martin with shock and delight, and he knows Sasha is wearing the exact same expression. “More of this. Please describe more of the things that Elias is.”
“I mean, sure? Uhh, guy that would pay $80 for a dime bag because you told him it’s a premium strain. Person that ironically says things like “kids these days” and “the youths” and you know he’s talking about people well into their 30s. Genuinely believes that if you can afford a cell phone then you shouldn’t be complaining about being poor, because apparently a one time purchase of around a hundred bucks is the same as trying to pay monthly rent. Tells people to haul themselves up by their bootstraps. Thinks he got to where he was ‘without anybody’s handouts’ even though he’s had a trust fund since he was 15. Writes weekly editorials to the local newspaper complaining about the liberalization of media, and they’re like ‘sir, please stop submitting to us, we’re just trying to talk about Lisa’s gardening club’ because they can’t professionally tell him to fuck off. Thinks salt and pepper are the only spices one could ever possibly need, everything else is simply excessive. Somehow gay and homophobic. Like, yes, he’s taken a male lover, but he’s also seconds away from calling you a slur at any one time. Actually, no, that’s too interesting, and I refuse to believe he’s had a lover. Legally, he cannot have a lover, I’ve decided, so just gay and homophobic, both in theory alone. Has said that Boris Johnson is “a bit much, but really not so bad, and much better than any of the alternatives, really.” All of the cousins in his family banded together and officially got him banned from any sort of major holiday dinners. Basically every shitty boss you’ve ever had, especially if you’ve worked retail, rolled into one.”
Tim lets out a low whistle. “Damn, all right. Get fucked Elias.”
Sasha emphatically agrees, “Get fucked Elias.”
They all clink their glasses together, and then there’s a beat of silence before Martin says, “I’m pretty sure robots can’t get eye bags.”
Tim and Sasha let out a “huh” and “hmm?” respectively, so Martin elaborates. “You posited that Jon had been replaced with a robot. Pretty sure robots aren’t able to look that tired.”
Tim snaps. “Drat, you’ve pointed out the one flaw in my impeccable logic. So what d’you think is up with him? I know you don’t have the Before The Archives comparison, but I think you could provide a fresh perspective.”
“Oh, fuck, I don’t know. Two months ago, I might have had some choice words, but first off, you all genuinely got on, so it didn’t really make sense for him to be awful all the time, and secondly ever since the, um, worm thing, he’s actually been pretty nice? I haven’t heard any snide comments, and whenever I mess something up he’s a lot more, um, gentle about explaining what wrong. He actually complimented my work the other day so. I guess I think Jon’s deal was that he was stressed out and I was very nervous and not very good at my job and he picked up on that?”
“So you think he’s like a horse.”
“Explain.”
“He sensed your fear and he became skittish and irritable in kind.”
“Horses can sense fear?”
“Horses can sense everything.”
“That’s fucked up.”
“Right?”
“Guys, we’ve gone on like four different tangents in one conversation. Martin, I’m very glad to hear that Jon’s changed his behavior towards, because it means I don’t have to yell at him on your behalf, you’re getting to see the person that me and Tim both know who is actually pretty cool, and also mostly because it feeds perfectly into my winning theory.”
“What, you’ve got something better than Martin’s ‘accurate but boring’ reasoning or my ‘super cool but now that I think about it for .5 seconds actually kind of a bummer robot’ knowledge?”
Sasha’s incredibly self-assured when she says, “I sure fuckin’ do. Jon’s secretly been in love with Martin the whole time, and he’s been previously overcompensating by acting like he hates him.” which makes Tim choke on air and Martin emphatically reply, “Fuck off, he is not.”
“No, no, hear me out, I have, I have receipts, as the kids say. First point of evidence: Martin’s stupid hot, and there’s no way that Jon is straight, so obviously he’s not gonna be impervious to that.”
“What?”
“Oh come off it Martin, it’s just a fact. Like, me personally? I don’t even do the whole romance thing, but the first time I ever saw you I blacked out slightly and thought ‘Now there’s a man I could raise some ferrets with.’.”
“I, um, I, well. Is that...supposed to be a euphemism for something?”
“What? No, I’ve just always wanted ferrets, and asking someone to raise pets with you is like the height of romance, I’m pretty sure. Back me up here Tim.”
“On the ferret thing or the Martin hot thing?”
“Either? Both.”
“Aight. Yes, asking someone to raise ferrets with you is basically a marriage proposal if that someone is Sasha, and I hate to break it to you Martin, but you’re incredibly good-looking. We’re all incredibly good-looking, to the point where I think the only qualification for the archives staff is being a straight up hottie. OH! We should name the group chat “straight up hottie squad”. Anyway, yep, point for Sasha.”
