#and jon seeing him do it and accepting it because Martin Belongs To Him | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

gentlemancrow · 3 years ago

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idk if you’re still taking requests so no pressure but maybe jmart 18 about jon’s scars? or,,, honestly however you wanna interpret that lol

Hehe bet you thought you weren't getting one. But of COURSE you're getting one! <3 HERE YOU GO!! Sorry it is late I am not a fast writer haha! This was a VERY interesting one to interpret and I got a little wonky and metaphysical there for a bit WHICH I LOVE and THE IDEA MIGHT HAVE BEEN A BIT LONG FOR A DRABBLE BUT! It's soft and I'm soft and I enjoyed this one SO SO MUCH ; w ; I hope you do too!!

Jon had Seen enough. Martin had decided that long ago. He had witnessed enough, been forced to witness enough, been the vessel into which literally everything had funneled into in an unrelenting typhoon of unspeakable, unfathomable horrific knowledge comprehensible only to him long enough that he damn well deserved the luxury of imperception. He had earned the right to not notice when Martin accidentally bought the wrong brand of chai, the one he insisted tasted like someone rubbed a stick of cinnamon on plasterboard and jammed it in a cardamom pod, but honestly tasted just like the one he preferred. The universe, whichever one they happened to be in now, owed him not realizing the buttons on his cardigan were one off until they were about to head out and Martin had to fix them, fingers humming with the warmth of him lingering in the cashmere every time. He deserved to forget his keys and then also have to go back to check that their flat door was locked twice, just to be sure. He deserved tossing cabbage in the trolley at the market, only to get home and realize it was a head of iceberg lettuce instead, and also he had completely forgotten the onion anyway so back he would have to go. Tiny and insignificant, patently human foibles that any normal person might tally up to a really rotten day overall and gripe about over a glass of Châteauneuf-du-Pape he had won as gleaming, pyrrhic badges on the ruins of his humanity yanked back from the claws of the yawning, devouring dark matter of the cosmos and stitched painstakingly back together with love.

But mostly Jon deserved to not notice the way people looked at him.

He need not see the painted-on expressions of strangers that ran the gamut from quiet pity, to voyeuristic curiosity, to outright revulsion that Martin could not help but see everywhere they went. They had no idea. Not even the slightest inkling of what, exactly, had composed that magnum opus of horror and pain scarred resplendently on his flesh, his bones, his sinews and synapses. To even try know was to go mad, the mind looping through and around and between consciousness and logic and love and fear and philosophy and metacognition until it squeezed into an ouroboros black hole singularity of dense unknowing that collapsed in on itself and perished in cataclysm. They had merely gotten lucky that being extruded through the plumbings of creation seemed to straighten out their fibers enough to be woven back into the fabric of reality, but they were too kinked and snagged and gnarled to ever lay fully flat again. And that was why they stared.

The invasive beings of Jon and Martin had come to mutual terms with it long ago, but they also knew they would be forever incongruous with an innocent world, with a world where they did not belong and that collectively looked at them both like an ontological cancer, benign but festering and ugly. They would never know the thing that crouched behind the stars with pointed knees and elbows that even then, groped to find their new world in the lightless vast, and Jon deserved to not perceive any hints of that either. He deserved their quiet, their peace, their wordless human acceptance.

Jon deserved to be innocently chewing a periwinkle-painted thumbnail in front of the ice cream counter, just as he was that gossamer spring afternoon, turning woeful and forever mismatched brown and green eyes at his husband and asking if he should get mint chip or rum raisin before deciding, actually, could he have a sample of the salted caramel ribbon first? He pointed eagerly at the various frozen tubs behind the glass with his gnarled right hand, where the fingers never did quite open or close properly again, and missed in his wonderment at the veritable cornucopia of sweet delights available to him the mingled look of pity and horror on the cashier’s face as she doled out samples at his request. Martin lurked protectively behind, silent, sentinel, seeing it all, a hot brand of fury boring its way through his chest as he glared icy blue daggers at the clueless young woman, who only compounded her crimes by complimenting the permanent white forelock in his ginger curls as she took his order.

Martin snatched his double scoop of rocky road and pralines and cream out of her hand with a withering scowl and said nothing. Jon, frowning in the dread shadow of Martin’s hushed wrath and finally deciding on just the mint chip, took it upon himself to pay while the poor young woman skirted around both their gazes. They took their ice cream to enjoy in the balmy sun on the metal patio tables outside the shop under a cloud of unspoken insults and slander which Jon was more than happy to pop open the conversational umbrella beneath before the downpour.

“Something wrong?” he asked solicitously.

“Nope. I’m fine,” came the curt answer, suspiciously also lacking in eye contact as Martin stabbed his pink spoon into the rocky road.

Jon’s mismatched eyes narrowed shrewdly. There was one thing that never escaped his notice, even now, and that was the painfully obvious way Martin always broadcast his inner hurts and the physical language of his turmoil he had become fluent in over the years.

“Okay, yes you are probably fine. And I’m guessing it has nothing to do with you actually, because you’re angry and you rarely get angry on your own behalf, which means it’s probably something to do with me or some perceived slight. What happened in there? Did someone make a snide remark about my eccentric ice cream selection? The long skirt on a warm spring day? Oh, no, I’ve got it. It was probably the earrings, yes? I knew I should have gone with the feathers instead of hoops, matches the outfit much better.”

The corner of Martin’s mouth quirked up in a hapless, crooked smile as Jon coaxed a laugh out of him, and he looked up into his gaze adoringly to grant him unspoken conciliation.

“No, no not at all. Nothing like that. It’s nothing, love. It’s not a big deal. Just low blood sugar or something. Just eat your nasty mint chip or rum raisin or whatever that unholy concoction is,” Martin snorted, gesturing at his cup.

“Liar,” Jon crooned with loving reproachment, reaching out to thumb a little bit of rum raisin on the tip of Martin’s nose as punishment.

Even breathed with such unfettered, undying affection, Martin hated that word. He hated how transparent he still was to the man he loved, how much he still truly saw him, saw through him. At least all it took to compel him now was a little melted ice cream rubbed clean off his nose and a winsome smile with love-puddled green and brown eyes.

“Okay, okay… fine,” he admitted with a resigned smirk and a sigh, “I don’t like the way they look at you. Okay? That’s all.”

Jon’s brow knitted together curiously.

“Hmm? Who? What do you mean?” he asked.

“Everyone!” Martin finally effused in frustration, “Everywhere! They look at you like you’re… like you’re damaged goods! Like you’re some pitiful beaten animal on the street, or worse, like you’re some sort of- some sort of um…”

“…Monster?” supplied Jon, lips pursed and lids drooping.

“…I wasn’t going to say that,” Martin stammered.

“What other word is there?”

“Fine, they look at you like you’re a monster. They take one look at your face or your throat or your… your hand. And I can just see it on their faces. They look at you like you’re a monster, and I hate it. You don’t deserve that. You never did! They don’t even know you! They don’t know what happened to you…! And sorry, Jon, but I get angry about it because it’s not fair, and I can’t exactly go about lobbing right hooks into the faces of everyone who even looks at you cross-eyed, now can I? Much as I’d like to…"

Jon went quiet as he listened, dabbling first in the rum raisin, then indulging in a little mint chip chaser, cocking his head to the side thoughtfully as he nibbled on the plastic spoon.

“Is that what you see?”

The color rolled out from Martin’s freckled cheeks along with the very spirit from his eyes in a fog, his entire mien awash in pallor.

“What? How could you say that to me? I would NEVER think that about you, Jon! How could you ever think I would think that? I-I know I said some awful things in the past about your scars, but I-“

��No no! Martin, no! Of course not! I know you would never!” Jon cut in, reaching across the table to snatch his hand and squeeze it reassuringly, rubbing his knuckles and over his wedding ring, “You misunderstand! I was asking if that’s what you see in their eyes?”

Martin clung to Jon’s hand, heart palpitating and breath easing.

“Oh…” he blurted dumbly, flushing with lively hues of reds and golds once more, “I-? Of course I do, what else could it be?”

“I don’t see that. I don’t see that at all,” Jon answered simply, “It’s… hard to describe but, damaged goods, disgust, morbid curiosity, those are all… Hard things. They have sharp edges. And when people here look at me, I don’t feel anything hard or sharp, it feels… soft? It feels gentle.”

Shaking his head, Martin frowned.

“Gentle? How is openly gawking at someone’s scars in any way gentle?”

“It’s just a feeling I have. I suppose,” Jon mused, thumbing at his beard with his free hand as he constructed an analogy that would make sense in his mind, “Mmm… Think of it like this. Humans, life, we’re all very visually oriented creatures, right? We respond to visual cues in our environments that are universally understood. We wear these rings so that everyone knows we belong together, just the same as bright colors usually mean poison, or how specialized feathers, or horns, or dewlaps and the like let others know they’d be a good mate, or how some things look like eyes or like entirely different creatures to scare off predators, and so on.”

The creases in Martin’s forehead only deepened in confusion.

“Okay sure, but scars aren’t a natural adaptation? We don’t look at scars the same way we look at pretty eyes on a moth wing or something.”

“I know that, that’s not what I’m saying,” Jon reiterated tenderly, “What I’m saying is I’ve always felt like my scars are a visual cue, but one that says to others ‘treat me gently’, because clearly I haven’t been. And it’s… well it’s been quite nice. You were about to tear that poor girl’s head off, but didn’t you see how she not only gave me about six samples when the sign clearly said two per customer, but then she also gave me the rum raisin ‘by mistake’ and then conveniently forgot to charge for it?”

“Wh-did she?” Martin gasped in shock, rewinding the transaction to remember that indeed, Jon had only asked for mint chip, but there was clearly also a generous scoop of rum raisin in his cup, ”She did… No I… I guess I didn’t notice…”

Jon let Martin’s hand go to cup his cheek pointedly in his scarred palm, running his thumb over the soft curve of his cheek and the spray of his ruddy freckles comfortingly.

“You want to know what I think? I think what you perceive as disgust or aversion or even pity is just fear, like you had. Fear of pain, fear of disfigurement, of fallibility. People are always afraid of seeing what can become of their mortal bodies, but that has nothing to do with me, or being disgusted by me. People are, at their cores, good and gentle, Martin. I know they are, we both do. They see me, my cane, my limp, my hand, my gray hair, my face, and they don’t even ask, they just know, on some primal level, that life was not kind to me. And so in some tiny way, like free rum raisin, they almost always try to give something back to me.”

Jon had known. He had noticed. It had never escaped his perception as Martin had assumed. Jon had known all along, but it was only Martin who still saw daggers in the smiles of strangers while he had taken the last vestiges of his powers irrevocably branded on his body and soul and sowed something delicate and beautiful and blossoming in his new earth. Martin had made a weapon. Perhaps no less delicate and beautiful, but still cold and sharp and deadly. The razor white edge of the sun through frigid fog.

“I’m so sorry, Jon,” Martin choked, his throat pinching shut with the threat of tears, “I-I had no idea…. I-I only thought…”

“It’s alright, please don’t cry, darling, you have nothing to be sorry for. I understand. You only thought you were protecting me. I protected you for so long, when you were desperate to do the same for me, to save me, but had no power to do either. Now you’ve got your turn to do the protecting in earnest, and honestly, it’s a… can I- can I say hot? Can I say it’s a hot look on you? Or is that weird?” Jon asked, tips of his ears blushing coyly.

Martin managed a laugh as he sniffed back the tears and thumbed both sets of lashes dry under his spectacles.

“It’s a little weird for you, in particular, to say it, just because it’s you. But I’ll take it.”

“I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

Perhaps then, Martin thought as Jon leaned over their whimsical little metal table outside an ice cream parlor by a park with a striped canopy above them and birds singing and kissed his tears away and then kissed his lips into a smile, that sharp things needn’t always be weapons. Perhaps his sword was, in reality, a spade, or a hoe, something to tend and nurture the new and fragile happiness Jon had tilled. Gentle things deserved gentle protection, and he was still going to devote every iota of his being to protecting Jon until the end of their days. After all, as they finally got to enjoy their slightly melted ice cream, Jon still dribbled a bit of rum raisin down his beard and carried on none the wiser. Martin let him go on like that, blissfully unaware, talking about Polyphemus moths and the myth of the cyclops and something about someone going about as Nobody, until he finally reached out with a napkin to attentively wipe it away.

Other than a gracefully paced ‘oh, thank you dear,’ Jon never missed a beat.

#The Magnus Archives #TMA #JonMartin #Jmart #Fan fic #Crow Writes #Ask Drabble #Fricklefracklefloof

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eldritchqueerture · 3 years ago

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Hello! This is a project for @summer-in-the-archives-event that I worked on with @horizonindigo! We came up with the idea together and based our individual works around the poem I wrote, included in the fic. You can find their absolutely amazing art here!!

I freaking loved working on this one and I got more and more excited as we progressed. I also surprised myself with the poem itself a bit, definitely didn’t expect it to end up quite as cool, if I may say so myself. It was incredibly fun to write.

Big shoutout to @sunflowers-and-frogs for beta reading, I love you bestie <3

I would like to thank all the mods that made this event possible! It’s my first time taking part in anything like this and it was really, really fun, so THANK YOU <3 Love you guys :3 Anyways, enough of my rambling kdfjgkjsdfg

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Archive Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply Category: M/M Fandom: The Magnus Archives (Podcast) Relationship: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist Characters: Martin Blackwood, Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist Additional Tags: Hurt/Comfort, Canon-Typical The Lonely Content (The Magnus Archives), Kissing, Excessive Tea-Making, Set in Episodes 159-160 | Scottish Safehouse Period (The Magnus Archives), Poetry, Love Confessions Warnings: self-esteem issues, typical Lonely content, discussions of free-will and determinism, graphic kiss

Summary: As Martin fights the remnants of the Lonely's influence on their ride to Daisy's safehouse in Scotland, he focuses on his feelings for Jon to keep him tethered to reality. He watches Jon be himself in the safety of the cottage, share these small intimacies of domesticity and the words come to him as a poem weaves itself into the pages of his notebook...

He feels the taste of salt in his mouth, as he looks out of the car window at the rapidly falling away landscape, covered in the darkness of the night. He feels Jon’s presence next to him, focused on driving but glancing every so often at him with concern. Martin feels like he should say something, somehow fill the silence that has befallen them, but no words ever find their way to his mouth. He stays quiet, watching the trees pass them by, trying to ignore the anxious churning in his stomach. He’s always been pretty good at filling awkward silences with chatter; at least before the Lonely. Now… he can’t help but feel bothered by Jon’s presence, even though he did all of this for him, even though this is what he’s wanted all this time; it’s like a splinter, prickling at his mind, almost causing him physical discomfort. He swallows and feels the salty taste on his tongue; he discards the thoughts and tries his best to breathe through the discomfort, instead focusing on the sensation of Jon’s warm hand on his.

Martin used to be the warm one; he’d always been generating heat and his mind goes back to the early days in the Archives when the basement was cold in the winter and both Tim and Sasha used to gravitate towards him with their respective cups of tea during breaks. Now his whole body is cold, the chill of the ocean breeze and fog having settled in his bones so deep he thinks he’ll never feel warm again. The thought isn’t sparking any emotions in him though. It’s just a thing that he’s learned to accept, just as the fact that he’ll always be alo—

“Do you want me to put on some music?” Jon asks with another one of his glances. Every time, he raises his eyebrows a bit, and tilts his head to the side; Martin expects the concern in his eyes, but he sees something else there as well. He’s been afraid to put a label to the expression for the fear he’s reading him wrong, but the bolder part of his mind tells him it’s fondness.

Jon’s hand is warm, and his thumb grazes the skin of his palm just a little, as if not sure he’s allowed to. Martin looks down at their hands and feels warmth spark in his stomach; he smiles.

“I’m sorry I’m—I’m not really good at the whole, uh… small talk thing,” Jon adds with a flush, turning his head back to the road. “I should probably be talking about something, though, to, uh… to keep you here. I suppose.” He visibly cringes at his words.

“It’s—It’s fine, Jon,” Martin chuckles, and Jon relaxes, fixing him with a quick smile of his own. “I’m just… you know.” He looks down at their hands again and has a brief feeling they belong to someone else. Not him. Never him. “I’m not quite… out of that. Yet.”

Another look of concern. Martin feels heat prickling at his cheeks and he’s a little bit glad, because at least it’s a feeling. He interlaces their fingers and looks out the front window.

They spend the ride in relative silence. Jon tries a couple more times to start small talk and fails; they stop at a gas station at one point and Martin takes out his notebook when Jon disappears inside the station to pay for gas. He flicks through it and his eyes stop at an unfinished draft; he started writing it shortly before Peter took him down to the Panopticon, but he’d only managed to get a few first lines down. Despite still feeling the cold in his bones and his mind being clouded by the remains of the fog, words come to him, and he starts scribbling. He continues to do so even when Jon comes back with tea and an assortment of snacks, blushing just a little bit when Jon shoots a curious look at the notebook. He doesn’t ask and Martin is thankful for it. He’s not the sort to show his drafts to anyone, especially to the subject he’s writing about.

It’s 1am when they arrive at the cottage; they’re both exhausted and they quickly take their bags inside and lock the door. The cottage is small and practical, just Daisy’s style; it’s also quite dusty from months of abandonment. Martin yawns as he opens one of the bags to get the essentials. They should leave unpacking and cleaning for the next day.

He hears Jon’s footsteps on the wooden floor coming back from the initial run of the house and he turns to tell him that, but the somewhat sheepish look on his face stops him in his tracks. Has he ever seen Jon look sheepish before?

“So, uh, obviously this was Daisy’s safehouse when she was, well… Avoiding people,” he says, not meeting Martin’s eyes.

“I hope ‘avoiding people’ doesn’t mean killing them in this context,” Martin snorts, not sure if he’s entirely joking. The humour is lost on Jon, however, as he looks at him confused for a moment before he processes Martin’s words.

“Oh, no, no, I-I don’t believe she, uh… She just slept here.” Jon shifts awkwardly. “And that means there’s uh, there’s only one bed.”

Martin’s eyes widen and his lips form a little “Oh”.

“Of course, if you’re not comfortable with sharing, I can just take the couch, you need some proper rest and I’m used to running on low sleep” —Jon averts his gaze as he speaks. He grabs his bag and walks over to the couch, and Martin wants to stop him talking and just say that they should share the bed, but his voice seems to have left him at this crucial moment. He just stares as Jon places the bag on the couch and looks back at him, aware of the silence. “Martin?”

Martin swallows, a familiar cold freezing his toes. He feels the damp sand underneath his bare feet and a chill runs down his spine. He blinks and tightens his grip on the bag he’s been holding. This is real, he is real, Jon is real.

“You need good rest too,” he finally manages to say, and he’s surprised by how clear and normal his voice sounds; it makes Jon relax a bit. “We should share the bed, if-if you are comfortable with that.”

A small smile appears on Jon’s lips and a warm feeling fills Martin’s stomach again; he knows the smile is for him.

“Okay,” he says softly and picks the bag up.

They manage to keep the awkwardness of it to the minimum; they’re both very tired and at one point it just doesn’t matter anymore. Jon hands Martin a separate blanket and he pushes the disappointment down into a void inside him where he keeps feelings to come back to when he’s alone. It would be foolish of him to hope for cuddling since they haven’t talked about anything yet.

He expects to fall asleep as soon as his head touches the pillow, but he finds himself awake in the darkness after goodnights are said (Jon’s voice sounds so soft and tender Martin has forgotten all about his earlier disappointment). He’s laying on his back, eyes closed, and he feels Jon’s presence on his right. His breathing is steady, not yet slow enough to indicate sleep, but calm and relaxed. Martin peeks out through half-lidded eyes – he hasn’t gotten used to the darkness as much yet, but he can see Jon laying on his side, facing him, his eyes closed and his hair loosely framing his face. One of his hands rests close to his head on the pillow. Martin blinks, fully opening his eyes now and smiling softly. As his vision clears, Martin notices Jon frowning ever so slightly, and he wonders if the faint lines between his eyebrows smoothen when he’s asleep.

“Is watching people sleep a usual activity for you?” Jon whispers with amusement as he opens his eyes and Martin gasps with surprise and looks away, feeling heat prickle at his cheeks.

“Wha—uh, no! No, of course no—Sorry, I—” He rambles, and he thinks he might just die from embarrassment when he hears Jon laugh quietly.

“It’s fine, Martin.” He shakes his head with a sigh. “Really. I-- Sorry, I thought a joke would, um… lighten the mood somewhat.”

Martin risks a look at him and wonders if the red on his cheeks is visible through the darkness. Jon looks at him with that expression again, something Martin would very much want to classify as fondness if it didn’t feel so impossible. But now that he thinks about it… Would it really be thatfar-fetched? Jon had gone into the Lonely just to get him out. Would he have done that for anyone else? Martin rolls his eyes at himself in his mind, of course he would. He did go into the Buried, and it was for Daisy, a person who has threatened him multiple times, kidnapped and almost killed him. If Jon was ready to lay down his life for her, out of all of them, it shouldn’t be surprising he would do the same for his assistant; it says nothing about his feelings on the matter.

Martin’s memories of the Lonely are hazy. He remembers the cold, the dampness, and the loneliness. He remembers his thoughts, the lonely ones, and how they felt both alien and familiar at the same time. He remembers the comfort, the feeling of fitting in, but also the pain and the fear, just before they were numbed by the cold and the fog that made him forget. And then suddenly, Jon was in front of him, looking at him with desperation on his face, tears in his eyes glowing with a green light. Was it Jon calling for him, or just the Beholding?

“What are you thinking about?” comes Jon’s voice and Martin realizes he’s been staring into the air for a while. He blinks and looks back at Jon.

“Uh…” He searches for words before he gives up on trying to come up with an excuse. His voice is quiet when he speaks. “Why did you do it?”

Jon blinks at him a couple times and rises to lean on his elbow, to better look at Martin.

“What do you mean?”

“The Lonely,” Martin says, not meeting his eyes. Jon is wearing a blue t-shirt with a logo of a band Martin doesn’t recognize; the shirt is loose and it uncovers one of Jon's shoulders which would probably be distracting if Martin’s mind wasn't chilled by the remnants of the fog. “Why did you come for me?”

Even without looking at him, Martin sees Jon’s forehead ripple. A while passes as Jon searches his face and the thought that he shouldn’t have asked starts creeping up to Martin’s head. Shouldn’t have brought any attention to the subject, he should just be glad, he should—

“I care about you, Martin,” Jon says in a very gentle and quiet voice, like he’s afraid anything louder would take away the meaning of his words. Martin looks up at Jon and the hint of that intense blush from before makes it back to his face. “You’re… You matter to me. You will always matter to me.”

