#ah to be winked at by an archivist

[re-lyle]

I really like this interaction! We learn more about Ikora and how much info and text Neomuna kept after the Collapse.

[wilkoakdraws]

have at ya an unholy pile of wildly chaotic and VERY serious magnus stuff from last 6 months. happy 2024

[anchanted-one]

Book of Storms Legend of Vajra

Chapter 16. Excursion

https://archiveofourown.org/works/43208574/chapters/109294722

Raudraksha

Jasme looked out the shuttle viewport with a sense of wonder. Even from the air, this city looked magnificent! She felt the familiar feelings of butterflies in her stomach, which she got every time she approached a destination. Except this time, it felt like there were a thousand of the little buggers instead of just ten.

She’d gotten permission for a field trip to the planet to see its culture for herself—and she was eager to do so—but there was another, secret reason she was here.

A part of her felt guilty about coming here without Vajra; he’d given her a sad smile when she’d told him, full of longing and homesickness. But he had been exiled. He wouldn’t be allowed here. Tarsten would have sent word if the exile had been revoked.

As soon as she stepped off the landing ramp, she got a rustic scent similar to the Kalikori, but much richer. The smells of cooking filled the air; a rich mix of spices and sweets which made her mouth water. All homes and buildings were decorated with flowers, and some of that smell reached her, even out here.

Raudra ran out to greet the new arrival; mostly children younger than ten; clearly the people had grown a little accustomed to arrivals, rare though they were. Enough to not crowd the landing zones at least.

Many greeted her warmly, bowing and folding their hands. Some offered her presents—powdered dyes, snacks, and shawls. The children asked the same question, which T0-CK dutifully translated. “Do you want to play with us?”

Jasme chuckled and said “I’d love to, but I’m here on business. But tell you what: if you can all meet me here for dinner, I can tell you some stories!”

The children’s answering cheer was a lot more deafening than it should have been, given their small number.

Some of the parents looked at her guiltily, but she smiled and said “Consider this repayment for these wonderful gifts,” which mollified them somewhat.

She found her welcoming committee at once; Captain Tarsten had come out to greet her himself. As the lone human, he stood out. There was a tall Raudra woman with him, holding a four-armed child with a complexion much closer to human. Tarsten himself was decked out in a fusion of Raudra and Republic uniform, with their stole and a dark veshti, but a Republic Officer’s vest.

He clapped his heels into attention and saluted when she reached him. “Master Jedi! Welcome to Raudraksha. I’m Captain Ugo Tarsten, and this is my wife, Urvashi.” The woman smiled and bowed. “And this is my daughter, Asha.” The child beamed when her name was called. Jasme was used to seeing Vajra’s third white eye, so the pitch-black ones on all those present here was disconcerting. “I trust you had a safe trip?”

“Good afternoon, Captain. I’ve never felt this much anticipation on a trip before; I can’t describe how much I’ve been looking forward to this. And I’m not a Jedi, I just work with them. Specifically, in the Archives. I’m Jasme, by the way.”

“Ah, an Archivist?” he looked her up and down with his keen eyes. “I thought your kind barely stepped out of the Temple.”

She gave him a hurt look. “We’re not shut-ins, you know!”

“Actually, many of you are!” he winked. “I’ve spoken to a few, while on shore leave. Most seemed to have a lot of knowledge without any understanding of how the world works. They did not understand; looking things up in a manicured library isn’t the same as experiencing the galaxy! The world’s not in your books and holos. It’s out here.”

“I have to agree. I’ve seen every report and recording you’ve taken on this enchanting world, and I wasn’t prepared for this!”

The soldier laughed. “See? And wow, I had no idea my reports were being read.”

“Not by many, I’m afraid. The Raudra are still an unknown��� though I suspect that’s going to change in time.”

He looked at her questioningly before his eyebrows raised. “Ohhh, do you mean Vajra?” He gave a great shout of laughter before addressing his wife, who gave him a startled look mixed with delight. She passed their son to him before running off towards the gates.

“Despite being ‘exiled’, Vajra is loved here,” the dark-skinned soldier explained. “And not just for his chosen-one status. The people here really admire him for making such a difficult decision at such a young age. Most are eager to move his tablet inside the Maheshvara Rudra Temple, so I’m constantly getting requests for any word about him.”

“Well, I guess I know what stories to tell then,” Jasme chuckled.

“You will be feted for that,” he returned the chuckle. “I’m looking forward to it too, to be quite honest. When I last saw him, he was a broken child trying his hardest to stand tall.”

“Well, that sounds like him even today,” she reflected. “But he’s doing his best… and people are getting saved. He’s already a legend on Tython.”

“Don’t spoil the story, please!” he requested. “Anyway. I was delighted to get your message. It’s been lovely out here, but I do yearn for the larger galaxy sometimes.”

“Hasn’t your marriage closed you off to it?”

“Not quite. ‘Their ways aren’t my ways’.”

“Ah, of course.”

“Not that I want to leave. This place is incredibly serene, once you get used to the temple bells and bustle. The ‘Embassy’ is outside the walls, so we avoid the worst of it.”

“Let me guess, it’s the building over there, right?” she pointed at the one with the antenna. Like Tarsten, it had a fusion of Republic and Raudra elements. It had painted carvings on its outer walls, and the building itself was painted as well, but it was easy to tell it was a prefabricated Republic unit rather than one built of sunbaked mud bricks.

“Yes,” he chuckled in his deep voice. “I painted some of it myself.”

“You are a talented man!”

“Thank you! Here, let’s visit the Temple before I take you home. They will be eager to meet you.”

He went silent as they approached the city wall, allowing her to take in the sights.

There was a pair of statues by the main gate, which were being repainted—beautiful works of art they were; a tall man with a great many arms, a weapon in each arm. This had to be Rudra himself. But upon closer inspection, she realized that it was a woman. Adi Shakti?

This civilization was older than Rudra, she remembered belatedly. The Lord of the Storms may be their most beloved deity, but Adi Shakti was their oldest known and most supreme. She was the fount of all energy in the universe, after all, including the power of all deities. One could say that she was the Force personified.

With that thought, Jasme could not help but stare at her beautiful face for a while, to look closer at all the accruements. She had a mighty trident which she held in two hands; a curved shortsword and buckler, a lightning bolt, a flower, a mace, a bow and arrow, a javelin, some small stone, and objects she couldn’t recognize.

“That curved, round stone is a conch-shell,” Tarsten told her. “They are used like trumpets. That disc is called a chakra, and it’s the primary weapon of their great god Narayana.”

“She’s holding a lightning bolt,” Jasme said fondly.

Tarsten chuckled. “The Vajra.”

“It’s nice to think that no matter how far he travels, she holds him in her arm, empowering and watching over him.”

“Yes.”

Upon entering the city, she was charmed by the beautiful architecture and sculptures, and the thousands of garlands adorning the city. Most of the citizens bowed to her, but did not waylay her. They kept firm hands on their children, who looked mightily disappointed they couldn’t see the new arrival up close.

“Jnanaprastha is a real gem,” she sighed.

“A word that small shouldn’t be able to do something so beautiful any justice.”

“It doesn’t. But I can’t find better words right now.”

“I remember my first days here. I took hours taking it all in.”

“Surely you got used to it?”

“I did,” he nodded. “But worse. I got over it. I started to hate it. The food, the unending chanting, the rituals… but then I reached a state of acceptance again. Then I found Urvashi. I was lucky to find her. She made life charming again. Although she was a little disappointed to find out she wouldn’t be getting any sister-wives.”

“What?!”

“Polygyny is common here, but the society is matriarchal,” he reminded her. “The women aren’t forced to marry one man by law, they look forward to it. Look forward to starting a new community with other women as much as their new husband. It’s a big part of the courtship here, where the prospective wife socializes with the other wives for a few weeks. They are married as much to each other as their husbands.”

“Right. Can’t wrap my head around that one.”

“I’m thinking of taking more wives too,” he confided in her. “Not for myself… I want her to get the large household she dreamed.”

“I’m a little surprised they let you marry so easily.”

“They’ve got some progressive parts to their mindsets.”

“Hmm. Hey, have you been to any of the other cities?”

“I’ve been to two. Ambapura, which is the city built around the Adi Shakti temple. And Vayakunt, the main centre for Narayan worship. They’re close enough that we can reach after two months of travel. They each have their own beauty. Ambapura is built around a lake full of swans and lotuses, and has a structure much like an opera house where there’s recitals, plays and dances every month. Vayakunt is built on an island on the ocean, one from which you can still see the peaks of the mainland. It’s in the middle of a gorgeous coral reef, which acts as a natural sea wall.”

“That’s incredible… I want to visit both of them. And as many of the others as I can.”

“I really hope you don’t mind if I tag along. One of the reasons why I haven’t been to any more cities is because this kind of travel… it wears on me. It’s fun the first few days, but then you get footsore, and can’t sleep because your bedrolls aren’t thick enough to stop the rocks from poking your neck.”

“We’d be delighted to have you!”

After ten minutes of walking, they reached the Temple in the heart of the city. Jasme gulped. Like everything else here, it was beautiful, but it was definitely imposing enough for a temple to the god of storms.

*

Jasme took almost five minutes examining all the statues around the temple’s main door. She wished she was good at sketching; she could sit here all day long and just draw.

“Here, I wanna show you something.” The child in his arms started to get antsy, so he let her down but kept her hand in his grip. He led her to the shrine—whose doors were closed at the moment—and pointed at a carved stone tablet right outside. “That’s Vajra. It’ll be taken inside, and an idol added, as soon as word of heroic deeds returns. The Raudra are restless to see it happen. Never before has there been a chosen of Rudra whose name was not installed within the main shrine by the next festival.”

“So, he really is a deity already,” she whispered. “I joked about it once, but…”

“What was the joke?”

“He single-handedly defended a village of illegal immigrants who settled down near the new Temple on Tython. Did it for five months. They came to saw him as a stalwart guardian. I joked that he was already worshipped in two places. Not to him, of course. He doesn’t yet have an ego, but no sense in pushing our luck.”

“Temple on Tython,” he repeated. “Never thought I’d live to see the day when the Jedi were forced off Coruscant.”

“It was bad,” she sighed. “So many dead… tens of millions.”

Tarsten looked depressed, so she changed the subject. She asked him about the nearest festival, places of interest around the city, more stories he had to share, anything to avoid mentioning Coruscant again.

Eventually, Urvashi returned to them.

“Looks like Meghna wants to meet you. Indran isn’t here, but Sumathi’s clan are.” He started walking towards the audience chamber, and Jasme hastened to follow.

“If I recall…”

“She’s the one who found Vajra. Nursed him personally that first day. Sukanya, one of her clan’s warriors, was one of many to offer to adopt Vajra. She was also chosen to defend him during that meeting.” He shivered. “You know, the first time I saw that, I thought it was because she’d taken to the child. But then I saw her fight in a tournament. I think she could give Satele Shan a decent fight. And Kuberan was even better than her. Not that they could beat Shan.”

“Whoa…” She considered that piece of information all the way to the door.

*

“Greetings and salutations, gentle Raudra,” Jasme gave her most courtly bow to her hosts. “I am honored to have this audience. My name is Jasme, and I am an archivist. A scholar.”

The priestess spoke, and her droid translated. “The honor is all ours, Jedi. Be welcome to our world. I am Meghna, High Priestess of this temple. All the Priests of Raudraksha answer to me. These are Kaunteya and Chandana, my most trusted advisors.”

“I’m not actually a Jedi,” she said politely. “I simply work with them.” That required some clarification, but in the end the Raudra all nodded in understanding.

“May we ask what brings you to Raudraksha?”

“I’ve come to study your people, if I may. I am fascinated most by different cultures. I spent years studying them. When I read about your people, I was surprised by how different you were from other civilizations of comparable technological advancement. Much wiser, and more compassionate.”

“You will have to elaborate on that too, some time,” Meghna said, looking pleased at the praise. “Your Republic is welcome here. And we here appreciate the thirst to learn. The curiosity.”

The doors parted again, and a dozen women walked in with their hands folded and their eyes down.

“Ah, come in, come in!” Meghna greeted the arrivals happily. “This is Sumathi of the Veerabhadra clan. Fate saw fit to have her here in Jnanaprastha on this day. Even one day each way, and you’d have missed her.”

“We are grateful for your summons, Mother,” the woman whispered. “And it’s our pleasure to meet you too, traveler.”

“My name is Jasme,” the archivist grinned. “I am an archivist. A scholar.”

“It is an honor!” she bowed deep. “I have with me Sukanya,” the most beautiful of her entourage bowed. “Kuberan,” the taller of the males. “Niyathi, Pracheti, Varsha, and Sumedh.” That last one was the other male. “Sukanya and I are… particularly interested in the tidings you are said to bear.”

“About Vajra?” Jasme confirmed. “I’d be happy to share all I know.”

“Please, make yourself comfortable first,” Meghna requested. “Happily, it is lunchtime, so we can talk about it at leisure.”

Jasme sat down, eager to dig in. She thanked the servants as they served each dish on her leaf plate, then asked “What is the first thing you’d like to talk about?”

All eyes turned to Sukanya, who smiled gratefully. “Thank you, everyone. I was the one almost chosen to be his mother you see,” she explained. “The question most important to me is; how is he? Last I saw him, his world had crumbled, and he was hanging onto whatever rocks he could, no matter how sharp.”

“He is… better. But he is forever haunted by the actions of that monster, Bellicose.”

She sighed unhappily. “I suppose it’s overly optimistic to expect otherwise. We still know little about his life before the falling star. Everyone who knew him is gone.”

“He has a new life now. And while there is pain, there is joy as well. He loves the Lightsaber, as an art form. I take it you remember that it sang to him, that day? It still does. And he dances to it. It gives him a deep peace, and connects him to the Force like nothing else does. He is also good at fixing machines. And he loves reading and learning, too.”

“This is strange to us,” Sumathi said. “Warrior, philosopher, laborer… why doesn’t he choose one path and only follow that? We understand that our way is not the Jedi way, but I thought he’d live like us, even among the stars.”

“I recall reading that philosophers and nobles in your society live as all classes before they are allowed to claim their position, yes? Isn’t this the same?”

“Well, no,” Meghna said. “The nobles and philosophers must understand the other arms of society better than most, to better use them. But they do not have to practice it.”

“Well… I see. Does his life upset you?”

“No,” Sukanya said firmly. “He sounds like he’ll grow into a capable young man someday. My single-minded husband could learn from him.”

Kuberan chuckled. He asked her something, and she nodded. “Still, no matter his varied interests, what’s most important is this,” Kuberan said. “What are his duties? How nobly does he acquit himself in discharging them?”

“As a Jedi, defending the innocent is among his most important duty, and he does it better than most. But he was forced to kill scores of cruel belligerents in order to do so. Each time he swung his Lightsaber, he wondered if he was becoming the deranged Sith he dreaded most.”

“But he is a good child, is he not?” Sukanya protested, as the others uttered shocked cries. “You said he was doing his duty… duty and emotion must be separated. How can he be on the battlefield without understanding this simple truth?” The others agreed fervently.

“The Jedi are desperate. Their numbers are diminished greatly. That’s why Padawans are being saddled with burdens they wouldn’t have forty years ago.”

“I see.” Everyone looked terribly downcast, but Sukanya fumed. “Master WenSuul failed to prepare him for his duty.”

“She taught him how to love the people he protects, among other things. She was bedridden for the past few years, thanks to her age. She became one with the Force, six months ago.”

Sukanya looked mortified when Jasme’s words were translated.

“I’m sorry for the news. May paradise welcome her with flowers and nectar.”

“Well, back to Vajra… he’s learned since his first battle. Learned to divorce his head from his heart, as was needed. His new Master taught him that.”

“That is well.”

“You have to understand… his biggest fear is to become the man who slaughtered four clans. That first fight… he killed a thousand Khrayii. It was a mighty feat, but grueling.”

All the Raudra jumped to their feet. “A thousand!” Kuberan roared. “What have your Jedi been demanding of him?”

Jasme felt alarmed by their rage, but Sumathi angrily ordered them back to their seats.

“Alas, as I said; a great many Jedi have died protecting the galaxy from Sith, and too few now remain. Far too few. Though the war is supposed to be over, there are still many dangers out there. The Jedi were forced to dispatch him, and him alone, on some important missions. I promise you, they did not take the decision lightly. And whatever his feelings, he has done your people proud. On the training yard, he’s already bested the most skilled members of the Order. He’s being hailed as one of the greatest swordsmen in the Order. He defeated a large army of beings as brutal as Sith, and saved hundreds of lives. Alone and unaided, he felled seven beasts thirty feet high in defense of a village. And he risked his life to save them from a deadly poison, without any orders from the Council. He remembers his people, and defends others so that none have to face what he did, if he can help it.”

That sparked some interest. “I suppose we have been yearning for this. Tell us about these deeds.” Meghna requested.

Jasme was only happy to oblige. “I do love telling stories after all.”

*

It was almost late evening when Tarsten and his wife led Jasme back out of the city, and showed her their humble home.

“I love what you’ve done with the place!” Jasme looked around.

Tarsten collapsed onto the nearest chair. “That took longer than I expected.”

“Was I too long-winded?”

“No,” he sighed. “The Raudra were fascinated, and you’re a good storyteller. I had no idea that frightened young lad would go on to dwarf my own kill count before he even became a man.”

“Sukanya seemed quite fond of him.”

“Yes. She sees herself as his rightful mother, having won the council’s vote by a decent margin. She has two children of her own, by the way, and is the second-mother to fourteen others. She’s definitely good at the job. Vajra would have had a good home, had the Force not had other plans.”

“I do wish he’d gotten that chance,” she said. “If it meant not having those ridiculous burdens. Still… I am so grateful to have met him. He’s my little brother now, and I love him dearly.”

“Good. My own brothers- and sisters-in-arms gave me much stability and support during my worst times, so I know how important it is.”

“How good is your wife’s Basic? Or your daughter’s?”

“It’s… less than basic,” he laughed. “They have no cause to learn it, but I did show them some of the sights and luxuries out there. If you want to talk to them, you either need me or your protocol Droid. Why?”

“I need to discuss the primary reason I came here. Something even more important than a grand tour of a fascinating culture.”

“You have my full attention.”

He heard what she had to say, then sat back and sighed. “You’re in luck. I recently noticed that my wife and girl don’t fall ill at all. I noticed that most of them don’t, very often. I’ve seen one sick person in ten years. I requested an audience with Chandana, who is a master of medicine and physiology. She serves as the High Priestess’ personal physician.”

“I thought they rarely fell ill?”

“Yes, it can get real bad when they do. They still need to be vigilant, if they don’t want to lose patients. And there’s other problems which need physicians, like injuries and old age. They’re no harder to harm with knives and blasters than humans. And Meghna’s definitely getting old.”

“Right…”

“They do heal faster than us though. Deep wounds stop bleeding in minutes. And this one time, when I went for a hunt with the town’s hunters, this Raudra named Govindan lost an arm. It grew back fully seven months later. I’ve never heard of someone regenerating a ruptured lung, or something like that, but I suspect that if you can put them in a kolto tank, they might even regenerate lost organs. I wonder what a Jedi Healing Trance can do?” He trailed off for a moment. “Anyway, like I said. The Raudra are highly resistant to all manner of diseases. Viruses, bacteria have an infinitesimally small chance of infecting them, compared to a human. They are also highly resistant to most natural venoms. There’s a snake here called the naag. For most land beasts, one bite is all it takes to kill. For a Raudra, it needs fifteen to severely hamper them, by which times its fangs have run dry. Untreated, the Raudra has an even chance of survival, if they survive the next few days, and have enough rations of course. But the physicians know antivenoms, so if found within the first day, their chance shoots up to ninety-seven per cent. I requested my Em Dee synthesize a variety of lethal toxins, including Ziroxin-12, and run tests with their blood. Again, they have a remarkable chance of survival.”

“So, they’re immune to most natural venoms and toxins,” Jasme said, falling deeper into thought. “Would you mind not sharing your findings?”

“Any reason in particular?”

“Corporations like Czerka and GSI will be mightily interested.”

“Ah. Got it.”

Jasme excused herself to use the fresher. It was just as she had been suspecting. Vajra was not affected by venoms and toxins, which meant the mushrooms in the Trial had not had any effect on him.

He had not truly faced the Mirror. He had not completed his most important Trial.

*

[voiceless-terror]

Smile and Nod (The Magnus Archives)

Whumptober 2020 Day Six: “Stop, please”

Fandom: The Magnus Archives

Characters: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims, Sasha James, Tim Stoker, Elias Bouchard, Original Character

CW: Harassment, Unwanted Advances

Summary: 

“He said to let go of him.” The voice startles them both and Jon turns to see Martin, a placid smile on his face. He is tall, so tall- was Martin always this tall?

Jon runs into trouble at the Institute’s annual donor party and has an unlikely rescuer. 

The Institute hosted a party for its most illustrious donors every spring. Jon had never been expected to go to it until his promotion to Head Archivist and even then he tried to get it out of it, to no avail.

“I’m afraid it’s part of your duties now as Head Archivist,” Elias had said. “We need to have a face for every department and I’m sure quite a few of our donors are anxious to meet Gertrude’s replacement. You understand, of course.” Jon nodded. “I trust you’ll be on your best behavior.” He hadn’t forgotten his promise to ‘be more lovely’ after the incident with Naomi Herne. 

“Yes, yes,” Jon sighed. He wasn’t looking forward to the event- sticking close to Elias’s side didn’t seem very appealing, but being left to the wolves was even worse. Elias seemed to notice his hesitation and paused, waiting for Jon to continue. Perhaps he didn’t have to go alone. It’s worth a try, isn’t it?

“W-Would it,” he began, cursing his stutter. “That is, I would like to- if you don’t mind, I think it would be valuable to have my assistants attend, as well?” He hated the uptick in his voice that made it sound more like a question. “I-I just think it would be a good experience for them to ah, meet the donors as well. Since they do a lot of the research.” Another reminder that he had no idea what he was doing; Elias hadn’t said anything about his methods in the Archives, so he only hoped that indicated a tacit agreement about the way things should be run. 

Jon watched several emotions flit across the man’s face, irritation and disappointment giving way to resignation. He tried to ignore the first two and focus on the last. “Alright,” Elias agreed with a sigh. “Please stress the formality of this event, particularly to Mr. Blackwood. You’ll be representing the Institute, and as such you will be expected to interact with our donors. See that you don’t use your assistants as a social crutch.” Damn. There goes his plan. At least I’ll have some support. 

So here he was, standing in the hallway with his assistants in an ill-fitting suit he last wore to the funeral of a distant cousin. It didn’t fit then, either. He hoped he didn’t look too much like a child in his father’s clothes, but the snickers from Tim and Sasha dashed any hope of that. They looked wonderful, of course, as they always did. Martin was in the same boat as Jon, fidgeting in a blazer and non-matching pants.

“Well boss, looks like it’s time to schmooze!” Tim clapped a hand on his shoulder and steered him through the door. Elias liked to have his parties in the main library- it was the most beautiful part of the Institute, aside from the entrance hall. The tables and desks that normally populated the center of the room had been cleared away to reveal a rather spacious area for guests to mingle and talk over the sound of a tasteful string quartet. The whole event was incredibly elegant and Jon felt like he very much did not belong.

“Ah, there he is!” He heard Elias call from the right-hand corner of the room, where he was surrounded by several well-to-do donors dressed to the nines. He gestured him over with a magnanimous hand and Jon instantly flushed. Tim squeezed his shoulder and pushed him in their general direction. “This is our new Head Archivist, Jonathan Sims. He’s been doing fine work thus far.”

After a moment Tim’s hand is replaced by Elias’s, firm and weighty on his shoulder. He’s exchanging pleasantries with people whose names he forgets almost instantly- their hands are cold and their voices distant, they talk over him as if he were a child they judged and found wanting. Elias’s hand did not move and he was anchored in place, even as they made no move to include him in their conversation.

He saw Martin give him a look of pity from the corner that he was currently occupying with Sasha and Tim. They had their hands full of hors d'oeuvres and drinks and Jon wished desperately for a glass of water, anything to keep his hands occupied. He turned to realize the  conversation had stopped and his companions were staring at him expectantly. “I’m sorry?” he hazarded, wondering if he’d been addressed.

“Our son George,” the woman over-enunciated, her tone condescending. Jon remembered vaguely that she had some connection to the Fairchilds, though her name wasn’t familiar. “-is over by the bar. I think you’ll find his company a bit more interesting, hm?” The group tittered and Jon felt shame rise in his throat as his boss’s hand tightened on his shoulder.

“Yes Jon, why don’t you introduce yourself?” Elias said genially enough, though Jon can tell he had disappointed him once again. Jon nodded, excusing himself to go to the corner to get a much-needed drink and to embarrass himself further. There was a man roughly his age fiddling around on his phone with a bored expression. He was tall and handsome but in the soft way of the rich, cruel and cherubic in equal measure. It unnerved Jon and he summoned up a smile that felt more like a grimace.

“G-George?” he asked, willing his voice to steady. The man looked up, expression unchanged as his eyes bored into Jon’s. “I’m Jonathan Sims, the new Head Archivist-”

“Parents send you over?” he smirked and Jon felt the tension in his shoulders ease just a bit. “Sorry you had to deal with them. This your first time at one of these? Median age here is usually around seventy five, give or take.” He laughed and Jon smiled, the man’s candor a bit charming even to him. 

“Y-Yes, I’m not really sure I should be here,” he admitted as George slid a drink into his hand. He took a grateful sip and closed his eyes at it’s smooth burn- this was expensive liquor and Jon was going to savor every last bit.

“That makes two of us,” the man nudged him with his elbow and Jon started to think the night might not be as bad as he thought. He glanced quickly over to the other side of the room- Tim winked and gave him a thumbs-up (which he ignored) and Martin’s face was carefully blank. Jon did not know what to make of that.

George, it seemed, was not all that bad. He listened patiently when Jon went off on a rant about book-binding, nodding and smiling at all the right parts. In return, Jon let him talk about finance for longer than was polite (and God was it boring). They’ve now had two drinks and Jon is feeling much, much looser. The smiles are genuine and unforced. He watches Elias nod in approval out of the corner of his eye and feels his chest warm with pride. Not a complete disappointment, am I?

But George is getting closer. It was fine when they were awkwardly perched on opposite ends of the bar and needed to hear one another, but this was getting too cozy for Jon’s tastes. He tries to take a casual step backwards but stumbles. George’s hand goes to his elbow to help steady him and stays there. 

“I-I think I need to-” he starts to mumble an excuse but the man is not having it.

“What do you say we get out of here?” He whispers, coming in closer. Jon’s nerves reach a fever-pitch but he does not want to show it, doesn’t want to make a scene so he keeps the smile pasted on his face. “My apartment’s not that far-”

“O-Oh, I’m f-fine, thanks,” he says, trying to dislodge the man’s arm but it is no use- he is much stronger than he looks and has at least half a foot on him. “I actually have plans-”

“With who?” George asks pityingly as Jon tries desperately to meet anyone’s eyes, even Elias’s. He tries to convey his plea without making it obvious to any other bystanders but his boss’s eyes slide right over him. He knows he saw, he knows-

“That’s why they sent you over, right?” George continues, his mouth dangerously close to Jon’s neck as he leans into whisper in his ear. “Pretty thing like you, get me to open the cheque book-”

“Good Lord no, let me go-” at this Jon scoffs, horrified as he tries to yank his arm away.

“Don’t make a scene,” the man says in a low and calming voice, though the leer on his face is clear to see. Jon feels terribly small. “You don’t want to disappoint the boss, do you?”

“Please,” he begs, all out of words. “Stop, please-”

“He said to let go of him.” The voice startles them both and Jon turns to see Martin, a placid smile on his face. He is tall, so tall- was Martin always this tall? 

“I’m sorry?” George replies with a sneer, his voice raising in both pitch and volume and Jon is sure if people weren’t looking before, they’re looking now. “I’ll thank you to stay out of this, we were just leaving-”

“No,” Martin replies in that preternaturally calm voice, still smiling. “You weren’t. Now let him go, and we can forget this all happened, hm?” He puts a hand on the arm that’s holding Jon and there’s real strength behind it. George tries to wrench his arm away but Martin’s got it in a solid grip and he barely manages a wiggle.

“Let go of me now, or I’ll-”

“You’ll what?” Martin sounds bored. It is mystifying and Jon can do nothing but gape at the man. “You don’t want a scene, do you? Not in front of the family. Not again. So smile, and walk away.” There is a moment where Jon thinks they will come to blows but it passes. George manages to turn his scowl into a neutral expression, saving some dignity though he throws one last glare Jon’s way. “Not even worth it,” he mutters as he walks away. Jon leans against the bar, releasing a breath he did not realize he’d been holding.

“A-Are you alright, Jon?” Martin has a hand on his elbow but it’s okay now because it’s Martin and it feels right. His face has that same look he gets when he asks Jon whether he wants a cup of tea, or how he’s feeling or if he’s eaten that day. Worried, gentle.

“W-What was that?” is all Jon manages to get out, his voice in an embarrassingly high-pitch. Tim and Sasha are now making their way over with schooled expressions, though Jon can see the worry in their eyes. “Did you know that man? I-I mean, what the hell?” Jon realizes he’s sputtering and tries to get a handle on his swirling emotions. “N-Not that I’m not grateful, but good lord. ‘Not again?’”

Martin laughs, suddenly bashful. “I just guessed with that one, honestly. He looks like the type that’s thrown a fit or two, doesn’t he?” Tim and Sasha reach them and Martin is himself again, hunched over like he’s taking up too much space. This is the Martin that tiptoes around the archives, that’s always smiling and chattering about his day. Jon has never contemplated the man in much detail, but he is finding it hard to reconcile this new side of him. It’s not necessarily unwelcome. 

“Alright there, boss?” Tim inquires, good-natured but anxious. “Was going to come over, pretend to be your boyfriend and all but Martin said that would be ‘demeaning’ or whatever.” Tim rolls his eyes at this.

