A/N: what am i doing? that's a great question, i can't answer it. i fell into a hole. It was a large hole. i live here now. Don't bother sending help I've got the furniture just the way I like it. - fictional countries are as fictional my guy. Medicinal concepts brought to you by Wikipedia. i absolutely suggest you watch the show before reading this because as with anything i touch the original is going to better. here we go...
Summary: Lily Evans is the protagonist of the hugely popular comic franchise 'M'. She just doesn't know it. James Potter would really like it if he could stopped being pulled into his mother's fictional universe and a good night's sleep. Is that too much to ask? (Super loose 'W' retelling, don't expect a lot)
Title: Imprint
Chapter One: The Set-Up
Backstory
Olympic Gold Medalist in solo archery. Graduate of the most prestigious college in the country with a degree in software programming and computational logistics. Self-made millionaire. Lily Evans was almost too good to be real.
Probably because she wasn't.
The daughter of an Irish civil engineer and a Korean Olympic coach, the majority of the world was infatuated with Lily Evans, the lead character in a beloved serial comic ambiguously titled 'M'.
There was those that wanted to date her, those that wanted to be her, and those that just wished they could be by her side. Vivacious, charming, brilliant and kind how could the world at large not fall in love with the protagonist who'd overcome so much?
Turning a crime reporting application into an empire with her business partner and best friend. Lily used her resources to put power back into the hands of the wrongly accused or to give weight to the unheard voices of the victimized. Sometimes even taking matters directly into her own hands with her trusty right-hand and bodyguard Marlene McKinnon. The dynamic duo captivated the public with their exploits. Occasionally literally dragging the culprits to the police themselves. Besting the criminal element with their consumer base, intrepid thinking and a heavy dose of exceptional hand-to-hand combat all while the world followed along.
They cheered for her when she took home the gold in solo archery at the summer olympics. (Defeating her own teammate by just two points in the final nerve-wracking round.)
They cried with her when just two years later, after a fight with her mother over her refusal to train for the next Olympic Games, she returned home from class to find both her parents slain by her own bow.
They jeered at the District Attorney that slandered her in the press, saying the national hero had killed her own parents in a fit of rage.
They railed against her older sister Petunia, who was so quick to distance herself from Lily and side with the press and prosecutor.
They debated hotly the identity of the real killer in coffee shops, living rooms, offices and subways. Was it Petunia? The traitorous sister, so quick to label the innocent Lily a murderer? Was it Severus Snape? Lily's childhood friend whose ideology and anger had caused an impassable rift, whose near obsessive unrequited affection may have turned lethal? Another archer? Angry for the upset victory in the final rounds of the Olympics?
Of course when Lily was finally acquitted of all charges, citing circumstantial evidence and lack of demonstrable motive, they applauded her resolve in the face of insurmountable odds and substantial loss.
Who didn't follow along as Lily spent the next few years completing her studies in mobile software design, launching an application that revolutionized crime reporting and statistics. They were there when she took her company public with her business partner, Remus Lupin, shocking the world with the identities of the developers and becoming impossibly wealthy overnight.
Though twenty-eight she was breathed into life some ten years ago by a little known graphic novelist named Euphemia Potter. Before that she had been a doodle in a forgotten notebook at the bottom of a box. By the time of the third volume in her series she had a feverish fanbase and was a mogul set to take over two worlds.
Euphemia Potter became a household name, so did Lily Evans.
Prior to 'M' Euphemia had some minor critical acclaim for her short volume novels, retellings of her son's adventures with his childhood friend; the latter reimagined as a giant black dog. However, she never achieved commercial success prior to Lily. By the time the fourth book was in production the series had skyrocketed up the bestseller list.
But one thing remained unresolved, even ten years later, for everyone's favorite hero.
Who really killed her parents that rainy night in June?
And it wasn't just the mystery that plagued the mind of the lead character of 'M', but that of her expansive fan base as well. After nearly six years living with their favorite redhead crime-fighter, genius, olympian, the world was nearly as desperate to know as Lily herself. I
Until it was announced that the wait would soon be over.
The elusive and enigmatic Euphemia Potter promised the next volume of 'M' to be the last. The fans waited with bated breath, positive that the riddle would finally be solved.
(And they'd have vindication for their ship. That too.)
Which is how it truly started, at the beginning of the end.
Our Love Interest
In another world, quite literally, lived James Fleamont Potter.
Not quite as impressive as our Leading Lady, he was trying his best.