Martin can’t stop a small smile appearing on his face and Jon mirrors it.

“Thank you,” Martin whispers, feeling a warmth settle in his chest, finally driving the cold away.

“Anytime.” Jon lays his head back down and settles back with the right hand near his face. “Sleep well, Martin.”

Martin closes his eyes contentedly and he curls up on his right side, facing Jon, as if trying to keep this warm feeling from escaping his chest too soon.

“You too, Jon.”

---

Martin wakes up alone in an unfamiliar bed, the smell of foreign covers filling his nostrils and for a second he panics. He opens his eyes and the memories come back to him; their late arrival at the safehouse and laying down to sleep next to Jon.

He sits up, looking at the space Jon had occupied. It’s vacant now, just the curled up covers he left behind, but it manages to bring a blush to Martin’s cheeks, nonetheless. It feels so… intimate to know that they slept next to each other. It makes him feel warm and cosy.

Martin gets up and goes to the bathroom before he finds Jon in the kitchen. He’s humming quietly as he finishes cleaning the table and he looks up when Martin enters.

“Good morning, Martin.” He smiles and Martin’s afraid he’s going to melt. He takes a quick look around and notices that their sparse kitchen supplies are mostly unpacked, and the kettle is already on the stove.

“How long have you been awake?” He asks; some of the shock must have made it to his voice because Jon looks amused.

“Two hours or so. I’ve always been a morning person.” He shrugs and finishes cleaning the table. “Tea?”

A smile lights up Martin’s face and he gets swept up by the familiarity of the activity, while Jon busies himself with fixing up some breakfast. As both of them work in the kitchen, Martin notices the casual brushes of their skin and touches of the shoulders. He doesn’t know if he’s doing it consciously or if it just happens naturally, but he knows that Jon’s open demeanour is drawing him closer than before. He wonders if he’s been like this ever since he woke up from the coma, and there was just no one to appreciate it.

The morning is relaxed, the casual conversation flowing a lot smoother than the day before, and after breakfast they set out to clean the whole cottage and go down to the village to buy some actual supplies. The village is small, but the local shop provides all the essentials they need; for a moment Martin forgets about everything outside of that village and shopping for groceries with Jon, as if this is their life now, in the Scottish Highlands, living together in a cottage. They talk about cooking dinner, and the cows they passed on the way, and Martin thinks he could get used to that.

The bubble bursts when they finish up and Jon decides to call Basira. She picks up after a while and updates them on the absence of both Jonah Magnus and Daisy. Basira says she’ll send some statements up to them when the Institute stops being an active crime scene, and a shadow passes over Jon’s face. Wrapped up in a conversation about their taste in dinner dishes, it was almost too easy for Martin to forget food isn’t the only sustenance Jon needs. He finds it easier to forget things ever since the Lonely. They walk back to their cottage in silence, Martin grabbing Jon’s hand as soon as he lets go of the phone.

When they get back, Jon declares he’s going to take care of unpacking and cooking, and even though Martin knows Jon to be stupidly stubborn, he’s surprised by the strictness with which Jon insists he sit back and relax. Martin doesn’t really complain; he’s spent his entire life caring for others and, to be honest, it does feel rather good to be on the receiving end for once. He watches Jon from the couch for a while, before he takes out his notebook and looks over the poem he wrote in the car.

Wisps of mist conceal my eyes

A lone indulgence to lose one's face

And soothing a part inside that cries

With chilling sadness and numbing grace

The steadfast rhythm of waves ashore

As ocean breeze leaves a taste of salt

The words forgotten, erase what I swore

Until I hear your voice once more

I wondered many times what it might be

That we finally took to calling "us"

What would be left if we broke free

Of dread and horror's eternal grasp

The Eye looms aloft, ever-present dread

Watching all, eternal lids apart

You made your choice unaware you were led

By strings of web, against your heart

Jon starts humming under his nose in the kitchen as he cuts something on the board; the water in the kettle boils slowly and fills the air with a quiet whistle. Martin smiles while shooting a subtle glance at Jon; he seems to notice his gaze and falls quiet, but a smile lights up his face when he sees the fondness on Martin’s face. For all this talk about Jon “losing himself” in the role of the Archivist, this seems as human as you can get. Martin never favoured the approach the other archival staff took to the knowledge of the significance of Jon’s position, and he often wondered how they could look at him and see a monster. Of course he made bad decisions, but so did everyone. They’ve seen or read about so many avatars giving into the powers that fed them and yes, maybe Martin is biased, but Jon was nothing like them. They’ve all been caught in this huge web of statements that turned real; the more they struggled to break free the more tangled up they became, and it wasn’t Jon’s fault that he ended up in the centre of it. He knows Jon tried to make right choices every step of the way. Can you really blame a human being for failing to completely resist something that’s beyond mortality and human reality? One way or another they ended up here, together, and yes, maybe the Eye and the Lonely are still looming as very tangible threats, and Jonah Magnus is nowhere near being stopped, but at least they’re together now. Martin remembers thinking the Unknowing was the endgame, the last chapter of this horror for them, and he remembers the hopelessness of their story getting a bad ending that essentially pushed him into the Lonely; now he feels a different kind of an end approaching – he dares to be hopeful. Maybe everything works out in the end? Maybe, if they were safe and happy, it wouldn’t actually be the end of the world.

Martin looks down at his notebook and starts writing, sticking the tip of his tongue out in concentration.

What is a monster? Where is the line

That would separate us from the world

All I know is our paths align

And we together can battle the cold

You cut through the curtains of mist and See

The green glow fades when our eyes meet

My lips form a soft and quiet plea

To be loved has never felt so sweet

To be loved is a new feeling for me

I only know how to love from one side

But with you I hope we can once be free

Maybe ignore the whims of the tide

Although I know we're not nearly through

I taste and savour your voice, your breath

If only for a moment, we can start anew

And I will follow you even to death

As he stares at the last word of the finished poem, his hand with the pen hovering over it, he registers that his eyes have watered a bit. He blinks the tears away quickly as Jon sits down on the couch next to him, looking at him with a gentle worry. Martin looks up at the two mugs of tea he’d placed on the table.

“Did you make tea?” He asks with mock bewilderment, and Jon scoffs at him.

“I know how to make tea, Martin.” He nudges him with amusement, that gentle worry not quite gone from his eyes. “What are you writing about?”

Martin falls quiet, pressing the notebook to his chest in a knee-jerk reaction.

“Thought you didn’t like poetry,” he huffs out a laugh that’s only a little bit self-conscious. Jon shrugs, reaching out for his mug and taking a sip.

“I don’t understand it. And yes, I have been known to dislike it at times, but… Maybe I could be swayed to give it another shot.” Jon rolls his eyes fondly and looks at Martin out of the corner of his eye, a look that says ‘for you’. Martin grins, heat pricking at his cheeks once again.

“You see, i-it’s all about emotion.” He places the notebook gently on his lap face down and reaches for his own mug. “You w-want to put all of your emotions into words in a-an artistic way, that has a rhythm and, uh, and feels alive. And you want your, uh, your readers to feel that, that emotion through your words.”

Jon listens attentively and his eyes aren’t leaving Martin’s face; at one point Martin gets distracted by it and forgets where his explanation was going. Jon’s gaze has always been intense, in different ways throughout the time they’ve known each other. At first it was judgemental, the gaze of his boss, full of unmet expectations; then it was piercing, watchful and suspicious; as time passed, it seemed to gain more and more weight of the Beholding, something Tim always complained about. After Martin had joined Peter Lukas, the rare glances he got from Jon were full of yearning that Martin didn’t understand at the time; didn’t want to understand. Now, it’s that gentle fondness, interweaved with something intangibly sad and Martin feels an urge to hug him, to bring him close to his chest and never let go; to bury his face in Jon’s hair and protect him.

They move to place their mugs at the table at the same time and snort, amusement quickly turning into a fit of laughter. Jon throws his head back a little with it and Martin wonders if he has ever seen him laugh so openly before. He didn’t think it was possible for him to fall in love with the man even more, but once again, his heart proves him wrong. He stares at him with a lovestruck expression and thinks they should really talk about it. Martin doesn’t know where to start though and Jon seems to be thinking in a similar direction because his expression shifts into gentle seriousness.

“Martin, I…” He starts and bites his lip. “I need to apologize.”

Martin straightens a little; it’s not exactly what he expects.

“I—The way I used to treat you…” Pain and guilt flash through Jon’s face as he looks away for a moment to gather his thoughts. “It was not okay. None of it was okay. And I’m—I’m really sorry for that. It doesn’t—I know it doesn’t change anything that happened, but I” —he sighs. “I really am sorry. I hope I can, somehow, uh… somehow make it up to you.”

Martin reaches for Jon’s hand, and he looks down in surprise; Martin sees his eyes start glistening.

“I’m sorry for everything that happened to you.” He continues in a whisper and his eyes are locked on their touching hands. “I’m so sorry about the Lonely. I’m sorry that you’re trapped in all of this with me, and I would understand if you decided to leave—”

“Jon.” Martin squeezes his hand and Jon’s eyes shoot up to look at him.

“I’m sorry, that’s not an apology,” he sighs again. “I just… I’m sorry, Martin. About everything.” His other hand grips Martin’s. “I’m glad you are still here. I’m—I’m so glad, you d-don’t even know,” he laughs.

“I think I do.” Martin smiles gently. “Thank you for saying that. I’ve—I've forgiven you for a lot of it a long time ago. A-And the rest just isn’t your fault.”

Jon frowns.

“The Lonely was always there,” Martin shrugs. “Peter Lukas was just… a catalyst, I think. But now I have you.” His finger grazes the outside of Jon’s palm and his heart flutters in his chest when he sees that small smile appear on Jon’s face. “And you can’t be blamed for Elia—Jonah’s games. We’re all just… a bunch of people who didn’t know what was going on until it was too late.”

Jon’s eyes fall as he nods slightly.

“He’s still up to something,” he says quietly.

“Figures,” Martin laughs bitterly. “But we’re here now. And frankly, I don’t really want to think about him when we’re finally…” The word ‘together’ gets stuck in his throat, as if it would breach this fine line of ambiguity they’ve drawn between themselves. Jon seems to fill it in and his eyes land back on Martin.

He’s never wanted to kiss him more than he does right now. Jon's eyes are wide and glistening with something that looks suspiciously like hope, and his fingers gently graze the outside of Martin's palm. Warmth spreads in his chest and his eyes flutter a little, not breaking the eye contact. He wants to pull Jon close to his chest, to run his fingers through his hair and feel his breath on his own skin. To really feel like he's there, next to him, with him.

Before he can follow through with any of that, something sizzles in the kitchen, loud in the silence, startling them both.

“Food!” Jon chuckles slightly before he jumps to his feet and rushes to the kitchen, while Martin snorts and follows him. Jon stirs the pan with curry and sighs with relief when he sees it's not burned. He turns down the heat anyway and checks on the rice.

“Jon, this smells amazing,” Martin says, peeking into the pan with cheese and spinach. “I didn't know you could cook.”

“Well, contrary to the popular belief I was a functional human being. For a while,” Jon snorts and leans against the counter to look back at Martin. “It's Palak Paneer, my grandma taught me when I was a child.”

“It looks fantastic,” Martin grins, and Jon rolls his eyes in mock exasperation.

Even though the moment's lost, the remains of the feeling can be felt between them as they prepare the plates and take the food to the table. They easily fall back into usual chatter and, as soon as they’re finished, Martin jumps to wash the dishes. Jon relents after extensive affirmations from Martin that he's alright and he can definitely take care of a couple dishes in the sink, and he drops onto the couch with a content sigh instead.

Martin finishes up with the dishes and dries his hands on a towel.

“Do you want some tea?” He asks and hangs the towel back on the rack. When there's no response, he turns to the couch. “Jon?”

Something sinks in his stomach when he sees that the object that consumes Jon’s attention is the poem he’s finished; he scratches his neck, as his cheeks take on a pink tinge. “Oh…”

He walks up to the couch, unsure, trying to gauge Jon's reaction. His face seems tense, he squeezes the notebook in his hand so hard his knuckles go white, and his eyes are focused at one point on the page.

“Um... Jon?” Martin asks weakly, his heart drumming in his chest so loud he's sure both of them can hear it.

Jon jumps to his feet, startled, and looks up at him with eyes wide, like a deer in the headlights. Martin instinctively raises his hands in a placating gesture, as Jon registers his presence, looks down on the notebook in his hands, and quickly puts it on the table as if it stung him.

“Martin, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to look, it was just there and—”

“Hey, Jon, it’s alright!” It’s maybe a little not alright, since the poem is nothing short of a love confession and a wish Martin had no right to assume would ever be true, so Jon reading it is less than ideal. Martin rushes to gently place a hand on Jon’s shoulder but when he recoils from the touch, Martin withdraws his hand, cursing everything about himself.

“No, I, uh…” Jon runs his hand through his hair, eyes darting between Martin, his hand, and the notebook frantically. “I shouldn’t have— uh, it’s—it’s your private business, what you write about, so—”

Martin is sure he’s tomato red on the face by this point and hopes against hope that the afternoon light filtering through the curtains obscures it just a little. Jon, on the other hand, doesn’t have the embarrassed blush that usually darkens his cheeks; instead he breathes fast, his hands shaking ever so slightly. Martin sees him hunch just a little, making himself smaller.

“Um, yeah, I, uh—” He starts fidgeting with his fingers. Did the idea of—of love frighten Jon so much? He was stupid to leave it out in the open and now Jon knows, and it’s not how he feels, so he hates him… “I’m sorry.”

Jon’s eyes snap to him, his eyebrows furrowed in confusion.

“For what?”

Martin huffs out something like a pained laugh.

“Th-That’s not exactly how- how I wanted to tell you.” He wrings out his hands and shoots Jon a pleading look. What’s done is done and the only thing he can hope for is for Jon to let him down easy and never speak of this again.

“Tell me?” Jon looks down at the notebook again and there’s the worry again, stark on his face. He breathes out, slowly, and looks at the floor. “I don’t—I don’t even want to think this is a possibility…”

Martin doesn’t need to imagine what it would be like to be stabbed, if he wanted to - he’s pretty sure the acute pain of his heart shattering in his chest is close enough. His mind tries to catch up to the emotions, slow them down just a bit, because something seems off, and isn’t this a weird way to reject someone you must have known had a crush on you? But his throat tightens with the swell of pain and shame and Martin blinks away the tears welling up in his eyes.

Jon sighs and plops down on the couch, hiding his face in his hands and pushing his glasses up to his forehead.

“We d-don’t have to talk about it, if—if you don’t want to,” Martin says quietly. He sits down next to Jon, careful not to touch him in any way, and puts his hands between his knees.

Jon lets out a bitter laugh.

“Isn’t that what they—the Web would want? Just… mindlessly follow, go with the flow until something… irreversibly bad happens?”

Martin turns to Jon with a frown.

“Wh—What?”

Jon looks at him with something glistening in his eyes and Martin can see the lines of pain and misery written on his face like they belong there.

“The web,” he says faintly. “Strings of fate. I—” He lets out a breath. “Was I just being manipulated this whole time? Was I ever really—Did I ever have a choice?”

“Jon... what are you talking about?”

“You—You said I was...” He reaches for the notebook and points at a verse with his finger. “’Made your choice unaware you were led by strings of web against your heart.’ How—W-Why did you say this?”

Martin stares into Jon's green eyes with concern, yet parts of his heart start to weave themselves back together. However confused and worried Jon seems to be, none of it is directed at Martin; he looks at him with desperation, almost pleading, and he realizes they’ve been having two different conversations at the same time.

“Oh-Oh, God, Jon, I-I didn't mean—I just, it's a-a metaphor, just that, you know,” he takes a breath. “It does remind me of a web, the-the way we got caught up in Elias' plans.” He looks down, his cheeks burning as he remembers why Jon would get caught at this specific phrase. “I'm sorry for, uh, using that, it was just the first thing that came to my mind and—”

Jon exhales next to him and Martin risks a look up. The uneasiness isn't gone from his face but he relaxes just a little bit, enough to stabilize his breathing.

“I'm sorry for this… this whole thing, Martin.” He gestures at nothing in particular and it's his turn to look at the floor, as if it's all of a sudden the most interesting thing he's ever seen. He starts fidgeting with the notebook. “I'm just—What if it’s true?” His voice goes higher at the question and he closes his eyes. Martin squeezes his arm. “What if I am just... Just a puppet? An inhuman, helpless puppet in the hands of—Of some spider pulling the strings?”

A tear rolls down Jon's cheek and Martin grabs one of his hands. It’s small and still shakes a little; he tries to put all the protectiveness he feels into this small gesture. Jon doesn’t recoil this time, instead taking a moment to watch Martin’s hand clasp around his.

“Jon,” Martin starts softly. “You're still you. You're not some—Some spider puppet that can't make choices.”

“But what if—”

“You've made a choice to go into the Lonely for me.” Martin bumps their knees together lightly and Jon looks up at him. “I don't suspect any webs would need me alive to push you into it. It was You.”

Jon looks him in the eyes and Martin barely stops himself from reaching up to his face to wipe away his tears.

“Or it just makes us think that we have a choice but are ultimately helpless against fate and everything we do is determined by intricately crafted circumstances,” Jon whispers. “Maybe free will is a lie.”

Martin blinks.

“Jon...”

“Maybe I was never able to stop it. Any of it.” Jon’s voice grows more horrified and even though his eyes are directed at Martin's face, he seems to be looking somewhere past him. “Maybe nothing we try to do really matters.”

“Jon.” Martin’s voice gains a bit of force, even though he feels all but sure. “What do you see?”

Jon frowns. “What?”

“Look at me and tell me what you see?” The force is gone; the sentence sounds more like a feeble suggestion than a request, but Jon's eyes refocus on Martin's in a frown of confusion.

“What do you mean?”

“We're here now,” Martin says quietly. “And yeah, maybe our decisions are all predetermined or whatever. I still think it matters that we try. I think our experience matters. And you're not a-a monster without free will, Jon. You care about people, and you’ve sacrificed a lot for other people. You've made your own choices and, no matter if they were good or bad, they were still yours. And I think that matters.”

Jon blinks at him for a moment, then his shoulders slump with a sigh and he interlaces their fingers. Martin doesn’t miss it and he feels warmth in his chest.

“I've always been afraid of—of my will not being my own anymore,” he confesses quietly. “Of, uh... of not knowing the difference.”

“I get it,” Martin nods. “If it’s any consolation, I see a lot of Jon in you still.” Jon looks up at him with surprise and Martin gives him a half smile. “I see a very changed Jon but it's still Jon.” He strokes Jon's palm as his heart picks up the pace. “The same Jon I've first fallen in love with.”

Jon exhales softly, his face caught in a soft surprise, and Martin smiles around the dull ache in his chest.

“You don't have to say anything. I'm sure you've known for a while, but I just... I wanted to say it.”

With every second that passes in silence, however, Martin's cheeks grow hotter, and he concludes that this might have been a mistake.

“I-I'm sorry. M-Maybe I shouldn't have said that, I… I don't want things to get weird or anything, so, uh, we can, we can just forget—”

“Martin.” Jon says his name in a soft and kind of inquisitive way that makes his heart bounce around and transforms the ache in his chest into swirling butterflies again. Martin looks up and Jon’s head is tilted to the side, his face still wet with tears, but he notices something hopeful glitter in his eyes. “I love you too.”

Martin frowns, suddenly wondering if he isn't dreaming. Is Jon really saying what he thinks he is? Did he hear correctly? Maybe he misheard—

“I have for a while,” Jon's voice is still quiet and soft. “I didn't want to say anything because I thought it was too early after the Lonely and you might not feel this way anymore, but...”

Martin swallows, acutely aware of how loud his heartbeat is. He squeezes Jon’s hand and smiles slightly.

“I... I didn't know,” he whispers, not trusting his voice to cooperate.

“As soon as I woke up from the coma, I wanted to tell you,” Jon says. “I thought I was too late; that it took me too long to stop denying the feelings I had because I didn’t know how to deal with them, and I'd missed my chance.” He laughs bitterly.

“So that’s what it was about,” Martin whispers, as Jon's actions towards him throughout his time as Peter Lukas’ assistant start falling into place. Jon looks at him with a frown, so he adds, “The ‘let's gouge out our eyes and escape'.”

Jon scrunches up his nose and clears his throat.

“Yes, well. Yeah.”

Martin chuckles quietly.

“I don't think I would have lasted in the Lonely if I understood then. But then again. It didn't really matter in the end. It didn't help.”

“But it was your choice,” Jon echoes Martin's words from before and their eyes meet again.

“Yeah. It was my choice.”

They stare into each other's eyes for a moment, losing track of time, before Jon smiles slightly and looks back at the notebook.

“I really am sorry for not asking your permission, though,” he says. “I got so caught up in the metaphor I didn’t even finish it.”

Martin blinks, the warmth from his chest spreading to his cheeks again.

“D-Do you want to?”

Jon smiles softly, this new smile that Martin has only seen in the past couple of days, always directed at him.

“If you’d let me.”

Martin needs to look away, unable to handle the affection in Jon’s eyes. He mumbles an ‘okay’ with a smile that’s not entirely under his control and gets up.

“But I am making that tea whether you want it or not, waiting for someone to finish reading something is a torture.”

He hears Jon laugh as he heads back to the kitchen.

When he comes back with two steaming mugs, Jon is waiting for him with a smile and his nervousness dissipates with his next words.

“I like it,” Jon says. “Apart from the, uh, web metaphor, obviously. It's hopeful.”

“Y-You do?”

Martin swallows; the pleasant tingling in his stomach is back. He places their mugs on the table and reaches out to join their hands again. Jon intertwines their fingers immediately and caresses the outside of Martin’s palm with his thumb.

Jon looks down at the verses again and smiles softly, almost sheepishly, a familiar blush darkening his cheeks.

“I—I don't know if there would be anything for us outside of. You know. The fears and all that,” he grimaces. “At least, for me. But, uh…” He looks at Martin again with a hopeful expression that makes Martin melt a little, and he gently caresses Martin's cheek with his free hand. “I really like the thought of it.”

Martin's brain might be short-circuiting at this moment and all of his thoughts take form of fuzzy static.

“Me too,” he says, suddenly breathless. Jon's hand rests cupping his cheek and, are they a bit closer than they were a second ago? Jon's gaze slides down Martin's face to his lips and he feels he might faint right there and then. He doesn't, instead gathering up his courage to take a breath.

