Please take down the misletoe

[moderatelymaladjusted]

characters: Quentin Coldwater and [various] Open To All
location: All over Beacon
date/time: From December 17th and until December 31st
content: What has Quentin been spending his time on before Christmas, and "this is how the world ends - not with a bang, but with a whisper".
warnings: None for the first prompts, but the last one - warning; violence, swearing, suicidal ideation, death.


You learn my secrets and you figure out why I'm guarded - Scrapyard. From 17-23 December.

[The Night Market had been-- well, as close to fun as one might get around here, and Quentin got his question answered. Okay, so it came with a price, but all things considered, and considering the price he'd paid for magic in the past, blowing pink bubbles was practically walking away unscratched.

It does make it really awkward to talk to people, though, so Quentin has started taking his notebooks with him to write on, just in case the bubbles started getting too annoying.

But most of the time, he's alone. Out by the scrapyard, where he can find old wires and metal shavings to work his magic in to. Shaping it, bit by careful bit, in to a ring. He can't put lasting enchantments on it, but he can make it smooth. Pretty and copper-colored, even if the tiny peach and plum are a bitch. Metallurgy was never really his thing.

The other thing Quentin is working on, are a plain pair of gloves. They came from the general store, with holes at the back of them and the fabric had been something bile-green with red stripes. Ugly and useless, except Quentin can be found very, very carefully using magic to bleed the colors in to black and mending the holes with tiny scraps of fabric from his bag.]

Oh, hey! I thought I was alone out here.

Dancing with our hands tied - The Invincible. December 18 and 22.

[The Invincible looks better these days, like it wasn't a barred stronghold just a few weeks ago. But the after-image of the sleeping bodies, all placed so carefully around the Inn and in the rooms, is not going to stop being a thing any time soon.

Guards at the door and all the windows had been boarded over, the furniture pushed to the side to make room for everyone who chose to make their last stand here and when he left with Kuai Liang, Quentin hadn't been sure he'd ever see this place again.

But.

Nothing lasts forever, not even spirit attacks apparently, and now he's back to help Mrs Maisel prepare food for everyone who isn't lucky enough to be able to make it themselves or know someone who will. Or, he's helping in as much as Quentin is doing more of the clean up and dish washing, while Midge is busy making sure every meal that gets served is delicious.

A welcome reprieve from magic and book-reading, it's almost hypnotic, washing dishes and handing over plates of food to people he only vaguely knows. And Midge is hilarious when she wants to be. They have a shelf in the back of the kitchen, where all the unlabeled cans go and when someone is feeling lucky, that's when they grab one of those tins and tries to figure out what it might be.

Quentin is actually feeling kind of lucky right now, and he's holding a dinged up can of mystery food near the tables in the Inn, shaking it gently back and forth, feeling the weight shift.]

Some kind of stew? I can feel lumps moving in this one.

Holding my breath. Come on, don't leave me like this - the Church, waiting. December 23 to 27

[The bulletin goes up and the news settles like a ton of poisoned rocks somewhere in the pit of his stomach, making it harder to breathe. But. It's this place, it's just this place. Eliot is going to come back. Just like everyone else. Like Elena came back.

He clutches at the tablet with numb hands, eyes looking but not seeing as they slide over the text. Too stark and too bland somehow, to express what this means. He's already buried Eliot once, and Quentin is not going to even think about doing it again.

This is why he relocates, from the cabin to the church, on Wednesday night. Carrying a few books, his tablet and blankets enough to keep warm, even with the temperature dropping all over town. Getting there, the whole town looks too cheery, too warm and festive, but Quentin has also managed to get his head out of his own ass for just long enough to know that it's him. That everyone else are celebrating the holiday in whichever way they want, except for him. And Eliot.

Because they didn't lose one half of their soul this week. Maybe they did last week, and Quentin never knew about it. Maybe they lost someone coming here, and someone had tried to tell him about that once, but Quentin can't keep his thoughts straight enough to remember who.

It's all jumbled together-- grief, hope, crushed Christmas dreams. And he holds on to the tiny gift, wrapped in bright paper and he even made a bow on it. He's going to keep it close, because Eliot will want to see it once he comes back.