“I don’t know, Martin seemed to diffuse the situation pretty well,” Sasha eyes him curiously. “What did you say?”

“N-Nothing, really-”

“He asked him to leave,” Jon says, finding his voice and unable to take his eyes off Martin. “And he left.”

“Damn, okay,” Tim gives an appreciative whistle before knocking back the rest of his drink. “Working that Mart-o magic, I guess. This party blows, let’s hit the bars. Night’s still young!”

Sasha cheers and Martin looks at him questioningly- he surprises himself by nodding in agreement. “Yeah, let’s go.” He studiously ignores Elias breaking off from his group of sycophants and heading their way. He watches as Martin straightens himself minutely, blocking Jon with his body as Tim ushers them out the door before they can get stopped by the man. Jon knows he will get a tongue-lashing out of this but he doesn’t care right now. He feels small in Martin’s shadow but it is a safe small, like a blanket wrapped around him on a chilly night.

“Are you sure you’re alright?” Martin asks as Tim and Sasha chatter ahead of them, arguing over their destination. “We don’t have to go out if you don’t want to. I can take you home.”

I can take you home.

“I’m fine,” he says though he knows the situation hasn’t quite set in yet. “I’d rather not be alone, I-I think.” Martin nods and gives him a smile. It is almost charming, and Jon returns it. He doesn’t really want another drink but he needs a distraction, any distraction.

The night is cold and Martin is close, big and safe and warm. And if Jon leans into his side when they finally agree on a bar, that’s nobody’s business but his own.

ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26856373

[ombreblossom]

speaking words unspoken

This is my gift for @bluejayblueskies for the 2021 @tma-valentines-exchange! I hope you like it!

AO3 link is located in the source :)

Summary: They're a week and some change into their stay at Daisy's safe house, and Martin is still having some trouble with the Lonely. Jon picks up on this and tries to make things better. And he does! In his way, but not before some miscommunication and exhaustion waylay his efforts (about 6.5K words)

The grocery store is awfully busy for a small town nestled in the heart of the Scottish Highlands. Residents of the village wander among a haphazard collection of shelves ranging from middling height to impossibly tall. There seems to be little rhyme or reason for where items are placed from aisle to aisle, forcing Martin to have to search around in order to find anything, increasing the number of people he inadvertently bumps into.

If Martin gave it any more than a cursory thought, he'd come to the conclusion that it's not entirely unexpected, the nearest Tesco many tens of kilometers away and only a smattering of towns in between.

Martin isn’t really in a position to have that cursory thought, though, as freshly escaped from the Lonely as he was. Nervous energy thrums along his skin, speeding his movements and making him quick to avert his eyes in the infrequent event someone meets them. Most people still easily pass their gaze over him, as if he were merely a wisp of tepid air lazily making its way across the store room—a left-over effect of his association with the One Alone. Martin doesn't mind so much the lack of attention paid to him, but he can't help but feel an uncomfortable pressure against his skin when other people are near.

He can't even be near Jon sometimes, not without the pressure overwhelming him, and doesn’t that just smart.

Martin resolved to brave the thick, after-work crowd for this, though, “this” being gathering the supplies needed for a relaxing night in Daisy’s safehouse following a rushed and terrified flight from London and everything that had happened with Peter and Eli-Jonah, Not!Sasha, and the hunters. They weren’t on holiday, Martin had to keep reminding himself. They weren’t on holiday, but he was probably the happiest he’s been in years, and he wants to celebrate that. With Jon. 

With Jon. What a concept. He was elsewhere in the store, continuing an extended effort of picking up things they'd conceivably need for the long term. Just in case. Martin’s trying to not examine his shaky optimism too closely, but he is in love, and it's impossible to not consider his current position beside Jon as anything but a miracle.

Ah, there’s finally some room in the sweets aisle. Flanked on either side by various baking paraphernalia, Martin enters the aisle and heads straight for a small section of colorfully-wrapped bar chocolate. Not that Jonathan Sims, Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute, London likes sweet chocolate—goodness, no. Or sweets at all for that matter. At least not things he classified as “obnoxiously sweet,” an ambiguous term if Martin had ever heard one. Over time, Martin has come to understand it to mean barely sweet, like an echo of sweetness that had once been present and is no longer. He's never said as much, but Jon likes his sweets like he likes his tea: oversteeped to the point of bitterness with the barest hint of sugar and the slightest bit of added color from milk. 

And Jon does this unbearably adorable thing where he breaks the bar up into smaller pieces, not even according to the pre-set perforations, mind you, and nibbles on the thing for hours at a time, either to savor the flavor (which Martin cannot possibly fathom) or because Jon is a lying liar who lies about liking bitterness to that degree, and this is the one thing he has managed to successfully lie to anybody about.

It’s probably the former, but Martin would be delighted to find out it’s the latter.

So, he gladly picks up a couple of ninety-percent dark chocolate bars for Jon and turns them over in his hand, feeling the rough texture of the plain, if colorful, wrapping paper surrounding them. Martin does his best to dodge around other shoppers who've entered the aisle, picking up some granulated sugar, flour, baking soda and powder, and cinnamon for banana bread (his personal favorite). It stirs feelings in his chest that Jon had bought bananas several days ago with the (if not explicit, then quite obvious in hindsight) intent to let them over-ripen. Martin starts to head toward the cashier with the rest of his items when he feels a cool hand slip into his, interlacing their fingers together.

“Hey,” Jon begins, a soft warmth in his voice, “Did you get everything we needed?” Jon rubs his thumb in light, rhythmic circles onto his own, and it takes everything Martin has in him to not instinctively pull his hand out of Jon’s gentle hold. It feels nice—Jon feels nice—but it's very nearly too much right now. He hates this, hates constantly putting Jon in a position where he has to somehow intuit Martin’s feelings because not even Martin himself quite understands what exactly sets off the chain reaction of fear and pressure and too many people and the roaring—

There’s suddenly nothing but air around his hand, and Martin misses Jon’s solid presence acutely as much as he found it altogether too much. He doesn’t want to look over at Jon to see his placating smile, the one Martin imagined Jon wore as he all but dragged the both of them through King’s Cross station to barely make it on time for the soonest train to Inverness. That same smile that Martin watched Jon affect as he took on the bulk of the dusting and washing that needed to be done upon arrival at Daisy’s safe house. The same smile that Martin woke up to every morning, knowing that Jon had very likely spent several hours just sitting in their bed waiting for Martin to wake up to make sure he didn’t do so alone. 

Martin looks anyway and isn’t surprised to see the smile in question.

If Martin had to describe it, he’d say it conveyed a sense of loss, of mourning, of wanting to protect what remained of a previous whole. It’s an implicit acknowledgement of the pieces of Martin that have been irreparably warped by the Lonely and an acknowledgement that Martin had already lost much to mundane loneliness long before Peter took advantage of his grief and recruited him in waylaying the Extinction.

He never wants to see that smile again, and so he looks away.

“Is there anything else we still need to get, Martin?” Jon rephrases and, after a long beat, continues, “Why don’t I finish up here and we can meet up in a few moments at the bookshop?” The bookshop that Martin knows that Jon knows is likely deserted at this time in the late afternoon, not too long before the elderly shopkeep, Fiona, closes her doors in anticipation of beginning her own nightly rituals. “I’m almost finished with the books we brought from London, and last time we were there—”

“Jon—” Martin sighs while Jon continues.

“—you mentioned Discworld, and it occurred to me that I have somehow managed to avoid reading any Pratchett, despite reading what I can only imagine was nearly every book left at all the second-hand bookshops in and around Bournemouth. Did you know—”

Jon keeps going with tidbits of what he knows of Terry Pratchett, which is an awful lot considering he just admitted to having not read anything by the man. Martin missed this, listening to Jon talk about anything and everything. He dare not interrupt him, even with everyone walking around them. He also refuses to throw Jon’s gift of distraction back at his face.

Color rises in Jon’s cheeks and his brows furrow when he presumably realizes he’s been talking for a while. “My point is I don’t mind finishing up here. Really, I don’t.” Jon’s trying to help. He’s trying to help, damn it, he repeats to himself. Lord knows that all Jon has ever done is try to help, in his way. Martin’s the one who can’t go five seconds without his fear around other people flaring out of control. Jon shouldn’t have to go it alone to preserve his comfort.

Martin takes some deep, steadying breaths. Jon waits patiently for him, his free hand fidgeting unobtrusively. 

“No, I'm good," he asserts, threading his words with as much certainty he can manage, and decides then and there that it is so. "I have everything we need for dinner tonight here and a couple extra things, too." He waggles his eyebrows a little at this. "I assume that you're over here because you've finished getting the essentials."

Every time Jon laughs is an exercise in appreciating opposing extremes. His eyes close as if he can’t bear to look at the object of his amusement any longer, and the corners of those eyes crinkle in the prettiest way, taking the breath right out of Martin’s body when it happens. And he holds his hand in front of his mouth like his laughter is something to be smothered, never to see the light of day, the reasons for which Martin can't be certain, but he suspects he wouldn't like them. "Indeed. And a few extra indulgences," Jon teases, winking. Winking! Does Jon wink? Clearly he does, but this is new information, a treasure trove hidden among stormy seas. “I picked up some sausage; sausage always adds an extra depth of flavor to this sort of thing.”

Laughing lightly, Martin says, "Let's get going, then. We have an extremely full evening of relaxation ahead of us."

"Since when do you find cooking relaxing, Mr. Microwave Meals?"

"Since it's a safe activity that we can do together now that we're away from the Institute of Terror, Mr. Will Subsist on Granola Bars and Spite For Days at a Time If Left to His Own Devices."

Jon looks thoughtful suddenly. "Safe. Now there’s a concept," Jon says with no small amount of incredulity.

Martin pauses. “Is there something you’re not telling me, Jon?” Martin goes cold at the thought that Jon might have seen something and not told him.

“What? Oh, no. It’s just…” He trails off, his gaze drifting upward toward the ceiling. “This, being here—with you—is probably the safest I’ve felt in a long time. It-it almost doesn’t feel real. Like any little thing I do or neglect to do could potentially burst this bubble of happiness I’ve all of the sudden found myself in.” 

It’s moments like these that Martin might actually be willing to believe that Jon is in his early 40s, the age he’d be now if the ridiculous lie he told about his age when they all started in the archives had been true. The pressing weights of repeated trauma, responsibility, and regret age his features considerably, and it hurts to look at. Martin wants so badly to smooth away the lines that seem to have taken up permanent residence between Jon’s brows however he can.

Martin ventures that he’s calm enough now to at least comfort Jon, if not enough to accept any for himself. He grabs the same hand that grasped his own minutes before and just. Holds it. Jon goes taught, like a newly-strung bow, words of reassurance waiting on Jon’s lips, that no, it’s okay, Martin, you don’t have to do this.

Well, too bad. Martin wants to do this, the Lonely’s lingering influence on him be damned. Martin draws Jon’s hand up to his lips and presses a kiss onto his knuckles. Jon gasps quietly, eyes wide. His grey-streaked dark hair is slipping out of its loose braid, whether from Jon playing with it in idle moments or from the wind that is altogether too often present in the Highlands, Martin couldn’t say, but the image endears him to Martin all the same.

“Well, take it from someone who’s spent a lot of the last year feeling not-quite-real: this is real, Jon. We’re here and safe, at least for now,” Martin assures him, grinning. “Let’s go pay for this stuff, yeah? And let’s go home.” Jon, momentarily speechless, simply nods his assent.

They’re able to leave the store with their purchases eventually and decide to make their way to Fiona’s bookshop anyway, picking up a few volumes while they’re there: a collection of Robin Robertson’s poetry for Martin and a geographical history of the Scottish Highlands and Terry Pratchett’s Guards, Guards for Jon to chew through. And neither of them would dare leave without giving Maggie, the resident feline guardian, some well-earned scritches. “It takes an awful lot of energy to mind an entire bookshop, after all,” Jon says every time they visit, all the while accumulating what could only amount to an unhealthy amount of cat hair—so much so that Martin’s started to find it laying about in the safe house. Jon doesn’t seem to mind it and says it reminds him of living with The Admiral.

It’s a decent walk back to the safe house. They started late enough in the day that the sun is already beginning to sink below the horizon, so they end up leaving after giving Maggie far fewer scritches than any of them would have preferred. Jon rebuffs Martin’s offer to carry all of their purchases, stubbornly hanging onto their books and his share of the groceries. This is becoming a familiar game to them, one that tends to escalate to silly, frantic grabbing for the others’ bags and eventually devolves into giggles and light shoulder bumping. Today, Martin manages to relieve Jon of his groceries, opening up one of Jon’s hands for holding, which Martin promptly attempts to take.

Jon turns his head to him and gives him a look that practically asks in his stead, “Are you sure this is okay?” The likewise unsaid “I don’t want to hurt you” bounces back and forth between them, and Martin answers by interlacing their hands and giving Jon’s a squeeze in hopes that it will quell the worry that’s carved into the lines of Jon’s face.

It does, and the contented sigh Jon makes is one of the loveliest sounds he’s heard. They continue their trek home, the route long and winding.

Not too much later, though, Martin notices something...off about Jon. He notices in increments almost minute winces when Jon steps on the leg Prentiss' worms ravaged, more frequent bumps into him that had nothing to do with showing affection but allowing Martin to take some of his weight for a moment, and some far-away looks.

Martin doesn’t quite have the shape of it until they’re talking about something or other, something simple, easy, meaningless in the grand, cosmic scheme of things, and Jon stumbles. He tries to laugh it off, but there's something not quite right about Jon's laughter this time. The way he bounces his shoulders in suppressed mirth is subdued—sluggish, even. An increasingly concerning picture paints itself in Martin’s mind.

A long, hard look at Jon forces him to confront the deep, dark circles under his eyes set against skin uncomfortably grey, nearly all traces of flush gone from his face, a stark contrast to earlier in the day.

How had he missed this? Maybe he’s been more absent than he thought. He’ll have to keep a close eye on Jon throughout the evening, maybe shepard him to bed if he seems to get any worse.

Only a sliver of the sun remains visible above the horizon when they arrive at the safe house, casting a soft orange glow over the vast grassy spread of the Highlands. Martin pays the sight little mind, though, all of his focus intent on the man in front of him currently unlocking their front door, and he can’t not notice how long it takes for Jon to insert the key into the locking mechanism.

As they’re putting away their groceries, visions of Jon doing the very same thing by himself play in his mind’s eye. He’s only able to summon disconnected images of the first several days of their....could he call it an elopement? Their not-so-great escape from the Archives? He recalls Jon preparing meals for them, bundling up to leave the safe house for groceries, washing their clothes in a small, foot-powered washing machine and later hanging them up on a clothesline outside to dry. Martin also recalls Jon bringing him overly-steeped tea and an old crocheted blanket when all he could do was sit on Daisy’s ancient green corduroy sofa and stare into the void in front of him, the sounds of lapping waves Coming ever closer.

All the while wearing that damnable smile. Shame pools within Martin, shame that Jon had had to take up so much responsibility recently and that Martin can’t say how well Jon’s been sleeping or taking care of his own needs in the meantime. If today is anything to go on, Martin supposes the answer to both of those questions is likely “no.”

“Martin, could you turn on the lights? We’re losing daylight fast.” Jon has a balancing hand on the countertop and is putting their dry and canned food items. Martin does as he’s asked, bathing the entire kitchen and living area in warm light. Martin walks back toward the kitchen area and is greeted with a “thank you” and a kiss. He could get used to this, used to feeling loved and appreciated.

“Is something bothering you, Martin?”

He looks at Jon, concern writ large on his still ashen face and eyes boring into him. Concern has no place being there right now. If anyone has any right to be concerned at the moment, it’s Martin.

“What? No. Why do you ask?”

“You’ve just been awfully quiet since we got home, and after what happened at the store, it’s not surprising that you might still be feeling...off.”

Projection, much? Martin wants to say but has the wherewithal to hold it back. “I’ve just been doing a lot of thinking. Jon. I’m all right.”

Jon eyes him up and down, and after seemingly not finding what he’s looking for, nods once and smiles (again with the smile...) once more. “All right. You’ll tell me if something’s bothering you, though, won’t you?” 

“Yeah, Jon, of course I will.” And he intends to mean it.

“Good,” Jon says and walks over to where Daisy keeps her cooking vessels, grabs her Dutch oven, and places it on the stovetop.

“Why don’t I be your line chef today, Jon, and you work the stovetop? You’re much better at the actual cooking part than I am.” 

“Mmm. There’s a lot of prep work that goes into this and not a whole lot of actual cooking, so let me help you,” he says, shakily opening a couple drawers in search of a suitable chef’s knife. 

“You sure? You’re looking a little peaky over there,” he replies without meaning to and curses his loose tongue.

Jon pauses midway through grabbing one of Daisy’s old wooden cutting boards and blinks slowly. “Oh…. Yes, I’m sure. What do you mean, looking ‘peaky’?”

“It’s just,” Martin starts, collecting the fennel seed, basil, rosemary, and the rest of the spices they needed for their meat sauce and a bowl to mix them in. Too late to not approach the subject now. “You’re exhausted, Jon. You spent most of our walk home either tripping over air or leaning on me for support.” He had wanted to be subtle, but subtlety is no longer on the cards.

Considering this for a moment, Jon’s eyebrows scrunch up in a way that Martin finds so endearing and opens a nearby cupboard to take out a couple onions and a bulb of garlic. “Sure, I’m a little tired,” he concedes, “but we have all evening to relax. I’d like nothing more than to cook with you, Martin.”

He should’ve known Jon was a sap. The signs were all there. “Well, how could I say ‘no’ to that?” He says and means it, though worry continues to percolate in the back of his mind.

“You can’t, and you know it.” Jon teases.

They go about preparing their meat sauce, Martin double- and triple-checking each measurement before pouring the appropriate amount of each spice into the mixing bowl and Jon dicing onions. 

“How do you do that?”

“Do what?” 

“Chop onions without tearing up and cursing your hubris that ‘this time will be different’?”

Chuckling softly, Jon apparently thinks better of sliding his hand down his face before answering, pivoting to the most level deadpan Martin thinks he’s ever heard from him, “It wouldn’t be inaccurate to say that I spent years perfecting my abilities. Training with the best of the best to strengthen my tears ducts to such a degree that they are, quite literally, incapable of passing tears from my lacrimal glands to my eyes.”

Martin raises a dark eyebrow, amusement in his voice as he replies, “You should probably see a doctor about that, you know.”

“Yeah, maybe,” he draws out. “The real answer, of course, is my grandmother devoted a lot of her time to making sure I could at least cook according to a recipe along with providing some general rules of thumb. I chopped many an onion in search of culinary adequacy. Never progressed much past following recipes, though. Ask me to create something from scratch, and you’ll witness a horror the likes of which has never been seen before.”

“Just out of curiosity, which fear do you think takes credit for culinary disasters?”

“Probably depends on the nature of the disaster, honestly, but…. Hmm. Maybe Corruption? Or Flesh, maybe? Either way, it doesn’t bear thinking about, especially not while we’re preparing to eat ourselves.” 

While Martin is rummaging through the fridge in search of where Jon put the ground beef and sausage, he hears a hiss coming from Jon's direction. 

Martin whips his head over to where Jon's been dicing onions and his heart clenches at the sight of deep red blossoming over the wooden cutting board.

"Jon! What happened? You're bleeding," He says, stating the obvious, feeling like his throat is closing up behind his words. "Where are you bleeding from?" Martin crosses the room in record time, places a hand in Jon's shoulder and surveys the area in front of him.

Blood leaks sluggishly from a cut on Jon's middle finger. A splatter of crimson on the knife Jon has been using clues Martin in to what happened. "Jon, just stay right there, okay? I'll go grab the first-aid kit. I’m sure there’s some kind of antiseptic or disinfectant in there. I’ll be right back!”

Jon opens his mouth to say something, but Martin’s already gone, heading for the cabinet under the bathroom sink, head abuzz with worry and heart hammering in his chest.

When Martin returns, Jon’s running his hand beneath the running tap and blood trails down into the sink in pink rivulets. Jon glances at him, the same exhaustion that stared back at him when Jon and the rest left for Great Yarmouth on his face, a combination of physical exhaustion and the culmination of several months of emotional upheaval, of bitterly contemplating his own humanity and his role in Elias’ inscrutable plans.

“There’s no need to worry about the first-aid kit, Martin. Didn’t you hear? I heal, ah, preternaturally fast these days. See?” Jon holds up his hand to Martin, and, much to Martin’s surprise, the seeping cut on Jon’s finger is completely gone, no trace even of a faint scar. 

“I...I didn’t know, Jon,” he almost whispers. “How long has this been going on?”

“Since I—since I woke up. From the coma.”

Martin mouths an “oh” and considers what this means in the context of what knows about Jon’s actions while he’d been working for Peter. It’s almost sadder that Jon ventured into Ny Alesund knowing that he couldn’t be permanently harmed—or into the coffin, for that matter. Walking into extreme danger knowing that he’d likely bring pain on himself but he’d almost certainly live despite it—”self-destructive” was even more accurate than Martin had imagined at the time Daisy said it.

Martin heaves a tension-relieving breath and hopes it doesn’t sound like a sigh. Making Jon feel guilty about something he can’t exactly help isn’t something he wants to do tonight. Or ever. “Why don’t I go put this back, then, and let’s pick up where we left off. I’ll take over the solemn duty of chopping onions if you start preparing the beef and sausage.”

“Yeah, that might be for the best,” Jon concedes too easily. 

The room is quiet after that. Not much sound ever permeates the safe house’s walls, trees and hills absorbing much of the ambient noises of the surrounding area before they even get to their cottage. And they’ve both gone silent, the only sounds filling the room the sharp thuds of a knife hitting wood and the squelching of ground meat. 

By time Martin’s done dicing one onion to replace the one Jon bled on and an extra onion that the recipe didn’t call for because “onions are flavor vehicles, Martin,” or so Jon claims, Jon’s still mixing the beef and sausage together.

“H-hey, Jon, I think you’ve mixed those pretty thoroughly, don’t you?”

“Mmm.” He stills, hands still submerged in the mixture.

“Jon?”

Jon blinks slowly, head and gaze drawing downward, like he no longer has the will or strength to work against gravity.

Martin reaches out a hand to shake him out of his stupor but thinks better of it. Has he somehow lost more color in his cheeks? “Jon, I think you should maybe go lay down or at least sit down.” Nothing. “I’d love to hear you talk about Discworld if you’re not ready to lay down yet.”

This seems to break him out of whatever daze he’d fallen into. “Oh. Ah, yes. Right. I understand. I’ll, um, just go.”

What is there to understand, Martin wonders as Jon turns back to the sink and runs water and soap along his hands, movements almost comically slow if not for how worrying they are and the frenetic energy that usually accompanies Jon completely missing.

Martin reaches out a supporting hand, intending to grasp Jon’s upper arm. “The bedroom’s awfully far away; let’s get you to the sofa, and I’ll bring over some tea and blankets, yeah?” 

With energy summoned from the aether, Jon leaps out of the way of his hand, throwing himself boldly against the lip of the countertop with a cry. “No. No. That’s all-that’s all right. I can get there by myself,” he says, chest heaving and the trembling Martin noticed more pronounced than even a moment ago.

“Jon, love, you’re not in any condition to be doing anything by yourself. In the most affectionate way possible, you look like you feel awful right now. Please let me help.” Martin’s unable to keep the pleading out of his voice.

Jon looks—Looks?—looks at him, eyes wide, almost bulging, fear and a host of other emotions dancing wildly in them. “No, n-no. You don’t have to…. Please, don’t. I didn’t want this.”

“Don’t what, Jon? What didn’t you want?”

“This. I didn’t want this.”

“Um. I don’t really understand, Jon, but let’s talk about it over on the sofa. We’ll be more comfortable there.” Martin takes a small step forward, palms of his hands facing forward in a gesture of openness and safety. This time when Jon leaps backward, he slips. Martin’s not close enough to grab onto him, and a split second later, the deafening crack of Jon’s head hitting the wood floor fills the room and clamps a vice around Martin’s heart. 

Too shaken to yell his name, he bounds over to where Jon lies still and slides into a sitting position beside him. All Martin can see for a terrifying, desolate moment is Jon in that familiar adjustable hospital bed, crisp, undisturbed white sheets carefully arranged over top of him, attached to various monitors that have been silenced to not alert staff of his absent heartbeat and non-existent oxygenation levels.

“Jon. Jon. Come on. Don’t do this to me. Jon, do something—say something if you can. Please, don’t….” Should he move Jon at this point? Martin remembers from a rudimentary first-aid class he took when his mother’s worsening condition started to accelerate that you shouldn’t move people with suspected head or neck injuries without first stabilizing them, but they had nothing like that here. And there was still some question as to how far his healing ability really extended.

He has to be okay. Without giving the action any thought, Martin gently places a hand atop Jon’s chest to check for breathing. They’re shallow breaths, but his chest does rise and sink in a slow rhythm, and Martin lets out the breath he’d been unconsciously holding.

“Love?” He near whispers, as if Jon were merely asleep. “Come back to me.” He brushes away some of the fly-away hairs that have fallen onto his face. That is when Jon begins to stir.

“Jon? Jon!” Martin exclaims. For whatever mysterious reason, Jon is trying to wriggle away from him. “Don’t try to move yet. You hit your head pretty hard, and your healing isn’t immediate, Jon. Just stay put!” Jon wasn’t listening to him, still scrambling to move out of Martin’s reach.

That’s enough of that. Martin lays himself over Jon’s chest and holds him while he waits for him to calm down.

It takes some seconds, maybe a minute or two, but Jon does calm down eventually, becoming boneless in Martin’s arms.

“Hey,” Martin starts, “you with me, Jon?” 

Jon lifts a hand slowly, making a so-so gesture.

“Okay. How’s your head?”

He winces. “Hurts.”

Martin hmms. “Do you feel dizzy?”

Jon gives a minute shake of his head.

“Okay. I’m moving us to the sofa, then. And don’t try to protest,” Martin warns.

Martin gets half-way to his feet, slips his arms until Jon’s legs and back, and proceeds to pick them both up off the floor. In the short time it takes to cross the room, Jon nuzzles his head into Martin’s chest. The frustration and concern and worry Martin’s feeling subsides somewhat in the face of overwhelming affection for this man, and he hugs him just a little bit closer.

“Stay here; I’ll be right back,” Martin says as he lays Jon down gingerly onto the sofa. He puts their dinner ingredients back into the fridge for the time being and puts some water on for chamomile tea. His thoughts drift as he waits for the water to come to a boil and some more as he waits for the tea to steep. He glances at Jon every so often, who has rolled over onto his side while Martin’s been gone.

“Hey, you,” Martin says as he sits in front of Jon at the edge of the sofa, the mug of chamomile making a soft thunk on the table.

“Why are you doing all this, Martin?” Jon murmurs into the worn fabric underneath him, and Martin can’t tell if he was supposed to hear it or not.

“I’m not sure what you mean, Jon.”

“Why are you staying so close to me, touching me? Taking care of me?”

“I would have thought the answers to those questions were pretty obvious,” Martin says mildly, carding his fingers through Jon’s hair.

Jon’s silence says everything.

Martin exhales and then steels himself for a delicate conversation. “I love you, Jon. Have done for quite a while now. If there’s anything I can do to lessen your pain and discomfort, I want to do it.”

Jon clenches a fist and refuses to look at him. “I know that, Martin, in every way possible. But...” he stops, apparently to think. He sounds wrecked. Tabling this conversation for when Jon is feeling better might be a better idea, but it’s rare that Jon gets the gumption to speak openly about the things really bothering him, so Martin’s remains quiet. “Things haven’t been easy for you since…. Christ, for a long time, I think. Since Prentiss, at least. But since leaving the Lonely, you’ve been…. You go away for long periods of time, and it seems like you can’t handle people being around you, too.”

It occurs to Martin that they’ve never actually addressed any of this together, not their individual traumas, not their shared traumas, not this thing, these feelings, between them. They’ve been testing the waters, so to speak, bit by bit. Touches and soft barbs and sweet words pass between them unacknowledged but nevertheless heartfelt. But so much else has also remained unsaid in the interim, he now realizes. 

“And I get it. No one escapes one of the fears without being marked, and you’ve been marked thoroughly by the Lonely, Martin. It’s...it makes perfect sense that these things are happening, that you feel overwhelmed when people are near.”

He stops again, and Martin gives him ample time to gather his thoughts. Martin is still running his hand through silky salt and pepper strands when Jon lifts his head and looks up at him. His complexion still carries that worrying gray tint and his eyes are and cheeks shine with moisture.

It’s the darker green spot on the sofa where Jon had had his face pressed that really does Martin in, that causes him to throw caution to the wind

“Move back a little, Jon. Just a little, okay?” He says, low and soft. Jon mutters a “yeah” and does as he’s told. “Thanks, love. Now, hold still.”

Daisy’s sofa is by no means a large sofa, and Martin is by no means a small man, but he’ll make this work. He lays himself down beside Jon and works his arms around him, tucking himself into any space he can against him, the lines of their bodies almost completely flush with one another. His back is close enough to the edge that Martin constantly feels like he’s about to fall, but it’s worth it to have Jon in his arms like this. “I’m listening, whenever you’re ready to continue.”

Jon buries himself in Martin’s chest before picking up where he left off, prompting Martin to cup the back of his head and pull him in closer.

“You’ve borne the brunt of maintaining our relationship for so long, Martin, and now it’s my turn. I can take care of you when you’re far away, when you can’t be around people. I can do the shopping, I can cook. I can do all these things.

“And I can stay away when it’s too much for you to be around me.” He clenches the fist caught between them even harder. “I don’t want to be the cause of your pain, Martin. That’s the last thing I want.”

Martin considers all this for...several moments, really, and comes to an ugly conclusion.

“Jon...is this why you didn’t let me touch you earlier?”

A muffled “yes” reaches Martin’s ears, and his heart just breaks.

“We really should have a long conversation about this in the near future—preferably when you’re feeling better—but I want to say a couple things right now, if that’s okay with you.”