Born to Fleamont and Euphemia Potter, a gifted cardiothoracic surgeon and a little known graphic novelist, he was a precocious child whose propensity for mischief was great enough to be loosely chronicled by his mother in her work.
And though also only twenty-eight he was in his last year of his cardiothoracic surgical residency.
For him there was no one to monitor his successes and failures.
Not any more.
There was no one to cry with him when he lost his father. He agonized over the betrayal of his best friend without an audience. No one worried over him studying for his boards, no one cheered with him when, despite his age, he won his surgical fellowship.
In point of fact if he were disappear one day it's hard to say who might even notice.
That's why when the resident coordinator demanded James's presence that Tuesday afternoon he was fairly confused.
James had pursued a fellowship at Phoenix Order Memorial because of Minerva McGonagall. She had given the occasional guest lecture at James's medical school and had found him during his residency while he was still mulling over disciplines. She had told him then that he should stop wasting his time.
"I'm twenty-four and in the second year of my surgical residency. How exactly am I wasting time?" He'd joked.
"You don't have the patience for the extra three years of a neurosurgical fellowship. You'll be bored in Plastics and your talents will be ill-utilized as a general surgeon." She had looked at him over her half-rim glasses. "Don't even pretend you've entertained Ortho." She stood and buttoned her suit jacket. "You're a natural leader. You're decisive. You prefer to work within a team, you have the confidence to be creative." She eyed him. "You'll be a cardiothoracic surgeon."
Not used to being taken seriously by anyone, a product of his demeanor as much as the respective age distance between himself and his peers, James was taken aback by the assertion. "Will I then?" He asked, sarcasm not quite hiding his interest in her reply.
"Yes." She had affirmed. "And if you're going to become half the surgeon your father was you'll do it at my hospital."
James had applied to other programs across the country, but in truth there was only one place he saw himself, Phoenix Order. He'd buckled down, he gave up the vague semblance of a life outside of his program and studying, and nearly killed himself to make sure he'd be given one of the four slots allotted to the CT program at Phoenix Order Memorial.
However, Minerva McGonagall was promoted in the interim. No longer was she the Resident Coordinator and advisor for the surgical fellowship, but the head of the Cardiothoracic Department for the entire hospital.
Horace Slughorn was named her successor. An acceptable surgeon to be sure, but also a sycophant that was more likely to be found charming a VIP patient than actually teaching. And it was Slughorn that called James into his office that morning.
James had been on post-op rotation for thirty-four hours just three hours earlier. He wanted sleep. Well, he wanted to perform an actual surgery on an actual patient, but sleep would be nice too. It didn't bode well that Slughorn was asking for him when there was nothing on deck for four more hours and James wasn't qualified to sew a hem let alone patch an arterial valve.
James took a steadying breath and prepared to be scolded for breathing.
Instead he found Slughorn standing behind his desk pacing excitedly.
"What's your mother's name?" Slughorn demanded as soon as he entered.
"I'm sorry?" James was sure he hadn't heard him right. Exhaustion dulled his senses.
"Your mother's name Potter." Slughorn slammed a hand down on his desk. "Is your mother Euphemia Potter? Euphemia Potter the graphic novelist?"
James couldn't help but sigh heavily. He was seemingly doomed to always being someone's son. One would think in the university hospital where his father once worked it would be his paternal connection. He underestimated the disgusting popularity of his mother's comic series.
James settled his hands in the pockets of his slacks. "Yes." He felt his jaw twitch. "She's my mother."
Slughorn broke into a slow, wide, off-putting smile. "So, you could find out then?"
"Find out what?"
"Spoilers Potter, spoilers." Slughorn waved an impatient hand.
James adjusted his rectangular frames, biting back a curse. "Spoilers for 'M'?"
"Of course."
"Okay, if that's all Dr. Slughorn I just came off a shift and-" James started as he turned to leave.
"How would you like to be second in the Norwood on Friday?"
James's hand dropped from the door handle. "Are you serious?"
"Surgery for spoilers Potter." Slughorn raised one faint eyebrow. "What will it be?"
Comedic Relief
"Come on Tonks you have to help me out." James pleaded over the phone. "My idiot advisor will let me assist in…" He paused. "Well an actual surgery for starters. Just give me anything, you can have naming rights for my first born." He pleaded. "Please."
On the other end of the line it sounded as if Nymphadora Tonks, his mother's lead assistant, almost dropped her phone. "That's just it James, I don't have any." She switched to a whisper. "Your mother hasn't given us any pages for the next chapter, and it's due in a week."
