#Obviously Tim and Sasha were probably closer but I do think Jon was also very close to them both

[i-will-change-this-someday]

I was talking with my brother about this a while ago, and I was telling him that, to me, the reason Tim reacted so strongly to Jon stalking him is because it was probably a really big betrayal and trigger for Tim.

It's implied, at least to me, that Jon and Tim were decent friends; Jon wanted Tim to join him in the archives, Jon trusted Tim not to pull a prank on him, Tim tried to calm Jon down when he was obviously stressed, and Jon even admitted to Tim that he wasn't doing well, (and coming from Jon, I take that to mean they were on pretty good terms.) Tim was helping Jon limp around in the tunnels, and didn't leave him when they got attacked, Tim happily threw Jon a birthday party.

So when Jon falls into a supernaturally induced paranoia spiral and starts looking at everyone like they're going to kill him, it's pretty bad for their relationship, and then Jon is stalking Tim's home and that's even worse for their relationship.

Tim explicitly says that he just wanted someone to support him after his traumatic experience, but Sasha is acting odd, and he's not as close to Martin, and when he turns to Jon, Jon is looking at him like he's a murderer.

And it is, again, at least to me, implied that Tim was a suspect in killing his brother. He was the last human to see Danny alive, and if questioned what happened to him, all Tim would be able to tell them was something that should be impossible. (In Ep 79 Tim wants to record what's happening because he wants evidence, and if I'm reading it right, they think Jon might try to kill himself, so Tim doesn't want to be suspected for the death of another person he cares about.)

[inklingofadream]

yes tell us the kid au

ok it comes with a title, which is "there is something wrong in this house." Also this is obscenely long and may not even make sense

and all the crack stuff is in the backstory, bc elias is the one doing it and the fics from the kids' perspectives. elias going "actually screw this, I'm making one from scratch" is a time-honored excuse to get lil baby Jarchivist, and it's what we're going with here. but, like, making a kid is a lot of effort, and they can't even talk at first, and Agnes didn't work out anyway

So he adopts. Attempt #1: Timothy Stoker, recently lost his whole family to a tragic accident, marked by the Stranger (he hasn't hit on the ritual idea yet but he figures that having some awareness of the supernatural to start with can't hurt. But for now it's all very normal). He can be very subtle about priming Tim to be Archivist, and what better way to ensure loyalty that to be Literally Family?

Unfortunately for Elias, we've seen how Tim reacts to grief in canon, and it's making drastic life changes and getting angry, depending on how much control he feels like he has and how much support he's getting. And not having control is a big theme in this, so he goes for angry. It rapidly becomes pretty obvious that Tim is not going to be a good Archivist.

So we try again, like within a year of adopting Tim. Sasha is Tim's age, and v lightly marked by the Spiral. She's great, Elias is v excited, Sasha is going to be Archivist.

But he still has Tim. And murdering a kid who's not even to double digits is a bit much, even for Elias. But Tim and Sasha bond hard and fast, which, y'know, Archivists do need Assistants. And connection to a beloved brother is probably a pretty good way to get your Archivist back if they end up in the Lonely or the like. You can't use them as cannon fodder, but he figures that Sasha can have one keeper and he can hire randos to fill the other assistant slots.

So Elias' life is going great. Second part of plan: He needs to get rid of Gertrude... some day, but he wants the time to plan it, and she's still useful. But kids grow up, and he doesn't want to put Sasha in place until he's sure he's got a timeframe nailed down for his Ritual, and he doesn't want Sasha responsible for stopping Rituals. But kids grow up and get other careers and turn into their own people.

(Kids are already their own people, you say. Well, Elias barely treats adults like people sometimes. Obviously he's not going to be any better than the controlling and possessive and manipulative stuff we get with Jon in canon with people who also do not have the ability to fight back in the way adults can. Tim can't run away to Malaysia in this! He can't even get out of the city on his own!)

And Elias finds out that he really likes being a parent (this is not at ALL proportional to the quality of said parenting). He doesn't want to be done. And so he puts into use a lil Web artifact, which is that because I say so (and because the experience of being a child and not getting your opinion considered and all your stuff being filtered through what your parents think feels v Webby, to me) he has his kids take vitamins every night, some of which are normal and some of which are Evil Vitamins of Never Grow Up. (the Evil Vitamins have extensive world-building around how and when they're useful, they won't solve Jonah's dying issue bc they're playing on the kid thing, and he's not a kid. Also they are technically still aging, just v slow)

So Tim and Sasha just kind of. Stay 8 or 9ish. And kids that age aren't that observant. It takes them a looooooonnnng time to figure things out.

Meanwhile, y'know, Elias really does like having kids. And if one super-loyal assistant is good, surely more is better? And also, Tim leveled out when he had Literally Anyone besides Elias (because obviously your Vampire Kids have tutors, you can't exactly send em to school) to bounce off of, maybe another sibling will have the same effect. So if he were to find an entity marked orphan (or... not orphan. I think he straight up steals Martin), why not? So he basically acquires Martin and Jon the same way multiple people I know have ended up with extra kids, which is remembering how cute they are and deciding more is better. The kids take well to each other, and Tim in particular gets his big brother instinct activated hard.

And the thing is. Sasha was supposed to be Archivist, but no one really knows that. He didn't tell anyone. And he likes Jon. Jon is just as curious as Sasha, but also waaaay more susceptible to positive reinforcement (for a long time Elias is Jon's favorite as much as Jon is Elias') and reminds Elias of himself more, because boy. So now Jon is future Archivist and the rest will be his assistants. But for now they're all in Vitamin Limbo

And this all sounds very fluffy and goofy, but the actual matter of the story (though it's maybe more a series of vignettes) this is for is from the kids' POV, with them gradually realizing that there's something subtly not right with Elias, and exploring how they feel trapped, how they catch on to little things, and how each discovery has to be pitched to the other three, with varying success. And then focusing on how Jon especially just. Refuses to see it. And trying to convince him otherwise just puts distance between him and the rest and makes him closer and closer with Elias. And tonally it's kind of like a haunted house story? Only the ghost is what Elias is planning for them, and what he's already doing/done to them. Eventually at least Tim stops taking the vitamins, and then that worsens for him because he has more and more idea of how wrong things are, and can't convince the others, and can't take them all away from Elias if he can, and he feels this overbearing need to protect them all but he can't

[ieattaperecorders]

Something's Different About You Lately - Epilogue: Borrowed Time

Life goes on, impossibly.

Read on Ao3

---

Martin shifted the bag of groceries in his arms as he climbed the stairs, still feeling a bit nervous.

The dinner had been Jon's idea – his O&M instructor was covering kitchen skills, and he'd thought it would be fun for the two of them to try making something together. The recipe had sounded a little elaborate to Martin, who'd protested that he didn't cook much, but Jon promised that it wasn't beyond them. He added that Martin was ‘perfectly capable' in the kitchen anyway, and said it with such prim, knowing confidence that Martin hadn't even bothered to ask. Before he knew it, he was writing down a list of ingredients to bring over.

He supposed that was just going to keep happening, Jon telling him things about himself. It was . . . strange. Sometimes it was endearing, sometimes just annoying. Occasionally it made him feel sentimental and a little bit sad in a way he couldn't put his finger on.

The door to the flat opened after a moment of knocking, and he smiled as Jon appeared.

"Hi Jon, it's Martin," he said. He'd read online it was polite to say your name, to not assume the other person will recognize your voice. "I've got the groceries."

"I know it's you, Martin." His tone was light and a little condescending, and Martin felt heat rise to his ears. "Come on inside. You know where the kitchen is."

Martin slipped past him and set down the bag, pulling things out and arranging them on the counter as Jon followed him to the kitchen.

"The store was out of chili paste," he mentioned.

Jon shrugged. "We'll improvise, then."

"If you say so."

Jon began taking out cookware, placing things down wherever he found counter space. "Do anything interesting today?" he asked, over the clatter of pans.

"Not especially. Filled out a few applications, then took a walk," he said. "Met a really friendly dog in the park."

"Flattered that you tore yourself away to come here."

"Wasn't by choice, her owner wouldn't let me keep her."

"How unreasonable."

It was weird, not having to worry so much about money. Not that Martin was complaining of course, but there was still a voice in his head telling him he was being too slow and selective in his job search, that it was lazy of him. And he felt anxious dipping into the new funds too much.

He'd just about gone into conniptions when Sasha told him what she'd done while she'd been fiddling with Elias's computer. Embezzlement might not have been an escalation when they were already committing arson, but they could still get caught, and wouldn't a financial windfall point a lot of suspicion towards them? But she kept assuring him that it was untraceable, some hidden fund Elias had, ready to be drawn on by anyone with the account information. The running theory was that he'd been keeping it for his next identity, which . . . yeah, the less Martin thought about that, the better.

Fear of discovery aside, he couldn't deny it was nice having a buffer like this. There was space he'd never had before to think about where he wanted to be, what he wanted to do with himself. And with the bills taken care of, Jon could focus his time on recovering. At the urging of his O&M teacher (and some amount of prodding on Martin's end) he'd even started talking to a counselor every few weeks. It was ostensibly just about handling the emotions that come up with sudden, traumatic vision loss, and he doubted Jon would be discussing the more exotic traumas he'd been through. Still. It was probably good he had something like that.

They went about the business of prepping ingredients, talking idly about food, things they'd done in the past few days, updates from Tim and Sasha. Martin's initial nerves already dissolving into the steady flow of conversation. There was something comfortable, he reflected, in being around someone who was so comfortable with him.

"Would you mind--" Jon frowned, fiddling with the hob on the stove. "I've got this, I'm fairly sure. Just . . . make sure I keep the pan centered?"

"Sure."

He came to stand behind Jon, watching over his shoulder as he set the carefully oiled pan on the stove and turned on the heat. Martin was a terribly distracted spotter, his attention frequently straying from the pan to look at Jon's face, pinched slightly in concentration. There was a single bead of sesame oil on his cheek, and it made his intensely serious expression that much more charming.

Despite his concerns, Jon had the pan well handled as he heated the oil and added in the aromatics. Martin only noticed him drifting once, the flames going high on one side of the pan.

"A little left," he advised.

In a moment of impulse and bravery, Martin curved an arm around him – placing a hand on his elbow, then running it down his arm to cover Jon's hand with his own, guiding the pan carefully into place. Jon leaned back, fitting the curve of his body into Martin's and sighing deeply.

"God, I've missed this," Jon exhaled. "Just . . . cooking dinner with you. All these little domestic things."

His voice was so unselfconsciously fond. It made Martin dizzy, just how easily affection poured out of him.

In hindsight, at least part of Jon's strange, awkward behavior around Martin had been a result of him holding back, wary of letting his feelings show. He never held anything back now -- his demeanor going from nonchalant or haughty to unbelievably soft and loving at the slightest prompting. It still took Martin by surprise, inspiring so much unreserved affection in someone. It wasn't anything he'd usually associate with himself. It was strange, and lovely, and at times made him feel almost frighteningly powerful.

He leaned forward, kissing the soft skin just beside Jon's ear. Jon smiled, holding his pose for a moment before gradually returning his attention to the pan, shaking it gently to move the vegetables around. Martin kept a hand on his, now fully for the sake of touch rather than any pretense of assistance, letting Jon's movements guide them both.

"Did we cook together in that cabin a lot?" he asked.

Jon nodded. "It was one of a handful of things we could do that felt . . . well, like a date, I suppose. We couldn't really go anywhere since we were lying low. I mean, we could walk around the area, isolated as it was, but trips to the village were all short and functional. So preparing something elaborate together made an evening feel special," he smirked. "You used to get defensive, too, just like today . . . saying you didn't really cook, like you were trying to lower my expectations."

"In my defense, I never said I didn't cook, just . . . ." Not since mum left , he thought. "Not for a while."

"To be honest, we were both at a disadvantage in that kitchen," Jon continued. "There weren't a lot of modern conveniences there. The power came from a generator, and the stove was an ancient, wood-burning thing that neither of us quite knew what to do with at first. Took a lot of trial and error before we really managed."

"Sounds cozy."

"Oh yes. So cozy we almost suffocated ourselves before we figured out how to adjust the vents."

Martin smiled, listening to Jon describe the little kitchen in that place. The cabin in Scotland had supposedly been a remote safehouse the two of them laid low in, but the way Jon talked about it sometimes it might as well have been a romantic holiday retreat. He made it sound so nice that Martin once idly suggested they go see it someday. Jon had gone tense and quiet at that, had shaken his head and said softly that they had to stay far, far away from that place. That there was nothing good that happened there now.

Jon was mostly open about the things he remembered. But sometimes "open" meant he'd easily speak at length about something, and other times "open" meant he'd answer your questions with short, one-sentence explanations, volunteering nothing unless pushed. And anything about the police officers he'd apparently worked with fell solidly into the second category.

Sometimes it seemed like they might have been friends, but Jon was always adamant that no one ever try to contact them. Daisy in particular seemed hard to talk about. Martin did know about the coffin. Jon had told him in a soft, emotional voice how another Martin had stepped from his cloud of isolation to set out tape recorders calling him home, how it had been one of very few things that let Jon believe he hadn't given up on him yet. And he knew something had been different about Daisy after the coffin, some sinister force like the one that had kept them at the Institute had loosened its hold on her.

He also knew that Jon was terrified of her, that he said again and again she was too dangerous to go near. That something about her made him sad -- and, Martin suspected, guilty, though he wasn't sure why. It was a topic he'd decided not to push . . . if Jon ever wanted to talk more about it, he would in his own time.

There were other things, things closer to home for Martin that Jon had hesitated over. Once while he was recounting the events of those years he'd paused mid-sentence. Stammered that it wasn't all supernatural in nature and some of it may still happen, and was he sure he wanted to know everything? Martin imagined Jon thought he was being subtle, but it wasn't a hard guess.

He told Jon not to give him the date. It was obviously going to be within the next couple of years, there was no spitting out that apple of knowledge. But he didn't want to be able to mark it on his calendar.

It shouldn't have felt like news, that his mum was going to die soon. Shouldn't have been the uncomfortable weight in his chest that it was. She was ill, of course it was coming, it had been coming for a while, hadn't it? But maybe that was the problem. It had been ‘any day now' for such a long time, ‘any day' had stopped feeling like a reality. And he still wasn't sure what to do with this information, if it really changed anything. Should he try to get some sort of closure? How did you make the most of the time you had left with a person who refuses to see you?

Martin hadn't asked Jon how much he knew about his mum, that just wasn't a conversation he was eager to have. But the careful, hesitant way Jon talked around the subject suggested . . . something, at least. Just like how the gentle, quiet tone he got when he talked about the Lonely told Martin more than he really wanted to have explained.

There was only one thing Jon flatly refused to tell him about, and that was whatever Elias had done to him on the day of the Unknowing. When pushed, Jon had gone quiet for a while, then said he didn't remember. It had been a lie, and a bad one, and both of them knew it. But it was clear there was no point in asking for more.

"You like pizzelles, don't you?"

Jon's voice snapped Martin to the present. With a last squeeze of Martin's hand, he turned off the flame, moved away from the stove and over to the pantry.

"Um, dunno?" Martin said, pulling his thoughts back together. "Never tried them."

"Really?" Jon frowned, pausing halfway to the cabinet door. Then he shrugged. "Well, no matter. You will."

