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melisa-may-taylor72 · 4 years ago

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QUEEN BEFORE QUEEN

THE 1960s RECORDINGS

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PART 4:

THE OPPOSITION

JOHN DEACON WAS THE QUIETEST MEMBER OF A MIDLAND-BASED FIVE-PIECE WHOSE GREATEST AMBITION WAS TO PLAY ANOTHER GIG.

Initial research John S. Stuart. Additional research and text: Andy Davis.

John Deacon was the fourth and final member to join Queen. He became part of that regal household 25 years ago this month, enrolling as the band’s permanent bassist in February 1971. His acceptance marked the culmination of a six-year ‘career’ in music, much of which he spent in an amateur, Leicestershire covers band called the Opposition.

From 1965 until 1969, Deacon and his schoolmates ploughed a humble, local furrow in and around their Midlands hometown, reflecting the decade’s mercurial moodswing with a series of names, images and styles of music. The most remarkable fact about the Opposition was just how unremarkable the group actually was.

Collectively, they were an unambitious crew: undertaking precisely no trips down to London to woo A&R men; winning only one notable support slot for the army of chart bands who visited Leicester in the ‘60s (opening for Reperata & the Delrons in Melton Mowbray in 1968); and managing even to miss out on the option of sending a demo tape to any of the nation’s record labels. The band’s saving grace is its solé recorded legacy: a three-track acetate — although even this was done for purely private consumption, and has rarely been aired outside the confines of their inner circle.

It is perhaps indicative of the Opposition’s modest outlook that their most promising bid for stardom, a beat contest, was called off before they had the chance to play in the finals. For John Deacon and friends, it seems, merely being in a band was reward enough.

Considering of all of this, it’s easy to imagine the response to the following story, related in the ‘60s to one of the Opposition’s guitarists, Ronald Chester:...[ ]

...[ ] “There was a teacher who worked at Beauchamp School, which John attended, who told fortunes. They went to see her one Saturday and were told, ‘John Deacon is going to be world famous and very, very rich. Of course, they all fell about laughing. She was determined that this was going to happen. But they all thought it was a joke."

What particularly amused Deacon’s colleagues was the unlikeliness of this scenario, given the plain facts of his demeanour. John was born in Leicester in 1951, the product of affluent, middle-class, middle England. As a youngster, he was known to his friends as ‘Deaks’ and grew up to be quiet and reserved, what Mark Hodkinson referred to in ‘Queen — ‘The Early Years’ as “a ghost of a boy".

“He is basically shy,” confirms Richard Young, the Opposition’s first guitarist/vocalist, and later keyboardist. “I suppose he was quieter than the rest of us — but he was fairly static with Queen if you look at him on stage.”

Ron Chester agrees: “John was quiet by nature. His sister, Julie, was the same. Once he got going, though, he wasn’t any different from anybody else. But on first approach, you really had to coax him out of his shell. We’d have to pick him up. He couldn’t walk down the road to meet us."

CONFIDENT

Despite any lack of personal dynamics, Deacon was a capable teenager: “He was very confident," recalls another of the band’s guitarists, David Williams. “But in a laidback sort of way. He didn’t have a problem with anything. ‘Yeah, I can do that’, he’d say. We used to call him ‘Easy Deacon’, not because of any sexual preferences, but because he’d say something was easy without it sounding big-headed. I remember saying to him once, I’m going to have to knock off the gigs a bit to revise for my ‘A’ levels. What about you?’ ‘No’, he said, ‘I don’t need to. I’ve never failed an exam yet, and I’ve never revised for one’. Ultimately, he was just confident, with a phenomenally logical mind. If he couldn’t remember something, he could work it out. And, of course, he got stunning results.”

John’s earliest interest was electronics, which he studied into adulthood. He also went fishing, trainspotting even, with his father. Then music took over. After dispensing with a ‘Tommy Steele’ toy guitar, John used the proceeds from his paper round to buy his first proper instrument, an acoustic, when he was about twelve. An early musical collaborator was a school mate called Roger Ogden, who like Roger Taylor down in Cornwall, was nicknamed ‘Splodge’. But his best friend was the Opposition’s future drummer, Nigel Bullen.

“I’d first got to know John at Langmore Junior School in Oadby, just outside Leicester, in either 1957 or 1958,’' recalls Nigel. “We were both the quiet ones. We started playing music together at Gartree High School, when we were about thirteen. We were inspired by the Beatles — they made everybody want to be in a group. John was originally going to be the band’s electrician, as he called it. He used to build his own radios, before we had any amps, and he fathomed a way of plugging his guitar into his reel-to-reel tape recorder. He was always the electrical boffin."

The prime mover in the formation of the group was another Oadby boy they met on nearby Uplands Park, Richard Young. “Richard was at boarding school," recalls Nigel Bullen. “He was always the kid with the expensive bike. He played guitar, and what’s more had a proper electric, with an amplifier. He instigated getting the band together. Initially, we rehearsed in my garage, and then anywhere we could. John played rhythm to begin with. He was a chord man, the John Lennon of the group, if you like."

SWITCH

Despite his later switch to the bass, Deacon’s technique on the guitar also developed, as Dave Williams reveals: “Later on, I remember he could play ‘Classical Gas’ on an acoustic, which was a finger-picking execise and no mean feat. It’s a bit like ‘McArthur Park’, a fantastic piece of music, and when I heard it, I thought, ‘Bloody hell. You dark horse!’ Because he never showed off."

The Opposition’s first bassist was another school friend of John’s called Clive Castledine. In fact, the group made its debut at a party at Castledine’s ouse on 25th September, 1965 (their first public performance took place the...[ ]

...[ ] following month at Gartree’s school hall). Clive looked good and appreciated the kudos of being in a group, but he wasn’t up to even the Opposition’s schoolboy standards. “I was the least proficient, to put it mildly,” he admitted to Mark Hodkinson.“His enthusiasm was 100%,” adds Richard Young, “but his actual playing ability was null, so we had a meeting and got rid of him.” Deacon took over, initially playing on his regular guitar, using the bottom strings. “John was good,” Young continues. “It was no problem for him to switch to bass. He hit the right notes at the beginning of the bar, and we were a better band for it. Whereas Clive made us sound woolly, as anyone who just plonked away on any old note would, John was solid.”

DIARY

Young turned out to be the Opposition’s archivist, keeping a diary of each gig played, the equipment used, and the amounts of money earned (as indeed did John Deacon). Richard’s diary documented the day Deacon — now, of course, bassist in one of the world’s most famous groups — first picked up his chosen instrument. “In an entry for 2nd April, 1966,” says Young, “it reads, ‘We threw Clive out on the Saturday afternoon. Had a practice in Deaks’ kitchen, and Deaks went on bass. Played much better.’ John didn’t have a bass, so we went down to Cox’s music shop in King Street in Leicester, and bought him an EKO bass for £60. I paid for it, but I think he paid me back eventually.”

“John’s bass style with the Opposition was the same as with Queen,” reckons Nigel Bullen. “He never used to play with a plectrum, which was unusual, but with his fingers, which meant that his right hand is drooped over the top of the guitar. Also, he plays in an upward fashion, which I’d never seen before, certainly when we were in Leicester. Over the years, I’ve watched many bass players adopt that style. I’d say he has been copied a lot. I’ve mentioned this to him, but he doesn’t agree.”

Clive Castledine wasn’t the last member of the band to be dismissed. “The vocal and lead guitar side of the Opposition was changing all the while,” recalls Nigel. “Myself, John, and Richard Young were always there — as were Dave Williams and Ron Chester later on — but we had a succession of other musicians who I can hardly remember now. There was a guy called Richard Frew in the very early days, and a young lad called Carl, but he didn’t fit in. After we began playing proper gigs, Richard decided he wasn’t happy with his singing and wanted to move onto keyboards, so we brought in Pete Bart (formerly with another local band, the Rapids Rave) as a guitarist and vocalist. He was good, but again, didn’t last long.”

“Bart was a bit of a rocker, while we were all mods,” remarks Dave Williams. “We were impressed by mod bands like the Small Faces and the original Who. Bart seemed to come from a different era altogether.”

“Deaks had the Parka with the fur collar,” remembers Ron Chester. “And short hair, a crew cut. Mirrors on his scooter.” Richard Young agrees: “John was more of a mod than us. But you couldn’t really pigeonhole the band, because our music went right across the board”.

”Buying Deacon his bass was no one-off, and Richard Young is remembered as the group’s benefactor. Being older than the others, he had a steady job working for his father’s electronics company in Leicester, which brought him a regular, and by all accounts, generous wage. He rarely thought twice before splashing out on equipment for the other members.

RECEIPTS

“Richard bought me a P.A.,” recalls David Williams. “But he didn’t ask, he used to think that the group needed it. He’d buy it and then say, ‘You owe me this’. My mum used to get really annoyed. She’d was at that going- through-my-pockets stage, probably looking for contraceptives. She once found a receipt from Moore and Stanworth’s, a local music shop. It was for a Beyer microphone, which cost about £30. I was still at school, getting pocket money, and my mum said, ‘What on earth is this?!’ Receipts on the Sunday dinner table, that sort of thing. It was good, though. The group needed it.”

“I was dead serious about the band,” claims Young, who switched to organ with the arrival of Williams in July 1966. “Perhaps more so than anybody else. I could see it going nowhere if money wasn’t pumped into it.”

“Dick Young was an accomplished organ player,” adds Dave, “and he improved the group quite a lot. He always had plenty of dosh, and a car. But he was totally mad, a crazy bloke. He’d come round with an organ one week, then next week, he’d have a better one. He ended up with a Farfisa, with one keyboard on it, then one with two keyboards — one above the other. Then he had a Hammond, an L 100. which was really heavy. Then he had a ‘B’ series one. The ‘L’ was top-of-the-range and he sawed it in half to make it easier to carry!”

Dave Williams helped to improve the group as well. “He was at school with us,” says Nigel Bullen, “but in another band, who we always looked up to.” That band was the Leeds-based Outer Limits (who went on to issue several singles — without Dave — in the late ‘60s). “I joined the Opposition after they asked me to watch them and tell them what I thought,” recounts Dave. “The Outer Limits were older lads, all mods, but I was after something a bit more easy going, and the Opposition were my own age. They were okay, but I first saw them at John’s house, when they were still practising in bedrooms, and they were absolutely awful. I said, ‘Have you thought of tuning up?’ They said they had. But it sounded like they were playing in different keys — totally horrendous. It was so funny. They were so conscientious, they’d all learned their bits, but hadn't tuned up to each other. That was my first tip.”

“Our first proper gig was supporting a local band, the Rapids Rave, at Enderby Coop Hall,” recalls Nigel Bullen. “They used to play at this village hall every week. and then we ended up doing it every week for quite some time.” Richard’s diary records the Opposition’s debut taking place on 4th December 1965, and that the band’s fee was £2. Thereafter, they began to offer their Services in the local ‘Oadby & Wigston Advertiser’, which led to bookings in youth clubs and village halls in local hot-spots like Kibworth, Houghton-on- the-Hill, Thurlaston and Great Glen.

SCHOOL WORK

By spring 1966, the Opposition were playing every weekend, school work permitting. The peaks and troughs of their career are illustrated by the following memorable gigs: one at St. George’s Ballroom, Hinckley, on 23rd June 1967, when just two people turned up and the band went home after a couple of numbers; and a September appearance in a series of shows at U.S. Airforce Bases in the Midlands, at which they were required to play for four-and-half hours with just two twenty-minute breaks. It was nothing if not diverse.

“It didn’t seem to matter what you played,” says Dave. “People would clap simply because you were making music. They never said, ‘Do you do Motown, or soul stuff?’ ” The band’s repertoire initially consisted of chart sounds and the poppier end of the R&B spectrum. “Although we were inspired by the Beatles, we never did any of their songs,” claims Nigel. “But we covered the Kinks, the Yardbirds, and things like Them’s ‘Gloria’, and the Zombies’ ‘She’s Not There’.

They also altered their name slightly to the New Opposition, which they unveiled at the Enderby Coop Hall. “The name-change was decided overnight, when John moved from rhythm to bass guitar,” recounts Richard, whose diary records the date of the transition as 29th April 1966. Interestingly, though, it makes no mention of another local group also called the Opposition, long thought to have been the reason for Deacon’s crew adopting the ‘New’. The change did act as an impetus for further development, however, instigated by Dave Williams, who soon took over as the group’s lead vocalist.

“When I joined they were doing all Beach Boys stuff,” he recalls, “and I think I may have brought in a little credibility. In the Outer Limits, I’d been playing John Mayall, the Yardbirds, that sort of thing, plus that group was into really good soul like the Impressions, and fantastic vocal bands from the States. So I had a broad musical knowledge by then, whereas the Opposition had been a bit poppy.” Appropriately, the words “Tamla” and “Soul” were now added to the Opposition’s ads and calling cards.

Towards the end of 1966, the New Opposition were enhanced further by the arrival of Ron Chester, who’d previously played with Dave Williams in the Outer Limits, as well as in an earlier band, the Deerstalkers. “Ron Chester was a bit eccentric,” claims Richard Young. “He never used to go anywhere without his deerstalker. He was a really good guitarist (“stunning”, adds Dave Williams). We were probably at our best when Ron was in the band.”

On 23rd October 1966, the New Opposition entered the local Midland Beat Contest. They won their heat, landing themselves a place in the semifinals on 29th January 1967. They won this, too, and steeled themselves for the finals, which were due to be held on 3rd March 1967, when they were to be pitched against...[ ]

...[ ] an act called Keny. The stars of the show would have been the nearest the Opposition came to having a rival: an outfit called Legay. (A year later, incidentally, this band issued a now collectable single, “No One” (Fontana TF 904,£80J.) Unfortunately, for all concerned, however, the contest never took place. “That was a fiasco,'' laughs Ron. “Somehow we won those heats, but in fact, I don’t remember seeing anybody else playing. I don’t know whether we won by default or not. After that, they pulled the plug on the competition — probably because they knew we’d be playing again!”.

CASINO

“The heats took place in a club in Leicester called the Casino, which was the place to play,” adds Nigel. “The guy who ran the competition was an agent for the club. His company was called Penguin (or P.S) Promotions and he walked like a penguin too, with his feet sticking out. The final was going to be held in the De Montford Hall, which is still the main venue in Leicester. We thought, ‘Crumbs, this is it, perhaps we might make the big time.’ But the guy did a runner with all the money — people had to pay to come to the heats. So the final was called off.”

David Williams wasn’t too fussed, as he scored another prize that night: “I remember taking a girl back to Dick’s car on the strength of us winning our heat. I said, ‘Can I borrow your keys, Dick? He said, ‘What for? You can’t drive!’ “

Were the New Opposition — or the Opposition, as they dropped the ‘New’ again in early 1967 — left in limbo by the cancellation of the Beat Contest? Having achieved the most public recognition of their talents so far, were they disappointed with the loss of the chance to prove themselves further?

“No. It was almost insignificant,” reckons Ron. “We didn’t really look upon it as a stairway to stardom.” And what would John Deacon have thought? “Nothing really,” suggests Chester. “ ‘It’s cancelled. What are we doing next, then?’ That would have been about the depth of it. We were a village band, all gathering at the church hall to try and improve our abilities. The financial aspect of it wasn’t in the forefront of our minds. We were more concerned with our music, and if we could get a booking doing it as well, to pay off some of the equipment, then that was a real bonus. Three bookings a week was enough for us while we were working or still at school.” Despite any dodgy dealings, history does have the Penguin promoter to thank for the only professionally-taken photograph of the Opposition. (“We didn’t go much on photos in the band,” remembers Dave Williams.) On Tuesday, 31st January 1967, two days after winning the semi-finals, the ‘Leicester Mercury’ dispatched a staff photographer over to Richard Young’s parents’ house in Oadby. Here, the group lined-up in the front room, looking more like refugees from 1964, rather than 1967. The only indications of the actual date are perhaps Ron Chester’s deerstalker hat and the ridiculous length of David Williams’ shirt collars — seven inches, no less, from neck to nipple.

“Dave was very extrovert,” recalls Nigel. “But we all had those silk shirts with the great long collars made by our mums and grandmas for our stage gear.” Dave admits: “Our clothes were all a bit mixed up. We had silk shirts with tweed jackets — which were fashionable for a while — and bell-bottoms. Musically, we were pretty good, better than...[ ]

...[ ] most of the local bands around that time, but we had this squeaky-clean, schoolboy image which let us down. I used to get frustrated when we were billed with other bands, and they’d all play with so many wrong chords but had a better image and still the punters applauded. Were they stupid? We were still at school — we didn’t leave until we were eighteen — and weren’t allowed to grow our hair long”.

“After the mod thing,” he continues, “long hair became really important. Bands were growing their hair right down their backs. I remember getting to one gig with John and Nigel a year or so later, and the other group were already on. And when they saw us they turned round and said, ‘Look! They’ve got no hair!’. We were quite upset about that”.

“We also went through the flower-power look,” Dave adds. “And then we got into those little jumpers without any sleeves that Paul McCartney used to wear, the ones so small that half your stomach showed. And then it was grandad shirts without the collars and flares.” Ron Chester: “The flowery shirts and flared trousers were everywhere. We looked like a right shower of poofters. But so did everybody else. You stood out if you didn’t wear them.”

1967 also heralded the arrival of an additional attraction to the Opposition’s stage show: two go-go dancers. At least, it did if the existing literature on the subject is to be believed. “I vaguely remember it,” admits Richard, “but speaking to Nig, neither of us can recal who those dancers were”.

Dave Williams throws some light on the subject: “They were the jet-set girls of the sixth form, they came from the big houses. They came to a couple of gigs and just started dancing. Somebody who booked us for the following week actually advertised us ‘with go-go girls’. But they were never really part of the show.”

ART

On 16th March, 1968 for a gig at Gartree School, the Opposition changed their name once again. “We called ourselves Art,” reveals Nigel, “because Dave was arty, that is, he was training as an artist. It was as simple as that.” Dave agrees: “It was my idea, because I’d been doing art at school.” Nigel Bullen was aware of another band using that name around the same time (the pre-Spooky Tooth outfit), but assuming them to be American, reckoned they’d be no confusion. As the Leicester-based Art never made it to London, there wasn’t.

Despite wording like “A time to touch and feel, to taste and experience, to hear and understand” appearing on the group’s tickets, Richard maintains that Art was “just the same band” as before. “Nothing changed."

“It was mutton dressed up as lamb, really,” admits Ron Chester. “We thought if we were called something different, people might come because they were curious. But it didn’t make a lot of difference. The audiences were captive at the places we played anyway. There was nowhere else to go on a Friday or Saturday night. Everyone used to roll up to see whoever was on, whether they’d heard of them or not.”

1968 was the year psychedelia caught up with many provincial British bands. The Art were no different, but their acknowledgement of what had been last year’s scene in London was via sight rather than sound. Their light shows seem to have been particularly memorable, as Dave Williams explains: “They were brilliant. We used the projectors from school, filled medicine bottles with water and oil, and projected through them to get this lovely golden, amber backdrop. As the image came out upside down, when we poured in some Fairy Liquid, it dropped straight through in a blob, but came out on the wall like a giant green mushroom cloud. It was amazing, and we had about four of them at the back, projecting over the band.”

John Deacon was party to another of Dave’s exploits. “One day,” recalls Williams, “John and I bought a 100-watt P.A. — which was pretty big for those days — and took it into the lecture theatre full of kids at Beauchamp School (which Deacon had attended since September 1966) for our version of Arthur Brown’s ‘Fire’. We cranked it up as loud as we could, put the light show on, and let off these smoke bombs, which were DDT pellets we’d got from the chemist. All the kids started choking, and then the headmaster walked in...[ ]

...[ ] with a load of governors. You could see the fury in his face. One of the governors asked what we were doing. ‘It’s a demonstration in sound and light, sir,’ I said. ‘We’re using these ink bottles turned upside down, but we’re a bit worried about these DDT pellets so we might knock the smoke on the head, but we’re still experimenting.’ And he fell for it!”.

