[It turns out that Tim Stoker loved the holidays. It had been years since he'd decorated - there hadn't really been the reason, or the energy, frankly, to do so. But now, with a house filled with people again, the desire for lights, ornaments and stockings was practically a genetically fired drive.
A hook pulled down the ladder to the attic, and box by box, some labelled in childish scrawl, crayons in roman lettering. Others in the tight, crisp adult writing, if in Korean.
It was a question how the boxes got up in the attic, as overloaded as they were, as bringing them down had been an affair. But chunk by chunk, a full, large tree was set up, and while that was decorated, lights strung outside. Little stocking holders set up on the mantle, with a promise - or was it a threat- that they were going to get their own.
The last few days were busy, but today? Today was festive, strewn with glittery decorations and bright lights, contrasting colors and warm throws in seasonal hues.]
Think it's enough?
[Says the hurricane of the last few days, now thankfully sprawled on the couch.]
[Jon himself welcomed the distraction from what was coming for him. Even if the boxes coming down had been an exercise in his own physical weakness. He only had the vague st memories of colored lights and music before it was all gone. Even the beach front had more generic, wholesale decorations around the streets than anything homey.
He sits next to Tim, looking at all of it.]
I think it's more than I've ever done. Didnt even decorate the break room this much.
[ Martin keeps it to himself that every thud of his heart aches with the fact that this will be the first Christmas without his mother, who taught him everything he knows about the holiday - joy included, when he was smaller and his dad was still around - but he is also very, very grateful that he can't imagine a better way to spend this time, and people to spend it with, in her stead. ]
Is there ever enough? Really?
[ careful to not bring up his mother: ]
I think...there might be a handful that I've got left from when I was a kid. Think there'd be any room?
[After everything is out and put up, Jonah is sitting on the floor looking up at it all. It's a different kind of lights than the domains he walked through, or the horrible shows of the Unknowing. This is softer, kinder. Warm in the best of ways, and he's taking it all in quietly. His eyes are a bit wide, reflecting off the color.]
[ there's a park not far from Tim's. not very large or prestigious, but nice. well-maintained, even as the days get colder. a playground for children, a lawn area, picnic tables, and plenty of benches. many are sitting and enjoying the clear day despite the chill; most seats are taken.
one bench is, from a distance, conspicuously empty. to anyone who should draw near, however, the reason becomes quickly apparent: the temperature drops sharply to a biting freeze, and any who endeavored to occupy the area quickly change their minds.
of course, it's already occupied. just not visibly. Martin is barely a shimmer in the air; his hands folded in his lap as he stares vacantly at the ground in front of him. cold radiates from him in vicious denial of his environment and any intruders.
most of the time, anyway. he vacillates between wanting to be alone and forgotten, or desperately wanting comfort and company - wanting Jon - from moment to moment. there are windows of opportunity in that forbidding cold when he changes his mind, but even then, Martin can hear the waves of distant shores and almost feel sand give way beneath his feet. the fog, he knows, is of his own making. but as his mind changes, he peeks out from beyond it, hoping to see a familiar figure loping towards him.
but why would he? Jon doesn't know where he's gone, or why. Martin didn't go ho-- go to Tim's, didn't leave a note, didn't text, didn't call. he has no reason to expect that his boyfriend will magically show up.
[He didn't text or let Jon know where he was going, no. But even he has enough common sense to know when something's up (after the two weeks of Martin alone in his flat, two weeks of being hunted and surrounded, Jon had to keep a closer eye out-) and when to go looking. It's easy enough for his Eye to let him know what direction to go and even easier when he can feel the chill. It's in one of those opportunistic moments that he catches a glimpse.
He doesn't call out to him, no. Instead he comes to sit next to him on the bench, hands wringing a bit.]
[ five men-slash-monsters in one house with precious few reasons to celebrate anything over the past year are going to do their absolute damnedest for Christmas. the Martins politely suggest a bit of their own family traditions - the feasting, Wigilia, and celebrating on Christmas Eve as per Polish custom - which was met with enthusiasm. two Christmases, why the fuck not?