Martin rolled his eyes. Jon spoke with so much more authority than anyone deserved to hold over another person's cookie preferences, and he couldn't help feeling contrary.

"No. You stepped on a butterfly last week and set off a chain of events that forever changed my feelings on pizzelles, I hate them now."

"That's all right," Jon said, popping open the plastic package and arranging the cookies on a plate. "If you don't want these, there's also canned peaches for dessert."

"Oh, don't you dare --"

Jon snickered, picking out a broken piece of one of the large, thin cookies and holding it out, just short of passing it into Martin's mouth. With an annoyed grunt, Martin leaned forward, taking a bite.

Damn it. It was really, really good.

---

Jon sank into the couch, pleasantly full and a little bit tired. He leaned back and listened to the sound of running water coming from the next room.

Martin had insisted on doing the dishes, on the basis that Jon had done "all the real work" of cooking. He wasn't sure that was true, but didn't argue. Just asked that he leave everything in the drainboard when he was finished so Jon could put it away later. He knew he'd be frustrated for hours if the dishes weren't where he expected them to be.

There were so many frustrations in his life now. His O&M instructor had promised he'd learn new ways to move through the world, that in time the frustrations would be fewer and fewer, and he'd find himself capable of nearly everything he'd done before the loss of his sight. Jon believed her, but it didn't make the prospect of getting there any less daunting. Nor did it make the learning process any easier.

The worst were the things his instructor would never understand, that no resource or guidebook would mention. The dread that gripped him when he became disoriented and found a door where he wasn't expecting one. The phantom tickles on his body that prompted him to pat himself down for spiders again and again.

Still. He was alive. The others were freed from the institute, and he was there with them, to struggle and to mourn and to continue on.

A part of him would always fear it had been a mistake. That the Web, or the Eye, or some other power still had plans for him that would reach apotheosis someday. Maybe he saw the fear as vigilance, as though something was waiting for him to feel safe so that it could rip that security from him. And as long as he never allowed himself to be truly, entirely at ease, that day would never come.

Irrational, perhaps. But it was so hard to tell anymore which irrational fears were truly irrational, and which would one day manifest with teeth and claws.

Even if nothing ever came for him, they had only bought the world some time. One day, maybe soon, someone would figure it out and attempt a ritual again. Maybe there would be others out there who would catch it in time, postponing the end over and over, forever. Or maybe someone would do it next week, and Jon would be plunged along with everyone else into unspeakable suffering until Terminus claimed them all. He could follow Gertrude's path if he chose, devote his life to stopping rituals at the cost of everything he cared for. Even then one could slip past him, come from someplace he hadn't been watching, or had been made not to notice. At some point he was going to have to find a way to live with that knowledge.

He'd work on it. But for the moment . . . .

The sound of running water stopped. Jon smiled, scooting to make room on the couch, feeling the cushions sink and shift as they took the weight of another person. With a hmm that came out with more whine to it than he'd wanted, Jon found Martin's arm and tugged it towards him. With a quiet laugh, Martin obliged, leaning into him and resting his head against his chest.

"Better," Jon arranged their limbs more comfortably. Martin's hands were still cold, and he smelled faintly of dish soap.

"Glad to hear it."

Jon knew Martin found it amusing, how clingy he was. The first time he'd commented on it had been profoundly embarrassing. Part of it was just the way Jon was, but he also remembered the days after the Lonely. The skittish, uncertain moments of contact, the times when Martin stiffened at his touch but whimpered when he pulled away. The other days, when they could barely let go of one another, when Jon would plant himself beside Martin or wrap his arms over his shoulders, and he would relax into it, sighing with release. Both of them too grateful for the fragile miracle of each other's touch to consider breaking contact.

This Martin didn't remember those days, and if he ever sensed anything desperate or reverent in the way Jon clung, he didn't comment on it. Still, even if he found it funny, he didn't seem to mind how ardently Jon held on to him.

Jon moved a hand into the space between Martin's shoulder blades and scratched down his spine, the particular way he used to like. Jon felt him shiver with pleasure under the soothing contact, and a powerful warmth spread through him.

"God . . ." Martin whispered, "you really know everything about me, don't you?"

Jon snorted. "Hardly. In a very real way, we barely had time to get to know each other. And when we did, well . . . it was close by necessity. It was intimate, and intense. But there's still a great deal I've no idea about."

"You were never tempted to use those powers of omniscience to look inside my head?"

"Constantly," Jon said, with great seriousness. "But I never did. I promised."

Martin went quiet at that. Maybe Jon's reply had been a little intense, or maybe Martin hadn't actually realized that looking inside his head had been a possibility when he'd asked the question as a joke.

"Oh," he said eventually. "Um . . . good?"

"I have picked up a few things," Jon continued, speaking with quiet and fond admiration. "For example . . . I know you'd like a pet, but your landlord won't allow them so you keep plants instead. You can't say no to panhandlers. You have a favorite hoodie that you only wear when you're sad and need the comfort. You like old, careworn furniture, and rainy days, and sitcoms that were made before you were born. You're kind to people who aren't kind to you, but you never forget the unkindness."

"Wow. Okay," Martin made a soft noise, shifting in his arms, voice tight and quiet. "Okay. Y-You're, uh, probably going to kill me if you keep that up, you know."

"Trust me, you've survived worse."

He felt Martin move a little higher, slotting himself beside Jon and giving him a tight squeeze. Jon grinned as the breath was pushed out of him, all twenty-four of his ribs contracting at the assault.

That was another difference, one of dozens of subtle changes Jon couldn't keep his mind from analyzing. Martin wasn't ungentle, exactly. But he hugged Jon more tightly, shoved or poked him when he was annoyed, whereas the Martin in his memories had held back a little. Been more mindful of his strength, as if wary he might handle him too roughly. It had been subtle, a thing Jon hadn't even noticed until he had something to contrast it against.

It made sense, he supposed. The other Martin had seen Jon limp back to the institute with fresh wounds and new scars one too many times. This one didn't have to have those images in his head.

There were some things that were lost between them, Jon knew that. Memories too small and simple to explain, questions he couldn't ask anymore. Moments they would never share, both good and bad. But there was also so much they had gained. This Martin hadn't had an easy life, not by any measure. But he hadn't had to watch helplessly as the people around him died or disappeared or became monstrous. Hadn't been lost in grinning corridors, or attacked by Hopworth's hooligans, or made to feel the heat of the endless tenement fire. And for that, Jon was so, so grateful.

"You look thoughtful," Martin commented.

"Mmm," Jon sat quietly for a while sifting through his thoughts before speaking. "We should go to a movie sometime. When I'm up for going out out."

"That sounds less fun for you than me . . . ."

"Depends on the movie. I could listen, even without description. And I'd enjoy being with you," he said. "Or maybe a concert? Though I don't really know what sort of music you like . . . ."

"Really? There's actually a blank spot in your catalogue of Martin trivia?" he said sarcastically. "Surprised it never came up."

"You only ever used headphones at work," Jon bristled, feeling oddly defensive about it, "and we obviously couldn't bring our devices to the cabin. Too traceable."

"Hmm," there was a teasing smile in Martin's voice. "Don't know if I want to tell, now. Feels like I've got a secret."

"Oh, except . . . there was one song? I don't know the lyrics, but you used to hum it all the time in the cabin."

"What was it called?"

"I didn't actually ask. It sounded nice, though. Maybe we could listen to it together. . . "

"How'd it go, then?"

He hummed the tune from memory. It came easily to mind, connected as it was with images of Martin sipping tea or wiping down a countertop, a bright, easy smile on his face. After a moment, Martin burst out laughing.

"That's -- that's from a soap commercial!"

". . . What?"

"Floors and doors, walls and halls, Liquid Lather cleans them all," he spoke-sang along with the tune. "It was probably just stuck in my head."

Jon frowned, mildly disappointed. "Well. It sounded nice when you were humming it, anyway."

"God. If you want I can serenade you with an insurance advert sometime."

"No thank you."

"Or we could listen to your album from uni," he pushed, the satisfied smile in his voice growing.

"Thankfully we never recorded anything," Jon grinned ruefully, "so that's lost to time."

"Bet you could still sing some of it."

"Try me the next time I'm not expecting to live through the night."

Martin made a displeased sound at that, but said nothing.

"I'm sorry that you always have to come over here," Jon said. "I should probably be making more of an effort to get out of the flat. But it's so much still, even with a guide. I can do it if I have to, but I can't relax."

"C'mon . . . you know I don't mind, and even if I did it wouldn't be something to apologize for. You're going at your own pace."

"Suppose I'm just impatient with myself. It feels absurd, I've walked through a London warped by unfathomable terror, but now ordinary city life is overwhelming. I think I never understood how many people there are on every block until each one became another unpredictable factor to be aware of on my way to the damn corner store," he sighed. "It may be a while before I'm up for anything like a concert."

"It's alright," Martin gave his arm a gentle squeeze. "I'm good at waiting."

For a moment Jon's mind went to a dark, creaking bedroom, air heavy with dust and thick with terror. It's all right. I'm good at waiting. The same phrasing, almost the same tone. Maybe it was to be expected, little parallels like this. Given a person's linguistic habits and enough time it was probably inevitable, but every time something like it happened it floored Jon in the most wonderful way. Some small but meaningful part of the man he loved reflecting and echoing back at him.

If the world didn't end, if he didn't dissolve into spiders or die at the hands of some unfathomable terror, Jon swore someday he'd find the words for how moments like that made him feel. And if he had any courage left in him, he'd tell Martin about it.

"Though, as long as we're talking about that," Martin said, "I've been thinking . . . ."

"In general?" Jon teased.

"Sort of. I've been reading some stuff about adjusting to vision loss? And I know this is fast – well, maybe not fast to you – but it seems to me like it's probably easier, especially at first, if you've got a sighted person staying with you . . ."

He felt himself breathe in sharply, and Martin's words came faster, his tone careful.

"Not - not to do everything for you, of course! I know you can do things yourself. Just to make little things easier, and – you know, that aspect aside it – it might just be nice –"

"Yes," Jon said decisively.

"Because it isn't really just the vision thing – I mean, it's alright if you do need help but it's also alright if you don't – but there's other reasons – "

"My answer is yes."

A faint laugh came out of Martin and he slapped Jon's chest lightly. "Stop agreeing and let me finish."

"Sorry."

"I'm not suggesting moving in. That would be too fast, at least for me," he said. "I'd want to keep my own place, and I'd probably still spend some time there."

"Of course," Jon nodded solemnly. "Perfectly reasonable to want some space of your own."

"Yeah. But if it works for you, I thought I might get a bag together, y'know, just sort of stay for a while? I – hell, I wouldn't, uh, mind the excuse to cook more dinners with you? And I slept better than I had in a while the night I stayed over here."

"So did I."

"I just think it might be nice. If you think so too, of course."

There was a pause as Jon waited, not sure if Martin had more to say. After the silence had dragged on for a while, he spoke up. "Am I allowed to say yes now?"

Martin laughed, nodding against Jon's chest.

"Then yes. I'd be very happy to have you stay here with me."

"Cool. Cool . . . " Martin exhaled. " . . . I love you."

"And I love you."

"More than I'll ever know?"

There was a teasing smile in Martin as he echoed the words Jon had said to him back in the tunnel. Jon was quiet for a moment.

He'd meant those words when he'd said them. It hadn't been a romantic turn of phrase. He'd confessed his feelings in that moment with the understanding that Martin would never be able to see how deep they ran. That he could tell Martin he loved him, but he'd never be able to show him that. He wouldn't have the chance. He found Martin's cheek with a hand, turned his face towards him, then bent down and kissed him, once.

"No," he said. "Not if I can help it."

[ceescedasticity]

a terrible, terrible idea I will not be finishing

TMA SBURB session scenario

The setup is that somehow, one of the current main character survivors finds out about SBURB, and comes up with an outlandish plan to force a session and drag the fears into the Incipisphere, thus leaving Earth to return to its original state. Pretend this is a feasible plan. Pretend it comes with a good plan to keep the Reckoning from destroying Earth immediately after it's restored.

The fears aren't going to be naturally inclined to go to the Incipisphere. It has a very low population — I'd be surprised if carapacians and consorts together topped a hundred thousand, though if you count underlings that's probably at least doubled — and even setting that aside some fears are just not well-represented. It's a very sterile place. So, the plan is to fill the "player" positions with people who can provide anchors for the fears and drag them into the Incipisphere, too. Pretend this makes sense.

(That puts us at over twelve players in a session, so I'll be using some original classes and aspects.)

The necessary qualifications for "players" are that they (1) are well-marked but not overwhelmed, (2) can be convinced to cooperate, and (3) are… accessible. Obviously live people are most accessible, but most live people are either overwhelmed and most of the rest are Avatars who are… actually they could also be described as overwhelmed, just in a different way. And the Incipisphere does have that little "dreamself" mechanism, so if they (read: Jon) have a sufficient... trace on a person (read: direct statement, Archive contract, accumulation of indirect statements, or some weird stuff), they can toss them straight into their dreamself, thus reviving them, possibly closer to human than they were before. (Or possibly creating a functionally identical copy. Hopefully no one asks.) Pretend this makes sense, too.

(They didn't attempt to exert any control over which moon people got, or which 'role'.)

Also benefiting from a dreamself: Jon, who barely survived the gross overextension of his powers figuring out how to do this and pulling in the "players" but just dropped upon entering the actual Incipisphere. He's now definitely in pre-coma condition and possibly even more regressed; he's been too disoriented to do much experimenting.

Melanie agreed to be the primary anchor for Slaughter because it's one of the stronger fears in the Incipisphere (the Battlefield and Prospit-Derse war in general mean the carapacians tend to be a good source for it) so they need someone trustworthy in the position. She's monitoring herself VERY carefully. She's also a secondary anchor for Beholding, but there's not any shortage there anyway. Her role according to the Incipisphere is Mage of Breath, Prospit dreamer, Land of Reeds and Whistles.

Georgie can't really anchor anything but End. Which is fine because it's also a fear native to the Incipisphere, and the only one that's a conceivable flight risk since the horrorterrors aren't afraid of anything else. Her mythological role is Sylph of Time, Derse dreamer, Land of Knells and Echoes.

Martin is the primary anchor for the Extinction, which may be a bit player as far as the entities are concerned but which is deeply engraved in the Incipisphere what with the Reckoning and everything. He's a secondary anchor for the Lonely as well as Beholding. His role is Rogue of Blood, Prospit dreamer, Land of Smoke and Craters.

Jon is the primary anchor for Beholding and a secondary anchor for pretty much everything else. (Beholding isn't a major concern for the Incipisphere's natives, but it's a potential issue for players, depending on their awareness.) He hasn't been needing statements, which he hopes is because he's regressed past the need for them, but which is actually because his Aspect is standing in for them. His role is Prince of Light, Prospit dreamer, Land of Sand and Searchlights.

Basira is the primary anchor for the Dark (since Beholding is taken). It's of middling strength, more than Beholding but much less than Slaughter or End; you get some Prospitians and consorts scared of the dark, but usually it's the least of everyone's worries. Her role is Maid of Mind, Prospit dreamer, Land of Pitch and Frames.

