An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
title: you're in a [[canaan house]] with a beautiful boy (on ao3, "canaan house" is stylized in all caps, but it's lowercase here for accessibility)
rating: general audiences
relationships: other - camilla hect &/ palamedes sextus (is there a tag for QPR/moirails/whatever else you could describe this as?)
characters: well. you're never gonna fucking guess who the only two characters are
warnings: no archive warnings apply
first TLT fic. i just finished gideon the ninth and have not yet gotten far in harrow the ninth so 1) hope this characterization is ok bc im like 90% sure that (at least) camilla comes back somehow and 2) no spoilers in the comments please! ignore the title i always forget i have to do that part until the last minute
"Oh, wait, er, statement of Max… is your full name Max Mason?"
"Maximalist W. Garagesband Mason."
Jon bit back an indignant sigh, but the way Max's freckled cheeks split into a smile suggested it was all written on his face.
"Statement of… that… regarding his– xer– transportation to another universe. Statement [[begins/continues, forgot which would be used here]]. Er, go ahead, Max."
"So, I'm thinking, <em>this is taking longer than normal,</em> right? Like normally you almost drown, and right before your body tries to reflexively breathe in water, boom, you're under the cold and unforgiving lights of a Waffle House. But–"
"I'm sorry, I just– Do you know why it's a Waffle House?"
Every now and then, Nagomi got a "problem spirit" down in the Hellmouth. A "problem spirit" is much like a "problem child." The problem is not the spirit itself, but the spirit's circumstances and environment. If you can change that (or, when working with the dead, help them come to peace with it), the problem gets better. If the problem gets better, then Nagomi can do her job as psychopomp and the spirit will pass on.
Sasha was different, because Nagomi couldn't figure out what Sasha's problem was.
Usually, the problem was straightforward: carry out someone's dying wish, exact revenge, tell a loved one what happened to them, etc. And the ghost will make sure you know, too. Maybe they get confused every now and then, especially soon after death, but ghosts weren't normally always lost and confused. Ghosts usually weren't trapped in their final moments for months on end.
Nagomi found Sasha where she normally was: sat against the wall of eyes, with her legs drawn up to her chest and staring out into the distance. She'd never be able to find Sasha if she wasn't dressed in almost all yellow. Especially because the dark warped stone the eyes rested in was only a few shades of brown away from her skin tone. The eyes seemed to finally be losing their interest in her, all of them swiveling around or watching Nagomi as she entered. Nagomi tried to ignore them.
Nagomi stood in front of Sasha and poked her with the stick end of their scythe. "Hey, Sasha?"
Sasha didn't move. Didn't respond in any way. If she wasn't already dead, Nagomi would be checking for a pulse.
Let's keep going, Nagomi, Passenger said.
Nagomi shook their head. No, we've been avoiding her for most of the week now. We need to talk to her at some point. Maybe she's gotten better.
When Sasha still didn't move, Nagomi kneeled down and shook her shoulder gently. "Sasha? You with me?"
It's common for ghosts, especially new ones, to have an impermanent form, switching between how they looked normally and how they looked when they died. Nagomi almost threw up every time Sasha reverted back to when she died. One minute, she was a whole person, then Nagomi blinked and her skin was halfway peeled off her body and a few maggots had found a home in her exposed muscles.
Nagomi flinched and looked away, shaking the feeling of exposed muscle off of her hand. Passenger reached out and grabbed a worm that made a home in Sasha's gore and flicked it away. It being a part of a ghostly visage, it faded out of existence before it hit the ground.
One more time. Then let's go, Passenger said.
Nagomi nodded.
"Sasha–"
"Jon?"
Nagomi looked back at Sasha, brow furrowed in confusion. "Jon" was new. And Sasha was whole again, looking a little past Nagomi with unfocused eyes. She desperately grabbed at Nagomi's hand.
"Jon, it's okay, Elias is–"
"Sasha, I'm not Jon," Nagomi said. "I'm Nagomi. Remember?"