"How is that possible I thought she announced this was the final volume like three months ago?" James dropped into a chair in the on-call room and loosened his tie. "Shouldn't she have given you the panels weeks ago?"
Tonks continued on in a hushed and worried tone, "That's what I'm saying. She hasn't given us anything in weeks." Tonks heaved a sigh. "And now I can't even find her."
"What do you mean you can't find her?" James questioned sitting straighter.
"It's just..." He heard Tonks close a door, presumably separating herself from the other artists at his mother's studio/office/James's childhood home. "I went in last night to bring her tea, you know how she is about her night time tea, but she wasn't there." There was a soft thunk. "Ow, and I came in this morning and she still wasn't here, now it's almost four and her cellphone is here, her wallet is here...James I...I'm a little worried."
James looked at his watch. Should he be driving? Probably not. "I'll be there in twenty-minutes." Tonks thanked him eagerly. "She probably just got lost at the bottom of a bottle Tonks, don't worry too much." He assured as he searched for his keys. "Call the usual spots while I'm on my way over alright?"
The Call to Adventure
James's mother wasn't at any of her usual haunts. Tonks had already checked most of them throughout the day and few were thrilled to receive a third call from the young woman that early evening. As her assistant had told James, her wallet and purse were still resting on a bench in her office, half-spilled, her cell phone was on her desktop next to her digitizer (which was off).
To say the relationship between James and his mother was strained would be kind. He would always love her for the person she was to him at one time, he would always ensure she was as well as she could be and that she was cared for and had her basic needs met. That was usually where Tonks came in actually.
Assistant artist and background designer by title she was also a well compensated baby-sitter for Euphemia. Between that, and another surprising connection, Tonks and James had a developed an easy and genuine friendship. She gave him occasional updates about his last remaining family member and he provided a sounding board and solution set for the challenges her mentor/charge threw at her.
This was not the first time the pair had to resort to searching for his missing mother. Once, two years prior, they had lost her for four days during a pretty spectacular bender. However she never went anywhere without money for the alcohol. It was sort of crucial to the whole endeavor. James was of even of half a mind to be honestly worried.
He sent Tonks to check the little used rooms of the residence on the upper floor, including bathtubs and behind couches, while he searched through her office for any sign of where his mother may have gone. He casually flipped through the research material on her desk, questions about blood loss and punctured lungs with his mother's precise hand and Tonk's loopy script crammed on the edges. A photo fell from the pages of one of the folders and he bent to pick it up.
He was surprised to see it was a shot of himself, perhaps no more than eight, lying on his stomach in front of a sketchpad next to his mother's desk. The woman herself was mirroring the pose from her chair, the same look of concentration of both their faces, the same nimble left hands tracing unseen lines on the pages. It was when her black hair was just lightly streaked with gray, bare traces of wrinkles around her deep brown eyes. In the afternoon sun the difference between the rich brown of her skin and the warm brown of James's was more obvious, his mixed heritage hinted at more directly.
He didn't remember the day specifically. Likely one of dozens of afternoons spent in just that way. His late father the only possible photographer. He swallowed heavily and made to put the picture back on the desk.
That was before he started falling backward.
At some point a pale, bloodied hand had clenched to the back of his shirt with a fast and determined grip.
The owner tugged and James fell.
Our Protagonist
It wasn't that James didn't question how exactly he went from standing in his mother's office to standing on a the rooftop of a city building, or how it went from early evening to the dead of night, he certainly did. It was just that his concern over his seeming teleportation and time travel was forgotten by the sight that awaited him on that rooftop.
Framed in a pool of her own blood, a young woman was lying with one hand clutching a wound to her lower abdomen, the other was helplessly at her side. She had dark red hair that was plastered to her forehead by sweat and blood, skin made starker and paler by her blood loss and the juxtaposition of the warm brown of James's hand as he searched for a pulse.
He pressed two fingers to her carotid artery and her free hand snapped around his wrist as her eyes snapped open. They were impossibly green and unsettlingly bright, even in the dim light of the roof. It was then that he felt an uneasy familiarity, as if he knew the girl in front of him, though of course he did not. There was something though in her soft features and searching gaze that felt so...
Just as quickly as her eyes opened they fluttered closed again and the grip on his wrist slackened and fell away.
"Shit. Shit. Shit." James muttered fumbling for his phone. "No service. Brilliant." He shoved it back into his pocket and looked around him for something to stem the bleeding. He checked her pulse again, it was stuttered but strong. He leaned down and checked her breathing next, there was where his largest problem lay. "I'll be back." He promised. "Not that you're conscious, but I'll be back."