“Of course, Martin. I want to hear everything you have to say.”

Martin gives a little squeeze of gratitude and then continues, “For one, you’re right. There’s leftover stuff from the Lonely I’m dealing with right now, and sometimes it’s hard to be around anyone. And I hate it so much that ‘anyone’ sometimes includes you. From here on out, I’m going to try to tell you when I’m feeling this way, so you don’t have to try to guess. And if I’m reaching out to you, please trust me that I’m okay in that moment.”

“I do trust you, Martin. I trusted you to handle Peter. I trusted you to handle the Extinction. I’ll...do my best to trust you in this, too. I...I’m just deeply afraid of ruining this, ruining us.”

“Thank you. And I understand. I worry about that, too, but please also trust me when I say there’s not much that you could do that would ruin this.”

Nodding into Martin’s chest, Jon whispers, “I’ll try.”

“That’s all I ask. And second, I want you to know that, as far as I’m concerned, you don’t need to feel like you need to make up for anything.” Jon is tensing up, preparing to protest—he can feel it. “No, I mean it. Our relationship isn’t transactional. You don’t have to meet every comfort I offer you with one of your own just for the sake of reciprocation. That’s not how it works. You’ve done so much for me Jon, just by being you. That’s not even including the Lonely and everything that’s happened after, though I’m grateful for all that, too. You’re already here for me in every way that matters. You don’t need to do anything more.”

Martin places a kiss on the crown of Jon’s head, and they just lie there, soaking in each other’s presence, previous evening plans all but forgotten. Martin thinks Jon dozes a little bit, the stress of the evening finally taking consciousness away from him, but he’s proven wrong when Jon speaks up once more, muffled slightly by Martin’s jumper.

“For the record, I love you, too. In case that needed to be said.”

“I wouldn’t say ‘need,’ necessarily, but I won’t lie and say I don’t like hearing it!”

“I see,” Jon croaks. The man needs to rest. “Well, I guess if you don’t need it, then I won’t bother saying it.”

“You’re insufferable, you know that?” He laughs and feels the smile on his face widen.

“I have an idea, yes.”

“Good. Now, drink your tea.”

Martin pushes himself away from Jon to give him some room to sit up and to get a good look at this face. His face isn’t covered in tears anymore (now probably absorbed by the fibers in his knitted jumper), but he looks positively exhausted, eyes lidded and face otherwise lax in an easy smile, not at all like the one he wears with the intent to soothe. Martin places the still warm cup of chamomile in Jon’s hand.

“Still feeling up for a little dinner?” He asks.

Jon hmms and replies, “Yeah, I could eat a little. Just give me a few minutes to—”

“Absolutely not, Jon. I’m going to make dinner while you take a nap here. Okay?”

“Yeah, okay. A nap sounds wonderful.”

“Good. I’ll wake you up when everything’s finished.”

Martin starts to dislodge himself from Jon when Jon reaches up to kiss his cheek.

“Love you. And good luck.” Jon gives him possibly the most self-satisfied wink he’s seen before taking a sip of his tea.

It’s not terribly cold in the safe house with a fire going, but Martin lays Daisy’s crocheted blanket over Jon anyway, and starts taking everything back out for dinner.

It’s meat sauce—how hard could it be?

[darkisrising]

Song lyric prompt: "My soul is painted like the wings of butterflies/Fairy tales of yesterday will grow but never die"

Tales

“About time you showed up,” Anakin mutters darkly when he catches sight of a travel-creased Obi-Wan being ushered into the hall for a banquet he’s ten standard hours late for. Anakin is the only one here save the attendants that dart around, silently working around a fleet of droids to clear away picked over plates of food. Large doors line the hall and it’s clear from the murmur of voices drifting in on the soft evening breeze that the festivities have spilled out into the garden. “He’s been out there for hours.”

It’s familiar, this frustration at a master that, if left to his own devices, would amble around the galaxy, meeting people and forging bonds with pathetic life forms forever. Obi-Wan had had thirteen years of shepherding Qui-Gon about when he’d been a padawan and now seven more as a knight whose task it is—between being sent into war zones and keeping the peace with a glowing blue saber in hand— to keep a certain master from wandering off whenever the Council deemed it necessary.

Obi-Wan smooths a thumb across his mouth to hide away a laugh, though Anakin isn’t fooled. His eyes narrow, a glower if ever Obi-Wan’s seen one, and this time Obi-Wan works harder to school his face into a more careful passivity.

“Whatever,” the teenager mutters to himself, unimpressed with Obi-Wan’s self control. “He’s your problem if he stays up so late he’s useless at tomorrow’s treaty negotiations. I’ve got a final to study for before bed.”

“You can stand down now, Padawan. I’m here and will take full responsibility for keeping Master Qui-Gon Jinn in line from here on out.”

“If only,” Anakin says, but this time there’s more than a little humor in his voice. A flash of a smile lights the corners of his mouth and it more than makes up for a miserable shuttle ride in to see it. “I’m really glad you were able to make it out here, Obi-Wan. I’ve missed you.” Something mischievous flickers in Anakin’s dark blue gaze, there and gone before it so much as registers to Obi-Wan’s eye. “He’s missed you, too.” 

Outside is about what Obi-Wan is expecting: manicured shrubs and gentle candlelight. Beautiful, influential beings half-hidden in shadow. Easy laughter shared around one-too-many drinks before the hard work of tomorrow begins in earnest.

Making his way around the garden’s edges, he finally finds Qui-Gon lit by flickering orange flames and listening with rapt attention as an older human weaves him a story.

Qui-Gon collects stories. Huddled around campfires and hearths, large hand wrapped around a mulled mead or a warmed whiskey, Qui-Gon has lost years of his life among the rise and fall of voices that speak their truths and spin tall tales among the stars. Young mothers and veteran soldiers, hotshot adventurers and village shamans, he treats them all with the same gentle reverence. Obi-Wan has often thought that if the Jedi hadn’t needed to change so much with the times—if they could still be the peaceful Order they’d once been rather than the blade of the Senate that they are now—this could have been Qui-Gon’s charged purpose. He could be left alone to wander the galaxy, bearing mindful witness to these stories, setting them to flimsi with the heart of a poet and the care of an archivist. 

Obi-Wan knows better than to interrupt the spell of a story once it’s been cast, so he waits for Qui-Gon to give a small smile and a thoughtful nod before he steps to his side.

“Ah,” Qui-Gon says, voice a smooth rumble in the dark, and Obi-Wan is close enough to smell the bite of liquor that drifts from his crystal tumbler. “And here he is now.”

“I apologize for my delay,” Obi-Wan says with a deferential bow. “There was a faulty hyperdrive on the shuttle, I’m afraid.”

“No worries at all, ser Jedi,” the old man says with a broad smile, gold-tipped teeth winking. “We are honored to have you join us for any length of time.”

“The baron was just telling me about the time you visited his home planet and single handedly evacuated his people from the path of an erupting volcano while fighting back a swarm of locusts. It seems you have become quite the hero on Troger.” 

“I’m not sure about a swarm,” Obi-Wan says, affecting a tone of self-effacement that has Qui-Gon hiding a smile behind a sip of amber liquid. “I do remember an insect or two.”

Mainly in his hair. In his teeth, too, when he’d had to yell instruction out at the panicking villagers. 

“I expected you to be taller, truth be told.”

“I’m sorry to disappoint, Baron. I suppose as the tales grew I, too, must have grown in both stature and deed.”

“Well,” the baron says, draining his glass with an adept tilt of his head and flick of his wrist. “I’ll be sure to leave that part out when I tell them I have seen Knight Kenobi in the flesh. Gentlebeings,” he says with a slight bow as he takes his leave for the night.

They watch as the baron’s shock-white hair disappears into the dwindling crowd. Some of the candelabras have been burned to nothing and the shadows are longer than they’d been even a moment ago. 

“Am I really that short?” Obi-Wan asks and he can hear Qui-Gon’s snort of laughter.

“Am I really the one you should be asking?” Qui-Gon counters, voice echoing within the depths of his tumbler as he finishes his drink, too. “I take it Anakin has left me to your care for the remainder of the evening?”

“He has. He said something about studying?”

“AstroNavigation,” Qui-Gon provides. “I offered to help him but he said he’d been warned away from accepting any of my assistance on the subject.”

“Well,” Obi-Wan pulls on his beard to stop the sly smile from blossoming across his face. “I may have told him about the time you helped me study AstroNav and how I subsequently lost my place at the head of the class.”

“How was I to know Nax had been downgraded to a dwarf planet since I last took the class?”

“It’s alright,” Obi-Wan says, patting Qui-Gon’s shoulder with an affectionate hand. “It only happened the year before your padawan braid was cut. I’m sure you would have caught up with the news, eventually. If given a few more decades.”

They end up in Obi-Wan’s assigned quarters, which are a splendor of marble floors and large balconies with curtains that billow as they let in the cool night air.

“Our rooms are much smaller,” Qui-Gon says, leaning on a wall as he appraises the suite. It had become clear to Obi-Wan from the way he’d walked carefully—deliberately— through the halls that Qui-Gon was drunk, though he hid it well.

“I suppose being the hero of Troger has its advantages.”

“Mm,” Qui-Gon agrees with a hum as he pulls Obi-Wan to him for a kiss.

Seven years. They’d been lovers now for seven years, and yet still Obi-Wan’s chest flutters like the beating of an insect’s wings at the first touch of Qui-Gon’s lips to his. He has to stand on the balls of his feet to wrap his arms around Qui-Gon’s shoulders, and he can feel warm palms brace his lower back, protecting him from falling as if Obi-Wan had been the one who’d spent the evening losing himself to words and liquor.

He follows the warmth of Qui-Gon’s tongue, chasing it with his own, and he breaks away to laugh when Qui-Gon lists to the side. He is saved from tipping over by Qui-Gon planting his back against the wall once more.

“You taste like whiskey,” Obi-Wan says, threading his fingers through the soft lengths of Qui-Gon’s hair.

“And you taste like color. Like yellows and oranges and iridescents.”

“How drunk are you?” Obi-Wan laughs. “Will you even be able to get your boots off by yourself?”

“I’m just drunk enough to see the colors of your soul,” Qui-Gon says with far more seriousness than the moment requires. Closing his eyes, Qui-Gon tips his head back and Obi-Wan can’t help but nip at the long line of exposed throat.

In the end, Obi-Wan has to remove Qui-Gon’s boots, kneeling between Qui-Gon’s thighs while the Jedi master perches on the edge of the mattress. To Qui-Gon’s credit, though, he does manage to take the rest of his clothes off with very little assistance.

It’s easy, then, between them: unhurried and languid. Time is a gift that stretches long enough for them to find each other, to touch each other, to kiss each other, and to rock into each other until they fall into stillness—wrapped together and silent.

“I missed you,” Qui-Gon says at last, hand stroking the length of Obi-Wan’s spine.

“Yeah,” Obi-Wan responds, smiling into the dark. “I heard tell of something to that effect.”

[tma-more-like-suffering]

How to Successfully Attempt Murder

starring, Elias Bouchard as the murder victim.

A/N: So even though this technically isn’t a reader insert, its still in second person because- uh- because I’m currently stuck writing in second person? Like, okay, I’m having fun, alright? Lemme be.

But hey. For everyone who has repressed feelings of anger towards one Jonah Magnus, this one’s for you.

-

"Hey Mel- oh. Are you... going somewhere?"

Melanie startles, almost dropping the cup of coffee she has clutched in one hand. You stop just shy of the kitchenette doorway, feeling awkward for have accidentally snuck up on her.

"Jesus- I didn't hear you coming at all."

"Yeah... sorry. What're you doing?"

"I'm-" her expression goes through a series of stages, each somehow more interpretive than the last, "I- I went out to get coffee, that's all. And I thought I'd bring some for Elias..."

You squint at her, suspicious, "Elias?"

You don't know how, but Melanie's expression remains completely smooth beside the slight twitch of her eye, "Yes."

"Riiiight." You know that she can probably tell you don’t believe her. Still, you gesture at the cup, "You're going up to deliver that to him, then?"

Melanie glances down at the beverage, "Ah- yeah." She pauses, seemingly thoughtful, before her eyes settle on you again, "D'you wanna come up with me?"

Frankly, Melanie is acting very suspiciously right now. You know for a fact that this isn't just her 'having' gotten Elias a coffee while she was out. But you don't quite know what she's actually up to, and you have a feeling that something is about to happen.

"Alright, I'll come with."

-

You're standing beside the door to Elias's office, falling just outside his line of sight. Melanie told you to wait out here as she delivered her 'coffee' but left the door ajar just so that the conversation inside can be easily overheard.

"-I assume you don't believe me, then? That murdering me would also kill you?"

You can only imagine what kind of look must be on Melanie's face, right about now, "I-I-I don't know what you're..."

Despite the topic of conversation, Elias sounds unnervingly calm. You're not even the one who’s tried to kill him and yet you still feel a twinge of annoyance, "Coffee is not as good for disguising tastes as you might think. And it's even worse at disguising texture. Dissolved pills always leave such a- hm- chalky residue."

Melanie bristles, "Look, Elias, I never-"

"I assume this is your first time attempting to poison someone." You silently shake your head. Poor Melanie, Elias doesn't even sound fazed, talking about an attempt on his life like he's just scolding her for coming into work late, "Do you actually know how many painkillers it takes to kill someone, or were you just hoping I'd take enough to get sick, and you could finish the job... manually?"

Melanie takes a deep breath, but even from here you can hear the fine tremor underneath it, "Why...? Why bother asking then? Why bother if you know everything?"

Elias chuckles, unperturbed, "I don't know everything, Melanie. Do you know how exhausting that would be?

"I'll tell you one thing I don't know," he continues, "and that's how to convince you that I'm trying to help. Honestly, you're one of the lucky ones. But not if we're all dead thanks to an... overzealous-" you wince, "-attempt at independence."

Melanie sounds like she's gearing up for a fight, like a toy with its key turned too many times, "I don't need you to-"

Elias interrupts, speaking with an infuriating condescendence, like he's just turning down Melanie's request for a promotion the third time this month, "Let's have no more clumsy assassination attempts, alright? And we'll say no more about it. Consider this your first warning." His voice swoops lower, quieter, dangerous, "Next time I shall have to escalate matters, and that won't be a pleasant process for anybody."

A pause for dramatics. "Understood?"

Melanie grits out her own assent, "Yes."

Melanie seems now to be a problem neatly taken care of and filed away, never to be considered again except maybe for his own occasional amusement. There's an audible smile in Elias's voice, "Good."

Next thing you know, Melanie storms out of the office and straight past you, looking too angry to have remembered that she left you standing there. You blankly watch her go, mind spinning in lazy circles while considering the conversation you overheard.

"Will you close the door before you leave, Alex?"

You don't bother to stop long enough in his office for a chat of your own.

-

It’s curious, really.

He said, 'I don't know everything. Do you know how exhausting that would be?'

He's some form of omniscient, that's for sure. Maybe like a maid working in a Victorian household, always on top of the gossip. Whether that be creating the gossip himself, or simply being the agent who spreads it, that depended on the time of day.

But he can't know everything, all the time. Because that would be too much.

Which means there are loopholes.

"Hey Rosie."

Little nosy Rosie looks up, smiling politely as you stop by to say hello. It's not a very comfortable smile, because anyone who's anyone knows to stay well away from the Archives and their staff. Not Rosie though, little Rosie has quite the fine palette for juicy bits of gossip, reason why she bothers talking to the lot of you, "Hello Alex. Everything well in the Archives?"

You wave your hand dismissively, "We're getting along, I suppose. Lot of excitement with all that murder business, you know how it is."

There's that gleam in her eyes now, that 'oh, what's this?' gleam of curiosity, "Not quite, no. Listen, did I hear it straight that Jon's back? Even after being accused of murder?”

You shift, getting yourself comfortable leaning against Rosie's desk, "Well, they dropped the charges, right? Turns out they had it all wrong, Jon wasn't the one who took a pipe to some old man's head. I mean, look at him? D'you think he'd do it?"

Rosie squirms under your gaze, looking distinctly guilty, "I suppose not. He's a bit of an arse sometimes but- maybe not murder."

"Oh, it's all right Rosie, if my body ever turns up dead you know where to look." You wink. Her lips quirk up in a smile. It's just a spot of joking you two are doing here, really. You turn your head then, just slightly, pretending to look around a bit when you spy a tea kettle boiling away in the corner. "Having a cuppa?"

"What?" She follows your gaze and startles, "Oh! No, no, that's for Mr. Bouchard. He takes his tea this time of day."

You make a low noise in the back of your throat, casually interested but not obviously, "That so. You deliver his tea all times of the day, then?"

Rosie gives you a bemused look, as if she suspects you're trying to turn your nose up on the fact that part of her job is to bring tea to her boss. "It's only twice a day. He's never broken from schedule, doesn't bother me for it otherwise."

You hum an empty agreement, "Seems like the kind of man to keep on schedule."

"I should get to that actually," She pushes away from her desk and starts to her feet, "The water's probably done."

"Yeah, alright." You push off of her desk, giving her nod as you wander over to the door of her office, "Nice chatting with you Rosie. You should come down to visit the Archives sometime."

The last thing you see is her indulgent smile, the kind you give someone when you're only putting up with them until they're gone. In this case specifically, it's a -I don’t want to get caught up in whatever goes down there in the Archives, no thank you- kind of smile.

Oh well. You got what you came for anyways.

It's rather easy after that.

A month of seeing neither hide nor hair of him, Jon comes back. He looks remarkably harried, and you don't think you'd have even noticed him coming into work had you not been in the reception area during that time. As such, you watch him rush straight past you and for the stairs, and you can make a guess for where he's headed with a single-minded focus like that. It seems like Elias has a lot to do with the nonsense that occurs down in the Archives, and people can't be happier having someone to blame.

You pop down in the Archives and tell Martin that Jon's back. He sighs in relief. Even before becoming scarce at his own workplace, it was always Martin that Jon kept the most contacts with, only to completely drop off the grid these last few weeks. Somewhere in the midst of your conversation Melanie comes marching in, a crazed look in her eye, and you know what she's planning too.

I mean, what better time than when the boss-bossman is distracted, eh?

An uncomfortable few seconds of watching Melanie stomp about before she leaves, the door closing behind her with a bang. Martin sighs tiredly and you know that he wishes she would just stop with all of this. These days, he’s more and more like a tired father of two toddler who has accepted his horrible lot in life, and yet still his children continue to insist on making it worse.

You give him a comforting little pat on the back. As far as you’re concerned, it's their loss if they insist on putting their heads in the lion's mouth.

Heading upstairs, you find Rosie's office empty. It must be if she’s settling the little dispute going on up in research. The kettle is however turned on, because Mr. Bouchard has always been a man of schedule.

It's easy, to slip in something into the water.

-

Elias can't know everything, all the time.

He knows he needs to keep an eye on his Archivist's development. The brunt of his gaze has always rested on Jon and it’s obvious that none of you Assistants can ever hope to stand in the same regard, not really.

Elias keeps an eye on Melanie. Melanie is unstable. She doesn't like her actions being controlled; she doesn't like being trapped here in this place. Never mind that she agreed to join the Institute on her own violation, it's her free will that matters to her now, or at least the illusion of it. Melanie is the kind of person who isn't afraid to fight for what she wants.

Elias keeps an eye on Tim too, though he pretends he doesn’t. It just makes sense. Tim is almost like Melanie, but he's been beaten down too much too soon, and won't take it out on Elias. His target is instead Jon, who seems to be at the center of most of his problems and is a much easiertarget. As long as that continues to be true, Tim is content on simply being indirectly snide towards Elias.

Elias doesn't really keep an eye on Martin. Oh, he knows that Martin is just as angry with him as any of others, but Martin has never been the kind of person to do anything about it.

Elias doesn't really keep an eye on you. You know what people think of you. That you're kind of an airhead. Always lost in your head, can't be bothered with the world outside it half the time. You're the kind of person that likes keeping their head down and quietly working away at your desk, and that hasn't much changed since... well, everything.

Nah. The murder thing isn't even on the top of your list. You'd just like some peace and quiet down here, for once. And, well, Elias seems to be the root of everyone's problems, including yours...

Still, there's no point in doing anything without at least enjoying the results. You researched extensively on what kind of poison to buy, taking into mind Elias’ oh-so-kind lecture to Melanie about picking your poison. It wouldn’t have done for him to taste something off about his tea the moment he took the first sip.

So, after exactly the time it would take for his tea to kick into effect, if you compensate for the time he would take to drink enough of it, you check in on Elias.

The first thing you see is the man collapsed onto his desk, eyes wide open and mouth frothing. The second you see is Jon, staring at the now dead body in front of him with surprise.

"Oh. It worked."

Jon's eyes snap toward you, "Wh- Alex? Did you do this?!"

You rub at your ears at the pitch of Jon's voice, an octave or two higher with hysteria, "I didn't know it'd work, you know?"

"You killed him!"

You shrug, slipping inside the room. "Sure." You can't be bothered to close the door behind you as cross over to the desk. Jon scampers out of his own seat, edging warily to the other side of the room. He can do whatever he wants as long as he doesn't call the cops immediately.

You check for a pulse on the body and find it missing.

From the furthest corner of the room, Jon stutters, "Y-you're insane."

You can't be bothered with an answer.

Fascinatingly enough though, Elias's eyes are still moving. They rove around wildly in his sockets, almost like they're the only way he can convey his surprise at being got. It's still unnatural though, and you have the strangest surety that it's an important detail.

Jon by this point has left the office, and you should really clean up here before someone comes in. Still, it almost feels like things aren't finished here. You have the strangest sense when it’s obvious that a story hasn't reached its conclusion.

You cast about the room and stop at the pen stand, holding fancy fountain pens that look like they cost more than your entire salary. You grab onto one, sliding the cap off by neatly jamming your thumb nail into the line where the cap meets the body of the pen, and look down contemplatively at the eyes that have stopped pinballing wildly, fixed on you. They almost look scared.

Well. This is going to get messy. At least you know that Melanie will be willing to help you clean up the body.

Tip of the pen poised; you get to work.

[seokiloquy]

Lost In- What Word? Pt 1 - Akaashi Keiji

AU: Single Parent

Requested

Word Count: 4.5k+

Disclaimer: Fem! Reader, Time skip spoilers, Udai being a meta Furudate insert, just fluff

Pt 1 | Pt 2 | Pt 3

Akaashi wasn’t sure if Udai was naturally forgetful, or just held so much anticipation in his smaller form that he glossed over details and didn't realize it. Udai was an excellent author despite not having reached the major public yet. His first published work was short and eerie which most of the shonen reading population didn’t greedily rip off the shelves. Although, those that did read it gave him overwhelming support, maybe the rest of the world wasn’t ready for that kind of psychological horror just yet.

When Akaashi originally applied for a position at the publishing company he intended to work in the literature department, editing lengthy novels and picking out grammatical errors, not reading conversations via text bubbles and looking for continuity errors between images. He never did pick out the exact moment he went from editor to fact-checker and archivist. Akaashi also never knew how many different ways there were to translate a single word until he met you. And once he did, he realized that his eyes would follow you across the office as you ran around and spoke to other editors, helping them furnish their translations so that they flowed properly.

“Tenma, isn’t he meant to be out of the rotation for this panel?” Akaashi couldn’t help but grimace when faced with the utter despair that had pulled on Udai’s typically eased expression. The panel itself was masterfully drawn, taking up two pages and showing off Udai’s immense talent in drawing expressions and anatomy.

“I spent 8 hours on that, only to find out that it needs to be scrapped. What has my life come to?”

The yellow office lights made both of the men’s hair give off a green tinge and made their faces look sickly. Udai frowned as he pushed his chair back and let his chin sit on the table of the small meeting room. His hair curled around his fingers as they gently tugged on the ends of the wavy black stands, straightening them only to let them go and have them bounce back into place.

Akaashi flipped through the printed out pages of the chapter, letting the loose papers lay flat on the table. He pointed to the next pages. “These are fine though. They’re in the right rotation here, so not all is lost at least.”

Udai sighed, as he threw his weight back into the chair, making it spin with his momentum. “That’s all well and good, but I was really proud of that panel. It was going to be the attention grabber.”

Akaashi pursed his lips gently, flipping through the pages once more before tucking them into the pale yellow folder and closing it. Udai’s new story was in its beginning stages, only having a sample chapter that would be published in the following week’s magazine, that is if they got it done in time. 

“It needs to be perfect. I can’t have this not work and starve for the rest of my life.”

Akaashi opened his mouth slightly, taking in a deep breath, ready to spout out his words of encouragement for his colleague when there was a knock on the door followed by the soft creaking of the hinges as it opened.

“Sorry to interrupt, but I just wanted to ask Udai about some of the uh… what’s the word? Dang, I’m supposed to know Japanese, it’s my job. The— I give up. Help?”

Udai chuckled and waved you over to take the seat opposite him, you shook your head and bowed slightly as your hand raised, saying you were alright, not needing the chair. Leaning down slightly you pointed at the ruff sketch copy in your hand where your current author’s handwriting seemed to over the edges of the text bubble slightly.

“I’m sorry to interrupt, but how in the hell am I supposed to translate ‘paisen’?”

The innocent question seemed to brighten Udai’s mood much more than Akaashi’s monotone words of support would have. The older man launched backwards, nearly flinging himself off the chair, in a fit of laughter. His hands gripped the shirt he wore above his stomach and chest as they tried to ease the laughing pains.

Akaashi chuckled at the sight before looking at your somewhat regretful expression, you were probably too used to your co-workers laughing at your in-fluency at Japanese. “You can probably substitute a familiar nickname or a joking reference of respect.”

You sighed and brushed your hand over the back of your neck, “I swear, Himari had the intent to torture me with this last chapter. Thank you, Akaashi.”

Finally calmed from his fit of giggles, Udai sat straight in his chair and sent you a gracious smile. “Well, at least when you join our team I won’t torture you as much.”

You gave Udai and Akaashi a teasing smirk as you reached for the door handle. “I’m not so sure about that,” you said. “Besides, you need to get the attention of the readers before I join your team. No point in translating a comic that doesn’t even get off the ground right?”

You sent them a wink and the door closed behind you with a quiet click.

“Was that a challenge?”

“I believe so,” Akaashi said, handing Udai a blank sheet of paper. “Looks like we have some work to do.”

The office was, as it was the day before, and the day before that, calm. Udai sat in a small isolated office on his own with a naturally coloured lamp hanging over his hunched figure. The rest of his team, including Akaashi and now you as well, sat outside his door in a row of cubicles that led up to a large window that took up the entirety of the wall. In the corner cubicle, pressed against the window and directly across from him, you sat, typing away on your computer as you translated the Japanese text into Wild Words fonted English. 

“Akaashi, is the end of chapter ready to translate?” Your head peeked over the frosted cubicle wall, a small smile pulling at the corner of your lips and the corner of your eyes pinching together. Akaashi’s gaze fluttered around.

“Ah, Ya the edits are done so you can finish translating it now.”

The smile you wore only seemed to grow, making Akaashi want to turn away and stare at the same time. The sun’s light contrasted with the dull rectangular lights in the office, making your skin glow. Your fingers tightened on the top of the glass and your shoulders rose to your ears, you narrowly missed knocking over an owl keychain that hung on his side of the wall.

“Perfect,” you said. “I’ll get them done now.”

The day continued like this, everyone working and occasionally calling out to each other through their cubed walls, possibly getting a twirling pen in the forehead followed by a meek apology (coming from you). Every time you spoke to someone you would rise out of your seat to make eye contact with them, refusing to continue speaking otherwise, and even though he wasn’t the person you always spoke to, each time your head began to poke out of your squared corner Akaashi couldn’t help but turn his attention your way, watching as the sun's light danced around you. It didn’t come to a surprise when, like every instance before, Akaashi looked up when you shot up from your seat. Only this time there was a frantic look plastered unevenly on your face, one that the warm light didn’t compliment.

“Please tell me my clock is wrong and that it’s not 4 pm.”

Chiyo leaned back in her chair, setting down her Cintiq’s pen and flipped the watch on her wrist so that the face faced her. “Yup, it’s actually 4:15.”

Akaashi was surprised to hear a not so work friendly English curse leave your lips as you rushed to save files on your computer while simultaneously packing your purse. You continued to swear as you ran out of your cubicle and toward the elevators with a quick “goodbye” being thrown over your shoulder. The office was quiet.

“Does that happen often?” Ena asked as he pulled off his glasses.

The group of artists and their editor sat in stunned silence for a few moments, minds racing over where the young translator had scurried off to. In their collaborative confusion, the team slowly went back to their respective jobs.

Himari came around the corner of the office, coffee in hand, as she chatted with her editor, who was nursing his own mug. The writer looked up for her conversation to see Udai’s team and gave them a polite nod. They were going to meekly return to their work when Himari paused her steps and looked at the empty plush chair that sat rotated and untucked in your cubicle.

“Oh, did (Y/N) leave?” to Akaashi’s surprise, Himari was not.

“Does she do that often?” he asked, setting down his pen on the counter of his desk.

Himari nodded, smiling, “Oh ya, sometimes she gets lucky and her friend can handle it but a lot of the time she has to run out of here by 3.” Akaashi’s brow furrowed slightly as Himari took a sip of her coffee before continuing waving her hand by her head, “Don’t worry too much about it though, she always comes in early to get her work done.”

Before they could question further, Himari was off with her editor sending them a knowing smile.

When the end of the workday rolled around, only 45 minutes after your quick departure, Akaashi found his eyes trailing back to his phone that sat at the corner of his desk on top of a stack of papers. Keeping watch on his phone, he swung his bag over his shoulder and shut off his computer. The device remained silent as the team began to pile out of their seats, toward the elevators and in a fit of contemplation, he reached for the phone.

Your response was quick and vague; Family thing, happens often. I’ll tell you later. See you tomorrow!

After the sample comic was released, Udai was thrown when he received an immense amount of interest for his characters and story, and he was even more excited when he received word from the magazine’s publishers that they wanted him to continue with the path he was on. The months building up to this moment were filled with constant plot revisions, reference excursions, and interviews until they came to a conclusive framework of the story, and continued introductions as new members were added to their original duo to make the workload less hefty. 