INFLUENTIAL

Towards the end of 1968, a crop of new groups began to have a profound effect on the maturing schoolboys: Jethro Tull, the Nice, Taste, and in particular Deep Purple. Ron: “We used to buy Purple records and learn to play them. We’d seen John Mayall’s Bluesbreakers and the Downliners’ Sect in Leicester, the Nice, King Crimson. These sort of groups. We learned a lot from just watching them. They were influential. There was always a big discussion in the band as to whether we should do a particular song. Once we’d decided that, there’d be another big discussion as to how we should do it. Everybody had their say.”

Hair, too, had finally began to grow: “John grew his quite long,” recalls Ron. “We all had longish hair, but not shoulder length. We couldn’t look too unkempt for the normal side of life, but we didn’t want to be too prissy for the other end of the spectrum. That was when we started playing universities, and we went a bit heavier. The audiences were far more serious minded about music and more enthusiastic. In some of the youth clubs we’d been playing, the audience would be moving around on roller skates, or peeling bananas all over the place, things like that”.

“We felt we were making an impression towards the last year or two of the band,” he continues. But it went no further: “We were at school, some of us had jobs, and there was an element of common sense overriding what we would have liked to have done. None of us wanted to chuck in our apprenticeships or courses. If we’d had a flair for writing our own material, we might have taken off. But we just played what was popular, nothing different from most other groups. That wasn’t a basis on which to launch ourselves. So it never happened."

“We didn’t think that far ahead,” admits Richard Young. “I just thought of playing and getting repeat bookings. John was probably the least ambitious of all of us, to be honest. I think he felt that there was no mileage in what we were doing, although it was good fun. I think he had the impression that this was a hobby, a phase he was going through.”

Sometime in the Sixties, possibly 1969, but maybe earlier, Art recorded an acetate. Whatever the date, the crucial point is that John Deacon was present at the session. “We weren't asked to do it,” recalls Nigel. “We just wanted to make a disc. I think it cost us about five shillings.”

The venue was Beck’s studio, thirty miles south east of Oadby in Wellingborough, Northamptonshire. “I’d never been in a studio before and it seemed awesome, really,” recalls Dave Williams. “It was a fairly decent-sized room for acoustics. It was all nicely low-lit, with lots of screens. The guy knew what he was doing.” Richard Young was less impressed, though: I’ve been in studios all my life,” he says. “That was just another session. Nothing about it stood out.”

The “guy” Dave remembered was engineer Derek Tomkins, who informed the group that they could record three tracks in the time allotted. “We’d only gone in there with two, ‘Sunny’ and ‘Vehicle’,” says Nigel, “and we didn’t want to waste the opportunity, so Richard knocked up a little instrumental called Transit 3’ — named after our new van, the third one — right there in the studio. Although we were purely a covers band, everybody had a bash at writing, but we never did anything of our own on stage. The exception was Transit 3’, which was incorporated into the set after this session.”

“ Transit 3’ was about about the only track we ever wrote," reckons Richard Young (“Heart Full Of Soul”, as reported in ‘As It Began’, is in fact a Graham Gouldman nurnber). “I initially had the idea, but I can’t really remember anything about it. It’s very basic. It wouldn’t take a great deal of effort to write something like that.” To the objective observer, “Transit 3”, taped in mono but well recorded, is a fairly uncomplicated, organ-led scale- hopper, reminiscent of Booker T & the MGs.

“Everybody was listening to ‘Green Onions’,” confirms Nigel, “so Booker T would have been an influence there.” But for all that, it’s well- played, with memorable lead and twangy, wah-wah guitar passages courtesy of Dave Williams. And, crucially, John Deacon’s thumping bass is plainly audible throughout. On this evidence, the Opposition were clearly a tight, confident outfit. “Transit 3” could have been incorporated into any swinging ‘60s film soundtrack, and no one would have jumped up shouting, “Amateurs”!.

UNFAMILIAR

The other two tracks, covers of Bobby Hebb’s ‘Sunny' and the more obscure, soul- tinged ‘Vehicle’ (later a hit for the Ides of March), featured a vocalist, but an unfamiliar one: another of the Opposition’s fleeting frontmen. “We had a singer for a while called Alan Brown,” recalls Nigel. “He came and went fairly quickly. He was good, really good. Too good for us, I think. That wasn’t him saying that. We just knew it.”

On both songs, Brown is in deep, soulful voice, sounding not unlike a cross between Tom Jones and the early Van Morrison — if such an amalgam can be imagined. The Art’s reading of “Vehicle” is edgy and robust, dominated by Richard Young’s distinctive keyboards and Nigel Bullen’s bustling drum work. Dave Williams is again in fine form, delivering more sparkling wah-wah guitar, while on the cassette copy taped from Nigel Bullen’s acetate, at least, John’s bass is very prominent, over-recorded in fact, booming in the mix.

“Sunny” goes one better, breaking into jazzy 3/4 time halfway through, before slotting back into the more traditional 4/4. It’s an imaginative arrangement, with alternate soloing from both Dave and Richard, while the whole track is underpinned by swirls of Hammond organ and John Deacon’s pounding bass.

“We did ‘Sunny’ as part of our stage set,” says Nigel, “but I don’t recall us ever going into the jazzy bit. That’s quite interesting. We might have talked about that before we went into the studio, but I think it was just for this session. Dave had two guitars, a six-string and a twelve-string, or it could even have been twin-necked. I still quite like the wah-wah he played on that track. By this time Richard would have been onto his second or third organ — he was heavily into Hammonds and Leslies."

Operating as they did in a fairly ambition- free zone, and having prepared the listener for a mundane set of recordings with their trademark laid-back approach, Art’s acetate comes as something of a revelation. Let any bunch of today’s schoolboys loose in a studio for an afternoon and defy them to come up with something half as good!

Just two copies of the Art disc are known to have survived. John Deacon’s mother is believed to own one and Nigel Bullen has the other. “I’d forgotten all about this record,” admits Nigel. “We know that one copy was converted to an ashtray!. We stubbed out cigarettes on Richards at rehearsal one night.” Although treated with anything but respect at the time, the importance of the disc is now apparent to Nigel Bullen: “This is probably John Deacon’s first recording, apart from tracks he did in his bedroom on his reel-to-...[ ]

...[ ] reel, which are probably long gone. Although, knowing John, they’re probably not!”

The beginning of the end for Art came in June 1969, when John Deacon left Beauchamp. With a college course lined up in London, his days with the band were obviously numbered. He played his final gig with the group on 29th August at a familiar venue, Great Glen Youth and Sports Centre Club. By October, he’d moved to London to study electronics at Chelsea College of Technology, part of the University of London.

Another blow was dealt in November, when the band's lynchpin, Richard Young, left to join popular local musician Steve Fearn in Fearn’s Brass Foundry.

“They were a Blood, Sweat and Tears-type of group,” recalls Richard, “and paid better money than I’d been used to. I was out five nights a week, on about £3 per night, against an average of about £10 between us.” The previous year, Richard had played session keyboards on the Foundry’s two Decca singles: “Don’t Change It” (F 12721, January 1968, £10) and “Now I Taste The Tears” (F 12835. September 1968, £8).

SAVAGE

Ron Chester departed shortly afterwards, and gave up music: “I left in the early 70s, after John Deacon moved to London. John was replaced by a bass player was called John Savage, who unsettled me. He had different tastes and drove us a bit hard. His approach was totally different from Deaks's, and he was much more interested in the financial side of things. We’d all been mates before, we didn't just knock about for the band. It just wasn’t the same.”

Nigel, Richard and Dave pushed on into 1970 with the new bassist, changing the band’s name again, this time to Silky Way. They returned to Beck’s studio to record a cover of Free’s “Loosen Up” with another vocalist, Bill Gardener, but that was the band’s last effort. Dave left after falling into Nigel’s drumkit, drunk on stage at a private party one Christmas. “I waited for them to pick me up the next day,” he recalls sheepishly, “but they never carne.”

Richard and Nigel moved into a dinner- dance type outfit called the Lady Jane Trio — “Corny, or what!”, laughs Bullen — but Nigel left music altogether soon afterwards to concentrate on his college work. Richard turned professional, moving into cabaret with the Steve Fearn-less Brass Foundry, before forming a trio called Rio, finding regular work on the holiday camp and overseas cruise circuit. In the late ‘70s, he joined a touring version of the Love Affair.

Down in London, John Deacon caught a glimpse of his future world-beating musical partners as early as October 1970, when he saw the newly-formed Queen perform at College of Estate Management in Kensington. “They were all dressed in black, and the lights were very dim too,” he told Jim Jenkins and Jacky Gunn in ‘As It Began’, “All I could really see were four shadowy figures. They didn’t make a lasting impression on me at the time.”

While renting rooms in Queensgate, John formed a loose R&B quartet with a flatmate, guitarist Peter Stoddart, one Don Cater on drums and another guitarist remembered only as Albert. The new band was hardlv a great leap forward from Art: they wrote no originals, and when asked to perform their only gig at Chelsea College on 21st November 1970, supporting Hardin & York and the Idle Race, they hastily billed themselves — in a rare fit of self-publicity for the quiet Oadby boy — as Deacon.

A few months later in early 1971, John was introduced to Brian May and Roger Taylor by a mutual friend, Christine Farnell, at a disco at Maria Assumpta Teacher Training College. They were looking for a bassist. John auditioned at Imperial College shortly afterwards. Roger Taylor recalled Queen’s initial reaction to Deacon in ‘As It Began’: “We thought he was great. We were so used to each other, and so over the top, we thought that because he was quiet he would fit in with us without too much upheaval. He was a great bass player, too — and the fact that he was a wizard with electronics was definitely a deciding factor!”

How did the members of the Art/Opposition back in Leicester, view John’s success with Queen? “It wasn’t sudden”, says Ron Chester. “First we heard he’d got into another group. We couldn’t believe that — were they deaf? There were all these sort of jokes going along. Then we heard he’d got a recording contract and the next thing he had a record out. It was a gradual progression. No one dreamed he would end up the way he did.”

“I don’t think we expected success for any of us" admits Nigel Bullen. “Richard maybe. He was the first one to go professional. But when John left for London to go to college, he left all his kit here. I thought that was the end of it for him. He had absolutely no intention of continuing. His college course was No.1. It was only after he kept seeing adverts for bass players in the ‘Melody Maker’ that he became interested again.”

He also seemed to lose some of that ‘Easy Deacon’ touch which so impressed Dave Williams in the ‘60s. “He’d ring up these bands,” continues Nigel, “but when he found they were a name act, he bottle out. When he went to auditions for anonymous bands, where he would queue up with about thirty other bass players, he had a bit of confidence. He just wanted to play in a decent band. Once I heard what Queen had recorded at De Lane Lea, and John played me the demo of their first album, I thought they were well set.”

CABARET

By early 1973, Dave Williams had forsaken a career in animation to join Highly Likely, a cabaret outfit put together by Mike Hugg and producer Dave Hadfield on the back of their minor hit, “Whatever Happened To You (The Likely Lads Theme)”. While Dave was in the band, they recorded a follow-up single which wasn’t released, before evolving into a glam rock outfit, Razzle, which later become the Ritz, who issued a few singles. “During Queen’s early days, before they’d had any real success, John came to see us once,” recalls Dave, “and said, ‘I wish I was in a band like this which could actually play some gigs’.” Dave concludes: “I remember John coming round once around that time, saying I’ve got a demo’. ‘So have I!’, I said. So we put his on first, and the first track was ‘Keep Yourself Alive’. My mouth dropped wide open and I thought. ‘Bloody hell! What a great track’. I remember saying that the guitarist was as good as Ritchie Blackmore — who was still our hero then — and thinking ‘They’re serious about this. This is the real thing’.”

RECORD COLLECTOR Nº 198 FEBRUARY 1996

⬅PREVIOUS: SMILE

https://melisa-may-taylor72.tumblr.com/post/639672109315014656/queen-before-queen-the-1960s-recordings

➡NEXT: IBEX, WRECKAGE & SOUR MILK SEA

@natromanxoff, @mephisto92, @moviestorian, @x5vale, @39-brian, @onegoldenglance, @crosmopolitan, @an-abyss-called-life, @his-majesty-king-mercury, @i-live-for-queen, @brian-39-may, @toomuchlove-willkillyou, @brimaymay, @sail-away-sweet-sister, @drummerqueenrmt, @old-fashioned-roger-boy, @briianmaay, @inui-mycroft, @deacytits, @iminlovewithrogscar, @drowseoftaylor, @brianmayislongaway, @balticlover, @astrophysicist-guitar-god, @miez-lakatz, @brianmayoucease, @jesus-in-a-life-boat, @aslongasthereismusic, @roger-taylors-car, @silapril, @sherrifanciesfriskyfreddie, @tenderbri, @brianmydear, @thosequeenboys, @millionairewaltz-carpediem, @painandpleasure86, @bribrifrenchfry, @xlucylennonx, @a-night-at-the-abbey-road, @inthedayswhenlandswerefew, @madformeddowstaylor, @queenrogertaylorfan, @let-roger-get-a-lunch, @queen-for-life, @rethought, @drivenbybrianmay @mymakeupmaybeflaking, @old-but-still-a-child, @let-roger-get-a-lunch, @warriorteam1924, @funnydressesweirdhairanddance, @painkiller80, @thefanhuman13, @yourtieddownmother, @hgmercury39, @brimi-stardust, @thefairyfellermercury, @retroromantics, @sailawaysweetbrimi, @sophiaintheskywithdiamonds, @holybrianmaywritingbear, @lydiannode, @39-yellow-daffodils , @ure-gonna-loveme-when-u-seeme, @kaykaybeachgirl, @foxmonkey, @deakysgurl, @redspecialandclogsandcurls, @briansrainbowsocks-deactivated2, @delilahmay39, @ohmybribri, @bless-the-queen, @everythingaboutfreddie, @doitforthevine67, @recordsoftheseventies, @rhysjoejoshtomfarisblog, @tenementfunsterwithpurpleshoes, @drummah-in-a-rocknroll-band, @beatlegirl1968, @maylorsqueen, @autumnscenemcyt, @gralto, @alittlepeoplemagic, @rainbowsockbrian, @frejudy, @drivenbybri, @yourlocalmusicalprostitute, @saik-ava, @omb-xx, @sassymaylor, @somekindofroger, @starlightmay, @freddiemercuryismylife, @sunshine112, @chrysochromulina, @glitteryloveravenue, @deakyislife51, @0-primejive-0, @just-a-skinny-lad, @bluewillowmom, @sassiesillie, @stesichoreanpalinode, @farrokhbulsaramercury, @tayloredofqueen, @rushingheadlong, @izzy-is-slightly-mad, @scandalacious, @0-my-fairy-queen-0 @39-volunteers-to-space@zodiacaldust, @deakytaylor, @queenband70s, @deakyeveryday, @drivenbybrimay @70smay

#Queen Before Queen #Pre-Queen Series #John Deacon #The Opposition #🎤🎵🎸👑⭐

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lokis-army-77 · 3 years ago

Text

If You Please

Chapter twelve

Bucky Barnes x Reader

Word Count: 2588

This is technically a reader insert but without the (y/n) and all that. She also has no name mentioned so feel free to imagine as you please.

Follow the reader through the events of the Captain America movies and experience her love for Bucky Barnes.

Warnings: none

Note: Normally I am the type of person to be date accurate when writing things and if you are too, I'm sorry. I messed up on the dates, so the battle of New York happens like a month after it should. This is also a short chapter because it's a filler and I'm trying to just get to the Winter Soldier but have everything make sense.

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Masterlist

A few days later I had received a small archivist job in the WWII department of the Smithsonian. Thankfully the made-up resume and a few fake SHIELD recommendations came in handy. I would officially start the following week after a few background checks were cleared. In my free time until then, I unpacked all the boxes in my apartment. It started to feel more homely and warm when all of my things filled up the space. When I didn’t feel like unpacking anything, I started taking long walks to the VFW building. I hadn’t joined in on any of the meetings yet, I just stood by the doorway and watched, listening to the stories people told.

One day that week as I stood back in the hallway after the meeting had ended, a man came up to me. He was a little taller than I was and had the brightest smile I had ever seen. I had watched him in the meetings before, he was usually the one hosting them, giving advice to all who needed it.

“I’ve seen you standing out here for the past three days, why don’t you come have a seat next time? It would be more comfortable than standing out here for an hour.” He said as he leaned his back against the wall right next to me.

“I have thought about it, but I tend to get here after you have started. I don’t want to interrupt anything by just barging in.” I said over my shoulder at him.

“You won't interrupt anything, just come on in next time, we’d be happy to have a new face around,” He pushed himself off the wall and walked down the hall.

After that, I ended up joining the meetings and even spoke a few times. I learned that the man who came up to me that day was Sam Wilson, pararescue, who had served two tours in Afghanistan. From the first day he came up and talked to me to now, we quickly became friends.

The days had turned into weeks and I was finally able to live relatively by my own means. The Smithsonian was great, in the archives, no one was really around and I could spend a whole day without any interruptions, which allowed me to just concentrate on what I was doing. After closing, I normally walked to meet Sam, who was usually way too excited to see me, even though we saw each other almost every day without fail.

“You’re late today.” I jumped, startled out of my thoughts at the sound of someone talking to me. I looked up, spying Sam standing next to one of the small trees outside the VFW building.

“What do you mean late?”

“I mean you usually get here at three-thirty. It's four right now.” He said looking down at his watch.

“Oh sorry, I didn’t realize. I've just been lost in my thoughts lately.” I sighed.

“I know we’ve only been friends for what? A month? But I already know when something is bothering you, What is it?”

“Nothing really, just my brother. Since moving here he's called at least twice a week to check up but it’s been radio silence for the past two weeks, he doesn't even answer when I try calling him. I'm just a little worried that something bad is going on, considering his job.”

“Well, maybe he’s just really busy at the moment, or he's somewhere he can't call you. You know how it is being out on those military missions.”

“I know, it’s just the last time we were apart on a mission,” I trailed off and looked up at Sam, he raised his eyebrows, quietly waiting for the end of the sentence. “Someone close to us passed. It’s still fresh in my mind like it happened yesterday. I was there that day and I was too far away to even know what had happened, now my brother and I aren’t even in the same vicinity as each other, there is no telling what could happen and it makes me nervous.”

He gave me a small apologetic smile and patted my shoulder before leading me from the tree where we stood to where his car was parked. “What do you say we hang out at mine and just watch some tv? Get your mind off things? Or we can talk about it, either way, it’s better than dealing with it alone.” I nodded my head and grabbed onto the car door handle as he unlocked it.

Walking through the front door after him I took a quick look around. It was cozy, way more decorated than I thought it would be for a man in his early thirties living alone.

“Make yourself at home. Do you want anything to drink?” He asked neck-deep in the fridge.

“Okay, I’ll just have some water,” I called out as I made my way further into the living room. The couch was backed up to the wall a few feet away from the dining room table. I sat down on it and scooted as close as I could to its right arm. A few moments later Sam came over with two glasses of water and a bag of chips. He handed me my drink before crashing down into his own seat. “Thank you,” I said before taking a long sip.

He nodded as he said “No problem.” Before he got himself really comfortable he searched around for the TV remote. As he pressed the ‘on’ button the TV came to life. “What in the world is that?” He sounded concerned so I quickly looked at the screen.

“Breaking: Attack on New York City. This afternoon at 2:15 several unidentified aircraft descended onto Earth's surface. Strange beings, some are calling aliens, Accompanied these ships and are causing havoc in Manhattan. Eyewitnesses have stated that they have seen Iron Man, and what seemed to be Captain America, leading a team of three others fighting back against the invaders. The battle seems to be over but updates are still coming in, let's take a look at some footage of the downtown destruction.” My eyes went wide and my heart stopped as I listened to what the reporter was saying. I kept my eyes glued to the screen as it changed to show a destroyed street. As the camera panned around I spotted Steve fighting against two of the creatures, before the clip quickly changed to show one of the large ships crashing into the New York skyline.

“Oh God Steve, what did you get into?” I murmured to myself.