Annabelle Cane probably would agree to participate, but no one trusts either her or their own ability to manage her. Mikaele Salesa wouldn't want to interrupt his retirement, and if coerced he might sabotage things. Uh… that Jordan Kennedy ECDC fellow still seemed to have his head on fairly straight, right? He can anchor Corruption. (All of Corruption's strength in the Incipisphere is built on Dersite revulsion for amphibians.) His role is Page of Fire, Derse dreamer, Land of Toads and Hellbenders. (Did I mention how reliant Corruption is on Dersites and amphibians just now.)

At this point we have exhausted our living candidates. So: cast some dead people as players, force their dreamselves to form, maybe give them a nightmare about the post-Change world so they understand what's at stake, and wake them up.

The remaining fears that are really seriously strong in the Incipisphere are the Hunt (players hunt underlings hunt consorts) and the Desolation (meteors and RED MILES).

The Hunt goes to Daisy, who has been rebooted to mostly human in her dreamself and is unsurprisingly very shaken up about everything, but at least she knew about the Change (though she doesn't remember clearly). She's a secondary anchor for both Buried and Beholding. Her role is Haunt of Heart, Prospit dreamer, Land of Tracks and Traces.

Desolation goes to Tim, who is... not thrilled to be alive and conscripted again. He's somewhat mollified by it at least DEFINITELY not being more of the SAME bullshit. He's a secondary anchor for Beholding and Stranger. His role is Heir of Rage, Prospit dreamer, Land of Stone and Ashes. (He really likes the sound of Heir of Rage but isn't about to admit it.)

Stranger goes to Sasha, who is having an odd time of it. A lot of the background information everyone else knows already is new to her, and bringing her up to speed is extra work, but Jon and Martin were feeling sentimental and everyone agreed she'd be a stabilizing influence on Tim. She has MOST of her memories. People have MOST of their memories of her. (The Stranger isn't particularly strong in the Incipisphere because the locals are predisposed to accept any kind of weirdness from players without being bothered. Everything is familiar to them, no matter how strange it should seem.) She's a secondary anchor for Beholding and Spiral. Sasha's role is Clerk of Doom, Prospit dreamer, Land of Masks and Music.

Since the game prefers an even number of players, and it's already established the fourteen/fifteen don't REALLY cover everything, it's more complicated than that, maybe include an anchor for 'Unclassifiable'. Give that one to Gerry. (Jon can't decide whether he should feel guilty about this; Gerry wanted an end, but this definitely isn't life as a book.) (For his part Gerry is in 'this might as well happen' mode.) Gerry's role is Knight of Grief, Derse dreamer, Land of Tomes and Boxes.

The Incipisphere's natives aren't automatically AWARE of being steered, but they are; players always have their options restricted by alpha timeline bullshit; this particular group of players mostly got thrown into it without asking them so may be even more aware of their lack of control. All of which is to say the Web is not particularly weak and they need a trustworthy anchor. They settled on Gertrude and still aren't sure whether it was a good idea. What she thinks of it she isn't saying. Her role is Seer of Space, Prospit dreamer, Land of Webs and Frogs.

To everyone's surprise, Gertrude apparently came with a bonus Agnes. Possibly because they were leaning on her Web connections? Who knows? They set her to anchor Lonely, because even though she never had room for any marks but Desolation before she was definitely lowercase-L lonely. Agnes's role is Witch of Void, Derse dreamer, Land of Smog and Drizzle.

(At this point someone finally figures out lunar alignment is apparently being determined by whether someone has ever signed a contract with the Archives.)

The Vast goes to Adelard Dekker. Vast isn't among the strongest of the entities in the Incipisphere, but there's space involved and theoretically an entire universe, so it has definite potential and needs to be anchored by someone who won't go out of control with it. Adelard's role is Count of Hope, Derse dreamer, Land of Stars and Stairs.

That just leaves Buried, Flesh, and Spiral. None of them are particularly strong in the Incipisphere — you might think the Spiral would be, but SBURB does have its own rules.

For the Spiral, the main thing is they don't want the Distortion. They could try for non-Distortion Helen Richardson, or even non-Distortion Michael Shelley, but if something went wrong then they'd have the Distortion alive again and who knows what would happen. So… uh… hmmm… Oh, Mike Crew had a prolonged Spiral problem! He might not be very happy with the because of… everything, but he could probably be talked into cooperating for his own benefit, right? So he's reluctantly anchoring Spiral, because it's supposed to be temporary, he wants to live, and at least that stupid Lichtenberg figure hasn't showed up. He's also more human than he's used to. His role is Bard of Stone, Derse dreamer, Land of Mazes and Ravines.

And as long as they're giving second chances to dead avatars who probably don't deserve them but who did start out as traumatized children, what about Julia Montauk? She could maybe anchor the Flesh — there were those beating hearts in the shed, and she probably ran into more while Hunting… Okay, Flesh. She's not super happy about the Flesh thing but is more disoriented by being much less Hunter than she has been in years. Her role is Ghoul of Life, Derse dreamer, Land of Ribs and Regrowth.

And finally… okay, they're going to throw Buried at Jurgen Leitner. He's probably marked by about everything, and he was "buried" in the tunnels for years. It's fine. His role is Thief of Strange, Derse dreamer, Land of Pits and Dust.

How does it all turn out in the end? Who knows. Almost certainly no worse than canon will.

[ollieofthebeholder]

leaves too high to touch (roots too strong to fall): a TMA fanfic

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Also on AO3

Chapter 12: Martin Prime

As soon as he heard the bedroom door shut behind Tim, Martin turned towards Jon. He didn’t even get his mouth all the way open to say anything before Jon’s hands were on his face, and then Jon was kissing him.

It was their first kiss in far too long, since Martin had kissed Jon goodbye and promised to see him on the other side, and thank God it still felt the way it had before. A part of Martin had worried that things would be different—now that they were in the past, now that their plan was on its way, now that Martin was blind. This went a long way to reassuring him that they weren’t, though. Nothing had changed between them.

He gripped Jon’s elbows to hold him still. Jon’s hands dropped from Martin’s face and slid around his neck, seeming to try and pull him closer, although honestly if they got any closer Jon would be inside Martin’s rib cage. He also somehow managed to deepen the kiss, which Martin wouldn’t have thought possible a second previously. He closed his eyes and gave himself completely over to the moment.

The need for air was the only reason they separated, even a little bit. Martin rested his forehead against Jon’s and reveled in the simple fact that they were together again. It had probably been a good thing that they’d had these two weeks apart—it had given Martin a chance to prove to himself, and hopefully to Jon, that he could manage on his own—but he wasn’t going to deny that he’d missed him, and that he wanted him there as much as possible.

Something wet hit his chin, and it took Martin a second to realize what it was. Jon was crying.

“Jon?” he asked, unable to hide the worry in his voice. He reached up hesitantly to cup Jon’s cheek and rub his thumb across it, catching the tear tracks coursing down it.

“I was afraid I’d lost you,” Jon whispered. Martin could feel his sweater bunching up into his hands. “I was so damned—sure of myself. I told myself, when I let you follow the Keeper into that door, I told myself it would be okay, that whatever was hiding you from the Eye, from Jonah, I-I was sure it wouldn’t keep you from me, that I’d be able to find you, that I could Know you wherever you were, and then I couldn’t and I—I kept telling myself you were fine, you had to be fine, that I’d see you when I got to the Archives and you’d fuss at me for trying to get in your head and then we’d laugh about it, and then I got to the Institute and I saw all that chaos a-and I couldn’t find you, you weren’t there—”

“Jon. Jon, it’s okay, I’m okay,” Martin soothed. He pulled Jon’s head down to his shoulder, then began rubbing his back in slow, gentle circles with his free hand. “I’m okay. We’re okay.”

“It’s n—” Jon’s voice started rising, but he checked himself and hissed, “It’s not okay. I promised you I wouldn’t let anything happen to you, and then everything almost happened to you. You were in the middle of Jane Prentiss’s attack, again, but this time you were alone and blind and helpless—”

“I’m not helpless,” Martin interrupted. He was rather proud of the fact that he managed not to say that in an angry or petulant tone, but quietly and firmly. All right, yes, he was a little pissed at Jon for thinking of him that way, but he did get where Jon was coming from. Still, he’d done perfectly well for himself on his own. He honestly didn’t know if he would have been able to do as well as he’d done if he hadn’t spent time with Melanie before…everything, but he’d done it. He could still handle himself.

All the tension and fight went out of Jon in one long exhale, and he sagged against Martin. “No,” he agreed quietly. “You’re not.”

They held each other for a long moment of silence. Martin could feel Jon trembling, and he guessed it wasn’t all nerves. “Come on,” he said at last. “Let’s at least lie down. When’s the last time you slept?”

“Ah—yesterday? Day before, technically?” Jon stepped back a little, but didn’t let go of Martin. “The—the bed’s over here.”

Since Martin was completely unfamiliar with Tim’s bedroom—he’d only even been to his house once—he let Jon lead him. Getting ready for bed was easy enough, as was crawling into it, the movements more than half-mechanical. Jon pulled the covers up over both of them and immediately curled into Martin’s chest. They both sighed in near unison.

“I’ve been worried about you,” Martin murmured, running a hand through Jon’s hair. He tried to be gentle about working through the knots he encountered. “How long have you been…here?”

“In the past? About a week. Six days, more like.” Jon sighed and tucked his head into the crook of Martin’s neck. He fit there like he was a part of Martin’s body. “I just got to London earlier this evening, though. How—you said you’d been here two weeks. Where did you…come through?”

“The Archives. I think I was in one of the back corners.” Martin bit his lip. “Wasn’t sure where I was at first, until I heard Tim’s voice. What about you?”

“The safe house. I should have expected that, really, but it still hurt knowing you weren’t there. And…walking out the door was harder than I expected it to be.”

“At least the sky wasn’t blinking at you.”

“It took me a bit to convince myself that it wouldn’t before I could open the door.”

Martin wanted to laugh, but he knew Jon was in earnest. “I’m sorry. I wish I’d been there to help you.”

“And I wish I’d been in the Archives to help you. I—I know you don’t need it. I know you’re…I wouldn’t have been able to do it.”

“Do what? Stop Jane Prentiss?” Martin frowned. “You did the first time—”

“You may recall that I didn’t do all that much, except make statements and slow everybody down,” Jon interrupted. “It was mostly you and Tim. Some Sasha, and…but that’s not really what I meant.” He reached up and brushed a trembling hand over Martin’s eyes. “I wouldn’t have been able to handle being alone and blind. I’d have been completely lost without you.”

“Well…I mean, I was, too. I even told the others that just before you showed up,” Martin admitted. “It’s just…I’m used to being alone, I guess? There was…I never had anyone to take care of me, other than myself, so I learned how from a pretty early age. Worrying about me was something that happened when I didn’t have anyone else’s needs to worry about, and that almost never happened. I’m always lost.”

“You’re not now,” Jon said fiercely. He pulled Martin’s head down for a kiss. “But that’s my point, Martin. If our positions had been switched, I wouldn’t have lasted two weeks on my own. I’d have broken completely. You’re…so much stronger than I am.”

Martin snorted. “I’m stubborn. There’s a difference.”

“You’re both,” Jon said. Martin didn’t need to see him to know he was smiling—it was obvious in the affection in his voice. “Almost everyone we’ve encountered has mentioned that. It doesn’t change the fact that I couldn’t have done half of what you did. Let alone without getting everyone else hurt, if not killed. You did that.”

“Luck.” Martin hesitated. “I…I couldn’t really…Jon, the others, are they really okay?”

“They’re fine,” Jon assured him. “Except for…well, you. I’m sorry. It—it looks like their Martin took the brunt of the worms. But I didn’t even see so much as a hole on anyone else.”

Martin sighed in relief. “I can live with that.”

They fell silent for a while. Martin concentrated on the weight of Jon’s head against his shoulder, the thud of his heartbeat against his side, the warmth and softness of his skin under his hands. For as little time as they’d had together, or at least how little time they’d had before the world had ended and their clinging had been more desperate than loving, this was still so familiar, so comforting. Martin knew exactly where was safe to touch and where wasn’t, where Jon was overly sensitive and where he had no feeling at all. He literally didn’t need to see a thing.

“You know what’s bothering me the most?” he said at last.

“You don’t know what Sasha looks like?” Jon guessed.

“I don’t—are you reading my mind?” Martin felt his lips quirk upwards in a smile. Just a few months ago (or…whatever the actual span of time since the end of the world had been, he was guessing here), the very idea would have made him indignant, but now it was almost delightful.

“Is it wrong to say ‘I wish’?” Jon chuckled slightly, then sighed. “No. I—even right here with you, I can’t…it was the same with Melanie. Your eyes don’t work, so the Eye can’t use them. I just…know you. Lowercase know. And honestly, I wouldn’t have realized that was her if I hadn’t recognized her voice from the old tapes.”

Martin kissed the top of Jon’s head lightly. It was the closest thing to an apology he would be able to give for something Jon would fuss at him if he tried to actually apologize for. “So? What does she look like?”

Jon hummed. “Well, she’s tall. Not quite as tall as Tim, but taller than me, at least, which must have irritated me at some point. Slender, but…curvy, I guess? Not as waifish as the Not-Sasha was. Long dark hair, brown eyes. Glasses, too—the cat’s-eye type, you know what I mean?”

Martin frowned, trying to remember. “Are they…purple?”

“Yes. Wait. How do you know that? Could you see them?”

Jon sounded so hopeful, Martin hated to break his heart, probably as much as Jon had hated to admit he couldn’t actually read Martin’s mind. “I found a pair like that in the Archives once. While you were off on your world tour, I think. Tim made some snide remark about them being possessed or infused with evil energy or something like that, since they pretty obviously weren’t reading glasses.”

“Oh.” Sure enough, Jon deflated against Martin. “I hated that I didn’t recognize her. We were arguably friends for years and I—I didn’t recognize her.”

“That’s…kind of a good thing, though?” Martin didn’t exactly mean to make it a question, but he was uncertain. He hadn’t known Sasha as long as Jon had, even though he’d been with the Institute longer than the entire rest of the Archives staff put together. “I mean, if you did recognize her…it would have meant that she got taken by…”

“The Stranger. I know. I—God, I’m going to have to tell her tomorrow I looked into her head. You know I’m trying not to do that, but—I had to know if she was all right. When I realized the Institute had been attacked…”

“I think she’ll forgive you. I mean, it’s not like you did it for fun.”

“Still.” Jon suddenly tensed. “The table—has it been—?”

“Not yet,” Martin assured him. “Or if it has, someone else signed for the delivery. But I told…my counterpart to let me know if it did happen.” He paused. “Jon, what are we actually going to do with that table?”

“I don’t know. The—the Other was bound by it, not to it, so I’m reluctant to destroy it and risk unleashing it on the Institute. At the same time…”

“Someone’s bound to study it eventually,” Martin completed. “What about sending up a copy of the statement talking about it? I mean, they’ve got the calliope locked up. Maybe if they know how dangerous it is, they’ll let it be.”

“Maybe.” Jon didn’t sound sure. “I—I don’t know enough about the people in Artifact Storage to know how they’d react. We can ask Sasha. She wasn’t there long, but she might know more than, well, the rest of us.” He sighed. “I’m just glad she’s all right. I—I wasn’t sure if we’d even know if she got taken. If we’d get muddled and forget that the voice wasn’t the same.”

