that one time travel psl

[eyediot]

sad bad end s5 jon and tim on a monster road trip



[Algric had given the trio a fair warning of what was happening. Not the specific details of what he was coming from, but he was from a little further along Algric's timeline, and came through Hilltop Road. Never pleasant, but he's here now. IT took a few days of settling, readjusting, and putting some firm self-imposed boundaries on himself before Jon felt comfortable enough to see the others.

After a few minutes of surprise and staring, Jon ends up sitting alone with Tim for a few minutes; the others having some things to take care of themselves. He sits there, fiddling a bit with his fingers, trying not to be self conscious. He can't do anything about the myriad of different, newer scars, nor about his black sclera or so many other things about himself now.

But god... Tim. Alive and not shouting at him right this second. How novel.]

Tim... I.. [Where does he even start.]

Comments

[curriculum_fictae]

[ He nods at that. ]

Whenever - whenever you want to go.

[secreteary]

Doubt you're in a hurry, so... It can wait until you're...okay with it.

[curriculum_fictae]

Mm, well. I probably never will be, so let's not wait for that.

[secreteary]

[fuck.]

I- Oh. Okay. Th-then. Um. ...Just. Give me a minute.

[he's fine, he just needs to rest his head on the cold bathroom sink for a minute so he doesn't have a small panic attack from the suddenness of it. he's fine.

when he comes back after a few minutes, he's ashen-faced but resolute.]

Not ready whenever you are...

[curriculum_fictae]

[ Oh. They're doing this now? That's not quite what he expected, but ...

But this is better, probably. Get it over with for now. Give Martin a chance to do this while not alone.

He waits, his expression a grim mirror to Martin's. ]

R-right, same. Let's go then.

[secreteary]

[what more is there to be said? they both know what's going to be facing Martin on the other end of this metaphorical gallows walk, they both know what it takes to screw up the courage to face it, and they both know what it'll do to him afterwards.

Martin's mind is static the whole way; set on an awful, disassociated autopilot. what little solid thought occurs is both deeply bitter and desperately grateful that it's Algric who's going with him to this possibly final encounter. (he knows himself too well to think that he won't try again to talk to her before she passes, to try and find some peace between them, some meager shred of love and acceptance now that he has a known deadline.) Algric robbed him of the opportunity to find comfort and support in Jon, but Algric knowing every aspect and layer of this agony in a way that no one else can is, blessedly, a relief to not have to try and fail to explain or convey.

what brings him back to the present in painful clarity is when he stops at the usual flower stall beforehand to pick up a small but cheerful bouquet. the hopeful peace offering that always gets thrown back in his face, yet almost never fails to bring. will it be a relief to not have to enslave himself to this small ritual anymore?

will her death mean any relief at all?

probably not. and yet here he is. the two of him.

as the automatic doors yawn open in front of them, Martin finds himself unable to think of how to ever repay the colossal kindness that is Algric's choice to be here, or even just how to thank him. --but Algric isn't here, technically, and Martin remembers that almost too late for it to go unnoticed that, in the view of the on duty nurse, he's giving a very complicated expression to the empty space next to himself.

she's surprised to see him again so soon, so Martin fumbles for an excuse about having " a little more free time right now", then winced as that made it sound like he was out of work. (which... well.) he tries not to alter his pace on the way to his mother's room, but his feet don't obey and slow on their own, until

until.

the door to her room is the last defense and the last chance to back out. there's absolutely a part of him that's screaming to run, but there's the rest which knows that running isn't an option. assuming that Algric is staying outside, Martin just gives him...A Look. what kind of look, even Martin isn't sure - his everything is on high alert and he feels vaguely nauseous - but it's the last little purge of his own emotions that he needs before sacrificing them. with a thrill of dread up his spine, Martin affixes a smile and opens the door with a quiet clatter.]

Hi, Mum.

[curriculum_fictae]

[ He's not Jon, no. Jon would be better - and worse? But probably better, and he is sorry for having denied you that, Martin.

But he is here. And he understands every horrible layer. And now ... there's a dim sort of comfort in doing this for Martin instead of himself. He can do something to shield his younger self this time; it feels a little like being a brother that he never had. (And isn't that what they are now? The strangest of twins, separated by a couple years of misery.)