“You say that like you know him personally.”

“Uhh.” I just gave him a wide-eyed look of surprise. “I do, he’s my brother.”

“Now really isn’t the time to be joking about things,” He gave me a pointed look.

“I swear I’m not joking, he really is my brother. I can explain later, I need to try and get a hold of him.” I pulled out the small flip phone from my pocket and dialed the number for Steve's cell phone, it rang and rang but no answer. I hung up quickly and dialed the number Fury gave me at the beginning of the month. After two rings he answered.

“I assume you are looking for Captain Rogers.”

“Where is he? Is he okay?” I tried to keep the worried tone from coming through in my voice.

“He’s fine. He is in the middle of a debriefing. I’ll tell him you called.”

“Okay, thank you.” As soon as the words left my mouth he gave a quick hum and then hung up. I looked over at Sam whose eyes hadn't left me at all. “Everything is fine, he's in a debrief so that means that whatever happened in New York is definitely over.”

“That’s good to hear, hopefully, those things don’t try to come back again.” He shook like a shiver ran down his spine. “Now please explain how Captain America, a man from the 1940s, is your brother.”

“I can hear the skepticism in your voice.”

He held his hands up in defense, “Hey, I'm not the one saying I'm the sister to a 90 something-year-old man.”

“Look, it’s a long story that I would rather not get into now but the short version is that I was born in 1921, Steve is my older brother, we both ended up taking the super-soldier serum and fought against HYDRA in the second world war. We ended up crashing a plane into some Ice in the Atlantic ocean and were found and unfrozen last October.” “If you are really Captain America’s sister, then why are you never mentioned in anything?” I looked at him and shook my head.

“Well for starters it was the forties and I was a woman fighting on the front lines. Credit is never given where it is due. But there is also the fact that I was a part of the SSR, which was very secretive, after I died.” I put my fingers up in air quotes, “They should have erased most, if not all the files on me, per protocol. The only reason Steve is well known is because of his time going cross country selling war bonds.” I paused for a second before quickly adding, “I’m sure if you look hard enough, you’ll find me in the history books somewhere.”

Sam just sat there not really saying anything. This was the first time I think he had ever been quiet for more than five seconds. I let out a deep sigh and stood, grabbing my bag from the floor. “Thanks for having me over, but I think I need to go. I’ll see you tomorrow.” He stood and walked me to the door.

“Don’t be late. I’ll see you.” Sam waved me off and I headed down the street.

About half a year later while sorting through some archive files, I came across Peggy Carter. I felt a pang in my heart as I stared at the photo of her standing next to Howard Stark. Other than Steve and Bucky, those two were my closest friends. I fell down a rabbit hole after that, finding any information on the two that I could find. They had both helped found SHIELD in 1965, they had both gotten married and had children of their own. Peggy's children had stayed out of the public eye, but in true Stark fashion, Howard’s son evidently took over the family business and was living the high life. I pulled out a newspaper from the stack I had on the table in front of me and was shocked at what I saw. The title read ‘Howard and Maria Stark Die in Car Accident’, I knew Howard most likely wasn’t alive anymore but seeing the photographs of the wrecked car in the newspaper cast a somber mood through the room.

I laid the paper down on the table and ruffled through more of the papers before determining that we had no information on if Peggy was alive or not. That sent me into a frenzy of looking through phone books to try and find her and calling every retirement home in DC that I could. The only lead I had to go off of was a small interview from a newspaper, talking to Peggy about the seventieth anniversary of V-E Day, stated that she was living in Washington, DC.

After eight failed calls, finally, on the ninth, I had finally found a home which had a Peggy Carter as a residence in room 204. I rushed to pack up my things and left my office early. I ran down the back hallways as fast as I could without drawing too much attention. When I made it out of the building I ran full speed to the road to hail a cab.

Amazingly the traffic was almost nonexistent and I made it to the retirement home in only ten minutes. I fumbled out of the cab and I raced through the front doors of the building. I must have startled the women at the front desk because as soon as I rounded the corner to the staircase, they were yelling after me. I took the steps three at a time in my haste to get to the second floor. I stopped running when I was outside of room 204. I couldn’t see anything clearly through the frosted window so I knocked hesitantly and slowly opened the door and stepped in.

There in the middle of the room, against the wall was a single bed. A woman laid there quietly with her eyes closed. The closer I came to her the more familiar she looked. I let out a relieved gush of breath. There she was, older now, but still the Peggy I once knew. I nervously grabbed one of the chairs in the corner of the room and brought it over to her bedside so I could sit. Gently I gave her a small tap on the hand before just holding it in mine. She stirred but her eyes never opened.

All of a sudden one of the nurses from downstairs came into the room, with an angry and shocked expression.

“Ma’am, You can't be in here. If you want to see a patient, you have to sign in.” I ignored her, my eyes trained on Peggy's face. The commotion of the woman barging into the room had made her open her eyes and look around. I just watched as she scanned the room, first to the door on the left, to the wall in front of her, past me sitting on her right, then to the window behind me.” Her brows raised and she lifted her hands to her eyes to rub. The shock on her face was evident as she turned her head to stare directly at me.

“Hey Carter, long time no see huh?” I gave her the biggest smile that I could.

“Is it really you?” She reached her hand out to mine and grabbed hold.

“It is, it’s really me.”

“Ma’am, I mean it, you can't be here.” The nurse tried again, this time Peggy shot her a glare.

“Ms. I’ll have you know this is one of my best friends and she can be in here if she wants to. Now leave us alone.” The young nurse nodded her head and rushed out, even in old age she could still put on that commanding tone that struck fear in every man. She slowly turned back to me, almost like if she looked back for me, I would be gone. “How? How are you here?”

“It’s a long story Peg, are you sure you want to hear it?”

“Look where I am, I have nothing but time.” She laughed out and I let out my own small laugh as I shook my head.

In addition to what I had been doing, like hanging out with Sam, after that first visit, I made it a priority to see Peggy once or twice every two weeks, depending on how she was doing. Dementia had put a lot of stress on her, and seeing me after almost seventy-five years and looking relatively the same as I had when frozen took out a giant toll on her.

And that's how the next 10 months went until Steve eventually moved into an apartment directly under me.

Tag List: @ginger-swag-rapunzel @underc0vercryptid-reads @geek-and-proud @intothesoul @leyannrae @starkleila

#james buchanan barnes #bucky x y/n #bucky barnes #bucky x reader #bucky x female reader #bucky fic #bucky fanfic #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x rogers!reader #winter solider x reader #marvel fic #marvel fanfiction

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voiceless-terror · 4 years ago

Note

(if you feel like it) what about “snowed in” or “comfort” with jontim for the tma december bingo? my jontim brainrot never stops and I’d love to see what you come up with (I’m sure it’d be amazing as always) thanks so much !

The JonTim brainrot is real and appreciated! I combined this prompt with one of @balanced-to-a-tea‘s, who asked for Secret Santa with the season one archives gang! Here there be 3.5k words of gifts, pining, and kisses of the Jon/Tim variety :)

“It’s a mess out there,” Tim reported, plopping down in his office chair and looking strangely cheerful, given the situation. “Looks like we’re stuck here for the time being.”

There were audible groans all around, though Jon’s was quieter than the others. If he were being honest, their current situation was his fault- he asked them to hang back at the end of the day and help him with some unreachable boxes (unreachable for him, that is). He was trying to get into the habit of checking the weather in the mornings, though he never managed to actually do it until he was too far from his flat to get an umbrella or a heavier coat. This resulted in a few sticky situations, including several occasions of arriving late, looking like a drowned rat.

“And here I was going to tuck in for the night, have a glass of wine, blast the heat at unreasonable levels,” Sasha complained, doing a half-hearted twirl in her chair. “Terrible!”

“What if we lose power?” Martin fretted, still outfitted in his coat and scarf. “I heard there’s going to be high winds. High winds!” Jon’s guilt increased. Being stuck with his (likely angry) staff in the Archives was not a great start to his career as Head Archivist. And just when we were getting along again…

“I’m sorry,” he began, his hands fidgeting. “I shouldn’t have started this project so late, I didn’t realize the weather would get quite as nasty as it did…”

“Don’t worry about it, boss!” Tim grinned, leaning back in his chair and propping his feet up on his desk, an act Jon would usually scowl at him for. “Should’ve told you ‘bout the storm. You never check the weather reports.” Jon flushed; Tim knew him too well. “Besides, I can’t say I was expecting it to get this bad; London’s not known for its prodigious snowfall.”

“You don’t seem too put-out by it.” Martin eyed Tim suspiciously as he began to unwind his scarf. “You’re smiling.”

“Well, yeah!” Tim swirled around, eyeing them all with an unfettered glee. Jon wondered what he had in mind; there was never a dull moment when Tim had free time. He’d learned that the hard way. “There’s something so romantic about being snowed-in, don’t you agree, Jon?”

Jon did not agree; being trapped, even in a big building like the Institute, left him feeling anxious and restless. Sasha agreed, if her rolled eyes were anything to go by. Martin seemed to be considering it, though.

“I suppose there’s something poetic about it?” he mused, leaning back against the wall. “The snow falling, blanketing the ground in white…” All eyes turned to him and he blushed under the scrutiny.

“See! Martin’s got the spirit.” Tim clapped his hands and got to his feet. “We’ve got leftovers from lunch in the fridge. Between that and Martin’s stash of tea biscuits, we won’t go hungry. And there’s that weird frozen lasagna in the back of the freezer…”

“We don’t have an oven, Tim,” Jon pointed out. “And I’m fairly certain that’s been in there for more than a year.”

Tim continued, impervious to any criticism. “And if we have to stay the night, Jon’s got that cot he thinks we don’t know about-”

“Hey-!”

“-and we can raid all the break rooms for their gross cushions-”

“I am not sleeping here,” Sasha said, punctuating the statement with a slam of a hand on her desk. “The weather report says it's supposed to pass over soon. We’ll only be here for a few hours, tops.”

“Weather reports are wrong all the time, Sash! Think of the fun we could get up to.” Tim smiled and Jon’s heart stuttered without his permission, most likely due to the idea of what Tim considered ‘fun.’ With the way his eyes lit up, however, Jon couldn’t fight a small smile. “Ooh! We could do Secret Santa, like we used to do in Research. Remember?”

Jon did remember. He still kept some of the gifts he’d received, mostly small trinkets from Tim and Sasha that somehow managed to give him a small thrill of happiness whenever he saw them. Still, he didn’t know how they could do such a thing in the Archives, with nothing around that could constitute a gift.

“How’re we supposed to do that?” Martin asked, sharing Jon’s concern. “Statements and office supplies are the only things we have access to.”

“Oh ye of little faith,” Tim replied, nudging Martin with his foot. “We’ll get creative! I’m sure with a little thought and effort, we can all find something suitable.” He’d already begun to scribble their names on a piece of paper. “C’mon, it’ll pass the time. Please?” Jon sighed, unable to argue when Tim used his most pathetic puppy-dog eyes.

“Fine,” he grumbled, rolling his eyes at Tim’s whoop of enthusiasm. “But don’t expect anything extravagant. I’m not feeling particularly creative.”

“I guess it could be a good distraction,” Sasha acquiesced, with Martin nodding tentatively. “How long do we get to find a gift? Or make one, I suppose.”

“An hour? Two? Then we can all meet back here and exchange!” Tim nodded, and without waiting for any agreement he crumpled the pieces of paper into a cup and stood up. “Martin, you first. No peeking!”

“I won’t,” he mumbled, reaching in with one hand with his head turned pointedly away. He pulled out a slip of paper and immediately turned red upon opening it. “Um, alright. Yeah.” Maybe he got Tim, Jon mused.

Sasha picked next, her face giving nothing away. Tim held the cup out to Jon, waggling his eyebrows. He ignored this, reaching in to pick one of the remaining two slips of paper. Tim!! It read, with several smiley faces and hearts. He felt his own face heating up and shoved the slip into his pocket, staring at the floor.

“And last but certainly not least, me!” Tim took the last slip with a flourish, grinning at what he read. The four of them stared at each other for an awkward beat until Tim broke the silence with a shrill whistle.

“What are you waiting for? Clock’s a tickin’!”

Fuck.

________

It had been an hour and a half. As far as Jon knew, Tim and Sasha were waiting in the break room, steadily demolishing Martin’s stash of sweets, the man himself having locked himself in Document Storage and thereby eliminating one more place for Jon to scavenge for a gift (not that there was anything in there, but it was the principle of the thing). So now here he sat, moping in his office with nary an idea for what to give Tim.

Tim. He was glad they’d started talking again, albeit not with the same frequency as before. There was of course an adjustment period, that was to be expected- especially when someone younger and arguably less qualified than quite a few candidates suddenly became your boss. But Tim had always been there for him, tolerated his quirks, helped him through a breakdown or two. He stuck by his side when most people in the department couldn’t stand him. Perhaps, with some time, they could go back to being as close as they were. Or closer.

Jon tamped that thought down- it was ridiculous to even think about, now that he was his boss. Professional boundaries aside, what would Tim even see in him? It wasn’t his fault Jon read into every wink, every casual word of praise. A hug or a warm arm around his shoulder that he leaned into instead of turning away. Tim did that with everyone, Jon wasn’t special. He wasn’t Sasha, with her beautiful laugh and her razor-sharp wit. Hell, he’d probably pick Martin over him. Someone nicer, with less sharp edges. Someone who laughed as easily as he did.

Someone who wasn’t Jon.

He shook himself from these thoughts, attempting to concentrate on the task at hand. What did he have that Tim could possibly want? Not his rubber band ball, though he knew that Tim was jealous of its now astronomical proportions (he added to it when he was stressed, which he always was these days). Not the stale packet of crisps in the bottom of his drawer. He thought vaguely of getting a book he thought Tim would like from the library, but that was more of a loan. Maybe an article he found interesting? Tim always used to read the ones Jon forwarded him, and even had a thing or two to say at the end of them. But maybe he found them annoying. Maybe he just did that to shut Jon up. Wouldn’t be the first time.

Jon’s thoughts kept straying to the foyer of the institute, where festive decorations had been set up at the start of the month, most likely Rosie’s doing. There was a beautiful handmade wreath, filled with pinecones and red flowers and other seasonal flora. He remembered back in Research, when Tim would terrorize them all with stupid little pranks and games, his main target being Jon. Jon would always duck away, grumble and complain, and Tim didn’t take it personally. Maybe I’ll indulge him just this once.

Mind made up, he slipped out of his office.

________

Tim watched his three friends with undisguised amusement.

Martin was fidgeting in his seat, constantly crinkling the grocery bag he’d decorated to look more seasonal. Tim knew at once that he’d gotten Jon; he wouldn’t have turned that red for anyone else. Poor sod. Tim had Sasha, a gift he wouldn’t sweat over. She appreciated a good gag. He was fairly certain Sasha got Martin, judging by her neutral, unbothered expression.

Or maybe he just hoped she did. Because that would mean that Jon got Tim.

Not that it would mean anything. He was just interested in what Jon would pick out, that’s all. He could be surprisingly thoughtful, if past gifts were anything to go by. He still had the small box of fidget toys on his desk, where they got regular use.

He clapped his hands decisively, attempting to clear his mind of any more Jon-thoughts. “Well, then. As the emcee for this event, I’ll go first. Sasha, may I present to you the Tim Stoker Coupon Bonanza, valued at over one thousand dollars- but for you? Free!”

He revealed it with all the fanfare of a marriage proposal, bending down on one knee to hand over a binder of hastily drawn nonsense that Sasha would surely appreciate. She took it just as delicately, thumbing through the pages with a delightful smirk.

“One free coffee from the place around the corner?” She put a hand to her chest in faux- surprise. “Tim, you shouldn’t have!” Never mind that he already got her coffee every morning.

“I know, I know. I’m too generous, really.”

“One three hour lunch break. Don’t think Jon would like that.”

“He can come along. Marto too!”

“One date to the Jade Buffet, where we will split the check- Tim, the rest of these are more for you than they are-”

“Moving on!” He interrupted. “Sasha, why don’t you show us what you’ve got?” She ignored his wink, shutting the book with an over-exaggerated sigh. She reached out for a small bag on her desk, which she handed over to Martin. He thanked her quietly, unwrapping a mug- Sasha’s favorite, with a cartoon of a dog that she’d hand-painted (Sharpie’d, would be more accurate) to look like one of those highland cows Martin was always going on about. The entire effect was monstrous, but Martin seemed touched. Tim was happy too, as this meant Jon must have drawn his name.

“Oh that’s- that’s so nice, thank you Sasha!” His smile was infectious, even Jon wasn’t immune to it (though he tried to hide it).

“It’ll probably come off if you wash it, so I wouldn’t actually use it,” Sasha advised. “But it could make a nice pencil holder.”

“Oh! That’s handy-”

“Ahem!” Tim once again interrupted; he was eager to see what Martin had whipped up for Jon, considering he’d holed himself up for about two hours. “Martin, I believe it’s your turn?”

“Um, y-yeah.” He put the cup down with some reluctance, picking up the bag he’d decorated with snowflakes and trees and handing it over to Jon, who looked surprised that anyone had gotten him anything. It was an expression Tim was used to; Jon never expected kindness, even in circumstances when he would very clearly receive it. Silly man.

As soon as Jon began to reach into the bag, Martin stumbled through an explanation. “You don’t need to keep it, n-not if you don’t want, but y-you’re always saying you’re cold and y’know, I have extras, so-”

Martin had given Jon one of his many scarves, this one a worn, dark green that was sure to look lovely with his skin tone. He spent two hours deciding on that? It was a nice gift, for sure. Jon held it in his hands like it was completely foreign to him, though Tim could see him running his fingers over the knit appreciatively, looking at it with wide eyes.

“B-But this is your scarf, Martin,” he said, once he found the words. “I can’t-”

“Well now it’s yours,” Martin replied, his voice steadying with resolve. “Anyway, I um- it’s got your name on it. Or your initials, at least.” He gave a nervous laugh, his face turning even redder if possible.

And sure enough, at the end of the scarf was a small, messy embroidered J.S., along with a crude attempt at a small cat face. The effort was adorable, and it sent a pang through Tim’s chest for several reasons he didn’t want to name.

“T-That’s- well, thank you, Martin.” Jon ran his fingers over the small ‘J’ as if it would disappear if he looked away. “That’s very thoughtful of you.” Jon placed it almost reverently back in the bag, giving Martin a rare, genuine smile, one that Tim wished he had put on his face. Stop that.

“Jon’s turn!” he said, mustering up his last bit of enthusiasm. “I for one have no idea who Jon got, so this is going to be a real surprise-”

“S-Shut up, Tim.” Jon muttered, reaching for something behind him. He hesitated, his hands trembling slightly as he pulled out a small sprig of what looked to be pine needles, because it couldn’t be what Tim thought it was, no sir, that wouldn’t make sense-

He watched as Jonathan Sims moved closer and with shaking hands and a beet-red face, moved up on his tippy-toes to hold a tiny sprig of mistletoe above their heads. And then, in what surely must have been a hallucination or a dream sequence, two lips met his in a tiny peck of a kiss that was over before Tim could truly register it.

He stared unblinking as Jon sank back on his heels, his eyes still tightly shut from the kiss. Tim brought a hand up to his mouth, the warm tingle of slightly chapped lips on his still fresh in his mind. Jon began to stutter in the absolute silence of the room, stumbling backwards without looking up from his feet.

“I’m, um- I-I have to. S-Sorry! I’m going to... goodbye now.”

And with that Jonathan Sims fled the room, leaving three stupefied assistants in his wake.

_________

“Knock Knock!”

Tim tried to keep his voice as light as possible. He didn’t think Jon could stand anything more than that right now.

He’d given him a half hour of solitude, enough for him to overcome whatever embarrassment he felt over the encounter. Martin was stewing in a corner, looking shell-shocked and mopey over the turn of events. Tim was just as shocked as he was. Little Jonathan Sims, grumpy researcher and now even grumpier Head Archivist, giving Tim a kiss? Under the mistletoe?

“Go get him,” Sasha smirked, kicking his chair. “Bring him some food. And maybe return the favor.”