Sasha tilted her head. "No, where's Jon? I need to warn him and the others–"
"They're safe," Nagomi said. She hoped that was true.
"Where are they?"
"Um… at… home?"
Gomi, stop talking, Passenger hissed.
"Well, do you have a better idea?" Nagomi bristled.
Sasha wasn't phased. She didn't even seem to have heard.
"Jon, the CO2, it's going to– we need to get out before–"
"Sasha," Nagomi said gently, holding Sasha's hands, "You're safe. Everyone's safe. You're not in danger anymore. You're here, with me, in the He– um, in Utah. Oh, you're British, that's still worrying– Look, okay–"
"Is Tim okay?" Sasha asked. She probably hadn't even heard any of that.
"Yes."
Tim was one of the two names that repeated. Tim and Elias. All Sasha ever wanted to know was if Tim was okay and if Elias had manually activated the fire system yet. And every time, Nagomi said yes, and every time, it didn't change anything. She had never gotten a last name for Elias, but Sasha had mentioned Tim's last name exactly once. Stoker. That day, Nagomi didn't even wait until getting home before searching online for him. There weren't many folks with that name. The most recently alive person named Tim Stoker had died a few years ago. Stroke, according to his brother's Facebook post eulogizing him. (Nagomi was so desperate to get Sasha to move on, she fucking downloaded Facebook and made a profile to stalk people with.)
"Sasha, how did– how do you and Tim know each other?"
Sasha furrowed her brow slightly, still looking past Nagomi. "We met working in Research. Same place we met you."
Maybe it's worth a shot pretending to be Jon, Passenger suggested.
"...Yeah, maybe…" Nagomi started, before realizing…
Sasha wasn't looking past Nagomi.
She was looking at Passenger.
"Passenger, do you… see her staring?" Nagomi asked.
Passenger's eyes all turned to focus on Sasha. Not the first time that's happened.
"No, no, she's not afraid. Just. Pretend to be Jon."
What?
"Just go with it. Humor me."
Passenger was silent for a few moments, but Nagomi could feel it buzzing. Sasha's gaze was getting more and more distant, and her form less corporeal.
Sasha looked back at Passenger, and, for once, looked fully lucid.
"Jon!" She exclaimed. "I got stuck in Artefact Storage. Did Elias get the fire system yet?"
"Um. Yes." Passenger rasped.
Sasha relaxed. "And it's killed the worms? And Prentiss?"
"Y…Yes… they are all gone now."
Gomi, this doesn't feel right.
Keep going, Nagomi urged. I need all the information I can get. She won't remember, anyway.
Passenger cleared its throat again. "I. Uh. I'm afraid I forgot who Prentiss is! Could you remind me? All this… r… ruckus… has affected my memory."
"Did you hit your head?" Sasha asked, grabbing Nagomi and Passenger's head and examining it."We've been investigating her forever! Well, not forever, but, with Martin living here, it sure feels like– oh, yes, she attacked Martin, remember? Had him holed up in his flat for days. He has to sleep in the Archives now. Well, not anymore, since Prentiss is dead. The CO2 killed her by itself?"
"Yes…?" Passenger said, shaking Sasha's touch away. "Can you tell me how Prentiss attacked Martin?"
"Same way she attacked us, except… less. Tried to infest him with her worms, and when he escaped, she stalked his apartment. Kept trying to push worms through. He gave you a statement about it, it'll be in the box of tape recorded ones. Are you sure you didn't hit your head?"
"I'll go to the doctor later today. Um. Thanks. Are… are you okay?"
"Oh, tired as hell, but alright. No worms, I've checked. Maybe I should check again, though… oh, hey, I saw something in that table while in Artefact Storage! The creepy one."
"Ah. Yes. The creepy table. That we all know so well. What did you see?"
Sasha's face scrunched up in thought. "A… person, I think? I can't remember it very well. I… can't focus on it. Every time I try to remember what they looked like, my mind just… slips off of them."