He stays quiet and invisible all through the approach. The ritual of picking out flowers, the long walk through the care facility hallways. He only really solidifies again right in front of the door inside, when he puts a hand on Martin's shoulder. He's here, Martin. He's going to help you through this. Yes, he'll stay outside to start out with, but only out of the doomed hope that their mother might treat Martin nicely. ]

As - as soon as it starts going wrong, I'll be there. All right?

[ He gives Martin's shoulder a squeeze before letting him go in. Watching the door after.

Inside, their mother is the same as always. Sitting up in bed, her tray from earlier having been cleared away by a nurse. That's good; she won't be able to throw it at Martin. But her eyes are as sharp and damaging as always. ]

"You again. Did your boyfriend break up with you already?"

apologies, as ever, for slow!

[secreteary]

[Martin wishes that Algric's gesture of support could give him any semblance of bravery, and maybe it did for a fleeting second...but it withers with his mother's first word.]

N-no, no, Mum, we're still together. He's r-really wonderful, and h-he. He loves me, Mum, he really d-does.

[the smile on his face is so forced that it makes his jaw ache, made worse by the way his teeth want to chatter from stress alone. so he busies himself with the non-descript vase on his mother's bedside table; a staple next to every bed for guests to place the flowers they bring.]

Aren't-- Aren't these nice? Sunflowers this time. I thought they'd, um. Cheer you up. B-brighten the room.

all good <3

[curriculum_fictae]

[ She does have a way with them, doesn't she? By know, she knows the shortest route to Martin's heart. ]

"Well. He's an idiot, then. One day he'll wise up."

[ She turns her shoulder at that, blatantly ignoring the flowers. ]

[secreteary]

[the second twist of the knife. and a third in quick succession.

it's all Martin can do to swallow down the lump forming in his throat and keep talking to her like nothing's wrong. sitting and telling her about what little in his current life is safe to talk about. asking about her. does she have any new complaints about the nurses?

from outside, his voice is quiet and relatively even, while her slowly escalates in volume and ferocity. she doesn't care, she doesn't want to hear any of it. nothing new.

the crash and yelp of pain is, though.

Martin is bent over double in the visitor's chair, broken pieces of vase and sunflowers littering the floor. his mother is sitting up as much as she's able, chest heaving with the effort and her eyes burning with hatred.]

[curriculum_fictae]

[ Algric, meanwhile, had leaned against the outside of the door, listening to those tones as best he could. Not good, no - he recognises that awful rising patter from their mum - but not terrible yet. He was just considering opening the door anyway when --

A crash. A cry of pain. Martin steps through the door without even realising it, reforming on the other side like a ghost. He goes to Martin's side first, seeing the trickle of blood in his hair, before looking at their mother.

(His heart ices over, threatening to freeze solid.) ]

Why - why did you do that? What could he have p-possibly done to deserve that?

[ Anger and pain intertwined together. ]

[secreteary]

[Ms. Gorecki doesn't have any color to her to begin with, so she can't pale at the sight of another of the same son...but her skin can turn a horrible ashen grey, eyes widening impossibly big. she presses herself against her bed in confusion and terror, eyes darting between Algric and Martin.

the latter of whom is cradling his head and trying, weakly, to insist that he's fine, it's fine - it's not true. his ears are ringing a bit, and for how weak she's supposed to be, the force of the impact was enough to disorient him and make him slightly dizzy.

their mother's voice comes out in a breathless hiss:]

"What are you?!"

[curriculum_fictae]

[ Two visions of her hated husband. Two. This one is muted, but it makes him all the more ghostlike. Inhuman. Monstrous.

The air in the room is very cold indeed, now, save for the little bubble of warmth he reserves for Martin. Shh, it's all right. He's never been able to protect himself from his mother until now; perhaps this time he'll manage something. ]

I'm your son. A - a ghost from a future where you're dead.

[ He cradles Martin's head protectively. ]

Rather think I prefer it now. I don't - I don't understand why we ever tried to make this work.

[secreteary]

She's our mum. She's... She's all we've got.