Because he's going to.

Come back.

Quentin could wait. Sitting crossed-legged on a pew, either reading books and making notes, or playing Sudoku.]

I'd kiss you as the lights went out.
Swaying as the room burned down - the Church and outside. December 27 to 31

[The days pass slowly, like he's moving through molasses or watching everything reflected through a fun-house mirror. Distorted and slightly off center, and the world moves on, keeps on moving on like nothing is even amiss when Quentin has a sick, sinking feeling that nothing is ever going to be okay ever again.

Not here.

Not in this fucking place.

When six days has passed and there's nothing. No one. Not a single thing has changed and there's no Eliot, gasping on the floor. Or sitting up, arguing that any more sleeping is going to ruin his hair or his vest or something so incomprehensibly unimportant that Quentin would want to kiss him just to shut him up.

But there's nothing.

Just the sound of his own breathing and the too loud, too fast beat of his heart rushing in his ears. Eliot should be here by now. Five days, tops, and people came back. Sure, sometimes they didn't come all the way back, or they didn't come back quite right, but it wouldn't matter. It never did.

Quentin stuffs the tiny box with the tiny gift in to his pocket, and as he stands up, thick, dark clouds gather near the ceiling of the church. This is not the soft ones he conjured during Push. These are black storm clouds, roiling like the sea in a storm and cascading up and down the walls on either side like wood-smoke. The snow doesn't fall gently from them like dandelion fluff, it's sleet and hails this time. Large as grapes and frozen solid as they pelt everything inside and the sleet freezes him to the bone in seconds.

But Quentin gets up, walking slowly towards the back of the church where the dead were supposed to come back. Something about a spirit here, helping them. He snorts, mouth set in a thin line, and both hands clenched tightly against his sides as he walks closer, the weather inside the church churning and boiling above him.]

Bring him back! I will blow this whole town in to the next universe or die trying, but you bring him back! Now! Bring him back! Bring him back!

Comments

church

[evulsed]

[ Vanitas doesn't know anything about this, until it starts happening. And even then, it isn't some sixth sense— its the storm crashing down on his Unversed. He's left so many in the church, little rats that hide under the pews, hook-bats that hang from the rafters with their wings pinched tight against their sides.

Quentin's distress draws them out, making them vulnerable to the onslaught of sleet. The ice crashes through their bodies and sends them up in curls of black and violet smoke.

In the museum, Vanitas' head jerks up.

Moments later, the dark corridor opens up in the cathedral. Vanitas knows this church too well now, so his target is precise— directly over the trap door. A yawning black void that opens up on top of it, momentarily blocking the candles from view. Vanitas steps out of it in full armor, his shiny black helmet reflecting the howling storm back into the cavernous space. Backlit by the candles, Vanitas looks like even more of a shadow.

He summons his keyblade and throws his other arm up, shouting: ]

Darkness!

[ — and a fog of it rushes out of him, covers the wall of candles, protecting them from the violence of Quentin's emotion. Only then does he alter his position into a defensive stance.

He looks into Quentin's face and mirrors his despair back at him. The intensity of his loss rushes over Vanitas and makes his skin tingle with power. His grip tightens on his weapon, prepared. ]

[moderatelymaladjusted]

Who the fuck are you?

[There's a pause, the storm waiting while Quentin blinks at the black shadow stepping through some kind of portal right on top of the spirit. The spirit that's not doing what it should be doing, and all Quentin sees is his own reflection in the dark mirror facing him-- his limp hair and trembling mouth, the pink bubbles rising from his mouth like a cosmic joke. Well.

Tough shit.

If there's anything Quentin knows how to fight, it's himself and he laughs without warmth before he brings his hands together.

He didn't learn about magic by accidentally being so good at it that it killed someone. He didn't get it from his parents or find out he was a naturally gifted magician by chance. Quentin fought and clawed his way towards every piece of magic he knows, and he's never going to be able to move objects like Eliot, or be effortlessly good at Cyromancy like Margo. He's not a God, like Julia.