"And. Er. Could you remind me what this creepy table looks like?"
"The really ornate one you're always talking about being hypnotic, remember? We just got it earlier this summer. Might've been this month, actually. It's in a few statements, I think. Do you want me to describe it again, for this recording?"
"Yes. Uh, if you don't mind?"
Nagomi pulled her phone out and began typing all of this information in her notes app.
Sasha sighed. "Alright. It's a large, dark, wooden table with an optical illusion carved into the top. There's a piece cut out of it where a box is supposed to go. I mean, I suppose a box is supposed to go there. It's too clean of a cut to not be carved out for a purpose, and it's cube-shaped. It was in… ugh, which statement was it? I know it was in the one with the lady whose neighbor was supposedly replaced by a doppelgänger. The table belonged to the man who was replaced. I could have sworn it was in another one, but maybe not…"
"That's alright. Thank you," Passenger said.
Gomi, do we need anything else?
Nagomi stared at the notes in her phone.
Her last name.
"And, for the record, could you, um, state your full name for me?"
"Oh, right," Sasha laughed. "Statement of Sasha James, about the worm takeover in the Archives. Recorded direct from subject, 29th July, 2016," she said in a funny voice, like she was humoring someone, or poking fun at them. "Wait, is it still the 29th?"
"Y… Yes. Yes it is. Um. Long day."
"Two-thousand sixteen? Did I hear that right?" Nagomi whispered.
Yes. Sasha must have died a long, long time ago.
"Need anything else before I head home?" Sasha asked.
Passenger cleared its throat. "No. No, you're, uh, free to go home. Thanks."
"Don't mention it. See you tomorrow, I guess," Sasha laughed bitterly.
Sasha stood and walked through Nagomi– a feeling she never got used to– and went deeper into the Hellmouth. With every step, she gradually disappeared, until she was gone.
I didn't think that would work, Passenger said.
Nagomi barely noticed that it had said anything. She was busy studying the wall of eyes, which was quite busy studying her back.
"...She thought you, an amorphous mass of black covered in eyes, was someone she knew. And she always hangs around the wall of eyes. Doesn't that seem like a weird coincidence to you?"
Certainly, but it's not uncommon for ghosts to want to be witnessed.
"No, it's not just… I don't know. I can't explain it."
i should have anticipated how popular this one would be :] this is an email chain that got kinda long lol
Jonathan Sims [[email protected]] to me and 43 others >
Subject: Artefact Storage experiment this afternoon.
11:03 AM
To whom it may concern,
While cleaning out Artefact Storage, we have found a drum set we cannot find records of anywhere. In order to find out what it does, our volunteer Max will be playing it later today, around 5PM. We don't know how far the sound will carry, and apologize for any disturbances.
Best regards,
Jonathan Sims
Head Archivist
The Magnus Institute, London
Enid Ocheltree [[email protected]] replying to Jonathan and 43 others >
Subject: RE: Artefact Storage experiment this afternoon.
11:14 AM
John,
Is Max taking requests? I would love to hear some Bauhaus.
Enid Ocheltree
Librarian
The Magnus Institute, London
Jonathan Sims [[email protected]] replying to Enid and 43 others >
Subject: RE: RE: Artefact Storage experiment this afternoon.
11:20 AM
You can ask Max directly. Max has a tendency to wander, but stays mostly in the Archives and the city blocks surrounding the Institute. Please do not send any more emails to this thread, as there are 44 people on it, not including myself.
Best regards,
Jonathan Sims
Head Archivist
The Magnus Institute, London
Leo Izard [[email protected]] replying to Jonathan and 43 others >
Subject: RE: RE: RE: Artefact Storage experiment this afternoon.
11:21 AM
Since when did we begin taking volunteers? I'd LOVE someone to help me catch up on paperwork.
Leo Izard
Researcher
The Magnus Institute, London
Jonathan Sims [[email protected]] replying to Leo and 43 others >
Subject: RE: RE: RE: RE: Artefact Storage experiment this afternoon.