[Martin's sat up by now, pressing his hand firmly to the gash that's oozing blood. his voice trembles as he protests; small and thick. he doesn't bring up how much he still desperately wants her approval, her love; Algric knows. and Martin has all but completely disappeared from the thought.

their mother clearly wants to say something, but that's when one arm slowly rises and her hand clutches her chest; each knuckle so taut that they're white with the strain. her breathing had already been labored, but somehow she manages to let out a scream. not a high-pitched shriek, no: this scream is guttural, and speaks not only of terror, but of hatred. and agony.

what's high-pitched instead is the heart monitor that's picking up an unnatural pace and shrieking for medical attention; Martin shoots up from the chair, asking her what's wrong, reaching out but not daring to touch. her volume only increases, though her voice is starting to go hoarse and she starts struggling to breathe. Martin chokes out that he's sorry, he'll get a nurse, when several burst in through the door.

one glance at Algric, who's much more manifested than himself, and Martin vanishes. best not to have questions later. only his other self can see him now, though Martin refuses to leave his mother's side, even as she's surrounded by staff. "a heart attack," "call a doctor", are just snippets heard through the flurry of activity, and Martin nearly crumples to his knees. he wants so badly to reappear; to be the one friendly face that she sees, to be there for her in this horrible moment, even despite what just happened--]

[curriculum_fictae]

He knows, Martin. Of course he knows; that wound is bright and hot and painful even now, with her death nearly a year behind him. A single kind word from this woman would have been enough, even now, but ...

Algric reaches for Martin's hand, clinging to him. Trying to comfort him as he turns back to their mother and get some modicum of sense or justice --

And then she starts having a heart attack. He freezes, horrified, as the nurses swarm in and he realises what's happening. No. That's - that can't be happening, it isn't time yet, she's got a whole year at least. The flicker of the Eye in the back of his head tells him otherwise, though.

(It's the thing he tried so hard to avoid with Jonah, isn't it? Taken such pains, only for her to - like this --)

Algric clings to Martin's shoulder, trying to pull him away. "Come on," he says, his voice an echo of Martin's misery. "We - we need to go. There's nothing we can do."

[secreteary]

"No, I can't, not now-"

Martin's voice echoes badly through the feeble protest as his eyes stay glued to the possibility that he's about to lose the only family he has; the only constant in his life. What if she dies now? Dies alone? Martin doesn't wish that on anyone, least of all her. To be surrounded by strangers instead of any friendly face, any family... For the last thing she experienced to be terror and hate...

Maybe if it was anyone else, he'd shrug off that hand, but Martin knows Algric is right, and hates it. Reluctantly, he allows himself to be pulled away, watching as long as he can until he has no choice but to turn to walk out.

Closing the door behind them drowns out most of the noise of the staff trying to save her life. Martin leans against the wall next to the door, needing a minute to just stare at nothing.

"Should... We should stay. M-maybe? Wait for news?"

[curriculum_fictae]

They lean together then. Two ghosts ignored by the staff behind them, invisible to everyone who might look in their direction. Algric puts both arms around Martin in a wordless hug, holding him in place? Holding them together? God, this is isn't - this isn't what he wanted. Protection for sure, and maybe a little justice but not...

(If she dies, he'll have killed her. A whole year taken away from his alternate. He suppresses the shiver of cold that ripples through him.)

Objectively, they should go. If this effect wears off, they might get tied up in the inquest after, and that would end poorly for both of them. But ...

But Martin needs this, doesn't he. And on some level, Algric does too.

"Yeah. We can - we can stay. See if - if anything changes."

Or worsens.

[secreteary]

There's plenty of room to support Algric in return; the two of them huddled together in silent tension and horror as they watch their mother fight for her life.

The minutes drag on, and Martin feels himself quickly disassociate. Trying to follow the high stress activity on the part of the home's staff became too much on top of the hard knot in his throat and stomach.

It had felt like eternity, but in reality it was only twenty minutes. Just twenty minutes before the team gave up and noted the time of death. There was a moment's pause, but the staff won't pretend that Ms. Gorecki had been a beloved resident, so clean-up begins quickly. One nurse voices her confusion at the flowers - Mr. Blackwood hadn't been here in quite a while, had he? - strewn about the floor with the shards of vase. Another sighed and said he'd call Mr. Blackwood later in the day.