But he is good at mending shit. Waking up the shards of broken things to remind them of what they used to be, what they want to be-- and everyone forgets, that before the pews where furniture, they were trees and before the stones beneath their feet were cut up, they were part of a mountain.

Minor mending is so much more than just fixing small mistakes and Quentin falls to his knees, cupping his hands in front of him and lets his magic flow towards the nearest chair. Waking it up, reminding it that it was once a part of something bigger, something huge and living and powerful.

The chair twists under his magic, the legs falling off to twist in the air as more chairs are pulled in to this mending, to rebuild the tree they came from and Vanitas is standing right in the middle of it.]

Fuck off!

[evulsed]

[ This is exactly the sort of anguish Vanitas thrives off of; the unbridled despair, the unfettered anger.

Just months ago, he would have been here to make this young man lean in to this feeling. He would push, draw it out, pull and pull until it consumed him completely— until Quentin tore himself apart under the strength of it, bleeding out into negativity and Darkness until it made a monster of him.

He doesn't do that now.

But some things can't changed; this negativity still gives him power. Quentin is furious with his presence, and Vanitas inhales deeply to take it in. The wall of shadow hiding the candles behind him flexes. With their light covered, this whole place is almost thrown into complete darkness. ]

I am what you feel.

[ Vanitas booms, his voice huge in the cavernous space, competing with the snarl of the storm Quentin has conjured. The wood comes alive and tries to build itself around him— but he won't be trapped. Voidgear swings and cleaves through the growing trunk of the tree, smashing splinters of it open to keep him from being contained. Vanitas leaps onto it, climbing the tree by hopping from growing branch to growing branch, staying just out of reach of it's twisting, reforming body. ]

[moderatelymaladjusted]

[What can he even say to that? His grief, his anger and his utter soul-destroying sense of loss made this guy? The voice still echoing in his ear even as he brings his hands together, cupping them tightly in front of him. He twisting his palms together, his fingers moving fast and sure like almost never and he brings his right hand behind his left before aiming at the fast-moving shadow in the tree.]

You're fucked, that's what you are. Fucker! Fuck off!

[And he lets the magic missile fly, like a huge cushion of magical air flying from his hands at straight at Vanitas. Quentin wipes his face with the back of his hand, getting to his feet as the tree stops growing, and he hardly even flinches at the blood that streams down over his mouth from his nose.

He just grins, teeth stained red and the freezing rain washes most of it away when he turns his head up to follow where Vanitas is.

This isn't even about this guy, it's about the spirit and how it fucking took Eliot. It took him and yeah, sure. He might be back home with Margo, if they were lucky. But luck was never really their strong suit and with this place, Eliot could have ended up anywhere. In the Afterlife, an Afterlife Quentin couldn't get to because he was fucking stuck in this fucking place! He could one of those freaky things in the woods, because-- why the fuck not?

When logic went out the window, anything was possible. Quentin shouts to be heard over the storm brewing, here inside the church and inside his heart.]

THIS ISN'T YOUR FIGHT!

[evulsed]

[ That's true — it isn't his fight. Vanitas would have every reason to let this hurricane blow itself out, or even do his best to encourage it. But the goal posts he's passed to get here aren't even ones he recognizes. Maybe if it weren't for Gene's initial kindnesses, if Sora hadn't been here to fill out his heart just for it to break all over again. If he hadn't met her, under the trap door, or if Bruce had never been around to ask him for nothing, to show him Vanitas isn't the only one to exist in a constant state of suffering.

Some part of him, still, can't help rearing it's gleeful head in the face of Quentin's destruction. An intrinsic part of him that hungrily cries for more— but then he remembers the lights in her eyes, the way Bruce had screamed in the woods, and he snaps back into focus. ]

You made it mine.

[ By bringing it to the church, no matter how hypocritical that is. By being the person that put his hands into Vanitas' leg to put him back together, even in the face of his vitriol.

The blast of magic hits him, throwing Vanitas out of the tree and into the rafters. He recovers midair, both arms thrown out to the sides, and he hangs there impossibly, like some macabre marionette.