Today though was the day that the story’s first chapter would finally be released to the public. 

Akaashi tracked into the office, heading to the lounge to grab a coffee before coming up to his cubicle against the window and setting his bag down, immediately heading to the lounge. 8:40 in the morning, 20 minutes before the expected time of arrival, Akaashi, back at his desk, was just about to take a sip of coffee when a small snore overlapped the sound of the air conditioners, creating a dishonest harmony. 

On the other side of the frosted glass wall of the cubicle was you, head resting on the black mouse pad that had a small plush cushion for your wrist. Akaashi quickly rounded the desks, coming to our side to gently rouse you from your slumber before your co-workers arrived. He was to wake you up gently with a hand on your shoulder, that was the plan. The plan changed when he noticed the small picture frame on your desk, surrounded by various action figures and Funko pops.

With one hand on your shoulder and the other holding the fame, he studied the photo with a kind gaze. He was so enthralled with the image that he forgot that below his other hand, was you.

“He’s cute ain’t he?” you asked, startling the editor back to his current reality as you stretched, arching your back like a cat. Akaashi’s attention was brought back to the current situation as you reached out for another frame in the opposite corner of your desk. “His name is Naoko. Here, this photo is newer.”

The young boy in the new photo looked like you a lot, more so than the previous one where he was just an infant that carried more resemblance to a potato than a human. Akaashi, without taking his eyes off the pictures, pulled the chair out from under Ena’s desk and sat next to you. He didn’t say anything, deciding just to admire the photos he held and letting you decide whether or not he should have the pleasure of hearing a story.

You sighed and yawned, leaning over the armrest of your chair so you would see them too. “He’s six, really quiet. I moved here when I found out. Hardly even out of university, and I was already pregnant with some strangers kid,” you laughed, making Akaashi stare at your features for a moment, wanting to point out which ones could be found on the boy.

“Is he the reason you moved to Japan?” Akaashi was a little taken aback by your willingness to talk, but in hindsight, you didn’t seem like the person to keep secrets, often rattling with your co-workers about your interests. Thinking back, maybe he should have expected something like this, Himari seemed to have known after working with you for several years, happily dancing around the topic of your personal life with your new coworkers when your sudden departure was questioned.

You shrugged, “not entirely, but he sure was a good excuse. I had plans to move to Japan for years before I even got into university. When I found out, I was sort of… uh. English…. Fuck, I need a job. So I applied to be an intern here, moved in with a friend I met online and prepared to have a baby.” Your arms flew about as you talked.

“You act as though it was easy,” Akaashi laughed, placing the frames back onto the table.

You let out a happy chuckle and spun your chair to face Akaashi head-on, eyes not leaving his, “I wouldn’t say it was easy, per se, but I’m happy with how things turned out.” you yawned a bit, “I should also apologize for running out of the office early sometimes, I have to pick Naoko up from school so —”

“You don’t have to apologize for that.” The gentle smile he wore was contagious.

It was 8:50 when the rest of the team came in. Immediately catching sight of Ena, Akaashi pulled away from your side, rolling the chair back to its respective location. He heard a breathy laugh escape you as he scurried around the desks to return to his designated spot across from you, cardigan flailing about.

The rest of your team piled into their seats sending the two of you waves and morning greetings. Ena nearly dropped his ‘don’t talk to me till I’ve had my coffee’ mug as he tripped over his rubber slides just before reaching his desk next to yours.

Sending your friends a smile you quickly slid back into your cubicle to re-adjust the frames on your desk with a yawn. Akaashi gave you a nod when you looked up to his stiff, still standing, form. You made his heart feel much weaker than he’d like to admit and without saying another word, he picked up the forgotten mug filled with brown liquid and handed it over the glass, into your hands.

Naoko was much more reserved than Akaashi expected, definitely a contrast to your more hyper personality. He spent most of the day sitting in the corner behind your cubicle where a table was set up next to a row of cabinets. What the boy was doing, Akaashi wasn’t entirely sure, but there was a small tickle at that back of his brain that made him want to find out.

When you had come in that morning, the group was surprised to see the small boy trailing behind you, holding onto your hand tightly with the both of his. “PD day,” you said. Udai spent the first few minutes of the day gushing over the boy’s cheeks instead of working, only to end up being backtracked and having to cram into his lunch break. Akaashi would be lying if he said he wasn’t thankful for that though.

“What do you have there?” he asked, taking a seat next to the boy and setting down his lunch next to the younger’s bento box.

Naoko curled in on himself, bringing the phone (that was most definitely yours) to his chest. The boy’s knees had pulled up to his shoulders as his feet pushed on the edge of the chair. Akaashi sent the young boy a kind smile and waited. From the corner of his eye, he could see your chair turn around as you took in the sight of your son and co-worker. He watched as you began making large swinging motions with your arms. Akaashi tried not to laugh.

Whatever had been playing on the phone hadn’t been paused in the short time given to do so, making the familiar sound ring quietly around the two of them. 

Akaashi looked back your way for a moment, only to see you tilt your head up in a supporting nudge and turn back around.

“Are you watching a volleyball game?” he asked, rousing a more positive reaction from the boy.

Naoko’s shoulders lowered and he slowly placed the phone down between them. As Akaashi had concluded, a volleyball game played on the small screen. He put forward another question.

“Do you like to play?”

The six-year-old shrugged but nodded before scooting his chair in closer and reaching for his food. Akaashi mirrored him, slipping off his collared cardigan and pulling his lunch closer, still watching the game.

“I used to play volleyball.” This caught the boy’s attention, who turned his head to look at Akaashi, brows raised and lips pursed. “I was a setter.”

Naoko swallowed his food and for the first time, Akaashi got to hear him speak.

“I like playing setter too.”

His voice was rather meek and had a sort of authority to it, but the biggest thing he noticed made him stifle a laugh.

“Hey, (Y/N),” he called gently, making you spin your chair around in question. “Why is Naoko better at Japanese then you?”

“Hey! That’s mean!”

Naoko began to wiggle in his seat, desperately trying not to laugh at his mother’s, your, irritation. You shot a look at your son and gasped.

“Don’t you start laughing at me. I speak English better than you do.”

“You don’t need to speak English in Japan, mom.”

Kaashi continued to choke on his laugher as you pushed the palm of your hand into your forehead. “I’m being teased by my own son,” you cried quietly, turning your chair back around to face the unedited pages.

Naoko giggled and looked back Akaashi’s way. “Can you teach me?”

Akaashi didn’t see you still in your chair, listening.

“Of course I can.”

“Udai, seriously? You promised that you weren’t going to use weird industry term slang stuff on me.”

With a wide-eyed look and hair messily tied back, the man in question rotated his chair around childishly. “I never promised. I just said I'd go easier on you.” It was infuriating really. 

With a pitiful whine, you shook the rough script in your hand making an angry fluttering sound. “You’re so mean Tenma. You know that I have trouble with slang.”

Udai only laughed and waved you off, “It’s a good way to learn is it not?”

You rolled your eyes but relented, giving a wave and closing the door. Once at your seat Akaashi poked his head out, eyes visible over the top of his square-framed glasses.

“He did it again?”

“Ya,” you huffed. “I can’t blame him though. It’s just frustrating that I can’t remember what a lot of the words mean. I should buy a dictionary.” Akaashi watched as you turned your monitor on. “Oh, um, Naoko was asking about you the other day.”

“Really?”

Your hands came together behind your neck, pulling your head down bashfully. “Ya, he’s been wanting to show you how he’s doing and maybe get the chance to learn a bit from you.”

Akaashi gave you a kind smile, so small that it didn’t even crease his cheeks, and nodded. “Sounds like a plan.”

Your cheeks warmed as you beamed up at him before turning your head down towards your computer screen. Akaashi took a second to appreciate how the cool light from the overcast sky made you look. It was silent in the office for a moment. Just a moment.

“Udai! Another one?!”

In theory, so long as you have space above your head, you can play volleyball anywhere. Your apartment wasn’t ‘anywhere’.

The three-bedroom living space was built as housing and not an Olympic arena, and after breaking one too many of your glasses playing around, it was made clear to you, Naoko, and your sport junky roommate, that volleyball shouldn’t be allowed in the house.

“You guys can go play volleyball with Akaashi at the park, no?” Yukie asked, grabbing an onigiri of the large plate on your kitchen counter and stuffing it in her face. You made a large dinner that day, only to have your friend eat most of it, instead of leaving leftovers for Naoko’s lunch. Not that he complained about it, you sure did though.

Taking Yukie’s words to heart, when the weekend rolled around and Naoko was becoming more anxious, you invited Akaashi to your neighbourhood park to play volleyball.

“Open your elbows a bit more, make a triangle with your hand, and when the ball comes just cushion it with your fingertips before sending it out, okay?”

Naoko nodded, staring at his hands that were being moved around by the older player. Akaashi’s form was kneeled by the boy’s side, his head nearly resting on the younger's shoulder as he tried to make sure he was in the right position.

“Alright,” he said, grabbing the smaller than average volleyball off of the grass. “I’m gonna toss this to you, do you think you can get it to hit my hand right up here?”

Naoko nodded again, eagerly waiting for the blue and yellow ball to come flying his way. You watched silently from the park bench as Naoko tried (and often failed) to get the ball to touch Akaashi’s hand accurately. 

“Almost there, you got this Naoko!” Akaashi encouraged.

Earnestly waiting to see the next move, you sat forward in your seat, watching as that ball made a tall arch towards Naoko’s waiting palms. As the ball made contact with his fingertips, he bent his elbows and wrists before shooting them out into a straight line, sending into the palm of Akaashi’s hand before dropping back onto the grassy field.

Your son, as most six-year-olds do when accomplishing something, shrieked. He shrieked very loudly before sprinting directly into Akaashi’s stomach to give him a (breath-stealing) hug. Akaashi coughed as he tried to get air back into his depleted lungs. From the side you giggled, watching as Naoko’s smile grew, head buried into Akaashi’s stomach.

It became standard, going out to the park during your off days. And this day, like the weekends that have come before, the routine of going to the park, ball in hand, continued. But after spending an hour or so watching the familiar movement of the yellow and blue ball fly through the air, Naoko interrupted the serene setting with a loud request.

“Mama! Mom! Can we go get onigiri?”

Looking up from resting your neck on the back of the bench to turn your gaze onto the energetic boy that was hopping around on the grass. “I’m okay with that, but you should probably ask Akaashi along. We don't want to leave him at the park do we?” you teased, picking up your bag and walking toward the two.

Naoko spun again to look at Akaashi, whose hands were now tucked into his jeans pockets. “Please!” he wailed. “Come with us! Please, please, please, please, please!”

Akaashi let out a hearty laugh. “Calm down, I’ll join you.” without saying another word, Akaashi offered his hand out, letting Naoko clutch it eagerly.

“Udai are you sure it’s okay to bring Naoko along? This is meant to be a work trip and I’d hate for him to dis… dic… get in the way,” you gave up at the end, sighing over your tripping words.

Udai gave Naoko, who had been clinging to Akaashi’s arm since all of you had met outside the city gymnasium, a pat on the head. “It’s alright. Besides, he’ll probably be a great resource.” 

You nodded and watched as Naoko rattled to Akaashi about his school team and new things they had been practicing. You pouted. Upon their arrival, Ena, Chiyo and the others immediately began teasing you for effectively losing your son’s favour, which didn’t make your whining any less audible. On top of that, the group of artists found your sullen look to be a perfect reference, taking their cameras out.

“Keiji,” you cried, following behind the rest of the group as they waltzed through the gym entrance along with the crowd. “You’ve stolen my son.”

Akaashi paused for a moment, taking in a calm breath before looking over his shoulder. “He’s your son, I can’t steal that from you.”

Naoko threw a large smile over his shoulder, making your dragging steps falter.

When did it change? The expression on his face. When did it become so happy? Did he not smile before?

You picked up your pace, brows furrowed as you watched your son chatter happily.

When did he start speaking so much? Since when did he have so much to say? Was it something new in his diet? Or maybe the new friends on his volleyball team?

You found your gaze shifting to the hand that held his. Without thinking about it too hard, you quickened your steps to come up to Naoko’s other side. Your heart pounded as you held your closest hand out for him to grab hold of. When he finally did, immediately looking forward to dragging the two adults with him, the smile you gave Akaashi was the largest he’s ever seen coming from you. 

You looked back at all of your interconnecting hands fondly.

When did he become another person’s son?

I tried going a bit of a different direction with this one in comparison to most Single Parent aus. I’ll admit it could have more meat to it, but oh well, things to improve on. 

Question:

Do you prefer weekly one-shots that are shorter in length (like we’re doing) or longer ones with bigger plots and inconsistent updates (Sort of like “Catch Me If You Can” and “Ready Aim FIre” but longer)? 

- Bacon

Posted: 31/07/2020

[schrijverr]

A Familiar Face

Martin is a fan of Jons band, the Mechanisms. He goes to a lot of their shows and Jon knows his face. They come face to face at work, Jon recognized Martin from the crowds, but Martin does not make the connection. 

On AO3.