So he took a plate of reheated Pad Thai and a bottle of rum he kept under his desk for special occasions, hoping to win Jon over. Let him know the kiss was much appreciated, and that perhaps he’d like another if Jon was so inclined.

The man jumped up from his desk, where he’d had his head pillowed in his arms and his chunkiest cardigan wrapped around him for warmth. It was getting colder, and Tim hadn’t checked outside recently, too distracted by current events. His face was still flushed red, and he wouldn’t meet Tim’s eyes. I’ll have to change that.

“Thought I’d come bearing gifts.” He waved the bottle of rum around for Jon to see as he walked into the room. “Of the food and drink variety. But I wouldn’t mind a repeat of what happened in the break room.” He threw in a wink for good measure- God, why couldn’t he ever be serious? He always fell back on jokes and teasing words.

“I’m-I’m sorry, Tim,” Jon groaned, reaching out for the rum and pouring a liberal amount into a mug that previously housed tea. He still avoided Tim’s eyes. “That was completely inappropriate, I-I just couldn’t think of-”

“Hey, it’s okay,” he placed the food down on Jon’s desk, ignoring the pain in his heart at the apology. So he didn’t mean it. He plopped down on Jon’s couch, trying to feign a lightness he didn’t feel as he drank straight from the bottle. “No harm, no foul. It was nice.” He shrugged. Jon moved from his desk to join him on the couch, looking so adorable and cozy that Tim had to restrain from taking him in his arms. He watched as Jon took two large mouthfuls of the rum, knocking it back like a champ. Jesus. And then he raised his eyes to his, meeting them with a wide-eyed hopefulness that made Tim’s heart stutter in his chest.

“So- so you didn’t mind?”

“Nope.” Tim took another sip of the rum, wondering where this was going. He wouldn’t…

“Then you-,” Jon gulped, seemingly gathering his courage. “You wouldn’t mind if we- that is, if I maybe did it again?”

Tim stared.

“I-I still have the mistletoe.”

Jon sat there, so earnest and vulnerable, his hands fidgeting with the drink in his lap. Tim remembered the first time he laid eyes on him, the taciturn young researcher with a sharp mind and an even sharper tongue. He imagined asking him on a date, getting to know the man under that prickly exterior. Making him laugh, getting that rare smile that Martin got today. But he didn’t seem interested and Tim never wanted to push it, too respectful of his boundaries.

But maybe he hadn’t imagined the way Jon leaned into his touch. How he laughed at Tim’s shitty jokes a bit longer than necessary. That the looks he got in the library weren’t ones of annoyance, but fondness. So he set the bottle down, took the drink out of Jon’s hands and replaced it with the warm grip of his own. His voice came out low, quiet and serious and utterly unlike him.

“I wouldn’t mind at all.” And he leaned in and kissed Jonathan Sims, just like he wanted to do all those years ago.

It was a sweet, lingering thing- the taste of rum on his lips, lips that parted so easily for Tim like he’d been waiting, wanting this for so long, maybe even as long as Tim had. And when they finally parted, Jon stared at him with those deep brown eyes and gave him the smile he’d been wishing for and it was just for him. He put that there.

“Was-was that okay?” he murmured, feeling nervous and open under Jon’s intense gaze.

“Yes,” was the whispered response. He let out a small, charming laugh that Tim would always remember when he thought back to this night, the first night of many stolen kisses and secret smiles. “I-I liked that.”

“Well, good!” Tim could no longer contain the urge to have Jon in his arms and pulled him to his chest, appreciating the small squeak it earned him. “Because there’s more where that came from.” Jon leaned into his touch, as if trying to leech every bit of warmth from Tim that he could. It felt so utterly right to be here, on this uncomfortable couch with an armful of the man he’d been pining over for the last three years. Score, a giddy part of his mind yelled. They laid there in silence for a few minutes, reveling in the feeling of affection finally realized when Jon’s head perked up from his chest, a concerned look in his eyes.

“Do you think Rosie’s going to notice I nicked her mistletoe?”

Tim snickered. “Oh, absolutely. But I’ll take the fall. She’s not getting that back.”

Jon was always thoughtful with his gifts. And this was one he intended to keep.

ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28201134

#prompt fill #my writing #tma #the magnus archives #jontim #jonathan sims #tim stoker #advent archives #fluff #pining #i will not apologize for the sappiness of this #submit to my jontim agenda #cinnamoniic

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didanawisgi · 4 years ago

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This article was published online on February 10, 2021.

“Massachusetts abolished enslavement before the Treaty of Paris brought an end to the American Revolution, in 1783. The state constitution, adopted in 1780 and drafted by John Adams, follows the Declaration of Independence in proclaiming that all “men are born free and equal.” In this statement Adams followed not only the Declaration but also a 1764 pamphlet by the Boston lawyer James Otis, who theorized about and popularized the familiar idea of “no taxation without representation” and also unequivocally asserted human equality. “The Colonists,” he wrote, “are by the law of nature free born, as indeed all men are, white or black.” In 1783, on the basis of the “free and equal” clause in the 1780 Massachusetts Constitution, the state’s chief justice, William Cushing, ruled enslavement unconstitutional in a case that one Quock Walker had brought against his enslaver, Nathaniel Jennison.

Many of us who live in Massachusetts know the basic outlines of this story and the early role the state played in standing against enslavement. But told in this traditional way, the story leaves out another transformative figure: Prince Hall, a free African American and a contemporary of John Adams. From his formal acquisition of freedom, in 1770, until his death, in 1807, Hall helped forge an activist Black community in Boston while elevating the cause of abolition to new prominence. Hall was the first American to publicly use the language of the Declaration of Independence for a political purpose other than justifying war against Britain. In January 1777, just six months after the promulgation of the Declaration and nearly three years before Adams drafted the state constitution, Hall submitted a petition to the Massachusetts legislature (or General Court, as it is styled) requesting emancipation, invoking the resonant phrases and founding truths of the Declaration itself.

Here is what he wrote (I’ve put the echoes of the Declaration of Independence in italics):

The petition of A Great Number of Blackes detained in a State of Slavery in the Bowels of a free & christian Country Humbly shuwith that your Petitioners Apprehend that Thay have in Common with all other men a Natural and Unaliable Right to that freedom which the Grat — Parent of the Unavese hath Bestowed equalley on all menkind and which they have Never forfuted by Any Compact or Agreement whatever — but thay wher Unjustly Dragged by the hand of cruel Power from their Derest frinds and sum of them Even torn from the Embraces of their tender Parents — from A popolous Plasant And plentiful cuntry And in Violation of Laws of Nature and off NationsAnd in defiance of all the tender feelings of humanity Brough hear Either to Be sold Like Beast of Burthen & Like them Condemnd to Slavery for Life.

In this passage, Hall invokes the core concepts of social-contract theory, which grounded the American Revolution, to argue for an extension of the claim to equal rights to those who were enslaved. He acknowledged and adopted the intellectual framework of the new political arrangements, but also pointedly called out the original sin of enslavement itself.

Hall’s memory was vigorously kept alive by members and archivists of the Masonic lodge he founded, and his name can be found in historical references. But his life has attracted fresh attention in recent years from scholars and community leaders, both because he deserves to be widely known and celebrated and because inserting his story into the tale of the country’s founding exemplifies the promise of an integrated way of studying and teaching history. It’s hard enough to shine new light on an African American figure who has been long in the shadows, one who in important ways should be considered an American Founder. It can prove far more difficult to trace an individual’s “relationship tree” and come to understand that person, in a granular and even cinematic way, in the full context of his or her own society: family, school, church, civic organizations, commerce, government. Doing so—especially for figures and communities that have been overlooked—gives us a chance to tell a whole story, to weave together multiple perspectives on the events of our political founding into a single, joined tale. It also provides an opportunity to draw out and emphasize the agency of people who experienced oppression and domination. In the case of Prince Hall, the process of historical reconstruction is still under way.

When I was a girl, I used to ask what there was to know about the experience of being enslaved—and was told by kind and well-meaning teachers that, sadly, the lack of records made the question impossible to answer. In fact, the records were there; we just hadn’t found them yet. Historical evidence often turns up only when one starts to look for it. And history won’t answer questions until one thinks to ask them.

John Adams and Prince Hall would have passed each other on the streets of Boston. They almost certainly were aware of each other. Hall was no minor figure, though his early days and family life are shrouded in some mystery. Probably he was born in Boston in 1735 (not in England or Barbados, as some have suggested). It is possible that he lived for a period as a freeman before he was formally emancipated. He may have been one of the thousands of African Americans who fought in the Continental Army; his son, Primus, certainly was. As a freeman, Hall became for a time a leatherworker, passed through a period of poverty, and then ultimately ran a shop, from which he sold, among other things, his own writings advocating for African American causes. Probably he was not married to every one of the five women in Boston who were married to someone named Prince Hall in the years between 1763 and 1804, but he may have been. Whether he was married to Primus’s mother, a woman named Delia, is also unclear. Between 1780 and 1801, the city’s tax collectors found their way to some 1,184 different Black taxpayers. Prince Hall and his son appear in those tax records for 15 of those 21 years, giving them the longest period of recorded residence in the city of any Black person we know about in that era. The DePaul University historian Chernoh M. Sesay Jr.’s excellent dissertation, completed in 2006, provides the most thorough and rigorously analyzed academic review of Hall’s biography that is currently available. (The dissertation, which I have drawn on here, has not yet been published in full, but I hope it will be.)

Hall was a relentless petitioner, undaunted by setbacks. When Hall submitted his 1777 petition, co-signed by seven other free Black men, to the Massachusetts legislature, he was building on the efforts of other African Americans in the state to abolish enslavement. In 1773 and 1774, African Americans from Bristol and Worcester Counties as well as Boston and its neighboring towns put forward six known petitions and likely more to this end. Hall led the formation of the first Black Masonic lodge in the Americas, and possibly in the world. The purpose of forming the lodge was to provide mutual aid and support and to create an infrastructure for advocacy. Fourteen men joined Hall’s lodge almost surely in 1775, and in the years from then until 1784, records reveal that 51 Black men participated in the lodge. Through the lodge’s history, one can trace a fascinating story of the life of Boston’s free Black community in the final decades of the 18th century.

Why did Hall choose Freemasonry as one of his life’s passions? Alonza Tehuti Evans, a former historian and archivist of the Most Worshipful Prince Hall Grand Lodge of the District of Columbia, took up that question in a 2017 lecture. Hall and his fellow lodge members, he explained, recognized that many of the influential people in Boston—and throughout the colonies—were deeply involved in Freemasonry. George Washington is a prominent example, and symbolism that resonates with Masonic meaning adorns the $1 bill to this day. Hall saw entrance into Freemasonry as a pathway to securing influence and a network of supporters.

Hall submitted a petition to the Massachusetts legislature requesting emancipation, invoking the resonant phrases and founding truths of the Declaration of Independence.

In a world without stable passports or identification documents, participation in the order could provide proof of status as a free person. It offered both leverage and legitimacy—as when Prince Hall and members of his lodge, in 1786, offered to raise troops to support the commonwealth in putting down Shays’s Rebellion.

In the winter and spring of 1788, Hall was leading a charge in Boston against enslavers who made a practice of using deception or other means to kidnap free Black people, take them shipboard, and remove them to distant locations, where they would be sold into enslavement. He submitted a petition to the Massachusetts legislature seeking aid—asking legislators to “do us that justice that our present condition requires”—and publicized his petition in newspapers in Virginia, New York, Pennsylvania, and Vermont.

In the summer of that year, a newspaper circulated an extract of a letter from a prominent white Bostonian who had assisted Hall on this very matter. The unnamed author of the letter reports that he had been visited by a group of free Black men who had been kidnapped in Boston and had recently been emancipated and returned to the city. They were escorted to his house by Hall, and they told the story of their emancipation. One of the men who had been kidnapped was a member of Hall’s Masonic lodge. Carried off to the Caribbean and put on the auction block, the kidnapped men found that the merchant to whom they were being offered was himself a Mason. Mutual recognition of a shared participation in Freemasonry put an end to the transaction and gave them the chance to recover their freedom.

Prince Hall’s work on abolition and its enforcement was just the beginning of a lifetime of advocacy. Disillusioned by how hard it was to secure equal rights for free Black men and women in Boston, he submitted a petition to the Massachusetts legislature seeking funds to assist him and other free Blacks in emigrating to Africa. That same year, he also turned his energies to advocating for resources for public education. Through it all, his Masonic membership proved both instrumental and spiritually valuable.

Founding the lodge had not been easy. Although Hall and his fellows were most likely inducted into Freemasonry in 1775, they were never able to secure a formal charter for their lodge from the other lodges in Massachusetts: Prejudice ran strong. Hall and his fellows had in fact probably been inducted by members of an Irish military lodge, planted in Boston with the British army, who had proved willing to introduce them to the mysteries of the order. Hall’s lodge functioned as an unofficial Masonic society—African Lodge No. 1—but received a formal charter only after a request was sent to England for a warrant. The granting of a charter by the Grand Lodge of England finally arrived in 1787.

In seeking this charter, Hall had written to Masons in England, lamenting that lodges in Boston had not permitted him and his fellows a full charter but had granted a permit only to “walk on St John’s Day and Bury our dead in form which we now enjoy.” Hall wanted full privileges, not momentary sufferance. In this small detail, though, we gain a window into just how important even the first steps toward Masonic privileges were. In the years before 1783 and full abolition of enslavement in Massachusetts, Black people in the state were subjected to intensive surveillance and policing, as enslavers sought to keep their human property from slipping away into the world of free Blacks. Membership in the Masons was like a hall pass—an opportunity to have a parade as a community, to come out and step high, without harassment. That’s what it meant to walk on Saint John’s Day—June 24—and to hold funeral parades for the dead.

Whether that stepping-out day remained June 24 is unclear. As Sesay writes, “Boston blacks, including Prince Hall, first applied to use Faneuil Hall in 1789 to hear an ‘African preacher.’ On February 25, 1789, the Selectmen accepted the application of blacks to use Faneuil Hall for ‘public worship.’ ” By 1820, the walk on Saint John’s Day appears to have become African Independence Day and was celebrated on July 14, Bastille Day, much to the displeasure of at least one newspaper. An unattributed column in the New-England Galaxy and Masonic Magazine complained about the annual parade in recognizably racist tones (the mention of “Wilberforce” at the end is a reference to William Wilberforce, the British campaigner against enslavement):

This is the day on which, for unaccountable reasons or for no reasons at all, the Selectmen of Boston, permit the town to be annually disturbed by a mob of negroes … The streets through which this sable procession passes are a scene of noise and confusion, and always will be as long as the thing is tolerated. Quietness and order can hardly be expected, when five or six hundred negroes, with a band of music, pikes, swords, epaulettes, sashes, cocked hats, and standards, are marching through the principal streets. To crown this scene of farce and mummery, a clergyman is mounted in their pulpit to harangue them on the blessings of independence, and to hold up for their admiration the characters of “Masser Wilberforce and Prince Hall.”

Well after Hall’s death, the days for stepping out continued in Boston—an expression of freedom and the claiming of a rightful place in the polity. The lodge that Hall founded continued too. It is the oldest continuously active African American association in the U.S., with chapters now spread around the country. Its work in support of public education has endured. In the 20th century the Prince Hall Freemasons made significant contributions to the NAACP, in many places hosting the first branches of the organization. In the 1950s alone, the group donated more than $400,000 to the NAACP Legal Defense and Educational Fund (equivalent to millions of dollars today). Thurgood Marshall was a member.

for all of what we now know to be Prince Hall’s importance, I learned of him only recently. In 2015 the National Archives held a conference about the Declaration of Independence, inspired by my own research on the document. At the conference, another colleague presented a paper on how abolitionists had been the first people to make use of the Declaration for political projects other than the Revolution itself. A few months earlier I had come across the passage from Hall’s 1777 petition that I shared above, and that so beautifully resonates with the Declaration; at that conference, I suddenly learned the important political context in which it fit. I had published a book on the Declaration of Independence—Our Declaration—in 2014, but until the spring of 2015, I had never heard of Hall.

Yet I have been studying African American history since childhood. When I was in high school, my school didn’t do anything to celebrate Black History Month. My father encouraged me to take matters into my own hands and propose to the school that I might curate a weekly exhibit on one of the school’s bulletin boards. The school was obliging. It offered me the one available bulletin board—in a dark corner in the farthest remove of the school’s quads. This was not the result of malice, just of a lack of attention to the stakes. But I was glad to have access to that bulletin board, and I dutifully filled it with pictures of people like Carter G. Woodson and Mary McLeod Bethune and Thurgood Marshall, and with excerpts from their writings.

I am deeply aware of how much historical treasure about Black America is hidden, and have been actively trying to seek it out. While I was on the faculty of the University of Chicago, I helped found the Black Metropolis Research Consortium, a network of archival organizations in Chicago dedicated to connecting “all who seek to document, share, understand and preserve Black experiences.” And while I was at Chicago—somewhat in the spirit of that old bulletin board—I curated an exhibit for the special-collections department of the campus library on the 45 African Americans who’d earned a doctorate at the university prior to 1940—the largest number of doctorates awarded to African Americans up to that time by any institution in the world. Even so, I had not known about Prince Hall.

Having discovered Hall at the ridiculous age of 43, I have since made it a mission to teach others about him. At Harvard’s Edmond J. Safra Center for Ethics, we have undertaken a major initiative to develop civic-education curricula and resources. Among the largest projects is a year-long eighth-grade course called “Civic Engagement in Our Democracy.” One of the units in that course is centered on Hall’s life. Through him and his exploration of the meaning of social contracts and natural rights, and of opportunity and equality, we teach the philosophical foundations of democracy, reaching through Hall to texts that he also drew on, and whose authors are required reading for eighth graders in Massachusetts—for instance, Aristotle, Locke, and Montesquieu. These writers and thinkers were important figures to Freemasons in Hall’s time.

Too much treasure remains buried, living mainly in oral histories, not yet integrated into our full shared history of record. That history can strike home in unexpected ways. Not long ago, I was talking with my father about Prince Hall and the curriculum we were developing. His ears pricked up. Only then did I learn that my grandfather, too, had been a member of the Prince Hall Freemasons.”

This article appears in the March 2021 print edition with the headline “A Forgotten Founder.”

DANIELLE ALLEN is a political philosopher and the James Bryant Conant University Professor at Harvard. She is the author of Talking to Strangers, Our Declaration, and Cuz.

#Danielle Allen #Prince Hall #freemasonry #freemason #freemasons #revolutionary war #founding fathers #history #black history #american soldier #american history #black history month

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ratisnotcrying · 3 years ago

Text

camera

summary: Martin’s written poetry for as long as he can remember - he thinks the first poem he wrote was in year one, probably with some questionable rhyming and no actual link to whatever the task even was, but he had enjoyed it, a lot, and had entered every poetry competition (under a pseudonym) right up until sixth form.