Then he points his Keyblade down at Quentin and a rush of black magic surges from the end of it with the intent to knock the magician down. ]

scrapyard

[therewillbeorder]

[He couldn't believe that he was reduced to looking through scrape looking for writing and metal that would work for his projects. It was slow going since he had to stop and inspect each item close to his lamp to make sure that they would be suitable.

He never would have stooped so low if he hadn't had any other choice. There were limited resources here and he needed something to do while he was dead or at least stuck here. He frowned as he carefully removed the wiring from an old machine, holding it to inspect it by lamplight.

But he paused when he heard a noise nearby. The wires were dropped as he took his lantern in one hand, pulling his blaster with the other one. He didn't recognize the man who approached, not letting his guard down.]

What are you doing out here?

[moderatelymaladjusted]

Making presents.

[The pink bubbles flow from his mouth with every word, like soap bubbles only very, very pink and Quentin swats at them before he looks up.

Red hair, weird clothes. Not someone he's met before, but also not one who looks all that dangerous. Or even armed.

He shrugs, pointing at the pile of metal in front of him.]

I need copper, but. It's not really that easy to find? What are you doing here?

[therewillbeorder]

[He held up the lantern, frowning at seeing the pink bubbles. He wasn't sure who this man was but there was something strange about him. He kept his hand on his blaster, not relaxing even though there was no apparent attack.]

Aren't you charitable.

[He wasn't sure if he believed it.]

Why do you want to know? The copper I found is mine now.

[moderatelymaladjusted]

Oh hey. I didn't mean it like that? I'm not, uh, trying to take your stuff or anything?

[And that hand on what looks like a toy gun? What's up with that. Quentin waves the bubbles away to get a closer look before he turns back to stripping wires.]

Don't people do that where you're from? Give presents to people they care about?

Church - Dec 30

[sauntered_downward]

[Crowley doesn't come to the church----for obvious reasons---but he's heard that some people have died recently, always a good idea to poke about if they come back. And besides, he can come to this church. Not very often he can say that about any sort of holy place.

That's when he hears it----someone shouting. He darts inside to find that man, the one who fought him, shouting at---what? The church itself?]

What are you going on about?

[moderatelymaladjusted]

[Standing at the back of the church, Quentin turns slowly and he doesn't even bother to answer before he just flings his hands out, the shield spell already forming and frothing over his lips in a cloud of tiny pink bubbles.

It flies from his hands and slams in to the doors, hoping to push Crowley outside with it as he turns his attention back to the trapdoor and the fuck, stupid, stubborn, piece of shit spirit living under there.]

[sauntered_downward]

[Crowley goes flying backwards immediately. He forgot what this felt like----being pushed around by someone powerful---and he rather hates it, actually. He throws his arms out, catching the edge of the door and pulling himself back in. He miracles treads on his shoes, holding him in place.]

No, no, no, I don't think so. Not this time.

Who have you got trapped down there?

[moderatelymaladjusted]

Why do you care?

[Quentin calls back, his attention on the trapdoor and the pain tearing through him with every breath he takes, because Eliot is gone. Eliot is gone and he's not coming back and standing here, hands fisted at his sides, it's all Quentin can do not to just fly apart.]

the church, dec 25th

[lunchbreaks]

[ Aziraphale has come to the church to pray, since it is Christmas. Technically not Jesus' birthday, but still. He's hoping with the amount of people actually attending church on Christmas, he might actually get someone to listen.

But what he finds is Quentin, which is surprising. ]

Hello, dear.

Is it-- is it Eliot?

[ He asks, because he doesn't know who else Quentin would be here playing sudoku puzzles surrounded by several days' worth of books for. ]

I'm so sorry.

[ He also makes a mental note to move the gift he'd gotten for Eliot to give it to him again once he'd returned - would be sort of inappropriate to leave it for him now. ]

[moderatelymaladjusted]

[Legs up on the bench and the tablet in hand, Quentin looks up at the voice. It's been so quiet since Sunday. Since Eliot stopped coming home and that's part of why Quentin went to the church. You expect a church to be quiet. A place of quiet worship or just some place to stop pretending.