Ships: JonMartin

Warnings: none, really, but if you want me to tag something just send an ask or something and I will do so without question!

~~~~~~~~~~

During his days at university Jon had been in a band called the Mechanisms. They were pretty successful and had a dedicated audience that would come to their gigs. There were a few faces he had come to recognize throughout the years of fans that turned up time and time again.

He liked knowing the regular faces. It made him feel better, knowing that people liked what they did enough to come time and time again, that people didn’t come to a show and then abandoned it, finding it wasn’t for them after all.

What he hadn’t expected was to see one of those familiar faces at his workplace.

The man in front of him was one of the faces he knew best. He had been there since one of their very first performances, he always stayed in the back and never came up to them after shows, but he was always there.

Jon had started looking for him in the audience, making sure to make at least a comment or gesture in his direction whenever he could. (He also might have a small crush on the man, but he couldn’t help it. He was tall and soft and his smile was adorably radiant.)

But now he was standing in front of him in a completely different setting, where Jonathan was just Jon not Jonny. He didn’t have that bravado in real life nor the confidence. He also didn’t want that part of him known at work, he had just gotten a promotion and he had worked for that. He didn’t want anyone to see him as unprofessional.

This is all backstory to explain why he didn’t say anything, but instead just looked at the other. The man shuffled awkwardly and stuck out his hand as he said: “I, uhm, I’m Martin, Martin Blackwood. I’m one of the assistants assigned here. It’s nice to meet you.”

Snapping out of it, Jon introduced himself as well: “I’m Jonathan Sims, the archivist. Pleasure.”

Martin, as he now knew the man was called, didn’t seem to recognize him and he was glad for it. On one hand he wanted to get to know the Martin, but keeping him at a distance so that he would never make the connection was a very tempting possibility.

He did the latter.

He knew it was the cowardly choice, but he had soon realized that although Tim was a good worker, he also lived to tease Jon and Jon could not just hand him that ammunition. But it was also hard to keep Martin at a distance. He was naturally caring and friendly, always ready for some chattering or making Jon some tea.

Yes, Martin made it very hard to not love him.

Still, Jon tried. He didn’t know when it had become so important none of his assistants made the connection between him and his musical past, but it was and Martin would be the first to do it. This was why Jon had started to actively try to push him away.

Jon wasn’t dumb. He knew Martin didn’t deserve it, but Jon had never claimed he wasn’t stupid. He had convinced himself this was the best course of action. He wasn’t someone anyone would love and letting Martin make the connection would only end in heartbreak for him and disappointment for Martin.

Martin liked the Mechanisms, he liked Jonny d’Ville.

Not Jon.

Jon was nothing like Jonny d’Ville. No, pushing him away was better for the both of them.

He kept believing that for a long time, but then Martin disappeared. Martin texted him he was sick with stomach issues and Jon believed him of course, but that didn’t stop the unease from crawling up his spine as the days turned into weeks and Martin still wasn’t back.

He blew up Martins phone with messages, hoping the other wouldn’t mind and Sasha and Tim would never find out. He also lashed out more at Martin, to release stress and hide the worry he felt. Not excusable, but the truth.

Then Martin returned and Jon felt sick as he gave his statement. Martin, kind and sweet Martin, who never got mad at anyone, had been stuck inside while he got attacked and no one had noticed.

Jon wanted to invite him to stay with him, safe and far away from anything paranormal that was hunting him, but that would be a dead give away with all the Mechs stuff there and highly unprofessional, so instead he just offered him a place in the archives.

Martin seemed so relieved he believed him, telling him about the worm he had taken with him to show to Jon he wasn’t lying. Jon had to swallow at that, the fact that Martin had put himself in extra danger just to prove to him he wasn’t a liar. So, Jon resolved to do better.

It was after a few months since Martin had returned from the siege on his flat. He had been living in the archives not really leaving the safety of the walls, but Jon knew he’d leave this weekend. He knew, because he was going to perform with his band this weekend nearby.

He was sure Martin wouldn’t miss it and he hoped he would have a good night, he deserved it, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t terrified that after being in close proximity with Jon for so long would make it easier to make the connection.

He stood backstage in full get up, peering through the curtain into the audience in search of a familiar face. From behind him Jessica asked: “Who are you looking for, Jonny?”

He startled and looked around. Then he blushed and admitted: “Uhm, Martin, a coworker.”

Getting some questions about Martin, he hurriedly said: “Oh no, he doesn’t know it’s me, or if he has he hasn’t said. We’ve seen him before, he’s almost always there. He’s the tall one, with the light brown hair and the nice smile? I don’t want him to make the connection, but he’s been having it rough lately, so I hoped I’d see him here and I could rest knowing he at least had one fun thing.”

“Ahw, does little Jonny have a crush.” Tim teased him.

Jon blushed some more and told him to shut up. Then it was time to go one stage and he didn’t have time to look again as he started the show:

“Like whiskey laced with gasoline, we’ll get you stinking drunk So shut your face and settle down, you sneering little punks For space is vast and you are small, it’s black and bitter cold The book is lying open. There are tales to be told.”

It was only when they were partway through Once Upon a Time (In Space) he managed to locate Martin in the crowd. He was in the back like usual and although he looked more tired than normal, his smile was as bright as Jon remembered it.

The show went on and Jon couldn’t help his gaze from gliding over to Martin. He was clapping along and having a good time. Once Jon made direct eye contact with him and winked. He was silently a bit mortified at the gesture, but he thought he saw Martin blush and smile wider, which made it worth the embarrassment.

His fellow Mechs noticed how he was mostly focused on the one corner, but none made fun of him, mostly. At one point he didn’t fill a silence between the works in favor of checking up on Martin and Tim ribbed: “The corner interesting, Jonny?”

He shot him a glare and gave him the finger as he told him: “Fuck off, I was just speechless by the ugliness of these people. I mean, really? Even you’re pretty in comparison and that is saying a lot.”

Falling back into his character and paying more attention to the flow of the show.

After what felt like a week that passed in a second the show was over and the band went backstage to take a breather, before returning to mingle with the audience. Jon talked to people left and right, just enjoying the feeling that came with a good show.

What he hadn’t expected was to come face to face with Martin. As stated before, Martin usually stayed in the background and never came over after a show, normally choosing to leave right away.

Jon didn’t know what to say, just blinking stupidly at Martin for a second. When he realized how awkward it was he quickly smiled and said: “You stayed! Sorry, I recognize you, you’ve been to a lot of the shows, but you never stayed, so I was kind of surprised. Apologies.”

Martin blushed: “Oh, sorry. I didn’t think, you’d seen me. I didn’t mean to be rude.”

“Oh, it wasn’t at all. You’re not required to stay.” Jon said, it was clear that Martin had not recognized him yet and to keep it that way he stayed as far away from how he was at work. Besides, this was the perfect opportunity to just talk to Martin, no history or barriers.

“Ah, okay, thank you.” Martin replied, “I never had the time, but I just had to be outside tonight just all bad right now, sorry, no need to say that. Anyway, I thought why not come over, you know?”

“I hope we were a suitable distraction.” Jon told him.

“You were.” Martin said warmly, “It was a great show, like usually of course, but somehow you’re better each time. I had a lot of fun, thank you.”

“And thank you. I’m glad.” Jon smiled at him, his cheeks were hurting a bit, but he would keep smiling to make Martin happy and comfortable.

It was silent between them then and Martin blushed: “I, uh, I never thought of what to say when I actually worked up to courage to come over.”

“That’s alright.” Jon said, before he realized he wasn’t good at small talk at all, the only starter he had was asking about someones job and he knew that wouldn’t be smart. He floundered for a second, then said: “I could introduce you to the others. We’re just drinking a pint at the bar right now.”

He immediately face palmed internally. He hoped none of the others would throw him under the bus and ruin this as he lead Martin over to them.

When they got there he said: “Hello, this is, uhm, sorry never got your name.”

“Martin.” Martin told him.

Jon nodded and repeated: “Martin, yes. He’s a fan of ours and has had it bad as of late and needs a drink.”

He guided Martin to a seat as the others introduced themselves. Ben, god bless his soul, shot him a questioning brow and Jon shook his head behind Martins head, indicating Martin had not realized. The others saw and decided to have mercy on him as they drank their pint in peace, just chattering among themselves and with Martin.

It was a good night and Jon just knew that this would keep him going for weeks and help him sleep when the unease and stress got to be too much. Martin seemed happy as well, which was a good sign. Martin deserved something nice right now.

At work that Monday, Jon overheard Martin and Tim chatting in the break room when he walked past on his way to get a statement. Tim asked: “So how was your weekend? Not too lonely in here, I hope.”

“Not at all.” Martin said and you could hear the smile in his voice, “I went to see a band, the Mechanisms. They’re not household names and not everyones taste, but I like them and it was a good show. I actually drank a pint with them after the show and they were lovely people.”

“Good to hear, man.” Tim said.

“Yeah.” Martin replied.

Jon didn’t hear what was said next, because Sasha came round the corner and Jon hurried off to avoid suspicion.

It wasn’t really mentioned again after that. Jon could sometimes hear Martin hum a familiar tune under his breath or hear his own voice float down the halls when he left or came into work.

But a lot happened, they got attacked by worms, found Gertrude's body and Jon went down a path of paranoia his relationships and mental health never really recovered from. He and the Mechs rarely did gigs anymore and after Sasha was revealed to be not Sasha and he has to flee from the law he decided that enough was enough. He’s had enough stress as it is.

Which is why, a month after his name was cleared, he returned to the stage for one final performance: Death To The Mechanisms.

It’s bittersweet, the end to an era of innocence and fun that Jon is no longer allowed to take part in, not with everything that has happened, will happen. He has to give everyone who supported him and his friends a good ending, they deserved that much at least.

He’s mostly lucky his face wasn’t splattered all over the news, since the police didn’t want any questions about The Magnus Institute.

The venue is packed with excited and sad fans, who have come to wave their band of immortal space pirates goodbye once and for all. Jon is looking from behind the curtain as Reesha played. He was supposed to introduce her, but he had chickened out and asked Tim to do it instead.

The past years hadn’t been kind to him. His body was littered with scars, his hair had gotten even more grey and the bags under his eyes were larger than the eyes themselves. He hoped none of the fans would notice too much or had any questions, god knew the other Mechs had had them when they got together to write the ending.

He had managed to avoid most of them, telling them that his new job was kind of strange and when he has asked them to just drop it, they had.

Reesha was now almost done and the Mechs had to go on stage. Jon tried to loosen his shoulders and clear his mind. He could stop thinking for a moment, stop being Jon with the stupidly hard life and just be Jonny, who let the punches wash over him like it was nothing. Taking a deep breath, he opened his eyes and stepped onto the stage.

Trying not to look at the crowd he slipped into his character as he started counting if everyone was there. He didn’t need to see the questions in their eyes or the nervousness it would give him. He was glad they’d chosen The Bifrost Incident to perform, since he didn’t have a big singing roll in it.

During the break he checked the comments on the livestream. The not knowing was more torturous than what anyone might have to say about him. He let out a relieved sigh when most thought it was makeup that had something to do with his death. That was good, they didn’t question it so far and when they would start he’d be already off the stage and far away.

He was more confidant after that and walked onto the stage with renewed energy, which would be needed if he were to preform Hellfire for example.

It was all going well so far. Jon was happy with their performance and the fans seemed to love it. When he started with his own death, he saw surprised and concerned faces that it has nothing to do with the scars they had presumed were makeup, but this was something special that they’d been waiting for, so when he moved on the Ashes, so did the crowd.

But they went out with a bang and it wasn’t until they’re waving their last goodbye to everyone, who had supported them so much that he spotted Martin in the back of the crowd. He had honestly forgotten he was a fan of the Mechs with everything that had been going on, but as their eyes met over the crowd he saw Martin mouth: “Jon?”

He winced and looked away, before he fled from the scene, saying a quick goodbye to people he knew he wouldn’t see again from the moment he hadn’t trusted them enough to go to after he was framed. He didn’t want to drag them into this anyway and he’d rather they believe him an asshole than that they’d be dead.

Jon feared the confrontation that would come with Martin when he’d come into work the next time, but alas there wasn’t a next time for a while. He got kidnapped and then there wasn’t time and, who was Martin to seek a fight with a comatose man.

By the time he had woke up, Martin was in the clutches of the Lonely, but unknowingly to Jon, he still had his voice to keep him company on old albums.

In fact the whole thing wasn’t brought up again till they were safe in Scotland and had been for a while. When the fear of being followed or discovered had faded and they’d allowed themselves to relax. It was quite domestic, Jon had to admit, but it was what he had craved, what he had needed.

It came up again, while Jon was doing the dishes off all things. He was just drying the plates and humming under his breath, after a while he started to mumble familiar lyrics of the first couplet that turned into soft singing with the second once:

“And when the giants, they come a-rolling Well, we will fight, we will fight, fight for our boy Jack When the giants, they come a-rolling If he can slay them, so can we”

He didn’t get to move on to the next one, because Martin, who had been in the living room adjacent to the kitchen, had heard and suddenly a revelation he hadn’t taken the time to process came back to him.

Martin stumbled into the kitchen, startling Jon into dropping a plate, as he pointed his finger at him and yelled: “You were in the Mechanisms!”

With wide and fearful eyes Jon looked at him. His brain caught up with the situation and he slowly said: “Oh, yeah, I was.” he paused, “You were there, right? I assumed you knew, sorry.”

Dropping the finger Martins shoulders sagged and he said: “I did, I just hadn’t really taken the time to think about it, you know, with everything that happened after it.”

Jon winced, but Martin went on: “You talked with me for an entire night without mentioning that I knew you! God, that is so embarrassing. I totally made a fool of myself.”

He was blushing with the accusation and Jon winced again, then he reassured Martin: “You didn’t, it was cute.”

“Cute?” Martin exclaimed, bordering on hysterical.

“Yes,” Jon said, “it felt really nice to just talk to you without the whole thing at work and you’re really cute when you’re excited. Besides, you deserved to have one nice thing that wasn’t touched by work. I wasn’t about to ruin that for you.”

“But you hated me back then.” Martin stated, totally confused.

Jon rubbed the back of his head and twisted his fingers. He bit his lip as well and opened his mouth to start a sentence, but then didn’t dare and stopped. Martin saw this, picking up every clue of a nervous Jon, who wanted to say something, but also didn’t. He put his hand on his hip and said: “Spit it out, Jon. I know you want to and I want to know. Please?”

It was the please that did it, Jon was weak for that please, so he admitted: “I never hated you.”

“You didn’t?” Martin asked.

Jon shook his head and explained: “No, I, uhm, I recognized you the moment we met in the archives and I was scared you would tell the other and find out and ruin my reputation of professionalism along with giving Tim teasing material for years, so I tried to push you away, but you’re too nice to push me away and I had a crush on you that I had to hide and the only way I could manage to get that under control was to push you away. Sorry, I’m so sorry about that, Martin.”

Martin was silent for a moment, then he softly stated: “You had a crush on me.”

A scarlet blush went over Jons dark features as he realized he had admitted that. He swallowed and nodded: “Yes, I’d see you in the back and you caught my eye. I, uhm, I never dared to try and talk to you and you were almost always gone by the time I had the chance, so I nothing ever happened. I was pretty surprised to see you suddenly in front of me at work.”

“I can imagine that.” Martin chuckled, a small happy bubble forming in his chest when he realized he wasn’t the only one, who had walked around for too long with a silly crush. He shook his head and said: “I still can’t wrap my head around the fact you’re Jonny d’Ville.”

Jon blushed some more and groaned slightly in embarrassment as he buried his head in Martins chest. They stood like that for a moment, in each others arms. Then Martin kissed his head and asked: “Can you sing something for me?”

Looking up, Jon didn’t have to think twice about agreeing. He’d do anything for Martin and something as simple as just singing something, which would remind him of better times, wasn’t really a sacrifice.

“What do you want me to sing?” he asked.

Without hesitating Martin answered: “The part where you come in in Sleeping Beauty. I always loved that part, I thought it was very funny how you just went straight over the sad song.”

Jon smiled at that, he liked that part as well. He untangled himself from Martin and took a deep breath:

“Take Aurora in gently, Nastya, let’s see what these Rosies can do Gotta say I’m in the mood for violence and I reckon you might be too Let’s get this party started the only way we know Gunfire and explosions, that’s our cue

Fire ‘til your guns are empty, ‘til your ammunition runs dry If you’re finished playing at soldiers you might have noticed we cannot die I suggest you beat a fucking tactical retreat Or we’ll let slip the dogs of war and havoc cry”

Martin clapped in his head excitedly. He smiled broadly and he said: “It’s just like in the shows.” then more bashfully he asked: “Would you mind singing some more? Or is it making you uncomfortable? It’s alright if you don’t want to.” Jon gave him a soft and warm smile and answered: “I would sing for you even, if the world ends if that would make you happy.”

And that promise he kept. Even if there was only despair around them, he would hum and sing softly to remind Martin he was here and he was real and they would make it.

[jothowrote]

Faulty mechanism (warm-up)

(I wrote this unfinished TMA/Mechanisms crossover as a warm-up for Nano two and a half years ago and just found it again on an old hard drive - it’s set around season 2 TMA. I thought I’d let it see the light of day, since we live in interesting times and it hopefully might distract people for a time, like it did me.)

Faulty mechanism (warm-up)

The Jon that walked into work on Monday was not the same Jon that had been left working late in the archives on Friday night. Martin was pretty sure that anyone with eyes could see it – and perhaps eyes were not even necessary, what with the pungent aroma of tobacco and alcohol that hung around this ‘other’ Jon like a haze. Not to mention he was smiling.

Martin immediately suspected foul play. If you had read the kind of statements he had, then it wasn’t completely unusual for people to vanish and be replaced, although usually the changeling made a bit more effort to blend in.

The Monday morning had begun strangely anyway, as Martin had been surprised to find himself the first at work. Jon had become more or less of a permanent fixture at the archives, working so late and arriving so early that one could almost assume that he simply didn’t go home. The small cot bed remained untouched, however – Martin had checked. And so, on coming in to work and finding Jon’s office empty, Martin had decided to take advantage of that fact and hang around outside it, hoping to catch Jon before he mired himself in work and stage a sort-of intervention. He’d even tried to recruit Tim and Sasha to his cause as they both arrived at the institute for the morning. Sasha had said something about being too busy and slipped off – Tim had snorted and said some very rude things about Jon before vanishing into the tiny kitchenette for his morning coffee.

Not one to be deterred by something so insignificant as no back-up, Martin had squared his shoulders and continued to lurk outside Jon’s empty office. As the morning ticked by, and there was still no sign of Jon, he had grown steadily more anxious.

`He’s probably just having a breakdown at home,’ Tim said, on his way past with his third coffee of the morning. `Makes a nice change from him having it here. Just leave it – I’m not doing your work too.’

Martin decided to give it until lunch.

At one minute to twelve, the door by the stairs swung open wildly – startling Martin, who had been staring unfocused in the opposite direction at the lift doors in steadily decreasing expectation – and Jon sauntered through.

It was only `Jon’ in the loosest sense of the word. As Martin watched, the Jon-impersonator swaggered up the corridor with no limp to speak of, a bottle of something smelling strong as petrol sloshing in one hand. The other hand, Martin couldn’t help but notice, was hovering over a gun in a hip holster.

Martin was frozen in confusion and perhaps a little fear as the stranger-Jon walked right up to him and paused in front of the office door. When he made as if to open the door, Martin let out a small squeak of indignation. He was promptly engulfed in thick tobacco smoke.

Coughing, his eyes watering, Martin did nothing but watch as the stranger winked at him and went straight into the Head Archivist’s office, slamming the door behind him.

`You’re telling me that Jon’s been replaced by some kind of steampunk cowboy that looks exactly like him?’

Tim, on his fourth coffee, looked unimpressed.

`We’ve been attacked by flesh-eating worms, but this is where you draw the line?’

`Are you sure it isn’t actually Jon just having a midlife crisis?’

`It may have looked like Jon superficially, but apart from that he’s a completely different person.’

Tim squinted at Martin, and reached forward as though to feel his forehead.

`Are you feeling ok?’

Martin slapped his hand away irritably.

`I’m not hallucinating Jon dressed as a steampunk cowboy, that would be really weird.’

`And yet would explain so much. Are you sure it’s not just –‘

The door to the kitchenette slammed open and fake-Jon strolled in.

`Is that coffee I smell?’

He pushed past Tim and Tim’s gaping mouth and poured the rest of the pot into a mug. To Martin’s annoyance, it was his mug.

Fake-Jon swigged at the coffee – Tim’s thick black tar that Martin avoided – and sighed.

`Anything stronger? Only I’m out of whiskey.’

`Who the fuck are you?’ Tim said, finally getting over his shock as he watched the rest of his precious coffee quickly vanish down the stranger’s gullet. `You’re not Jon.’

`Well, I am Jon – Jonny d’Ville, to be exact.’

`You’re not our Jon,’ Martin said, his voice going embarrassingly squeaky again. Jonny d’Ville grinned, and it was a violent grin.

`Ah, sweet. Your Jon isn’t here at the moment – I’m afraid I’m what’s here instead.’

Elias, apparently disturbed by Tim’s indignant shouting, chose that moment to poke his head around the door to the tiny kitchen with a supremely disapproving expression.

`Don’t you all have work to do?’

Martin opened his mouth, but all he managed was another squeak. Tim, who had gone back to gawping, said nothing.

`Oh, and by the way, Jon – you really need to start being a little more considerate with the people who come in to give their statements. I’ve been getting more complaints.’

Then Elias paused, and looked Jonny up and down.

`And is that get-up really suitable for work?’ he sniffed.

Martin saw Jonny’s hand twitch towards the gun in his hip holster, and had a sudden moment of complete dread, but Elias had already let the door swing shut behind him.

`That’s the big boss man, then?’ Jonny asked, his grin starting up. `Isn’t he a ray of sunshine.’

He turned to Tim and Martin, his grin wide and dark. It was unsettling to see such a look on Jon’s usually sour bur harmless face.

`So,’ he said, twirling the gun in his hand, `what is it you do for fun around here?’

*

Martin had been summarily dispatched to the nearest off-license in order to provide his new boss with more whiskey, and Sasha caught him in the corridor on his way back to the archives, clutching the plastic bags and wincing every time they made incriminating clinking noises.

`What’s with the Jon look-a-like?’ she asked in a whisper.

`He wouldn’t say until he had more whiskey,’ Martin said dejectedly.

`Makes a bit of a change from the old Jon, though,’ Sasha said, grinning. `Even though they look exactly the same, this one somehow manages to look kind of hot.’

`Eww, Sasha.’

`What?’ she shrugged. `Everyone likes a bad boy, Martin.’

`He looks deranged,’ Martin hissed.

`Yeah, that too. Maybe it’s the crazy eyes, maybe it’s the leather, maybe it’s the eyeliner. Maybe it’s that he’s not stalking us all and watching our houses at night.’

`Jon’s having a hard time right now-‘

‘Oh, please don’t start with all that shit, Martin. I don’t know why you’re so desperate to make allowances for him – I mean, I know you bonded or whatever,’ Sasha made sarcastic air quotes around the word, `when Prentiss attacked us, but honestly, even you must be able to see that he’s going completely off his rocker.’

`I just… he means well…’

`He treats us all like shit, Martin. You can’t keep defending him if you value yourself at all.’

Martin gave a deep sigh. The bags clinked.

`To be honest, it’ll be nice having a break from Jon. And this Jonny guy sounds like he has loads of great stories.’

`Oh, I do,’ said a strange parody of Jon’s voice from behind them, making Martin jump. `And you can hear them, just as soon as I get a drink or four. Is that my whiskey?’

Martin nodded, and Jonny’s smile grew wider.

`Well then, let’s get this party started.’

*

It ended up being Martin, Tim, and the new weird Jon in the Head Archivist’s office, as Sasha – who had been very distant lately – had pushed off to see her new boyfriend. Elias remained completely oblivious to the change in Jon, and probably assumed they were hard at work.

Jonny poured them each a whiskey and downed almost a full bottle by himself. Then he settled back in Jon’s chair, put his feet up on the desk, and sighed.

`So, where would you like me to start?’

Tim opened his mouth, eyes wide, but Martin got there first.

`Where’s our Jon? Is he ok? Is he going to come back?’

Jonny grinned.

`Your Jon is most likely on my ship right now. No doubt my crew are… looking after him, in their own way. He’ll be back. Eventually.’

`Does he have to come back?’ Tim muttered. Martin elbowed him. `Ouch,’ he grumped. `Your elbows are really sharp.’

`Why is he on your ship? Where is your ship? Why do you look exactly the same?’

Jonny laughed, and drank some more.

`Aren’t you full of questions? I should perhaps clarify that my ship, Aurora, is a starship – and it’s not so much a question of `where’ as `when’.’

`A starship,’ Tim said, blankly.

`As for the resemblance – well, I’m only making a guess here, as I’m stuck with you and not on the Aurora – but it’s a very well-educated guess. I can only assume that when space-time tends towards infinity in universes like ours that these strange resemblances do occur simply due to statistics. And for some reason, your Jon and I have swapped places.’

`It might be something Jon touched in artefact storage,’ Martin said, biting his lip anxiously. `God knows there’s enough weirdness in there to cause something like this.’

`Why should we believe you?’ Tim asked. Jonny laughed.

`Why would I lie?’

Tim shot Martin a look. Martin shrugged.

`Good point,’ he said, taking a swig of his whiskey and resigning himself to the complete mess his life had become. `Carry on.’

&

Jon had for once made it back to his flat rather than just collapsing into the airbed in the archives, but it was late and he barely had time to register the dust and neglect before collapsing onto his bed and passing out.

He woke up with his face pressed to cold metal, which was ever so gently vibrating. He flung out an arm to feel around for the light switch, and the resultant crash woke him fully.

It transpired that he’d inadvertently upset a precarious pile of bottles, all empty and smelling strongly of old alcohol. They’d rolled across the floor, clanking and crashing as they did so, and Jon looked properly at his surroundings.

The small room, which had metal walls and apparently the entire contents of a bottle bank, was neither his bedroom nor the archives.

Jon looked around, blinked a few times, and really wished the bottles weren’t all empty.

It took him a while to get to the door without his walking stick, but using the wall to prop himself and sheer determination, he made it and began to hobble down the corridor beyond.

The background humming – along with the gentle vibration of the walls he clung to and the floor beneath his socked feet – made him feel faintly queasy. This was not helped by the panic rising up in his throat.

Something small, many-legged, furry, and glowing green dropped from somewhere above him. Jon screamed.

The small green thing squealed back and shot off in the opposite direction.

`For fuck’s sake, Jonny,’ someone said behind him, in a thick Russian accent. `Do you have to keep shooting them?’

Jon turned rapidly and lost his balance, only just catching himself on a nearby bit of pipe. The newcomer squinted at him from underneath a furrowed brow and a pissed expression.

`Just how drunk are you?’ she asked, incredulously.

Jon pulled his body, his dignity and his bravery up.

`Who are you, and why do you know my name?’ he demanded, his voice suitably strong, albeit a little squeaker than he might have liked. `And where the hell am I?’

The woman just stared at him.

`Jonny – just what have you been drinking?’ she asked. `Or – wait – did you eat that reconstituted spinach I left around the mess? I told you it killed an octokitten!’

Jon felt overwhelmed but pushed on. The woman was strange – hell, the whole situation was absolutely mental – but there were no flesh-eating bugs in sight, and that meant he wasn’t having a nightmare, at least.

Although if this was a fever dream, maybe he should go to the doctors when he woke up.

`I’m sorry,’ he said, snippily, `but do I know you?’

The woman just stared at him.

Another gently glowing creature dropped down from the ceiling, screamed at the sight of him, and skittered away down the corridor.

The woman sighed, deeply.

`You’re not Jonny, are you,’ she said, finally.

`My name is Jonathan Sims,’ Jon said.

`Hmm. Well, this is a strange day. I’ll get the others together – come with me, not-Jonny.’

The `others’ consisted of a motley selection of people in various strange outfits, some of whom were more metal than flesh.

Jon was feeling more and more out of his depth, and sure that his imagination was not so good as to dream this up.

`So, this isn’t Jonny?’ asked one.

`Isn’t it obvious?’ said another. `He’s clearly a completely different person.’

`Looks exactly the same to me,’ the woman Jon had met first, whose name turned out to be Nastya, said. `Even scared the octokittens away.’

`Are you kidding?’ said the one who’d introduced themselves as Ashes O’Reilly, quartermaster. None of the others had given their names. `He hasn’t shot any of us since we came in here.’

There was a chorus of agreement.

`Good point,’ said man who was more brass than skin. `Can we keep this Jonny? He seems a lot nicer than ours.’

`We should probably try and work out what happened,’ Ashes said, although they made no move to do so and looked distinctly bored by the proceedings.

Jon’s leg finally gave way on him, and he sagged, defeated, onto a nearby bench.

`Look,’ he said, head in his hands, `I don’t know who any of you are. I don’t know who this `Jonny’ is who you all know, but he’s not me. I just… I need to get back home. To the archives.’

They all looked at each other.

`This is definitely not our Jonny,’ said Nastya. `So what do we do now?’

&

Jonny toyed with his gun, bored out of his mind. For an archive full of creepy stories, he was disappointed in the lack of things to shoot. He supposed, if he could be bothered, he could poke about in the dreaded `Artefact storage’ the two research assistants had spoken about in such grim tones, but he didn’t think their uppity boss would appreciate him shooting up a priceless antique. Although maybe then he could shoot the boss… he hadn’t liked the look of him.

Martin – the one who seemed most upset by his supplanting the `real’ Jonathan, had talked a bit about the time they’d been overrun by flesh-eating worms, which sounded like a lot of fun – sadly, it had apparently been sorted out long before Jonny arrived.

He clicked his safety on and off, sighing. There weren’t even octokittens to terrorize. He didn’t think he’d ever actually miss the blasted creatures.

And yet here he was, pining for his ship, surrounded by dust and paper and fear. There was a story here, somewhere, but they already had a way to tell it – they didn’t need the help of the Mechanisms.

He pulled his harmonica out of his waistcoat, played a little tune. His go-to currently was the anthem of General Snow’s resistance. He felt attached to the defiant tune – he had been there just before Jack had gone down in battle, seen the kid sink his last drink.

Jack the giant killer hadn’t wanted to be made into a hero in a story he didn’t deserve, but he got made into one anyway. It made Jonny feel a little nostalgic for that bloody war, in all honestly. There hadn’t been a good war like that in a while.

The best wars were always when the two sides became mirror images to one another, in the end.

A hesitant knock snapped him out of his reminiscing. Martin poked his head around the door, his face falling almost comically.

`Oh,’ he said. `It’s you.’

`Sorry,’ Jonny grinned. `Still the wrong Jon, I’m afraid.’

Martin looked at the harmonica.

`You play that?’

`No – I keep it around for decoration. Yes, I fucking play it,’ Jonny said. `It’s something to do with my hands that isn’t shooting people.’

`Oh, good,’ said Martin, squeakily. `That’s… that’s good.’

`Anything interesting happening?’

`Not much – although Elias will probably be along soon, so you might want to… I don’t know... pretend to be more like Jon?’

`What does your Jon do all day?’

`Well, record statements, mostly.’

`On this?’ Jonny dangled the tape recorder between two of his fingers, looking at it distastefully.

`Careful!’ Martin lunged for it, knocking over a pile of statements and tripping over some dusty boxes. Empty CO2 canisters clanked around his feet. Jonny laughed.

At that moment, the ajar door opened farther, and Elias Bouchard walked into the room. He was greeted by the sight of Jonny cackling, feet still up on the desk, tape recorder still dangling from his hands, Martin on the floor and surrounded by old yellowing statements and empty fire extinguishers.

`I thought I heard you… laughing,’ Elias said, slowly. Jonny met his gaze with a violent grin.

`I tripped,’ Martin said, breathless, scrambling to his feet. `You know me, so clumsy.’ He tried for a laugh, but it sounded a little panicked.

`Hmm,’ said Elias, still locked in eye-contact with Jonny. `Well… as long as there’s not a problem.’

`Nope,’ Jonny said, still grinning.

Elias shut the door behind him.

`He knows,’ Jonny said, smile abruptly dropping as he turned to Martin.

`He knows?’

`That I’m not your Jon.’

`We all know that, though,’ Martin said, shrugging. `It’s not exactly hard to tell.’

`No – he knows. I don’t think he knows what I am, exactly, but he knows more than he’s letting on.’

`But it’s just Elias,’ Martin said, as he attempted to gather together the spilt statements. `Oh god, Jon is going to kill me – I’ve probably ruined his system…’

`To be honest,’ said Jonny, `I think he’ll be so relieved to be back that he won’t care.’

`That doesn’t sound like Jon,’ Martin said, still manically trying to make some order out of the chaos his flailing limbs had created. `He’s been struggling lately – I don’t know what this will do to him but it’s not going to be good…’

‘Well, you get on with that, then,’ Jonny said as he swung his legs to the floor, spurs clacking.

‘Where are you going?’ Martin called after him, as he swaggered to the door.

‘I’m going to look for something to shoot,’ Jonny said, winking, as he disappeared out of the office.

‘You can’t just… leave!’ Martin said, but Jonny had already gone.

[that-one-girl-behind-you]

Illicio 6/?

Part 5

"Wh- no, not at all," Jon shakes his head. Great, just great. Just go ahead and screw it up with the only person who for whatever reason seems to like your presence anymore. "I was just wondering."

"Yeah I just thought with the Dark people coming closer-" Gerry's voice fades gradually, until he's looking at the coffeepot in a sort of contemplative silence. He turns his head to look at Jon again after a moment. "I just like being here."

Jon feels his mouth dry up, and the space where his missing ribs should go aches as if to remind him he's betraying Gerry's trust even as they speak. He'll- he'll probably stop liking it -liking Jon- when he finds out he's been lying to him.

"That's- that's good. I like having you here," Jon mutters.

VI

Basira's capability to work through bullshit is, it turns out, incredibly high.

It's basically a requirement for all sectioned officers, but Basira's been steadily pushing her threshold back since she started noticing her partner and friend with benefits could track down a suspect better than the K9 units. As it stands now, she looks at Sylphie Fairchild, and ignores the way her ears feel blocked, like every sound is dimmed and muffled before it reaches her. She knows they're standing in a shop on a busy street, the avatar's acoustic tricks are not going to fool her.

"A diving school?" Basira asks. The shop is all painted a single hue of deep blue, from the door and the floor to the counter, and if Basira loses her focus for a moment it becomes unclear if the walls are even there at all.

"Best one in Malta," Sylphie smiles. It's difficult to believe there's something inhuman about her, when she's not spewing bugs or sprouting limbs. "We specialize in nighttime excursions. Only you and the sea and the stars above yo-"

"Sounds charming," Basira interrupts. The woman leans across the counter slow and flowingly, like she's moving through water. The folds on her flannel continue moving long after she's stopped, as if pushed around by currents Basira can't see. "I thought drowning was a Buried thing."

It's why she'd come here in the first place. Surely a Vast avatar that deals in the Buried's domain will know something about the coffin, or how to crack it open.

"Hmmmmm, it depends on what you get from it." Sylphie, voice turns amused. "Should you be asking questions? I thought that's why you had an Archivist."

Basira sighs. That does explain why this feels so wrong. When Elias gave her the name, it had been easy to find Fairchild, her path illuminating in her mind like a neon trail. But that's it. She's meant to find information, not add it to the Archive, she guesses.

Whatever. This is not about Basira and what she may or may not be turning into. This is about Daisy, and that makes it worth it.

"He's busy. I want to-"

"Ah, pity. I wanted to meet him! Michael always gets all the fun- or he used to." Sylphie chuckles darkly, and it sends Basira's nerves on edge. A good reminder that this is not just a young woman playing dumb, but a predator. She wonders how many people have jumped into the sea in the middle of the night and then never found the boat again. "You Eye folks really like sticking your noses in everybody's businesses don't you?"

Basira's nape prickles. The counter is gone, and she's standing in the middle of a deep blue expanse, much colder than it ought to in the middle of the Maltese summer.

"I'm not scared," says Basira, and she means it. She rationalized her way out of the Unknowing, it takes a lot more than a Fairchild with bad taste in decoration to mess with her mind. "Do you know anything about the coffin?"

Sylphie rolls her eyes. "Tsk. You're no fun at all." She snaps her fingers, and the reassuring presence of walls and floor and ceiling start to fade in again. "It's a pocket dimension, I don't deal with those. Too constricting. Couldn't help you if I wanted to, sorry!"

"Do you know anyone that could?" Basira asks, and Sylphie gives another laugh, delighted this time.

"Sure, don't know if he would though. Go look for Matthew."

The words light up like a beacon in Basira's mind and all of a sudden she has a purpose again. This is what she's supposed to do, and the first steps of the way towards finding the next target are already forming in her head.

"Not even a thank you?" Sylphie's amused smile is audible in her voice as Basira walks towards the door. "Come back when you get whoever it is out of the coffin! We do couples outings!"

Basira slams the door so hard that the glass panes of the windows vibrate furiously, even after she walks away.

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

The depression on his ribcage is fairly noticeable, when the steam on the mirror clears. Jon is not too used to looking at his own body, especially in the past years, when every time he looks there's a new scar to hate.

He presses his hand to the skin, and the beat of his pulse is much easier to find without the protective barrier of the ribs, and much more comforting than it should. It has to mean something, that he still has a beating heart.

"You've been staying the night a lot more lately," Jon observes when he walks into the kitchen to find Gerry brewing a pot of coffee. Gerry looks at him for a second and then immediately back at the pot. Jon goes to push his wet hair away from his face, suddenly self conscious.