11:24 AM
At large, the Magnus Institute does not accept volunteers. Max is a bit of a special case. Due to visa and passport issues, Max is stuck in the UK for the time being, and as a family friend, I've been looking after them. You may remember Max's sibling, Ivy, who was in a similar predicament and, for some reason, got to go home earlier than Max. You may ask Max to assist you in your paperwork, if you can find them.
Please stop emailing in this thread. You can contact me directly for any questions or concerns.
Thanks,
Jonathan Sims
Head Archivist
The Magnus Institute, London
Leelavati Singh [[email protected]] replying to Jonathan and 43 others >
Subject: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: Artefact Storage experiment this afternoon.
11:32 AM
Hi Jon,
I have a cousin that works in the Border Force. Perhaps he could be of some help? My email is open.
Sincerely,
Leelavati Singh
Researcher
The Magnus Institute, London
Sam Harp [[email protected]] replying to Jonathan and 43 others >
Subject: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: Artefact Storage experiment this afternoon.
11:37 AM
Likewise! My sister works in immigration and may be able to help. Where is Max from?
Sam Harp
Librarian
The Magnus Institute, London
Jonathan Sims [[email protected]] replying to Sam and 43 others >
Subject: Please stop
11:39 AM
Thank you both, but no, we're just in the waiting game now. Max lives in America.
I will not be responding to any more emails in this thread to prevent spamming everyone. You may email me directly for further questions or concerns. Apologies to everyone else.
Thanks,
Jonathan Sims
Head Archivist
The Magnus Institute, London
Riley Friedman [[email protected]] to Jonathan Sims >
Subject: Potentially evil drum set
11:46 AM
Hi,
Sorry for the extra email in your inbox, but I swear this is actually related to the drums: can you tell what they're made out of? If not, may I come down to Artefact Storage and watch Max play? I've been interested in any artefacts containing any amount of any type of skin for my research.
Cheers,
Riley Friedman
Researcher
The Magnus Institute, London
Jonathan Sims [[email protected]] replying to Riley Friedman
Subject: Drum set
12:19 PM
Hello,
After inspecting it, the drum set does not seem to be made out of any skin, although Max says the drum tops don't look like the usual plastic. Due to unfortunate incidents in the past, we highly discourage anyone being present when we "test out" items in Artefact Storage; however, you may come down before 5PM and examine the drum set with me if you wish. It absolutely cannot be played.
Best regards,
Jonathan Sims
Head Archivist
The Magnus Institute, London
more ivy & jon. i've grown to love them. autism to autism communication
content warning for period typical ableism (jon does not understand how autism works) (he was born in the 90s when the consensus was "if you can talk you're not autistic")
When they didn't respond, Jon sighed. "Well, I suppose I should start with the basics, actually. What's your name?"
Ivy unzipped their fanny pack and pulled out a laminated half-sheet of paper they keep on them at all times. They slid it across the floor to Jon. Once he had made the appropriate noises of disgust and shock at the bright pink and cyan ink that decorated the paper, he began to read.
Hi! My name is Ivy Mason, and I use they/she pronouns. I am autistic and nonverbal. I communicate through sign language or an AAC device, but I prefer sign! Don't slow down your speech or simplify your words: I can understand you perfectly as is and doing those things will only make it more difficult for everyone. In case of emergency, call 8080-XXX-XXXX
Jon audibly groaned, and Ivy wanted nothing more than to make themself really small and disappear.
"Alright," he said, "Well, a learning curve isn't the end of the world. Just–" he leaned down again. "I don't have to worry about you running out into traffic, right? Or, you know, similar things?"
Ivy shook their head. "Well, that's all that matters, really," Jon said, straightening back up.
back for our sporadic Wednesday dose of what does it mean to be your son
HELL YEAH!!
-
Parker dragged her eyes to the text that accompanied the picture.