But for Quentin, it's just another place to wait. Wait until Eliot comes back, to hide because walking around in the small cabin and he kept expecting to see Eliot just around the corner, cooking in the kitchen or laughing at something he read on the network. Kept expecting to feel him when he rolled over at night, except the bed was too cold and the space next to him was too empty.

And that's the worst part, how he keeps expecting Eliot to just be there. That fraction of a second before he remembers, when he's almost smiling and almost happy.

Being in the church helps. He doesn't have any memories of Eliot here, he doesn't have to keep expecting a warm, board hand on his shoulder or in his hair here.

But the voice makes his head snap up and he puts the tablet down.]

Hey. Yeah, it's-- it sucks? But. He's going to come back. It's just going to take a few days, but. It's okay. It's going to be okay. It's just the first time one of us died here, you know?

[lunchbreaks]

Yes, you're right.

[ But he also remembers when everyone told him that Crowley would be back, and he sat at the church and dutifully waited, trying not to sleep a wink, no matter what anyone told him. ]

It does take some a few more days than others, and no one knows why.

But I-- I'm sure he'll be back.

[ But it will feel like forever, he doesn't want to tell Quentin. It'll feel like he's gone for good, and like an eternity's passed, he doesn't say. ]

[moderatelymaladjusted]

Of course he's going to be back. I mean, it's Eliot. He--

[He's always going to come back, because that's how this works. They might die and it might be horrible for a while, but the dead come back and Quentin is steadfast in ignoring the statistic about only one in three coming back at all. Because-- what does that guy know? He didn't look like a statistician, not with that make-up.

Or, Eliot is going to be one of those one-in-three's. He's going to come back and in a day or two, three at most, they're going to drink whatever alcohol they can find and laugh about this. About Quentin fretting, and Eliot would squeeze his shoulder and smile down at him. Looking soft and open because it's just going to be the two of them, and Quentin would say something like Don't you ever do something like that again and mean 'don't scare me like this, I love you', and Eliot would laugh, rich and carefree and cup Quentin's face in his warm hand and answer Oh Coldwater, you look like neither of us have ever died before, when I know for a fact that one of us did. And it would all be alright.]

Have anyone looked to see if magic has anything to do with it? Maybe-- maybe people with magic in them take a little longer?

[It's going to be alright. It's going to be alright. It's going to be alright. It's going to be alright. It's going to be alright.]

Scrapyard, Dec 19

[worthallthis]

[Quentin isn't the only person scavenging. The Soldier placates the scrapyard's dog-spirit by letting it chew uselessly on their metal hand a little, then with ear-scratches, and then heads further in, in search of scraps of various materials for one of their gifts.

They stop, crouched beside what looks like a cracked and broken television set from the 60s, when Quentin addresses them, blink once at him, then say,]

I didn't mean to interrupt. Sorry.

[moderatelymaladjusted]

It's fine.

[The pink bubbles flow out from his mouth, getting caught in the slight breeze and Quentin hunches his shoulders inside his coat. The weather isn't getting any better, cold and wet and sitting out here stripping wires isn't all really all that exciting.]

I'm just-- making things. What are you doing?

[worthallthis]

[They pause to watch the bubbles float along, momentarily stymied by the thought of bubbles coming out of someone's mouth like that. But then they shake it off, realizing that might be rude, and focus on the question.]

The same. Sort of. Looking for materials I need, right now.

[moderatelymaladjusted]

What kind of materials?

[Not that it matters all that much, the scrap yard seems to have a little bit of everything, if you just know where to look and if you're lucky enough to be in the right place.

Of course, being in the right place also means staying away from the leaning towers of junk hovering above them in places.]

I'm making presents. I don't know if you know what that is-- [not everyone in this place did. Some had been pulled in from worlds or timelines so different that maybe Christmas wasn't even a thing for them. Or, maybe the major religion was something else entirely.] But. Yeah, so. That's what I'm doing. Didn't I see you at the Invincible? When, uh, half of everyone were sleeping?

dec. 26th

[webshoots]

[ peter had seen the name on the bulletin. his first thought had been to send quentin a message, to ask if he was okay, but then he'd thought about everything he'd been through, about his reaction to ben and to gwen; to mj after gwen, and he'd decided a message would be too insensitive, too impersonal.

there was a one-in-three chance, apparently. they're not odds that peter's particularly fond of, but it doesn't mean that eliot won't come back. doesn't mean that it's hopeless. he'd tried the cabin first, the one where quentin lived, and found it empty; then, the library — maybe he'd wanted a distraction? — and then, finally, the church.