“Can I kiss you?” Jon asks first and Martin feels his lips form a grin.

“Please,” he breathes out; the next second their lips meet, soft but urgent, desperate and sick of waiting. Martin's hand dives into Jon's soft hair, fingers scraping the delicate skin of his head and earning him a low sound from Jon's throat. They pull each other closer and find a rhythm to lose themselves in for just a moment; the sensation of Jon's tongue swirling in his mouth, of his slender fingers on his cheek and his neck, the pressure of his body against his chest; all of it making Martin dizzy with happiness.

Martin pulls away when his lungs painfully remind him breathing is still a necessity and he opens his eyes to look at Jon – His soft lips, his nose, his pockmark scars, and his eyes, green yet with no trace of Beholding in them. He takes him in whole, with all of his flaws and all of his virtues, and he feels seen in return, seen by the man he loves and who loves him. The weight of it all hits Martin like a crashing wave and he pulls Jon in for a tight embrace.

“I love you,” he whispers against his shoulder, and he feels Jon's arms tightening around his torso.

“I love you too, Martin.”

#tma #the magnus archives #tma fic #summer in the archives event #niki.writes #jonathan sims #martin blackwood #jonmartin

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weirwoodking · 4 years ago

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who do you think will be on the throne at the end? is there a chance it will be a woman? do you agree with the theory that bran will be king in the north bc he symbolizes winterfell? idk if i see dany on the throne bc i don't feel like she belongs in westeros, i think she would be better off with a throne on the other side of the narrow sea but i really don't know what i'm saying

It’s very hard to make predictions for ADOS, because we don’t have TWOW yet. So much can change about the story and the characters in one book, thematically and narratively. Think of how much the plot was influenced by just that final Bran chapter in ADWD.

But, here I go anyway.

My short answer is: no one. (And no, I don’t mean Arya)

Let’s get into it.

Part 1: How the Show Tainted Everyone’s Brains

Obviously, a lot of people care about the Iron Throne plot. Sometimes too much. I do believe that this is mostly because of how much the HBO show changed everything about the story to make the Iron Throne seem like it was more important than anything else. Like promotional posters of all the actors each sitting on the throne, the name of the series itself being changed to “Game of Thrones”, actors getting asked in every interview “who do you think should get the Iron Throne?” as if it’s the last cupcake at a birthday party that everyone’s fighting over, the final episode was titled “The Iron Throne”. The marketing for everything was “it’s the fight for the Throne!” up through the eighth season. It made the object itself become a huge pop culture symbol.

It almost felt like the show was trying to make it seem like the goal of the Night King (a character not in the books) was to sit on the Iron Throne! The show portrayed it as if the Others were just a little distraction that needed to be dealt with so the characters could get back to arguing over the Porcupine Chair. However, in ASOIAF, it’s the exact opposite. The Porcupine Chair is what’s distracting the characters from the real conflict, the Others.

It’s almost comical how that has somewhat transferred over into the fandom, the “game of thrones” is what’s keeping everyone from focusing on what really matters, the “song of ice and fire”.

Part 2: GRRM’s Quote

It wasn't easy for me. I didn't want to give away my books. Every character has a different end. I told them who would be on the Iron Throne, and I told them some big twists like Hodor and "hold the door", and Stannis' decision to burn his daughter. We didn't get to everybody by any means.

-George R.R. Martin

So, he “told them who would be on the Iron Throne”. Something important about this quote is that he doesn’t say who. And, of course, the Iron Throne gets destroyed at the end of the show anyway. Show!Bran doesn’t really “end up on the Iron Throne”. Show!Dany does. George never said that who “ends up” on it in the books is who ends up on it in the show. He’s said that the Shireen thing and the Hodor thing will “happen very differently” in the books anyway. And, of course, another major part of that quote is “every character has a different end”.

I don’t think that who sits the Iron Throne last is necessarily going to be the ruler of Westeros at the end. For example, Cersei (or Aegon) may be the last person to sit the Iron Throne. Or even Euron (however, even though his goal is to rule post-apocalyptic Westeros as a god from the Iron Throne, I don’t think he’ll actually get there). If wildfire is hot enough to melt iron, I could see the throne being destroyed during whatever fiery shenanigans go down with Cersei and JonCon in TWOW. I think it would be fitting for the fight over the throne to end in the next book. ‘Cause the winds of winter are coming, baby, and it’s gonna be time to start dreaming of spring.

Part 3: The Weirwood King

The idea/theory of Bran becoming King has been around for a long time, long before the HBO show even started airing. This is because of the Celtic myth of King Brân the Blessed, whose name means “Blessed Crow” or “Blessed Raven” in Welsh. Other than the obvious connection with the name, Brân the Blessed’s story involves a magic cauldron that can bring the dead back to life.

In the myth, Brân’s head is cut off and continues talking (think of how Bran’s most powerful aspect is the magical powers of his mind), because in Celtic mythology the head is believed to be where the soul is.

Celts had a reputation as head hunters. According to Paul Jacobsthal, "Amongst the Celts the human head was venerated above all else, since the head was to the Celt the soul, centre of the emotions as well as of life itself, a symbol of divinity and of the powers of the otherworld." (source)

Catch that? “Otherworld”. There is another myth (Irish, specifically) called the Voyage of Bran, in which the title character goes on a quest to the Otherworld. The Otherworld is a supernatural realm in Celtic mythology. It is also where the sidhe (a.k.a. aos sí) live. Remember, the sidhe are what George has said the Others are inspired by. In Irish mythology, the Otherworld is called Tír na nÓg, Mag Mell and Emain Ablach, in Welsh mythology it’s called Annwn, and in Arthurian legend it’s called Avalon. Fun fact, “Avalon” was the title of the novel George was writing when he had suddenly had the idea of a scene in which a young boy and his brothers see a beheading and then find a litter of direwolf pups in the snow. And so ASOIAF happened.

I’ll leave that there, and try not to go down the great big rabbit-hole of Celtic (and other cultures) mythology connections in ASOIAF. The takeaway is: ASOIAF has been influenced by these myths.

I do believe that Bran is going to be King. Not just because of his ties to this mythology, but also because of symbolism in his own story. The most notable one being…

Under the hill, the broken boy sat upon a weirwood throne, listening to whispers in the dark as ravens walked up and down his arms.

[...]

The singers made Bran a throne of his own, like the one Lord Brynden sat, white weirwood flecked with red, dead branches woven through living roots.

[...]

His father and the black pool and the godswood faded and were gone and he was back in the cavern, the pale thick roots of his weirwood throne cradling his limbs as a mother does a child.

- Bran III, A Dance with Dragons

Bran is also the only one of the Stark kids who still thinks of himself as royalty:

What was he now? Only Bran the broken boy, Brandon of House Stark, prince of a lost kingdom, lord of a burned castle, heir to ruins.

- Bran III, A Dance with Dragons

Bran is the heir to Winterfell. It doesn’t matter if Robb named Jon his heir in his will, the will was written under the pretense that Bran and Rickon were dead.

However, Bran doesn’t have any connection to the Iron Throne. It’s far more likely that he would sit on a weirwood throne, because of, y’know, everything about his story. So, if Bran was King of the Seven Kingdoms, I don’t think it would be on the Pincushion Stool.

If Bran is king of the realm, I do think there would still be a separate Lord/Lady of Winterfell, but I do think that there’s a possibility of a Pevensie siblings ending, where all the Stark kids would rule together as the Lords and Ladies and Winterfell.

Something that I’ve never really seen talked about regarding the idea of Bran becoming King of the Seven Kingdoms is the religious differences between the North and the southern regions of Westeros. Of course, the show didn’t deal with this at all. For fuck’s sake, they had Cersei blow up the Westerosi verison of the Vatican and face no backlash. It was so laughably absurd how Show!Cersei’s destructive reign was shown to have like… zero impact on the Seven Kingdoms.

In short, I’m not too sure that the Kingdom who is majority Faith of the Seven worshippers would react too well to a weirwood-tree-Old-Gods-warg-wizard-king. I mean, when Janos Slynt finds out Jon is a warg he calls him a “thing”, a “creature”, and a “beastling that is not fit to live”, and wanted to execute him not just for being a turncloak but for being a warg as well. And Jojen warns Bran of these things, saying that his own folk may want to kill him if they know what he is.

But… all of that anti-magic attitude might not matter after night falls.

Part 4: Winter is Coming

I believe that the Long Night is going to be very devastating for the Seven Kingdoms.

Martin is a big believer in making things have meaningful, permanent consequences in his stories. I don’t think that an apocalyptic event like the Long Night is something that’s just gonna get dealt with in a quick snap and have no lasting effect.

A lot of people are going to die. I don’t mean main characters, I mean people that would not survive a normal winter and sure as hell won’t be prepared for this one. Westeros’s food stores have been severely depleted by the War of the Five Kings, and we’ve been told multiple times in the text (particularly AFFC and ADWD) that feeding people during this winter is going to be extremely hard.

Besides that… the whole, uh, invasion of the eldritch ice beings thing might have a bit of an impact on the realm.

I won’t go into depth about how the Seven Kingdoms will be affected by the Long Night, ‘cause we really have no idea. But, however it all goes down, I do think it will have lasting changes for the people of Westeros. The impact that it leaves may make the concept of Bran being a wizard-king more acceptable. “Oh, well we’ve just seen zombies and winter elves, so what’s too surprising about a magical greenseer warg king?” I think that Westerosi culture becoming more aware and accepting of the existence of magic is the only way that Bran could become the king of the whole realm. The Westeros at the end of the series is not going to be the place that it was at the beginning.

Part 5: Dany: A Home, Not a Throne

To sum up my thoughts on our dragon girl, I don’t think Dany will end up on the Spiky Toilet. I don’t want Dany to be on the Spiky Toilet.

Now, my personal speculation (which a lot of people disagree with, which is fine) is that Dany will never see King’s Landing before the Long Night. I personally don’t think that Dany will ever meet Aegon or Cersei. I don’t see there being enough time in the story for that. Yes, GRRM said that there will be a second Dance of the Dragons, but he also said that the second Dance does not have to involve Dany. He may have originally planned for it to be Aegon and Dany, but probably not once the Meereenese Knot happened.

The Meereenese Knot is what Dany’s ADWD plot is referred to as. GRRM did not intend for Dany to stay in Meereen as long as she has, but because of his “gardener” style of writing, that’s where the story led him. GRRM has said that one of the hardest parts of writing the Meereen plotline (which involves Dany, Barristan, Quentyn, Tyrion, and Victarion) is trying to find a way to cut the plot knot he accidentally got himself stuck in. He has said that Tyrion and Dany will meet towards the end of TWOW, which means that Dany will most likely be spending a large portion of her story with the Dothraki. That part is a completely blank page, but I believe that Dany will meet Tyrion possibly ¾ of the way into the book, and sail for Westeros at the end.

I won’t write a full meta about this here (because that’s not what this post is about), but to summarize my prediction: Aegon VS Cersei is going to be the battle in King’s Landing, a battle which will destroy the city. Dany (who has already rejected sailing for the Throne multiple times) will still be stuck in Essos, dealing with everything she’s still got going on, and will sail for Westeros at the end. Not for the Throne, but to go North for the real fight (remember that Marwyn is also on his way to Meereen to tell Dany that they need her).

Because Dany's purpose is not to fight for the Iron Throne, it’s to fight the Others. Dany (fire, light, and life) VS the Others (ice, darkness, and death) is the main thing the title refers to:

“Well of course the two outlying ones, the things that are going on north of the Wall and Daenerys Targaryen on the other continent with her dragons are of course the Ice and Fire of the title, the Song of Ice and Fire.”

- George R.R. Martin, 2016

One of the most important excerpts that shows us where Dany’s story is headed is this:

That night she dreamt that she was Rhaegar, riding to the Trident. But she was mounted on a dragon, not a horse. When she saw the Usurper's rebel host across the river they were armored all in ice, but she bathed them in dragonfire and they melted away like dew and turned the Trident into a torrent. Some small part of her knew that she was dreaming, but another part exulted. This is how it was meant to be. The other was a nightmare, and I have only now awakened.

- Daenerys III, A Storm a Swords

Dany has a short prophetic “this is what I was meant to do” dream. Dany could possibly have more dreams about the Others in TWOW, visions that will make what Marwyn has to tell her more believable. It’s not like that dream was the only one Dany has had that alludes to the winter threat, Dany has had visions about this since book one:

The red door was so far ahead of her, and she could feel the icy breath behind, sweeping up on her. If it caught her she would die a death that was more than death, howling forever alone in the darkness. She began to run.

- Dany IX, A Game of Thrones

Anyway, there’s just a lot more foreshadowing in the plot that this is what Dany is meant to do. I think adding in another conflict into her story once she leaves Meereen would make the story feel bloated and would severely fuck up the pacing.

I don’t think Dany will ever see the Iron Throne. The themes of her story have never been about her wanting the Iron Throne for what it is, but for what it represents to her. It represents the possibility of a home and of feeling safe for the first time in her life, what Dany truly wants. I think that it’s absolutely fine if Dany never sees the Throne or sits on it, and that it makes more sense for her narrative arc if she discovers that she can find a home somewhere else, not necessarily where she thought it would be.

Part 6: Final Thoughts

So, in conclusion, I don’t really give a shit who ends up placing their ass on the Forbidden Laz-E-Boy, I care about the War for the Dawn. I care about seeing the characters I’ve followed for the past five books coming together to fight the real conflict of A Song of Ice and Fire. Also, even if we do get a Scouring of the Shire-type post-climax for ASOIAF, it doesn’t matter. People don’t see the Scouring of the Shire as the climax of Lord of the Rings, they see the climax as Aragorn leading the forces of good against the forces of evil and Frodo and Sam throwing the One Ring into Mount Doom. Whatever ending resolution comes after the climax of ASOIAF, it doesn’t change what the climax is.

"Do you think your brother's war is more important than ours?" the old man barked.

Jon chewed his lip. The raven flapped its wings at him. "War, war, war, war," it sang.

"It's not," Mormont told him. "Gods save us, boy, you're not blind and you're not stupid. When dead men come hunting in the night, do you think it matters who sits the Iron Throne?"

"No." Jon had not thought of it that way.

- Jon IX, A Game of Thrones

TL;DR:

My prediction: Cersei will be the last person to sit the Iron Throne, which will be destroyed in the Wildfire of King’s Landing. After the Long Night devastates the Seven Kingdoms, Bran will become the King of this new Westeros that has been majorly affected by the return of magic. Also, it would be real nice if Dany found her red door.

God I hope my rambling made sense

#sorry that this took me over a week to answer #ask #anon #asoiaf #asoiaf meta #long post

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janekfan · 4 years ago

Text

Hostile

https://archiveofourown.org/works/30583040

Jon always needed a strong hand.

Ever since he was small and wandering off without his grandmother’s permission only to be escorted back by disgruntled police.

Elias just wanted him to be the best Archivist he could be.

It didn’t stop the sting. Just reinforced how much he had to learn and how awful he was at this job. He was just being...sensitive, right? The others were fine. They didn’t seem to have any issues, certainly not like him. Meanwhile, it seemed no matter what Jon did, Elias browbeat him. Always gently, always politely, until Jon understood how he’d gone wrong and left in a state of distressing confusion. His employer made it so clear that Jon often felt foolish coming away from his office. If he’d just been smarter he would have figured it out on his own without needing his supervisor to explain it to him in terms he could understand.

He passed Tim and Elias chatting amiably in the hall, burying his nose in the stack of papers he was carrying to make himself as small as possible before shuffling past them. They didn’t seem to notice or if they did, made no move to acknowledge him and the last thing he heard when he rounded the corner was Elias chuckling at one of Tim’s bad jokes, the same one he used to tell Jon at least once a month up in Research. It was inane. Nothing to well, to write home about. Certainly nothing that should have piqued Elias’ interest.

Though, Jon supposed, he didn’t know anything about either of them did he?

“Martin.” Cultured, the smooth voice drifted through the office door, worming its way into Jon’s ear and straight into his already hammering heart. He was ashamed that he couldn’t stop himself from creeping to the door and listening closer. “This is fine work. How long have you been working here?”

“Oh! Uh! Um!” Jon rolled his eyes at the stammering, pushing down a spike of what was definitely not jealousy. Elias laughed, light and easy.

“No need to be so anxious. You’ve been an asset to this department. A good fit.”

“Ah! Th’thank you, Elias. Sir! I mean, I mean sir.”

The man’s amusement was so sincere. Jon must’ve been missing something when it came to himself.

“Ms. James, a word if you please.”

“Of course, sir. How can I help?” Jon pressed his back against the wall, the chill of the basement cement seeping into his button down and sending him shuddering.

“I wanted to thank you for your dedication. I realize things have been fraught, for lack of a better term, since the promotion.”

“I trust in the interview process.”

“I’m sure you do.” Jon held his breath. “And I appreciate your willingness to support this endeavor as it continues to grow. Especially where our new Archivist is concerned.”

“Of course.”

“Thank you again, Ms. James.” Heavier footsteps retreated and Sasha’s headed in his direction. Jon nearly ran from her impending approach, taking refuge again in his office with the thought that it should belong to her echoing in empty space between his ears.

“Jonathan.” He tried not to fidget under Elias’ intense scrutiny.

“Yes, Elias?”

“I received a call from the library.”

“I, I assisted with a difficult case a few months ago.”

“I can’t imagine why, but they are asking for your help again.” It was a cutting remark and Jon fought against the flooding mess of emotions. “They know you’re now our Institution’s newly minted Archivist.”

Oh.

OH. Of course! His impatience was mixing him all up and getting him up in arms before Elias finished speaking.

“Do you know what it’s regarding?”

“I can’t recall though you are making fewer mistakes over time. I do think your efforts would be better focused on your work in the archives, don’t you think? Jonathan?”

“Ah, w’well. Yes. If that is what you think I should do.” He could feel his face heating up, no doubt blazing red with an embarrassing blush.

“I didn’t ask for your thoughts only for you to leave it up to me. You need to be decisive, Jonathan.”

“Yes, th’that is. Yes. I will be.”

“And?” Lord was he ever bungling this.

“I will turn down their invitation.” Elias was no longer looking at him but at his desktop screen with a bored expression.

“Don’t worry yourself. I’ll take care of it for you.”

“Th’thank you, sir.”

“No need to have you tangled up in old efforts.”

“Yes, of course.” Jon shifted from foot to foot desperately trying to keep his hands still, to be professional until Elias glanced back at him in confusion.

“You can go, Jonathan. I certainly don’t want to keep you from your duties.”

It was rare that Jon left his office since taking, stealing, the position of Archivist and the uncomfortable silence that settled over the breakroom upon his arrival was damning.

“Need something, boss?” Tim raised an eyebrow, hiding a frown behind his cup. Jon felt whatever bravery he’d scraped up in the past several hours disappear.

“I, um. I just, Elias?”

“What about him?” Sasha folded her hands, prim and polite as ever since the announcement was made.

“Well, you. You’ve known m’me a while, years really, and. And I think, does, does he--?”

“Spit it out, man.” He flinched at Tim’s bored tone. Tired of him. He shouldn’t have come here.

“He, the way he speaks with me?” Lord, this sounds ridiculous. He was ridiculous, just a sensitive mess. He always did this, turned molehills into mountains. Read into situations and only came out the other side wrong.

“Elias isn’t like that, weird maybe.” Tim sounded so sure, flippant and nonchalant. “He’s been nothing but supportive since our transfer. You’re misinterpreting him or something. You do that.” Jon’s stomach dropped, tears welling up in his eyes as everything he thought about himself was confirmed.

“No, it. It feels like more than that. It. Conversion with him doesn’t. It doesn’t feel right.”

“What, Jon? He’s being mean? Rough having a couple of new responsibilities?” Tim scoffed. “You got the job over someone more qualified, over someone who works harder than anyone--”

“Tim--” He held up his hand.

“Sash, he needs to hear this. Someone needs to tell him the truth.”

“The, the truth?”

Yeah, Jon. The truth. She deserves so much better than this and now her choices are to settle or flat out leave and it’s your fault. All because you couldn’t resist the urge to interview behind her back!”

“That’s not what happened!” Even Jon could hear his whinging, voice high and desperate for one of them to believe him.

“Not from where we’re standing, mate.” Tim crossed his arms and sat back in his chair and when Jon looked to Sasha she merely shrugged. Martin just looked helpless, staring into his tea and avoiding eye contact all together.

“I, I. That’s not.” Repeating himself wouldn’t do anything to save him and he fought against the tears gathering on his lashes. “I’m s’sorry.”

“Anything else?”

No. There was nothing else.

Jon kept to himself, kept his head down, arriving before the rest of them and leaving long after they did. He didn’t want to see them. He’d made a right fool of himself enough for now, unsure if his fragile self esteem could withstand another blow. Really, he hadn’t meant for any of this to happen and there was no way to explain how Elias had maneuvered him so skillfully into this position. Was he trying to drive a wedge between them? Knowing Jon would invite his two closest friends to accompany him? A knock on the door made him jump, reminding him for a moment of a very different and more sinister one from his childhood.

“Jon?” Martin, no doubt with another overture of friendship he was loath to accept. It was easier to remain alone rather than face the hurt of another rejection so soon.

“What do you need?” Caught off guard by his sore throat, he coughed roughly into his elbow, accepting the tea to soothe it with a nod of thanks.

“That doesn’t sound good.” It wasn’t. Now that he wasn’t burying himself shoulders deep in work and self flagellation he was aware of aching muscles and oppressive fatigue, a throbbing at the base of his skull that made him stomach sick.

“It’s nothing. I neglected to drink any water today.” It was true, he realized and Martin didn’t look convinced but Jon didn’t want to go into how miserable he’d been feeling lately. Tired and wrung out trying to avoid them all and figure this out and not have a melt down all at the same time.

“You should take better care of yourself.” Gentle and kind and Jon bristled with it, flustered with the concern.

“I’ll take that under advisement.” He turned away, staring at the messy surface of his blotter to avoid anymore interaction. “I have work to do.” Martin shifted, an expression Jon couldn’t parse on his face when he glanced up at the silence. “So…?”

“Oh! Yes, I’ll be going then.” Another awkward beat passed between the two of them.

“Thank you, Martin.”

Despite feeling particularly woozy it had been a good day.

Elias nodded to him when they passed each other on the way to lunch.

He pointed out a particularly competent piece of research.

Praised how well he was handling the job lately.