Thinking about it gave Martin a headache. “Thankfully, she wasn’t. And your counterpart didn’t get hurt. Or Tim.”

“I worried about that, too. I don’t know how much of…the way he was at the end there was because of the Stranger and how much was because of the worms and how much was just…the general atmosphere of the Institute, and the Archives specifically, but I’m sure him turning into a sieve didn’t help.” Jon pressed a kiss to Martin’s collarbone. “And you didn’t get bitten?”

“Not even once,” Martin assured him.

“Good. That’s good.” Jon paused. “Why did you trust Michael?”

“Honestly? I didn’t feel like I had much of a choice.” Martin thought about how to phrase it. Because Jon was absolutely right—the Distortion was incredibly dangerous and untrustworthy, whether Michael or Helen. “He showed up in the tunnels…I don’t remember him doing that when Jane Prentiss attacked us, but maybe it was just because it was in the middle of the day. Or maybe I just wasn’t worth tormenting. But he did this time, and it was, well, it was me or them. Tim and Sasha needed to make it out of the tunnels because Past Me needed to know they were okay. I didn’t want them lost in those corridors for days or weeks on end. And I guess maybe I was hoping it would be less disorientating because I couldn’t see.”

“Was it?”

“Actually, yeah. Or maybe he just made it more…direct.”

Jon snorted. “I can’t see him being so…helpful. Especially not to someone tied to the Archives.”

“Well, I’m not exactly tied to them anymore,” Martin said slowly. “Especially not now. And like he said, I’ve been marked by the Spiral myself, that time Tim and I wound up in his corridors. Mostly, though, I think he was helpful because I told him I’d come back to help save the world.”

“Michael or Helen, I really don’t think the Distortion would care that the world ended.”

“I…might have left out a few key details,” Martin said. He couldn’t help the smirk that tugged at his lips. “I told him that the Beholding was the one that had eventually succeeded in its ritual, and that he had been completely and utterly destroyed. He didn’t seem too sure until I described exactly what his hallways looked like, and who he used to be. Then I told him that if he wanted to have any chance not to have those things happen, he’d best let me through safely.”

“God, I love you. Have I told you that lately?”

“Not since you walked in the door, no.”

Martin meant it as a joke, but from the way Jon suddenly went stiff, he realized it hadn’t quite landed. “Good Lord. I—I really haven’t, have I?”

“Well, to be fair, neither have I,” Martin pointed out. “We did have other things to worry about. And, I mean, there’s the whole ‘we’re not going to tell our past selves that we’re in a relationship because we don’t want to rush them’ thing we agreed on. Honestly, Jon, you really think you have to say the words for me to know?”

“No. No, o-of course not. Still…” Jon cupped Martin’s jaw with one hand and kissed him—a soft, tender kiss that spoke volumes, even before he said, “I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

Again they fell into a silence, one less heavy than before but still weighted. Martin was tired—not as tired as the others had to be, but still tired—but he was reluctant to sleep just yet. He was perfectly content to lie there with Jon, enjoying the nearly-forgotten sensation of not being in imminent danger for once. The last time they’d been able to rest like this had been…well, all right, Salesa’s house, which didn’t really count with Annabelle Cane creeping about and Jon growing steadily weaker the longer he was cut off from the Eye. They hadn’t been able to relax this much, really, since before the world ended. And there was no telling how long they’d be able to relax now, so Martin was determined to enjoy it for however long it lasted.

He almost thought Jon had fallen asleep until he spoke again. “How much have you told them?”

It took Martin a second to realize what Jon was asking. “Not a lot. They only got here a few minutes before you did, really, and that was the first time I met Past You when he knew I wasn’t, well, Past Me. All I’ve told him so far, that you weren’t here for anyway, was that I was from the future and that we were here to save the world, and that the statements on the tapes were real. And, well, you heard how much Tim and Sasha knew. I told Past Me a bit more, but not much. Just that the Fears exist and that one of them runs the Institute.” He paused. “Actually, he—put things together pretty quickly, but I didn’t go into details. I suppose he’s figured it out, though.”

“What do you mean?”

“When I told him about the Fears…he asked if one of them had something to do with spiders, and when I said yes, he asked if that was why you hated them so much. I didn’t put it together until I heard your tape about that damned Leitner.”

Jon made a noise that was somewhere between a laugh and a sigh. “When did you listen to that tape? I—well, I’m not upset, obviously, and I would have…but I don’t remember actually giving it to you.”

Martin bit his lip. “It was…it was while you were in your coma, actually. I listened to all of them. Every tape I could find. I told myself I was trying to fill in the missing pieces, to find out the things you’d known so I could keep the Archives running for you, because I had to believe you’d be back, but…really I just needed to hear your voice.”

“I know how that goes,” Jon said softly. “Honestly, it’s why I listened to all those tapes you were leaving for me as soon as I did. And the ones you did while I was…gone before.” He paused. “Wait…did you listen to the official tapes or the ones I recorded for myself?”

“Both. I didn’t know they were the same cases at first, but…well, the first time I realized I was listening to something I’d already heard, I went ahead and listened all the way to the end.” Martin tightened his arms around Jon without really thinking about it. “God, I felt awful about them. You were going through so much and I didn’t even notice…”

“Martin, no, it—you did notice. I honestly don’t know that I would have survived those months if you hadn’t been looking out for me. Even when I all but accused you of murder, you still looked out for me.” Jon hugged Martin tighter, too. “No one could have done more for me than you did. What happened wasn’t your fault. It’s never been your fault.”

Martin wasn’t sure how much he believed that, but he also wasn’t going to argue, not right now. They’d have plenty of time to argue later, he supposed. And really, if that was the worst thing they had to fight about, he could live with that. “Still. I wish there’d been something else I could have done.”

“Just as I wish I could have done more for you when you were working with Peter Lukas. We did what we could with what we had.” Jon sighed. “It will have to be enough. We can’t change it now—not for ourselves, anyway. And hopefully we can keep our past selves from ever having to face that.”

Martin hummed in agreement. “Jon…do you think we can? That we can actually keep Past You from being…marked by any more powers before we can take out…you know?” He left out the question that had been haunting him during the nights he lurked in the Archives: Could they even take out Jonah Magnus? He’d thwarted their efforts once before, after all, and even though they were in the past now, it wouldn’t be easy. “I know you can’t Know the future or hypotheticals or anything like that. I’m asking for your opinion. What do you think?”

For a long moment, Jon didn’t answer. Finally, he said quietly, “I don’t think we can keep him completely free of marks. Michael…wants his revenge. Despite your warning, I think he’ll go after Past Me at some point regardless.” He pondered for a moment. “Before the Unknowing. We’ve got to take him out before then.”

Martin didn’t question which him Jon was talking about. “Tim’s not going to be happy about us taking away his shot at revenge.”

“If there was a safe way of disrupting it, I’d be all for it, but I don’t think there is.”

“Jon, the whole point is that the rituals can’t succeed,” Martin pointed out. “It’s going to collapse under its own weight anyway, right? Why does he have to disrupt it right at the height of the ritual? Why not just…plant the stuff and let him press the button from a safe distance?”

Jon paused. “That…God, why didn’t I think of that? Of course, you’re absolutely right. As long as they’re all there, it…it doesn’t matter how far along it is.”

Martin could hear the exhaustion in Jon’s voice. He was about to ask if Jon was sure he’d slept within the last week when it hit him all of a sudden. Quietly, he asked, “When’s the last time you took a statement?”

The split-second pause before Jon answered told Martin everything he needed to know. “I’m fine.”

“Not what I asked.”

Jon sighed heavily. “I’ve done a couple small ones for myself since I came back, and, well, I was in the room when they gave their statements. It…took the edge off, at least.”

“Yeah, but it’s not enough. You’re starving, Jon.”

“What do you want me to do, start…pouncing people on the streets? You stopped me from doing that once before, and you were right, but—”

“I can give you one,” Martin said. He pressed a finger to Jon’s lips, forestalling his immediate refusal. “No, listen to me. You need a statement. And you’ve been without one so long, it’s got to be…fresh. Besides, I know you want to know what my trip back here was like. That’s…definitely a statement.” And it’ll probably keep you going for a while, he didn’t say. What he’d experienced, in a place he hadn’t expected to feel much fear, had nearly undone him, would have undone him if the Keeper hadn’t intervened at probably the last possible moment. But if there was anyone he wanted to have it, it was Jon.

“I don’t want you to keep destroying yourself to help me,” Jon whispered.

“Gotowe zdrowie, kto chorobie powie.” Martin quoted one of the old Polish proverbs his grandfather had taught him when he was little. He didn’t bother translating. One of Jon’s “gifts” from the Beholding was the ability to understand languages spoken at him, at least sometimes. He couldn’t speak them necessarily, but he could understand them, when the Eye felt it was important. He also knew that Jon didn’t always realize he was doing it. “Let me do something for you, Jon. Please.”

There was a long silence before Jon said, “Tomorrow. Not tonight. Just…I didn’t start seeing Melanie again after she—quit, but just in case it—one more night without nightmares.”

“Okay,” Martin agreed. “Tomorrow it is. After we’ve answered some questions, how’s that?”

“That’s…honestly better than I expected. I thought you’d try to make me do it first thing in the morning.” Jon sounded relieved.

“I’m trying to meet you halfway here.” They were both stubborn as hell—Martin probably worse than Jon, if he was being honest—but they were learning to make concessions to one another. As badly as Martin wanted to force Jon to just take the damn statement already, he also knew that the need for statements was the one part of the Archivist package Jon still hated. More so after what Jonah Magnus had done to him, done through him. And Jon was right about there being a chance taking his statement would mean both of them had to experience it in their nightmares. It was a chance they’d have to take, though.

“So am I.” Jon exhaled. “I…I don’t know how I’m going to do this. How to find the balance between keeping them safe and not keeping them in the dark. And how to do it without…manipulating them. Without forgetting that they’re people, not pieces on a game board.”

“That’s what I’m here for. To help you.”

“I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

Martin twirled a strand of Jon’s hair around his finger idly. “I don’t want to ever have to find out.”

Jon snuggled against Martin’s chest, and he felt the butterfly kiss of his eyelashes fluttering shut. “Neither do I.”

Translation of the proverb: “Ready the health, who shares the disease.” English equivalent: “A problem shared is a problem halved.”

[beholdme]

All the Many Shades of Gerry - Chapter 4

Chapters: 4/19

Fandom: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Gerard Keay/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Martin Blackwood/Gerard Keay, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Gerard Keay/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist

Characters: Martin Blackwood, Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Gerard Keay, Tim Stoker (The Magnus Archives), Sasha James, Gertrude Robinson, Elias Bouchard

Additional Tags: Alternate Universe, Library AU, Librarian Jon, Artist Gerry, Trans Male Character, Trans Martin Blackwood, Canon Asexual Character, Asexual Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Ace Subtype - Sex Positive, Polyamory, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Romantic Fluff, Falling In Love, Boys in Skirts, Kissing, Demisexual Gerard Keay, Minor Character Death, Past Character Death, Canon-Typical Child Neglect, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Flirting, Minor Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist/Tim Stoker, Adventures in Hair Dying, Happy Ending, Banter, Gerry has a lot of sass, Gerard Keay is Morticia Adams, Jon is a very grumpy Librarian, Martin adores them anyway.

Summary: In which Gerry is a kaleidoscope and Jon and Martin can't help falling in love with him.

He happens to love them back.

Find it on Ao3

[1] [2] [3]

Gerry leans out his window one early, early morning as summer dies in a crushing heatwave. Even at 4 A.M. the humidity presses against him, and his cigarette does nothing to soothe it.

He smiles as a bird begins its first song somewhere nearby and moves back inside.

He glares at the half-completed commission painting on his main easel, petulantly flipping it off as he walks past to get to the painting he's actually been working on.

The painting shows Frankenstein's monster in a white dress and a flower crown, walking through a library, barefoot and beaming. It's a small one, nothing like the monster in the other corner, but he thinks Martin will like it and plans to give it to him to hang in the bookstore.

Martin had cooed over the sketch, and suggested that they should name the painting so people finally had something to call it other than 'Frankenstein' or 'Monster.'

"Everyone deserves to have their own name, Gerry," Martin had told him firmly, "Even if they have to pick it themselves."

Both intimately familiar with the concept, they had exchanged a significant look over those words.

"Not spiders," Jon stated firmly from nearby.

"Yes, spiders." Martin had whispered into Gerry's ear, and they had dissolved into secretive laughter.

Gerry had painted a small spider and cobweb into the corner of the final piece, hoping Jon would notice and shudder every time he noticed the little guy. If Martin saw it and thought of their sweet camaraderie, then that was all the better.

He signs his artist's mark into one corner and considers it a job well done.

***

Martin's eyes fill with tears when Gerry takes it over to the store to give it to him later that week, when it has dried and he can wrap it in soft tissue paper to deliver it.

The weather is still oppressive outside, and Gerry orders something icy while Martin looks it over.

"You shouldn't have." He tells Gerry weepily, dragging his eyes away from it.

"Why not?" Gerry shoots back, leaning over and tucking a piece of wavy blonde hair behind Martin's ear, tactile as ever. "It makes you happy, and art is meant for enjoying, not sitting in sketchbooks."

Martin comes around the counter and pulls Gerry into his arms. He hugs him back, absorbing the sweetness in the embrace.

"Thank you, Gerry."

"You're very welcome, Martin."

***

Gerry texts them all at 3 in the morning to invite them to the park the next afternoon. Martin replies immediately that he would love to, Jon replies the next morning grousing about being texted in the middle of the night. Gerry and Martin both understand that it's because he had probably only just gone to sleep when it arrived, but they say nothing.

When they arrive, Martin goes immediately over to coo and feed bread to the local ducks, while Jon and Gerry settle nearby.

Martin glances over at one point to find them looking at him with identical looks of adoration on their faces and feels all the blood rush into his face.

Gerry is leaning against a big tree that they chose to set up under, trying to escape the afternoon sunshine. Jon is laying with his head on Gerry’s lap, uncharacteristically relaxed and amicable as he smokes an indulgent cigarette. Nearby, Gerry’s sketchbook is laying open, but his pencil lies abandoned as he plays with Jon’s hair instead.

Martin wasn't sure what he thought was going to happen when Jon told him about Gerry. Honestly, he had supposed that Jon would simply prefer to be with his previous lover and that would be that. And yet somehow Martin found himself courted by both of them, and it fills him with pleased warmth every time he allows himself to think about it. Being wanted and pursued was a feeling that Martin had never let himself bask in, preferring to ignore the idea that he was desired in any way, rather than risk the crushing rejection that he so feared if he wasn’t.

He had let himself go after Jon anyway, so hopelessly enamored with him that Martin had been willing to risk any dismissal, even the razor-sharp one he was convinced would be the only result of his rushed date offer.

Jon’s enthusiastic acceptance was the biggest shock of his life, and each small way he showed Martin that he cared for him was like opening the curtains in a dark room; bright, unexpected and so beautiful it hurt just a bit.

Martin wanted to default to the assumption that Gerry was only playing along to benefit his relationship with Jon, but with Gerry, it's hard to deny that he is actually interested, his attention so focused and his flirtation so palpable.

Now they're on a date in the park, and things are so easy and affectionate between them, and Martin can't help but let himself feel a fond hope in that place that he hasn't ever allowed himself to feel before.