Then, in year twelve, one of his teachers had lent him a photography guide and Martin became obsessed with the idea of taking pictures to go with his poetry.

prompt: ‘camera’ from creativepromptsforwriting

pairings: jonmartin

warnings: the lonely (entity), hurt/comfort, but otherwise i think it’s just fluff

word count: 1.4K

a/n: this is cross posted on ao3 and I thin this is rly ooc - its defo outside my comfort zone and im pretty sure i hate it bUt… i also have tpp on the brain and some of jons lines sounded a bit like juno??

~~~

Martin’s written poetry for as long as he can remember - he thinks the first poem he wrote was in year one, probably with some questionable rhyming and no actual link to whatever the task even was, but he had enjoyed it, a lot, and had entered every poetry competition (under a pseudonym) right up until sixth form.

Then, in year twelve, one of his teachers had lent him a photography guide and Martin became obsessed with the idea of taking pictures to go with his poetry. He would have liked to stay and learn photography, but his life was flipped on its head and he had to drop out. So he did the next best thing: he got a disposable camera and took pictures in his neighbourhood.

It was an… adequate solution - he could take the pictures when he had to walk to the shops or had to wait for his mother somewhere, and he could nip into Boots to get them developed when he was in town. In the few years between dropping out of sixth form and joining the Institute, though, he didn't have much chance to write, let alone have time for photography.

By some miracle, having a stable, full time job changed that because just after he got his first payslip, Martin found a vintage polaroid camera in a heart foundation shop not far from his house - it was quite dear, especially considering that he had to find the right parts, but it gave him the kick he needed to start taking more photographs (trying to get his money’s worth and all that).

He started off taking pictures on his way to and from work. He kept a small notebook with him all the time and tucked the polaroids in between the pages (to stick in at a later date) and would write his poems on the corresponding pages. He had briefly entertained the idea of taking a few pictures inside the institute, though he quickly decided against it - Jon would no doubt have been angry, and Elias seemed to have eyes in the back of his head.

His next venture was more nature based and he took to spending most of his time in various national trust parks and gardens with his camera and notebook, though it was at this point that most of his poetry was touched with elements of his feelings for Jon. And various horrors he read about in the archives. It was a weird time.

It had become such a habit, carrying the camera everywhere he went, that it was no surprise that he ended up with more than a few pictures of him, Tim and Sasha together, though these went in a little photo album rather than his notebook.

Sasha and Tim would tease him about his hobby - not in a malicious way, mind you, and, in fact, it turned out alright for Martin in the end because Sasha had nicked his camera once, when they were all at Tim's and took one of Martin's favourite pictures.

He and Jon had been in a not-so-heated debate about something - he can't remember what anymore - and they had completely forgotten that Tim and Sasha were even there until the camera flashed from over the coffee table and the pair of them had started cackling at the absolute horror on Jon’s face. He had tried to tell them off, but their laughter was infectious and he hadn’t been able to keep a straight face for long enough.

Sasha had given the picture to Martin and told him to put it in his photo album, and Tim had joked he should mark this momentous occasion - “the first and only time a picture of the elusive archivist has ever been taken.”

It was a lovely picture. Jon wasn't scowling at him, which was a nice change, and it was clear as day how utterly besotted Martin was - all soft smiles and heart eyes. He had intended to stick it in his photo album, really, but he decided against it - something about it capturing his feelings so plainly made him want to hide it away.

So he put it in his wallet. Maybe it was a bit weird, but it's not like anyone knew he had it or anything, and likely no one would ever need to know it was there. It wasn’t until a week later he decided to get some double-sided tape and paper to stick a poem to the back.

Wish

I wish that you didn't have to know, I wish that my thoughts would slow, I wish that you would see, How much you mean to me.

~~~

It wasn't until he and Jon were safely tucked away in Scotland that Martin was reminded of the polaroid in his wallet.

“Martin, I’m going to the shop. Do you have any cash?”

“Should do - have a look in my wallet. I think it’s on the coffee table.” Martin called back from the kitchen.

There was silence for a moment and Martin went back to the washing up.

“Martin?” Jon said, the vaguest hint of laughter in his voice. “What’s this?”

Martin lifted soapy hands out the sink and used the back of his hand to push his glasses up before turning around. Jon was standing in the doorway holding up a polaroid. The polaroid. Fuck.

“Uhh…”

They both stood there for a moment. Martin was convinced he was actually about to die of embarrassment.

“Sorry? I didn’t- I wasn’t trying to be weird or anything, I just-”

“Martin, it’s alright. It’s… actually kind of sweet.”

“You think? I mean, I thought it was weird when it was taken. I never thought it would be sweet, I mean, who keeps pictures in their wallet anyway? I don’t-”