“Not a point for Sasha, even if I believe you about about my, em, physical attractiveness,-”
“-Don’t have to put belief in a fact, Marto-”
“-that doesn’t mean anything. By that logic, he’s equally as likely to be in love with either of you, and my money would be on Sasha if it was anyone, because you’re clearly his favorite.”
“Ah, but that’s exactly why it isn’t me, but thank you for the transition into my second point which is: Jon is the kind of person that sees anything that might make him vulnerable and starts aggressively defending himself against it, and what’s more vulnerable than a crush? He’s not crushing on Tim, because Tim’s fucking great, but sometimes he’s also the walking, talking embodiment of sensory overload, and while I myself I love that, Jon clearly gets a bit overwhelmed by it at times. He’s not into me, because he knows better than that, and overall I’m pretty non-threatening to his whole thing, so of course he’s going to be the most relaxed around me. You, on the other hand, are single, hot, kind to animals and people alike, and make a great cup of tea. Incredibly crush worthy, thus incredibly threatening, thus Jon acting like That.”
“Hmm, this still seems like something that comes from watching one too many corny rom coms, and that’ s coming from someone who loves corny rom coms.”
“I also love corny rom coms, but that’s completely beside the point. Because, okay, sure, if Jon had just been a weird asshole to you, I wouldn’t be like ‘oh, yeah, that’s a classic case of covering for something’ but you’re right about him being nicer since the worm thing. So nice, in fact, I shall be bringing in Timothy as my star witness that’s going to blow this whole case wide open. Martin, you may not have heard how Jon has started to talk about you, but me and Tim sure have.”
“God, yeah. Like if we thought he wouldn’t shut up about you before-
“-which he wouldn’t-”
“it’s gotten way worse now.”
“I think the whole life threatening worm woman flipped a switch for him and now he’s all fuckin. ‘Oh, Martin should stay in the archives, let me give him the place that I sleep.”
“Oh, Martin, I don’t think he should go out on too many research trips anymore, I’d much prefer for him to be ~nice and close~”
“Oh, Martin, good lord, did you know that his tea is quite good? I’m think it might actually be the best I’ve ever had.”
“Oh, Martin, his work’s rather improved, don’t you think? It’s really quite impressive, especially considering all the stress he’s had to endure.”
“Oh, Martin, I just want him to take me into his big, strong arms and whisk me away from all of this.”
“He did not fucking say that last one.”
Sasha throws her arms up in the air. “He may as well have!”
Nodding sagely, Tim replies, “This whole thing holds water. I vote Sasha gets the shopping trip. Martin?”
Martin stares at his drink as if it has any ability to give him any sort of answers, then lets out a sigh with his entire body. “You know what? It’s probably nicer than whatever the fuck is the truth, so sure, why not? Let’s get Sasha her cardigans.”
Sasha lets out a whoop. “Hell yeah! Can’t wait for spree, assuming all three of us get out of this cabin alive.”
“Okay, nope, clearly Sasha needs another distraction. Got any suggestions, Martin?”
“Uh, wasn’t a karaoke machine part of the sales pitch for this place?”
“Martey babey, yes! I wouldn’t have thought you’d spring for that sort of thing!”
“If this were a public bar or something where I’d have to listen to drunk strangers and they’d have to listen to me, then no, I’d rather have my brain pulled through my nose a la mummification. But with only you guys and fourish drinks in? I’m down to clown.”
“Sash, you with us?”
“Dunno, what songs are there?”
Tim shrugs, and heads to the storage closet that contains all the various entertainment equipment. It takes a bit of searching, and a bit more digging, but he’s able to unearth the ancient portable karaoke machine. He also grabs some of the jigsaws, mostly on the thought that sometimes a bitch just wants to hang out with their friends and do a puzzle. Also because in light of the fact that they’re stuck inside with no sort of access to the outside world for two days longer than planned, there’s pretty much no way that they’re not going to reach a point where they all say fuck it let’s do a puzzle.
Plugging in the machine, it takes a solid several minutes to boot up, which is the perfect length of time to take it upon himself to take one for the team and chug the box wine himself, with Sasha and Martin chanting in the background. When he finishes, they cheer, and then Martin immediately shoves a glass of water for him to down as well, muttering something about how he wants him to be alive in the morning. Tim can tell he’s well inebriated by now, because the simple thoughtful gesture is enough to make him a little bit misty-eyed, and Sasha can attest to alcohol turning him into the world’s biggest sap. In order to avoid prevent himself from becoming the kind of person who says “I love you” in a gradually more sloppy repeat, he starts flipping through the discography of the now running machine. “Alright y’all, it looks like we got 80s songs or...80s songs. Ooo, they have the Grease 2 soundtrack.”
