Wiping feet on the doormat.

One slow measured breath, and Merlin opens the door to their flat — his flat — bracing himself against the slosh of anguish that briefly swamps the pit of his stomach every time he returns home from work these days. Something about the erosion of constantly renewed and refreshed disappointment.

He drops his keys on the pair of gloves that lives — untouched — on the shelves in the hallway.

Nothing moves in the flat. Light from the street spills through the windows, drawing sharp patches in variations of amber and orange across the floor and furniture. A faint smell of last night’s lonely Chicken Vindaloo lingers rather unappetisingly in the still air. He turns on the lights. Same old empty flat.

“Hello, I’m home,” he announces with fake cheer to the emptiness. He regrets it immediately. His own voice sounds strained and hollow. Truth be told, he is a bit of a prize-winning idiot in the self-inflicted wounds department. “Aithusa?” he calls gently, needing the emotional support.

Merlin flings his messenger bag on the couch and goes on to the kitchen area. No one there. The generous portion of eye-wateringly expensive kibble still sits in Aithusa’s bowl perfectly undisturbed.

Merlin heaves a controlled sigh. Rubs a tired hand over his brow. It was worth a try.

“Aithusa?” he calls again, injecting a forced buoyancy that he doesn’t feel into his tone. “You big tit, where are you?”

Merlin takes a better look around the living-room, then goes back into the hallway, checks the bathroom, then approaches the bedroom. The absence of stench is encouraging. Maybe this time he will be spared the puddle of piss on his side of the bed and the runny turd in his favourite trainers.

In the end, Merlin finds the tuxedo cat sulking under the bed.

“Come on, you can’t keep doing this, mate,” Merlin chides as he gently drags the toneless pet from where he is hiding. The soft, plaintive mrow is a jab to Merlin's already aching heart. The yellow eyes are gunky and full of reproach and sorrow, and Merlin can feel the ribs a bit too sharp under the lacklustre fur. He gathers the sickly cat to his chest and holds him, pressing a kiss to the top of his head. “You can’t go on like this. I know you miss him, but you have to eat,” he pleads as the black tail remains motionless. "It's hard enough as it is without—" he cuts himself off and hugs the miserable cat a little closer.

There's only one possible way out of this mess and he hates it.

However, he replied to said email within five minutes, asking a question that required an answer. So I answered and was like "Also, I was going to apologize for answering emails during this call, but I see we're both here at the Devil's Sacrament, so I don't think an apology is necessary."

I watched him read that on screen and try not to laugh. And then at the end of the call as everyone started saying goodbye, he goes, "Hey, MJ, I meant to tell you. I like your shoelaces."

And I looked straight into my camera, stone cold serious, and said, "Thanks. I stole them from the president."

And the rest of the team was like, "What...the fuck...?" before he abruptly ended the call for everyone.

Chapter 4 of All of My Tomorrows on AO3

Q understands that it’s his destiny to lose James twice, once in death, once when his aged self walks away from a younger James in front of The Fighting Temeraire and triggers the next cycle to begin, until one cycle when he won’t lose James at all.

Or, it’s Q vs. the multiverse, and one of these lifetimes he’s going to win.

+

In this chapter, Q and James finally meet again, but it’s not the reunion they’d hoped for.

“So you’re not dead?”

Chapters: 4/6

Fandom: James Bond (Craig Movies)

Relationships: James Bond/Q

Characters: James Bond, Q (James Bond), Madeleine Swann, Mathilde (James Bond)

Additional Tags: Time Travel Fix-It, Time Loop, Non-Linear Narrative, Angst with a Happy Ending, Movie: No Time to Die (2021), No Time to Die (2021) Fix-It, Remixes welcome, MI6 Cafe 007 Fest 2026

Re-creating my first webcomic from 12 years ago, "Hair Expectations vs Reality."

I can't help but feel all kinds of emotions after re-visiting the original comic: the one that started it all. A lot has changed since then, and I feel so fortunate to still create art and tell stories for a living. Thanks for your support, and sticking around for so long ❤️

Check out the other versions:

2014 (OG)

Arthur,

They tell me you're looking for me.

Your knights have crossed villages I once saved, questioned people whose names you never learned, ridden roads I walked alone. Every rumour becomes another trail. Every shadow becomes another possibility.

I almost admire the effort.

Do you remember when we hunted together?

You always rode. I followed because someone had to notice the broken branches, the bent grass, the frightened birds taking flight. You looked for prey. I looked for signs.

You never understood that difference.

You think a hunt ends when the quarry is cornered.

Mine ended the day I realized Camelot had made me into something that could never go home.

I spent years teaching myself how to disappear. Every lie I told was another footprint erased. Every smile was another false trail. Every "yes, sire" was another layer between the man you knew and the one who survived.

Do you know what's funny?

You spent years wondering how I was always there before disaster struck.

Now you'll spend years wondering why you're always one step behind.

You'll search the forests first because you remember how much I loved them. You'll search Ealdor because you'll think grief drives a man home. You'll search the taverns because Gwaine always found me there. You'll search every place that meant something.

And every place that meant something stopped being home the day I left it.

You could search every kingdom from Albion to the sea.

You could question every druid, every dragonlord, every old woman who remembers my name.

You could fill the roads with red cloaks until the earth forgets the color of grass.

You still wouldn't find me.

Because you are hunting the boy who polished your armour, argued over your neckerchief, tripped over his own feet, and smiled every time you laughed.

He died long before I ever walked away.

The man writing this letter is merely what remained.

You can't hunt a man who no longer exists.