***

It turns out Gerry's idea of a picnic is just junk food and pink lemonade from Martin's bookstore, but he gets no complaints as they lie together in the dying light of afternoon and toss candy and chocolate between them.

Jon migrates from his lap to lie between Martin's legs eventually and Gerry takes the opportunity to sketch them together. The light shifts in Martin's blonde hair, gilding it golden, and Jon's smile shines out of his mossy green eyes as he tips his head back to look up into Martin's face.

Gerry hopes he has the adequate talent to capture the magic that moves between them, that he feels moving between all of them.

When the sketch is finished, Jon demands it, obviously enamored.

"Ask nicely," Gerry replies tartly, holding the sketchbook to his chest protectively.

Jon narrows his eyes at the sass and rolls up to his knees to shuffle towards him. His eyes are narrowed rather intimidatingly, but Gerry knows it's more of a face of consideration than an actual threat.

"Gerry." Jon takes his head into his long-fingered hands and tilts his face upwards. "Please." He presses a kiss to Gerry's mouth and punctuates each successive word with another. "Can. I. Have. That. Sketch."

Trying to appear unmoved by the display, Gerry responds with a dispassionate, "Why should I?"

"Because," he leans down to whisper, "My heart shall break without it."

"Well, I suppose we can't have that," Gerry tells him dryly, handing it over.

"Thank you," Jon says, offering him another kiss as payment. Gerry leans into this one, sliding his hand up into Jon's hair and pulling them closer together.

When they separate and Jon flops down next to Martin again, his attention has been captured by something across the park.

“Martin?” Gerry nudges him with a foot.

Martin’s attention snaps back towards him, a grin spreading across his face. “Can we get ice cream?”

***

They do go get ice cream. They pack up their things, and meander across the park with only a vague sense of urgency as the sun sets around them.

In the ice cream parlour, they stand in a line before the freezer window and consider their options as a bored-looking clerk eyes them.

"Really, Gerry?" Jon asks in disbelief as Gerry orders the black charcoal flavor.

"Obviously. Have you met me?" He gestures at the length of himself. His hair is dyed a violent shade of blood orange, and his piercings glint in the light of the setting sun. He's wearing combat boots and black skinny jeans, and the tattoos on his hands and arms stand out starkly against his pale skin. His black tank top has a Metallica album cover on it, and he's wearing enough black eyeliner to put an over-dramatic teenager to shame. The ice cream will certainly fit with his aesthetic.

"But what if it doesn't taste good?" Martin asks, sounding genuinely concerned.

"And what happened to your obsession with drinking pink things?" Jon adds triumphantly.

Gerry just shoots Jon an offended look. "You don't drink ice cream, Jonathan. Get a grip. Besides, it's lemonade flavored, it'll be just as good as if it were yellow."

Martin giggles, although it's not clear if it's at Jon's flushed embarrassment or Gerry's firm opinion on the matter. “I’ll have the strawberry,” Martin tells the server, who then looks to Jon for his order. Sensing his distraction, Martin adds, “He’ll have mint chocolate chip.”

Jon, chastised, doesn’t even argue.

They sit outside on a bench, the air finally cool enough for them to brave sitting in the open for a few minutes, side by side, Jon in the middle. One hand occupied by his ice cream, he can hardly link hands with both of them, but Gerry takes his left hand, and Martin reaches across his lap to hold both their hands in one of his. It’s a bit tangled, but all of them are happy.

Jon, always a speedy eater, practically inhales his cone and sits looking very satisfied indeed. Martin also appears content and at ease as he eats at a far more reasonable pace, savouring a rare indulgence.

Gerry faces twists at the first taste of his own ice cream, but he says nothing, resolutely working his way through it.

“No good, Ger?” Martin asks, looking over Jon's head at him.

“It’s fine,” he mutters, although his expressiveness calls him a liar.

“That bad, huh?” Jon crows, voice filled with triumph.

“Bite me,” is Gerry’s only response, eyes rolling sullenly.

“Can I try it?” Martin asks earnestly, reaching a hand out. Gerry hands it over, nose wrinkling. Martin secretly thinks the expression makes him look quite adorable, but would never mention that to Gerry. He tastes it and makes a face. “It’s weird. Too sweet, probably to overcompensate for the taste of charcoal. And not lemony enough.”

Gerry grunts in agreement. Jon, overcome with curiosity, slips it away from Martin as he attempts to pass it back to Gerry.

“That's just rude, Jon.” Martin pronounces, scandalised. He pinches Jon just above the knee for good measure, but he simply accepts it as his due and takes a big bite of the pilfered dessert.

Jon sits up straight, eyes lighting up.

“Really?” Gerry grouses, “After the shit you gave me for ordering it?”

“Yes, actually. It’s good!” Jon’s voice is filled with rare animation, and Gerry waves him away as he tries to hand it back.

“Someone should enjoy it. I wouldn’t want to deprive the ice cream of its purpose in life,” Gerry’s expression lightens. “Besides, I’ll probably get more satisfaction from watching you eat it than by eating it myself.”

Jon blushes at the suggestive comment but doesn’t let it deter him, finishing the ice cream almost as fast as he did the first one, sitting between his two favourite people in the world.

[squeeneyart]

Breathe in the Salt - Chapter 7

AO3

Beta read by @thesnadger who does a great job

Tim and Martin sit out the nausea.

Martin talks to himself.

“You sure you don’t want to head home for the day?” Tim asked, picking at the grass beside him. He and Martin sat with their backs pressed against the cliff railing, facing away from the steep drop. The lighthouse loomed in front of them, barely casting a shadow as morning ticked closer to noon.

“Yeah, I’m okay,” Martin replied. He rested his arms on his knees, his chin buried into the fabric of his coat sleeves. “I don’t really feel like walking down the hill yet? I’ll at least wait for the others to get back.”

“Well, they should be here soon, unless the place Simon pointed us toward is yet another weird building that makes you feel like you’re falling into a big hole.” Tim squinted up at the sky and immediately seemed to regret it, leaning forward to drop his face between his knees. “Ugh, the Fairchild place was almost as bad as here. I’m surprised we survived the walk back down. If we didn’t have someone leading us out, we’d probably be swallowed up by the carpet! Sorry to say, but I think your whole town is fucked. Or any place owned by the weird old guy club, I guess.”

Martin grimaced. “I don’t get how Jon and Sasha seem so unbothered by it. If it were just me, I’d chalk it up to stress or something, but, well.”

Tim nodded in solemn understanding. “‘But, well’.’” He lifted his head and squinted in the sunlight. “It could be they’re faking it and I’m the only one willing to ‘fess up. If that’s the case, they’ve been really good at pretending their stomachs haven’t been dropping straight into the sea all weekend. But, between you and me, Jon can’t act for shit.”

Martin’s shoulders bobbed with silent laughter. “He seems very easy to read, yeah.”

“Oh yeah, I don’t think he’s ever successfully lied in his life, unless you count avoiding a subject altogether.” Tim smiled and leaned back against the railing, brushing a hand over his hair. “Glad you two are getting on, by the way. I’m sure Sasha already talked to you about it, but the turnaround really was impressive. I was concerned he’d just be pissy this whole week over some spilt tea.”

Martin buried the bottom of his face a degree further into his coat. “Please don’t remind me. Anyway, I’m sure having something weird to chase after helped. Means this place wasn’t a total waste of time for you.”

“Hey, it wasn’t gonna be a total waste. I can’t speak for him, but I for one love to make new connections.” He waggled his eyebrow, making Martin snort and turn a brighter shade of red. “Really, though, you’ve been a lot of help. If the walk home is that bad, you should just stay up where the sun actually hits for a while. None of us will mind if you hang around, and I need someone here to prove that my dizzy spells aren’t just me being ridiculous.”

Martin’s mouth sunk into a frown. “No, once they get back I’ll head home. Lunch won’t make itself.”

“What, don’t want to grab something with us nerds?” Tim asked, smiling broadly.

“N-No, I just, y’know, I bought groceries yesterday, and if I eat out too much, I’ll end up wasting some of it, and-” Martin searched for more excuses that wouldn’t bring his mother into the picture and failed.

Tim scrunched his eyebrows together in thought, then took out his phone and asked, “What’s your number?”

“What?”

“Your mobile? In case we need to reach you. And so I can send you dumb shit in my down time that I’ve already sent to Sasha.”

For a moment, Martin sat in stunned silence. “Um. Okay?” He said, his voice cracking in the most embarrassing way possible. Then, slowly, he took an old phone out of his coat pocket, technically a smart phone but just barely. They exchanged numbers, and Martin stared at the new contact before slipping the phone back into place.

“There, now you’re stuck with me. I’ll keep you updated if Sasha and Jon do in fact decide to do something stupid that gets us all disappeared. Speaking of,” Tim said, shading his eyes with a hand. “Here they come now, and Jon looks especially irritated.” They both stood up, grasping at the railing and sharing a weary look.

“Come on, guys,” Sasha yelled from the bottom of the steps. “Break time’s over.”

Back inside, the four of them sat around the table. From the looks on their faces, Jon and Sasha had been disappointed by their short venture. “So, how are you two doing?” Sasha asked. “How’s the nausea?

“Oh, just fine. We can almost get up without losing breakfast.” Tim said. “How was the place?”

Jon crossed his arms. “Unsurprisingly, Simon Fairchild sent us to an inaccessible piece of private property owned by the Lukas family. We couldn’t even get anyone to come to the door. For now, it may be a dead end.”

“I could try to get Peter to let us in?” Martin suggested with little enthusiasm.

Sasha looked at his obviously pained expression and shook her head. “No, bad idea. Simon was pretty clear on Peter not knowing we went to his home. I’d guess that extends to any of us going into this other place. If what you said happened back at the house is true, I don’t want that kind of risk. We’ll have to try it later and hope for an answer.”

Martin let out a relieved sigh and stood. “Good, good idea. I’ll be going then. I guess if you need me for… questions? Updates? Tim has my number.”

Sasha raised her eyebrows at Tim in amusement, while Jon rolled his eyes and scowled. With a lopsided smile, Tim shrugged and said, “What? The guy lives at the bottom of the world. We can’t drag him up and down that hill all day.”

Perhaps quicker than necessary, Martin excused himself and walked out of the building. The last bit of conversation he heard was Jon complaining about a lack of workplace professionalism, followed by Tim making a mocking comment that Martin couldn’t quite hear.

Once he had walked a little ways away, he relaxed. They really did balance each other out, the three of them. He could imagine Sasha breaking them apart in a little while, then getting them on task like before.

His hand brushed against the phone in his pocket, and he felt a little pang in his throat. He pushed the sensation down. Chances were, they wouldn’t need to call him, and it would be best to pay as little attention to his phone as he always had.

--

After the usual walk home, Martin approached his mother in front of the television. There was one of her Christian programs playing, the kind with the television preacher. “Hi, Mum.”

“You took much longer than usual,” she said stiffly. He could see her attempting to swallow and went toward the kitchen.

“Sorry, work ran long today. I’ll get lunch going.” He began to look through the fridge, considering his options.

“I’m not hungry. Just want a glass of water,” she said, her voice hoarse. Martin winced.

“One second.” He quickly filled a glass from the tap and brought it to her. “You will need to eat something to get your medication down. I’ll make something for both of us and we’ll see how you’re feeling then.”

She huffed in response, taking a sip of water and clearing her throat. Once food was ready, she did eat enough for her medication and then some, setting Martin at ease.

“It’s sunny today, if you’d like to sit out front,” he suggested after cleaning up the tray in front of her. She sniffed and otherwise stayed silent. “Okay… let me know if you change your mind. The fog even cleared out a bit-”

“I am not going outside today.”

“Okay.”

Martin left her alone and went back to the kitchen and set some chicken in the fridge to defrost. His future self would thank him later, he thought, and he went upstairs to figure out the rest of his Sunday.

The first order of business was to lay down and sleep for a while. Two busy mornings in a row and he was exhausted, the muscles in his legs finally catching up to all of the extra walking. As he lay down, he thanked his walls, bed, and windows for staying in place and gently drifted off to sleep.

Several hours later, Martin woke to find the sun had retreated back behind clouds and a familiar layer of fog. He reached for his phone on the bedside table to check the time. 4:30 pm. It was almost time to get dinner started, but before he could move to set the phone down, he saw there was text notification. Without his glasses, he had to squint and hold the phone close to his face. The brightness stung his eyes. The messages were from about fifteen minutes ago.

Tim: hey Tim: what do these weird knobs and buttons do anyway

Attached was a distorted photo, apparently of the upstairs console in the lighthouse.

“Shit,” Martin mumbled, tapping out an answer.

Martin: dont know, peter never told me. work the lighthouse i guess, make sure the big light is running. Martin: also what does all the static mean

Almost immediately, he got a response.

Tim: is that how lighthouses work? Tim: means its weird shit. weird shit hates digital

Martin: its the only lighthouse ive ever worked in, your guess is as good as mine Martin: oh good

No response came for a bit, and Martin took the pause to get out of bed. Halfway down the stairs, his phone buzzed.

Tim: update, stairs still bad Tim: arseholes who don’t get spooky vertigo club

Attached was another photo, still fuzzy, this time of Jon and Sasha walking ahead with Tim’s hand just barely in frame, clutching the rail. Jon was looking at the camera with a stern expression, his mouth open in the middle of saying something. Martin laughed quietly and continued walking.

In the time it took to prepare the chicken for baking, his phone vibrated in his pocket a few times. With his hands coated, there was no way to check until he slid the chicken into the oven twenty minutes later.

Tim: dont think anything stupid will happen tonight Tim: no one’s gotten too desperate yet but tomorrow is a new day Tim: will let you know if we end up getting arrested in the middle of the night for trespassing tho

Martin: haha, very funny

Tim: give it until tuesday

Martin’s eyebrow twitched, unsure of how seriously to respond.

Martin: please dont get me fired?

Tim: no promises! ;)

It felt like a lighthearted enough response to put Martin at ease. Tim liked joking. Martin knew that by now. If Tim was saying it, then it was a joke. Plus, it was clear Sasha and Jon were very by-the-books. If Jon would lecture Tim about texting, he certainly wasn’t the type to do anything illegal.

Still, the number of times Tim had joked about it made Martin irrationally nervous. That and Simon being cryptic and threatening. And the buildings trying to make him sick. And Jon-

Sliding his phone into his back pocket, Martin distracted himself with preparing the rest of their dinner. It wasn’t the time to spiral. He had chicken in the oven and vegetables to steam.

Dinner was made and eaten within the hour, and Martin’s phone stayed silent for the duration. When his mother asked to go outside after dinner, he did his best not to be outwardly irritated at her change of mind and did as she requested, covering his face to protect himself against the night wind.

It wasn’t until later when he had just about settled down for bed that Martin checked his phone, under the pretense that he was setting his alarm for the morning. There were no unread messages, so he set his phone down onto the side table to charge.

The fog rolled outside his window, illuminated by the weak light of the front porch. When sleep eventually took him, he dreamed of nothing.

--

When 6 am came, Martin found himself in an empty lighthouse. Under his arm was the expected box of documents he was to work with for the week, which he set on his desk. He then dragged his chair back over from the folding table, which was still littered with loose papers and three used mugs.