That gets him a well deserved “No!” from both parties, with Sasha adding on, “Not even if it was Grease 1. I’m putting an embargo on musical theater in general.”
“Oh come on, some musicals are better than other. Right, Marto?”
“I’m with Sasha on this one.”
“Boo. But fine, what do you want?”
Martin and Sasha glance at each other, and Tim’s amazed at how well the bonding night-turned-long-weekend has gone so far, considering they seem to have already mastered the art of silent communication. Martin speaks first, with, “They got Dolly Parton?”
The process of scrolling through individual letters to type is achingly slow, but luckily all he needs to get through is “DO” before she shows up. “They do.”
Sasha says, “Do they got 9 to 5, by Dolly Parton?”
Tim’s eyes light up with realization as he says, “They do,” and in a moment of spontaneous understanding, all three of them know that they’re not simply going to sing 9 to 5. No, they’re going to do a full blown music video for the benefit for nobody but themselves, because why the fuck not.
The next hour is spent in a very silly fashion. They figure out how to use the cabin’s layout to their advantage, assign various parts of the song to each person, and practice their inexpert choreography a few times with the song tinnily blasting from Sasha’s phone. The final result is hardly of professional quality, but it is of making them all giggle quality. It starts off in a relay like manner, each of them in a different area to coordinate with “Tumble of out bed and stumble to the kitchen” (Sasha on the couch), “Pour myself a cup of ambition”, (Tim at the coffemaker), and “Yawn and stretch and try to come to life” (Martin at the fridge), with them finally crowding around the karaoke machine together to scream sing the chorus. Despite their practice, they quickly go off key, and while they might end up with low points for accuracy, they get full marks on enthusiasm.
When the song ends, it takes them a few minutes to settle down into something less giddy. As they do, Sasha, out of breath, says, “Fuck me, I’m sleepy now. What the hell?”
Tim hums in affirmation. “Goddammit, I’m tired too. Let me guess, Martin, you’re young enough that you could go all night?”
“No? I’ve never pulled an all-nighter in my life. Actually, I know that it was supposed to be in case the power went out, but huddling together under a blanket in front of a fire sounds really nice? I mean, um, if you guys were down.”
Sasha leans her head against Martin’s shoulder and takes on the expression of a deeply content cat. “Mmm, I call Martin, he’s warm.”
“Absolutely not, I also want to leech Martin’s warmth. You good with being in the middle?”
Martin’s practically beaming, but his voice manages to almost fake being put upon. “I suppose it’s a sacrifice I could make.”
With Sasha already half asleep, Martin brings her over to the couch, while Tim gets them all set up. He manages to find the kind of big, fluffy blanket that all cabins should contain and wraps it around their shoulders. Luckily for them, the fireplace is gas lit and can be put on a timer. He sets it for 30 minutes, even though all three of them are going to be long passed out before them. Sasha is already softly snoring away, and Martin’s head keeps drifting down and snapping back up. Tim curls up against Martin’s other side, and even though all three of them are going to wake up with aching backs and worse heads, he thinks he really just might be a genius after all.
*Why is Mr. Boddy’s name Dr. Black in the UK. I hate that. Why would you not have the dumb joke of naming the victim “boddy”. Hey brits explain your crimes.
idk what sort of a prompt you're looking for so starry skies and the sea <3
So in the depths of my heart there lives a highly romanticized, completely historically innaccurate pirate story that is probably also a lesbian romance that will almost certainly never see the light of day, so here’s a bit of what that might look like that hopefully give u what u were lookin for
~*~
Captain Mara Marquette is of the rather strong opinion that anyone who would chose to be something other than a sailor is horribly misguided at best and purposefully acting the fool at worst. Sure, there are other lots in life that provide more comforts; the warmth of a bed over the swinging of a hammock, air that never stings with saltwater, labors that leave your hands uncalloused and your backs unbent, but she simply doesn’t see the point of something as fleeting and unnecessary as comfort over the true majesty of the sea. Even when she betrays you, her fury is wonderfully unmatched, no other force of nature could even hope to match her passion. And when she’s still, deciding to be generous to your ship and your crew? There is no kinder lover in all the galaxy, and who could possibly give that up. Who could possibly not bother to seek it out in the first place?