And that was it. Her life ended in pain and fear. Dimly, Martin wonders if he feels pity for her, or or some modicum of vicious satisfaction. Or both. But it's hard to think with how loudly his ears are ringing.

She's wheeled out before either of them can even considering a moment at her side to say goodbye. So Martin brushes her hand with his and she passes.

"Bye, Mum. I'm sorry that I wasn't what you wanted."

[curriculum_fictae]

He killed her.

He killed her.

Not with his own hand, but what does it matter? He wished harm upon her, appeared in her room like a vengeful ghost, and caused her heart attack. Manslaughter at best, with a good argument for murder. The inquest would certainly rule as such if they stopped to consider the twin ghosts that have become her sons.

But the worst part is his alternate. Algric himself has made what little peace he can with the woman; he had a whole year past this point to try. Now he's torn that away from Martin right after telling him that he had a whole year to figure things out.

(Monster, he thinks. He's just a monster now. That's all there is.)

Despite his misery, Algric tries to reach out for Martin's shoulder, to lean in lightly. What can he say? There's nothing to say here.

"I'm sorry," he murmurs. To their mother? To Martin? Both. "We - we should go."

[secreteary]

Martin nods, then allows a small, brittle laugh.

"Imagine that they call while we're still here. A ghost mobile. We'd be hearing about that on What the Ghost."

Admittedly, he's reluctant to let go. Not just for himself, but...Algric is going through this a second time. Martin chooses to focus on that rather than the chaos of his own mind and feelings.

With limbs feeling like lead, Martin finally leaves his mother's room for the last time. Silence pulses uncomfortably between them with each footfall, until they're standing outside the home. There's a vague thought that it'll be nice to save the money, now that he won't need to pay the home.

"The usual cafe?" He surprises himself when he asks, not even sure when he'd had the thought. Maybe it was too automatic. He doesn't miss, however, how each of those few syllables sounds like shattering glass.

[curriculum_fictae]

The silence is agonising and comforting in the same moment; Algric thinks he hears the sea washing it in and out. He walks with Martin, allowing numbness to sink in. It's better than the horrific guilt, even if it does drain all the colour from him.

He almost doesn't hear that suggestion. Does blink over at his twin for a long moment, not opposed, just ... trying to resurface. "The one we always go to," he echoes, "after visiting her. All - all right."

[secreteary]

It's a fixed point to cling to when they both feel that they're close to drowning.

Algric looks...awful. Haunted. Martin misinterprets it completely.

"Unless...you'd rather go back? To J- The others?"

[curriculum_fictae]

No. No, he doesn't want to see Jon right now. Or Jonah. He can't bear the thought of them looking at him, Knowing what he's done --

He sucks in a rattling breath.

"N-no, let's. Please. The café. I'd like to go."

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7boVSL4P6_4

[secreteary]

Martin only nods mutely and sets off, trying to keep an eye on his other self as much as his foggy brain and senses allow.

Granted, he prefers it this way. The fogginess protects him, for the time being, from the thoughts that would otherwise engulf him. They prowl around the periphery of his mind like wolves. Even if it's an illusion, there's a part of him that wants to try to be strong for Algric - as much as himself, until he feels safe enough to let go...or at the very least, can no long dam the flood - even as the intent at the beginning of this trip had been the reverse.

The cafe's small patio is largely unoccupied when they arrive, and Martin aims for the table in the least populated corner. No need to drag anyone else down with them.

...Should they order something? Would that be comforting at all? Or is this just a final practice of the usual ritual, where they sit in silence and attempt some kind of comfort for each other?

He'll miss the Danish here. They're really good.

...Lord. He is a terrible son.

oh no

[curriculum_fictae]

There is something comforting in huddling close like this, isn't it? Even if Algric still hates himself for robbing Martin of his mother. He hunches against the table, glad for their shared invisibility.

Mostly, anyway. He watches one waiter after another drift past them, unseeing. "I - I don't think we'll get anyone to stop," he murmurs. "No one can see us any more."