So, everyone got their memories of Parker MacMillan back, including my great-grandma, and she unearthed this photo… 🧵
After sucking in a deep breath, Parker clicked on the thread.
Parker was one of her best friends. They grew up in the same small Alaskan town together in the 70s-80s. This mugshot was taken in 1981, when they were both in their junior year of high school (11th grade, a year before graduating, for non-Americans).
Here's where the story gets dark:
(trigger warning for rape mention, not described)
My great-grandmother had been raped by a friend of her father's. She was too scared to say anything, but Parker noticed the change in her behavior and dragged it out of her. She told him who it was, never thinking he'd go berserk.
But he did. Like, actually fully berserk. Apparently he had some sort of anger issues. He stormed right over to the guy's house. He was standing outside, drinking a beer with his friends, and Parker just walked up and punched him.
For anyone else, getting ganged up on by four adult men would be rough. But Parker was the clear winner of that fight. A newspaper from this time said, "A brawl on Thursday ended with the hospitalization of two men and fire damage to a house." Great-grandma says that was Parker.
The details get gory, but safe to say, his *ahem* equipment would no longer be functional. Especially not when being treated at a rural hospital in the 80s. He pressed charges, but then my great-grandma pressed charges for the rape, saying that Parker needed a solid defense.
The whole thing caused quite a stir, especially when the townspeople realized that, if both were found guilty, Parker would get a longer time in prison for beating up a rapist (the other guys didn't press charges, that costs money) than the actual rapist would.
Both of them ended up dropping their charges. Again, pressing charges costs money, something very few people in rural Alaska have. But even if the charges against Parker had landed, with his mom, he probably wouldn't get much time.
ID: a reply on my wip wednesday post from @burningcrab that says "i would likeys to hear abt what does it mean to be your son and/or hand me my shovel im going in" /end ID
yaaaaaay clapping. your son is about parker v discovering parker prime, and hmmsigi is oliver banks/mike crew absolutely-not-canon-compliant fic. excerpts from both are below the cut
what does it mean to be your son
It wasn't even a conscious decision to open Twitter in his browser. (To be fair, he knew it was a problem that every time he was bored he absentmindedly opened social media, but always figured that problem could wait until "another day"). And it turned out he didn't have to check his notifications, or even scroll: right at the top of his feed was his own face, smiling proudly through a bleeding nose in his mugshot, holding up a little sign that stated:
SHERIFF'S DEPT. ANCHOR POINT, AK
3594 - P. MACMILLAN
8 - 27 - 79
-------
hand me my shovel, i'm going in
Harriet sat at a table with a good view of the picture on the wall. It made her uneasy. Not just because it was a barely-clothed woman hanging high and proud in an otherwise PG cafe for all to see. Something about her smile caught Harriet off guard.
The text underneath barely explained why that may be the case:
Meet our owner, Holly Wood!
Holly spent most of her life traveling the world, enjoying the redwood forests and cities of California the most. While doing modeling work in Los Angeles, she fell in love with the Hollywood aesthetic, partially because of their shared name. After coming back home to England after years abroad, she put down her roots in the heart of Chelsea by opening Hollywood Boulevard.
Well, maybe that's just what prolonged exposure to California does to a person.
what does it mean to be your son (blb) for wip wednesday please
really glad i decided to save some prompts for when i was sick and stuck in bed again.
i'm playing around with just referring to prime as him but idk if i like it. feels clunky
pvrker uses he/she/they, whichever pronouns nobody in the conversation is already using, and if all of those pronouns are taken, then he/him. i'm using she/her in this paragraph for him
Other than that… they looked alike. Almost the same. Their eyes crinkled the same way when they smiled. Parker wondered if their Mother had ever admonished him for smiling that way for photos. She wondered if he ever had to be trained on how to properly smile instead of doing something that was closer to a grimace with teeth showing. She doubted it. Even when literally being arrested and looking like he's been beaten up by a gang of strongmen, he glowed. The word "perfect" came to mind, even though Parker knew he wasn't, in any sense of the word.