Martins are cooking pierogies, mushroom soup, sauerkraut, fish, cabbage rolls, with gingerbread and kutia and poppyseed cake baking in the background...and actually having a good time with each other despite recent tragedy. "Algric, is the oplatek ready?" and other preparation banter can be heard amidst the commotion.
Tim has been assigned an easy job; watching over and occasionally stirring the mulled wine, with all manner of spices and orange slices and even a few secret things that the Martins refuse to disclose. this decision of wine keeper cannot possibly go badly.
the Jons are welcome to finish decorating or contribute to a happily noisy, crowded kitchen and help where they can. ]
[His shoulder still aches from the biting cold Peter marked him with, a more solid, visible scar than the numbness he feels occasionally. Jonah at least got most of his strength back, but it's still slow going with only reading very old statements.
He's downstairs, walking deliberately and keeping one hand on the wall. Up close his vision is fine, but other side of the room is still a blurred mess. Don't mind him, Tim.]
[Jonah wasn't entirely in a position to go buying much, but he has a couple very small packages wrapped. One for the whole group, and one for Tim specifically.]
[It was the agreed upon date. Holidays over but some lingering knickknacks still around. Taking a long look at himself in the mirror before making his way to the kitchen. It would be the simplest to explain to first responders, "a cleaning accident in the kitchen, everyone on the other side of the home and didn't realize-" and not be questioned too much about it.
[He's waited all day. Martin was especially sweet all morning, and then looked... A kind of way when he left. And hasn't come back. Something's Wrong, and it only takes a moment to realize he hasn't seen Tim all day to guess what's up. There's enough anger and hurt there that Algric broke his promise to get him motivated.
Jonah is terrified. But he's going to make sure they can do what they need. HE can't see properly through the tunnels to know if they made it, but he can go to the Institute. He doesn't have a Lonely cloak shielding him as he walks through London. The skies are a sharp orange as the sun is setting and he gets to the doors. God. God, he's already here. It's too late to turn back, as he opens the doors and steps inside. His feet hit the floors and he's overcome with... all of it. The only people left are late researchers and the front desk people closing up.
There's so much. There is so much here, and the realization this is his domain. He can't help it. Jonah can't stop that feeling that comes over him, the words that spill out. The Institute's full library of pain and terror, the people working here trapped and filling it just as much. Jonah's gaze turns upward, toward the office of the man in charge, feeding on all the little bits of fear and paranoia of all who wander these halls.
He is looking at the Eye as it looks back at him, in the center of the Institute's first floor.]
[It bubbles through him, welling up like a high tide. Dragging him under like the undertow. The rippling, malicious orb at the center of all of this narrows his vision, rapt and enraptured. It pours into him and through him.
The words press under the palate of his jaw - how Rosie's always said she hates the cold draft in her office, and that's why she wears the gloves. It was easier than explaining where the terror of the cameras, of the stares, of the pressures had caused her to chew down past her nails...
The soft streaks of despair of a student who knows every staff member here knows them and while they aren't watching, picks apart their thesis. The staff know they're just hiding here, in the comforting world away from pressure, but it's always waiting, looking for weakness. How they've started a plan-
The desperate story of the man in the statement room now, who has no idea that in fleeing one fear, he's bent backwards, offering his soft, tender neck to this Institute instead.
To Jonah. All he needs to do is go and bite down, drink deep of the heady, sweet fear laid at his feet.
Which way is back now? Which way is up?]
"Yes, no that's fine. I... will take care of this. Close up wont you, Rosie?"
[Tim didn't exactly have a word for what he was feeling coming back down here under the tunnels. You'd think, here he was, full of fire and fury he could stop being afraid of things like this anymore. He could just parade back down, knowing that he could DO something if he was ever cornered like he was.