“Yes, Martin, I think it’s sweet. Now, do you need anything from the shop?”

~~~

A few nights later, Martin couldn’t sleep. He couldn’t sleep most nights, but this was a bad one, one that found him sitting on the little bench outside in his thin pajamas for most of the night. He stared blankly into the horizon, barely registering the sun rising in muted orange through the thick fog that had wrapped around him.

Martin had never been one to indulge, but since his time with Peter he allowed himself this one luxury. Being here, alone… there was cold comfort in it, a tender stiffness settling in his bones, keeping him firmly in this place - he wasn’t sure if he wanted to be here, but it was familiar; it was safe insofar as he could navigate it.

He startled when he felt a hand on his shoulder, which was soon replaced with a blanket.

“It’s cold, Martin. Come inside?”

Martin hummed noncommittally, slowly becoming aware of how the stiffness was actually near painful, the cold comfort was not comfortable, just deceptive, and he couldn't completely tell where the empty landscape ended and he began. Except it wasn’t empty. It wasn’t empty because Jon was there, perched sideways on his lap and half wrapped in the ratty old blanket that had been on Daisy’s sofa when they arrived. Because it was freezing and Jon’s fingertips and lips were already turning a funny grey shade.

He swallowed, throat dry, “Sometimes I think that I'll wake up and you won't be here. Not… not because you don't want to be, more because I still don't know what I did to deserve this. I can’t tell if this is real.”

“You don’t have to earn this, Martin,” Jon frowned, brushing dew-soaked curls from Martin’s forehead, “You’re allowed to be happy,

Martin didn’t seem to hear him, eyes drifting in and out of focus on something neither of them could quite see, “I- We don’t even really know each other, Jon.”

“We have time, Martin, we can learn. For example, I know how to make your tea properly now - it’s very complicated but I know it’s important to you.”

Martin laughed shakily at how proud Jon sounded of himself, and absently started rubbing Jon’s hands between his own to try and warm them up.

“I wish that you would see, how much you mean to me, Martin.” It was Jon’s turn to laugh now, Martin’s cold-kissed cheeks burning up with an embarrassed blush.

“You’re shivering, come on, I’ll make tea.”

#jonmartin #jon sims #the magnus archives #tma #tma spoilers #a bit #scottish safehouse period #the lonely #a smidge #canon typical tea?#hurt/comfort #fluff??#lmk if i need to tag anything else

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beholdme · 4 years ago

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All the Many Shades of Gerry - Chapter 18

Chapters: 18/19

Fandom: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

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

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

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

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

He happens to love them back.

Find it on Ao3

[1] [2] [3] [4] [5] [6] [7] [8] [9] [10] [11] [12] [13] [14] [15] [16] [17]

They cook, they feed him, they chat away about inane things. Their presence soothes Martin and their voices fill him with the warmth sucked away by his unexpected encounter.

Gerry helps him make tea after dinner, and they all sit at the table together, even the cats sleeping nearby, cuddled up into one big, grey and black fluff ball.

"I think," Martin begins, voice croaky, "That I would like to tell you now."

"We're ready to listen if you're ready to tell us." Jon offers softly. Gerry reaches over to take one of his hands, turning it over to kiss the palm sweetly.

Martin talks, voice quiet and even.

"In the beginning, it was just a normal relationship. Except for the fact that he was almost twenty years older than me, and about a million times richer. I didn't know that at first, of course. He was just a middle-aged man I met in a gay bar, who didn't seem to mind that I was trans. I felt secure in our relationship, if not exactly nurtured or adored. I had never felt very secure before, and it seemed like enough, you know?

"He took me out, brought me a few things in the beginning. He was very dominant, sexually, but I was a lot less sure of my own preferences back then and I thought it was fine. He never even blinked at my trashy flat or cheap clothes, and I didn't even realise just how much money he had for a long time. Maybe I just can't really comprehend that much money, even now.

"When I was twenty-two, my mother died, and…" He huffs out a shaky, emotional laugh. "Well, I was a real mess. I lost my job, and almost my flat. Peter started paying for things, my rent, clothes, meals. He said that I needed somewhere to live and had to eat and look presentable, and it was his pleasure to provide those things for me. It made me feel a bit gross, but I struggled to find another job, and so I accepted it."

Martin hesitates here, before continuing. "The problem started when I wasn't interested in sex one night."

"He forced you?" Gerry interrupts to ask dangerously, threat explicit in his quiet words. His eyes seem to glow faintly in the growing dark of the room, as the sun sets. He wishes, more than ever, that he had helped Jon kick the shit out of Peter Lukas, instead of stopping him.

Martin sighs, eyes pressed tight closed for a second. "Not exactly. He simply pointed out that he paid for me to exist. So I made myself interested."

Gerry's hands tighten into fists and he moves them under the table where Martin can't see them anymore. Jon suddenly looks very pale. They share a look, neither able to see much difference between 'forcing' and what sounds a lot like financial abuse to them.

Martin pulls his legs up to his chest, curling around them as he goes on. "Our relationship became a lot more transactional after that night. I disengaged whatever feelings I had left for him and simply drew all my emotions down deep into myself. I wasn't ashamed to be getting paid for sex, but I felt like I had lost my own consent in the matter. Peter honestly seemed like he had gotten exactly what he wanted. Money was nothing to him, and he had someone to take out on his arm or shag whenever he wanted, without the work of a real relationship, or the complications of unfortunate attachments.

"So, if I needed something, I told him. He set a date, took me out, fucked me. He gave me however much I needed."

Martin shrugs, looking down at his hands. "I honestly hated it. Not because of the prostitution itself, sex has always been very nurturing for me, and I sometimes caught the idea that it was only another way to care for people, and being paid for that is perfectly fine, if you're doing it for the right reasons. The real issue was Peter himself. He had this way of making me feel… bereft and hollow, even before the money came into it."

A few tears track down his face, although his face remains rather blank, in a numb way. It's only as he admits the next words that his voice breaks and the heartbreak works its way out again.

"I was very foolish. Looking back, I can see that I was still a child in a lot of ways. I put myself into a situation that damaged me, but I accept the consequences of those actions, both then and now. I- I-"

"Martin," Jon whispers, warm love clear in his voice. It's nothing but an offer of support, one that he desperately needs right now.

He presses his eyes shut, forcing away the stutter and the lump of tears. "I knew I wasn't going to be able to get out of it, even if I got a crap, minimum wage job that I was qualified for. So I started applying for any work that was available. I made every application exactly what they wanted, and I hoped for the best. When Elias offered me the job at Magnus, I took it happily. Since then I found out that Peter knows him, and probably arranged the job for me, but at the time I had no idea. Looking back, I know that it's a miracle that I got out of it at all. Peter could have chosen to make my life a living hell. Instead, he accepted the several firm rejections I offered him.

"He promised me that we weren't done, that I would be back, but he left me alone. I was done. I moved on with my life, even if I had to lie to do it." Martin sighs, shakes out his shoulders, the most difficult part over now.

"I had always planned to be open about it with my next relationships, but they were so fleeting that it never even came up. By the time I fell for Jon, it had become a secret, one I was loathed to dig up for a relationship I was convinced wouldn't last. I thought to myself, 'Why ruin something that makes me happy?' I assumed it would fall apart anyway, and it was easier to allow it to be in the past.

"But I am sorry. I'm sorry that I never told you. I'm sorry you had to find out from him. I'm sorry that we've been together for more than a year and we basically live together, and I've put you in this position. I love you both, very very much."

"When did you eventually decide that our relationship was going to last?" Jon queries, genuine curiosity in his voice.

There's a beat of hazy silence at the abrupt change in tone and topic.

"Oh, ah-" Martin stumbles over his words, unsure how blatantly honest to be. He chooses the real truth, no matter how unfortunate. "The day that I got Luna was the first time I really accepted that you both loved me."

Jon simply raises an eyebrow, completely unconcerned. "What about you, Gerry?"

"With you," Gerry responds easily, "at the hospital in Morden, when I was so panicked that I couldn't decide if I wanted to kill you or handcuff us together for the rest of our lives. With Martin-"

He breaks off with a laugh, colouring slightly. "It was the day we dyed my hair purple."

"The first time we had sex?" Martin asks, surprised at such a hedonistic answer.

He laughs again, more confidently this time. "No, actually, although that was spectacular. It was afterwards, when you braided my hair for the first time. That was the first time anyone had ever braided my hair. It made me feel so… So honoured. Like I was the most precious thing to you."

"Gerry, you are the most precious thing to me. You both are." Martin whispers, tears creeping back into his voice.

"Good, because the feeling is mutual, and we desperately need you around to keep us in line," Jon tells him, voice unusually firm and confident.

"What about you?" Martin remembers to ask him, at risk of floating away in his post confession haze. "When did you know?"

"With Gerry, it was when we were teenagers. I kissed him for the first time, and he laughed at me. I just knew he was my soulmate." Jon rolls his eyes at this, but his voice is full of blatant affection. "With you, Martin, it was- Well, to be quite honest with you, there was no one special moment. It was a million tiny moments, all of them special and perfect to me. Every cup of tea, every frown while you were writing poetry, glasses pushed haphazardly up into your lovely hair. The easy, glorious look on your face the day you met Gerry for the first time, as if you weren't even capable of not falling in love with him, just as I hadn't been. It was especially the days that I would come out of the library and find you waiting for me after work. This weight of total surety would fill my chest and leave me gasping, needing you."

Jon sighs, his own eyes a little bright. "I suppose it was really the night you kissed me in the rain, and every soft moment since then has only affirmed the way I knew you were it for me."

Jon smiles at Martin so beatifically that he forgets to breathe for a moment.

"We love you too, Martin," Gerry tells him, reaching out to grasp a hand. Jon takes the other. "And we wouldn't want you any other way."

***

The next morning, Martin wakes to find Jon eyeing his phone intently. Gerry is asleep on his other side, and he feels warmly cocooned between them. Gentle cloudy light fills the space, encouraging the comfortable cozy atmosphere of their bed.

"What's wrong, love?" Martin asks sleepily, snuggling into his side.

"I got-" Jon pauses, utterly flummoxed. "I got paid a bonus."

"What?" Equally perplexed, Martin takes his phone, squinting as he tries to read the screen.

The banking app is open, and there is indeed a deposit there, Jon's normal salary amount, but on completely the wrong date.

In the purpose box, it simply reads 'Entertainment Value'.

"You don't think," Jon starts, hesitant, "that Elias paid me…"

"For hitting Peter Lukas?" Martin finishes, "His own husband."

They blink at each other, bewildered.

"Does that seem… slightly cursed, to you?" Jon whispers as if Elias might hear him. Even worse if Elias could hear them, and would probably enjoy being accused of having a cursed relationship.

"Yes, completely cursed. What is up with those two?" Martin looks as if he's smelled something bad.

"We absolutely cannot spend this money, right?" Jon asks. "Lest we are cursed with their relationship dysfunction."

"Correct," Martin responds firmly, shuddering. "Can we donate it to the animal shelter?"

"I think that's a wonderful idea." Jon's relief at this resolution is palpable.

He does it straight away, as if even having the money in his bank account might ruin their lives.

They let out a simultaneous sigh as the transfer goes through.

"That is wild," Martin mutters as he snuggles back down.

Jon tosses his phone away, no longer interested in it. Instead, he wraps his arms around Martin, burying his nose in his lover's hair. It smells of bergamot and tea leaves and the ocean in winter, just like Martin himself, and Jon luxuriates in the moment.

"I love you, Martin K. Blackwood." He whispers into the soft air.

"Even if I don't actually have a middle name?" Martin whispers back.

"Especially because of that." Jon chuckles.

They lay together, the gentle moments of the morning flowing around them. Later, they get up and shower together. They drink tea in front of the big windows in the living space. Martin reads a book from Gerry's shelves, his own books still packed, and Jon wanders off to play his piano where it is randomly set up, right in the middle of Gerry's typical painting area.

Gerry himself appears downstairs, still sleepy and bleary-eyed. He curls up with his head in Martin's lap, listening to Jon fill the flat with gentle music.

It's the soft sort of moment that each of them had been wishing for all their lives, full of love, and family, and a home of their very own.

#the magnus archives #jonathan sims #martin blackwood #gerry keay #jongerrymartin #fic #also on ao3

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ollieofthebeholder · 4 years ago

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

Read from the beginning on Tumblr | Also on AO3

Chapter 59: Statement of what comes now.

[CLICK]

[PANTING BREATHS, ECHOING SLIGHTLY, THAT SLOWLY EVEN OUT]

JON

Wh-what…what…?

Martin! Martin, where—where are you? I can’t—oh, God, I can’t see anything, I can’t—did that—

(in a different tone of voice) Martin? Are you here?

[ECHOING SILENCE]

JON

…Okay. Okay, this—this isn’t reality. This isn’t—he’d be here if I was—

Right. Okay.

(more loudly) Hello? Hello, is anyone out there?

[MORE SILENCE]

JON

W-wait…wait, is that—there’s something—okay, okay, I’m not blind, it’s just…dark. I can cope with that.

Right, okay. Think, Jon. After what you just did…if you’re not in the Institute, if you’re not in the world you’re used to, then you’re probably…somewhere else. So things are going to follow dream logic, right?

Right. Dream logic. (sigh) So I suppose I go looking for a switch.

[ODD CHITTERING, BUZZING NOISE THAT SUDDENLY STOPS]

JON

Oh, for—there has got to be away around this. No light switch, no walls, and I don’t trust the floors, so…

What am I supposed to do, say “Let there be light”?

[LOUD THUNKING NOISE, LIKE SOMEONE SWITCHING ON STAGE LIGHTS, OR AT LEAST A SPOTLIGHT]

JON

Seriously?

(frustrated sigh) Well, at least I can see now. I—wait. What in the—who’s there?

[A VOICE BEGINS SINGING SLOWLY, FAINTLY AT FIRST BUT SLOWLY GETTING LOUDER]

ANNABELLE

One elephant went out to play Upon a spider’s web one day She had such enormous fun She called for another elephant to come…

JON

You have got to be kidding me.

(resigned sigh) Right, here we go…

[ODD NOISE STARTS UP AGAIN, PUNCTUATED BY STICKY RIPPING SOUNDS, FADING IN AND OUT AS IF RESPONDING TO PRESSURE…OR FOOTSTEPS]

ANNABELLE

Hello, Jon.

JON

Annabelle Cane. Why am I not surprised?

ANNABELLE

You don’t sound pleased to see me.

JON

Let’s just say yours is not the first face I wanted to see when I woke up.

ANNABELLE

I have good news for you, then. It isn’t. You’re not awake.

JON

Oh, you can invade dreams now too, can you?

ANNABELLE

You aren’t asleep, either. And I think you already knew that.

JON

Oh, goddammit.

[A MOMENT OF SILENCE, SAVE THE FAINT ODD CHITTERING NOISE]

JON

…Wait. That noise, that’s—

And it gets louder every time we—

[CHITTERING SUDDENLY GETS LOUDER, WITH A FEW CLEAR WORDS HERE AND THERE, THEN FADES AGAIN]

JON

Are these tapes?

ANNABELLE

A fine material to spin a web with, don’t you think?

JON

It’s you.

A-all this time, all these—the recorders, the, the tapes…it’s all been you?

ANNABELLE

Well, not all me. Not all of it, anyway.

The Mother of Puppets has always collected stories. There are more reasons than one it’s called spinning a tale, you know. And spiders…it’s so hard to keep them out of places. People don’t generally call exterminators for them. Not for only one or two, and not if they don’t seem dangerous.

So yes. The Web has been lurking about the Magnus Institute, and the Archives, nearly as long as there has been an Institute. Listening. Drawing from the stories. Weaving a tapestry that tells the history of the world…and its future.

But this web? This one is mine.

JON

The tapes I recorded…

ANNABELLE

Oh, yes. All the tapes since you became the Archivist are here. Listen to this!

[A SQUEAL, THEN A CLEAR PLAY OF THE TAPE FROM MAG 000.2 - PRE-LAUNCH TRAILER]

ARCHIVIST ON TAPE

It’ll get you too. You can stare all you want, make your notes and your inquiries, but all your beholding will come to nothing. When the time arrives, and all is darkness and butchery, you’ll wish you had stopped listening and run.

[ANOTHER STICKY SOUND, LIKE SOMEONE PULLING OFF AN ADHESIVE BANDAGE]

JON

(shocked) That—that was—I only did that one as a test, to—to see if the recorders would work…

ANNABELLE

And they did. Admirably.

Go on. Try one.

JON

Look, I don’t—

ANNABELLE

You’re curious, aren’t you? You want to know.

There is no time here. Not really. No hurry. No pain. Nothing can hurt you if you indulge your curiosity a little bit. And it might not be so easy to believe once you leave.

Pick a strand. All you have to do is touch it, like so—

[ANOTHER SQUEAL, AND THEN ANOTHER RECORDING BEGINS TO PLAY FROM MAG 22 - COLONY]

MARTIN ON TAPE

—wasn’t anything to do with spiders that ended up after me. Almost wish it had been. (nervous laugh) I like spiders. Big ones, at least—

[RECORDING CUTS OFF WITH STICKY SOUND AGAIN]

ANNABELLE

—and you can hear them.

JON

He doesn’t anymore, you know.

ANNABELLE

Like spiders? Oh, believe me, I know.

I don’t think he’s liked them since he found out what happened to you. Not that I can blame him, of course. How do you feel about clowns these days? Or being alone?

JON

I—

ANNABELLE

Go on, Jon. Touch one. It doesn’t have to be…fresh.

JON

Why are some of these—

Is that…ash?

ANNABELLE

Dust, mostly.

(considers) Well, some of it might be ash. It depends on why that section of web isn’t used anymore.

JON

(tartly) I didn’t know being obscure and mysterious was in the Web’s domain.

ANNABELLE

It is if you want to manipulate somebody who’s addicted to knowledge.

Oh, don’t look at me like that. I’m not trying to manipulate you. It’s just a habit at this point, really.

JON

…Fine.

[A COUPLE OF CAREFUL STICKY, CHITTERING FOOTSTEPS, THEN A SOFT SQUEAL BEFORE A RECORDING SHARPENS IN, FROM MAG 134 - TIME OF REVELATION]

PETER ON TAPE

What does—puzzle me though, and I mean that genuinely, is—why you were piling tape recorders onto the coffin while Jon was in there. (brief pause) It’s a question, Martin, it’s—it’s not an accusation.

MARTIN ON TAPE

I don’t know. And I just – felt like it might help. He’s always recording, and I thought it—it might help him…find his way out.

PETER ON TAPE

Interesting. Were you compelled?

MARTIN ON TAPE

I don’t know. Maybe? I-I, I definitely wanted to do it.

[RECORDING FADES OUT ON THE LAST WORD]

JON

(shocked) Th-that, that was—that hasn’t happened, that didn’t happen…

ANNABELLE

This time.

JON

You knew? When, when I met you at Hill Top Road, when you…you knew I’d come back from the future.

ANNABELLE

Of course.

You and Martin, your Martin, you came back after Jonah Magnus made you end the world. The Keeper of the Light led you to a door, that led you through some halls, that led you to another door, that led you…back. To get—

JON

—a second chance.

ANNABELLE

A second chance? Hardly.

JON

And just what is that supposed to mean, exactly?

ANNABELLE

Only that.

JON

…Fine. F-fine. Be mysterious and vague. See if I care.

[ANNABELLE LAUGHS KNOWINGLY]

JON

How do you know…the tapes. You just told me you’ve been listening to the tapes. Martin made his statement about those halls—

ANNABELLE

But you didn’t.

You haven’t talked about what your journey was like to anyone, have you? Not even Martin. He knows you came through the same halls, but not what you saw. He doesn’t know that for you, there were no colors and no changes, that every hallway was the same and there was no way to tell when you were getting closer, until you reached that long tunnel.

The one with the glass walls and ceiling, like an underwater aquarium. With dark shapes you couldn’t make out pressing against the outside, trying to get your attention. With thousands of whispering voices, over one another, so hard to make out, pleading, promising, coaxing. Offering you anything you desired if you would only make it stop, blaming you for their suffering, demanding how you could just walk on by as if—

JON

Stop.

ANNABELLE

You didn’t know you were recording, either. You’ve grown so used to those recorders that you didn’t even notice them anymore. And yet, I was listening.

JON

You were—what?

Y-you—you’re from the future, too!

ANNABELLE

Mm. That’s more complicated than you think it is.

JON

How did you know what we were doing?

ANNABELLE

Because I set it in motion.

JON

…You…you what? Those halls, that—that portrait gallery, that—

ANNABELLE

Which one?

JON

Which—both of them. The ones that—that Martin had to face.

You said you listened to the tapes, you—

ANNABELLE

I did. And I was…shadowing you both, I suppose.

You never wondered how I was at Salesa’s, did you? Not why I was there, how I was there.

JON

I…to be honest, I don’t remember much about those days.

ANNABELLE

I don’t mean while you were there. I mean after. You never thought about how I could have ended up outside my own domain, let alone outside the Apocalypse altogether.

JON

I tried to think about you as little as possible.

ANNABELLE

(heh) I’d be hurt if I didn’t understand completely. I suppose if I’d been lucky enough to escape the Spinner of Webs, I’d want nothing to do with any of her children either.

But you know the rules of the Apocalypse, Jon. It never occurred to you to wonder how a Watcher could stray from their domain?

JON

Martin did. And Helen. They both—

[STATIC CRACKLES; IT’S THE ARCHIVIST’S STATIC, BUT IT SOUNDS UNUSUAL IN A WAY THAT’S DIFFICULT TO PINPOINT]

JON

The Distortion never truly left its domain. Never went far from its doors. And while the domains we saw Helen in were seemingly those of other fears, they all had at least an element of the Spiral in them.

Martin was in the unique position of being both Watcher and Watched. He had the domain he oversaw, small though it was, but he was also, perhaps, the only sufferer in a domain that belonged to me as me and not me as the Eye itself. He could walk the world unharmed because what hurt him was watching my pain and power grow in equal measure, the suffering of not knowing what I would choose in the end.

And you…

Your domain was like Daisy’s. It was the other domains, woven through them like a silken thread, a subtle tug of manipulation. It was the tapes that kept recording our journey and the tugs that led us to people we tried to help or conquer and a thousand tiny maneuverings to keep us moving ahead.

[STATIC FADES; JON GASPS SLIGHTLY]

JON

That…that shouldn’t have felt like that.

ANNABELLE

You’re a bit far from the Eye here. But to be fair, so am I.

JON

We’re in the middle of your fucking web!

ANNABELLE

But my web. Not the Web.

Any power the Mother of Puppets has here is residual, and comes through me. Any power the Ceaseless Watcher has here is residual, and comes through you. I brought the web to show you, to help you understand, but it doesn’t belong here any more than we do.

JON

You were—you were manipulating those tunnels. To…what? Slow us down?

ANNABELLE

To help. Well, you didn’t need it, but Martin…

JON

Martin is stronger than you think.

ANNABELLE

Do you know whose domain that was?

JON

The Spiral’s. Of course.

ANNABELLE

And the Eye. Together.

Together they hung that gallery of accusation, the paintings that all seemed to hold Martin responsible for their deaths. His friends, his family…strangers he never met but felt responsible for. Its purpose was to keep Martin lost—disorientated and in crippling pain and anguish. Forever.

If he had kept going down that corridor, he would never have found the door to the past. And the Keeper would never have been able to find him. Both of them had too much of the Lonely in them—just enough to keep them both isolated and searching. If they didn’t know where to meet.

JON

(whispers) My God.

They—they knew what we were trying to do. Of course they did. And they didn’t—

ANNABELLE

It’s not about foresight. Neither of them really have that. That domain was a mix of the Spiral and the Eye. It’s just what it was designed for, that’s all.

JON

That’s all? It was more than enough.

So which did you—

(with horrified realization) The paintings of me. You did that.

ANNABELLE

To remind him.

JON

Of what, for God’s sake?

ANNABELLE

In part, of what he had to prevent—what he had to stop from happening. What you’d been through and he had to make sure didn’t happen. In part, it was letting him experience your pain. He’d heard what you went through, of course, but to actually see it…in so many ways, that would make it worse, and make his determination stronger.

And, of course, part of it was just putting you back in his mind over everyone else. It was the last little…anchor tethering the two of you together, to the past. Something to keep him present so the Keeper could find him.

JON

And show him that last painting. Thankfully.

Did you know about that one?

ANNABELLE

I put that one there, too.

Surely you didn’t think the Keeper knew enough to have done it.

JON

I—n-no, no, but—

Why?

ANNABELLE

Why show it to him?

JON

Why that moment?

ANNABELLE

Because it wasn’t on tape.

I left you alone while you were in Scotland, up until the end. You two deserved a few weeks…unobserved. Alone together. To figure out what you are to one another.

Actually, I had quite a job keeping the Distortion distracted so it wouldn’t pop in and interrupt. It was something of a challenge.

The first time, anyway.

JON

The first time?

ANNABELLE

Oh, we’ve done this dance before. In its fashion.

JON

What dance?

ANNABELLE

The Apocalyptic Tango, I think Martin called it once.

[JON SIGHS IN EXASPERATION]

JON

Do you ever give a straight answer? Or tell the truth?

ANNABELLE

I’m hurt! I’ve been nothing but honest with you this whole time.

JON

(dry as the Sahara) And the other times?

ANNABELLE

Mostly you wouldn’t have believed me.

I did try a time or two. You always insisted it wasn’t possible, or that there must be some sort of catch. You only believed me once, and even then, I don’t think you believed. You simply wanted it to be true.

JON

Are you trying to get me to compel the truth out of you?

ANNABELLE

The way you did Peter Lukas? Or…which one was it? Breekon?

You don’t need to force it, you know. All you have to do is…ask nicely, and I will spin you the tale.

JON

…

Statement of Annabelle Cane, regarding the Web’s plan. Recorded direct from subject…ah…

ANNABELLE

At the end.

JON

…Statement begins.

ANNABELLE

This is the house at Hill Top Road.

This is the crack beneath the house at Hill Top Road.

This is the hole that lay in the crack beneath the house at Hill Top Road.

This is the truth that lurked in the hole that lay in the crack beneath the house at Hill Top Road.

This is the spider that peered at the truth that lurked in the hole that lay in the crack beneath the house at Hill Top Road.

These are the strings that moved the spider that peered at the truth that lurked in the hole that lay in the crack beneath the house at Hill Top Road.