“Right, right. Library day. They could’ve at least remembered to clean up a bit.” Martin brought the dirty dishware to the kitchen and placed them in the sink to soak, then looked around for something clean to use for himself. He managed to find a kitschy one he’d always liked, with a tiny, smiling whale on the side.

“Looks like it’s just you and me.”

His voice echoed through the building, the final ‘me’ stretching on much too long.

Martin glared out into the main room. “Yeah, yeah, I’m alone, laugh it up.”

Again, the last ‘up’ lingered and drifted up the stairs, and he wanted to slap himself for walking right into that one. There was no point in talking back to a possibly haunted building.

He settled on silently making himself some tea, then dove into the week’s work. It was mind-numbing, as expected, but after a while it grew to be calming and familiar. The weird ache in his chest gave way to distraction, and hours ticked by without interruption. Martin began to feel normal, or his version of normal before things started to be poked and prodded. Before he knew it, he had eaten lunch and was on his way to the second half of his shift.

“...up.”

Martin jumped, almost knocking over his tea. That had been his voice. Just a single noise that hung in the air with no echo to be heard. No, he thought, no, no, no, he was not going to take any bait in this place. He righted himself in his chair and reached for the pen he had dropped.

“Me. Up.” Even with his original tone resting in those syllables, the new sense of urgency was unmistakable.

Against every part of his brain screaming at him, he took a step toward the stairs. Before he could go any further the front door swung open.

“Hey, Martin, we’re back,” Sasha said, carrying a file folder. “We- woah, are you okay?”

Martin stopped and stared at her, his jaw clenched to the point of pain. “Um. Define okay.”

The three researchers stopped and shared a concerned look. Sasha walked over to set her things on the table. “Okay, okay, clearly something happened.”

“What’s going on?” Jon asked, looking around warily.

Before Martin could open his mouth, his voice came from above. “Up.”

Everyone froze, holding their breath for a moment. Jon was first to break the silence, his voice filled with disdain. “Good. It can record us now.”

“Up. Now.”

“Oh, shut up.”

Tim gripped Jon’s shoulder and gestured insistently to the front door. They all vacated the building and stopped on the front steps, finally letting out a collective breath.

“Have you all, um, dealt with ghosts? Directly?” Martin sat on the bottom step, rubbing his hands over each other. “Ones that take the last word you said?”

“We don’t know if it’s a ghost, but no, not personally,” Jon replied, sitting a few steps up and typing on his laptop. “Can’t say I really believe in them, either.”

Tim snorted. “Yeah, sure, definitely not a ghost in there.”

“I’m inclined to suspect something more concrete. Somehow, the lighthouse was trapping the sound of our voices. According to Martin it only used the last words he uttered, and the same happened with me. With only a few things to work with, it wouldn’t be hard to-”

“To accidentally order us up the creepy staircase of the creepy lighthouse.” Tim stood, hands in his pockets.

“If it’s using ‘me’, ‘up’, and ‘now’, what else could it say? Otherwise, there was just ‘back’ and okay’ as far as I can tell.”

They continued to go back and forth, Jon being much more stubborn about the whole thing than Martin would’ve expected from a paranormal researcher. Maybe ghosts were an especially contended subject? It didn’t seem like it from Tim and Sasha’s reactions, but Martin was out of his depth. People turning into seals was a far cry from specters and mind-bending architecture.

Still, it being a ghost sounded right. There were meaning and intent behind the words repeated back to him, he was certain of it. If that was the case, maybe there was someone or something in this place trying to talk to him. That’s what ghosts did, right? Reach out to the living?

“Then we’ll just have Martin stay outside for a bit,” Jon said, closing his laptop decisively.

Martin found himself back in the conversation. “What?”

“We’re going to try the place Simon pointed us toward again. Hopefully, we’ll be let in this time and get some answers. The library didn’t have much in terms of useful information, I’m afraid.”

Sputtering, Martin replied, “So, what, I’m just going to wait out here? I still have work to do!”

Jon stared at him and sighed. “Bring it outside then. It shouldn’t rain today, and we don’t want to risk anything now that we know something is… active. You’re sure nothing like this has ever happened?”

“No, this is... new.”

“Then the safest thing is to avoid whatever is going on. It’s for your own well-being, and since we’re probably the cause of it, I don’t want to be in the business of putting people in danger.” Jon said. Martin was at a loss for arguments and nodded. “Good. If our luck hasn’t changed, we’ll be back soon. Otherwise, I suppose Tim will text you the good news.” There was a slight, acidic turn to Jon’s voice near the end that Martin couldn’t place.

Martin pushed himself onto his feet. “Okay… good luck? I guess? I’ll go get my work, then.”

Apparently satisfied, Jon placed his laptop into its case and motioned for the other two to follow him. As they left, Tim shot Martin a worried thumbs up.

When Martin walked back inside, he stopped halfway to the desk, eyes glued to the staircase. He had told Jon he would get his things and go outside.

“Hello?” Martin waited and got no response. “If you’re a ghost, now’s the time to say so.” Still nothing. He let out a noise of frustration. “Say something? Please?”

“Hello? Up. Please?”

Taking a glance back at his desk, Martin bit his tongue and internally berated himself. No use giving the place a name to call him. He really was an idiot, he thought, creeping up the staircase as if the ghost might hear his footfalls. Why had he taught it to be polite?

[statement69420]

1.

The first time the man had come down to the archive, or at least the first time they saw him, was a couple weeks after Jon had become the head Archivist.

Tim hadn't paid much attention to the man. Not really interested in some person coming to give a statement. And he told Sasha so when she pointed out how odd the man looked.

It wasn't until she informed him that Jon was not expecting anyone to give a statement today. And he hadn't asked to give one on his way in. This made him take a closer look at the man.

He was a little taller than average height, wearing only black, his long hair was also, poorly dyed, black, thought that's not what Tim's eyes were drawn to.

The man's hands were covered in tattoos. All of them were of an eyeball. One on every knuckle.

Him and Sasha watched as the man walked over to Jon's office, raising his hand to knock. He couldn't take his eyes off of the man's hand. And it seemed like it was looking back at him.

He only had to stand at the door for a moment before Jon opened it for him.

Sasha and Tim watched as he walked into the office. And it didn't slip their notice that he didn't come out for a couple hours.

--------------

2.

Martin had been avoiding Jon since what had happened that morning. If he had known Jon was there he would have put pants on.

But he didn't know. So now he's stuck in a very awkward situation. Because he has to tell Jon what he found about one of the statements. It wasn't a lot considering he can't actually leave the institute because of Jane, but it was enough to disprove it.

So he has to tell him.

Martin conjured up all the courage he possibly could and made his way to Jon's office. He was about to knock when a voice told him to wait.

The person talking was a goth man, about the same height as him, with really creepy tattoos.

It looked as though he had been waiting outside the office door. Maybe he was there to give a statement?

"He's recording a statement", The man said, obviously taking Martin's quizzical look as confusion.

"Alright. I'll come back later than", He said, and was about to turn away, but stopped to ask the man who he was.

"I'm Gerard Keay", He said holding out his hand. Martin shook it giving his own name.

"Well, Mr.Keay, if you're here to give a statement, you can either write it down or you can wait in that area", He said pointing toward the right side of the large area they were currently in, and not to any particular location.

"You can call me Gerard. I'm not here to give a statement. Just found a book that I figured Jon would like to see.", He said this while holding up a brown paper bag that looked like it had something rectangular in it, the book.

"Why do you have it in a bag?"

"It's sensitive to lights. You should have seen what happened when I first walked outside with it. Almost lost my hand"

"The book, almost made you lose your hand?"

"Yeah. It's got some pretty sharp teeth"

"It has wh-", Martin's question was cut off by the opening of the office door. Jon stood there looking as tired as he always did.

"Martin, is there something you need?", He said, having not noticed Gerard.

"Yeah. I got that evidence you needed to disprove-", he was cut off again as Jon took the papers he was holding out to him.

"Very good. Thank you", It was at that point that he finally noticed the goth man, "Gerry, is there something I can help you with?"

"Brought you a gift", He said, holding up the bag and smiling as though the item inside wasn't something horrible.

"You found another one?", Jon sounded surprised, how hard was it to find books. Well, books with teeth were probably hard to find.

"It actually found me. Showed up at ou- my flat", Gerry corrected himself near the end, he looked at Martin as though he was waiting on him to say something. But all he did was excuse himself, not really interested in the book that bites.

He could hear Jon invite Gerry into his office as he walked away.

It was only later that night when he realized what Gerry had been saying before he corrected himself. He decided not to dwell on it and try to sleep.

--------------

3.

The next time that he was seen in the archives, was when he wasn't actually in the Archives. He wasn't even in the institute.

It was the same night that Jane Prentiss attacked. He was standing outside the institute, as close to the building as the medics would allow him. Saying something about an infestation and such.

Elias watched as the man stood there. Looking toward the building as if waiting for something. He knew the man. Of course he did. Someone who spent time with Gertrude all seemed to have the same type of despair about them. Also there was no way anyone could forget what this man looked like.

And right now, Gerard Keay, stood there, staring at his institute with a rage that Elias couldn't quite understand. And with every passing minute he became more and more impatient.

He watched as Gerard continuously checked his phone and his watch and back again. Waiting. He eventually got a phone call, or that's what it looked like. Gerard answered the call and took a few steps away from the institute.

This was when he stopped paying attention to him. Which was probably a good thing since Jon was up and going again and demanding everyone's statement about what happened.

The next time he saw Gerard Keay that night, he was helping a very tired Jonathan Sims, get home. He made mental note to look into how they know each other. Elias definitely didn't want them to interact too much. But from the look of it he was probably too late.

4.

Melanie watched as the man entered and immediately made his way to Elias's office. She listened as they both began to scream. Though she couldn't actually make out what they were saying.

When he came back through the archives Martin stopped him. The man turned to face him, the look of anger never leaving his eyes.

"Gerard? Why're you here?"

"Needed to have a talk with Elias", He said, obviously trying to keep his cool, not wanting to blow up on Martin for no reasons.

"Sounded more like a shouting match", Melanie commented from behind him. He turned to face her.

"Yeah. There's no being civil with someone like him", He told her gesturing towards the office he just left.

"Fair enough", She shrugged, "What were you yelling at him about"

"Him framing Jon for murder"

"He framed Jon?", Martin asked

"Yeah. Did you think he actually killed someone?", He asked.

"Wouldn't put it past him", Tim said as he walked past.

"Then you really, really don't know him", He said shaking his head, "I'm done with all of this. I'm going home".

They watched as he walked away. Confused on how this person who none of them knew personally, knew their boss so well. Except for Martin who had a look on his face, making it very obvious that he knew something.

"Martin, who was that?", Melanie asked.

"That was Gerard Keay. I think he's a rare book dealer, and also Jon's flatmate"

"He's what? How do you know that?", He then began to give her the rundown of what happened the last time he had seen Gerard.

-------------

5.

Basira was surprised to see someone rummaging around through the statements. Not that this was odd, it's just that she was sure that he didn't work here.

She was pretty sure she would remember seeing someone like him around the archives before now.

So she made a decision and began to walk up to him, trying not to call herself to his attention yet. She must have been walking to heavy because he turned around the second she got there.

He was holding a stack of papers in his tattooed hands. As she looked up from his hands to his face she could have sworn one of the several eyes blinked at her.

"Hello, I'm just here to collect a few statements", He said, a bit awkwardly as though he wasn't expecting anyone to be there. Which was fair considering how early it was, but it still made her not trust him.

"Yeah, I can see that. But no one except employees can take the statements out of here. If you would like to look over one for research purposes, you may file a request with me or someone else, but you can't take them", Basira said, although she couldn't imagine why anyone would need them for research.

"I don't need them for research. Jon actually asked me to come pick up some. He's in America, as I'm sure you know, and he wanted me to collect these for when he gets back", The man said.

"You know Jon?", She questioned, looking him over.

"Yeah. We're, uh, we're really close. I bet I know him better than you do actually", He said this with so much confidence, the last part anyway, she almost wanted to believe him. Almost.

"I'm sure. If you don't mind me asking, who are you and how exactly do you know Jon?"

"I'm Gerard Keay-", He was about to continue, but she cut him off.

"I know you. You were arrested for your mum's murder right?"

"I didn't do it! They soon realized it! It doesn't matter anyway."

"It kinda does. Not sure if we should have murderer running around the institute"

"One. I didn't do it! Two. What about Elias?"

"That's fair. Now, how do you know Jon?"

"I was trying to tell you. I met him a while back. We were both looking for a flatmate, it's cheaper you know? And he was told about me by a mutual friend, Georgie? Don't know if you've met her. And we hit it off. Have the same taste in music and books, and the same dislike of certain books. So that's it. We share a flat.", He said, all in one breath which was kinda freaky. She took all in and then frowned at him.

"Same taste in music? Really? That's hard to believe.", Basira told him.

"I told you I know him better than you do.", Gerard said, smirking.

"Okay, but how do I know you're telling the truth?"

"There's no real way to prove it. Sorry. Guess you'll just have to take my word for it. Though I'm sure Elias would vouch for me, but I'm sure you don't trust him much either, right?"

"Right. Look, I can't allow you to leave with the statements.", She told him. She had decided that she believed him for the most part, but that doesn't mean she was going to let him leave with the statements.

"That's fine. Is it okay if I stick them in his desk?", Gerard asked, walking over to it, ans not waiting on her response.

"Alright then. Is there anything else you need Gerard?", Basira asked him.

"No. Thank you for the chat, Detective, I'd love to do it again. Goodbye", He said as he left the archive room, only looking back to wave at her. This time she was certain one of the eyes blinked.

-----------------

+1

They all gathered in the archives when Jon came back from America. He had apparently learned about some storage locker that Gertrude used to own.

He was halfway through telling everyone about it when Daisy spoke up.

"I know this is super important and what not, but who's the goth?", She said pointing at Gerard who was standing beside Jon.

"Gerard Keay", Said 'Goth' told her, doing mock how as he did so.

"The guy who killed his mother?", Daisy asked, recognizing the name.

"I didn't kill my mother! I was cleared of all charges! Why does everyone keep bringing that up?", He asked, not really angry just irritated.

"Fine. Whatever. Why is he here?", She asked Jon, over looking Gerard completely.

"He knew Gertrude, and he also knows where the storage locker is", Jon told her. Gerard elbowed him in the side, which is amazing considering the height difference, and gave him a pointed look. Jon sighed, "He's also here for emotional support"

"Emotional support? What is he your boyfriend?", Tim asked.

"That's it exactly it! I guess you were right, Tim is pretty smart when he wants to be. Did think you committed murder, but still", Gerard said.

They all began to ask questions. All at once overtop of each other. Jon eventually got them to stop. He looked around at all of them and frowned.

"The world is in danger and all you guys care about is my love life?"

[archivist-watcher-eye]

I Take It Back

To say the recent statement giver was any different wasn't exactly right.  Martin had dealt with the anxious or the suspicious or even the downright flighty people who had barely worked up the courage to come into the Institute and sit down with a pen.  There were some who didn't seem at all bothered, others who looked as though they were in a trance.  After giving statements a few even shouted at them, asking them to believe them and shouting at them when they didn't know any more than they did.  Martin liked those incidents the least.