"Does it bother you?"

"Wh- no, not at all," Jon shakes his head. Great, just great. Just go ahead and screw it up with the only person who for whatever reason seems to like your presence anymore. "I was just wondering."

"Yeah I just thought with the Dark people coming closer-" Gerry's voice fades gradually, until he's looking at the coffeepot in a sort of contemplative silence. He turns his head to look at Jon again after a moment. "I just like being here."

Jon feels his mouth dry up, and the space where his missing ribs should go aches as if to remind him he's betraying Gerry's trust even as they speak. He'll- he'll probably stop liking it -liking Jon- when he finds out he's been lying to him.

"That's- that's good. I like having you here," Jon mutters. At least he isn't lying about that. Having Gerry around makes him feel a bit more human, and the man is awfully patient in the face of Jon's awkwardness and bad habits. "I- do you need me to read something tonight?"

Gerry rolls his eyes as he pours coffee in two mugs, and Jon feels his stomach do a flip. The gesture doesn't look annoyed at all. It's the kind of eye roll Georgie used to give him before, all fond exasperation he doesn't deserve.

"I don't come here just to get my fix, Jon," Gerry smirks, passing him a mug. "Let's just watch a movie, I could use the distraction. I'll even let you sit on the sofa, come on."

He walks out into the sitting room, and Jon watches him go. The warm drink in his hands brings to mind a comparison he doesn't want to make, because it didn't end well for Martin.

Jon follows, and finds that Gerry has indeed left him a spot on the sofa, just wide enough to sit with his legs under him, which Jon miraculously manages without spilling hot coffee on himself. "How considerate."

Gerry winks. "Your own fault. Don't go adopting stray undeads if you don't have enough sofa space."

Despite himself and his earlier thoughts, Jon smiles. He often finds himself relaxing around Gerry.

"Terribly sorry, the Eye didn't mention anything about your furniture hoarding habits when it dropped you off." Jon sips at his coffee as Gerry snorts.

"I do wonder sometimes, you know?" Gerry asks after a while. The remote sits untouched on the coffee table before them. "Why exactly did the Eye choose me. I mean, we know it was putting on a show for you, so why bring back the sad book ghost instead of your actual friends?"

"I don't think it wanted to lose another Archivist so soon, and you were the only option that wouldn't try to kill me as soon as you woke up," Jon shrugs. It's a tough truth, but a truth nonetheless.

"Hm. Well yes, but it still, " Gerry's started spreading over more and more of the sofa as he speaks, and Jon gets the feeling he's going to end on the coffee table again after all. "It would've made you happy to have them again, and I think that was the point in-"

"It chose just fine then." Jon looks stubbornly at the dark coffee in his mug. He's aware enough that he's just on the verge of making things awkward- Gerry's already gone suspiciously quiet by his end of the sofa, but he needs to say it. "I'm just- I'm sorry it wouldn't let you rest. Having you around is- but you earned it. You deserved a chance to be free of all this."

Gerry clears his throat. "That means a lot, Jon." His voice is a little strained, and Jon sighs. Another interaction turned uncomfortable, great. "So- how about a comedy? I'd suggest a thriller, but we'll both probably Know the twist before it happens so what's the case?"

Jon's head whips up at the change in tone. Gerry's stopped slipping down the couch, his socked foot just shy of touching Jon's knee, and he's reaching for the remote. Usually these conversations end with the other person storming away from him, not just- moving past to the next thing.

Maybe Jon is right, and the Watcher brought him Gerry because he's the only one that could possibly sit down and watch a movie with a monster.

The gap in his ribcage aches again, and Jon has to remind himself that Daisy's life is more important than his regret.

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

She hadn't expected to find a Vast avatar in the middle of New York's downtown, where every space is crowded to its maximum capacity. Perhaps this is a more metaphorical empty space? The unbreachable distance people build around themselves, that sort of thing.

"Matt," says the man at the top of the line, handing the barista a crisp hundred dollar note. "Keep the change."

Basira rolls her eyes before approaching him. The duality of these monsters is without a doubt their most vexing aspect, tipping a barista 95% on a mocha before shoving another innocent off a bridge or however this one does his business.

"Matthew Fairchild?" she asks once she's within a few steps' range. "I have some questions."

The man -teen, really, Basira doubts he's a day over twenty, if he even reaches the number- gives her a sideways look, before his eyebrows arch in recognition.

"Oh you're the Eye fella aren't you?" He smiles. Basira blinks. Suspects aren't usually this thrilled to see her. "Sylphie told me you'd be coming, that was quick! Let me just get my coffee and we can move somewhere more comfortable."

"Thats- no. I just want to know-"

"Matt?" Another barista calls from the end of the bar, and Basira has no doubt the extra ninety something dollars helped push Fairchild's order to the top of the queue. Matthew grins and dashes away to pick up the steaming cup, leaving Basira's ears whistling a little.

"There, thanks for waiting," the young man returns to Basira's side with a whipped cream monstrosity, and she can feel her lower lid begin to twitch. "So where's your Archivist? I heard he killed Mike-"

"He didn't," Basira interrupts him immediately. "That was a hunter. The Archivist was just lucky she stepped in at the right moment." It should feel wrong, using that term to describe Daisy, or praise her kills when she's so much more than what the Hunt made of her, but Basira won't let her achievements go uncredited.

"Hm. Yeah makes more sense I guess," Matthew shrugs. "Anyways, what do you want?"

"The other- she said you knew about pocket dimensions," Basira says carefully. This one seems a bit more cooperative than the last, but she knows better than to trust avatars.

Matthew laughs. "Well, I got mine. Is that what you mean?"

Basira looks around. The Starbucks is gone, and they're standing at the edge of a sickly yellow grass field ending on a cliff, a mirror copy of it a thousand miles below them. That one too ends in a cliff, and Basira can just about see the same field and the same cliff repeating over and over again as far as her eyes can perceive.

She rips her gaze away from the unending space and focuses on Matthew, who's watching her with an amused smile edged in milk foam and chocolate syrup.

"Yes, this is what I mean." Basira hopes her words and tone can convey just how not impressed she is, but the avatar seems far from offended. "How would one break out of it?"

"Now, it wouldn't be too smart of me to tell people that, don't you think?"

Down by the third cliff -or the fourth? Sixth?- Basira catches the movement of a lonely figure as they fall to their knees and begin tearing at their hair, calling out to the empty expanse of white sky above them.

"I don't care about them," Basira says. She should feel guilty, and in some way she does. But they aren't Daisy, and she can't save them. "I'm talking about the coffin."

"Ew, don't talk about that thing!" Matthew cringes, and the sounds of the busy coffeeshop around them start again like someone just pressed play on a recording.

"I need something that will work on the Buried," Basira says. Matthew rolls his eyes.

"Don't know, don't care. You really should've brought someone who could get answers, if you really wanted them," he takes another sip of his coffee, "I'm gonna go no-"

Basira's hand shoots forward to clamp down on his wrist. "I will find you again," she warns, "I am not the Archivist, but I am good at finding people. And I will keep finding you and yours again and again, until you. Tell. Me."

Matthew arches an eyebrow at Basira's white-knuckled grip on his forearm, and Basira feels wind whipping up around her again, smells the sickly grass and hears the faint, distant screams. She doesn't look away from him. If this is a pissing contest, she will win it.

It feels like an eternity goes by before Matthew sighs, and Basira's once more assaulted by the scent of overpriced coffee and the sounds of people purchasing it.

"Like a dog with a bone. Are you sure you're not with the Hunt?" he asks. Basira doesn't move an inch, and Matthew rolls his eyes. "Fine. The ones your sort gets statements from are the ones we let out, usually. They have anchors. Don't know if it'll work in the coffin. My thing is a gateway into the Falling Titan, the coffin is the Buried. Can I go now?"

Basira narrows her eyes. "If you lied, I will find you, and I will bring him with me. You won't like how he asks questions."

"Bring him, I have nothing to hide." The man snatches his wrist free, and as he walks towards the crystal doors they slide open with a burst of air and he's gone, Basira suspects back to his own little reality.

There's... A lot to think about.

She takes a seat on an armchair by a corner. An anchor. This should make things easier, but it really doesn't. Basira lets out a low, slightly hysterical cackle. Now she just needs to find an anchor to go save her anchor from the damned box.

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

He needs to stop coming here, Martin thinks.

The scent of brewing tea, the warmth from the mugs and the steam from the kettle -so different from the white fog that's started following him, even outside his flat- serve only to bring him back. To the time when the break room meant life and company; or even worse, to the time when the break room was already either empty or full of tired, wary looks, but it meant a preamble to a small lopsided smile and a single muted thanks after handing out a warm mug, and that brought Martin all the strength he needed.

The hope's still there, however faint, but Martin doesn't want it anymore. Doesn't want to want it, if it makes sense. Peter isn't lying when he insists life alone is much easier, but something in Martin keeps clinging stubbornly to the feeling of belonging. There's a click behind him, and Martin sighs and turns to give the tape recorder another reminder that he needs to be left alone.

Jon's startled eyes meet his from where he's frozen by the door, and Martin wants to scream.

"I- sorry," Jon apologizes immediately, "I thought Melanie-"

"She's out. She left with Gerard this morning." Martin saw them leave through the cameras, but he also felt them leave. He can often tell how many people are still in the Institute lately.

"Uh- yes I- they've been going out, I forgot," Jon mumbles and Martin feels that ugly, useless, misguided hope rear its head up again. "They've been hunting. A Leitner, I think Gerry said." Oh, there it goes. Dead again.

"Back on his old business, then."

"Yes, he's- I don't think he knows how to give up on helping people," Jon says. There's an undeniable warmth in Jon's dark eyes when he says that, and Martin has the thought that maybe he came here today because the Lonely wanted him here for this very encounter. "You'd know about that, I guess."

Wait, what?

Jon's eyes are still soft, fixed on some point behind Martin, and he realizes with a start that he still hasn't poured the extra mug of tea down the drain.

"I-" Martin starts, but he has no idea how to follow it. 'I love you, please forget about me' is maybe too on the nose.

"You need to go, that's-" Jon's resolve, whatever it was, seems to deflate. Martin winces. "I understand, I need to go out anyways, I- sorry. "

He turns to leave, and Martin is left alone with the bitter thought that the only thing worse than Jon not respecting his wishes is apparently Jon doing just that.

He needs to stop coming here.

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

"You look distracted," Melanie says when they stop for lunch at midday. She's got some fish and chips, and Gerry is -as usual- picking unenthusiastically at the smallest item in the menu. She often wonders if he doesn't really need to eat and does it only to appease her- in which case his solution does a lot more to feed her suspicions than to ease them. "What is it?"

"Hm? I mean, we're hunting a book that makes you grow organs until they start coming out of your body cavities, isn't that enough?" He flicks a chip around the plate, glaring down at it like it personally wrote the offending book.

"Yeah, and we know exactly where it is. We just need to wait until tomorrow when the shop's open. That's not what's worrying you." Melanie's not sure where the certainty comes from. She's either been spending too much time with Gerry, or the Eye's mark is starting to affect her more now that the bullet is gone and she spends most of her day out looking for leads on avatars and Leitners. "Gerry?" she asks again, because he clearly stopped listening to her about a word in.

"I don't know. I'm just on edge, for some reason." And his eyes drift away in the direction of the Institute again. Melanie groans, because she thought she was done listening to relationship trouble involving that freak forever, but her life is a joke and she's two Jon-related comments away from inviting the Slaughter back in. "What?"

"Did you two get in a fight? Is that it? You're trying to save who knows how many people from vomiting their organs until they're empty meatsacks, and you're worried about Jon?" she snarls, stabbing at the piece of fish on her plate so hard she hears the fork clink against the plate underneath. Therapy, Georgie, Gerry and bullet removal have done a little to fix her animosity towards Jon, but she seriously doubts she'll ever like him. She never did in the first place, so she figures it's ok.

"I- no? We're alright," Gerry frowns at her like she's the crazy one. "...but maybe? It does feel like there's something back at the Institute. But I don't know what. Maybe the Eye wants me there for some reason."

"Got it. Then we should keep you away, right?" Melanie looks at Gerry. Gerry looks back. The silence stretches. Melanie narrows her eyes. "Right?"

"Melanie..." Gerry's look turns pained, and Melanie groans again.

"I thought we weren't doing what the entities wanted!"

"We're not, it's just- last time it felt sort of like this, you know?" Gerry shrugs. He looks apologetic, biting at his stupid lip piercing with a thoughtful frown. "When the deliveryman went in. They might be in trouble."

Melanie rolls her eyes. Since Basira's away on whatever lead she's chasing there's only three people at the Institute that would theoretically be in danger, two of them are technically unkillable, and she really only cares about the one that could escape most easily.

"Helen will let him into her door if it's anything too bad," she tries. It's probably true, but Gerry's frown doesn't fade.

"I'm not too sure about that," Gerry says, and Melanie remembers in that moment that they lied to him to cover the ribs thing and he thinks Helen and Jon got into some sort of monster brawl. Funny how lies come back to bite you in the ass. "We can't do anything else about the book today. Let's go back early."

Melanie pinches the bridge of her nose. Gerry probably won't leave her alone and go back by himself. Outside the Institute the only safety they have is their numbers, and he wouldn't just let her get taken, she's sure. She's also very sure he'll be insufferable until they go back. She was enjoying the break, goddammit.

"I hate you." She lifts a hand to call the server over, and pulls her phone out to send a text.

"Your ex continues to ruin literally everything in my life" she texts Georgie while they wait for the food to be packed up. Gerry's not even trying to peek at her phone, so he must be genuinely worried. Georgie sends back some kissy emojis, and Melanie feels a little less murder-prone. "Some insight on this? You hid him in your house during a murder investigation. Is it mind control?"

"I'm very weak to cute short people who make bad decisions. Lucky you." Georgie responds. Melanie smiles. She'll take the compliment and the implication, even if it's lumping her in with Jon.

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

"I thought you were going to wait for Basira," Helen opens her door on the ceiling this time. It's fun to inconvenience the Archivist, she thinks, as he twists his neck to look up at her. The chains are undone, and the coffin hums a delighted purr, having been promised a willing meal.

"I can't anymore," Jon mutters. There's no animosity in his tone when he looks at Helen, which is both new and pleasing. "We don't know what Daisy's going through in there. Waiting however long until Basira comes back when I've been ready for days... it feels unnecessarily cruel."

"Hmmm... had some snacks for the way, didn't you?" Helen asks. The Archivist's eyes are not usually green, but they're glowing like neon since he walked back into the Institute.

"Don't- don't mention it, please." Jon closes his eyes, but the lovely green glow is visible even through his eyelids. "I'm- if I don't-" he starts again, before cutting himself short with a huff.

Helen arches an eyebrow. "What is it?"

"I... I know you're not her. Helen, I mean," the Archivist starts again. "But- they're all human." He says it as though he expects her to understand, and Helen nods. They're all so easy to break, thin boned and fragile minded, so fascinating to watch in this world of nightmares they've stumbled into. Helen likes them an awful lot.

"And you trust me to keep them safe?" Helen asks. Truth is, the Archivist is not wrong. She's not Helen Richardson in the way a hand is not a body. She's not even really an avatar either, because the Distortion spawned from the Spiral itself, but sometimes she wonders if there is too much human in her now, polluting the purity of her concept. The Distortion likes humans, but not in the way that Helen does, and the clash is... disconcerting.

Jon gives a soft, humorless laugh. "I don't know that I trust me to keep them safe. But I'm all there is... and if I'm gone, then-"

"I'm not exactly a fighter, Jon."

"You found a way to help Melanie- a way to help me." Jon looks up at her, and Helen averts her gaze. His eyes are too much, this up close. A recently fed Archivist is not something to be taken lightly.

"I thought you said I wasn't Helen," she says. Jon bends down to lay his rib on the ground next to the coffin.

He shrugs. "I still feel like Jon, sometimes." He straightens up, and takes a deep breath, before stepping into the coffin. "Goodbye, Helen."

"Good luck, Jon." Helen waves him goodbye, the tips of her fingers grazing strands of his hair before he descends too far for her to reach.

The coffin closes.

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

Gerry likes to think he's both fairly smart and intuitive. The Beholding wouldn't have marked him otherwise, tattoos or not. The uncontrollable curiosity was always a part of him, and his mother loved it. As Gerry grew older he realized it was because she thought his Beholding mark would make it easier for her to get information for her ritual; very on brand for Mary Keay, to encourage her six years old into becoming bait for an entity of eldritch horror.

He's no Pupil, no Archivist and no Detective, but Gerry knows things others don't. And as they get closer to the Institute, what he knows is that something is deeply, impossibly wrong.

The Eye is calling him back at full force, the tether born where his heart used to be pulled taut like a harp string, and Gerry realizes with a start that this has something to do with Jon. But it makes no sense, Jon was just fine this morning, and judging on what he did to the Stranger's errand boy a few weeks ago, he's powerful enough to handle whatever comes his way. Jon will be fine, he has to be fi-

"Slow down!" Melanie snaps, and Gerry realizes she's almost running to keep up with his longer, hurried strides.

"Sorry. It just- it's bad," Gerry grunts out as they bend around the corner, and the Institute comes into view. His worry seems to have caught on with Melanie, and she keeps up with him without another complaint. "I don't know what it is, just-"

"I still feel like Jon, sometimes." Jon's voice is as clear as if he was talking by Gerry's ear, even though he's nowhere in sight. This is definitely the furthest he's been able to hear Jon, provided he's all the way down at the Archives, but Gerry doesn't give the realization much thought, focused as he is on the serious, resigned cadence of Jon's voice. He certainly doesn't sound like he's in danger, but Gerry still doesn't like- "Goodbye, Helen."

And it all clicks in Gerry's mind.

"Fuck-" Gerry takes off running towards the building, not knowing or caring if Melanie keeps up. Jon promised he wouldn't do this, Jon knows this is crazy, it-

He hears a sound like a slamming door, and Gerry falls like a puppet whose strings have been snipped in a single cut. It's only his remaining inertia that takes him a few last inches towards the Institute, before he's collapsing on the pavement. He feels his lip and forehead split against the entry steps with awful clarity, but he couldn't care less, because whatever pain his body's experiencing pales in comparison to the agony inside him right now.

It feels as though they have taken all the air from his lungs and replaced it with red hot nails, like someone is digging at his brain with an awl, like his very soul is being ripped out of his chest, and he knows this is a punishment. The Eye tried to warn him, and Gerry ignored it, and now Jon is gone.

"-rry? What's going on?!" Melanie's voice is frantic, like she's looking for something she can kill to fix this, and it's the last thing he hears.

--

When he comes back to, Melanie's half dragging, half pushing him -he thinks, detachedly, that it must've looked funny as she dragged his semi conscious bulk around the Institute, Gerry's not a small man and Melanie hides a surprising amount of power in her tiny frame- onto the break room sofa. Gerry tries to support some of his own weight, and she drops him with a start. Whatever injuries the pavement gave him ache at the sudden movement, but he's got bigger things to worry about.

"-ffin. Coffin," Gerry mumbles. Melanie gasps, and when he parts his eyelids he finds her looking at him in concern. It's not a look he's ever seen on Melanie, and he has enough presence of mind to feel flattered. "He's gone. He-"

"Gerry, it's alright," Melanie tries, as clumsy as Jon in her attempts at softness. "He- he said he'd be, he has his rib-"

"His what?"

Melanie's expression quickly turns to guilt, and she squeezes and pulls at her fingers in what must be nerves. "He wanted- I took him to the Bone Turner. He was trapped in Helen, and Jon got him to take out a rib. He said it would work as an anchor, and he'd be able to come back with Daisy."

"Oh god-" Gerry groans. Of course, of course Jon would- "That won't work. That's not- Melanie it has to be something he loves!"

He'd thought Jon understood that much at least, but apparently he misunderstood just how oblivious Jon is. Gerry knows with devastating certainty that a rib -or any other part of his body- just won't cut it, because he's never met anyone who hates himself so stubbornly and undeservingly as Jonathan Sims.

Melanie arches her eyebrows at his outburst. "Well, then you could-"

"Where's Martin?" Gerry cuts her short, pushing heavily off the sofa. His energy's coming back, and he thinks bitterly of how Jon practically insisted on reading to him for hours these past days. The Flesh mark, the sad looks… a lot of things make a lot more sense in retrospect. He hears Melanie call out after him, but he's already off the door.

This is a terribly Jon thing to do, he thinks as he stumbles down empty corridors, using a bit of juice to Know the way towards Elias' office. Gerry's fuming. For all her oversights as a person, Gertrude was at least aware of her importance. To the world, and the people around her, regardless of whether she considered the latter nothing but a handy tool. Jon thinks his only value lays on the people he saves, and Gerry's going to kill him if he gets back.

When he gets back, Gerry corrects himself fiercely as he bangs on the luxurious oak door. The only signs of life behind it are the thin wisps of fog curling out from below it, and the gold plate with Elias' name reflects his face mockingly.

"Open the door!" Gerry bangs harder. "I know you're there, I'm not leaving!"

Once again there's no answer, and Gerry starts backing up to the opposite wall. He's going to get Jon back even if he has to break the door down and hoist Martin over his shoulder to drag him to the Archives.

The door swings open. "What do you want?" Martin asks, still mostly translucent other than his white-knuckled hand around the doorknob. "You're bleeding. Or something."

"Jon went into the Buried." Gerry wipes his hand against the cut on his forehead. It comes back stained in a pitch black fluid with a tangy metallic smell he recognizes quickly enough, and he wipes it clean on his jeans. He'll worry about that later.

"He what?" Gray seeps out of Martin's eyes, leaving behind a nice forest green, and Gerry feels a crashing wave of relief wash over him. His suspicions were right; whatever the hell Martin thinks he's doing with Lukas, he loves Jon, and Gerry's not alone. "Why would he do that?"

"Apparently there's a Daisy in there? Come on, the coffin's at the Archives," Gerry shrugs, and he gestures back the way he came.

"... Daisy the cop? The one who tried to slit his throat?" Martin arches an eyebrow as they walk, and Gerry has to stop and take a grounding breath. Of fucking course.

"I'm guessing that's the one." Gerry pinches at the bridge of his nose. Maybe this is actually how Archivists hunt- maybe they don't need any statements, they just drive you crazy. When he opens his eyes Martin is looking at him with a decidedly amused glint in his eyes.

"It's not an easy job, eh?" Martin asks with a soft smile, and he starts walking again. "What do you want me to do?"

"You're his anchor. Call him. If he's not too far already, he should be able to hear you." It has to be enough, Gerry thinks. It has to, because otherwise he'll have to accept that Jon slipped through his fingers when he should've seen this coming from a mile away. That Jon is gone because he couldn't stop him.

"Oh." Martin stops on his tracks, the determination on his face giving way to something more guarded. "I'm- I don't think I can help, then-"

"Oh my God! Are you kidding me?" Gerry groans. These two are pathetic. Gerry's lost count of how many times he's had to bite back on how he doesn't think Martin deserves the sheer longing and pain that radiates from Jon's face every time he even mentions the man. "This is ridiculous, and I don't have time to discuss with you. For whatever reason, he-"

"You're still bleeding. Why is it black?" Martin interrupts him, and Gerry holds back the urge to scream. Is this why they like each other? Because they're both stubborn and mulish and refuse to accept they might have value for someone else?

"Fuck it. We don't have time for this." He's going in himself, he's tied to Jon, that has to count for something. He goes to sidestep Martin, when a hand clamps down on his wrist. Gerry looks back at him, and Martin's bright green eyes are filled to the brim with intense suspicion. "Martin, Jon doesn't have time for th-"

"How do you know he can still come back?" Martin asks, his voice heavy with mistrust and hope in equal measures.

Gerry wants to say something scathing, or at least something that will get Martin moving, because Jon needs them. And if the truth is what it takes, then so be it.

"I don't know. Nobody knows. But I'm still alive, and that means he still exists," Gerry says. The acrid smell of ink fills the space between them as it drips from the cuts on his face. Martin's eyes are sharp as he starts connecting the dots, and Gerry has no trouble whatsoever believing that this is the man that outsmarted the Eye's Pupil.

"So- so what does that mean? You know how to find him?" Martin asks, and Gerry shakes his head.

"I can't hear him anymore," Gerry sighs. A fat drop of ink runs down the side of his face. "He's no longer here."

"That's- don't say that." Martin says firmly, and there's something steely under his soft, gentle features. "He'll find a way back, Jon always does. We just have to trust him. Now is there anything we can do so you stop bleeding all over the place? Inking? Whatever it is, let's- let's stop it."

Gerry blinks as Martin pulls out a package of paper tissues from his pocket and offers it to him, a man he neither likes nor has ever been even remotely kind to him. Knowing Jon like he does now, this explains a lot.

"I doubt it's going to stop anytime soon," he says, grabbing the offered tissues. "Not without Jon here to talk to me. His voice is what keeps my body working."

Martin seems to mull this over for a bit, as Gerry soaks up tissue after tissue. Is he made up entirely of ink? Should they be like... keeping this in a bucket, if only to use it later? Gerry gives his hands a quick once over, and sighs in relief when he finds his tattoos are still there.

"...Oh" Martin lets out a little surprised exhale. Gerry whips his head up to look at him.

"What? What is it?" Gerry asks. A slow smile is spreading over Martin's lips, and Gerry can't help but to feel hopeful. Martin might be a naive idiot who thinks he can play the Lonely to his favor, but if anyone has the slightest chance at saving Jon-

"Come with me."

[ladynestaarcheron]

Like Pristine Glass - Chapter Eleven

ao3 - ff.net - masterpost (ff.net isn’t working for me rn, so i’ll update chapter eleven there probably tomorrow)

(tagging these cuties: @humanexile @skychild29 @rhysandsdarlingfeyre @candid-confetti ​ @rhysandsrightknee @missing-merlin @azriels-forgotten-shadow @books-and-cocos @sezkins79 @city-of-fae @someonemagical @dusty-lightbulb @messyhairday-me)

hey hey hey!! i’m back with chapter eleven after only two weeks!! i was actually procrastinating writing my poetry essay and working on my novel by writing this, so that counts as productivity, right?

thanks to my fantabulous beta @thestarwhowishes and thank to you all for reading!! i am just floored by all of your support, it means so much to me!!

(and psst!! if you like my writing maybe try out my sideblog where i post original content @liorzoewrites)

anyway, chapter eleven! enjoy!

---

November 2 - 4 years after

 When Hazar finally arrives at the shop, Maz, Amir, and Xeyale start to tell the whole staff what happened at Amalike Orchards’ berry fair.

“Chokecherry already had booths set up when we got there,” Maz says, grimacing. “With Morrisey’s new novel.”

“And they had agents with them,” Xeyale adds.

Adil frowns. “What do you mean, agents?”

“Publishing agents.”

“They were signing authors at the fair?” Hazar asks, disbelief all over his normally cheerful face.

“Not exactly,” Xeyale says.

“They were taking in manuscripts,” Amir says. “For short stories, we think. We think their plan is to publish a collection of them.”

“And that’s their brilliant archiving strategy?” Nesta says. “Just taking any short story from any writer who shows up at the berry fair and tying it all together into a book?” She shares a look with Adil.  No one appreciates the art of literature anymore.

“It is a brilliant strategy,” Hazar says, reluctant to admit it.

“We think so, too,” Amir says, and Xeyale nods behind them. Before any of them can protest, Amir raises their hands in surrender. “Look, you’re all archivists. Readers. Some of you are writers. But from publishing and marketing standpoints...it goes faster. If one author writes a three hundred page novel, that one author has to have a good idea and a good execution. Or people won’t buy it. But if you get ten authors each writing thirty pages...even if four of them aren’t that great, people will still buy it for the sixth.”

“Or one big name author with a few other smaller ones,” Hazar says. “That’ll sell just the same.”

“But the same number of books get sold,” Adil says. “Don’t they lose money, with all the authors they have to pay per book?”

“More books get sold,” Hazar says.

“It suits a larger audience,” Nesta realizes. “So more people buy it.” Because those six authors they’ll buy the book for are different authors for everyone.

Sometimes Nesta hates individual taste. Especially if it’s poor.

Adil puts his head in his hands. “How many publishing agents do they have?”

“Not many,” Maz says. “We only saw three at the fair.”

“For all those new authors?”

“I imagine the authors aren’t treated very well,” Hazar says, frowning slightly. “But they might not care, if they get published quickly.”

“That’ll be bad for them in the long run, though,” Leyla says, speaking up.

“I agree with you, but again, they might not care.”

“Do we have to start publishing short story collections?” Zeyn asks.

Nesta thinks about what would go into that. They would need to find so many new authors. Sugar Books--and Adil--believes in the separation of genre, so they couldn’t just cram any random ten stories together. It would go against their idea of what the literary world should be. What would that take, to find a variety of authors who write on the same subject, with the enough of the same general style to create harmony, but each unique enough to justify its presence in the book?

She shivers involuntarily, very thankful for Cassian’s shared account.

"We’ll definitely have to start signing more authors,” Adil decides. “We’ll...send out scouts.”

“To Chokecherry?” Maz says.

“No,” Adil says. “But everywhere else. Where authors frequent. We’ll have to go overtime on reading manuscripts. But we will not--” he slams his hand down on the table quite suddenly, startling them all “--compromise on the integrity and quality of literature.”

“Hear, hear!” Zeyn calls, and Nesta suppresses a smile. He catches it and winks at her.

“We’ll split up. Xeyale, Amir, and Nesta, you’ll stay and run the shop. Hazar, you stay here, too, and wait for our new clients. Miri and I will go to Berries’ Rivers, Maz, you go to Privet Falls, Leyla, Wintergreen Glen, and Zeyn, Juniper Hills. We’re talent scouting. Find places authors frequent, approach them, if they’re any good, send them here.” He looks at them all intently.

Zeyn and Nesta exchange a glance.

“Ah, Adil,” Zeyn says, rather timid. “You do know that that’s insane, don’t you?”

“I don’t want to hear it,” he says, already making to leave the room and go back to his office.

“All the gods,” Hazar says, standing up. “I’ve got to go get a cup of coffee.” And he leaves too.

“I mean, that’s insane, right?” Zeyn says.

“I think we’re all in agreement of that, yes,” Leyla says, nodding.

“I think it’s a good idea,” Miri says.

They all look at her.

"Maybe it’s time for a change,” she defends. “Maybe this is the way to do it. This is what they do in the acting industry, right?”

“But this isn’t the acting industry.”

“He’s really stressed about this,” Miri says. “He doesn’t want this place to lose anymore than Chokecherry has already taken from it.”  He doesn’t want any of you to lose anymore than Chokecherry has taken, she doesn’t say, but they all see it in her eyes. “I think it will work.” She stands. “And at any rate...it’s what we’re doing.” She leaves.

“I hate what this is doing to everyone,” Maz complains, and Nesta hates to agree with him, but she does too.

“I can’t believe I’m going to be the only archivist while you’re all off turning into the acting industry,” she says, shaking her head.

Zeyn and Leyla laugh.

"Don’t worry,” Xeyale says, grinning at her. “We’ll be here to keep you company.”

“A real comfort,” she says dryly. She stands too. “Well, I suppose we’ve got work to do. We need to find all the places...authors frequent.” She rolls her eyes.

“Yeah, in a fifty mile radius,” Maz grumbles. “This is never going to work.”

“Don’t say that,” Zeyn says lightly. “It might. And wouldn’t it be great? To discover new talent like that?”

Nesta knows the question isn’t directed at her, but she wonders anyway--what would it be like? In publishing? She didn’t think she’d like archiving before she started; she thought reading was the only thing she enjoyed.

That’s not something she can explore now, though, and that’s why Adil is having her stay here. So she shakes herself and goes to find maps of the surrounding towns.

---

November 20 - Year of

 She avoided him for days after she snapped. He caught her in the living room when she came back from work one day.

“Wait, Nesta,” he said, jumping to his feet as soon as she walked in.

Nesta stifled a groan. She didn’t want to have this conversation.

She didn’t like that tentative, detached politeness. She was angry.

(And Cassian was anything but tentative and detached. It felt abnormal sharing that with him.)

“Please,” he said. “I just wanted to apologize.”

Nesta said stiffly, “Don’t worry about it,” and tried to push past him.

“No, Nesta,” he said, raising his hands and blocking her path to the hallway. “Not for breakfast. I mean, yes for breakfast, but also...for everything. For bringing you here. For...leaving  you here.”

She froze. He did too.

She moved her eyes from his face. She couldn’t look at him.

Why was everything so hot all of a sudden?

“I...should have known this wasn’t the right thing to do,” he said, slowly, carefully. Nesta could tell he was thinking hard about each word before he said it. “To bring you here and leave you alone. Here, of all places. We thought...I thought it would be good for you. I thought...you would have space and maybe you would want to train and that would be a good outlet for you the same way it is for me and you’d get....”

Better, he didn’t say.

“I’m sorry,” he said. His voice was hoarse and Nesta was scared to look at him so she didn’t.

He sat back down. “That’s...all I wanted to say,” he said lamely.

Nesta kept her eyes averted as she nodded slightly and ducked into the hall, into her room, shutting the door behind her.

He apologized. 

She wasn’t sure what she was expecting, but it wasn’t that.

And he certainly seemed sorry--just by his voice, of course, because she hadn’t seen his face.

He’d thought she might want to train...he didn’t know her at all, clearly. And he hadn’t mentioned all of it; not all that happened in Velaris and the fact that  she was this thing now, but she was glad of it, because all he did say was nearly too much to bear.

And she couldn’t spend the rest of her night going over everything, playing it all back in her head until she knew the words by heart, so she tried to best to put it all out of her mind.

Because...was she supposed to forgive him now?

---

November 2 - 4 years after

 The staff is gone later that day, as Adil is determined to discover five brilliant new authors before the month is over. Nesta is glad Miri is going with him; she might talk some sense into him.

“Does he actually think Gilameyva’s just bleeding ingenious writers?” Leyla had muttered to her before they all left.

Nesta laughed a little. “He’s just anxious,” she said, echoing Miri.

"I can’t believe I have to go to Wintergreen Glen. It’s so boring.”

"Well, maybe you’ll find a whole new world to fall into.”

"Right. I’m sure we’ll find the next Morrissey in Wintergreen Glen.”

"Why not?” Zeyn had said, appearing next to them. “Morrisey’s from Privet Falls.”

And Morrissey, Nesta thinks to herself as she walks back home, isn’t even that great of a writer.

She doesn’t have to pick up the children from nursery because Cassian’s already got them. It’s quite nice, actually, to be able to spend a little while longer at work locking up and stop for a coffee from Jamal’s without worrying too much.

Aysel is there, too, and she walks back with her. “So,” she says to her, eager to get to the point after what was surely a painful exchange of pleasantries for the town’s resident busybody, “I hear that Cassian of yours has been staying for quite some time.”

"He comes and goes.”

"He’s been here a week.”

“That’s true,” she says.

“I saw him today. He picked the children up. Oh, they’re so cute, you know. Just the sweetest little things.”

“I agree with you.”

“You do such a good job with them!”

“Thank you, Aysel.”

“I remember when they were born. Ooh, Ollie was so tiny, do you remember?”

“Their birth?” Nesta laughs. “Vividly.”

Aysel laughs too, in that hurried way she always does. “Of course, of course. He’s so big now.”

“He is,” she agrees. She can’t believe it, sometimes, how much they have grown in three years. Especially Ollie; he had been so small.

“And his father,” Aysel says, in a tone she thinks is supposed to be sly. “Well, he’s not small, is he?”

“He’s tall,” Nesta says neutrally.

“ Very  tall. Probably the tallest person in Sugar Valley, ever.”

“We had some tall people in for the last Berry Fair.”

“Tallest one now.”

“Probably.”

“How tall do you think your boys are going to be?”

“I don’t know.”

“And Ava?”

“Taller than I am, I hope.”

“Oh, don’t say that, dearie. You’re such a darling height.”

They reach their street then, and Nesta might’ve invited her for strawberry tea and jam, but she’s not going to. Confirming personally that Cassian is her children’s father to Aysel is one thing, inviting her inside to meet him is quite another.

“Well, have a good evening, Aysel,” she says.

“You too, dearie. Kisses to the babies!”

 She waves at her over her shoulder and strides up to her porch.

She might’ve guessed something is wrong by the fact that she can’t hear any noise from the inside, but she knows for sure because Cassian rips the door open as soon as she reaches it. His face is pale.

Nesta’s heart drops. “What is it?” A million different scenarios run through her mind, each one worse than the last.

“Come inside,” is all he says.

They rush up the stairs, Nesta’s pulse going faster than it ever has before when he leads her up the stairs and to her children’s bedroom. She braces herself as best she can for when she goes inside, but she knows there isn’t a good way to prepare.

But they’re all there...whole. In three perfect pieces. Nicky and Ollie laying in the beds, Avery standing in between them, her hand on Nicky’s form.

She looks at Cassian, his face still ashen. “What?” she asks.

His eyes widen. “They’re sick!”

Nesta throws a hand to her forehead. For mercy’s sake. “Don’t,” she says, rubbing her temples, “ever deliver news to me that way.”

Her heartbeat back to normal, she joins Avery in the middle of her sons’ beds. She settles herself on her knees and pulls her close. She doesn’t feel hot.

"How are you feeling, ladybug?”

"Good,” she says, slightly muffled against Nesta’s body. She looks up at her. “Nicky and Ollie are sick.”

"Yes,” she says, nodding. Then she looks at Cassian. “It’s flu season.”

"Emilia’s sick, too.”

"Yes,” she says, still looking pointedly at Cassian. “Probably the flu, poor thing.”

He glares at her, but she can see his coloring darkens slightly, which probably would have delighted her once.

She doesn’t hate it, now.

She puts her hand on Nicky’s forehead and then Ollie’s. A fever, each of them. Ollie is sleeping soundly, and Nicky seems like he’ll fall asleep soon.

"Mummy will bring you something to drink,” she whispers to him, dropping a kiss on his forehead.

She leads Avery and Cassian out of the room.

“I don’t want to be sick.”

“You won’t,” she assures her. “You’ll be fine.”

“I don’t want my brothers to be sick.”

Nesta feels the same rush of overwhelming emotion she always does when her children express how much they love each other. “Don’t worry,” she says to her, smiling. “They’ll be better soon. Why don’t you go play outside for a bit?”

“Are you out of your mind?” she says to Cassian when she’s gone. “Do you know what went through my head?”

"They’re sick!”

“Children get sick! People get sick! They’ll get better!”