It was a shame it was at the cost of his sanity. Jon was falling apart at his poorly sewn seams, every moment another snapped suture and he was pinning himself back together with clothes pegs in a windstorm. Even he knew this wasn’t sustainable. He was going to burn out like a match overextending himself like this. But avoiding his assistants meant he wasn’t able to ask them for help. He’d made his bed. He just wished he could lay in it.

Maybe Elias would approve of Jon taking the rest of the day. He’d stayed late all week. Caught up with work and even plowed ahead a little bit. So when Jon caught him in the hall he tentatively asked.

"Y'you see, I. I've been a bit under the weather and I thought since I'm ahead--"

“Jonathan,” the disappointment in the way he said his name struck Jon like a bolt of lightning and he couldn’t stop the way his face fell. “You’ve barely begun.” Oh lord, he’d read this wrong. So very wrong. “Do you truly think it’s appropriate to ask for time off so early in your tenure?”

"No, of course not. I just meant, I just thought--"

"I find that difficult to believe.” He didn’t bother hiding his contempt. “If there's nothing else?" Jon shook his head, not trusting himself to speak lest he burst into hysterics right here. Elias left him where he stood and Jon took a few moments to compose himself before turning back the way he came only to nearly run into Martin.

"I didn't mean to listen!" He held up his hands in supplication or surrender. "I swear I didn't, Jon."

"S'fine." There wasn't enough left of him to care and when he made to step around the other man found himself stopped by a careful touch at his bicep.

“Wait, um. Please. Does he, does he always speak to you that way?” Jon eyed Martin warily. He was the only one of his assistants he didn’t really know. Why would he care?

“Only when I’ve made a mistake.” When I deserve it. When I’ve failed to figure out what he wants from me and done something wrong.

“It didn’t seem very professional.” Shame ran red-hot through his veins--what did he know?

“I assure you, I was. I was out of line.” Jon didn’t want to be here having this conversation with Martin of all people. He wanted to retreat to the relative safety of his office where he could sit in the dark and continue underperforming at his job.

“Jon, you’re not well.” Martin sounded upset with him and somehow it hurt worse than it did with Elias. At least Elias knew him. Martin by all accounts was a stranger. “You should be at home.”

“No, no, no, you don’t understand.” Jon tore his trembling hands through already bedraggled and greasy hair. He was disgusting. Unprofessional. Sweating through his clothes and unable to focus long enough to make it through even one statement.

"What don't I understand?" Jon's expression turned hard.

"Forgive me if I don't wish to count the ways in which I've failed at my job for you."

"Jon I--"

"Leave it, Martin." And he stalked off in none to straight a line, leaving Martin to gawk at his back.

Jon collapsed against his desk, the old pine creaking under even his small weight, before clawing his way across it to the chair and barely grabbing the bin in time to be sick. With nothing to lose he laid over it, stomach convulsing painfully as he fought to win back tentative control and only putting it back when his own panting became too loud in his head. Jon allowed himself a cry, forehead pillowed on folded arms where he slumped, muffling the pathetic sounds that slipped past him with his teeth; biting his wrist where his cuff would keep the mark hidden.

Tim's unceremonious arrival surprised him and Jon yelped, reflexively running a sleeve over his face to erase the evidence even though he knew it wouldn’t make much difference.

"Martin told us."

"Tol'tol'you what?" Real fear rooted him where he sat, raising the hairs on his arms and sending a thrill up his spine. What did they know? What had he said? Did he tell them about Elias reprimanding him? Proof of his incompetence? Were they here to yell at him again?

"How Elias has been treating you."

"Jon. You do realize it's him being unprofessional."

“You can’t let him treat you that way.”

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

“We would have helped you.”

Like a volley of canon fire each fast phrase pounded against his crumbling defenses and left him reeling with contradicting information.

“You should have said something earlier.” He tried. He just hadn’t tried hard enough and he didn’t know what made the words tumble out of his mouth now but he couldn’t stop himself from blurting:

“I tried!” And he'd known better than to try again and risk another telling off. He was shaking and sick. He didn’t want to be here anymore, wanted to go home. “But I d’did this to myself, didn’t I? That's why you l'let me hear the t't'ruth.”

“No, I was. No, Jon--” He plowed on, overwrought and interrupting Tim, words spilling out of him too fast to be taken back.

“I thought we. W’we were friends. I thought I could come to you when th’things aren’t g’good. Like before, like in research.” Jon scrubbed at his face. “But you just. You hate me. And I know it's my fault. I know I'm not, not fit for this position and I know it's ungrateful of me but I don't want to be here. I’m so tired. I don’t. I don’t feel well. And I’m not allowed to leave.”

“What do you mean?” Tim was a hell of a lot closer than he had been, kneeling on the floor and holding Jon's hands to keep him from scratching himself to ribbons.

“I’ve been telling you.” It came out as a pitiful sob, squeaking past a throat tight from holding back the sea.

“Okay, okay. Just tell us again.” Jon closed aching eyes, hot tears falling over hot cheeks, breath panting and strained in his twisted up chest all tied up and tangled with twine.

“I can’t s’skive off. Elias said.” Like a touchstone a pair of soft hands guided him back in the chair.

“He’s burning up.”

“Doesn’matter.”

“Of course it matters, Jon.” Sasha’s voice came from far away, through a tunnel, wending its way to his stopped up ears through syrup. His next thought slipped away, dissolving in the heat swallowing him up from top to toes. Breathing became harder, impossible, lungs full of caking cement smothering choking snuffing him out like a candle flame.

“Jon?”

“Jon!”

Devoured and spit out again, again again

writhing,

drifting on an outgoing tide of misery and affliction,

waves of agony break over him and suck him under and roll him along the mud bottom of a polluted river and every gasp he snatches at the surface is less and less and less

Clicking, beeping, the chirping of a million birds in a thousand trees and each one wants his attention tick tick ticking away like the blood red hand of a watch and awareness trickles in like hot black tar against the surface of his eyelids.

Fluorescent lights carve their way in between heavy lashes and Jon recognizes the broken sound of denial as his own. A noise, a voice? in the room and the blinding glow receded enough to think about figuring out where he was. He coughed, mouth a desert, and welcomed a spoonful of ice chips blissful and cool against the heat seeping through his veins, his arteries, his skin.

“Jon?” He recognized the sound, the person, the thumb tracing circles over the back of his hand. “Hey, there he is. Welcome back, bud.”

“T’Tim…waz…?” Fairy floss crowded out any thoughts and Jon spent the next seconds trying to come up with more words and failing.

“Do you remember what happened?” Martin took up space next, then Sasha, crowded around him and no, he didn’t. Was barely able to catalogue his body; the deep seated ache, a prickly itch in the corner of his elbow.

“Hos’ital?” Tim nodded, offering up another spoonful and Jon let them melt over his tongue. Lord, he was tired, prying open eyes he didn’t remember closing.

“S’okay, buddy.” He was being so kind. Like he used to be in Research and the last thing he felt before it all faded away were twin sweeps of familiar fingers wiping away tears.

All three assistants were still there the next time he woke though Jon had no idea of how much time had passed. He wasn’t as confused, actually aware of his surroundings and he scratched absentmindedly at the IV taped to his skin. The thin gown didn’t have sleeves long enough to hide the lines left behind by his nails. He didn’t remember clawing himself up like that.

“How do you feel?” Martin looked relieved, tired.

“Uh. Fine, fine.” He plucked at the stiff blanket, avoiding their eyes. “What. I’m s’sorry. I can’t seem to--what happened?”

“You’ve been sick, Jon.” Tim plunked himself down in a terrible plastic chair. “Bad stomach flu, dehydration. You’ve been here for days.” There was a hard edge to his voice and Jon suppressed a flinch.

“S’sorry.” Sasha sat down at his other side, taking up a hand, and Martin offered him a smile.

“Jon, please don’t be.” She looked tired too, drawn and pale. “Tim and I are the ones apologizing.” Jon shook his head, staring at his lap and withdrawing his hand to worry at his fingers.

“I shouldn’t have--”

“What?” Tim cut him off. “Asked for help?” Jon nodded, earnest, glad they were all on the same page.

“Yes! You’re understandably angry with me. I didn’t respect that.”

“Can you hear how ridiculous you sound?” Tim wasn’t shouting but it was a close thing. “We froze you out! Left you alone! Accused you of lying about how Elias was treating you--Jon. Being upset about a stupid promotion doesn’t warrant how we treated you. You know that, right?”

“I don’t. I don’t know?” Sasha hushed Tim before he could start up again.

“It doesn’t. And when you became ill we blamed you for that too, for not telling us after we gave you no reason to trust that we would help and it wasn’t right.” Gently, she embraced him and he couldn’t stop himself from collapsing into her and while she wasn’t always one for physical displays of affection, she pressed him closer. “We’re going to do better.”

“We’re in this together, boss, like we should have been from the beginning. From this minute on.” Tim clasped him on the shoulder. “Okay?” Jon, exhausted and confused and hopeful, looked up at Martin when he nodded too.

“Okay.”

#TMA #The magnus archives #Jon sims #martin blackwood #tim stoker #sasha james #elias bouchard #hostile work environment #hospital #overwork #stop being mean to jon :<#sick jon

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voiceless-terror · 4 years ago

Text

What We’re Given and What We Make

@aspecarchivesweek Day Two: Family, also for @dheiress, who prompted Jon/Gerry/Martin waking up!

Characters: Jonathan Sims/Gerry Keay/Martin Blackwood

Martin wakes to Gerry’s soft touches, his fingers mapping constellations from the freckles on his arm. “Mm. Morning, love. Jon already up?”

“Actually, I think you’re on top of him.”

“Ah, alright.”

The sunlight is filtering through the window Jon forgot to close and it’s been letting in a cool breeze all night; it’s probably why Jon’s currently burrowed mostly underneath him, an almost imperceptible bump in the covers. Martin loves the fresh scent that floods the apartment but Jon’s bound to be grumpy about it, waking up with a stuffy nose and an irritated throat. He’ll blame it on one of them; Jon enjoys dodging responsibility for these small, inconsequential things. And they always let him.

Gerry meets his eyes with a knowing look, stopping his ministrations to reach up and give Martin a dry peck on the forehead. “Sleep well?”

“Reckon so.” He reaches out to tuck a stray lock of hair behind Gerry’s ear, smiling at the demure look it earns him. He’s so lovely in the morning light, clothes rumpled and the remnants of eyeliner smeared across his cheek. Jon likes to help him take it off in the evening, smooths a towel across his face like Gerry’s made of porcelain and liable to break. The intimacy of the motions and the tender care behind them makes Martin want to put pen to paper.

When he first met Gerry he expected someone much, much different, the image from Jon’s starstruck tales paint a certain type of picture, you see. Someone arrogant and dashing, a hero from some gritty drama. But he’s shy, quiet and almost unassuming. Jon drags him over from the bar, practically vibrating in excitement and where he should feel jealousy at their interlocked hands he instead feels a sense of belonging, like the man’s hands are made for holding and the other’s waiting for Martin to take.

“This is Jared Keay, Martin-”

“Ger-ard,” the man stresses, throwing a fondly exasperated look Jon’s way before meeting Martin’s eyes. “You can call me Gerry, though.”

Gerry. There’s a friendly cadence to it, warm and kind. Martin likes the way it rolls off his tongue, likes to whisper it to himself when the man dozes on his chest, soft and unguarded only when he’s alone with them. It had taken them quite some time to break his shell and see past the deflective humor and occasional posturing. Breaking down his walls was a task Martin took to with relish- he’d done it with Jon, and he’d do it again. Gerry was worth it.

And Gerry’s not one to ruminate, he doesn’t like to dwell on the memories of times with his mother or at the Institute where Jon currently slaves away. But Martin knows he hasn’t quite shaken them off, he can read it in the way he considers his words, when he hesitates at certain touches. Martin can relate; he still hears the phantom echoes of his mother’s voice, her criticisms that followed his every move. When it gets to be too much Jon assures him of his importance, of his worth outside of being useful, and now he has Gerry to do that too. These days, Martin’s starting to think he deserves such devotion.

He hopes Gerry’s starting to think the same.

He remembers when he first opened the bookstore, when Gerry helped him set up shelving and plan the layout. Gerry’s telling one of his stories, one Martin’s heard a thousand times and will gladly hear a thousand more. He passes Martin a hammer and for a brief moment their hands touch; an electric pulse shoots up his spine and he knows Gerry feels it too, judging by his own shiver. They were getting close; Gerry spent many nights at their flat slowly opening up and feeling comfortable in his skin. Martin’s been waiting for this moment but Gerry didn’t expect it; he withdrew from them until he could put a name to something he’d never quite felt before.

And so two became three.

“You know, I didn’t think this would ever happen to me,” Gerry confesses one night, while the two of them lie in bed, Jon puttering away in his study. “Didn’t think I was built for it. But then Jon came along and you, and- I don’t know. It just feels right.”

“Because it is,” Martin replies, running a hand down Gerry’s back, rucking his shirt up just a bit. He’s so sure of the truth behind his words because he’s watched it happen. He’s watched Jon’s admiration give way to something deeper, Gerry’s easy acceptance of his boundaries. He’s felt the way his own body reacts to Gerry’s presence, how his smile lights up any room. They don’t make each other whole, but they make each other happier. And isn’t that the point, to be loved for one’s self and not what one can give? “We’re all built for love, one way or another. We just have different ways of expressing it.”

Gerry and Jon are born storytellers, their banter and chemistry off the charts, and Martin could listen to them for hours not saying a word. In years past he would’ve felt jealous but now he feels only adoration at their closeness and how relaxed they are with each other. He admires the ease with which they spin worlds for Martin to get lost in.

But late at night Martin speaks in rhythms that could put their words to shame, reading an odyssey in a line of tattoos on skin just to see the blush on Gerry’s face. His I love you is a prayer, devotion enough in every syllable to make Jon weep. These are the nights where they forget the outside world exists- they have only each other, their bed, their hands, and Martin’s words.

He enjoys this power, but uses it sparingly. After all, his partners can’t always be putty in his hands.

So Jon works, Gerry plans and Martin dreams of a time when the three of them can be happy and content for all days, when the lines of stress fade from Jon’s face and the touch of a hand brings only the echoes of love and not pain. When Gerry’s touches are no longer hesitant but bold and purposeful. He thinks that day’s coming.

But for now he laughs when Jon groans to life underneath him, takes the blame when he inevitably complains in a nasally tone about the open window. And when Gerry shoots him that secret little smile, he’s reminded that this is enough, that he’s enough.

He finally has a home, and a family to fill it.

ao3 link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28715103

#my writing #tma #the magnus archives #aspecarchives #martin blackwood #gerard keay #gerry keay #jonathan sims #jongerrymartin #with mostly a focus on gerrymartin #demisexual gerard keay #asexual jonathan sims #gerrymartin #jonmartin #jongerry

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rosy-cheekx · 4 years ago

Text

I Want To Be A Real Fake

@kaiserkorresponds said: Black and White + "I want to be a real fake" + formal clothing <3

Prompted fic that I haven’t been able to stop thinking about since I received it! Hope you like it, Kaiser!

Jon would not consider himself fashionable. He has a distinct sense of style, yes, but that style lately has been Tired-Academic-Works-in-a-Cold-Office,-Steals-Sweaters-When-Necessary-core. Not exactly suitable for the business casual dress code The Magnus Institute “requires” (no one seemed to pay attention to the Archive staff’s choices of attire), but certainly not suitable for the small rectangle of cardstock Elias Bouchard hands him, on a quiet spring morning in the Archive.

“What’s…what’s this?” Jon asked, staring at the neat, printed text as if it was Greek. (If it were Greek, at least, he could decipher parts of it. He was an English Lit student, after all, and he had really enjoyed etymology.) The card was a stiff black and white, with the black owl logo, the symbol of the Magnus Institute, printed in the top middle. Glancing down at it, he saw a date, and the words: “black-tie.” Shit.

“My apologies, I forgot how tired your position tends to leave you.” Elias’s voice was prim and polite, but Jon still winced inwardly. “As a head of a department, you are now strongly encouraged to attend the fundraiser I host in April each year. Our donors are fascinated by our departments, and especially the Archives. Gertrude’s disappearance has raised questions as to her successor, and I trust you can assuage the concerns of our donors at your accomplishments in the position.” Jon chose to believe that Elias’s keen eye didn’t sweep the mountains of paperwork that surrounded his desk as he surveyed the small, poorly lit office. “I’m certain you’ll be able to find appropriate attire for the occasion.”

He turned on a heel, halfway to the door before seemingly considering something. “Ah, and Jon, one more thing. Gertrude always requested she bring an assistant. Would you like to do the same? I am happy to accommodate one more for the catering count.”

Jon snapped his mouth shut, utterly dumbfounded by the responsibility just thrust upon him, and nodded mutely, before clearing his throat. “Ah-um, yes, I would appreciate that. Does it matter which one?”

“Someone who can make a pleasant impression, please.” Elias raised an eyebrow, nodded almost imperceptibly, like he had made a decision, and rapped his knuckles on the doorframe on the way out. “I trust your judgement.”

Jon counted to thirty, to be certain Elias wasn’t coming back, and slouched into his office chair, scanning the save-the-date again, without the immense pressure of Elias’s eyes on him.

“The Magnus Institute Fundraiser Gala,” it read below the embossed owl, within a thin black border. “23 April, 7-10 pm. Black tie. Catered.” Jon traced the owl with the pad of his finger, flipping the card over to see, in Elias’s thin cursive: Make a good impression, Jon.

God, this is going to suck.

“Sasha, come on.” Jon wasn’t one to beg, but desperate times and all that. He had cornered her in the breakroom, while Martin was on a research trip and Tim was getting takeaway from the chippie down the street. “It’s only three weeks away, and you’re the one I trust the most. Please.”

“Jon,” Sasha sighed, smoothing her skirt patiently. “I would if I could, I swear to you. But my sister’s wedding has been planned for months, I’ve already requested time off, and I can’t undo all that for a work party.”

“Fundraiser,” Jon corrected instinctively, even as he signed in resignation. “Fine. I just really didn’t want to go alone.”

Sasha scoffed, shaking her head to herself as she opened the fridge and pulled out her bagged lunch. “You have two other assistants you know. What about Tim? Or Martin?”

Jon wrinkled his nose at the thought of bringing nervous, rambling, doe-eyed Martin to the gala. “God no. Martin would be too much; I need someone who can handle themselves and hold a decent conversation. I need someone who can attend a black-tie gala and look more at-home than me.” A withering look from Sasha.

“So why not Tim, then? He can do all those things.”

“Do all what things?” Jon jumped and spun around to see Tim, carrying a grease-spotted bag in one hand and a paper soda cup in the other. He surveyed Tim in a moment: the button-up shirt, red and printed with tiny black balloons, sleeves rolled to the elbows. Sunglasses pushed to the top of his head, dark black hair artfully mussed. High cheekbones dotted with freckles, and what Jon swore could be the faintest bit of eyeliner.

“Tim, would you like to go to a fashionable, catered work party with me?”

“Boss,” Tim lowered himself to a knee and held out his soda solemnly. “I thought you’d never ask.”

“Tim, that’s backwards. The kneeler isn’t the one who accepts,” Sasha chuckles helpfully.

“You’re just jealous of our love, Sash!”

Good Lord.

Jon was really hoping the food would be good. He was in Tim’s flat, in the toilet, checking himself in the mirror one final time. His hair was carefully braided, courtesy of Tim’s deft hands and coiled into a thick bun at the base of his skull, gold and emerald hairpin snugly in place. His suit was nice: a respectable white shirt, dotted with tiny lime-colored flowers he had to strain his eyes to see, under a dark green suit jacket and matching trousers. The suit itself was cut in a rather androgynous style, pulling tight at Jon’s waist in a way he rather liked, and contrasted beautifully, he thought, with the smooth brown of his skin. He flicked an invisible piece of lint from his thigh and, satisfied, stepped into the hall to tell Tim he was ready to go.

“Tim, I’m all-woah,” the exhale was accidental. Tim’s suit was certainly not subtle. He was wearing a deep blue turtleneck, hair perfectly coiffed. Over the turtleneck, the suit jacket was white, a spray of water-color flowers in all shades of blue and purple shifting with every movement. The navy blue heeled suede boots on his feet accentuated his already-tall frame “Tim, you look good,” Jon breathed.

“Ouch. No need to sound all surprised. I know I clean up well; I dirty pretty damn good too.” Tim chuckled and adjusted his sleeves. “You don’t look so bad yourself, Mr. ‘I don’t want anything too crazy.’”

Jon grinned shyly, rocking on his heels of his own, less intimidating dress shoes. “I like it, I think. It feels nice.” The excitement over how good he felt in the clothes had, all too briefly, suppressed the impending doom he was feeling about the evening’s events. “Are you ready for tonight?” he asked for what must have been the fiftieth time, spinning the solid black ring he wore around his finger.

“Yes, Jon. Talk about the reorganization process as a structural renovation, converting files to audio formatting for future accessibility, don’t talk about artefact storage even a little, don’t get caught up with anyone too pretty, I get it.” His voice was flat, bored by the repetition. “This is going to be fine.”

“What-what if it isn’t, though, Tim? What if they ask about Gertrude or how their money is being used, o-or how the restructuring is going? I can’t bloody well tell them I’m using a tape recorder that’s probably older than I am.”

“Jon,” Tim’s well-manicured hand was on his shoulder, nails the same blue of his turtleneck. “Take a deep breath. For Gertrude: be honest. It was a tragedy, and you hope she’s found, but until then you’re doing your best to act on her wishes as her replacement. And for the rest, be vague. Restructuring is going ‘as well as can be expected’ or ‘is running quite smoothly with the help of your three wonderful assistants.’” He winked. “And tell them you’re using a multimedia system, that’ll confuse those old boomers enough to move topics. And it is technically true. Laptops and a tape recorder are multiple medias. Anything else we can riff, you know? I can talk with the best of them.” He eyed Jon meaningfully. “This will be fine. It’s one night. And we’ll get chips after. Promise.”

Jon nodded and closed his eyes, breathing steadying. He was grateful Tim had been available. Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad.

“So, how did you know what black tie meant?” Jon asked, eyeing Tim across the seat of the cab. They’re on their way now and Jon’s hands are steepled tightly, pressing his fingertips against each other until it hurts to do so. “I had to Google it last week when I went shopping, in case we had to wear literal black ties.” He needed to talk about anything, anything but this stupid fundraiser they drove steadily towards.