So when the woman came in looking as stern as ever and asked to make a statement he had of course set her up with a pen, some paper, and one of the conference rooms for her to write everything down, privately.  He had offered to get her tea, or a coffee but she had declined and looked at him with an expression of disdain.  He didn't know what her deal was but Martin was already having a shite day after missing his tube this morning and finding Elias waiting for him at the door to go over some budgetary records he'd placed.  Not to mention he'd chipped a mug in the break room earlier and overall just wanted to get the day over with as soon as possible.

So when he went to collect the statement and asked the woman if there was anything else, it would be fair to say he was unprepared for the onslaught the woman had to say.  She asked him what sort of Institute had this terrible of a system, that for all it did they seemed to have no answers for her problem.  She called him incompetent and altogether useless.  For the life of him Martin couldn't remember her name and the more she talked the more he could feel others walking past the conference room go quiet.  It was a special sort of hell having to stand there and listen to her.  She was saying things downright vitriolic before someone opened the door and they both turned to look.

"Ah, Martin, Tim told me I'd find you here - I was just looking at a case and wondered if you had," Jon paused as he looked up from his file to find a red in the face woman and most likely a on the verge of tears Martin and stopped in his tracks.  His voice changed from inquiring to something closer to sympathetic when he asked, "Is everything alright?"

Read on Ao3

The woman, who had been standing in stunned silence saw the opportunity and lunged, asking who Jon was and if he was more competent than whatever shitty researcher she'd been given.  At the words Jon's eyes widened almost comically before his face snapped shut in a way Martin hadn't seen before.  The woman continued to berate Martin in front of Jon and he seemed to be waiting, quietly for her to finish.  Martin thought he'd die on the spot.  The words weren't any different than anything else he'd heard in the last couple years, working with a fake CV usually meant he came across bad at his job but it had already been a long day and he didn't appreciate having to stand in front of his boss while listening to it.

When the woman finally ran out of shit to shovel, she stated at Jon, almost triumphantly.  It was like she was asking for him to be fired right in front of her.  Martin's face was probably about as red as hers in embarrassment instead of anger, but Jon didn't even seem to glance in his direction.  

"I am going to have to ask you to leave," was all he said to her, quietly but without brokering any argument.  Martin glanced at him to see him holding the file close to his chest and his entire face was closed off.

The woman, who had obviously been hoping for a different reaction, probably used to others taking the side of the ah, well in this case she wasn't exactly a customer but well, taking her side looked surprised.  She opened her mouth, presumably to berate Jon as well but he interrupted her.

"If you continue to berate my coworker here I will be forced to call security.  I can assure you he has been nothing but patient with you but it's time for you to go," he told her coldly and turned to Martin.  "Come on Martin, let's go."

And suddenly he was being gently but quickly led out of the room and away from the woman, who stood in a bit of a daze and was rapidly left behind.  Jon's hand was firmly wrapped around Martin's forearm and he didn't even glance back as he led him away.  When they reached the break room Jon let go of his arm and pressed him into one of the wooden padded chairs.  

"Jon I, um, thank you.  Sorry that was ah, a lot.  She was quite loud, wasn't she?  Not exactly wrong I supposed - I couldn't help her with her -" Martin stopped as his rambling was interrupted by Jon, who seemed a lot less worked up about the whole thing.

"Martin, stop.  It's alright."  Jon looked at him intensely and seemed to consider the state he was in.  "Are you alright?" he asked carefully, as though he wasn't sure what to do with the words.

"I um, yes.  It's just ah, been a bit of a long day I suppose," he admitted, taking in a breath and feeling less awful.

Jon's face was still sort of blank, as though he was lost and Martin hadn't really ever heard him say much in the way of feelings or emotions but he seemed to press on enough to ask, "Do you, ah.  Do you want to talk about it?"

Martin laughed weakly and shook his head.  Jon's face lost a little of it's deer in the headlights look when Martin gave him a small but weary smile.  "No, that's okay.  Just um.  Thank you, really.  She was rather unpleasant."

Jon seemed to relax a little as Martin worked towards regaining his composure.  The tension in his shoulders and face loosened and he leaned back in his chair.

"It was uncalled for is what it was," Jon told him matter of factly.  Martin huffed out a laugh.

"Well, I am the assistant with the least experience here.  Not surprising someone else finally noticed," he joked lightly, hoping to undo some of the awkwardness of the whole situation.

Jon, however, looked rather stricken at the joke and rubbed the sleeve of his shirt between his fingers.  

"I haven't always been the, well.  I've been, admittedly, paranoid these last few weeks and probably rather a bit of a prick but I hope you know that," Jon huffed like he couldn't think of the right words and paused a moment.  "Those first few weeks, yes.  It took you a bit to learn the system given you weren't exactly familiar with what we were doing but.  You picked up quite fast really what people spend years getting a degree in."  He must have been looking at Jon a little too openly because he could have sworn he saw him blush as he said, "You're not incompetent or useless or anything else that woman said.  I'm sorry if I ever - well.  I'm sure you've heard my earlier statement recordings.  So.  I thought you should know that ah, well.  I'm eating my words, Martin."

Sitting there, in the break room, looking slightly alarmed but also mostly touched, was Martin Blackwood.  Across from him was Jonathan Sims, who apparently was capable of saying more than ten words on a subject that wasn't emulsifiers or phlogiston theory.  If Martin could have predicted how his day would go he would have eaten a tape recorder before thinking Jon would ever apologize for what, underestimating an assistant who lied on his CV?  

Jon, for his part, was looking at him pretty intently and Martin realized he should probably say something and not just let his brain continue to stall.

"Thank you, Jon.  That's kind of you to say."  If at all possible, Jon appeared to flush even darker but Martin pressed on.  "Not that I'm objecting or anything but you know, what brought this on?"

It was a few minutes before Jon responded properly.  He seemed to have a couple false starts and just some general frustration at not being able to get the words out properly.  Martin can't say he minded, it was rather adorable to watch him search for whatever words he was looking for.  Not that he'd admit that out loud.  Finally Jon seemed to come to a conclusion.

"When I walked in and that woman started yelling, I was angry.  Not just at her behavior, although that was uncalled for also, but because everything she was saying just wasn't true."  Jon switched from fidgeting with his sleeve to running his hand through his hair, twisting up his greying strands with his darker ones.  "You're good at your job, Martin.  But the worst was that the more she talked the more I realized that months ago, I'm sure I had said very similar things into tape recordings that I have no doubt you either listened to or were told of.  And yes I was a prick but standing there listening to that asshole yell at you made me realize how much I regretted saying any of that about you.  How unfair it was.  So I'm sorry.  For that.  I'm really not a good boss, am I?"  Jon gave him a deprecating smile and Martin shook his head.

"Aside from the occasional jab in a tape or two Jon, you never said any of that to my face.  I mean, you treated me like Tim and Sasha, and while it was pretty obvious Sasha's your favorite, you weren't going out of you way to be rude."

It was at that moment that Tim and Sasha decided to take a coffee break and both Jon and Martin startled when they opened the door.  Tim smiled widely at their wide eyed looks and Sasha stopped what she had been saying to Tim, obviously noticing the weird tone change.

"We interrupting anything?" he asked cheerily, very much hoping he was interrupting something.

"Not at all.  I believe Martin and I were finished here," Jon glanced at Martin and while his shoulders were set back to look professional his face was much softer and had a small smile.  It made Martin's heart ache.

"Yes, yes.  Did you want to get back to whatever you'd been looking for, from before?"  Martin asked, gesturing at the file Jon had seemingly forgotten about.

"Ah yes, I was hoping you could help me find a file about -" Jon rambled as they both left the break room and went about the rest of the day as though Jon hadn't essentially had a second heart to heart with Martin on a Tuesday.

Ah well, Martin thought to himself, at least now Jon was a little less distant and a little more willing to simply talk to him.  And he was even willing to forgive the awkwardness since Jon had been nothing but sincere.  As he watched him reach for a case file above his head Martin smiled to himself and couldn't find it in himself to regret having taken this weird and sometimes unsettling job so long as he had Jon there with him.

[juno-but-not-steel]

How Tim Got His Reputation

Fandom: The Magnus Archives

Ship: None

Characters: Tim Stoker, Jon Sims, Sasha James, Gres the Intern

Description: Based on a post by @titanfalling! How Tim got his rep for seducing information!

Jon’s POV:

Jon and Tim sat together in the dingy waiting room of the Metropolitan Police Station. Jon grimaced as he nursed a cup of gritty black coffee, bitter even by his standards. He was sat in a saging old armchair, obviously decades old, and wondered pointedly where all his tax money was going. Tim was sitting next to him in an equally old chair, but curled like a cat with his back against the armrest, reading a book on the architecture of Robert Smirke. Jon snorted. Tim never had been able to sit properly for as long as they had known each other. Once, Jon had asked him about it, and Tim had something about it being “gay culture” to sit odly, although Jon was able to sit perfectly normally, thank you very much.

They both looked up as Sasha came out of the back room, shaking her head in defeat. “They won’t give up any information freely, something about a Section 31 that interferes with the transparency act or something. Guess I’ll have to hack it out of them, then.” She said that last part as a conspiratorial whisper, grinning mischievously. She picked up her bag and Jon got up as they prepared to go to the cafe across the street, so Sasha had a decreased chance of being caught than if she was on the actual premises. Tim stopped them, however.

“No need to do anything illegal, my dear Sasha.” Tim grinned, showing teeth with a wolfish quality. “Just sit back and let Tim Stoker work his magic.” He wiggled his eyebrows up and down comically, and Jon and Sasha snorted in disbelief.

“Tim, you can’t sleep your way into evidence storage,” Jon protested, but Tim was already walking towards the back room, unbuttoning his shirt a bit and mussing his hair roguishly. He turned back to his colleagues with an expression that could only be described as a smolder, before he entered the back room the police station and closed the door behind him.

Jon and Sasha stared at each other in disbelief. They couldn’t very well leave Tim at the station, so they sat back down, wondering what on Earth could be happening in the back room.

Tim’s POV:

Tim rolled up the sleeves of his shirt, and ran his hand through his hand again for good measure. It probably would have been a good idea of who to “ask” for the file. He probably should have gathered that information before infiltrating the enemy base.

After a few seconds of looking around, Tim decided to make his move on the figgity young man in the corner, as he would probably be the easiest to crack. Luckily for Tim, the young man wasn’t that bad looking either. He was tall, though not as tall as Tim, and had dark brown hair and eyes. He had ever so slight curves, and dressed way to nicely for a man of his paygrade. Tim bit his lips slightly to bring colour to them (not unlike a Victorian lady) and walked over to the lad. He was leaning against a self with his head turned when Tim approached.

“Come here often?” Tim said cheekily, while also leaning against the shelf, close enough to admonish any ideas of professionalism, but not so close as to make the young man uncomfortable.

The man looked up, surprised. “I work here,” he said, stuttering a tad from the surprise. “How did you get in here?”

“Well obviously,” Tim said with a grin, ignoring the question and pointing to the badge hanging around the man’s neck. “What’s your name?”

“Greg,” he managed. “What’s yours? And why are you here?”

“Well, Greg,” Tim said, leaning closer. “My name’s Tim, and I need something from you.”

Greg frowned and leaned back a little. “What would that be, Tim?”

Tim chuckled, letting his gaze flick artfully to Greg’s lips and back to his eyes. “Just a little information, nothing too troublesome.”

“On a case? I can’t! It’s illegal!” Greg said unsteadily. “And if your having to resort to this, I’m guessing it’s a sectioned file. I could get fired, or worse, sectioned myself!”

“Oh, come now Greg,” said Tim, adjusting his position so that the smaller man now had to tilt his head up to look at him. “Just one file. Make a quick photocopy and give it to me. I’ll make it worth your while.”

He laughed inwardly as the young man considered this, obviously flustered. “Well, I suppose one file couldn’t hurt…”

“Thank you so much,” Tim breathed. “Would you like to collect your payment now, or after?”

“Now’s good.” Greg was stammering again.

Tim grinned and leaned closer, but let Greg close the space between them. In these situations, he always let the other person kiss first, as he was a firm believer in the importance of consent. He would never force himself on anyone. He smiled as Greg messed his hair up even more. This would be fun.

Jon’s POV:

Tim had been gone for nearly an hour, and Jon was fed up. Whatever Tim was doing in there clearly wasn’t working, and they had best be on their way because there were other things that they could be doing at the Institute. He was just about to march back there and drag Tim out by the ear before he got them all arrested, when someone, looking very disheveled, walked out of the back room of the police station, holding a manilla folder close to his chest.

Lo and behold, it was Tim. Both Sasha and Jon gasped, and Tim grinned.

“What the hell happened?” Sasha demanded. “Why do you look like you just rolled out of bed?”

Tim waggled his eyebrows again. “Take a wild guess.”

“Oh no you did not!” Sasha whisper shouted. “You SLEPT with a police officer in order to obtain evidence.”

“No!” Tim pouted. Sasha looked momentarily relieved. “He was an intern.”

“Christ, Tim!” Jon exclaimed, shaken out of his stupor. “That’s almost as illegal as hacking!”

“Is it, though?” Tim squinted. He handed the file to Sasha and finished buttoning up his shirt.

Jon rolled his eyes. “C’mon, we’d better leave before a senior officer finds the poor intern you had your way with.”

Tim frowned. “I didn’t ‘have my way with him’, Jon. I may have just used him to obtain evidence, but it was entirely consensual.”

“Glad to hear you haven’t completely lost your mind,” Jon grumbled. “But, in all honesty, we need to go.”

As they left the precinct, even though Jon was mildly disturbed, he couldn’t shake the feeling that this newly discovered skill would come in handy in the future.

Hope you guys liked it! Let me know what you think! Thanks to @titanfalling for the great idea!!

[ollieofthebeholder]

leaves too high to touch (roots too strong to fall): a TMA fanfic

[1] [2] [3] [4] [5] [6] [7] [8] [9] [10] Also on AO3

Chapter 11: Sasha

They all jump at the sound of the recorder clicking off. Tim sits up straighter and rubs his hands together.

“Well!” he says in what Sasha can tell is a falsely cheerful voice. “I think that’s enough earth-shattering revelations for one night. Who wants that whiskey now?”

“I refuse to get drunk around you again,” Sasha says. It’s a pathetic attempt at their usual banter, but it does get a genuine smirk out of Tim, complete with that unfairly attractive dimple.

Jon exhales heavily. He pulls off his glasses with one hand and rubs at his eyes with the other. “I should…probably get going.”

“The hell you will,” Tim says immediately. “Look at you. If I let you out the door, you’ll fall asleep at the wheel and die before you get to the end of the block. You’re staying the night.”

“Tim, while I appreciate the offer—”

“Nope, not interested in the rest of that sentence. The only thing keeping you upright is the arm of the sofa and the starch in your underpants.”

“And the stick jammed up my ass, no doubt?” Jon raises an eyebrow.

Tim grins. “See? You’re so tired you’re actually joking around with me. Stay the night, and tomorrow we can get answers out of them first thing.” He stands up without waiting for an answer. “One of you can take the sofa, the other one can have the love seat. Unless you want to build a blanket fort on the floor, but it wouldn’t be fair to leave Martin out. We’ll let the old folks fight over the bed.”

“Old folks?” Jon Prime repeats indignantly. He shoots an obviously exaggerated glare at Martin Prime, who isn’t even bothering to hide his snickers. “We don’t look that bad.”