“Well, I’ve never had children get sick before!”

Nesta softens at the fear in his voice, shining through his eyes as well. “They’ll be fine,” she says in a more gentle tone. “It’ll be a few days...it’s properly miserable to see them, but they’ll be fine. I only don’t want to keep Avery here...I don’t want her to get sick, too. Normally I’d ask Miri and Adil,” she says, talking more to herself. “But they’re gone, and I can’t ask Amorette. I guess I’ll keep her in my room. Oh, and I’ll have to stay here. Oh, but I’m alone at the store....”

"You’re alone at the store?”

"Yes, Adil’s got everyone traipsing around the country, looking for authors,” she says, waving a hand. “Unless...when are you going back?”

“Not before they’re better.”

Nesta straightens. That was the right answer. “Well, could you watch them during the day?”He nods, his expression casual, but Nesta can tell he’s terrified.

"It’s really not that big of a deal,” she says. “I’ll show you which medication to give them, how often. I’ll make soup. They’ll need fluids. Oh, and Nicky can’t have plain water when he’s sick, he’ll need tea...I’ll write this down for you...but it’s not like I’m going to be leaving you alone,” she adds at the sight of him. “It’s not like I’m going anywhere. Just work.”

“I know,” he says. Hesitates. “I just...”

“What?”

“I’m...worried.”

Nesta puts down the pen she’s picked up and crosses the room to his side. She moves her hand to take his, but thinks better of it. “You don’t need to. They’ll be fine. So will you. You’ve been...” her eyes dart around the room, but she meets his gaze when she says, “very helpful. This week.”

His head lifts slightly, and that all-too-familiar cocky grin appears. “Yeah?”

“Yes. In fact...” Now Nesta hesitates. “Maybe...if you would feel comfortable...you could spend the night with Avery at Miri’s house?”

His grin slides off his face.

“If it’s too soon,” she says quickly, “then--you know what? Forget--”

“No!” he says. “No, I can! I can--sure. At Miri’s...yes. I can. I know what she needs. I can...yes.”

“All right,” she says, relieved somewhat. “I’ll...make you a list.”

“Okay.”

“And...she’ll have flying lessons tomorrow. Maybe you’d like to go with her? And I’ll stay home with the boys?”

Nesta’s never seen his eyes light up the way they do now.

---

November 12 - 1 year after

 She didn’t feel exactly ill, but she felt off. Like the world had been tilted a few degrees. She had been hungrier than normal for her the past week or so, but it’s not till that day she wondered if something was wrong with her.

Only briefly. Then she pushed the thought aside. Things were going well, and she didn’t need to look for something to be upset about.

"Good morning, Nesta,” Zeyn greeted her cheerfully. How was he always so happy all the time? It was jarring.

"Hello, Zeyn,” she said, rubbing her temples.

“Headache?”

“No...” she said, because her head didn’t hurt, it just felt...weird. “Just tired.” Perhaps that was it.

“I’ve got a lot of new books today. Maybe you’d like to read one. Do you like mystery?”

“It’s all right,” she said. Most mystery novels were predictable to her. “I’ve got to finish mine, though.”

“How have you been with all those?” he asked, following her to the back room.

All that is Holy, she thought. “It’s going well, thanks.” It was reading. And fixing up books. And setting a price. As long as you could read, it wasn’t hard.

“I just get so overwhelmed sometimes,” he said. “You know, all those books. In such a short amount of time. And how do you set a price!”

“Length and demand,” she said, frowning slightly. How else would you set a price?

“Yes, but it’s hard to foresee demand at a store that sells used books,” he said. “I imagine it’s even more so for you, because human-authored books are so unpopular. Not that they aren’t good! Just so, I guess, uncommon. Yes, that’s the word. It’s rare to come across one. But now that the Wall is down, we might trade more. It’d be really fascinating, don’t you think, to see what books are popular with humans. Don’t you think? Nesta?”

“Just...” Nesta said, “I. Oh. Oh, I have to...” she trailed off, not being able to hear herself suddenly.

“Here, lie down.” She could feel a pair of warm, strong hands lower her gently to the ground. Oh, it felt so-- wrong , to be touched like that. By another male’s hands. Oh, she didn’t like it...

The room was spinning. She could hear more voices. Emerie was yelling. No, not Emerie. Not Emerie, right? Who was that? Who was speaking?

Someone was saying her name. Someone...but she couldn’t hear.

And then she couldn’t see.

---

November 2 - 4 years after

 Cassian’s still has yet to regain his power of speech, but it doesn’t matter, because Ava keeps the conversation going on her own.

“And I will put my horse here, and I will put my dog here, and I will put my owl here...” she sing-songs, placing her stuffed animals in various spots on the bed he has set up for her in Miri’s house.

She’s ready to go to sleep, after being fed  and bathed at Nesta’s house. But she wants to set up the room the way she likes it first.

"And I want...my giraffe.”

“Your giraffe?” Cassian repeats, looking around. “I don’t see...”

“Nicky has it.”

“Nicky has it?”

“Yes.”

“But Nicky’s at home.”

“Let’s go get it.”

“Well,” he says, wishing Nesta were here, “we’ll go home tomorrow morning, and we’ll bring your giraffe then.”

Ava looks outraged. “I want it now!”

She hadn’t mentioned this. Nesta didn’t say anything about a giraffe. And he’s never been out with Ava before; how was he supposed to know? “But...we’ll let Nicky have it. Because he’s sick. Just for tonight.” Maybe that tactic will work?

Ava considers it. “Tomorrow I will get my giraffe?”

He’s nothing if not strategic. “Yes. Tomorrow.”

“Not tonight?”

“No, not tonight.”

Ava thinks some more. “All right, tomorrow.”

Cassian breathes a sigh of relief. Ava’s been throwing crisis after crisis at him. He feels like a novice, back when he did simulations. When his commanders had given them every possible thing that could go wrong, all at the same time. There was an Illyrian expression that loosely translated into “difficult training makes for an easy battle”--but there is no training for parenting and it is by no definition an easy battle.

“Tell me a story,” she orders him when he finally convinces her to get into bed.

Cassian nods. Nesta had told him one as they packed, reciting the important lines a few times over for him to memorize. “I’ll tell you the one about Jack,” he says.

“No, I don’t want Jack.”

Fantastic.

"Well,” he says, trying to keep a level head. “What...story do you want?”

“Not a Mummy story.”

“What’s a Mummy story? Oh, not one of Mummy’s stories.” She wants one of his? Nesta wouldn’t like him telling any Illyrian tales...and he doesn’t think it’s a particularly good idea either. “Maybe...” Cassian rack his brain.  He has stories, doesn’t he? One of them must be child-friendly. Or he can edit it to make it so.

Had he ever gone on some sort of quest that didn’t end in bloodshed?

“Not too long ago,” he says, in the way Illyrian tales always start, realizing as he begins that it’s quite eerie, but no matter, “there was a male who loved a female very much. And the female loved...very much...more than anything in the world...chocolate.”

Ava laughs. “I love chocolate!”

“You do? Well, the female loved chocolate so much, but there was one type of chocolate she loved more than all the others. But she hadn’t had it since she was a little girl, and she now lived very far away from the place where they made it. One day, she was very sad...and he knew only that chocolate would make her happy again. So he decided he would travel to find it.

“He had to cross an ocean and many lands, for only one tiny little town across the world made this exact kind of chocolate. When he got to the tiny town, he searched and searched for the chocolate shop. And then...he found it. And he bought some chocolate...and he brought it home...and then the female was happy again,” he finishes lamely.

Ava looks at him, unimpressed. He doesn’t blame her. Although in his defense, it had been more exciting when it had actually happened.

“Tell it again!” she says.

He does, trying to make it sound better this time around, but he isn’t very good at it. He might’ve laced the story with bits and pieces of other (real) quests he had been on, but he isn’t sure what he’s allowed to say.

After the second time, Ava looks at him thoughtfully. “That was not a good story,” she tells him.

He laughs a little. “I’m sorry. Should I tell you the story about Jack?”

“Yes!”

He recites the story Nesta had told him, exactly the way she had instructed, and Ava is thrilled. She laughs and claps along.

"Again!” she says when he finishes. And again and again.

Until he says, “It’s time for you to go to sleep, now, Ava.”

"So let’s go home.”

“We’re sleeping here tonight, Ava, remember?”

To his horror, her eyes well up with tears. “I want to go home with Mummy and Nicky and Ollie.”

“Don’t cry,” he says, fretting. “Don’t--it’s okay, don’t--oh....”

“I don’t--want--to stay here,” she sobs. “I want to go home!”

“I’m sorry...we’ll go home tomorrow, Ava.”

“I want my giraffe!”

“But we said we’d let Nicky have the giraffe tonight, don’t you remember?” he says desperately. But Ava doesn’t care. He can’t quite make out exactly what she’s saying and he doesn’t know what to do.

So he picks her up out of bed and lays her against his shoulder. “It’s okay,” he says, trying to bounce her. That’s how to calm children down, right?

“I don’t want to stay here all by myself!” Her cries are muffled against him.

“Well, you’re not all by yourself,” he says. “I’m here. I’m staying with you.” Would that be enough?  Please let that be enough. He doesn’t know what he’ll do if that’s not good enough for her. Just for one night.

She sniffles a little and lifts her head, looking up at him with his own eyes. Except so innocent, so pure. “Can I sleep in your bed?” she asks, voice still wavering.

Relief crashes over him. “Sure,” he says. “Of course.”

The smile she gives him is vibrant, and he marvels at how little he loved her at the beginning of the week compared to now.

---

November 30 - Year of

 She’d told her sister, once, that the last thing she would want would be to be remembered as a coward. She felt like one now.

Like a coward and angry and hurt, perhaps, more than anything. Which made her feel stupid.

Sometimes Nesta thought she felt too much.

After Cassian had apologized, she’d fled to her room and avoided him successfully for over a week. It was made easier by the fact that he did have to leave a few times during the week, to one of those neighboring camps he always went off to.

She didn’t want to think about it. Especially the pain. Because if he had hurt her...she didn’t let herself finish the thought.

But one afternoon, at work, while counting out jackets in the back, she heard Emerie say, “What are you doing here?”

And then she heard him reply, “I came to see Nesta.”

She nearly dropped the jacket she was holding. She normally felt him before she heard him. Where had that gone? It was of no use to her when they were both in the house, and now it was too late to sneak out the back, because he was coming.

"Nesta,” he said, pushing open the door.

“The sign says ‘employees only’,” she blurted out, which she knew was the stupidest thing she could have said, but it was too late.

“Emerie said I could go in.”

Traitor.

“I needed to talk to you.”

“It couldn’t wait? I’m working.” Perhaps he’d make some snide comment about working in a clothier as opposed to being the Night Court’s Emissary and then she could pick a fight over that and kick him out of the shop and they’d go back to the way things were when she got here. Except she’d have Emerie and her drinking habit more under control, so it’d be better. 

But he just said, “I know. I’m sorry, it couldn’t wait. I’ll be leaving again soon. For about five days, I think. Maybe longer. And I couldn’t go without...” he trailed off. Ran a hand through his hair and let out a frustrated sound. “I keep doing things wrong with you, Nesta. 

She averted her gaze. She couldn’t do this. This was too much. And if he mentioned...that day...the battlefield...she didn’t know what she would do.

But he did.

“I promised you time, once,” he said softly.

No. No, she could not do this.

“I have to go,” she managed. She pushed past him, quickly, careful not to touch him.

“Wait, Nesta, please--”

“Nesta,” Emerie said, turning as she entered the room. “Where are you--?”

But Nesta didn’t stay to hear her finish. Instead, she ran.

---

November 3 - 4 years after

 This time it is Nesta who rips open the door as soon as she hears Cassian approaching.

“Mummy!” Avery calls, reaching her arms out for her.

“Hi, ladybug,” Nesta croons. She holds her tightly against herself. “I missed you so much.”

She had regretted sending Cassian out with her the moment they had gone. She hadn’t spent a night away from them, ever. She had never not tucked them into bed. And now...Avery had had a night without her. It felt like she should look different. There should be some mark upon her face.

But her daughter looks just as she did last night, just as cheerful and chattery. Cassian looks relatively unscathed, too, if a bit tired.

“Did you have fun?” she asks her as she ushers them inside.

“Appa told me a boring story,” Avery says, and wiggles out of Nesta’s arm onto the ground. “I want some orange juice in my purple cup, please.”

“Boring story?” Nesta says to Cassian.

“She didn’t want yours. And I didn’t want to tell her something you wouldn’t approve of. She still asked for it again, anyway,” he says defensively.

Nesta looks at him. “And you told it to her?”

“Yes.” Now he looks unsure. “And then she wanted yours...so I told that one, like, three times.”

Nesta shakes her head. She looks at Avery. Her daughter knows how to get what she wants, that’s for sure. “Did she ask to sleep in your bed, too?”

“...is that bad?”

Nesta rolls her eyes. Avery wraps everyone she meets around her little finger. Why should her father be any different?

“How are Nicky and Ollie?” he asks.

"Still ill,” she says. “The main thing is just to keep them on a constant stream of fluids so they don't dehydrate. Soup, if they feel up for it. Talk to them if you can, but they might be too tired.”

“Shouldn’t we take them to a healer?”

She hadn’t realized how much she’d appreciate hearing him say  we . “We don’t need to,” she says. “It’s the common flu. They’ll be fine.”

“So...you never take them to the healer? If they have the flu?”

“It’s not necessary if it lasts only a couple of days,” she reminds him, “for adults and children both.”

“Infants--”

“Not the same,” she explains patiently. “They can digest medication. Infants can’t.”

She finishes putting Avery’s breakfast in front of her. “When you’re done, Mummy will take you to nursery.”

“I want to say hello to Nicky and Ollie.”

“Finish your breakfast and then go,” she says to her. Then she says to Cassian, “Well, other than that...how was it?”

“She cried,” he admits. Then he grins. “But I calmed her down.”

“By letting her sleep in your bed.”

“Why is that not allowed?”

Nesta shakes her head again. “You were only with her. What if they all wanted to sleep in your bed?”

“What then?”

“They would kick you out and you would end up on the floor.” Nesta had thought moving them into their own beds would be a hard step, and it was, but as soon as she woke up from her first night alone in over two years, she didn’t miss it anymore.

Cassian laughs. “I can take them.”

Nesta hides a smile. “Finish up, Avery,” she says. “It’s almost time to go.”

She busies herself around the kitchen with nothing in particular, just feeling his eyes on her.

---

November 12 - 1 year after

 She could hear everyone around her before she could see them. Low, hushed voices. Some whirring sound, too. She shivered from the cold and from something else.

“Oh, she’s waking up,” she heard someone whisper.

“Nesta?” another voice said. Miri, from Sugar Books. What was she doing here?

Nesta opened her eyes. Where was here, exactly?

Here was a small room Nesta didn’t recognize. Pale blue walls decorated with tiny sugar berries; the sheets on the bed she was lying on the same design. The curtains on the window were a cheerful yellow and the expressions on Zeyn and Miri’s faces were anything but.

“Can you hear us, Nesta?”

Nesta struggled to sit upright. “Of course I can hear you,” she said, grumbling slightly. “What are these?” She shook her arm as she spoke, at the needles prodded inside her. She was in an infirmary of some kind. She vaguely remembered blacking out at the store, but since she could feel no pain, she assumed she was fine. Probably just dehydrated. After all, she had been Made. The epitome of perfection, was she not? She didn’t get sick anymore.

“Fluids,” Zeyn said unhelpfully.

She resisted the urge to roll her eyes. Of course they were fluids. But Zeyn was harmless, if annoying, and she didn’t want to start an antagonistic relationship with the coworker who clearly liked her best.

“You blacked out,” Miri said, her wide dark eyes searching Nesta’s face. “We brought you to the clinic. A healer is seeing to you. Her name’s Amorette. She’s fairly new here, but I’ve been told she’s very good.”

Nesta nodded. “Thank you for bringing me here,” she said, hoping they’ll hear the dismissal.

They do. “Feel better, Nesta,” Zeyn said, reaching her hand to squeeze it. She tried not to flinch.

“We’ll be by to check in on you,” Miri said.

Oh, for the love of all things Holy. “That’s very kind of you, but I’m sure I’ll be fine.” She smiled as she spoke, hoping she did so normally.

Cassian used to make fun of her forced smiles. You look like you’re in pain.

Why was she thinking of him all of a sudden?

They left as the healer stood in the room. She looked to be about Nesta’s age--although with Fae, you couldn’t really tell, could you? But at any rate, a pretty, High Fae female, with light blue eyes and blond hair that kept tied at the nape of her neck.

“Good afternoon, Miss Archeron,” the healer said. “I’m Amorette Dadashov. I’ll be your healer today. May I come in?”

Nesta raised an eyebrow. “Sure,” she said, pleasantly surprised at the healer asking permission.

Healer Dadashov closed the door behind her. She was holding a notebook in her hand. “I can see all your vitals have returned to normal,” she said, without checking them like a mortal nurse would have to. “All things considered.”

"All things considered?”

“Yes,” she said, flipping through the pages of her book. “I understand you’re new in town?”

What on Earth did that have to do with anything? “Yes.”

“And, forgive me, you’re here alone?”

Nesta’s eyes narrowed. “Yes.”

“And you’ve not been to our clinic yet, correct?”

“Correct.” Shouldn’t that all be in her book? Why is she asking all this?

“So your options have not yet been explained to you?” Dadashov looked Nesta in the eye as she spoke.

Nesta’s patience was wearing thin. “Look,” she snapped, “I really don’t know what you’re talking about, and I’d very much like if you could just tell me what happened and what I have to do so it doesn’t happen again and let me go. Please,” she added as an afterthought. It didn’t sound very gracious.

Dadashov’s eyes widened. “Miss Archeron,” she said, not quite stuttering but certainly with none of the confidence she’d had before. “You do...I mean...you know that you’re pregnant?”

Nesta’s favorite book as a child was about magic. It wasn’t called magic, of course, for in the tiny human section of their island, magic was shunned. But that power to manipulate nature; that was what it was. The heroine was a girl named Avery, and Avery’s villain was a woman who could make things vanish. The most terrifying part of the story, in eight-year-old Nesta’s opinion, was the part where the villain made the floor vanish right from underneath Avery, and she fell and fell for miles until she could get her magic working to pull herself back up.

Nesta felt that. But there was no one to pull her back up. Because she was alone. There was only falling.

“I...can see you did not know,” Dadashov said softly. “All right, well...” She pulled a chair towards the bed and sat down. She gripped Nesta’s hands, hers a warm peach next to Nesta’s stark white. “It’s going to be all right,” she said soothingly. “The clinic is very well prepared for any option you choose. We have three healer’s for female reproduction, myself included. We’re all more than capable of treating you in whatever...oh, dear. Here,” she said, passing her a wad of tissue paper.

“Oh,” Nesta said, taking some and wiping her eyes. “Oh, er, tha--” 

But she choked on her words.

What was she supposed to do?

“I can’t be pregnant,” she whispered aloud. Because she couldn’t. Then she realized--she truly couldn’t. “This...can't be possible. I haven’t...been with anyone in months.” Even with the gravity of the situation, Nesta still felt a slight blush creep up on her cheeks. Perhaps she had not entirely thrown out the excessive modesty of her upbringing with her few months of numerous partners in Velaris, and the few months living with Cassian.

Oh,  Mother.  Cassian.

“It’s...possible for a female to get pregnant months after intercourse,” the healer said slowly, carefully, like Nesta was an idiot.

“It is?” she replied, feeling like one.

“Yes.”

Of course, Nesta thought, thinking it through. Because her cycle was so slow...and that meant her whole system was so slow...and if pregnancy once would have occurred a few days after sex, now it happened months.

And she had stopped taking the potion. Because she had stopped sleeping with people. But that didn’t matter, because it had only been...Nesta counted backwards in her head...a month since she had last slept with Cassian.

(A month? Had it really only been a month?)

Nesta put her head in her hands. “All right,” she said, summoning her nerve. “Tell me about the other two healers.”

“Well,” Dadashov said, slightly taken aback, “there’s Huseyn Por--”

“Male.”

“Er, yes.”

“No. The other one.”

"Marya Kamal. She’s brilliant, one of the best in the field. We’re lucky to have her. Her studies--”

“How old is she?”

“Er,” Dadashov said, eyes darting around. “I believe...twelve-hundred, or so?”

“No. You, then. All right.” Nesta paused to take a deep breath. “I don’t know anything about faerie reproduction. I wasn’t born faerie. And I...can’t have this baby.”

Eugh, why did she say baby?

Dadashov’s eyes go even wider.

She’s a patient from Hell, she imagined. But Healers liked a challenge, didn’t they?

---

November 3 - 4 years after

 The day spent with his sons is miserable. He sits with them all day, talking to them while they’re awake and running his hands down their backs while they sleep. Nicky seems to be doing a little better towards the late afternoon, and sits up to have soup, but Ollie barely takes the water Cassian makes him drink.

He’s beyond relieved when Nesta and Ava come home.

Ava rushes up the stairs ahead of Nesta. “We’re going to flying lessons now, Appa,” she sing-songs. “We’re going now, we’re going now, we’re going now.”

"Hi, angels,” Nesta says, coming into the room and sitting by Nicky. “How are you feeling?” she asks him, putting a hand on his forehead.

“Better,” he says, but his voice is still so weak.

Nesta kisses the top of his head and hugs him. “What about a bath? Would that make you feel better.”

He shrugs into her.

“I think it would,” she says, standing up. “How’s Ollie?”

“Sleeping, mostly.”

“Poor angel,” she sighs. “All right, you go on to flying lessons. Have fun, Avery. Say hello to Madam Sabina for me.”

“Bye-bye, Nicky! Bye-bye, Mummy! Let’s go now, Appa!”

Ava takes his hand and starts dragging him towards the door. “Bye,” he says over his shoulder. “We’ll come back soon.”

“Let’s go, let’s go, let’s go now!”

Ava keeps up variations of her chant until they arrive at one of the parks where flying lessons commence. The children all look to be around her age, accompanied by a parent or two. They’re all various types of lesser fae, none of the likes of which he’s seen in the Night Court.

Madam Sabina is a round, pink female with large, feathery wings. 

“Hello,” he says, introducing himself. “I’m here with Ava.”

“You’re her father?”

“Yes. Nesta’s at home. With the boys. They’re sick.”

“Ah, flu’s going around. All right, then. Normally I fly with the triplets, but good. You’ll do it. Wonderful. Are you excited to fly with your Daddy, Ava?”

“He’s my Appa,” she says. And then she starts singing again, “We’re at flying lessons now, we’re at flying lessons now.”

Madam Sabina shrugs. “Excited enough, I guess. All right, students!” she cries, clapping her hands. Let’s all gather around in a circle--mummies, daddies, uncles, let’s get behind them. Let’s start our stretching exercises.”

"Hi,” says the female next to him in the parents’ circle. “I’m Nuray, Zehra’s mother. I’m a friend of Nesta’s. You’re the triplets’ father, right?”

He nods. “Cassian,” he says.

“Nicky looks so much like you,” she says. “Where are the boys?”

“They’re sick,” he says, wondering how many friends Nesta has here, or if everyone who has a child in the same age group counts as a friend. “The flu.”

“Oh,” she says, clucking. “Poor dears. Well, it’s going around. Nice that Nesta’s got you here now, to help out. Especially with Zeyn gone.”

“Oh, yeah,” he says, struggling to maintain a casual tone. “Good stretching, Ava,” he says to her.

“All right, now, let’s just flap our wings. Just like that. No, Fidan, not too fast! We’re just flapping, we’re not flying! All right, good!”

Ava grins up at him. “I already know how to fly,” she tells him.

“Oh, do you?”

“I’m so good at it.”

“I bet you are.”

“We’re not allowed to fly until Madam Sabina says it’s okay.”

“That’s right.”

“Because we have to stretch first because it’s very important.”

“It is very important, you’re right.”

“And, now we’re going to run all the way over there and then back again, all right? Go!”

Ava shoots off as fast as she can, making him laugh in delight. He feels a rush of gratitude towards Nesta for giving them such a beautiful, quiet place to learn to fly.

"I think it’s great that you’ve moved back in,” Nuray says. “In a town like this, people talk, but they’re good. People talked when my wife and I separated, but now we’re back, and people stop talking, you know?”

"Er,” Cassian says. “We’re not--I mean, I’m not--I don’t...live...here.”

“Oh!” Nuray brings a hand to her mouth. “Oh, I’m sorry! I just...assumed. I’m sorry.”

“No, that’s all right,” he says, eyes darting around. This is so--weird. Sugar Valley is so weird. People he doesn’t even know congratulating him on moving back in with Nesta. No one here knows who he is. No one here has served in any military. He’s not even sure Gilameyva has a military. It’s so detached from Prythian, so different.

“Well, at any rate...I think it’s great that you’re stepping up.”

“Thanks.” Is this a normal conversation?

Thankfully, Ava comes back then.

“All right, everyone,” Madam Sabina announces. “Pair up, pair up. We’re going to go up! Stand by your partner!”

Ava stands in front of Cassian, beaming up at him.

“Okay, just high enough to their heads. Now...up!”

Ava kicks herself off the ground--it isn’t graceful in the least, but he’s so proud, prouder than he’s ever been in his life.

“And now we’re all going to do a lap around the park together. No higher than six feet, parents! And uncle!”

Ava takes his hand as they fly together. He’s going abnormally slow, but he doesn’t care at all.

---

Chapter Twelve

[four-luck-o-brien]

Ignorance - TMA fanfic  [spoilers 161]

Notes: I haven’t written fanfiction in years so my writing has gotten quite rusty. This was just a little thought experiment and is nothing special.

Warning: This story is a the Magnus Archives fanfiction and contains spoilers for episode 161 Dwelling and parts of the episode as a transcript. 

Summary: AU - Sasha is promoted to be head archivist of the magnus institute, gets surprised by her friends and finds a tape by her predecessor Gertrude Robinson

Ignorance

 She was kneeling over some boxes, not sure where to start or what to do next. Her look fell on the desk and not for the first time today Sasha wondered what happened to her predecessor. Elias had only mentioned that she passed away in the line of duty, which was an odd thing to say for a person working in an archive. Gertrude Robinson had been a feisty, little lady. All the more it surprised Sasha that she apparently had just passed away like that.

 She sighed and looked around. Sasha could see rows and rows of shelves filled with files. Next to them there were boxes that were also stuffed to the brim with them. Everything was dusty and disorganized. There didn’t seem to be a proper filing system or any system whatsoever. Sasha sighed again.

 “Where do I start?”, she murmured to herself, picking up a random file from one of the shelves and glancing over it as if it had answers or instructions for how she could do her new job. Obviously that wasn’t the case. Instead it spoke of some supposedly supernatural encounter in Edinburgh.

Sasha had spent hours looking through the room and trying to find anything that helped her figure out Gertrude’s system or what she had been working on last. So far without luck.

 She wasn’t sure why Elias had chosen her to be the next archivist. He had said something along the lines of her familiarity with artifact storage being advantageous to her new position and that she would have an easy time familiarizing herself with the archives due to her expertise. However, it wasn’t as if she had any experience in how to run an archive.

 Having worked in artifact storage for a while maybe helped her because she already knew about some of the supernatural and esoteric stuff that the archives dealt with. Looking at the mountains of statements that had apparently not been filed properly in years - she wasn’t sure how her 3 months of testing supposedly haunted things would come in handy here.  

 Thinking about that conversation with Elias made a shiver run down her spine. Sasha considered herself quite skilled at reading people and something about the head of the Magnus Institute had just been… for a lack of a better word, off. She couldn’t pinpoint what it had been though. Something about his piercing eyes and his posh smile had been unsettling.

 Sasha jumped when the door was ripped open. “How’s is going, boss?”, Tim said grinning teasingly, hand still on the door handle while casually leaning against the frame.

“Tim!”, she retorted exasperated, “you scared me!”

He cackled to himself. “I never knew you were that jumpy, boss.”

She smacked him on the shoulder, her heartbeat starting to normalize again. “Stop calling me that.”

“Is that an order?” He leaned back and managed to dodge out of the way before she could smack him again. He then continued: “Quite dark and musty down here. Jon will feel right at home.”

 He picked up a file from one of the boxes next to him and blew the dust of it. They both coughed a little. “Oh, spooky casefiles, Scully. What exactly do we do with those?”

Sasha sighed. “From what Elias said, I think we’re supposed to organize this?”, she gestured vaguely to the boxes and shelves behind them, “and also investigate any weird things connected to the cases. Maybe.”

 Tim followed her gesture and looked back at her with raised eyebrows. When she shrugged, he returned his attention to the file in his hand, leaned closer to it and squinted slightly. He then flung the file on top of another pile that was in the corner next to them. “Those are handwritten, Sasha. No one will ever come down here and look for information.”

“Well…”, she started and walked back into the room. Sasha picked up her bag and pulled a laptop out of it. “I thought we could digitize the statements.”, she finished with a shrug.

 “Type all of that?”, Tim said with an incredulous look behind himself.

“Actually I thought about recording them. Audios are helpful for accessibility.”

“That’s a lot of work.”

“It pays the rent, Tim.”

They both heard a noise from the corridor and Tim leaned out of the doorframe to look towards the source. The broad smile was back on his face. “It pays the rent but I’m sure the dusty old files can wait until tomorrow.”

 Tim pushed the door further open with his foot before giving her a thumbs up, a smile, and vanishing into the corridor. Sasha then heard muttered voices and she could make out a whispered countdown. “3…2…1… Go…. SURPRISE!”

 Tim reappeared in the door, pushing and pulling Martin as well as Jon with him.

Martin beamed at her. He was holding a plate in his hands, on which Sasha spotted a cake with blue icing. It had Congratulations Sasha written on it in red letters. Behind him Jon looked a little flustered, clutching a bottle of champagne in both hands but he was also smiling  at her. Tim seemed to have magically spawned glasses and plates from behind his back.

 Sasha smiled at her friends and felt all the uncertainties of the past couple of days wash away from her. “You guys… that’s so sweet of you.” She rushed forward and pulled everyone into a hug, even Jon who was always quite reluctant about physical affection. She felt him stiffen but he eventually eased into the embrace.

 “Had to make sure our new boss feels welcome on her first day.”, Tim grinned and shoved Jon playfully. “T’was this grumpy, old man’s idea.”

 “We all came up with it.”, Jon quickly said defensively. Sasha rolled her eyes and laughed.

“Thank you very much, all of you.”

Martin placed the plate on the desk and nudged her. “You have to blow out the candles and make a wish.”

“It’s not her birthday, Martin.”, Jon muttered quietly in a reprimanding voice.

“I.. I know that. I was just thinking that it couldn’t harm, you know… for good luck.”

“It’s also quite ridiculous for an adult to be that superstitious and believe in…”, Jon continued but Sasha quickly interjected: “I think it’s a very lovely thought, Martin. A little extra luck can’t be bad.”

 Looking at her friends and colleagues, it was easy to find something to wish for. Sasha smiled at them and closed her eyes while taking a deep breath. Happiness for all of us, she quietly wished and blew out the candles when they could hear a “Knock, knock”, coming from the open door.

 Elias stood in the frame, looking posh and flawless as always in his three piece suit. “I wondered where I would find everyone. I see you’re already breaking archive regulations by using an open fire source. We don’t want the archives to burn down on our first day, do we?”

 “Ah, double-boss.”, Tim beamed, “no worries. We have everything under control. Jon checked the locations of the fire extinguishers earlier at least three times.” He clapped Jon on the back. “Do you want some cake?”

 Elias smiled charmingly: “I wanted to check how Sasha is settling in. There is nothing more important to me than the happiness of my employees. But since I am here already, I might as well…”

 Martin handed plates to everybody and only nearly dropped Jon’s clumsily. Tim opened the Champaign and filled everyone’s glasses while chatting idly. The atmosphere was nice and Sasha felt very warm inside. She had been worried, that Jon or Tim were jealous of her promotion but so far they seemed honestly supportive of her. They had been good friends for a while now. She was glad that Elias let her chose who she wanted to have as archival assistants for the research involved with her new position. Jon, Tim and Martin would be a great help.

 “To Sasha, the new head archivist of the Magnus Institute.”, Tim offered and raised his glass. The others joined in. “To Sasha!”

“I also know that Jon wanted to invite us all to lunch to celebrate.”, Tim continued and winked at Sasha who tried to hide her laughter.

“What? Tim, I never said… I mean…”, Jon replied in a confused voice, looked back and forth between Tim and Sasha. He sighed and rubbed his temple. “Fine. But you owe me coffee for a week, Tim.”

“Seems hardly fair. You consume coffee like a black hole.”

They started leaving the room all the while Tim and Jon kept bickering with one another.

 Martin looked back. “Are you coming, Sasha?”

“I’ll be there in a minute. I have to put my stuff away still.”

“All right. I’ll catch up with the others and tell them. Shall I order a coffee for you already?”

Sasha nodded: “That would be great, Martin. Thank you.”

“All right. Don’t be too long. You know how Jon and Tim get when they are in a small place together for too long.”

 Sasha remembered the last time they went for lunch together quite well and couldn’t help but laugh at that. “I’ll be quick. I promise.”

 The door fell into the lock behind Martin, when Sasha heard another door being closed right behind her. She whisked around in shock. There was no other door in this room and yet she was sure that she had heard one.

 Out of the corner of her eyes she spotted what looked to be an old tape recorder and a note on her desk. Those hadn’t been there before. A shiver ran down her spine and with rising panic in her stomach, she considered her options shortly. Her curiosity was bigger than her initial fear, so she stepped closer to the desk and carefully took the note.

 It only read: Listen now! He’s busy.

 Sasha didn’t understand the note. Who was busy? Maybe one of the boys had put that tape recorder on the desk without her noticing? Maybe it was a message one of them had recorded and was too shy to give her personally. Oh, she really hoped that none of them had a crush on her. That would make working together so much more complicated.

 Her initial panic and fear had calmed down. It was probably just another surprise by the boys. An old tape recorder and a message - how retro. If she had to guess, the message was probably from Jon.

*click*

Right. If you’re listening to this then it is likely that - no. Let’s not beat around the bush. If you’re listening to this, it means I’m dead and you have been chosen to be my replacement as head archivist. Hopefully this means you, Sasha, but if someone else is hearing this and Elias has made a different choice - for some reason - then these words are still very much intended for you.

 Before I continue, it is very important to be absolutely clear: This is not a joke. Nor is it any sort of prank or game. Your colleagues have not convinced me to record this as an attempt to haze you. This is completely serious and very, very important for you to know. If it is you I am talking to, Sasha, hopefully your background in artifact storage will lend a certain degree of credence to my words. But others may have to take it on trust. All I can do is assure you that I am deadly serious.

 So, the first thing you have to do is to accept that you are in great danger and will be for the rest of your life. There are now things that will actively try to kill you due to your new role as archivist. And Elias has plans for you that are little better. You will also be unable to relinquish the position or quit the institute, finding you are supernaturally compelled to remain. In fact, it occurs to me that attempting to do so is probably the easiest and quickest way to establish the truth of what I am telling you. So I suggest you do so at the earliest possible opportunity.

 Things you need to be aware of: There exist in our world supernatural entities of incredible power that reflect and feed on the fears of all living creatures but most commonly humans. Many consider them gods; and while I believe that is far too simplistic a comparison, for our purposes here it is perhaps the most useful shorthand. They do not rule our world but they do exercise considerable power which they generally manifest in the form of monstrous beings that spread further fear; or incarnations, those humans who have willingly, though not always knowingly, chosen to take on the power of these entities.

 You, unfortunately, have unwittingly made the decision to become one of those incarnations, for the Institute serves a being known variously as The Eye, It knows you, The Beholding, The Ceaseless Watcher. It is the fear of being watched, and judged, and having all your secrets known. The institute serves as a way for it to harvest the fear of the other entities, dragging out the suffering of those who’ve come to give statements, and claiming their terror.

 But… there is another part of being the archivist. These beings - these gods of fear; their followers believe that they have… rituals, grant projects which, if successful, would allow them to enter our world, reshaping it in unthinkable ways, molding it into a dimension where terror is as natural as gravity.

 You are now one such ritual. I do not know the exact details of it but be wary of whatever Elias asks you to do. Oh… yes… on the subject of Elias - trust nothing he says. He was originally known as Jonah Magnus, the founder of this institute, and I have known him also as James Wright, the previous head of the institute. He has certain abilities of clairvoyance, which allow him to perceive out of any eye, real or symbolic. So be wary. Play ignorant as long as you can while you expand your own research.

 I’ve managed to keep the archive in the state of chaos for decades, as I believe his plan would benefit from their organization. But I leave that to your judgement. Certainly, the longer he is ignorant of how much you know the better.

 Above all else, be ready. There are many things out there, loyal to other powers which know your importance to the Eye and will want you dead. You are entering a new world, a place I’ve lived for most of my life. A place…. a place that will often demand a high price from you. Pay it without hesitation because one way or another, the world is now on your shoulders.

 I wish I had more time to explain it to you but time is short and hopefully my actions tonight will assure this tape never needs to see the light of day. But if you are hearing it, then… good luck. Do what you have to do.

 *click*

Sasha barely managed to press the button and stop the tape recorder. Her heart was racing, she could feel her pulse hammering in her ears. Her hands were shaking.

 She slowly moved her gaze from the tape recorder on the desk to the wall behind her where she had heard the second door being shut. Was she being watched right now?

 Gertrude was dead. That had been her voice and she had warned her to not trust Elias. And that there are entities of fear that wanted her dead as well. Sasha knew Gertrude a little and knew for a fact that she wouldn’t joke about these things. Or joke about anything.

 Sasha’s eyes were still fixed on the wall but she couldn’t see a secret door or any signs of a passageway. She pressed her hand on her mouth and bit into it. The pain calmed her nerves a little. Sasha didn’t have to try and quit. There had been things in artifact storage that were dark and bad, one of the reasons why she had stopped working there after only three months.

 Still gnawing on her finger she turned back, now facing her desk again. Parts of the cake were still there, as well as the dirty plates and glasses. Panic started to rise in her stomach: she had to tell the others, she had to warn them.

 Maybe if they worked together on this, they could work something out. Jon was smart, Tim had connections, Martin was creative and she…. Sasha considered her options for a second. She thought back to some of her interactions with Gertrude and automatically stood up straighter. She put the tape recorder in her bag, used one of the matches that were still lying on the desk and burnt the note. After that she marched out of the room and closed the door behind her.

 Before leaving the institute she pushed all of the new information, fears and uncertainties in a corner of her brain and put on a big smile while hurrying towards the cafe and greeting her friends and Elias.

 Sasha was ready to kick some ass but first - ignorance…

[yikes-strikes-again]

what if i wrote tma fic 😳

ao3 link title: late nights and gay rights rating: gen word count: 1855 summary:  Jon just can't seem to stay awake. Martin's always there to help out.