Tim grew silent for a moment, considering his words. “My brother was an extra in a movie once and started dating a stylist for one of the leads. He fibbed his way into getting us tickets for premieres, so I’ve made my way through a few high-fashion events.” He shrugged, fiddling with a thin silver bracelet along his wrist, were Jon knew the letter D was carved in delicate cursive. “I like it, too, you know? Dressing up for events. It makes me feel debonaire, like a spy.”

Jon shook his head in disagreement. “Makes me feel fake,” he mumbled, eyeing the lorry floor beneath them. “Like everyone knows I don’t belong. I hate having their eyes on me and knowing they’re better than me.”

Tim prodded Jon with his elbow gently, raising his eyebrows in a comforting manner. “That’s it though, isn’t it? We aren’t fake. We worked our way here. Hell, you’re the boss of an entire department, Jon. We’ve gotten to where we are in the Institute because we deserve to be here. And anyways, everyone at that party next week is gonna be fake. They’re pretending to care about our jobs, and we pretend to care about their money, and they pretend they’re even the ones who write the checks and not some snooty financial advisor in Wales.”

Jon shrugged, trying to keep himself from biting back that he wasn’t enough, didn’t earn this spot, that Sasha deserved it more than he did and was doing nothing to prove to Elias he was up to the monumental task of being the Head Archivist. He didn’t, though, and instead took a steadying breath, nodding to Tim’s comforting words.

“And anyways,” Tim continued, shrugging. “Even if we have to be fake for a night, it’ll be fun. We get to be a part of ‘the queen’s high society,’” he added in a high-pitched, overly fake RP accent, eliciting a chuckle from Jon. “And Rosie said the catering Elias orders is divine. Apparently we should keep an eye out for tiny samosas?”

As if on cue, the cab shuddered to a stop. Jon thanked the driver, paid, and followed Tim out.

The Institute looked different under the pretense of wealth and success. It was still the same building of course, but the floor was clear of the rain mats and the smooth marble floor paved the way to the library, the main sitting room of which had been cleared as a rather respectable grand hall to host a party. Tables lined the cordoned off books, hot plates and silver trays steaming slightly. Bottles of wine lined a bar, behind which a vested individual with slicked-back hair was pouring small glasses and taking orders. A quiet orchestra completed the scene, cello and piano in a delicate duet. Before tonight, Jon couldn’t have imagined this many people in the Institute alone, least of all the library. Not that it’s packed. There’s maybe thirty or so well-dressed individuals milling about, the din of conversation white noise in comparison to the floating of the music.

Tim’s hand is on his back, pressing kindly into his spine. Oh yes, he remembers dimly, and nods, allowing Tim to guide him into the library and hand him a glass of wine. They stand out a little, two beacons of color around what is a pretty drab spectrum of black and grey, save for a few spectacular dresses in the crowd. Jon finds he doesn’t mind it, except that it may lead to unwanted conversation. It’s not his looks he fears being judged on, but that he be found wanting when it came to his capabilities. He was always selectively self-conscious like that, some things utterly meaningless, others inexplicably important.

Jon isn’t a huge fan of wine, but he finds himself clinging to the glass as a lifeline as he and Tim meander through the crowds, largely ignored. The music is intoxicatingly simple; he finds himself caught up in the deep reverberations of the cello as they walk, feeling it deep in his chest. There were, in fact, samosas, as well as small cannoli, and he and Tim piled plates as high as they could without garnering stares.

There weren’t many people Jon recognized; he didn’t even see Elias as he scanned the crowd for faces. Wine in one hand, a plate in the other, he thought maybe the night wouldn’t be too bad.

Jon shivered, the sensation of being stared at prickling the back of his neck. He spun around, trying to appear casual, and spotted Elias at last. He was standing with a large man, broad and wearing a deep blue suit, scruffy beard a mix of tawny and white. Elias crooked his finger, smiling primly. As Jon made his way over to the pair-who he could’ve sworn he hadn’t seen previously, he was intercepted by a short bald man in a plum velour suit, leaning heavily on a cane.

“Ah, Archivist,” he smiled warmly, extending a hand to shake before seeing Jon’s hands were full, and nodding his head instead. “Congratulations on your promotion. Elias has told me he expects great things from you.”

Jon smiled politely, glancing over to see Elias and the other man gone again. Regretfully, he turned his attention back to the man. “It’s a shame about Gertrude, yes, but I’m hoping I can do her proud,” he said in a practiced tone. He glanced over his shoulder. Where was Tim? He was just with him.

“Of course, of course. I was hoping I could have a word?”

“W-with me?”

“Yes, you see, I was rather concerned when I heard Gertrude’s position had been left open. When Elias said you yourself where at the junction to take over, I wanted to meet you for myself. I worry about the Archivists in your institute, so many of you do such monumental work for so little recognition. Do you worry your work to be meaningless? Your name insignificant when it is all said and done?”

(It is this conversation he remembers, months later, when he demands to record Prentiss’ attack. He refuses to be another mystery, a name on a placard to be wondered about.)

“I-ah, yes? No?” What was the right answer here? Jon stammered out a half-assed reply about doing his best, midway through when he felt a hand firmly on his shoulder, where his neck and collarbone met. Glancing to his peripheral, he saw a golden ring, an eye, and was frustratingly grateful to hear the cool tones of Elias Bouchard over his shoulder.

“Now Simon,” he said, voice even, “you aren’t trying to scare my dear Archivist, are you?” He gave the shoulder a squeeze but remained put. “Jon, I believe you’ve heard of Simon Fairchild, a significant donor to our establishment.”

Jon nodded wordlessly, not really listening to the two bureaucrats delve off into some topic or other, craning his neck to look for Tim. The music had picked up, he registered dimly, a orchestral melody led by a violin, sharp and whimsical.

“Jon?” Another squeeze to his neck, and Jon tried not to wince. “Wouldn’t you agree,” Elias asked, voice patient at surface level. “That the best way to move forward is to restructure the Archive?”

Jon nodded, trying to recall the answer he had rehearsed. “Yes, ah—my team and I have worked quite hard at recording the statements a-and organizing them in a way that will last long-term.”

“Ah, what a delight,” Simon—Mr. Fairchild—said warmly. Jon was reminded of the voices adults would use when they spoke to him as a child, when his inane facts about space or etymology had moved from endearing to obnoxious.

The conversation lasted for what felt like days, Jon feeling rather like Mr. Fairchild’s cane: a statement piece, contributing nothing to the conversation but unable to find a smooth exit. Leading questions from Elias led to thankfully rehearsed answers before Simon found his own exit and walked away smoothly, eyes wide and taking the room in.

“I-I really should find Tim,” Jon muttered, glancing around the room anxiously.

“Nonsense. He’ll be back,” Elias said, releasing Jon’s shoulder and taking his elbow in turn, “I would like to introduce you to a few dear friends of mine. I believe Tim is keeping one occupied at present.” Jon sighed inwardly (and maybe outwardly as well) and allowed himself to be led around the room. His wine glass was empty, as was his plate and he found it snatched away by a member of catering. He had nothing to cling to, to keep his hands busy, and was struggling not to pull out his delicately-placed hair pin just so he could fiddle with something.

Jon was taken on a tour of old rich people of England. Names flew past him, conversation buzzed around him, and still Jon felt like nothing more than a well-dressed trophy to be ogled at. Did Gertrude do this every year, he wondered dimly. No wonder she disappeared. He fiddled with the ring on his finger, nodding and smiling at the appropriate times, speaking when needed, and feeling the swirl of the orchestra build up in pressure behind his eyes. The music was beautiful but hard to listen to. Something about it was ugly, hiding a dark secret behind the innocent melodies.

Eventually, the evening was so much of a blur that he couldn’t even begin to fathom how much time had passed. It may have been weeks, may have been merely twenty minutes. Jon glanced down for his watch before realizing he had taken it off at Tim’s flat and never strapped it back on. Pity. It only added to the dreamscape reality he seemed to be participating in.

At last, Elias led him towards the large burly man that was suddenly in view (hadn’t he always been? Jon wasn’t quite sure. The wine must have affected him more than he thought with the nerves) and Jon saw Tim, similarly trapped in conversation as he had been. He smiled apologetically as Jon and Elias approached and the larger man smiled warmly at the newcomers.

“Ah, Archivist. I hope you don’t mind I stole your companion away briefly. I was curious about the nitty-gritty of your Archive. Timothy here was very informative.” Tim winced at the use of his full name and a part of Jon smirked, relating to the sentiment of being called Jonathan or worse, John.

“I’m glad he can answer your questions.” Elias spoke before Jon could open his mouth. “I’m quite proud of the Archive staff. Jon chose well and I am sure the four of them are going to do great things together. Jon, you remember the Lukas family?”

Jon nodded, confused for a second before the man in front of him extended his hand. “Peter Lukas, at your service.” The hand was cold, and a feeling of dismay washed over Jon as he shook it. He couldn’t help the feeling that the shake of that hand was a seal of his fate.

The orchestral music had picked up, a swirl of strings and piano, ascending in pitch until it grated at Jon’s ears. No one else seemed to react to it, however, as the manic notes pulling at something inside Jon’s brain, something he couldn’t explain. It was almost like a migraine, but sharper and deep in his spine and in his ears. Elias let go of Jon’s arm at some point during the conversation with Peter Lukas, a discussion about boats, maybe? Travel? This was the conversation Elias was so keen on Jon being a part of?

As Jon felt that grip relax, the glint of the ring on Elias’ finger seeming to wink at him, Jon took a staggered step backwards. “Mr. Lukas, ah-Peter, it’s been a pleasure. Elias, ex-excuse me.”

Jon turned and dashed out of the library, feet carrying him on instinct through the winding halls and down the stairs of the institute, deep into the Archives. He stopped when he felt his feet echo against the cold, solid lino of the archival storage and bent over, hand on the wall, gasping in shallow, rapid bursts. It was too much, it was too much, he thought he could do this but it was too much and he wasn’t enough for them-

“Woah-boss.” Tim was there. When did Tim get here? Was he speaking out loud? Shit. “Jon, yeah-hey, Jon. I’m here. You’re okay. Take some deep breaths, okay? You’re going to black out if you’re not careful.”

Jon felt his suit jacket being shrugged off of him and the newly allowed freedom of his shoulder helped. He took a deep, sputtering breath, the sweet oxygen flooding his system and sharpening his thoughts.

“The-the music and the talking,” he said under his breath, Tim craning to listen without infringing on his personal space. “Too-too much.”

“The music? Jon, hey, hey, just focus on calming down, okay? That was a dick move of Elias to separate us immediately. I was talking to that Lukas guy for way too long. Not even sure what we talked about. I think he’s just one of those guys.” Jon smirked to himself as he focused on the floor beneath his feet, breathing slowly until his heart rate had resumed a normal rhythm.

“Says you,” he mumbled, eyes closing as he pressed his warm cheek to the cold wall.

“You bastard!” Jon felt a light swat on his shoulder. “I listen to people! I have meaningful conversation; just ask Martin and Sasha and Alexa from Library and Calvin from Artefact Storage. I am practically a professional listener.”

Jon smirked, satisfied with his jab and turned around, now pressing his back to the wall. “God, Tim, I do not want to go back in there.” It was hard to admit out loud, even if the evidence was written all over his face.

“Okay. So, we won’t.”

“What?” the answer was so mind-bogglingly simple, Jon reeled.

“We don’t want to be here. We’ve talked, we’ve eaten. Let’s just leave. I can tell Elias I had an emergency and you had to escort me home, like a true gentleman.”

“Lie to Elias? I feel like that cant end well.” The offer was tempting, Jon hadf to admit.

“I mean, Sasha has keys to my flat. I could ask her to start a fire, if you think that’s sufficient?”

Jon barked out a laugh at that. “Ah, no, lets save a fire for something big. Yes. Let’s-let’s go, Tim. And-er, I suppose I should thank you. For coming tonight. I know its not an ideal way to spend an evening.”

“Are you kidding?” Tim did a twirl, Jon’s own jacket slung over his shoulder. “I look hot. You think I’d pass up an opportunity to dress up like this? You’re dreaming.” He smirked and took Jon’s arm, leading him back up the stairwell. It felt different than Elias’s touch. That had been a cold tug, directional and leashed. This felt…snug, more like a link in a chain than anything else. Comforting, reassuring.

(Luckily, they weren’t laughed out of the Nando’s they popped into late at night. Lemon and herb and spices covered their hands, but they were careful to keep their jackets clean. Jon, when looking back on the evening; remembers this moment, talking and laughing and letting the fresh night air was over them. Elias, Lukas, and Fairchild be damned. He’d deal with that tomorrow.)

#the magnus archives #tma #tma fanfic #fanfic to a tea #jonathan sims #tim stoker #prompt fic #black-tie #elias bouchard #still a dick #peter lukas #simon fairchild #sasha james #me? write everyone BUT martin>#amazing

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suttttton · 4 years ago

Text

Growing Pains

Febuwhump Day 1: Mind Control

***

“You knew what you would find here, didn’t you?” Annabelle asks, leaning back against her kitchen counter, looking over Jon with eyes far too predatory for his liking.

“To be honest, I expected more spiders,” Jon says. He’s seated at Annabelle Cane’s table, in Annabelle Cane’s flat. Annabelle Cane is making him tea. He came here of his own accord, and even though he can feel his heart in his throat, he refuses to regret this decision. Hadn’t he long ago decided that answers were worth the fear? Isn’t that how he’s made every decision, since Jane Prentiss attacked the Archives? Since he read the wrong book and narrowly escaped being devoured by a monster?

Annabelle smiles, crosses her arms. “Just because you can’t see them doesn’t mean they aren’t here, Jon.”

Jon swallows. “Right.” His voice is faint.

“And yet you came anyway,” Annabelle says. “Do you know why?”

“I, uh… I thought I’d ask you—something. For a statement. Maybe.”

“And you thought I was likely to give you one?”

“Well, you invited me here, didn’t you?” Jon snaps, stiff politeness finally giving way to trembling anger.

“I did,” Annabelle says. She comes closer to Jon, and it’s all he can do not to flinch away from her. “Give me your hand,” she says, holding out her own to take it.

“Why?” Jon manages, even as he’s already extending his bandaged hand toward her.

She gives him a flat look, closes her eyes, takes a breath. His hand is trembling slightly, caged between her two hands. She opens her eyes. “Because our patron is worried about you,” she says. And then, her voice low with anger. “You will not compel me again.”

“Our patron?” Jon says.

Annabelle nods, her attention occupied examining the bandages on his hand. He tries to pull away, but he can’t. He can’t move his hand at all. She runs three fingers over the surface of his palm, and Jon holds back a squeak of pain at the gentle contact. “Jude did a wonderful job,” she murmurs, more to herself than to Jon. Then she looks at him, smiling. “And Martin did a wonderful job with the bandages.”

She releases him, and Jon jerks his hand back, cradling it to his chest. She steps even closer, and he’s frozen in place as one of her hands goes to his throat. Even over the bandages, she traces a line exactly where Daisy’s knife punctured his flesh. “Daisy’s is more impressive, though.”

The kettle screams, and she steps away to finish preparing the tea. Jon can suddenly move again, and he curls his arms around himself. This isn’t like meeting Jude Perry or Mike Crew. He wasn’t on even footing with them, either, but with Annabelle, it isn’t even close. He considers running, but he’s terrified that he’ll find himself unable to move if he tries to act on that thought.

“Why am I here?” he asks. He’d grown used to the small sliver of power his questions gave him. It’s terrifying to lose that.

Annabelle sets a mug of tea in front of him. He picks it up, takes a sip. He didn’t decide to do that, but it’s happening anyway. She sits down across from him, takes a sip from her own mug. “The Mother of Puppets is fond of you,” she says. Like that explains anything.

“You mean, the—spiders?” Jon asks, dread growing in his stomach.

“Knock, knock,” Annabelle says, smiling at him over her mug.

A jolt of fear rushes through Jon, and he takes a deep breath, steadying himself. “But that isn’t—I belong to the Institute, the, the Eye.” Jon still has so many questions about the Entities, so many things that he doesn’t know, puzzle pieces that don’t quite fit together. But he knows that he doesn’t belong to the spiders. He escaped them.

“Sure,” Annabelle says. “But the Web claimed you first. You’ve been running around, collecting your marks like a good little Archivist, all inspired by your desperate curiosity, your gnawing fear that you won’t be able to put all the pieces together in time. It’s all very Beholding-flavored.” She wrinkles her nose, and looks at Jon, still with that sly smile. “Much better for you to strengthen your connection to the Web. Your fear will feed us. You’ll have our gifts.”

“So this is, what, an invitation?”

“Sure,” Annabelle says. “If you want to think of it that way.” She pauses. “Of course, invitations presume that you can deny them, and free will isn’t exactly the Web’s strong suit. The Mother of Puppets wants you to be ours, so you will be.”

Jon opens his mouth, to ask what the hell that means, but Annabelle cuts him off. “You should probably be going now.”

Jon stands up, not of his own accord, and starts toward the door. Annabelle follows. Before he leaves, she plants a hand on his shoulder, and he just barely manages to not flinch away. “Jon,” she says, and there’s something different in her eyes now, replacing the sly teasing tone she’d taken before. She looks… concerned. Sad, even. “There will be some growing pains,” she says. “Just do what the Mother wants. It’ll be alright.” She squeezes his wrist, and then shuts the door.

He doesn’t decide to go back to the Archives. The Web decides for him.

***

“Good morning,” Martin says, bringing in tea, as he does every morning.

Jon smiles at him. “Good morning, Martin.”

Martin looks at him for long enough that Jon starts to frown. “Martin? Did you need something?”

“What?” Martin blinks. “No, sorry, I—You just look… really good. Better than you have since—Well, since you got back from your… vacation, I guess.”

“I suppose there’s no snappy way to say, ‘time when you weren’t coming into work because your boss framed you for murder and the cops wanted to kill you,’” Jon quips. “But yes. I feel better.” He lifts the statement on his desk. “Feels like we’re finally making progress towards something.”

“And your hand, and—It’s all healing well?” Martin asks.

Jon nods, flexing his hand slightly beneath the bandages. “I think I’m starting to get a bit of feeling back? Which is probably a good sign.”

“Probably,” Martin agrees. “I still think you should’ve gone to A&E.”

Jon nods, a little embarrassed. “Yes, well… if it gets worse, I’ll take your advice.”

“Alright,” Martin says. “Well, I’ll let you get back to it.” And then he leaves, smiling because, for the first time in recent memory, Jon actually seems as fine as he claims to be.

Jon wants to scream. He wants to curl up beneath his desk, arms wrapped around himself in some semblance of comfort. He wants to be held—Martin or Georgie or Tim, or someone. He wants the release of it, warm arms grounding him as he shakes apart entirely. He wants to beg the others to please, please help him.

Instead, he smiles at them when he sees them in the break room, when he asks them to look into certain details for him. He sits in his office, calmly reading statement after statement, finding as much information about the Unknowing as possible. He goes home and watches movies with Georgie, and laughs at all the right parts. None of it is his choice, and he is so, so scared. Scared of what the Web is planning. Scared that he will be nothing but a puppet for the rest of his life.

It’s strange, being so constantly terrified, but showing no physical symptoms of fear. His heart rate is normal. His hands and voice are steady.

It doesn’t escape his notice that they all like him better, like this. Unburdened by the weight he carries with him. He desperately wishes for one of them to notice that it’s wrong, that he’s wrong, but he knows they won’t. Even if they did notice, he isn’t certain they would want him to go back to what he was before.

It’s almost a relief when Breekon and Hope grab him. He chooses to fight them, kick out his legs uselessly as they tie him up and toss him in the back of their van. His heart is hammering, adrenaline firing. It’s exhilarating, but there’s no room to rejoice in his newfound freedom. He has to find a way out of this, but—

There is no way out. Nikola delights in reminding him of this, whenever she comes to see him. They tie him up in a dimly lit room, surrounded by horrifying mannequins that sometimes move. His binds are tight, as is the gag in his mouth, and though he can struggle against them, it’s clear he’ll never manage to wriggle out of them.

For a while, he expects someone to come rescue him. Maybe Annabelle, although if he really thinks about it, it’s more likely that the Web would simply manipulate someone else into coming. Maybe his assistants would come, if they can find him. (If they decide he’s worth rescuing.) He’s wanted by the Eye and the Web, and clearly that counts for something. Surely they wouldn’t just abandon him to be skinned alive by the Stranger.

But no one comes. It’s hard to keep track of time, but Jon knows it’s been a few weeks, at least. Long enough by far for a rescue party to come, if they ever planned on coming. He wonders if the Web is enjoying this, if this fear is Web-flavored enough for it. Maybe it set him up for this. Maybe it’s actively preventing him from escaping.

He’s allowed to cry now. He can even scream, if he wanted to, although the gag makes it kind of pointless. Nikola enjoys when he cries.

Michael comes, and then Helen replaces him, and Jon can see the spidercracks of the Web behind it. Helen opens her door to him, and even if he wanted to take his chances with the Stranger, the webs in his mind give him no choice but to accept her offer.

At least Helen only toys with him a little bit before depositing him back in his office.

He lays on the floor for a long time, staring at the ceiling, expecting at any moment for the vise-like grip of the Web to take hold of him once more. It keeps not happening. His breath starts to come faster and faster, so he forces himself to take deep breaths, but that only makes his shaky breathing sound louder in his ears. It’s all so loud, his breathing, his heartbeat. Even the electricity humming in the walls, the soft rattle of the air conditioner.

He brings a hand to his face, and his eyes are filled with tears that immediately start tumbling over his cheeks. A sob hitches in his chest, and he almost smiles. He’s wanted to have a breakdown for so long, and now—it’s almost pleasant, losing control of his emotions in the safety of his office. No one around to jeer and laugh at him. No spiderwebs forcing him to keep smiling.

Another sob hitches, and he suddenly feels much too exposed. He pulls himself under his desk, relishing the darkness, the smallness. He brings his knees to his chest, wrapping his arms around himself. Lets himself cry, burying the sound as much as he can. He doesn’t want the others to hear.

The door opens, and he lets out a soft gasp, biting down on his sobs. He holds his breath, willing himself to be quiet, to not be heard, not be found. He’s petrified that being found will mean his break is over, will mean the Web comes back, invading his mind.

It’s Martin. He comes in, humming quietly, and sets something on Jon’s desk. He starts to leave, and then—

Jon suddenly takes a sharp inhale, unable to hold his breath any longer.

Martin’s footsteps pause, hesitantly.