(it made sense, though, didn't it? if eliot was going to come back, quentin would want to be there to meet him.)

the church is quiet when he enters, illuminated slightly by the light of quentin's lantern and now by peter's. he's conscious of the way that his footsteps echo as he walks up the aisle and he tries not to think about the fact that this is the first time, really, that he's been inside the church since — those two weeks spent asleep.

his attention shifts, momentarily, on the small pile of books and the blankets next to quentin, to the present clasped in his hand and peter pauses. what can he say that won't sound trite?

instead of speaking, then, he slides onto the pew and places his lantern down on the ground; he looks ahead, at the candles.

at length, then: ] How long have you been here?

[moderatelymaladjusted]

[It takes a moment.

For Quentin to stop staring blindly down at his tablet, half of him still keeping an eye on the trapdoor and the back of the church. Half of him is fully tuned in to just waiting, to holding his breath until Eliot comes back. Until this stops and they can go back and have a happy holiday, wrapped around each other in front of the flickering lanterns and Quentin can push his gift at Eliot. Who probably doesn't even want one, who won't expect one and Quentin can finally--

He turns his head and blinks at Peter, and it takes a moment. Everything takes a moment, to recognize him and to find words that mean things and not just any words, but. Something resembling the cold, hard truth.

Eliot had been good at those. Picking and choosing between what he wanted the world to know and what parts of himself he wanted to keep a secret. It was always the best parts, and Eliot was good at stating the truth, even when Quentin didn't want to hear it. He was also so very, very good at lying to the both of them. They were past that now, for the most part. They were-- finding their stride. Figuring out a way to fit their broken pieces together, to make a whole.

And.

Peter. Quentin clears his throat.]

Since yesterday? The day before, maybe. Not long.

[webshoots]

[ not long, quentin says, and peter makes a noise that's somewhere between a huh and a hmm. if circumstances were different, he'd say something else to that, but in the scheme of things, it's not that long. he hasn't lost anyone here, not like this — sure, there had been the massacre (what else could it be called?) not long after the first group of them had arrived in beacon, and though he'd lost people he'd started to call friends; though he'd been horrified and shaken by the loss of life, it was different.

he knows that it's different when it's someone that means something to you. it's one of the reasons he goes down to the ferry every month: it's not just to help any new arrivals that need help, it's not just to keep himself busy in one of the only ways he can think of, it's to make sure that no-one he knows is here, because he's not sure how he'd react to the thought that they might have, honestly and truly, died to come here.

(he's still not sure where he sits on believing that to be true. it makes no sense, and yet—.)

he looks at the blankets again, then at the books and at the tablet. two days, probably. ] Have you had anything to eat in the last two days? [ sure, they don't need to eat, but they need to sleep and eat, or sleep and drink, or—

well, basically peter's going to go out on a limb and guess that quentin's probably not sleeping all that great. ]

[moderatelymaladjusted]

[Good question, and Quentin frowns. Maybe. Or was that the day before he went to the church? Before he saw the bulletin. Everything is neatly separated in to before and after now. Before, when he still thought Eliot had just left early, or stayed out late. Before, when there were still plans for this week.

His eyes slide from Peter and over the row of candles.

It's not bad, sitting here. It's quiet. Like a pause from the world just outside the heavy doors and it's like this place is a little un-stuck from time. As if things like before and after matters less here.

He's just waiting. Waiting for time to speed up again, and it will. Soon. Soon it's going to be over, it's going to be nothing. It's going to be no different than waiting for the portal to Fillory to open again or for magic to come back. That bated-breath feeling caught in his throat is going to pass and.]

I don't think so? Maybe? Does tea count, because I have that.

[There's a stretch of silence, with Quentin looking down at the floor, lost in thought.]

Do you want some? Some tea? Because there's plenty of it.