But sometimes a turn here, or a pass here (were they the same? Maybe, maybe not. It's easy to get lost down here) reminded him of those blindingly fast, white tipped things. The anoxic hallucinations, the itching, the squirming.
He scratched his arms even as he makes the joke to Algric.]
Cozy, innit? You can see why the supervillain de'jour would set up his command tower. The view is just ASTOUNDING.
[ God, Tim, please. Algric is ... well, nervous. He's got plenty of the Lonely's chill to protect him - even more knowing that they've left Jonah behind without telling him anything. (But it will be fine, right? Oh sure, Jonah will be mad, but after Tim and Algric retake the Institute, all will be forgiven. Or they'll die and forgiveness won't matter.)
He manages a nervous laugh, but that's about it. He has been here before, but only with Peter, and that with Leitner's Leitner in hand. ]
It is very James Bond, I'll give him that. Too bad he's such a twat.
[The office would be quiet, if not for the minute sounds of a cassette tape spool recording, and the sounds of papers being rifled through. Jonah still sits in the high back chair, staring blankly forward unseeing to all present as the Archive still shares its contents. The black sludge that's been dripping has covered the floor, slowly sprawling like a tar pit encompassing all it can touch.
It hasn't touched Elias' feet yet, no. But it hasn't touched the entirety of the room yet either. Like it's waiting.]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
A holiday scene
A hook pulled down the ladder to the attic, and box by box, some labelled in childish scrawl, crayons in roman lettering. Others in the tight, crisp adult writing, if in Korean.
It was a question how the boxes got up in the attic, as overloaded as they were, as bringing them down had been an affair. But chunk by chunk, a full, large tree was set up, and while that was decorated, lights strung outside. Little stocking holders set up on the mantle, with a promise - or was it a threat- that they were going to get their own.
The last few days were busy, but today? Today was festive, strewn with glittery decorations and bright lights, contrasting colors and warm throws in seasonal hues.]
Think it's enough?
[Says the hurricane of the last few days, now thankfully sprawled on the couch.]
Re: A holiday scene
He sits next to Tim, looking at all of it.]
I think it's more than I've ever done. Didnt even decorate the break room this much.
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That break room was barely decorated at all. And there was always something from last season still up.
That was an absolute crime.
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(But he's had some time, at least, for the wound to stay closed for a few days of distractions.)
He leans over the back of the couch, a pleasant little breeze in the otherwise warm room. ]
You say that as if we've room for any more, Tim.
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Is there ever enough? Really?
[ careful to not bring up his mother: ]
I think...there might be a handful that I've got left from when I was a kid. Think there'd be any room?
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jonah specific
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ding dong the witch is dead
one bench is, from a distance, conspicuously empty. to anyone who should draw near, however, the reason becomes quickly apparent: the temperature drops sharply to a biting freeze, and any who endeavored to occupy the area quickly change their minds.
of course, it's already occupied. just not visibly. Martin is barely a shimmer in the air; his hands folded in his lap as he stares vacantly at the ground in front of him. cold radiates from him in vicious denial of his environment and any intruders.
most of the time, anyway. he vacillates between wanting to be alone and forgotten, or desperately wanting comfort and company - wanting Jon - from moment to moment. there are windows of opportunity in that forbidding cold when he changes his mind, but even then, Martin can hear the waves of distant shores and almost feel sand give way beneath his feet. the fog, he knows, is of his own making. but as his mind changes, he peeks out from beyond it, hoping to see a familiar figure loping towards him.
but why would he? Jon doesn't know where he's gone, or why. Martin didn't go ho-- go to Tim's, didn't leave a note, didn't text, didn't call. he has no reason to expect that his boyfriend will magically show up.
(or does he?) ]
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He doesn't call out to him, no. Instead he comes to sit next to him on the bench, hands wringing a bit.]
Martin.
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POLISH CHRISTMAS!!!
Martins are cooking pierogies, mushroom soup, sauerkraut, fish, cabbage rolls, with gingerbread and kutia and poppyseed cake baking in the background...and actually having a good time with each other despite recent tragedy. "Algric, is the oplatek ready?" and other preparation banter can be heard amidst the commotion.