~~~

Jon was working late again.

It was far from the first time - in fact, in recent weeks he’d been spending more evenings in the Archive than ever before. Knowing that Prentiss was out there, roaming the streets of London, made the Institute feel like a place of relative safety. Whether Jon admitted to it or not, gathering the strength to leave work each day was becoming… difficult.

The downside of this, of course, was that he was sacrificing much-needed rest by staying after-hours so frequently. The lack of sleep was beginning to weigh on him even more than the stress, which, all things considered, was saying something.

Jon glanced up from the sea of papers on his desk to a clock on the opposite wall. It appeared to be stopped, as it displayed the same time since he’d last checked it that afternoon. He scoffed. His phone had long died, so he couldn’t use it for the time, and there were no windows down here, either. Although, Jon did remember that when he’d been on the ground level hours ago, the sky through the blinds had been black.

He sighed, and his posture sagged in the uncomfortable wooden chair. Jon was exhausted, to put it lightly. But, since that was nothing new, he returned to his work.

He stared uncomprehendingly at the mass of documents piled around him, having momentarily forgotten what he was in the middle of doing. His eye caught the page lying on top of the closest stack. It was statement number… #0130111. Ah, of course - one of the statements that he had failed to record to his laptop. The tape recorder sat expectantly.

This should be a simple task, thought Jon. He straightened and pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. All he had to do was put in a new tape, turn on the recorder, and lose himself in the grisly ramblings of some lunatic with a pen.

Jon took the statement in one hand, and pressed the ‘eject’ button on the tape recorder with the other. But as he removed the previous tape, he noticed something odd about its label - namely, that there was none. He paused. Had he forgotten to label it before he last began? Or had he put in a fresh tape just after completing the last recording? Jon quite honestly could not remember.

He set it down gingerly, perplexed, and rummaged around for another blank tape. He’d figure it out later, he decided. Jon was eager to get started. He knew that if he didn’t soon, he’d lose his momentum entirely and be claimed by fatigue.

His eyes tried to refocus on the paper in his hand, but the words blurred together. He blinked, removed his glasses, and wiped the lenses with the corner of his shirt. To his dismay, the action did nothing to make the handwriting any clearer. Jon leaned forward, straining his eyes, knowing he had to make an effort anyway.

He absently pressed a button on the recorder and began to read. “Statement-” He cleared his throat. “Statement of… David Laylow, regarding…” He flipped through several pages, and skimmed over his own notes. “...his time working at an… industrial abattoir near Dalston. Original statement given September the first, 2016 - thirteen,” he corrected himself. “Audio recording by Jonathan Sims, Head Archivist of the… of the Magnus Institute, London. Statement begins.”

Jon took a deep breath, hoping that the extra oxygen would rejuvenate him somehow. He felt a yawn in the back of his jaw, but refused to give in to it.

As he read the statement aloud, lips forming the shapes of words, he became distantly aware that he was not losing himself in its contents as he usually did. His voice took on not the color of the story unfolding, but rather, the tone of his own exhaustion. Jon read each word as mechanically as the last, forgetting them as soon as they passed under his gaze, rendering their order meaningless.

He was holding the statement directly under the light, but the glare of the lightbulb on the white paper made his eyes water. He had to squint. Leaning over cast a blessed shadow over half of the page, but darkness presented its own difficulties. Still, Jon found a more comfortable position in having both elbows propped up on the desk, unaware of how he appeared to be almost lying on it.

He held his head valiantly upward, even as his left forearm formed an appealing cushion to rest it on. Jon ignored his own stumbling errors, grasping the current page with a hand that stretched away until the right arm lay flat on the desk.

After repeating the same sentence a third time over, Jon considered that he may have reached his limit. Unfortunately, even he was not immune to the borders of human physical capacity. There was, however, a simple solution that floated to the top of his consciousness - he would take a power nap. It was scientifically proven that short naps could boost alertness in subjects suffering from sleep deprivation, a group to which he no doubt belonged. Feeling proud of his ever-impeccable judgement, Jon let himself wilt where he sat, burying his nose into the crook of his arm and shielding his eyes with the paper he still clutched.

Twenty minutes, maximum, he thought, drifting. Just long enough to rest his eyes. Barely a wink. But when ten, twenty, thirty minutes passed without his heavy lids reopening, it became evident that his foolproof plan was doomed. This would have resulted in a tremendous waste of tape were it not for the fact that Jon had never pressed the record button in the first place.

At some point, the sound of a door opening called to him in the depths of sleep. Not loud enough to wake him, mind you, but loud enough to make him subconsciously aware of what was going on.

There were footsteps, and a fond sigh. If hearing this, through however many levels of lethargy, motivated Jon to take any action, it didn’t matter because his body was far too heavy to move.

For a few seconds, nothing happened. Then, as naturally as if he’d been expecting it, one arm slipped under the crook of his knees, and another pressed against the small of his back. Jon felt the stress of gravity grow and then ebb away as he was lifted, slowly, carefully, and all the world save for this other body fell away. His weight shifted into the middle of him as he was made to lie back, arms curled into himself. A wavelike motion began, accompanied by more footsteps.

Jon felt the warmth and pressure of human touch encircle him. The left half of his body received the brunt of it, an unbroken line of contact snaking from his thigh up to his shoulder. Beyond it, the arm supporting his back enveloped his shoulders, pressing him deeper into a wall of warmth and softness. There was a smell like shampoo, old books, and something distinct yet unnamed. It calmed him almost as much as the feeling of touch.

Lights of varying source and intensity passed behind his eyelids as they walked. Under a particularly bright one, Jon hid from it by burying his face into the shoulder of this person, inert mind unconcerned with shame or boundaries. Slowly, a mysterious tension drained from his body as blood from a wound. At its release, he relaxed more entirely than he had in years.

Jon came into a room dimmer than all the others. That distinct smell was strong in here, impressing upon him even without his knowledge. Here, the person slowed their footsteps, and then, with great care and deliberateness, deposited Jon on a very soft, flat surface. The strongest emotion he could feel in this senseless state surged when, to his alarm, their contact receded, his limbs too feeble to protest it, and his left half was rendered cold and prickling.

This feeling was diminished, though, when a warm and heavy something was drawn over him at once. It was not a suitable replacement for the touch, but, he supposed, falling from a doze into sleep, it would have to do. Jon slept dreamlessly in Martin’s bed, utterly dead to the world.

He woke with a start from a nightmare involving thousands of silver, squirming things. Jon’s heart thundered, but the panic was quickly replaced with a different kind of fear. He realized, staring at the white ceiling, that he couldn’t remember how he came to be where he was.

He jolted into a sitting position and scanned the room for anything familiar. To his utter relief, he recognized everything. The bed he found himself in was one he had slept in before, the bare shelf with nothing save a few articles of clutter, and in the chair on the other side of the room - Martin.

He was asleep, contorted into a position that couldn’t possibly be comfortable. Jon realized with a start that he must have carried him in here. The thought made his face feel warm, most likely with irritation, and he cursed Martin’s inability to leave well enough alone. Sleeping in here had cost him hours of time he could have used to work.

He kicked the blanket away and pulled himself to his feet, hands grasping at the back of his head to readjust his hair tie. Jon needed to get back to work, and… He paused, his hand reaching for the doorknob. Martin should probably get up, too. It might be morning, but if it wasn’t, he should at least take the bed.

Jon stepped over to the chair, minding the fire extinguisher guarding its front legs. He placed a firm hand on Martin’s shoulder and prepared to shake him awake. But before he could do so, the electrifying feeling under his hand brought back a memory he didn’t know he had.

A hard plane cutting into his abdomen. Cramped and stiff. The door. Touch, a light head. Warmth, breathing, electricity, a sharp scent. Soft lights and rocking motion. Cold, a weight, and then nothing.

It was all quite vague. Still, the tingling in his hand reminded him of the same sensation that had, then, been all over. It came back, a flash of feeling, for only a second.

His body remembered how it felt to be held. Jon wished it would forget.

He looked at Martin through a film of grogginess, through the vestiges of memory. He looked at the arms which had, apparently, been strong enough to carry him all the way here from his office. He looked at his sleeping face, as vulnerable as his had probably been when Martin found him. His skin began to prickle with sweat.

Jon realized that he had been very still for the past few seconds. He blinked, gave Martin’s arm a quick shake, and pulled his hand away, struck by a shyness that kept him from touching him any more. The feeling remained.

When Martin’s eyes fluttered open, Jon was already halfway out the door.

the end

[patricianandclerk]

Uhh a flirty fic? (This is the Jon/Martin anon btw)

My Ask | My Ko-Fi | My Ao3 | Requests always welcome!

Martin lets his head fall forward, burying his face against Jon’s neck. He doesn’t put all of his weight on Jon - he’s much too heavy for that even when Jon is looking completely healthy (by his standards), let alone when he’s pale and anemic and looking... hungry. 

“It’s alright,” Jon says softly against his ear, his hands loosely settling on Martin’s waist as he backs him into the lift, and Martin closes his eyes, his hands loosely fisting in Jon’s shirt, as it begins to move. 

“Why are we at your flat?” Martin asks.

“Because you’re still handcuffed, and I’m waiting on Renata, one of the clerks in artifact storage, to come and break you out of them. Her father is a keycutter. I didn’t think you’d want the embarrassment of... I told her it was a sex thing. Well, I, ah, I confirmed it was a sex thing, when she assumed. I hope you don’t mind.” 

Martin laughs weakly, but it makes his coat a little loose on his shoulders, and Jon has to rush to catch it before it falls off his shoulders, but then he unlocks the door to his flat, leading Martin in.

The cuffs make his wrists ache - his kidnappers (had they been of the Web? he thinks so, but it’s hazy) had tightened them enough that they did right into the meat of his arms a little bit, and he’s fairly certain if they were any tighter, he’d be losing circulation. 

“Your circulation is fine,” Jon says. “You’ll have some bruises, but that’s all.” Martin’s wince must be obvious, because Jon adds, in a low tone, “Sorry. I need to look at the ligature marks on your neck.”

“Did you tell Renata you tried to hang me as part of a sex game too?”

“Do you think she’ll believe it was autoerotic?” Jon asks, and Martin laughs, dropping down into one of Jon’s armchairs. Jon’s flat, if you didn’t know him, would seem fashionable and chic - the two armchairs are made of a dark brown, burnished leather, and the couch matches. The coffee table is made of a dark cherry wood, and all the furniture matches; the cream-coloured rug complements the décor. 

Martin knows that Jon isn’t fashionable or chic. Jon had told him a few weeks ago, tipsy as they’d snogged on top of Jon’s stylish Egyptian linens, that when he bought his furniture for his flat, he just copied everything out of catalogue displays. It had made him feel like he had his life together, at the time, to have everything look so perfect in a way he wouldn’t be able to replicate with his own lack of taste - that’s what he’d said. It was the complete opposite of Martin’s flat, full of second or third or fourth-hand pieces of mismatched furniture, blankets thrown over every surface. 

“You’re a control freak,” Martin had murmured against his mouth at the time, and Jon had laughed, nodded. “I already knew that, Jon.”

“Yeah,” he’d said. “Yeah.”

Jon’s fingers are slightly cool on Martin’s neck as they gently touch against the rope marks, but none of them have drawn blood, at least. “We have time for a sex thing,” Jon murmurs in his ear. “If you want.”

Martin laughs, and Jon laughs with him, sounding relieved, and Martin grabs hold of his jacket, pulling Jon into his lap. Jon drops onto his thighs, and Martin exhales lowly at the sting of the bruises underneath his weight. Jon leans forward, nudging their noses against one another, gently touching Martin’s jaw. 

“I never imagined you’d be so soft,” Martin says. “When I thought about it, in the beginning. Didn’t imagine you’d suggest sex things just because you’re worried about me.”

“I knew you wouldn’t be interested,” Jon admits, shrugging his shoulders. “Those handcuffs are a little too tight to be erotic, and I know that trauma doesn’t exactly do it for you.”

“Doesn’t exactly,” Martin repeats, and he opens his hands a little wider, encouraging Jon’s hands into his own. 

“I’m sorry,” Jon says. “I should have seen it coming.”

“Can’t see everything coming, Jon,” Martin says. 

“Not yet,” Jon says. He doesn’t apologise, this time, but Martin can see the urge to in the twitch of his lips, the shift of his gaze. “You’re certain I can’t interest you in a sex thing?”

“Hm,” Martin murmurs, squeezing Jon’s hands. “I suppose I could be convinced to--”

The door bell rings.

Martin frowns. “You knew she was there.”

Jon - Jon, Martin’s Jon, the Archivist, Jonathan Sims - actually winks at him, and the laugh makes Martin’s throat ache as he gets to his feet to go let Renata in. 

[eliasbouchardisarobloxthot]

part three of the power of friendship!

this is my au where jon, tim, and sasha (among others) save the world with the power of friendship! parts one and two are here. as always, the fic is under the cut!

“So we just… stand here?” Tim asked, leaning up against the flower shop window.

“That’s what it says in the book,” Jon said, examining the page.

“Seems like it kind of… sucks, you know? Like, imagine he doesn’t show up and we just have to sit here for the whole day.”

“Well, that’s not going to happen,” Gerard said from inside the book. “Look over there.”

Indeed, standing a few blocks away was a young man with long blond hair, tied back into an incredibly curly ponytail.

“That’s our thing,” Jon said quietly. “Should we approach, or follow him later?”

“Later,” Gerard said quickly. “Follow him. He goes into that cafe over there usually, Amy and I have watched him a few times.”

Jon nodded, closing the notebook carefully. “What’s he going to do?” he asked, keeping his voice low.

“Watch,” Gerard hissed from inside his book.

The man walked towards the florist’s, stood there for a few moments, and picked out a bunch of lilies before walking out. Jon slipped the notebook back into his bag, watching the man for a few moments before standing up to follow him. The man didn’t seem to notice, but he was cautious anyway, standing back for a while with as casual an expression as he could muster.

Inside the cafe, the man was sitting alone at a table that had space for many more. Upon seeing them, he waved them over with a smile on his face.

Jon was obviously startled by this.

“You going to go over to him?” Tim murmured to him, trying to be as subtle as possible.

“Yeah. You coming with me?”

There was a pause as Tim and Sasha contemplated this.

“Yeah, I am,” Tim said at last. Sasha just nodded and followed Jon over to the table, sitting down beside the strange man.

As soon as they sat down, the man gestured to an empty chair. “You should give your friend some room, too. The one in the book.”

Jon looked vaguely confused and concerned for a moment. “What do you—how do you know about that?”

The man sighed as if it was obvious. “He’s got a very strong presence, you know. Personality. I can appreciate that. Not many people do, especially not ghosts.” He waved for Jon to put the book down on the chair. “No one but us will be able to see him, you know. It won’t be an issue.”

Reluctantly, Jon placed the book down on the chair. He opened it up, and Gerard appeared, looking bitter.

“Well? What is it that you want from me?” the man said.

“We just want to talk,” Sasha replied, being careful with her words. “You’re written down as being one of those… um, what do you call yourself?”

“I call myself Michael, but more generally we are called Avatars. But you can call me a monster if you like, I don’t much mind.” His voice was strange, a lilting pitch. He laughed quietly, and when he laughed, it echoed strangely in the room. “But yes. I am an Avatar, and I am in that book.”

“What does it mean, being an Avatar?” Jon asked, reaching for his notebook.

Michael laughed again. “A regular candidate for an Archivist, I see. You look like you’ve already been marked—twice! Oh, how fascinating. And you, too—” he gestured to Tim— “and for the Stranger, too.” He made a face. “We can’t win them all, I suppose. Especially not the curious ones.”

“What are you talking about?” Sasha looked frightened. “What do you mean, marked?”

“All in due time, my dear, all in due time. And you haven’t even introduced yourselves yet, how very rude. I gave you my name, you give me yours.”

“I will not give you my name, but you may call me Sasha,” Sasha said, like she was reciting something practiced.

“My name is—” Tim began, but Sasha shushed him quickly.

“You know about the Fey, then, Sasha,” Michael said, twirling one finger in his long blond hair. “You don’t have to worry. I’m not going to steal your name, though others will. And besides, I’m quite the nice person to have one’s name stolen by…”

“Tell us everything,” Gerard said, glaring at him. “Whatever you think is relevant.”

“Well, if you think I’m going to tell everything to tall, dark, and handsome over here—” he looked at Gerard with a smile— “you’re right. But it’s only fair that some of you answer my questions, too. How unfair would it be for me to bare my very soul to you, and to get nothing at all in return? You’d be very poor sports for it.”

Gerard rolled his eyes. “Drama queen.”

“But you love it,” Michael said with a wink that would have been interpreted as flirtatious if he hadn’t been such a strange person.

“Just tell us what you know about those… Avatar things,” Tim said.

“Fine… you’re so boring. Ask your questions.” Just as Jon was about to speak, Michael held up a finger. They hadn’t noticed before, but he was wearing long, pink acrylic nails. “But for every question you ask of me, I get to ask you one of my own. Deal?”

Jon sighed. “Deal.”

“Right. Let’s hear what you want to know.”

“What exactly is an Avatar?” Jon asked, pen poised over his notebook.

“Hmm… how do I define it?” He tapped his chin with one long nail. “An Avatar… hm. An Avatar is to a Fear as an acolyte is to a god. Or as a subordinate is to their superior. Either. Both.”

“Then what’s a fear?” Jon asked quickly.

“Ah—” He held up his hand. “You haven’t let me ask my question yet.”

“Very well. Get on with it.”

Michael leaned in, a smirk on his face. “Why haven’t you told them yet?”

Jon paled. “Wh—I don’t know what you mean.”

“Yes, you do. Why haven’t you told them yet?”

“I—I suppose I’m just scared to,” he said quietly. “Nothing else.”

“That’s a lie, Jonathan,” Michael said. Jon was suddenly very aware that he hadn’t introduced himself. “Tell me the truth.”

“Because I don’t want them to hate me,” he said finally, after a long while of thinking hard about it.

“Very good. Now. A Fear is simply that—something that people are afraid of. People, animals—anything that can feel fear. It’s like a god, like I said before. Or a particularly preternatural CEO. It really doesn’t do much, just sort of… influences the Avatars that belong to it.”

Jon nodded. “And then it’s your turn.”

Michael smiled. “Good! You’re getting it,” he said, turning to look at Gerard. “You. How did you die?”

Sasha looked concerned. “That’s a bit—”

“Brain tumor,” Gerard said, looking pointedly away from Michael.

“Hmm. Tragic.” He sighed. “Next question, I suppose?”

“What fear are you attached to?” Tim asked.

“The throat of delusion, the unending door—the Spiral.” He tapped his nails against the table. “Now you. Why did you get that tattoo?” he asked Tim, looking at him in a way that made it clear that he already knew.

“It’s a memorial. For my brother,” Tim said uncomfortably, rubbing the axe tattoo visible on his left bicep. “He died four years ago and I wanted to remember him somehow. So I got a tattoo.”

“I—you didn’t tell us,” Sasha said, reaching out to take his hand. “I’m so sorry.”

“It’s no big deal,” Tim said, shrugging. “I—it’s not fresh anymore, I’ve tried to forget. And the tattoo… it’s just a way of remembering him. His legacy.”

They sat in silence for a moment.

“So was he just, like, really into carpentry?” Jon asked, then immediately sat bolt upright, covering his mouth with one hand. “I’m so sorry. I meant to ask why it was an axe, I didn’t mean for it to come out so rudely—”

“It’s fine,” Tim said, looking away. “No, he wasn’t, I just—I feel like it reminds me of him. I don’t know why I chose it, I just did.”

“Fascinating,” Michael said. “Now. Any more questions for me?”

“How do the fears choose people?”

Michael thought for a moment. “I think that’s enough questions for now. The throat of delusion is not one for telling the truth, especially not to people who are actively seeking it. So… if you need me, you’ll know where to find me, and I suppose I’ll see you whenever the Archivists send you as their errand boys again.”

He stood, picking up his bunch of flowers delicately, and left them behind in the cafe.

“So. That’s, uh, that was something.” Jon fidgeted with his notebook, putting it into his back pocket. “Should we just, uh, just go?”

“I mean… yeah, I guess,” Tim said, shoving his hands into his pockets like that would make him somehow more invisible.

Sasha stood to leave, picking up the book and closing it. Gerard was stone-silent as she did, expression unreadable as he vanished into the pages. She tucked it into Jon’s bag wordlessly and handed him the bag, fidgeting with one of her many bracelets once he took it from her.

“Are you alright?” Jon asked as soon as they were outside.

“What aren’t you telling us?” she asked, like she’d been holding it in a long while.

“What?” Jon looked confused, holding his bag close to his chest.

“Michael asked you a question. ‘Why haven’t you told them yet.’ What is it that you haven’t told us, and why?”

Jon’s face changed instantly. He looked—not upset, but on the edge of it. Almost angry, and if one looked close enough, almost afraid, too.

“I don’t see why that’s any of your business,” he said, quite obviously trying to make his voice even.

“It’s our business because you’re our damn coworker, and if we’re going to do this, we have to trust each other!” Sasha said, suddenly angry. She tried to compose herself. “Look. You both are obviously hurting a lot, and if you don’t want to go into your entire life story that’s fine, but you have to tell us some things. And if it’s important enough for Michael to ask about, then it’s important for us to know.” She looked over at Tim. “Right?”

Tim mostly seemed like he didn’t want to be thinking about this at the moment. He was preoccupied, gently rubbing his left bicep.

“Look. We don’t have to talk about this now—”

“Yes, we do!” Sasha was obviously incensed, and sighed sharply as she tried to regain control of her emotions. “We don’t need to talk right this second, but you are going to tell us. We’re a team, and we have to trust each other. Okay?”

Jon didn’t reply for a long moment, looking away from Sasha, but eventually managed a curt nod.

“Now. We should report back to Amy, let her know what we’ve found. As a team.”