This is the hand that pulled the strings that moved the spider that peered at the truth that lurked in the hole that lay in the crack beneath the house at Hill Top Road.

This is the Mistress that bore the hand that pulled the strings that moved the spider that peered at the truth that lurked in the hole that lay in the crack beneath the house at Hill Top Road.

This is the web that cradled the Mistress that bore the hand that pulled the strings that moved the spider that peered at the truth that lurked in the hole that lay in the crack beneath the house at Hill Top Road.

This is the blade that cut the web that cradled the Mistress that bore the hand that pulled the strings that moved the spider that peered at the truth that lurked in the hole that lay in the crack beneath the house at Hill Top Road.

This is the hero that wielded the blade that cut the web that cradled the Mistress that bore the hand that pulled the strings that moved the spider that peered at the truth that lurked in the hole that lay in the crack beneath the house at Hill Top Road.

This is the story that begged to be told of the hero that wielded the blade that cut the web that cradled the Mistress that bore the hand that pulled the strings that moved the spider that peered at the truth that lurked in the hole that lay in the crack beneath the house at Hill Top Road.

Again, and again, and again, and again.

So few of the things that are Fear are gifted with foresight. The End, of course, knows what will come, because the End is inevitable. All things end, sooner or later. The Web cannot see the future but it can see…patterns. The threads of a story, and what they will be when they weave together.

When the Mother of Puppets first saw the crack beneath Hill Top Road, she thought she understood what it was. A hole in reality, a portal between universes. Places where fear had not touched, where it was not known. But then she saw it for what it was. A crack, not in space, but in time. A way to move between moments. And she began to plan For she saw the threads, and she knew that someday, someone would end the world. And when that happened…eventually, all would end. Even fear cannot last forever, in a world where nothing new is born. Eventually, all must end.

Her plan has been the same, for years. Generations. Choose a champion, mark them young. Put them in the path of a fear, and wait. Then, should the world end at the hands of that fear, tug that champion to cut the strings of fate and send all bound up in it through the crack…and back in time. Back in time enough that they could stop it.

And really, it should have worked.

To a point, it did work. Again, and again, and again, and again. Jonah Magnus sent you his ritual, you read it, the world came to an end. You tried to repair it. You walked to London…and there it got complicated.

The trouble is the Spinner’s plan depended, in the end, on your choice. We told you that you would have had to simultaneously blow up the Archives and stab Jonah Magnus, and then all would have been thrown back in time. In truth, that would not have worked—not if Jonah was still the Eye’s Pupil. It had to be you. You had to choose to take his place…and then have the tethers cut. Then, and only then, would you be sent back with the knowledge to alter things.

Sometimes I told you the original story, that it was a crack in reality and would send all the fears somewhere else, or scatter them across worlds. Once or twice I told you the truth. As I said, it was so hard for you to believe me, regardless of what I spun. Mostly you thought I was manipulating you, lying to you, trying to get you to doom a thousand other worlds. Occasionally you thought it would end the world faster. Only once did you believe me—in a time when I came to you in a cabin in what was once Scotland, a time when I knew you would not act if you did not know you could turn back time, a time when the man you loved turned back for his umbrella and understood what he was hearing and tried to save you and the world.

JON

No…

ANNABELLE

It never quite worked, in the end. Time and again, the strings would be cut, the world would snap back…and time and again, we would retread the same paths. Over and over. So little I could change, so little I could do differently before the Apocalypse and I tried to find a new way to get you to be in position to be dragged back.

Finally, finally, it happened. You tried to take Jonah Magnus’ place, to hasten the end and starve the fears…it would never have worked, of course, but you tried. Martin anticipated it, though, he tried to stop you before you killed Jonah, to delay you while the others lit the fuse. You were faster than he thought, though, and had already become the Pupil of the Eye. You told him to go. To save himself. But Martin would not leave you, despite the danger. Rather than watch him die for nothing, you told him to cut the tether. And he did.

It worked the way the Web intended, of course it did. But for you to remember and be able to fix it, you would have both had to be alive when you came through at the other side. Even one of you would have been enough. But when I woke again and plucked the strand of the Web, I could hear that neither of you remembered.

Neither of you had survived.

[JON MAKES A PAINED NOISE OF DISTRESS]

ANNABELLE

It was then that I realized that Mother’s plan depended too heavily on precise timing. She wanted me to try again, of course. Strangely enough, the Fears never knew it had happened, not even the Web. But she reminded me, again and again, about her plan, told me what strings to pull.

This time, though…this time I thought I’d try something a bit different.

I did what I have done every other time. I stayed with Salesa, I spoke to you both. I followed your progress through the tapes, and when you disappeared beneath the tunnels…I acted. As I promised him, I killed him, and I took his camera. I brought it to London, to the Institute…to the Panopticon. But this time, I brought it up to the belly of the beast. I took it to the office of Jonah Magnus.

The camera wasn’t strong enough to dispel the entire Apocalypse there, of course. But it created enough of a hole to break Jonah free of the Eye’s hold.

He was as pleased to see me as you might expect. Demanded to know what I was doing there. And I told him. I told him I had come to warn him.

JON

What?!

ANNABELLE

I told him that his precious Archivist was far from resigned to this new world he had brought about, that he was coming to stop it. To stop him. I said that you were bringing Martin with you and that you had a plan, and if he wanted to continue his reign, he’d best do something to stop it.

JON

Did you have any idea what that something would be?

ANNABELLE

Patterns. Of course I knew.

Jonah would never have harmed you, even if he could have; he still hoped to get you on his side. As you learned tonight. On the other hand, he would have known, or at least guessed, that the only thing stopping you from joining him was Martin. And even if he couldn’t hope to win you over by separating you…he would at least have found a way to use that bond against you.

JON

(shouting) Martin could have died because of you!

ANNABELLE

Perish the thought! My dear Jon, do you know know how many times I’ve been through this loop?

Even when I filled him with spiders, there has never been a time you could bring yourself to harm him in the slightest, let alone kill him. Faced with a choice between letting him die or getting revenge, I knew you would save him. Of course he wouldn’t have died.

[JON SPUTTERS INDIGNANTLY]

ANNABELLE

And I made sure you had somewhere to recover. I had already nudged the Keeper towards that door.

He couldn’t have done it, of course; he was too tightly bound to the Light—not the Lonely, not the fear he watched over, but the Light itself. If it fell, so would he, and he cannot leave it for long. Even if he had come back, he would have been unable to make a difference in anyone’s past. But of course he thought of the Archivist. His godson. And when you thought Martin might be taken from you, you experienced the precise fear that summoned one of his doors—the fear of being forever separated from the one you love.

Perhaps the original plan would have worked eventually. Perhaps someday you, or Martin, or both of you, would have survived long enough to awaken in the past and remember. But I think it’s better this way, don’t you? Much more…direct.

And look how much you’ve spared the others from.

JON

The others—G-Georgie, Melanie, Basira—in, in that timeline, the one Martin and I left. Did they…what happened to them?

ANNABELLE

The Keeper and I took care of that. Don’t worry.

After he saw you safely through, I introduced myself to him and told him what needed to happen. He fetched Basira and took her to the tunnels beneath the Institute, and then I came myself. I told them what Jonah had done, what you had done, and what they needed to do.

I gave them the choice. The same one I often gave you. I told them they could either…let things stay as they were, allow things to die out in time, and keep apart from it, or end it. Take out Jonah Magnus and blow up the Institute simultaneously, and send all the Fears back in time as well—the Fears, and any of us too tightly bound up in them to survive without them.

I know you won’t believe me, Jon, but I never influenced them to make the choice they did. Basira did ask me what they usually chose, and I did tell her that I had never known them to choose anything other than one option, but I didn’t tell her what it was. I knew it would be important for you to know that, whatever they chose, it was their decision and their decision alone.

JON

(heh) I can’t imagine Melanie not choosing the option that allows her to kill Elias.

[ANNABELLE LAUGHS]

ANNABELLE

Neither can I. And she didn’t choose differently.

As I understand it, Melanie made her way up alone—being blind, of course, the fearful things on those stairs could not affect her—while Basira provided a distraction and Georgie lit the gas aflame. Melanie took the camera and aimed it at Jonah Magnus to bring him down, and then while he tried to belittle her, she stabbed him, just as the building blew.

JON

And then what happened? Did they survive?

ANNABELLE

I don’t know. But they succeeded, or I wouldn’t be here.

JON

…

How many others has the Web done this to? Tried to—manipulate into a savior?

ANNABELLE

Oh, I don’t know. Hundreds?

Most of them would have failed. Many never made it beyond her. I was one of them, actually, a child tested out but ultimately found lacking, although I was the only one I think she would have trusted with this. But you…the Mother of Puppets saw the threads of your life. So many Fears noticed you as a child that you were bound to fall afoul of one of them eventually. And as soon as she realized where Jonah Magnus’ thoughts were trending, and where they would eventually lead, she knew that you would be a perfect candidate to complete the ritual in the end.

So she chose you. She lured you in. And you resisted her pull. She knew then that you would be the only one strong enough to succeed.

JON

I only survived because someone else took my place! I would have died if he hadn’t—

ANNABELLE

My dear Jon. Has anyone meant to be claimed by a power ever actually handed away a book or an artifact willingly?

Had you been meant to be the Spinner’s in the end, Mitchell Hopkins would never have been able to take that book from you, let alone read it. Mister Spider was a test, a test that you passed.

A test I never would have.

JON

…

…Was that his name? Mitchell?

ANNABELLE

It was.

It is.

And now you know everything.

[A FEW MOMENTS OF SILENCE, SAVE THE TAPES CHITTERING IN THE BACKGROUND]

JON

I—I suppose I should be grateful that we don’t remember all of…these. All these…cobwebs.

I’m damned grateful I don’t remember—

ANNABELLE

I must admit, that was a bad one.

JON

Getting through that…it was hard enough with Martin. I don’t—I don’t see how I did it alone.

Especially after—especially knowing I—

Did I know?

ANNABELLE

…

You spent far longer at Salesa’s that time than you did any other time. In the end, I had to go with you almost all the way to London.

…Yes. You knew.

Not at the time. Not when it happened. But the Eye made sure you Knew the details in the end. You ran into Basira and she asked where Martin was—

JON

—and the Beholder forced me to describe it.

ANNABELLE

You said yourself, more than once. None of this has ever been to the benefit of humanity. Or any individual human.

JON

Or whatever I—whatever we are.

ANNABELLE

What defines a human, anyway? The limitations, or the abilities?

We can do more than what an ordinary human can. But we can still do all the things that an ordinary human can, too. We think. We feel. We love, Jon.

As far as I’m concerned, that makes us human.

JON

…Who do you love, Annabelle?

ANNABELLE

I was the first to hold him. Did you know that? I was staying with Harry and his wife while I was at university, just before I took part in that study. They wanted someone to read to him before he was born, so he would learn the stories. Harry worked late, trying to make a better life for them all, and Elizabeth…well, she was blind, so she could tell stories fine, but she wanted him to hear books too. Every night, after dinner, I’d sit and read to her belly. He came early and Harry didn’t get to the hospital in time, so after Elizabeth, I was the first one to hold him.

Harry picked out his first name because he knew I hated that book. Elizabeth softened it by picking a middle name after me, but…she always called him Charlie. I think she knew, even then.

A couple years after I became part of the Web, the Desolation took Harry, probably to spite me, but…Harry was never the one I cared about. Elizabeth, at least, died as peacefully as anybody can. It may not have been pleasant, or timely, but at least it wasn’t to serve a power. Just bad luck.

…

Get him away from that grandmother of his if you can, will you?

JON

One of us will.

ANNABELLE

That’s all I ask.

JON

Well, I—I suppose, in light of all that’s happened…it’s the least I can do.

ANNABELLE

You believe me, then?

JON

It happened. It’s over.

Whether once or a hundred times…it happened the way you said at least once. And we won. That’s enough for me.

…Yes, Annabelle Cane, I believe you.

ANNABELLE

For what it’s worth, Jon, you did all the hard work on your own. You and Martin, and…the others. In your time and this. All I did was get you here.

JON

The others…

(sharp intake of breath) Oh, God. The Unknowing. Has it—have they—I-I can’t, even if we were in the Panopticon, I couldn’t See it. But you—there, there were tapes.

Are they…?

ANNABELLE

That one. I think.

JON

You think?

ANNABELLE

It added itself to the web just before you got here. It’s either theirs or yours.

[BRIEF PAUSE, THEN THE SQUEAL OF TAPE BEFORE A RECORDING PICKS UP - FAINT CIRCUS MUSIC, THUMPS AND TAPS THAT MIGHT BE SOME KIND OF FOOTSTEP, FLOORBOARDS CREAKING, SHALLOW BREATHING, FABRIC RUSTLES]

PRESENT ARCHIVIST ON TAPE

I love you.

PRESENT MARTIN ON TAPE

I love you.

TIM ON TAPE

I love you.

Tell me when.

[DEEP BREATH]

PRESENT ARCHIVIST ON TAPE

Three…two…one…

[MORE FABRIC RUSTLES, DETONATOR CLICKS, EXPLOSION BEGINS BEFORE ABRUPTLY CUTTING OFF]

JON

Oh, God.

ANNABELLE

And to think I thought you had a terrible sense of timing.

JON

At least they said something before—

O-oh, God, Tim. Tim—you know as well as I do that in my time, he—and I—were they all in the middle of that?

ANNABELLE

More or less.

They didn’t walk into the Unknowing, at least. Martin listened to what you told him and wouldn’t let them open any doors. But it had to be blown up from the inside to be sure of getting all the charges. Your counterpart and Martin’s wouldn’t leave Tim behind, however much he tried to make them.

JON

What happened after that?

ANNABELLE

I don’t know if there is an after that yet.

JON

And we’re back to the cryptic bullshit.

ANNABELLE

On the contrary. I said exactly what I meant.

We aren’t exactly anywhere right now, or any when. This…place…I wouldn’t call it a domain, but it exists outside of both time and space. The rules are different here. Time, if it passes at all, passes differently.

They might have just pressed the detonator. They might have pressed it hours ago, or days ago.

JON

(dismayed) Days?

ANNABELLE

All I can say is that wherever, whenever they are, they are out of reach of my tapes. And your sight.

Fortunately…I know someone who can give us those answers, even from here. Maybe especially from here.

JON

Who else is here, for God’s sake?

[ANNABELLE SINGS THE NEXT LINE IN THE SAME SLOW, MEASURED VOICE AS BEFORE]

ANNABELLE

Two elephants went out to play Upon a spider’s web one day They had such enormous fun They called for another elephant to come…

[STICKY FOOTSTEPS APPROACH OVER THE TAPE WEB]

OLIVER

Hello, Jon. It is all right if I call you Jon?

JON

…Oliver? Oliver Banks?

OLIVER

In the…well. In the manifestation, I suppose. I don’t know if any of us is here in the flesh.

JON

(disbelieving laugh) You’re…not quite what I expected.

OLIVER

Is that an invitation for me to comment about how Death so rarely is what we expect, or a manifestation of you wondering why Martin would possibly be jealous of someone like me?

ANNABELLE

If you knew either of them a little better, you’d know Martin’s reasons for being jealous are almost entirely in his head.

Also, he’s never met you.

OLIVER

Mm, true. We always seemed to miss one another.

JON

You—hold on. You’re from the future as well?

OLIVER

Like you and Annabelle. Well, more like Annabelle, I suppose. You had to be the Pupil of the Eye before you were tangled enough to get dragged back with the Fears. Me? Without Terminus, I’m just…dead. And we’ve already established that that’s not where I want to be.

JON

…Did you know? When you came to the hospital?

OLIVER

That we’d done this before? Of course. I long ago stopped being surprised at what you would choose.

JON

Then for God’s sake, why—

OLIVER

Because you had to choose, Jon. It was always your choice.

Think of it as a crossroads. You stood at a fork in the road, where one path would take you back to life and the other would take you on to, well, whatever came next. The trouble was that the signposts were covered.

You could have chosen without knowing which path was which, but that’s not your way. Not when you know enough to know that one was…mm, wrong, shall we say? One would have led you where you wanted to be, one where you didn’t.

JON

I didn’t want to die.

OLIVER

There’s a difference between not wanting to die and having something to live for.

JON

(deep breath) Right, well, I definitely have something to live for, so I’ll be going now.

Uh, how do I get out of here?

OLIVER

Ordinarily? You don’t.

JON

What?!

OLIVER

This is Terminus’s realm. Well, sort of. A little pocket on the outside edge of it.

JON

Another crossroads.

OLIVER

Mm, not so much. More that you’re standing in the middle of the path.

JON

So which way is back?

OLIVER

Life is a journey traveled in one direction only.

JON

(tartly) Yes, well, so is time, but here we all are.

I’ve already chosen to live, Oliver. (with slight malice) Can I call you Oliver?

OLIVER

(not rising to the bait) This isn’t a place where you get to choose.

JON

…So you’re saying that’s it.

After all that, after everything I—everything we did…this is the end. There’s nowhere else for me to go.

ANNABELLE

How many times have you walked out of another entity’s domain? Not counting the Apocalypse. We’ve already talked about how that doesn’t count.

JON

I…twice. The Buried and the Lonely.

Three, I suppose, if that crossroads counts.

OLIVER

That was a metaphor. You were close to Death, but not its realm. If that makes sense.

JON

Not really.

ANNABELLE

The Buried and the Lonely, then.

What brought you out?

JON

From the Buried, it was the—the tapes…it was Martin putting those tapes on top of the coffin. W-weaving me a rope…or a ladder.

The Lonely was simple enough to leave. The way out was together.

ANNABELLE

With Martin.

JON

…Yes.

ANNABELLE

Exactly.

Not all strands of a spider’s web are to capture or to control, you know. Sometimes, they are simply…to anchor.

JON

…

…That’s why you offered to bind me to Martin. It wasn’t about—it wasn’t for strength or power at all.

ANNABELLE

Not to defeat Jonah Magnus, no. There’s more than one kind of strength, more than one kind of power. I did tell you that you would need it to survive what was coming.

JON

It brought Martin back when Peter Lukas visited the Archives and he almost got swallowed by the Lonely again. It—it grounded me, kept me from losing control while I was taking down Jonah.

And now…

ANNABELLE

It can guide you home.

[OLIVER LAUGHS]

OLIVER

You know, people always talk about some legendary “red string of fate”, but I’ve never actually seen a real one before.

Let alone one woven from cassette tape.

JON

You knew I had that tether from the beginning.

OLIVER

Truthfully, I didn’t think it would work. Plenty of people have things they think are tying them to life, but they aren’t strong enough to resist the pull. Most threads snap.

JON

Not this one.

I made Martin a promise. And I never break my word.

OLIVER

A good thing, when your tether is almost literally made out of your words.

JON

Ha, ha.

…Wait. B-before I go…the Unknowing. Are they—she said you would know.

OLIVER

It’s over. It worked. They brought the house down.

A lot of tormented souls set free, all at once. Quite the rush, really.

JON

The three of them—my counterpart and Martin’s and Tim. What happened to them?

[OLIVER SIGHS]

OLIVER

Two of them will be fine. Some cuts and bruises, but they’ll be up and about sooner rather than later. They might already be up and about. Time’s difficult to discern here.

The other…I suspect I’m going to need to pay a visit at some point. Clean off those signposts.

JON

Don’t wait six months.

OLIVER

I shouldn’t be more than a couple weeks behind you.

JON

…That’s less comforting than you think it is.

OLIVER

Then it must be terrifying, because I was definitely going for ominous.

[JON SIGHS…AND LAUGHS RELUCTANTLY; ANNABELLE AND OLIVER LAUGH TOO]

JON

I suppose we’ll meet again, Annabelle.

ANNABELLE

…No. No, I don’t think we will.

JON

Tired of me already?

ANNABELLE

I was watching them for you. Not just through the tapes. I was lurking in a corner of that room.

I don’t know that I made it out.

OLIVER

(gently) You didn’t, I’m afraid.

Your choices are more limited. Stay here with your web…or see what comes next.

[A SHORT PAUSE]

JON

We’ll keep the recorders going.

In case you’re still listening.

ANNABELLE

…Tell Charlie his aunt loves him very much.

JON

I will.

Oliver…don’t take this the wrong way, but if I ever see you again, it will be too soon.

OLIVER

Death always comes too soon.

JON

That was definitely not meant for that aspect of you.

OLIVER

Fair.

ANNABELLE

Have a good life, Jon.

You and Martin deserve it.

JON

If I may borrow from another…may you find your rest where no shadows are cast, and no eyes may see you slumber.

ANNABELLE

(audibly smiling) From you, Jon, that is a true blessing.

[DEEP BREATH]

JON

Right. Hold on, Martin.

I’m coming home.

[CLICK]

#ollie writes fanfic #leaves too high to touch (roots too strong to fall)#tma #the magnus archives #unreality tw #darkness tw #blindness tw (kinda)#manipulation tw #violence tw #explosions tw #death tw #implied mental torture tw #just...this chapter might be a Lot #the formatting's better on AO3 #holy shit I can't believe I'm almost finished

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jaybirdsfall · 4 years ago

Text

my take on tma ending

i wrote this for a few of my friends in the artefact storage discord server. as a person, i... don’t like multiverse things? idk, makes me feel weird, with all of its potentials and the questions it asks. so heres my version of tma ending but Not Somewhere Else.

The Archivist died that day. He went up to the Panopticon, confronted the Pupil, became the Pupil, and then he was killed by an Archival Assistant with the same knife used to kill the Pupil.

Jonathan Sims and Martin Blackwood did not die.

Martin plunged the knife into Jon. Jon gasped. He died. The fears escaped from his body, the tether having been severed. And Martin held onto Jon as his body writhed. And Martin knew the Panopticon would come crashing down around them. And Martin knew the falling debris would crush him. And Martin shielded Jon with his own body, even though he was just protecting a dead man’s corpse and further letting the warm blood seep into his own clothes. This would be the last bit of warmth he’d have the privilege of experiencing. And he didn’t relish it.

Martin cried. When the aftermath of the explosion dissipated, he cried. A short, little gasping sort of ordeal that didn’t really do any emotional lifting. He didn’t know how long he sat there. His hands were slick with blood. His head spinning with all sorts of scenarios and all-encompassing grief. Can’t I just die? It was unfair. It was unfair that he managed to survive all of this. That Sasha and Tim and Daisy and Jon… and oh God Jon…. Martin didn’t deserve to be the one left over — he was the least qualified for any of it, so why must it have been him to be the final survivor? And so he sat there, stewing in his own thoughts of self-loathing and hatred. And… time didn’t matter anymore, right? He could take all the time he needed, because there wasn’t any.

He didn’t know how long had passed until he was able to open his eyes. And when he opened his eyes, he decided to punish himself. And so he looked down.

Martin looked down at the corpse he was cradling. The corpse of his boyfriend. The man he had never been able to take on a proper date. He looked down. And… Jon was breathing. Shallowly. Still with a knife where two ribs should have been. But *breathing*.

This fact almost took Martin’s breath away.

Suddenly, there was so much more to be seen. He looked up and a bright sky with cotton candy clouds was painted overhead, instead of the normal all-knowing eye that used to survey over the landscape. If he craned his neck just right, he could see the sun attempting to peak over some large fluffy clouds. And he’d never been so grateful to see the sun before. To see the sunrise.

He’d never been much of an early riser.

Martin dared look around a bit more. Jon’s body still in his grasp. Jon’s fragile little breathing body with oh God a knife embedded where two missing ribs should be. Jon’s warm little body with a still breathing heart. Martin dared to look around because there was a fighting chance that Jon could make it.

They were in Chelsea, where the Institute had been. And… there were people, walking around. Half-dazed, covered in blood and grime and whatever viscera accompanied the apocalypse.

Martin did some quick calculations and he picked up Jon’s body. The fact that a small groan of pain was music to his ears should have been concerning enough. But he didn’t have time for concern, because Jon was injured and it was time to act. Because Jon was injured and the world was put back to rights. Because the world was put back to rights, meaning that injuries needed to be taken care of. Hospital? Can I take him to a hospital? And then his mind wandered back to the two Domains and he fiercely shook his head. Not a hospital.

Martin’s feet had more sense that his brain ever did, apparently. Because he found himself at his post-worms flat. It was… off. A bit to the left. The bricks on the outside were more sharp than they had ever been — the paint inside of the hallways yellow and peeling in a fashion they hadn’t before. But the aesthetics hadn’t changed the fundamentals. So Martin entered his apartment.

He sat Jon down on the couch and immediately began taking stock of things. Knife. Big problem is the knife. First thought was to simply remove the knife but no! Bad brain. Knife is what’s keeping things in. Okay, he’d have to deal with the knife later.

And so Martin began to work.

If he had looked out the window, he would have seen a whole city come to life with a dawning recognition of the mass horror they’d experienced. But he didn’t look out the window, because he was too busy shouting curses at the taps which seemed hellbent on only dispensing brown sludge and oil.

And if Martin had been at the Panopticon’s wreckage, he would have seen Georgie and Basira looking for him.

And if Martin had been in downtown London, he would have seen the absolute shit get kicked out of Simon Fairchild.

But Martin wasn’t. Because he was with Jon.

And they were both alive. Broken, but alive.

#tma #my writing #jonmartin #jmart

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sleepymarmot · 4 years ago

Text

Opinion: MAG 187 doesn’t invalidate Helen’s more sympathetic moments