He ran to the stairway, not stopping until he reached a door that gave way to a bustling kitchen. He slid to a stop and shouted for attention from the staff. He grabbed an empty prep bowl, as many rags as he saw, some duct tape, and by the grace of the gods a pastry chef with type 1 diabetes quickly surrendered a 6mm gauge needle. All the while shakily demanding that they call the paramedics and the police because a woman had been stabbed on the rooftop and needed immediate medical assistance.
When he made it back to the woman on the roof her lips had started to tinge from oxygen loss. "Shit. Shit. Shit." James wiped his forehead against the sleeve of his upper arm. "If you make it out of this you're definitely going to have grounds to sue me for malpractice," He told the unconscious woman as he cautiously felt for the space between her ribs. "If you didn't that'd be lovely." He continued as he ripped open the sterile package with his teeth. "Because in theory this is very stupid but it'll look really cool." He took a steadying breath. "Also, don't die." He pleaded earnestly.
He poised the needle between her right ribs, "Fuck, I'm so stupid." James whispered as he stabbed firmly and without hesitation. A sharp hiss followed the gurgle of the needle finding purchase and James watched as the woman instinctively took a deeper breath. He quickly put a finger over the exposed end of the needle as she inhaled, letting off during another exhale, he pushed the rubber tip from the insulin kit onto the tip until it was sealed. "I can't believe that actually worked." He gave a weary laugh.
James leaned over the woman's prone form again and checked her pulse, it was definitely fainter but not quite thready. He got to work clearing her stab wound. It didn't seem that any major organs had been hit, her unit loss seemed more due to time than location. He duct taped the stolen rags in place as tightly as seemed prudent. He checked her over for other injuries and was glad to find none. He pushed up the sleeve of her sweater until both wrists were exposed and checked each for a radial pulse to no avail. He swore again though it was hardly surprising that her systolic blood pressure would be low, he was hoping to be wrong.
Soon paramedics and hotel staff charged onto the rooftop, following James's calls to them. "She has a likely tension pneumothorax I used an emergency needle aspiration to alleviate on her right side. Systolic pressure dropped below eighty, pulse is present but thready, she has penetrating trauma to her lower right abdomen but given the pace of the blood loss and the location it's unlikely there's any major organ damage or artery bisection." James rattled off to the EMTs and they set to work around the injured woman.
He carefully moved out of their way to let them properly do their jobs. "You a doctor or?" One asked as she kneeled at the woman's side.
"Yes, yeah." James answered distractedly. "A surgical fellow at Phoenix Order Memorial."
"Where?" One of the hotel staff questioned from behind him.
James stood and turned to the shorter man. "Phoenix Order Memorial." He repeated.
The man gave him an odd look but continued on undeterred, "The police are going to need to question you Doctor…?"
"Potter." James supplied. "James Potter." He fumbled around in the pocket of his slacks and pulled out his wallet and handed a business card to the man, realizing too late his hands were still covered in the woman's blood as he did. "Sorry," he apologized as the man eyed the card. "I didn't have any extra rags." He wiped his palms on his already ruined shirt.
James watched as they lifted the young woman up on the emergency stretcher, her pale face clearer in the brighter lights near the doorways. He was again struck by a sense of familiarity he couldn't place. The paramedics were preceded by hotel security who held the doors open for them and the man that had questioned James.
James made to follow them but a bright flash behind him caused him to pause. Floating in the air, plain as day, as if tangible were the words, "To be continued…"
James stared at them dumbfounded. "What the hell?" He turned back to the group heading to the stairwell to receive confirmation that he wasn't the only one seeing the text only to find himself alone. He whirled around, not just alone. He was back in his mother's office, the sun had yet to set, the photograph he intended to put on the desk gone, but everything as it was an hour earlier.
He looked at his watch. No, six minutes earlier.
The door to the office burst open and Tonks tumbled in without preamble. "James I think I found her and-" Her eyes went wide behind her bright purple frames, currently the same shade as her hair. "What the fuck!"
James followed her gaze to his chest. Or more accurately his shirt and hands, both of which were still covered in blood. He saw then that his mother's digitizer was on, the screen glowing brightly in the darkening office. There he saw a stylized version of himself standing in the clothes he wore now on the rooftop. The puddle of the woman's blood was just to his left and he was staring in disbelief at the scrawled words, "To be continued…" in the corner of the panel.
What the fuck was right.