Tim laughs. He’s the only one that doesn’t seem that tired, really. “Come on, you two. I’ll show you where the bedroom is.”

Jon Prime gets to his feet, then hesitates and glances at Martin Prime. Sasha wonders how blind Martin Prime actually is, because he seems to respond to that look; he hesitantly reaches out in Jon Prime’s direction. Jon Prime takes his arm without further comment, and Sasha watches Martin Prime’s shoulders slump in evident relief before the two of them quietly wish the rest of them goodnight and follow Tim down the hall.

Sasha watches them for a moment, then glances at Jon and Martin, who are both avoiding looking at one another. She decides to give them a little space and go gather up the spare blankets and pillows. They probably both need a minute or two to process what they just heard.

Truthfully, Sasha’s not sure what she thinks of it either. She’s impressed that Martin Prime isn’t passively rolling over and taking whatever Jon Prime dishes out, and she’s a little bit in awe of his strength. Could she have survived two weeks alone and blind, let alone in the Archives? That feeling of being watched is creepy enough when she can look over her shoulder and confirm nobody’s actually there; she can’t imagine what it would be like if she didn’t have that option. It must be terrifying, but Martin Prime hasn’t shown it.

She’s also—there’s no denying it—curious as all get-out. She kind of wants to interrogate Martin Prime, find out how he lost his eyesight, if it’s total vision loss or partial, if he thinks it’s temporary or permanent. What it’s like being blind in general, what it’s like trying to maneuver around the Archives blind. How he plans to deal with it if it is permanent.

As she passes the door of Tim’s bedroom, which is ajar, she hears Martin Prime say, evidently mid-sentence, “—put you to any trouble.”

Sasha slows her steps and hovers outside the door, eavesdropping shamelessly. It’s always been one of her fatal flaws, that urge to snoop and spy and pluck secrets out of thin air. It’s part of what drew her to the Magnus Institute over any of the other research or archival jobs she could have taken, the other part being that most of the others would have required her to go too far from London. She hasn’t said anything about that to any of the others, about why she’s so keen to stay in the city. For all she loves ferreting out things about those around her, she’s always been close-mouthed about her own secrets.

“It’s no trouble at all,” Tim says. “Like I said, we were planning to spend the night in the Archives anyway, and I don’t think we’d all have fit on that cot in the back room. My floor’s a lot more comfortable.”

“Yes, but we don’t want to turn you out of your room.” Jon Prime sounds uncertain and exhausted.

“I offered. Look. Martin’s probably going to be asleep before I get back out to the living room, he looks exhausted. And I don’t think the rest of us want to leave him alone right now.” Tim sighs. “Where did we all sleep when we did this before?”

“Hmm?” Sasha isn’t sure which one of the Primes makes that noise.

“You said this happened a lot earlier than it did for you guys, right? If we want to keep an eye on each other like this now, I bet it was even worse two months down the line. Did somebody else put us all up or what?”

There’s a short pause before Martin Prime says, “No, we—we all sort of went our separate ways.”

“Wait, seriously?” Tim sounds genuinely shocked. “No, that’s—if you were hurt—”

“I wasn’t, though. I was the only one who came out of it unhurt.”

“Physically, anyway,” Jon Prime says. “We were all a bit…it was rough for a while there.”

“All the more reason we should have stayed together, then,” Tim says. “Whose idea was it not to?”

“I think we were all just…tired,” Martin Prime says slowly. “You—our Tim, I mean—he was in quarantine for a while, so he just wanted to go home, and Sasha…she wasn’t herself.”

Somebody makes a noise that might be a laugh, but Sasha isn’t getting the joke. Tim has an audible frown in his voice when he speaks again. “And you? What did you do? Go back to the place you’d last seen when you were being toyed with by six thousand worms wrapped in a trench coat and pretend that the idea of sleeping there alone didn’t bother you, then spend the night lying in bed staring up at the ceiling and jumping at every single sound?”

Martin Prime doesn’t answer for a moment. Finally, he says, so quietly Sasha has to move closer to hear properly, “You know, nobody ever actually asked me about that?”

“You know, that doesn’t really answer the question.”

“Martin?” Jon Prime’s voice is soft and laden with concern.

Martin Prime sighs heavily. “No. I went back to the place I’d last seen when I was being toyed with by six thousand worms wrapped in a trench coat and found out that I’d missed the deadline to renew my lease, then spent the night in a waiting room at St. Pancras pretending I had an early-morning train and reading through rental notices.”

Sasha presses a hand to her mouth to keep from swearing out loud. Tim does enough of that for both of them. “When was the lease up?”

“Mid-April sometime? Mrs. Mattson is…I’d been living there for years, but she’s not a sentimentalist. Once that deadline passed, she found a new tenant and arranged to have the place cleared out.”

“Why didn’t you ever tell me?” Jon Prime’s voice sounds ragged.

“It never really came up,” Martin Prime says, sounding a bit tired himself. “By the time I saw you again, I’d found a new place anyway, and I just…nobody ever asked me why I moved and it seemed easier not to say anything. There was kind of a lot going on.”

“All right, I—I suppose that’s fair, but…” Jon Prime trails off.

Sasha hears Tim take a deep breath. “Right, well, we’ll do better than that for our Martin, don’t worry. Maybe you can help us convince him he deserves it. Anyway, you two look like you’re about ready to drop, so I’ll let you get some sleep and finish grilling you tomorrow. Bathroom’s right across the hall if you need it.”

“Thank you, Tim,” Jon Prime says softly. “I mean it.”

“Hey, what are friends for?”

Sasha hurriedly steps away from the door and moves to the linen closet at the end of the hallway. A moment or two later, Tim joins her. “Need a hand?”

“I just thought I’d get the spare blankets and pillows,” Sasha says. “You know, so it feels a little more like we’re really sleeping. How were you planning to handle that in the Archives, by the way?”

Tim has the grace to look sheepish. “Okay, so it was an impulse. Sue me. We’d have probably ended up in a pile on the floor or something.”

“I suppose there are worse ways to sleep than in a cuddle pile with my two best friends.” Sasha nudges Tim, who laughs. “Like…alone, on a cot in the Archives.”

“I still can’t believe we let him do that for so long. We are horrible friends.” Tim glances over his shoulder, his expression suddenly pinched. Sasha wonders if she should admit that she heard his whole conversation with the Primes, but decides, on the balance, nah. “I mean, Jon I understand, he was still pretending he hated us.”

Sasha snorts and pulls out an armful of soft things. “Not very well.”

It at least brings a smile back to Tim’s face. “Well, I mean, you and I already knew it was an act. It’s just Martin who probably didn’t know.”

“Martin would have quit if he really thought Jon didn’t like him,” Sasha says, although she’s not altogether sure that’s true. Between the fact that he falsified most of his credentials to get the job at the Institute to begin with and the fact that he’s the sole support for a chronically ill mother, he probably would have put up with a lot worse than a boss that hated him. “Or at least asked to be transferred back to the library.”

“What, and leave us to the mercies of the Archives?” Tim grins. “C’mon, grab the spare pillows and let’s go make everybody comfortable.”

True to Tim’s prediction, Martin has fallen asleep by the time they get back into the living room, although in a way that doesn’t make it seem like he’s under very deep, or at least that he’s not comfortable enough to stay asleep easily. Jon is kneeling on the floor in front of him, carefully working his shoes off his feet. He looks up when they come in, obviously flustered and embarrassed. “I didn’t notice he’d dropped off until a minute ago,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper.

Sasha isn’t surprised, considering he was avoiding making eye contact, but she doesn’t say that out loud. “I mean, it’s been a long day, and he’s probably in a lot of pain.”

Tim dumps his load on the coffee table. “Here, you get the lever and I’ll ease the back down so he doesn’t fall too hard. Don’t want to wake him, but sitting upright all night isn’t going to help him.”

Sasha wonders, as she sets down her own burden, how much of this is Tim trying to atone for what their counterparts did to Martin Prime and how much of it is him genuinely worrying about their Martin, but she’s not going to ask because that would mean revealing she was eavesdropping. Instead, she selects a pillow and blanket and starts setting them up on the love seat while she watches Tim and Jon try to ease the footrest out and the back to a reclining position without jostling Martin awake. He must be really tired, though, because although his face screws up briefly and he makes a soft sound, he doesn’t otherwise react. Once he’s lying down, Jon leans over and carefully slides Martin’s glasses off of his face, then folds them and sets them on the end table between the recliner and the sofa.

He turns around, presumably to get a blanket, and starts when he sees Sasha making up a bed. “Here, you don’t have to—you’re taller than I am, you should—”

“Only by a bit,” Sasha interrupts. “Two or three inches isn’t going to make that much of a difference, and I sleep curled up anyway.” She also sleeps like the dead, and judging by the way Tim and Jon are fussing over Martin without making it obvious, she guesses they’re more concerned about Martin than she is. Which isn’t to say that she isn’t worried about him, only that she’s a bit more detached from the situation, for whatever reason. If anything happens to Martin in the middle of the night, she won’t wake up and hear it, and they’re more likely to jump up to do something about it anyway, so there’s no reason for her to stay near him. She doesn’t say that out loud, though.

“I…” Jon hesitates, then glances back at Martin, and his face softens in a way Sasha pretends not to notice so she won’t be tempted to pick at it. “All right. T-Tim, are you sure—”

“Yep. The floor and I are good friends. I’ve done a lot of camping and backpacking and the like, so I’m used to it.” Tim grins. “Pick a pillow and a blanket.”

Jon looks over the offerings on the table, then selects a faded patchwork quilt and unfolds it carefully. Somehow, Sasha isn’t surprised when he drapes it over Martin and tucks him in gently, almost tenderly, before turning back and taking another blanket along with a pillow. The blanket, to Sasha’s eye, looks as if it’s made of fiberglass and horsehair, but Jon runs his fingers over the pattern almost reverently. “Where did you find this?”

“California, I think,” Tim answers. “Maybe Mexico. My grandparents left me a bit of a legacy when they died, with the stipulation that I use it for a gap year in ‘the mountains’. It was that vague. I think my folks expected me to pick the Alps or the Pyrenees, maybe the Sierra Morena if I felt like being different. Something close to home, anyway. But I thought, hey, when am I ever going to get a chance like this again? Spent my whole last year of school planning and budgeting, and two days after graduation I was off to America. The start of the Pacific Crest Trail is right on the border with Mexico, and there was a market there, people selling handcrafts and the like. I figured it wouldn’t hurt to have an extra blanket. I was right, too.”

“Does it mean something to you, Jon?” Sasha asks, curious. “The pattern, I mean?” She’s seen people trace the lines of relics and books like that when touching something that looks familiar but isn’t, and there’s an oddly thoughtful look on Jon’s face.

“Sort of?” Jon looks up. He truly does look tired, which is odd, considering he wasn’t the one running from worms. “I—my mother’s sister married an American. Well, he was Mexican-American. My cousin had a blanket like this on his guest bed, he said his grandmother made it for him.”

Tim begins making up a bed on the floor with the remaining blankets. He does so with a practiced ease that tells Sasha he truly has done this plenty of times before. “You’ve been to America, then? Or does your cousin live over here?”

“No, he’s in New Mexico. Or he was the last time we spoke. It’s been a few years.” Jon bends over and begins untying his shoes. “I didn’t—exactly take a gap year, but I did take some time off and go to visit him. He and his parents, or at least my aunt, used to come over and visit for a week or two every summer, so I thought I’d repay him by returning the visit. Ended up staying through to the end of the year.”

“Didn’t make it to New Mexico when I was there.” Tim turns to Sasha. “How ‘bout you, Sash? Ever been to America?”

Sasha shakes her head. “Closest I’ve come was getting to go onto one of their military bases in Ansbach. My family was on holiday in Germany and a boy asked me if I’d be his date to a holiday party. Evidently I was the only girl his age who spoke English he ran into who wasn’t already going with someone else.”

“We’ll all have to go sometime,” Tim says. “Close the Archives down for a couple weeks, the four of us can fly over and do the tourist thing.”

“I doubt Elias would go for that,” Jon says dryly, straightening up. “I barely was able to convince him to let us have a day or two off while the cleaning crews come in and get rid of the worm carcasses. Unless we manage to somehow convince him we’re doing research and that I need all of you with me, he’d likely insist at least one of us stay back.”

“Then we’ll sneak off,” Tim declares. “Leave the Institute on a Friday night, promise to see him Monday. Slip away under the cover of darkness, take a taxi to the airport, buy tickets under assumed names and catch a midnight flight. By the time he realizes we’re not coming in on Monday, we’ll be well dug in somewhere in America. He’ll never think to look for us there.”

“And then we’ll get fired the minute we set foot back in the Institute,” Sasha says.

“Nah, not us. Who’d take our place? Especially now? He’d have to hire from the outside and lie about the conditions. Worst we’ll have to endure is a lecture. ‘I am sorely disappointed in all of you, leaving the Archives in such a state and going on holiday. We won’t discuss this further, but I will have to refuse any further time off requests you make for the remainder of the year.’”

Sasha presses a hand to her mouth to stifle her giggles. “Shh, you’ll wake Martin.”

“What do you say, Boss?” Tim asks, undeterred. “Team Archives in America? Debunking ghosts and solving mysteries? Rent a technicolor cargo van and adopt a Great Dane?”

The corners of Jon’s mouth twitch upwards in a smile. “Actually, the idea of going on a trip with the three of you is, strangely enough, not an altogether unwelcome one. God knows I haven’t taken a holiday in ages.”

“Your enthusiasm is boundless,” Tim says dryly. He kicks off his shoes and sits down on the blanket nest he’s built. “Hey, maybe the Primes will cover for us. They can pretend to be you and Martin and just Sasha and I can take the time off.”

“I think it’s a bit obvious they’re not us. Especially now.” Jon looks over at Martin. “I—I am sorry. I should have been there. I should have…it should have been me. Not any of you.”

Tim sighs, the smirk melting off his face. “Well, according to your counterparts, Martin was the only one who didn’t get…wormed the first time, so maybe you not being there means fewer people got hurt.”

“While I’m not ungrateful that you and Sasha weren’t hurt, Tim, it doesn’t make me feel any better for not…being there to help. Not even knowing.”

“Yeah, well…it was spur of the moment, sort of. And I deliberately didn’t tell you. Figured you wouldn’t…I don’t know, want to stay? Encourage us to stay? I mean, like you told Martin, it is still technically where we work, even if he was living there for a while.”

Jon looks pained. “I…in truth, I probably wouldn’t have wanted you all to stay, but not…Elias thought I was overreacting anyway, having Martin living there. I’d have probably come up with some ridiculous reason why you shouldn’t stay, but really it would have boiled down to the fear that if Elias found out we were all staying, he might order Martin out, and I—I thought that would put him in danger.”

“Well, if you believe what Martin Prime apparently told him, he wasn’t really what she was after,” Sasha points out. The last couple of words are swallowed by a yawn.

“I don’t know what I believe, Sasha.” Jon sighs heavily and takes off his glasses. “Let’s…table this discussion for the morning, shall we?”

“Sounds good. Tomorrow, then.” Tim yawns and burrows into his blankets.

Sasha curls up on the love seat. She figures she’ll lie there until she’s sure the others are asleep, then get up and do some investigating on her laptop, but to her mild surprise, she drifts off almost as soon as her eyes close.