Captain Mara Marquette is also of the rather strong opinion that should you chose to take flight on the glory of the ocean (which is the only chose she can deign to respect), and you chose to be a privateer rather than a pirate, then you’re simply a bastard through and through. Ironically, much more of her crew is made of those born out of wedlock than any of the government’s fleet, but she has significantly more respect for any born to unmarried mothers (and the unmarried mothers themselves) than any pompous ass that so desperately tries to gain the favor of the queen.
No, she’ll take her crows nest underneath the proudly waving jolly roger over any of that crown’s glory nonsense any day of the week. After all, perched up here, slowly sipping at a whiskey and watching the seemingly endless horizon, is the finest place on the whole of Earth. That is, except when the waves decide to settle their stirrings and the night has decided no cloud shall cover its presence. Then, she’s convinced, that she has been transported to the very heavens, if only for the few hours that can last before her home planet gets impatient with her time spent in the celestial realm.
Right now is one such night, the sea mirroring the sky so perfectly that she’s unsure whether her ship is steadfastly moving through water or stars. It’s not a completely unheard of phenomena, and technically speaking, nothing she hasn’t seen before. Yet, she thinks she could see a night like this one a thousand, a million, a countless number of times, and each time it would take her breath away.
Underneath her she feels the motion of someone climbing up the ladder to join her, and she’s knows that unless she made a jump that could only end badly, she’s been caught favoring sight-seeing over sleeping. Luckily, her status as captain means there’s little than can be done to her for such a transgression, so she feels no particular drive to make her presence unknown.
Turns out her instinct to relax was correct, as it’s simply her beloved first mate Nia. Even better, it’s her beloved first mate Nia, carrying a bottle of wine. One of the finest things about their crows nest, other than the view, is that it is built to be able to accommodate two. Mara is fundamentally opposed to the concept that the sea must be a lonely place, even when someone is serving their duty as lookout, and did her best to ensure that her ship was made in such a manner that, if desired, you can always exist with a partner. It’s not something she herself always seeks, knowing the incredible value of time with one’s self, but the option certainly seems to boost morale.
She thinks there is nothing grander than her current view, except for that current view to be shared with another. When her first mate tosses her a lazy smile, waves the bottle by its neck, and greets, “Captain,” she matches the easy affection with a matching smile. “First mate.”
“I knew that when those clouds cleared out this evening that I would find you here moping far past your bed time.”
“Ah, you have me mistaken, my dear, for I am doing the opposite. I’m revelling. How could I not, on a night such as this?”
Nia settles in beside her and pops the cork. There’s a twinkle in her eye as she takes a swig and offers, “My apologies, cap’n. The two often look the same on you.”
Mara nudges her first mate with her shoulder, and takes the proffered wine though she is already more inebriated than advisable. “No apologies necessary, for you’re not the first to tell me as much. They both often result in me getting lost in thought, it’s just the tint of said thoughts that is so starkly different.”
“Well I think you think to much. Hopefully liquor will make quick work of that particular affliction.”
Mara snorts. “Hardly. I wouldn’t have lasted this long if alcohol had any ability to slow my thoughts. One of the advantages of this life, you’re always quicker than most would think.”
“Yeah, okay, whatever. I’ve been on this ship nearly as long as you, and the wine makes my limbs heavy in exactly the way you’d expect, so I think you’re full of it.”
Mara laughs, loud and unapologetic, even though it certainly disrupts the fragile peace of the midnight hour. “You got me there. Let an old salt dog have her little stories though, won’t you?”
“I don’t think someone who’s 37 can properly count as an ‘old salt dog’, but sure. What’s caught your thoughts so throughly now, anyway?”
“It’s going to sound terribly whimsical.”
“I like whimsy.”
“In that case. I was simply, marveling, I suppose. Of all the places in all of the world, there’s no where I’d rather be than right here, right now, seeing all of this. You could offer me countless riches, a thousand marriage proposals, beauty that would rival Aphrodite’s, and I wouldn’t take any of it over this.”
“I know exactly the feeling. Delightful, isn’t it?”
Mara hums her agreement, then manages to tear her gaze away from the stars and over to her first mate. She’s surprised to find that, while her eyes are as reflective of the universe above them as the sea itself, it’s not the sky that Nia is looking at. Instead, she’s looking directly at her captain.
will there be a part two of the fic you posted? I wanna see what happens next
I haven’t started writing a part two yet, but I am going to. I probably won’t have time to start writing it until the end of next week though because I have my final deadlines for my course this week. So not real soon but soon(?)