Tim has been assigned an easy job; watching over and occasionally stirring the mulled wine, with all manner of spices and orange slices and even a few secret things that the Martins refuse to disclose. this decision of wine keeper cannot possibly go badly.
the Jons are welcome to finish decorating or contribute to a happily noisy, crowded kitchen and help where they can. ]
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And it lets him think of her a little without fully hating himself for what he's done. If only for a moment.
Algric scootches past his alternate (original?) self to peer into the oven, where the large embossed Christmas wafer is currently baking. ]
Nearly, I think. Although -
[ Oh no. ]
I think Mary's face might have baked a bit ... off.
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timmmmmmmmmmm following up with jonah
He's downstairs, walking deliberately and keeping one hand on the wall. Up close his vision is fine, but other side of the room is still a blurred mess. Don't mind him, Tim.]
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He eyes the slow, careful process and-]
Foot fell asleep? [Except he can probably feel something is wrong...]
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PRESENTS!!!!!!!
for Jon
M-Merry Christmas, Jon.
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for Algric
Your turn.
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TIM AT LAST
Happy Christmas!
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jonah for everyone
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[goodbye earl melody] CAUSE JON HAD TO BLIND
Jon sits at the table just... Thinking.]
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... Are you ready?
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TAKING THE INSTITUTE: jonah
Jonah is terrified. But he's going to make sure they can do what they need. HE can't see properly through the tunnels to know if they made it, but he can go to the Institute. He doesn't have a Lonely cloak shielding him as he walks through London. The skies are a sharp orange as the sun is setting and he gets to the doors. God. God, he's already here. It's too late to turn back, as he opens the doors and steps inside. His feet hit the floors and he's overcome with... all of it. The only people left are late researchers and the front desk people closing up.
There's so much. There is so much here, and the realization this is his domain. He can't help it. Jonah can't stop that feeling that comes over him, the words that spill out. The Institute's full library of pain and terror, the people working here trapped and filling it just as much. Jonah's gaze turns upward, toward the office of the man in charge, feeding on all the little bits of fear and paranoia of all who wander these halls.
He is looking at the Eye as it looks back at him, in the center of the Institute's first floor.]
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The words press under the palate of his jaw - how Rosie's always said she hates the cold draft in her office, and that's why she wears the gloves. It was easier than explaining where the terror of the cameras, of the stares, of the pressures had caused her to chew down past her nails...
The soft streaks of despair of a student who knows every staff member here knows them and while they aren't watching, picks apart their thesis. The staff know they're just hiding here, in the comforting world away from pressure, but it's always waiting, looking for weakness. How they've started a plan-
The desperate story of the man in the statement room now, who has no idea that in fleeing one fear, he's bent backwards, offering his soft, tender neck to this Institute instead.
To Jonah. All he needs to do is go and bite down, drink deep of the heady, sweet fear laid at his feet.
Which way is back now? Which way is up?]
"Yes, no that's fine. I... will take care of this. Close up wont you, Rosie?"
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But sometimes a turn here, or a pass here (were they the same? Maybe, maybe not. It's easy to get lost down here) reminded him of those blindingly fast, white tipped things. The anoxic hallucinations, the itching, the squirming.
He scratched his arms even as he makes the joke to Algric.]
Cozy, innit? You can see why the supervillain de'jour would set up his command tower. The view is just ASTOUNDING.
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He manages a nervous laugh, but that's about it. He has been here before, but only with Peter, and that with Leitner's Leitner in hand. ]
It is very James Bond, I'll give him that. Too bad he's such a twat.
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THE HEARTGAME
It hasn't touched Elias' feet yet, no. But it hasn't touched the entirety of the room yet either. Like it's waiting.]
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No. Wait. Shit, why is - ]
Jon? Jon, what - what are you doing here?
[ Algric stumbles forward, blind to the black ooze covering the floor. ]
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