Something in Jon’s brain—the spiderwebs, he knows—pulls at him to be quiet, to let Martin leave, to not bother him with this. But it’s been so long since Jon’s seen Martin, and he just—He just wants to see him. Even if it means he has to smile. Surely, surely Martin will see that something is wrong, won’t he? The thought brings fresh tears to his eyes, and he says, “Martin?” His voice is thick with tears and rough from disuse.

“Wha—Jon?” Martin says. His footsteps move quickly to the other side of the desk, and he crouches down. “Oh my god, Jon! What happened? Where have you been?”

“Circus got me,” Jon says with a watery smile. The Web hasn’t taken hold yet. And it’s so nice to see Martin, soft and warm and safe.

“This—this whole time, you’ve been with the Circus?” Martin says, sounding horrified.

Jon nods. “How long have I been gone?”

“A month,” Martin says. “Christ, are you alright?”

The spiderwebs tell Jon to send Martin away, to claim that he’s fine. But the compulsion isn’t as strong as it was before. It’s a request, not an order. And Jon is… He isn’t fine. He hasn’t been fine in a long time.

Besides, it’s not like Martin somehow missed the dirty tear tracks on his face.

“No,” he whispers, curling up tighter into himself. The shaking is back now. A month. A month of intruding hands rubbing lotion into his skin, constantly reminding him of their plans for him, telling him how much it would hurt, letting him hear the horrible screams of their other victims.

“Can I touch you?” Martin asks, and Jon nods.

Martin pulls Jon into his arms, both of them still partially under the desk. He’s warm, and his words are soft as he runs a soothing hand up and down Jon’s back. Jon buries his head in his chest, crying until he’s all wrung out, until nothing remains inside of him.

“Sorry,” Jon says, still sniffling slightly, his voice thick. There’s a damp patch on Martin’s shirt now, and Jon flushes a bit, looking at it.

“It’s alright, Jon,” Martin says, still holding on to him. He isn’t shifting impatiently, or acting like Jon should move away, so Jon doesn’t. He rests his head on Martin’s shoulder, exhausted, and Martin continues rubbing soothing circles into his back.

***

Jon wakes up on the cot in document storage, tucked in under several blankets. He spends a hazy moment wishing Martin were there with him, and then the spiderwebs re-exert themselves in full force and he is getting out of bed. Well. He hardly expected the break to last forever. He was lucky to get this much, really. The terror has lessened, and it feels like he can think in a straight line for once.

He heads out of document storage and towards the break room. It’s dark in the Archives. Everyone has left for the day, except for Martin, who didn’t want to leave Jon alone. He’s run out to fetch them both dinner, and will be back shortly.

The Web steers him to the utensil drawer, which is a disorganized mess, as always. He thinks about his feelings for Martin as he digs through it, the deep fondness he feels for him. He’s still holding on to a bit of hope that Martin will save him from this, he realizes.

He finds a knife, and pulls it from the drawer, and suddenly he is very focused on what the Web wants from him. He sets the knife on the counter, and then rolls up his left shirt sleeve. With horror sinking into his gut, he sets his arm on the edge of the sink, picks up the knife again in his right hand. He holds it firmly, tight enough that it makes his newly-healed scar ache.

He knows what’s about to happen. He tries to stop it, but it’s like trying to stop gravity. His hand doesn’t so much as tremble as he slices into the soft skin just below his elbow.

He lets out a cry of pain, or fear, but continues to carve into his arm with the tip of the knife. He’s cutting deep into his flesh, and he doesn’t want to look as blood pours out of him. But he can’t look away.

After an eternity, Jon is finally allowed to drop the knife. It clatters into the sink, leaving a trail of blood droplets behind it. He stares at the wound for a second. Even obscured as it is by blood, he can tell it’s a spiderweb. A message. A punishment.

He feels suddenly nauseous, salt flooding his mouth, and he sinks to the floor, breathing deeply, trying not to be sick. There is so much blood.

A soft pull at his mind, almost gentle. Don’t let Martin see.

He doesn’t want to know what the Web will do to him, if he refuses. There isn’t much time before Martin gets back, so he has to hurry.

He’s still dripping blood everywhere, so that’s the first step. Stop the bleeding. The first aid kit is nearby, well-stocked as always. He grabs it down from the shelf, and then wets a few napkins, which he uses to clean off as much of the blood as possible. It hurts, and he has to sit down before he finishes. It’s a bit tricky, wrapping his own arm in gauze, especially with his right hand injured as well, but he manages, adding layer after layer until he can no longer see the blood soaking through.

He rolls his sleeve down. The bulk of the gauze is visible through his shirt, but hopefully Martin won’t notice something he isn’t looking for.

Jon wipes down the table, the floor, the sink, until he can no longer see any blood anywhere. He washes the knife and drops it back in the drawer. And then he sits down, taking deep, even breaths. He should probably go lay down again, but he doesn’t think he can make it all the way back there. Not on his own.

He puts his head down, and a few minutes later, he hears the stairs creaking with Martin’s return. He hears his footsteps receding as he heads towards document storage, hears the soft creak of the door. And then the steps get louder, until Martin pokes his head into the break room.

“Oh, there you are,” he says, a relieved smile on his face. “Sorry for leaving you. I didn’t think you would wake up. I brought dinner,” he says, holding up the bag of takeout clutched in his hands.

Jon smiles in return. “The Eye told me,” he says.

“Oh, that’s—creepy,” Martin says.

“Sorry,” Jon says, his eyes flicking back to the table.

“It’s fine,” Martin says, sitting down across from him. “How are you feeling?”

The Web isn’t controlling him, but it hardly matters. “I’m fine,” he says. “Feeling better.”

***

They finish eating, and Martin insists on staying the night with Jon in the Archives. He insists that Jon sleep on the cot, even though the break room couch is much too small for Martin to sleep on comfortably.

Jon wakes up, and the fresh wound on his forearm has bled through the gauze, staining not only his shirt sleeve, but also the rest of his shirt. He’s covered in blood, so much that he can’t possibly hide it.

And he can hear Martin, already awake and moving around in the Archive.

Jon stands up, trying to decide what to do. If Martin sees the blood, he will ask questions, and there is no good way to explain the design so intricately carved into Jon’s arm. He needs fresh gauze, and a fresh shirt, but his extra clothes are in his office, and the first aid kit is in the break room.

He decides to make a break for his office, wrapping a blanket around his shoulders to hide any blood Martin might spot. Before he can move, however, the door to document storage opens, and Jon freezes.

“Hey Jon, I wanted to ask—” Martin stops, and for a moment they’re just staring at each other. Martin opens his mouth again, panic writ large on his face. “Jon, is that blood? What happened?”

“I—um—”

“Was it the Circus?” Martin asks, stepping closer. Jon flinches away from him, and he stops. “Okay, just—Jon, that looks really bad.”

“Yeah,” Jon manages, his voice coming out in an almost-laugh. Martin’s look of concern only grows deeper.

There’s no way for Jon to salvage this, no explanation that Martin will accept. Martin can’t know about this, can’t know about any of this. The Web might hurt him, if he becomes a danger to it.

And then—

He suddenly can see the exact strings he needs to pull in Martin’s mind, to make him ignore this. It’ll be easy. Martin won’t even know he’s done anything.

It’s the only option.

For the first time, Jon uses the spiderwebs. Martin’s eyes go blank and glassy for a single horrifying moment. And then he blinks, and looks at Jon. Jon is still covered with his own blood, but Martin doesn’t notice it at all. He looks vaguely confused for a second, before he gathers himself. “Sorry, lost my train of thought,” he says with a small laugh. “I was going to ask if you wanted to go get something for breakfast. I know you usually just skip it, but there’s a nice cafe not to far from here, and I thought it would be… good.”

Jon wants to cry. He wants to tell Martin everything, ask for his help. But Martin can’t help him. Asking will do nothing but hurt both of them.

Instead, Jon smiles. “Sounds wonderful,” he says.

#tma #tma fanfiction #febuwhump #febuwhumpday1 #my fic #self harm cw #blood cw #kidnapping cw

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banashee · 3 years ago

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Hi Folks, welcome to my third fic for the Archival Pride 2021 project! Look at their tumblr for more info :) @archivalpride

Archival Pride 2021, Week three (June 15-21) Prompts: Love Languages, Doubt, Post-Canon, Intimacy, Home

The key words I've used here are Post-Canon, Home and Intimacy

- Off-screen Arguments - scars - Trauma recovery - brief but canon-typical violence - References to Canon-Stabby-Stabby in MAG200 - mention of coma, no details - reference to homophobic Parent

A Second Chance

Some days, it still feels like a dream. That they are here, together, that they get to have this. A home, a life - a second chance at everything.

It’s been almost two years since the panopticon collapsed in an explosion, almost two years since Jon and Martin woke up… Here. “Somewhere else” they called it then, but now they simply call this place “home”. More precisely, they do so because first and foremost, they are home to each other.

Even back when in the Institute, when both of them successfully managed to convince themselves their feelings for each other were one-sided, the few and far moments where they actually had time to themselves were precious. Even when Jon had woken up from his coma and Martin was working for Peter Lukas, just a small brush of hands or a quick hug in the hallway had felt like the only safe place left in the world. Just for a moment, before they had to move on, more alone than ever before.

By the time Martin was deep in the Lonely and Jon had pulled him out, taken his hand and not let go until they were safely in Daisy’s little safehouse in the Scottish Highlands where no one would be able to find or hurt them. Or at least, that had been the plan… It only lasted for a little while.

Still, even though the end of the world started there, the days and weeks they had before are precious to Jon and Martin to this day. It’s those weeks where they had a chance to really get to know each other, outside of work and countless terrifying encounters with the Fears.

Days spent talking in front of the fireplace, curled up around each other or not talking at all. Especially on the bad days, when everything hits them at once, it is a little bit easier to deal with everything while they’re together. Cooking together, stepping around each other in the kitchen when they tried recipes neither of them had ever tried before, laughing at and playfully chiding each other when everything turns into a big mess.

Hugs and kisses shared at the most random of times, just because they realized they can do this now.

Over time, they shared a few personal bits and pieces. After the first time they shared the bed, to be close and to keep the nightmares at bay, they started talking about their needs and boundaries.

“I love you, and I love being close to you. But I, I also need you to know that… Well, I won’t be able to give you more than this. I don’t… sleep with people. In, well, in that sense.” Jon had blushed and stammered his way through explaining what Asexuality means to him, and it is met with love and acceptance. He started to breathe a little bit easier then.

A little while later, Martin told him about the disaster that was his coming out to his Mum. He didn’t mean to, he said that day in the safehouse with a bitter smile as he shook his head, but he’d hit a breaking point. One too many homophobic remarks, one too many unhappy sneers.

“One day, I just. Snapped. Couldn’t take the bullshit anymore. I don’t even remember exactly what I said to her, but she was... “ Martin shook his head.

“Not happy.” He laughed, but it wasn’t happy by any means. Jon understood all too well, and reached out with one hand, an offer to hold on tight, which Martin happily took him up on.

“She didn’t… Like me very much before, I don’t think. Or, well, I know that now, but… But ever since I told her I am gay, that certainly didn’t help things. She never met any of my boyfriends or anything, but, well. That’s robably for the best.”

Only a short while after this conversation, the world ended. After months and months of walking through a hellscape, they finally arrived back in what once was London. Back at the institute - the tower of the Watcher.

Once they got their chance to kill Elias and destroy Jonah Magnus, things… Went differently than planned.

Even years after the fact, long long after, Jon and Martin wake up from vivid nightmares. The memories, both real and twisted, leave them sobbing and calling out for each other. Each time, they end up wide awake for hours, holding onto one another to try and keep the other from getting lost again. Dealing with everything is very much a work in progress.

Guilt eats Jon up from the inside. He is talking about it, at least he does now, but the feelings are still there, sitting on his chest and taking his breath away. The guilt about walking off on his own and leaving everyone else, including Martin behind is one of the worst he’s ever felt, and even though they have talked and worked through this particular issue for a long time, Jon is still struggling with it. The main problem is that didn’t see another way, did what he thought was best. Now he knows there wasn’t a right decision in the situation they found themselves in, only damage control.

But on a personal level? Yes, he screwed up, and he knows it.

The scar on his chest hurts those nights, like a fresh wound. Jon finds himself clutching it, without even realizing that he is doing so. If he was, he would try to stop himself from it, but every time his hands rub over the place in the middle of his chest, when breath leaves his lungs for a while, he can tell that Martin’s eyes go blank and he hates himself a little bit more for having caused so much pain. .

How often Martin wakes up in the middle of the night, dreaming again and again about that fateful day that ended with him stabbing the love of his life with a knife, he has long lost count. But it hurts, worse than anything else, and the memory alone sends him spiralling for a long time.

If the Fears had any more power here, there is no doubt that Martin would find himself surrounded by thick, white fog those nights, cold and damp and utterly alone even with another person in the room.

He’d spent months - years really - keeping it together just to keep going, doing what needed to be done and be there for the people around him. It’s what he’s always done, isn’t used to anything else, but Jon knows him well enough to recognize the signs and stop Martin before he destroys himself any further.

“Let me take care of you. Please - You don’t have to keep going all the time.”

Somehow, even with all the trauma and heartbreak, the two of them manage to form one functioning human being together when they can’t manage to be one on their own. On the really bad days, that is enough.

Martin and Jon have their hiccups - but they know just how much they adore one another, and that is usually enough to make them see reason even when things get hard.

Especially in the first few weeks Somewhere Else, there is a lot of confusion and pain. Years of trauma and injuries they are unable to explain to anyone, because how do you explain even a fraction of the fears and the apocalypse they have walked through? None of it has happened here. This is a world that has never ended, and although the Fears certainly exist here, they are in the shadows, where they belong. As far as they can tell, none of the rituals have happened here, and the entities just. Exist, but don’t do nearly as much harm as Jon and Martin have experienced.

So seeking out help, let alone from professionals, is hard. Lord knows, they need it - it takes the two of them countless trials to find individual therapists for themselves, and even longer to find one to attend for couples counseling who won’t make their skin crawl with anxiety. There are issues that need to be addressed, and it is hard to start somewhere.

Some sessions are much, much harder than others. Unpacking the baggage is logical, it is something that needs to be done in order to deal with the trauma, but for a long time, it just hurts. It hurts, having to open up about things that are so deeply personal, and even though both Martin and Jon have come up with cover stories for their situation, they still have to work on all the emotions and the things that happened to them and their loved ones.

Some days, either one or both of them will come home from a therapy session and simply collapse into bed. Most times, all they want then is to hold each other. Other times, they talk, but more often than not, being able to listen to each other's heartbeat as they shake apart or fall asleep from exhaustion is enough.

Especially at first, when everything is still fresh, when the scars are still pink, raised and puckering, things are hard.

Surprising no one, coming from a literal hellscape into a normal, relatively calm world, is a total whiplash. Things are tense between Jon and Martin for a bit. They want to stay together, because they love each other deeply - there was never any doubt, not even a bit. But there are some situations, issues and decisions that they need to adress.

While things are still sore, it results in a number of exhausted, tearful arguments that leave both of them absolutely drained and limp from overwhelming sadness. The arguments themselves never last long, because both Martin and Jon are quick to make up and apologize after, but the feelings of exhaustion and heartbreak stay for long after.

The arguments pull on wounds and it hurts. There really is no other way to put it. More often than not, Martin and Jon spend the night with no sleep, wrapped around each other so tightly it is almost painful. Holding onto one another is all they can do sometimes to keep each other from falling apart at the seams.

Weeks turn into months, months turn into a year and so on. Both Jon and Martin have come a long way since they arrived here - they no longer call it “Somewhere else”. Their trauma still sits deep, but has become much, much more of a quiet background pain that occasionally comes out to play, rather than being a constant, stabbing sensation that leaves them bleeding and breathless, unable to function. Those days, thankfully, have become rare.

They start to live, instead of just surviving.

It is around that time that they decide they want to get out of the city. London, whether back in the old world or here, is not a quiet place to be, but now that they are free, they take the opportunity and run with it.

A little bit of time passes, and between days spent walking hand in hand through the nearby park, nights curled up on the couch with books and tea and day jobs and even occasional evenings in the pub with coworkers, they find themselves standing in their empty apartment. All there is left is a single cardboard box and a potted plant, both of which are held by the two men who spent the last year and a half there.

“...Jon?”

“Yes, Love?”

“I had no idea we had so much stuff, until we started to pack it all up.”

“We do. I’m… Not entirely sure when that happened to be honest.”

“....I believe somewhere between us starting to actually do things, and you discovering that tiny bookshop which I’m convinced should have been empty by now, thanks to you.”

“Yes. And also the plants. Don’t forget your leafy children, Martin.” Jon leans into Martin’s upper arm for a moment, a small smile on his face. He would have pulled him into an embrace, but since Martin holds the last of their moving boxes, filled to the brim with books, and Jon’s arms are currently wrapped around the pot of a fairly tall dracea, just leaning in must be enough. The plant pokes far over his shoulder, long, dark green leaves lazily moving with him as he holds onto it, tight and secure.

‘Martha’ says a small, handwritten label on the pot, carefully stuck near the edge of the pot. Giving the plants human names had started out as a joke, a throwaway sentence, but then they bought more and more plants, and so a new tradition was born.

“...To be fair, I had no idea there were so many until we had to get them all into the van.”

“Oh, I’m sure you’ll find plenty of space in the new house that looks empty. Not for long though, knowing you.”

Martin smiles at him, propping the box against himself. This thing is heavy - as small as their old flat is, it hasn’t stopped Jon from starting to form their own library throughout the living room. Truth be told, he is looking forward to seeing it expand once they’re settled into their new space. It'll be a fun opportunity to bicker over the proper way to sort them.

(“By colour ?? Martin, Dear, Love of my life, what the fuck . You’ve worked in a Library for years!” Jon will ramble on in disbelief, and Martin will cackle to himself, knowing he managed to rile his boyfriend up about something that isn’t important at all. He knows they actually agree that books need to be sorted by Author’s names. But where would be the fun in admitting that right away?)

“Ready to go?” he asks, and waits for his partner's affirmative nod before the two of them leave the apartment, for one last time.

It’s time for a new chapter in their new life, and they’re more than ready to start it.

The first morning in their new house, they are woken up by a fresh breeze coming through their bedroom window. It carries the scent of pine needles and damp earth with it. The birds outside are already singing the song of their people and have been doing so for hours, long before most humans are conscious. Waking up like this is bliss, even though the bed is about the only thing that is actually done in this room.

There are boxes everywhere and their wardrobe is only halfway assembled, but the bed is comfortable and decked out in fresh covers that still smell of washing powder. Everything is fresh and new and feels a little bit like they’re on a holiday. Maybe someday, it will become their new normal, but as of now, it feels like a fresh start.

As always, it’s Martin who wakes up first. He can smell the fresh, woodsy air, and it relaxes him in an instant. There is a small forest right by their house. It is at the end of the street where only a few more old, slightly lopsided houses are nearby. It is perfect for them.

On their search for a new home, it was clear they wanted to go somewhere more rural, somewhere remote. Ever since the Lonely, Martin is struggling with too many people around him. He can go about his everyday life if he has to, but days with too many people and too much social interaction leave him sad and exhausted from pretending to be fine and peachy with it.

It doesn’t help that many of the houses they looked at are seaside cottages. As beautiful as they look on the photos, conveniently taken on days with clear blue skies, this is England. There are way more rainy days filled with grey, suffocating fog, and that alone is enough to send Martin back into a full blown panic attack. It’s too much, way too much like the Lonely. Needless to say, they filtered their searches accordingly.

Eventually, everything clicks into place and they find their dream house in a small residential area with little traffic and even less people. The quiet of the countryside makes both of the breathe easier- it reminds them a little bit of their time in Scotland, even though the landscape isn’t nearly as raw here. They may or may not have found a field of very good cows nearby though.

The cool breeze of the morning air makes Martin shiver a bit, and he pulls the covers a little bit tighter around himself and Jon. Predictably, his partner takes this as an invitation to adjust his octopus grip that he has around him to get even closer as he sleepily grumbles,

“...Just five more minutes.”

“Make it an hour and we’re good, Love.” With gentle fingers, he starts to detangle the long strands of hair that surround Jon. There is even more grey than there was only a few years ago - no surprise, what with all of the stress and trauma they have lived through.

All that Martin gets in response to this is a low hum as Jon tightens his hold around him once more as he breathes a small trail of kisses along the side of his neck and up his jaw.

He knows that Morning-Jon is not talkative, at all, but he knows him long and well enough to understand what he is telling him, even when he is half asleep himself.

“I love you, too.”

#Archival Pride 2021 #banashee writes #tma fanfic #the magnus archives #JonMartin #Post mag200 #TMA season 5 spoilers

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captaincravatthecapricious · 4 years ago

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Jon is a Dune fan. How can picking up one book change things? Idea from a tumblr prompt and a post by @roseunspindle (permission was granted for writing this)

cw all the typical episode 160 stuff and references to nausea and of course manipulation and fainting. Some dialogue from 160, and a quote from Dune, of course!

I am still accepting bingo prompts (card by @celosiaa) Pick a prompt from the card and a character and let me know if you want art of fic! (I am much faster at art). I have several outlined that I need to write, and I will get to those... Soonish? Have an excellent day and I hope 2021 treats you well!

Jon isn’t sure why he grabbed the book. He’s read it before so it doesn’t hold the same interest it once did. He had to work on that reading habit of his in school, and now he’s managed a few rereads, but he still prefers the unknown and interesting.

But he did love this book when he read it. He was too young for it, of course. But that hadn’t mattered. He sucked the whole world into his young and greedy mind.

And now that glossy, second hand cover.... makes him pause over it. He doesn’t know how it survived evictions and his absences. He must have subconsciously stored it out of the way. But he grabs it, with a few statements, and his small collection of clothes into a very battered backpack that he’s sure once belonged to Melanie.

He wishes he had more books. Maybe once he and Martin reach the train station, he can pick up something else to read. Or maybe he can borrow some books from Martin….

He stuffs Dune into his backpack. It’s on the top, distending the fabric slightly, straining the zipper as his grandmother had always reprimanded him for when he shoved too many pleasure books into his school bag, (always to read under the desk and he was always inevitably caught and reprimanded again, but what could you do with an inattentive student who still pulled good marks?).

He boards the train with Martin. Battered and aging backpacks filled with worn clothes and statements and books and granola bars. The station had been loud and busy enough to send Jon reeling with the information spilling off a crowd of people as well as the less eldritch sensory overload. His head aching dully as they settle into their seats.

Medicine for motion sickness sends him drowsy as soon as it is effective. He spends the time before it works staring queasily out the window, clammy hands holding tightly to Martin as much to sooth his uneasy stomach as to hold Martin in this plain of reality. He nods off, hands still clasped with Martin’s. Wrapped up in the elation of having Martin with him, around him, talking to him…. almost safe.

He wakes up in a storm of hurried breaths and crashing thoughts…. precarious as the crashing waves that haunted the lonely, but far closer and more oppressive. Statements tumbling with his own crashing thoughts. Fear on his breath. His fear making him Hungry in the nauseous way of autocannibleism.

He presses his face into Martin, only just then realizing that he’s been using Martin as a pillow. Martin, who is dozing. Martin, who is still a little foggy. The last of the haze burning off with the contact. Jon can see the steam rising between them, mainly and gentle. The sun burning the fog off a meadow in the early morning.

Jon sits himself up, but stays pressed against Martin. The imprint of Jon slowly thawing Martin as the train gently sways them both.

Jon doesn’t want to sleep more. He would much prefer to read, but it is still more than a bit of a gamble for him to even medicated. But…. he’s bored.

Dune.

Right on the top of his bag. Leaning over starting to make him queasy (which doesn’t bode well for reading attempts), he pulls it out and straightens up.

He turns it over in his hands a few times, until his stomach settles. He’s fine. Just a few more minutes before the medicine works… probably anyhow.

He flips through the pages, still waiting for his breathing to calm as well.

Oh.

He remembers this words… in a half remembered haze of childhood and tracing those words on his limbs and his walls. With his eyes, and markers, and pencils. On the inside of his eyelids. Carved into the air about his bed as he repeated them to himself.

‘I must not fear. Fear is the mind-killer. Fear is the little-death that brings total obliteration. I will face my fear. I will permit it to pass over me and through me. And when it has gone past, I will turn the inner eye to see its path. Where the fear has gone there will be nothing. Only I will remain.’

Reading those words again makes his hands shake like they had when he first read them… with Mr. Spider fresh in his nightmares. Still missing the life he could never have with his parents.

Jon fumbles for a pen.

He traces them again on his forearm.

Poorly written, of course. Hands far from steady with the rocking of the train and the rocking of his stomach and the rolling of his world after the day he’s had. But he is once more too tired to focus on anything much, so he tucks his book away again, and shoves the pen in his pocket.

He tucks himself up against Martin again, using an old jumper as a blanket. He knows he is taking a bit of a liberty, but he buries his face in Martin’s neck and breathes deeply. He’s asleep again in moments.

The trip isn’t eventful. Lots of track clicking past. Lots of drowsy hours. A disappointing sandwich and a tasteless cup of tea. Jostled shoulders. Cramped restrooms. Cramped necks. Jon’s bad leg protesting the seating arrangements. Then the slightly uncomfortable walk to the safe house. Weighed down with hasty shopping and their lumpy bags. Jon limping more heavily by the time they drag themselves over the threshold.

In the domestic bliss, time stretches. Lazy afternoons on the couch Jon and Martin entwined stretch into years in the golden light of afternoon. Two weeks of cups of tea. Of trips to the store. Of statements that Jon goes through way too fast, try as he does to ration them. Frantic phone calls to Basira as Jon can’t make the trip to town anymore. More cuddling on the couch. Bickering over who does the dishes, over who makes the best eggs. Over what to have for dinner. Discussions of what counts as a sandwich and whether cereal is a soup. Jon being appalled that Martin eats cereal from the box directly with a spoon. Martin being horrified that Jon eats dry cereal from a bowl with a glass of milk. Playing footsie through dinner. “Yes Martin, another soup. Means less cooking.” Sloppy kisses over glasses of wine. Jon being too dizzy to go on walks. Jon retracing Frank Herbert’s words on to his arm. Over. And over. And over again.

“I must not fear…”

Until a package arrives.

It’s unassuming and labeled in Basira’s careful penmanship. If Jon expects to see tear-staines over a lost partner, he doesn’t see them.

Martin kisses him soundly, and leaves to take pictures of good cows.

Jon has been tucked up on the couch. Under a thick blanket. Finally in better spirits now that he has statements again, ready …so ready for his limbs to feel like his again.

He tastes copper as he started to read. The words don’t sit right in his mouth. Before he can even properly start… before his mind is lost to him, he can feel the wrongness building. And when the betrayal occurs, he can’t find it in him to be surprised or hurt. All he can feel is a hollow fear…. a hungry fear. Gaping and endless. Tearing into his skin as he tears at his clothes, his skin, the statement that does not belong to Hazel Rutter and has nothing to do with a fire. Aside from the fire in his throat and in his hand, and leaping from mark to mark as Jon learns what they actually are. A map of manipulation. A tool to make the actual tool. The wood and hammer and nails that make him the door. The door that he… that he. “ Come to us in your perfection.

Bring all that is fear and all that

is terror and all that is the awful

dread that crawls and chokes and

blinds and falls and twists and

leaves and hides and weaves and

burns and hunts and rips and bleeds

and dies!

Come to us.

I-“

“I…” Jon chokes. His eyes sliding helplessly over the room. Over many tokens of a happy life that he is never going to have. Because of this…. this… he can’t even call it a betrayal. His entire life has lead to this. Every unhappy moment. Every instinct he has ever had. Every poor choice. Every step another step towards the inevitable. His eye catches on a familiar cover. Somehow still glossy. Despite Jon having carried it around like a safety blanket for the last few weeks. And he catches those smudged and traced over words on his arm and he tears at himself, trying to stop.

“I…”

He chokes again. Around those last few words. The words that will wrench the thunder from the sky and rend it asunder.

“I…”

He breathes. Possibly for the first time since his hands ghosted over the unassuming manilla folder.

“‘I must not fear. Fear is the mind-killer. Fear is the little-death that brings total obliteration. I will face my fear. I will permit it to pass over me and through me. And when it has gone past, I will turn the inner eye to see its path. Where the fear has gone there will be nothing. Only I will remain.’”

His vision cuts out. He must have stood at some point, because he is falling. Stings cut. Nothing to manipulate. The puppet is broken.

He wakes with a head full of cotton, but a heart devoid of fear. There is a clarity in his limbs. But exhaustion sits heavily on his chest. He feels… clear. And real. And… like utter shit.

But the arms around him are solid and warm and smell like tea and toast and all the good things Jon can think of in the world. And even if Jon could bring himself to move… he wouldn’t have dreamt of doing so.

There is burnt ink in the air.

“Wha’?” Marble-mouthed. Heavy with the exhaustion of years of poor sleep, of running and fearing and the adrenaline crash of something horrifying being…over.

“It’s alright, Jon. Everything’s fine. I…. I don’t know how you did it, but you stopped reading… and I burned it. It’s gone. We’re okay.”

And Jon isn’t sure he understands…. but he doesn’t care. Because he is not afraid, and Martin told him that everything is okay. And he thinks… just Maybe. Just… maybe… that it might be.

He lets himself be tucked in. He lets himself sleep.

Jon takes up calligraphy. He hates it. Utterly despises it… but he becomes decent enough to write one thing for their mantel. In the safe house. Miles away from fear and Jonah Magnus… if the bastard is even still alive…

Framed in gold, traced out in neat and flowing calligraphy:

#the magnus archives #tma #jonmartin #fic #tma fic #jonathan sims #martin blackwood #dune #cw fainting #cw nausea #cw manipulation #my words #my fic #my writing #my art

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esther-dot · 2 years ago

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I know, I KNOW that I should just block some tags (now that I'm thinking of it, I swear I'll do it), BUT it really annoys me how antis blatantly lie about what we say. "Jonsas believe that Jon saying that Winterfell belongs to her means that he's in love with her. But Jon couldn't care less about Sansa, he didn't even care she was forcefully married to Tyrion 🤪🤪🤪". Uhmm, no? That's literally not true? No one says that Jon defended Sansa's right to WF because he is in love with her, wtf. The majority of the fandom believes they will fall in love, not that they're already in love. And the pre-canon crush theory, while highly entertaining, is not that serious or accepted by the fandom. Even those who believe in it see it as an unconscious/innocent thing. We see that is curious how Sansa thinks about how no one would want her for love but for Winterfell only for Jon to reject it in her favour. It's curious from a storytelling pov. It doesn't mean we believe Jon denied his deepest desire because the great romantic love he felt for Sansa. Also, the way they're willing to make Jon a jerk just to go against jonsa will never cease to amuse me. Anyway we're not the ones thinking that a boy missing/thinking/wanting to protect his 9-year-old sister means that he's in love with her. They literally talk about Jon comparing Ygritte's body to his sister's as if he was already sexually attracted to her. A little bit of self-awareness wouldn't hurt.

Oh, I have all the tags filtered and somehow I still have seen that take! And like you, I have never seen a Jonsa argue that he did that because he was in love with Sansa. In fact, I think it is entirely about his conscience, his feelings that it would be wrong for him to take from the Starks, and it makes his refusal more poignant that he's denying himself his greatest wish for a person he doesn't have a particularly strong bond with.

I think it's just the nature of fandom (or at least, this fandom, since we have no new material forthcoming) to focus too much on fellow fans rather than the content we're all fans of. I mean, I'm a fan of the Sansa/Jonsa fandom, we're all kinda mutual fans of each other, so in that way, I am focused on the fandom, but I mean being irritated with people who disagree and allowing our annoyance to interfere with reading thoughtfully/clear thinking.

It takes more effort and maturity to engage with what someone is actually saying rather than straw manning their arguments, putting words in their mouth etc, but whether it’s this fandom or simply internet culture, I see that a lot. People really want to feel superior so they go the easy route when it comes to taking others down a peg. Instead of creating their own theories or engaging in a supportive way with people they agree with, they lash out. Anyway, since we're a worldwide fandom I try to really understand what the person's point is rather than getting too carried away in inferring tone or focusing on a single word (cultural/language differences might play a factor in how we interpret what is written or in how we express ourselves), but I've seen enough of the takes you're talking about to know that antis willfully misinterpret what we say and intentionally lie about us to ostracize Jonsas.

As for this:

We see that is curious how Sansa thinks about how no one would want her for love but for Winterfell only for Jon to reject it in her favour.

I think that's something that if the fandom wasn't so terrified of Jonsa, they'd see as really intriguing, especially when Sansa has wished for a hero to do a specific deed for her and Jon does it. As in, even if they don't think the two will fall in love, the author is presenting Jon as Sansa's hero/the kind of man she no longer thinks exists. That doesn't automatically mean they will enter into a romantic relationship, someone could argue that is Martin indicating to the reader that Jon is like a hero out of the songs, that he's using this to contrast Jon with other characters who would use Sansa and/or have failed her... There are lots of interesting readings you can do on those moments, but the fear of Jonsa means having to downplay some of Jon's goodness and depth, it seems.

#ask dot

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yeniayofnymeria · 3 years ago

Text

Arya Stark's Green Fork scene and Daenerys' Dream

Selam, hello!

I hadn't written for a while. I wanted to come back with a good topic. Actually, this was something that came to my mind a few years ago, but I had never thought before that there was a parallel with Dany's dream. I have recently started interpreting asoiaf dreams and prophecies, at which time I realized that these two subjects are similar.

(Sorry for my bad grammar.)

Dany's Dream

The dream takes place in a Storm of Swords 3rd Daenerys POV (I don't know if it's coincidence or intentional to see such a dream in the 3rd pov, of course, but it seemed like one of the triple loops to me for Dany).

Dany was often compared to her older brother Rhaegar, if you remember... Naturally, she dreams of herself as Rhaegar, who went to the Trident river to triumph over the Rebels; this is her subconscious dream way of saying "I'm not like Viserys, I'm like Rhaegar, they say I am". So obviously Dany accept it by now. Of course, she goes to war on a dragon, not on a horse. As such, it is highly likely to be a dragon dream.

Now, the most common interpretation of this dream is as a sign of Dany's future war with the Others in the region of this river because of "ice armors". I thought the same when I first read it, but let's see what Martin said: “Prophecies come true unexpectedly... those prophecies that you see as spoilers aren't always what they seem... the prophecies should not be too obvious... ' words echo in my head. Despite these words, when people saw the “ice armors” depiction, Dany commented that she was fighting the Others. This is what even writes as an interpretation of this dream on the ASOIAF Wiki.

It's pretty obvious, don't you think? This came to mind first, and no other alternative thought was even suggested. In fact, we've read that the characters often interpret the prophecies they hear as they first come to mind, making inferences wrong. For example, when Cersei heard the prophecy, she believed that the valonqar was Tyrion; it will probably be Jaime, or maybe someone else too… When Dany saw the prophecies of betrayal, she quickly accepted Mirri and Jorah as two of the three betrayals, but the past actions of both do not fall under these three reported betrayals.

So I'm going to make another comment, going beyond the obvious. Now, assuming that the war we see will take place in the future, if Dany arrives in the Riverlands, on the Trident; there's a good chance she'll fight on the Green Fork side because Rhaegar was killed in an area connected to this place, and it was named Ruby Ford because of rubies spilling from his armor... Near here is Crossroads Inn. Since the river is shallow here, you can cross the river, the armies gathered and fought here. Naturally, the army that Dany sees is coming from the north to fight Dany. Green color is unlucky for Dany; The fact that Rhaegar was killed here, and the "ice-armoured" armies coming from the north... moreover, these are the "rebel armies(Starks)" for Dany...

I think there is a strong possibility that these armies are indeed the armies of the northerners. The armies of the north belong to the House Stark, representing the "ice" side in the pact of ice and fire. Even the name of the famous family heirloom sword was “ice”. In the fifth book Jon; We read that in one of his dreams he wore "ice armor". We see that the Others are not the only ones wearing ice armor in this series. In particular, seeing another pov character wearing the ice armor seen in the dream, in his dream, gives us the opportunity to interpret this dream differently than the Others. In a nutshell, it's likely Daenerys is fighting the northern army here, led by the Starks. So she will fight in the future... Dany sees here that she is burning them with fire, melting them and this rebel army overflowing the river against the water... Remember this part.

Arya and Sandor Scene

Now, when Sandor kidnaps Arya, he wants to take her across the river, but Arya doesn't know where she is. Just as Tyrion thought Jorah was taking him to Cersei, Arya thought Sandor was taking him to Cersei, and she thought the river she saw was the BLACK - WATER river, although she wasn't sure... of course there is a nice Arya-Tyrion parallel here too we have seen it... if we continue, when he saw the river, the sky was cloudy and it was raining; This, of course, made the river go wild. I will now interpret the chapter by quoting it bit by bit; of course, remember the dream that Dany had and look at what happened here.

When they reached the top of the ridge and saw the river, Sandor Clegane reined up hard and cursed.

The rain was falling from a black iron sky, pricking the green and brown torrent with ten thousand swords. It must be a mile across, Arya thought. The tops of half a hundred trees poked up out the swirling waters, their limbs clutching for the sky like the arms of drowning men. Thick mats of sodden leaves choked the shoreline, and farther out in the channel she glimpsed something pale and swollen, a deer or perhaps a dead horse, moving swiftly downstream. There was a sound too, a low rumble at the edge of hearing, like the sound a dog makes just before he growls.

The first thing that draws attention is the iron blackness of the sky... The fact that Arya thinks this place is BLACK water twice, both in this scene and later in the chapter, may be noteworthy as the emphasis on "black" because this is the green fork, the only thing that has anything to do with black is the sky... the pouring rain pierces the GREEN and BROWN stream with 10,000 swords... There are trees in the river too, their branches reaching to the sky look like the arms of drowning men, and mats of leaves choked the shoreline... Everyone knows that the leaves are green. We understand that the river is green fork with the "green" description, and the information that the town of Harroway is nearby is also given in the section, exactly on the green fork sides, even near Ruby Ford, like Crossroads Inn. So Sandor and Arya are trying to cross the Ruby Ford, just as Dany saw in her dream. As such, both the dream and this scene are happening same place; Green Fork, Ruby Ford.

The fact that the sky is black iron reminds us of Drogon, that the bones of dragons are black because of iron, and we can attribute the expression of the sky to the flying of dragons and attacking from the sky ( I might pushed this part too much). Therefore, the iron black sky becomes a somewhat meaningful description. From this sky comes 10,000 swords too... In this book, Dany had just bought 10,000 Unsullied. Aegon also has 10,000 men in the last book; Golden Company. In other words, an army of at least 10 thousand soldiers led by Dany comes here with her dragon and attacks Starks, northerens.

These 10,000 swords pierce this green river... ominous for the green dany; green symbolizes Dany's enemies... or, to be more precise, it's green side in Dance 2... You know that in the first Dance, the main parties were divided into greens and blacks; These colors were named as names because of the dresses the two queens wore in a tournament. Undoubtedly, what will happen in the 2nd dance will never, never happen same exacly, but they will be similar, a few common points; will be reflected. One of them is probably the separation of the sides into greens and blacks. Naturally, only the colors of the dragons can decide this; Since the black dragon is Dany's, Dany symbolizes the "black" side, which in this story coincides with the queen of the first dance anyway; We can think that Jon, who is expected to ride the green dragon, will also symbolize the green side. Remember my thread Jorah; Even Tyrion's eyes are black and green; a sign that he will switch sides. Of course, Aegon will probably take his side in this Dance 2 issue, I think it could be between 3 people, not two people, and there are signs about it (Like Tyrion's dream and Moqorro's Tyrion prophice)

The trees look like drowning men. Maybe it was a bit of a force, but I will make such a comment anyway. You know the connection between the beliefs of the Nords and the trees, the trees represent their beliefs. Green is already the symbol of the “nature” side; Remember my THREE HEADS thread... So it's only natural for Jon to represent the greens as the "balance" side(in battle of dawn).

Thus, the analogy of the treemen drowning in the river seems to fit almost exactly with the description of Dany's dream of coming from the sky with a dragon, setting the men in ice armor on fire, melting them into the river, and overflowing into the river, in other words, drowning. Already the river has overflowed and raged in Arya's scene, the waters have risen and even the town of Harroway has been submerged. So the river runs parallel to the scene, as Dany saw in her dream (Remember, a symbolic expression like the river's current was made by the author before the Red Wedding, I think he's doing the same thing).

Naturally, mats of sodden leaves choked the shoreline and appearing like a mats may be a situation that depicts these dying-drowning northern soldiers. Looks like Dany is dealing a heavy blow to the northerners so far. Or perhaps the opposite statement that these leaves “choke” the shoreline; it may be explaining that the northerners were crowded and perhaps they were superior to the enemy soldiers. I'm just trying to interpret it from every angle as possible, I'm not saying that this interpretation is final. There are dead deer or horses floating in the sea; Arya isn't sure which one it is. When I think of horse, Dothrak comes to mind, and when I say deer, naturally I think of Baratheon, the soldiers of the Stormlands. Maybe Dany and Aegon's forces have come together and an army of 10,000 has arrived, or rather will come, and will have Dothraki and Storm armies in it... You know that in book 6, Aegon took the Storm Castle, which is equivalent to same thing take all Stormlands.

These drowning animals inevitably give the impression that Dany's army will lose. Or at worst, both sides will suffer heavy losses. It is also true that, as I said before, Rhaegar had died here, and Dany saw herself as Rhaegar. Naturally, this dream of Dany and the possible foreshadowing narration in this scene of Arya; In fact, it may be Dany's last battle, we may have seen the moment she went to her death. Martin's assistants, I don't know why, think that Dany will be killed by Jon before the fight with the Others is over. On the other hand, I think that Dany will die with Jon and Arya act together. Continue the quote.

The oarsmen were rowing more vigorously now, fighting the rage of the river. Leaves and broken branches swirled past as fast as if they'd been fired from a scorpion.

There is a formal depiction of war here; anyway, the scene that tells about Arya and Sandor crossing to the north of the river is a battle scene in itself, you can see it very easily even when you read it yourself. The river is angry; leaves and broken branches seem to be “thrown by a scorpion”... The tree-green leaf depiction here and the rage of the river seem to symbolize the "northerns" because they were the ones who were drowned and died by the attack in the first place; This was the case in Dany's dream as well, and the river overflows with anger and attacks the enemy with all its might...

The word scorpion is also notable, this is the weapon you need to hunt a dragon. The leaves and tree branches symbolizing the northerners seem to have been thrown by the scorpion... So they are trying to kill the dragon. Remember that it was a scorpion that killed Meraxes.

But a sudden shout snapped her head about before she could leap. The ferrymen were rushing forward, poles in hand. For a moment she did not understand what was happening. Then she saw it: an uprooted tree, huge and dark, coming straight at them. A tangle of roots and limbs poked up out of the water as it came, like the reaching arms of a great kraken. The oarsmen were backing water frantically, trying to avoid a collision that could capsize them or stove their hull in. The old man had wrenched the rudder about, and the horse at the prow was swinging downstream, but too slowly. Glistening brown and black, the tree rushed toward them like a battering ram. It could not have been more than ten feet from their prow when two of the boatmen somehow caught it with their long poles. One snapped, and the long splintering craaaack made it sound as if the ferry were breaking up beneath them. But the second man managed to give the trunk a hard shove, just enough to deflect it away from them. The tree swept past the ferry with inches to spare, its branches scrabbling like claws against the horsehead. Only just when it seemed as if they were clear, one of the monster's upper limbs dealt them a glancing thump. The ferry seemed to shudder, and Arya slipped, landing painfully on one knee. The man with the broken pole was not so lucky. She heard him shout as he stumbled over the side. Then the raging brown water closed over him, and he was gone in the time it took Arya to climb back to her feet. One of the other boatmen snatched up a coil of rope, but there was no one to throw it to.

Yes, I think we just saw Euron Greyjoy's ship. Our sea monster called the Great kraken and the black-brown ship... although Euron's ship is dark red in hull but has black sails and a picture of a sea monster, he later started to use his own special crest. So it seems that Euron's naval power is also involved in the war. Remember; The Lord of White Harbor had also built at least 30-40 warships... Martin doesn't have those ships built as decorations. In summary; As I mentioned in Euron Ice or Fire, the King of the Iron Islands seems to have taken sides with Dany. The Valerions, who were already sea power in Dance 1, were on the side of the black queen, while the now powerful sea power is the Greyjoys, which belongs to Euron. They were already on the black side in the first Dance.

So in conclusion, with both Dany's dream and Arya's Green Fork "Ruby Ford" scene, the author told us about the Stark - Targaryen collision that will take place in the 7th book.

What are you thinking?

#Arya Stark #Daenerys Targaryen #asoiaf

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not-from-the-absence-of-violence · 4 years ago

Text

On assumptions, understanding, belonging and love.

Moments in Martin's journey understanding other people and finally himself.

Martin's journey in understanding, accepting and loving his asexuality.

a/n: some quick notes: Jon is sex repulsed, Martin is somewhere between neutral and favorable. While Tim and Sasha dont exactlty say they are aro they are! Jon is non-binary and uses he/they pronouns and i desperatly wanted to explore that but this is already twice as long than intended-

also while I am (half) Bolivian and speak spanish I am not at all fluent in Tamil so if there is any mistakes lmk! hope you all enjoy!

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

Sasha had convinced them to go get drinks together, as it had been a rather stressful couple of weeks since Martin came back from the siege of his apartment by Jane Prentiss.

Sleeping in the archives was not exactly helping the situation for Martin, or Jon for that matter.

So they decided to go to a pub and try to force a sense of normality everyone really needed.

Martin was having a great time, with the relative calm and safety he hadn’t had in a while, even Jon had something like a smile playing on his lips as Tim told a story from one of his university mates that had accidentally thrown his roommate's engagement ring down a drain.

Martin zoned out for a bit, enjoying the pleasant buzz of the alcohol and his friends laughter and Jon’s animated movements that indicated that he was talking about something he actually found interesting.

Jon was apparently telling his own story with some relation to engagement, something about a girl at a wedding that had acted strangely, Martin caught something about “purposely spilling wine on her dress”, which Martin agreed was quite wierd.

“She was totally trying to woo you, Jon.” Sasha said as Jon got to the bit where they had to help her find some clean towels in a storage closet.

“I assumed she was just having a rather hard time,” Jon said, seemingly only now thinking of the implications of spilling wine on your dress and then faking needing help, to be fair to Jon that was a very weird tactic to pull and Martin would not have put two and two together either.

“Well what did you do in that closet then?” Tim asked with an incredibly over the top suggestive look.

Jon pulled a face then, Martin thought it looked rather endearing really with his nose all scrunched up and his eyes narrowed, but he was clearly uneasy.

“I don’t- I don’t really do… that sort of thing.”

Martin snapped back in the moment, feeling a weird but familiar anxiety in his stomach as the conversation lulled. He felt rather protective for a moment, instinctively knowing this seemed important. This turned out to be rather unnecessary, as Tim spoke up again quickly.

“Oh,” He and then, earnestly, ”I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable, Jon.”

And then Jon smiled, properly, like he didn’t often and waved his hand dismissively but pleased.

“Thank you, well it's not like you could have known that, but anyway as I was saying-”

It was but a moment, but it stuck with Martin for a bit, mulling it over and not really understanding his own reaction.

Eventually Martin settled back into the pleasant buzz, enjoying his friends chatter and Jon’s over exaggerated hand gestures.

It was an uncharacteristically slow day in the archives, not a worm in sight and Martin had only a bit of boring research to do for a very clearly fake statement.

Martin usually tried to be nice about it but this one featured a guy named “Richard Dickson” and was entirely about a fever dream someone had about a haunted accordion, he had listened to the recording that Jon had emailed him and it sounded like even he was having a very hard time trying not to laugh at it.

“Who comes up with this stuff?” Sasha said as she handed him back the statement. “Sure, I know we are being attacked by a worm woman but I really hope we can draw the line at haunted accordions that play spooky renditions of High School Musical and a prophetic dream guy called Dick Dickson.”

She was laughing too and Martin thought that she looked better than she had in awhile, it was nice, seeing her like this.

“Well at least I won’t have to stay extra time for the research of this one, I would go home early but.” he shrugged and gestured in a you know the whole staying here cause of a worm woman situation, she gave him a sympathetic look.

“Well I am leaving early, got a very fun evening planned.” she said with a wink.

She had looked really rather excited and somewhat giddy all day, Martin realized.

“Oh,” Martin said, “Who is the lucky person then?”

Sasha looked at him puzzled for a few seconds, slowly blinking at him, then the penny dropped.

“What? Oh no, I mean- Tim I guess, we usually have a sort of movie night every once in a while, this one is extra special though, because I found this book about the categorisation of demons, it’s partially in latin? Tim said he would help me look into it. ”

Martin felt his face heat up, feeling the urge to profusely apologize, Sasha continued however:

“It’s not like that though,” she said with a rather annoyed look, and then somewhat softer, “I am not really a dating kind of person, you know?”

Martin wasn’t sure he fully understood what she meant, but that was fine and she was clearly still very excited, so he relaxed.

“Sorry, shouldn’t have assumed, I do hope it’s not one of those books Jon goes on about, they aren't exactly...friendly.”

Her eyes lit up once again.

“Oh it's definitely not a Leitner! I do look out for that sort of thing, the interesting thing about the book is though-”

And she went on for a bit, the moment somewhat unimportant in a way but it still churned in Martin’s mind.

Things with Sasha...shifted after the Jane Prentiss attack, everyone had different ways to cope with trauma of course, Martin knew that.

Maybe that was the thing really, while Tim, Jon and Martin himself were having a hard time processing (even if Tim and Jon refused to properly acknowledge it) Sasha seemed fine, a few weeks of being shaken maybe and she was now back to her regular old self.

She even had a new boyfriend, Martin had no idea why that irked him so much.

He’d said as much to Tim, who was sitting next to him while both slacked off from their jobs on the stairs to the back courtyard of the institute (why there even was a courtyard was one of the great mysteries of this place).

Tim looked uncharacteristically solemn, seldom did he let his walls down like this.

“I thought I was in love with her you know,” he said rather suddenly, “I mean we’ve been friends for years now and there was- is no one I would rather spend time with, so I mean if not her then- then who?”

He sighed and Martin made comforting noise, trying not to break whatever spell had made Tim genuinely speak about his feelings.

“I mean I figured out I wasn’t in love with her before this whole...thing, we talked about it, I think? Some stuff is hazy. Just- I shouldn’t be jealous you know? She is allowed to have a boyfriend.”

“Your feelings are valid no matter what they are.” Martin said seriously.

Tim sighed and leaned into Martin, who enveloped him in his arms.

“Sure, doesn’t mean it doesn’t suck though.”

And well there wasn’t much Martin could say about that.

After a bit of comfortable hugging silence Tim spoke up.

“Maybe her boyfriend is a vampire though, I totally get to be jealous about a vampire.”

“Tim don’t say that.” he said, trying to hide a smile.

“What?” Tim said, pretending to be serious, “Everything is possible Martin, worm women and all that, I could obviously not compete with a vampire and their sexy glittering skin.”

Martin shook his head, not able to contain his laughter anymore.

“Can’t believe you are exposing yourself as someone who watched Twilight.” he said.

Tim smiled wickedly up at him from where he was still half cuddled into him.

“The fact that you got that reference exposes you in turn,” he said, sticking his tongue out, “Check mate.”

“Touché.”

Then Tim stood up and said:

“Well, Time to go back to our trans containment zone.”

“The fact that we just happen to be trans and were transferred to the archives is a coincidence.”

To that Tim only answered: “Trans-ferred Martin, can’t you see? You cannot call that a coincidence.” winked and back in through the door he went.

Martin let out an exaggerated long suffering sigh.

Back inside they walked to their respective desks.

“Well lets hope work gets lets shit.” Tim said. “That’s such a low bar, and yet.”

“Paciencia y fé.” Martin said, which was in his repertoire of spanish phrases that just didn’t pack the same punch in english along with “ya pasara” and “digamos que si”.

Tim shrugged.

“Don’t think whatever grandmother made up that phrase could have imagined it being applied to our situation.”

“And yet we still have to hope for it to get better don’t we, see it works.”

Tim flashed him one last smile as he sat at his desk and Martin went to put on the kettle.

Martin had assumed Jon’s I-don’t-do-that-sort-of-thing included dating as well and it hadn’t bothered him really, he enjoyed clinging to his crush to Jon like a small steady comfort, even if he knew it wasn’t actually going to amount to anything, there was no harm in day dreaming after all and Martin was perfectly capable of caring about him as a friend too, it was harmless.

Of course the fact that he now knew Jon had been staying at his ex-girlfriends place and the fact that Jon might actually date people didn’t really change anything.

At least that is what Martin tried to tell himself as he shakily poured two cups of tea and mustered the courage to walk to Jon’s office.

And he was at least a little right, even if Jon dated people, even if Jon would return his feelings (which Martin really did not let himself dwell on), these were particularly unfavourable circumstances to start a relationship, there was the matter that neither of them was able to string together a conversation, because the mundane ones sounded so inane and hollow and the important ones required being genuine and vulnerable and they might just be somewhat allergic to that.

And there was the matter of the impending apocalypse they had to stop.

Martin knocked on the door and he heard a soft: “Come in, Martin.” from the other side of the door.

The office was a mess as always and Jon looked like he hadn’t slept in a week and had aged about ten years in the last few months.

But Martin’s breath caught in his throat anyway because, as was usual for Jon now, he also looked just a little more...comfortable, as you could anyway. They were wearing a hoodie with cats on it that was just slightly too big and a long flowy patterned skirt.

Jon clearly caught martin staring because he ran his hand through his hair a bit self-consciously and said: “I know it goes against dress code, but I think you get a pass after you get kidnapped by an evil circus.”

“Oh I mean, you look nice, I mean it looks nice on you. I didn’t mean to uhm, stare?”

“It was- I was just joking.”

“Oh.”

They just stared at each other, painful silence falling over them.

Jon broke the silence clearing their throat.

“So... you brought tea?” They said.

“Yeah, it's for you.” Martin said and immediately cringed because who else would he have brought Jon’s favorite chai exactly the way he always takes it.

Jon smiled though, reaching out to take the cup from him. Their hands brushed just a little and Martin's brain briefly shut down and he realised that maybe he should admit to himself he was really hopeless and too far gone.

That is though, how he ended up stupidly staring at Jon’s hands and how he spotted the shiny black ring on the middle finger of his right hand.

“Thats a nice ring, don’t think I have ever seen you wear jewelry before.”

That seemed to snap the tension out of the moment a little, Jon looked down at the ring and smiled a little.

“It's an ace ring,” they said, “I used to wear it a lot a while back, not sure why I fell out of the habit, but now I guess I think I am allowed whatever small comfort I can get.”

They were looking at the ring and then at Martin.

Martin wanted to freeze the image right there, at the small not quite guilty smile Jon had as he looked up at him, at the feeling that things were OK, good even just for a bit.

Then something fell off Jon's desk and they both startled, flinching at the sudden loud noise.

All the worry and tension flooded back into the room immediately.

“Right.” Jon said. “Did you need anything else?”

Martin wasn’t sure how to even answer that.

So he just shook his head and started to leave.

Just before he was about to turn around Jon called his name, Martin turned around to face Jon that seemed to be fighting for the words he wanted to say.

“Yes, Jon?”

“Thank you.”

Martin smiled a sad smile.

“Anytime.”

It’t not that Martin had never heard the word asexual before, or that he didn’t know Jon was ace, he’d just never dwelled much on the actual meaning of it.

He had however never heard of ace rings before and he gave it a google for curiosity's sake.

A black ring usually wore on the right middle finger to indicate the wearer is asexual (“ace”).

It seemed nice to Martin, small token of your connection to a community, of course his curiosity did not end there, he had assumed previously Jon didn’t do relationships at all, and if he did, what did asexual mean then?

He found out rather quickly that asexuality was about sexual attraction, and aromantic was another thing all together, he also found out that asexuality didn’t mean a person couldn't have a libido, or like sex.

And maybe he just stood there staring at his laptop screen for a while knowing that sexual attraction had never really made sense to him, maybe it felt like something clicked.

And so knowing he definitely did not have the time or the emotional energy to deal with it he quickly closed his laptop, he had an apocalypse to stop and a boss to dispose of after all.

Martin was trying very hard to read Hija de la fortuna by Isabel Allende, every other sentence he sighed and grabbed his phone to look up a word the meaning of which he didn’t know.

It was frustrating, he once had been almost fluid in spanish as a child, but then his dad had left and his mother wasn’t able to and didn’t want to maintain his fluency. He hadn’t exactly had time or money for classes either and so now he attempted to regain some of it by watching movies and reading books.

It was not just the language of course that made it hard, Martin was so entirely full of worry. It was rare he got to spend a day in his flat these days, usually cooped up in the Institute hiding from something, or at the side of Jon's hospital bed talking to him, reading to him on occasion.

The anxiety, the fear, the pain, it had festered into Martin, the tiniest sounds made him jump and even when he got tiny little moments in which he wanted to, needed to, rest he still felt like a watched prey animal, or the full force of grief threatening to crush him.

Today he was just waiting for the other shoe to drop, nothing remarkable had happened in a handful of days and it made him uneasy, he was waiting for Melanie to call him about a new attack, he was waiting for Peter to summon him with a weird cryptic request.

And you would think that with all this other worry he wouldn’t be fretting about his sexuality.

But apparently there was plenty of anxiety to go around for all the areas in his life and he just couldn’t get that moment, months ago now, out of his head.

He sighed at set the book aside, grabbing his phone and opening google.

He felt like he was 14 again asking his mother what gay meant and getting only a nasty look in return, or 17 and anxiously looking for a book about being trans in the library.

It was silly to look it up and read articles about how to know you were ace, because he already knew somewhere, but he desperately needed the confirmation.

The third or so blog post he opened was about a woman in her 50’s that had recently figured out she was ace.

Its freeing the article read it’s freeing to be who you are and to understand yourself better, even if you aren’t sure, its OK, it will be OK.

Martin was only crying a little, he laid down his phone and stared at the wall.

He thought about how he had never quite fit, he wasn’t quite english, not with the people asking him where he had come from or asking his mother as a child where she had gotten him from. He wasn’t Bolivian either, he had never been there, his spanish was limited, he could only cook about three and a half recipes that the internet had taught him.

He had never been a woman and he would never fit what society thought of as a man. And what that exactly meant for his relationships.

He never understood other people, but he never thought he was bad enough to seek help for it.

Sexual attraction was vague and he didn’t get it, but in the few relationships he had had in the past he hadn’t minded sex, he enjoyed watching a nice movie together just as much but there was a nicety to it, especially taking care of someone else, having them unravel infront of you. And he had found it weird that he didn’t want anything back, that he felt uncomfortable sometimes.

He imagined he meant he was wrong, like with everything else Martin Blackwood also couldn’t do that right.

But maybe there was something here, in Martins corner of human experience, in the small stack of books about Bolivia that he read, in the trans pin on his backpack and patches he sewed onto his clothes, in calling himself gay man even if that didn’t cover the nuances because it felt good, in the chew necklace that hung around his neck because it eased his anxiety.

Just like all of those things, Martin was ace, he wasn’t wrong or broken he was just different and there were all those other people who were different too and it was nice.

And Martin was crying because of the overwhelming sense of belonging, and because he finally understood Tim when he had once asked “But what does romance even mean, Martin?” and he would never get to tell him, because this is yet another thing he and Jon could have talked about if the world had been kinder to them, this is something he could be talking about to Jon if he wasn’t in a coma.

But even in these miserable circumstances Martin made sense to himself a little more and no one could take that away from him.

The past week in the safehouse had been a whirlwind of emotions, but both Jon and Martin were trying, trying hard to heal, to learn how to feel safe again, to love each other.

For all that trying they hadn’t talked about it much, it was hard still, but Martin was quietly holding on to the hope that they would get there.

Today had been quiet, with the biggest setback being that Jon had found it hard to find all the ingredients for the sambar he wanted to make for dinner.

“I know it won't be like my Pāṭṭi (பாட்டி) taught me, but you would think they would at least have coconut.”

Martin found their grumpiness adorable, reveled in the mundaneness of this worry. And he hadn’t been able to contain his laughter when they finally had found coconut and Jon had held it up triumphantly.

The food had been delicious and now they sat on the couch, it was hard Martin craved touch so dearly but it was like stepping into hot water after standing on ice for a while and Jon flinched so often, not used to not being hurt and sometimes Martin’s unnaturally cold skin brought up unpleasant memories.

They could have wallowed in guit and yearning, but they were both stubborn, and so even if it took a while and millions of slow movements and asking if something was OK they managed.

So it was that Jon had his legs draped over Martin's lap, enough to bring comfort, not too much as to be overwhelming, and their hands were lightly on top of eachother.

Jon seemed pensive, but not worried, Martin shot him a questioning glance.

“We went at this in such a sideward way,” Jon said, “I mean we live together now but we haven’t really...talked about it. We never- we never asked?”

There was a beat of silence where Martin just looked at Jon and then a smile spread over Martin's face.

“Jonathan Sims do you want to ask me out?”

Jon averted their gaze in a way that meant even though Martin couldn’t see it they were definitely blushing.

Martin just couldn’t contain his delighted laughter.

“Must you laugh at me,” Jon said, faking offence, he was also smiling now.

A bit of seriousness returned to his voice as he spoke up again.

“I don’t care that we have done it all backwards Martin,” they said, “But, I love you.”

And as he said that Martin stared at him, mouth agape and his heart thundering in his chest, he lost his ability in any language. Jon said it firmly and securely and Martin really didn’t know what he was supposed to do with all the feelings he had, Jon continued however.

“And we don’t have to do anything but it just feels like we are dancing around several conver- Martin? Are you alright?”

It was only then Martin realised he was crying and he could only ask:

“You love me?”

Not because he didn’t know, but because sometimes you just need the confirmation.

Jon squeezed his hand gently.

“Of course I do.”

Martin wanted so badly to answer him, to reproach but he couldn’t, not yet, instead he blurted.

“May I kiss you?”

Jon smiled, a tad nervously.

“That's sort of what I wanted to talk about,” they said, “boundaries?”

Martin understood the necessity of such conversations he really did, but it did not mean he was going to enjoy them.

It did come as a surprise however that Jon suddenly got very nervous and said.

“I mean- I just- I am ace, Martin.”

Martin cokced his head in confusion and said:

“Yeah, I know.”

Jon mirrored his confused look.

“You do?” and then more sour, “You listened to the tape?”

And fine Martin admitted to himself, maybe they should talk more.

“No? You told me, like ages ago.”

Jon laughed, relieved, happy.

“Sorry,” he said, “Ironically my memory is foggy. It has been a rough couple of...years.”

Martin hummed something of affirmation, because he also knew this seemed like a nice moment to come out, and he felt the very familiar anxiety in his belly. Idiotic anxiety because Jon was also ace and there were no stakes in this situation at all.

Maybe it was just the fact that he had never said it aloud.

Martin heard himself speak:

“I think I am too,” and he could hear how stupidly nervous he sounded, “ace, I mean.”

There was a vague ringing in his ear and if he had been in the position to he might have just run out of the room, apparently facing down unknowable monsters didn’t make coming out easier.

His fear was cut down by the fact that Jon was absolutely beaming at him.

“That's great!” they said, “I mean not that I would have minded if- but it is nice to have someone understand, that's all.”

It was, it was amazing to have Jon here smiling up at him holding his hand and understanding him.

“It really is,” Martin said, then gently bringing the back of Jon’s hand to his cheek and leaning into it, “Doesn’t mean we don’t have to talk boundaries though.”

Jon smiled at the small gesture and then said serious:

“I don’t want to have sex, ever.”

Martin knew it sounded like people had tried to debate them on it before and it made his chest ache.

“I know,” he answered and then because honesty was key, “I am not adverse to it, but obviously if you don’t want to, we won’t, ever.”

Jon sat up a bit then, lifting his hand from Martins and gently cupping his cheek. Martin's pulse quickened, his hand moving almost automatically to Jon’s arm.

“How do you feel about kissing?” he asked.

“It's nice,” Jon said, smiling a bit cheekily leaning forward, “So long as it isn’t tongue kissing that is.”

Martin leaned forward until their breaths mingled at their lips where all but touching.

“May I kiss you then?” He asked, breathless.

Jon could only nod and they both leaned forward the last inch.

Time must have stopped for a bit as they kissed, gentle and full of a thousand promises.

They both moved away from the kiss gently, they were both tearing up a little, Martin felt so much so strongly and he pulled away from Jon completely.

“Just need a moment.” he said and smiled at Jon's reassuringly if a bit shaky.

“Take all the time you need,” Jon said and then softer, “Anything you need.”

And Martin was sure he had never loved anyone more.

On the fourth day of their third week in Scotland Jon had gone to run some errands in town and had come back with an incredibly nervous air about him they were sitting across from Martin at the table twirling their hair and checking his pocket every once in a while.

It was making Martin incredibly antsy and by the third time Jon had looked like he wanted to say something only to then go back to the crossword he was definitely making no progress on Martin had had enough.

“Sol mio,” Martin said, very much enjoying Jon’s wide eyed flustered he always got when Martin called him pet names. “Will you please tell me what is wrong.”

Jon looked at him sheepishly.

“There is not something wrong, per se.”

Martin gave him a look.

Jon sighed and stood up, grabbing a small box from his pocket.

“Nothing is wrong I just… bought something for you beloved.”

Martin very nearly had a heart attack when Jon opened the box and there was a ring inside. Upon closer inspection it was a beautiful black ring and Martin understood.

There was silence as Martin could do no more but stare at the ring and then at Jon.

“I see how a ring might come over as a gift now,” Jon rambled nervously, “it is not like that- I mean that is something we will have to talk about. I was afraid it would be too much? It is engraved too and I just hope I didn’t-”

Martin cut him off: “Jon let me see it properly.”

Jon handed him the ring.

Martin lifted the ring out of the box and saw the engraving on it.

நான் உன்னைக் காதலிக்கிறேன். I love you. Te amo.

Martin promptly sat down again, it was so sappy, just a tad ridiculous and stupidly cute. It hurt in his chest and tears stung in his eyes.

“How did you know I wanted one?” he asked, because he didn't know what else to say.

Jon rubbed the back of his neck self consciously and said:

“You were talking a few days ago, about how you would like something like a- like a token, to remind you and I thought an ace ring might be nice.”

They lifted their right hand.

“We match now.”

Martin silently moved to put the ring on, it fit perfectly. He ran his fingers over the tiny groves of the words on it.

An anchor.

A small reminder that he belonged, here in the world, here with Jon.

Martin stood up and gently enveloped Jon in a hug.

“Thank you,” he murmured into Jons hair as he placed a small kiss on top of their crown. “It’s perfect.”

#jonmartin #ace!jon #ace!martin #the magnus archives #tma #magpod #trans!martin #trans!jon #the whole thing is incredibly self indulgent #magnus archives fic #ao3 link will be in rb ig #jonathan sims #martin blackwood #tim stoker #sasha james #my writing

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