It is possible to interpret the episode as retconning everything the Distortion has ever said and done into a manipulation targeted at Jon, which would undo the character’s complexity and make them revolve entirely around the protagonist. The key for this interpretation seems to lie in the following exchange:

ARCHIVIST You worked to hurt us and help us, all with the same smile, until we can barely tell one from the other. Keeping us off-balance, constantly second-guessing our own opinions of you. Never quite crossing a line we could never forgive, but never putting yourself on the line either. And when one face finally stopped smiling, you just changed the face.

HELEN Fine. So if that’s all true… why? Why would I do any of that? What’s my actual motive?

ARCHIVIST I don’t think you even have one. It’s just what you are.

But I don’t think most of what was said here is new information.

Let’s go back to season 3. Here’s how the newborn Helen Distortion explains her identity:

HELEN Michael isn’t me. Not now.

ARCHIVIST What happened?

HELEN He got… distracted. Let feelings that shouldn’t have been his overwhelm me. Lost my way.

In other words, the Distortion’s modus operandi is a long, long game of cat and mouse (see also: MAG 146 Threshold). Michael got sidetracked by his (or Michael Shelley’s) revenge against the Archivist(s) and decided to actually kill the mouse. But it was unnatural for the Distortion, so it shook off the troublesome identity, and Helen was both an instrument to get rid of Michael and a continuation of what was started by him and worked so well.

ARCHIVIST A-are you still going to kill me?

HELEN No. That was Michael’s desire, not mine.

The Distortion doesn’t want to send the Archivist into its corridors. Why would it, when it’s so rewarding to misdirect and mess with him in other ways?

Now, for episode 115.

HELEN I… I’m not… I’m not entirely sure. I’m… having trouble. I don’t think I was meant to be Helen.

ARCHIVIST I’m – I don’t understand.

HELEN Neither do I. Michael was… pulling away. His anger was interfering. I don’t, I don’t think I have a choice but to be Helen. Self is difficult.

ARCHIVIST Michael, he, uh, he, he wasn’t meant to be you either, though, was he?

HELEN No.

There’s an internal conflict between Helen and the Distortion -- just like there was between Michael and the Distortion. I don’t think the new episode invalidates or undoes that. On the contrary: it restated that Michael strayed from the Distortion’s purpose, which means Helen could have done the same.

HELEN Something happened when I became ‘Helen’. She wasn’t right, she wasn’t ready.

ARCHIVIST I don’t…

HELEN Before, talking to you made Helen feel better.

ARCHIVIST You’re not that Helen!

HELEN I just want… I just want to feel better.

Helen was supposed to be a meal that replenished the Distortion’s energy. But it seems that the food was not as fully digested as the Distortion would prefer, and tried to bite back.

ARCHIVIST Wh-what? Why should I believe… a-a-any of this? You’ve told me over and over that you’re… what was the phrase? The ‘throat of delusion’? All of this is –

HELEN I have never told you a lie, Archivist. I wouldn’t dare. I, I just thought you might understand.

ARCHIVIST Uh… How could I possibly…

HELEN We’re both changing, Archivist. I had hoped, that together –

The Distortion has never lied (and now we know why). The Distortion has truly changed. Its new face genuinely wanted Jon’s company, just like the previous face had wanted him dead. But both faces interact with Jon in a way that leaves him confused and upset, because such is their nature.

In MAG 131, Helen insists that her identity is not a mask but a new but inseparable part of herself. As we now know, she is not lying:

ARCHIVIST

You’re still wearing her face.

HELEN

Not this again. I’m not “wearing” anything, Archivist. I am at least as much ‘Helen Richardson’ as you are the ‘Jonathan Sims’ that first joined this Institute. Things change. People change. It happens.

We get a double confirmation that Helen is different from the Distortion’s previous incarnations in MAG 146, in the words of both Helen and her victim:

This wasn’t like before; there was no playfulness here, none of that malicious joy that I had always felt coming off it. Now there was just a cold hunger, a deep anger, as though I had no right to just stand there looking at it. The street was silent, but I could feel it screaming at me to open it.

HELEN (all business) Oh, well; the son, I was pursuing long before I was even Michael. And technically, I didn’t eat the old man. He passed away from terror long before I got a chance to open properly.

ARCHIVIST His son Marcus – he – he was fine when I read his father’s statement two years ago, but now, suddenly, I can’t get through to him.

HELEN No. I imagine not. I decided it was time to finish that game a few months ago.

ARCHIVIST You – Why?

HELEN Not sure. I suppose Helen didn’t have quite the same attachment to him as a project. I’m not quite as much for decades-long campaigns of subtle terror these days.

ARCHIVIST (soft) That’s horrible.

HELEN Is it? We do what we need to do when it comes to feeding, don’t we? (pointed) Don’t we, Archivist?

Helen Distortion doesn’t derive joy from terrorizing people for months or years with doors. That’s just food now. Now she gets the same joy from messing with people with the help of her humanlike appearance and personality.

An often-quoted line from MAG 152:

HELEN Even if it were capable of doing so, what possible reason would the Eye have to change how you feel, when it makes no difference to your actions? Helen was like you, at first. She felt such guilt over taking people. Until one day she realized she wasn’t going to stop doing it. So she chose to stop feeling guilty.

Again, the new episode confirms two things: 1) Helen wasn’t lying. 2) Helen was telling this to Jon to make him doubt his loyalties. And again, this is not new information! She laughs at his misery and confusion very openly!

Episode 157. Jon gets a shocking reminder that Helen is Just Here To Troll:

HELEN Because I have a good enough sense of what’s going on to know that it will be much more fun without my involvement! (begins laughing)

...

ARCHIVIST Just tell me what’s going on. Please.

HELEN (gleefully) Bad things, Archivist. Really bad things.

MAG 164, Helen’s first appearance in s5. There’s so much going on, let’s try to list at least some of it: she congratulates jonmartin on their relationship, immediately tries to play them against each other, cheerfully deflects all blame onto Jon and also Georgie and Melanie, admits to betrayal, announces she wants to be friends “again”, then expresses pity that Jon isn’t hostile to her enough. Absolutely everything she does is about creating relationship chaos.

MAG 166, second encounter with Helen post-Change, and she is delighted to see disagreement between Jon and Martin unprompted by her:

MARTIN Yeah, I, I, I think we should go for it, get our murder on!

ARCHIVIST (disbelief) Sorry, what?

HELEN (surprised delight) Yes, Martin!

In MAG 177, she moves the focus of ridiculously blatant manipulation and provocation onto Basira, and also doesn’t bother to hide she enjoys scaring her “friends”:

HELEN Not interrupting anything, Am I?

MARTIN Christ, Helen, you scared the life out of me.

HELEN [Insincere] Sorry, darling.

And finally, MAG 183. By now, everyone in the scene is aware that she’s here just to get a rise out of our heroes and metaphorically eat popcorn.

MARTIN Look. Listen, I’m getting really sick of all thi–

ARCHIVIST Leave it, Martin. She’s just trying to get under your skin.

MARTIN Yeah? Well, she’s really good at it!

HELEN Aww. Thanks, sweetie. But to be honest, I’m mainly just here to see which path you choose.

Which brings us to MAG 187. We already know that Helen isn’t Jon and Martin’s “friend” as in “ally” -- she hangs out with them to provoke strong responses and sow chaos. The plot twist is that she’s not just doing it for fun, like a human would -- it is her way of avatar feeding.

The Distortion has always been a trickster. I am glad that they died this way, instead of becoming either an over-the-top villain or a reluctant hero -- before the plot could corner them into becoming one. And as Jon said, the reason Helen had to die was not her trickster nature, but the side she picked on the “Eyepocalipse: keep or cancel?” issue.

The reveal in 187 does not contradict the information we had before, and so it doesn’t retcon or undo the complexity or character development that the Distortion had. The fact that the Distortion fed on Jon (and others’) reaction to them does not mean that they never had any motivations or thoughts beyond that. Jon says it himself: “keeping us off-balance” is not the Distortion’s motivation, it’s “who they are”, it’s the natural, instinctive way they conduct themselves. We have learned that the Distortion's behavior was Eldritch Trolling instead of Regular Trolling, that's all.

#the magnus archives #tma spoilers #mag 187 #helen distortion #blah blah blah

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unnamed-atlas · 4 years ago

Note

Pspspsp info dump 👀

Ok so in season 1 of Mianite there's this place called Ianarea which is basically a kingdom dedicated to the goddess Ianite. There's a part of the kingdom that's in the end and seems to be actually ruled by Ianite and then there's a small area in the overworld and the lore for all of it is really vague from what I remember so I decided to rework all of it. So in the AU there's still the part in the end ruled by ianite, but then there’s an overworld kingdom by the same name that is not ruled by Ianite but in dedication to her, so most of the people living there are followers of Ianite. She spends a lot of her time in the overworld in this kingdom.

Phil, Tubbo, Tommy, Wilbur, Techno, Niki, and Eret all live in this kingdom. Phil, Tubbo, Tommy, Wil, and Techno all live together, Phil being the head of the household having taken the other four under his care at varying ages.

Phil is an inventor who’s most well known for his invention of the elytra, makeshift wings that can be used by humans for limited flight. He owns a shop where he sells his inventions and he’s well regarded in the community as the type of person you can come to for help with any problem. When he’s not working in the shop he’s either hanging out at the library with Tubbo to do research for his new inventions or bailing Wilbur, Techno, and Tommy out of trouble.

Tubbo works as an archivist at the kingdom’s library. He works closely with Ianite and the royal family to record and preserve the history of the kingdom and of the gods, as well as to take care of the library and its other contents.

Techno is a young anarchist who used to travel the world by himself before being forcibly adopted as Wilbur’s friend when he was passing through Ianarea. He’s well known around the kingdom for his habit of sneaking both himself and occasionally Tommy and/or Wilbur into the kingdom’s political meetings to cause problems on purpose. He also has a tendency to screw around with the royal guard members who patrol the streets of the kingdom during the day, often distracting them by departing them about political philosophy while Wilbur and Tommy cause problems on purpose. After traveling for so long he’s gotten really good at fighting and teaches Tommy and occasionally Tubbo combat and self defense. When he’s not causing problems on purpose he’s usually helping Phil around the shop.

Wilbur has a similar rebellious streak to Techno, though he does it more for the aesthetic and fun of it than for any actual political philosophy. He has a habit of stealing things just to see what he can get away with and he’s become a fairly good pickpocket, though Phil’s been trying to get him to stop. He has a love for the ocean, having grown up in the area of the kingdom near the harbor, and had even wanted to be a pirate when he was younger, much to Phils chagrin, but he never learned to swim and so became put off by the idea. He instead works as a musician now, playing at local taverns and restaurants.

Tommy picked up Techno and Wilbur’s want for rebellion, but Tubbo’s strong moral compass has also rubbed off on him over the years, so after learning how to steal stuff from Wilbur he became a bit of a robinhood type figure around the kingdom, stealing for the good of the people. Of course he does also tend to participate in Wilbur and Techno’s mischief just for the fun of it as well. He’s gotten into countless fights with business owners and the royal guard and more often than not ends up having to be bailed out by Techno and Wilbur. When he’s not causing problems on purpose he’s known to spend his time keeping Tubbo company at the library.

Niki is one of Wil's childhood friends. She owns a bakery and volunteers at the library alongside Tubbo in her free time. She’s honestly most of Wilbur’s impulse control besides Phil. The boys all spend a lot of time hanging out in her bakery, and more than a few times she’s had to hide them from the royal guard.

Eret is another one of Wil and Niki's childhood friends who grew up to join the royal guards. Wilbur and Tommy aren't exactly thrilled at this development and tend to avoid him after he joins. Techno still thinks he's chill though and always makes a point when he's messing with the guards to stop by and visit with Eret at his post. He sometimes gets posted at the library and so he and Tubbo chat pretty often and are on friendly terms. He and Niki are close so he visits her in the bakery fairly often, and he tends to go to Phil for advice when he needs it since he grew up around Phil being Wilbur's friend. Honestly him vouching for Techno, Wilbur, and Tommy is probably most of the reason the three of them have gotten away with as much as they have.

One of the big inciting incidents of Mianite s1 is that Ianite is captured by her brother Dianite. The actual timing of it all is really vague in the series itself but I generally assume that this took place before the beginning of the series. So. AU plot pre Mianite s1: Ianite invites Tubbo to travel with her to Mianite where she’s meant to meet with Mianite to discuss some things regarding recent events and changes they’re thinking of making to their realms and such so that Tubbo can record the events of the meeting to be filed in the library of Ianarea. They shouldn’t be gone for a month or two since Mianite isn’t too far away, so Phil allows Tubbo to go on the trip. He travels with Ianite to Mianite, meets Mianite, Declan and Champwan, and the Wizards, and records the events of the trip and of the two gods meeting, and it’s going great. Then the whole thing with Ianite being captured by Dianite happens and basically Tubbo ends up captured alongside her.

And so the plot of Mianite s1 starts. Everyone starts arriving in Mianite. Tom, Tucker, Sonja, Jordan, The Modesteps, Nadeshot, the gangs all here! And they start picking their sides as followers of Dianite or Mianite, and Jordan does his whole “haha i’m on my own team i’m team Ianite” without realizing Ianite is actually a real goddess, and the next morning he wakes up and there’s this fucking ghost in his house. Except it’s not actually a ghost, it’s Tubbo! Because they're still aware of what’s happening in Mianite while having been captured by Dianite, Ianite basically saw Jordan declare himself her champion and went, “well, okay, he’s our best bet here.” and used what powers she could still access to tether Tubbo’s soul to Jordan and sends him to go look after Jordan and do his best to keep him safe and kind of lead him in the right direction towards saving the two of them.

So Tubbo and Jordan are stuck together. Tubbo doesn’t really tell Jordan much at first, he does even give him his name, just kinda hangs out, gives him advice, leads him towards the right decisions and such. And it goes on like this for a while, because no one else can see Tubbo, except, it turns out, Mianite and Dianite. Mianite basically just doesn’t acknowledge it. But Dianite’s definitely a bit pissed off when he sees Tubbo with Jordan for the first time.

Eventually though, Techno, Wilbur, Phil, and Tommy show up on the shores of Mianite! They came all this way looking for Tubbo since he had never come back home like he was supposed to. They meet up with Jordan, Sonja, and Tucker, who are fairly weary of the travels considering the last unexpected visitors to arrive in Mianite unexpectedly had been the pirates. So the boys explain why they’re there, tell them about Tubbo, and Jordan hears these guy’s description of their friend, looks to Tubbo beside him, who had seemed uncomfortable since Phil, Tommy, Techno and Wil had arrived, and has this whole moment of just “oh shit” as he realizes the kid they're looking for is the specter that’s been following him around for months.

Tubbo all but demands that Jordan does not tell them about him. And this is the point in the story, when Jordan returns to his base after talking to SBI, the Tubbo and Jordan finally have a heart to heart and they actually start being productive.

This is most of what I have figured out for the AU, at this point, but I do have a few one-off ideas for later on in the story. At one point in Mianite Ianarea is destroyed by Dianite and the Mianite gang discovers this upon traveling there. At this point Eret and Niki will end up going back to Mianite with the Mianite gang + SBI. I know, at one point, that I want to have the wizards do something that makes it so that everyone can see Tubbo again, maybe for a limited period of time, maybe for the rest of the story, but yeah, sappy reunion time there. I’m thinking about maybe adding a few other people to the Ianarea gang, like Fundy, Quackity, maybe Scott, but we’ll have to see about that cause I won’t do that if I can’t do it in a way that works naturally for the AU.

What I do know for sure is that there will be a happy ending, Tubbo will be saved alongside Ianite and be reunited with his friends and no I will not tolerate any alternatives.

Anyways yeah this is literally three pages long. Anon you asked for an info dump and you got one :) I’d love to hear what y’all think or any ideas you might have since this au is definitely a big wip

#2 hours. 3 pages. and 1700 words later. here we are!#bro i don't even have a name for this au yet #long post #but here you go i hope you appreciate it :)#i had fun writing this all out honestly #now i have to go do homework though lol

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janekfan · 4 years ago

Link

Click.

Jon,

I trust you’ll have the statement I left for you this afternoon recorded by end of work day tomorrow.

Regards,

Click.

Jon,

If you are to be useful in your position as Archivist, speak to your employees about what it means to research properly. I expect to see marked improvement following your discussion.

Regards,

Click.

Jon,

You must have forgotten to record the statement from last week. I understand. It takes time to settle into a new position. Still, you have new responsibility and you know I hold you in high esteem. Tomorrow will have to do.

Regards,

Click.

Jon,

Apologies for the late notice. Record the statement Rosie provided you prior to your leaving today. It is imperative.

Regards,

Click.

Jon,

Please refrain from spending the night in the Archives. It is a liability. I’m sure you understand.

Regards,

Jon cradled his head in his hands, massaging the tension taking up residence in his temples and rubbing his itchy, aching eyes. These were only the latest in a very long list of emails he could never seem to keep up with. As soon as he made his way through them, reordered his plans for the day, accepted a new assignment from Elias, always given at the very last minute, Jon’s morning was already eaten up. He’d taken to arriving an hour or two early just to give himself more time to organize his plan of attack.

Like clockwork, Martin arrived with a mug of tea prepared exactly the way he preferred it.

“Thank you, Martin.” Gratefully, he cradled the hot ceramic in his palms, waiting until the heat seeping through the walls became nearly unbearable before taking a sip and closing his eyes in the briefest ecstasy. As a researcher Jon doubted he’d get much out of him, at least not for a while. It seemed as though they had something in common--he was as inept at his job as Jon was at his.

“Pardon me for saying, but, Jon, you look terrible.” He felt terrible. Sore and tired and overwhelmed. This new job felt like drowning and for the life of him he couldn’t figure out why Elias chose him over Sasha. She had so much experience, was so much more capable.

“I will not. Now, thank you again for the tea. Please return to your desk and continue with the statement I gave you three days ago.” Properly chastised and flushing bright red, Martin stumbled over his farewells as poorly as he stumbled out the door. Jon took a breath that achieved nothing, then took another, trying to clear his head enough to read through a statement. With how far behind he’d fallen he really should read through two but the ones he ended up documenting on those old tape recorders made him feel strange, dazed and drained, like he’d spent the time sprinting instead of speaking. The phone rang, harsh electronic chattering jolting him awake and he glanced frantically at his watch; only a few minutes.

Hell, Jon.

At least pretend you know what you’re doing.

Isn’t that what Georgie always said? Fake it till you make it?

Gingerly, he lifted the phone from its cradle.

“Sims, Archivist.”

“Jon.” Of course. He’d already known. “I trust you’ve had a productive morning.” It was as though he was watching his every move and Jon surreptitiously skimmed over the room, searching for cameras while knowing even if they did exist, he would never find them.

“Y’yes. Yes, of course.” An oily sensation trickled down the seam of his spine and he had a sneaking suspicion that Elias could tell he was lying. “I’ll have that recording up to you straight away.”

“Glad to hear it.” There was amusement there, cold and calculating. Jon didn’t like being played with and Elias reminded him too much of a cat with a mouse. “I’ll be waiting. Jon.” The delicate severing of the line failed to make the watching any less. All the same he plucked the statement off the top of his pile knowing already not to bother with his laptop and sank into the smog and the smoke, gasping as the written words closed over his face and buried him in obscurity.

“Statement ends.” He heaved a breath, shuffled through the notes he did have to allow himself time to get his trembling fingers under control. “Supplemental. Victim does not appear to have any connections to, uh, well, anyone. It appears as though they cut themselves off to family and friends long before their voyage. They have never been found.” Lord, he hoped that would be sufficient for Elias. But he didn’t have any additional information and so it would have to do. Groaning between teeth clenched near hard enough to crack his jaw, Jon pillowed his heavy head on folded arms until the room stopped its spinning. A notification rang out, echoing painfully in the space between his ears.

A new email.

And rather than reading it, Jon took up the tape, packaging it neatly in an envelope on the way out of his office and toward Elias.

Jon,

You recall, of course, your promise the other day. I wish to inquire about the whereabouts of the paperwork I was expecting this morning.

Regards,

Click.

Jon,

Do try to arrive to work on time.

Regards,

Click.

Jon,

Did you forget about our lunch meeting? We shall reschedule.

Regards,

Jon thumbed through the calendar on his phone, disappointing himself with the distinct lack of invites to this mysterious lunch meeting. He went as far as to search his inbox. He’d never delete an email, preferring a papertrail himself, and could not find a thing. But Elias sounded so sure that Jon began to doubt his own memory. He’d been tired, working several late nights in a row. It was possible he forgot. He did that when he failed to write things down. He buried both hands in his curls and pulled. Damn it, all. Jon. Get a hold of yourself. Do your job.

Doggedly and with manic determination, Jon chewed through the stacks of files arranged in order of importance, lessening their number by a considerable amount and he was exhausted. Elias had kept calling with inane and frankly useless information at all the wrong moments, spiking his already rabbiting heart rate because no, he hadn’t yet had a moment to go over the first statement sent along today let alone the following three. Slowing the rise and fall of his chest deliberately, Jon pressed a palm over his upset and sore stomach.

Work was piling up at such a rate that Jon had the brilliant idea of taking home a messenger bag chock-a-block full each night. He’d been told off thrice about falling asleep in the archives and at least when he passed out in his own flat he was caught by couch cushions instead of the solid pine of his cheap desk. Alright, finally. Large, uninterrupted swathes of time in the evenings and on weekends and he was finally, finally catching up with all of his back log. The tight fist of anxiety clutched mercilessly around his lungs and stealing away any chance of a full breath began to loosen. He could do this. He was passable at this job.

He arrived Monday, bright and early, unloading his completed work and filing it all carefully and neatly away. A thing of beauty he took a moment to be proud of.

Until he sat down to check his emails.

Jon,

Statements are the property of the Magnus Institute and should not be removed from the premises. I trust you understand and this oversight will not happen again.

Regards,

Projecting an air of confidence he most certainly did not possess, Jon approached Tim and Sasha with a short stack of files he hoped to divide between them. Understandably, they were cross with him for taking the position even though he really had very little say in the matter. He was hopeful their chilly attitude towards him would thaw over time because he missed them and they were his friends even if they were taking time away from him at the moment. Honestly, he’d like to take time away from himself and his mistakes and the crushing one tonne weight of his inability.

“What can we do you for, boss?” Tim’s new nickname for him didn’t altogether sound like a positive thing but Jon decided there was no use bringing it up. Especially when he’d come to beg favors. His voice got stuck in his throat and he cleared it, apprehensive and wishing he’d never had this idea.

“Hullo.” He nodded to each of them. Why was this so awkward? Because they hate you, you prat. “I’m, I wouldn’t normally ask, I know you’re working hard on the tasks I’ve already assigned you. But. I’m a touch overwhelmed?” He chuffed a laugh, it was either that or sob. “And, if you’re not too busy I. I’m sorry, I just.” As covertly as possible, he blinked away tears. “I need some help.” He held his breath. Swallowed nervously. Worried his bottom lip.

“Sorry boss.” And Tim looked so contrite the crashing guilt broke over Jon like a wave. “I’m still in the middle of the other things you asked me to do.” Sasha was next, tilting her head in sympathy, a small, sad smile not quite reaching her eyes.

“We’re all busy, Jon.” Gently, she spoke, probably trying to spare his feelings. “You should know, being the one passing out the work and all.” Oh. He’d thought. His desk was still piled impossibly high and Sasha and Tim had a few each but. No. Stop it, you know they're better suited to this than you. You know it. Don't blame your friends for your own ineptitude. They’d all been working so hard, he distinctly remembered recording and filing their work and Martin’s.

“Of course, it’s. I’m sorry. I’ll do better in the future.”

“Thanks, boss.”

Wonderful. Now he was trying to offload his own problems by putting undue pressure on his assistants and with as much as he was under he’d have thought he knew better than to burden them like that. It certainly didn’t make his job any easier. But. But he had thought they might be finished on some of the follow through, it had been some time. Okay. Alright. No harm done, not really, he murmured to himself, tucking the files under his arm and retreating to the safety of his office. He could brush off his researching skills and help out, it hadn’t been that long. If he planned better he could alleviate some of their stress.

Jon,

Going forward, I would appreciate if you would check over the work of your assistants to make certain all is well before being recorded and filed.

Regards,

It was a Tuesday.

He knew that because on Tuesdays Martin arrived an hour later. Something to do with taking care of his mum. Without knowing that, Jon wasn’t sure he’d know at all.

His stomach hurt.

There hadn’t been much time for sleeping, not with coming in over the weekend to sort through and double check perfectly adequate research. Why did Elias allow him to choose assistants in the first place then? What was the point if one didn’t trust their expertise? Tim and Sasha didn’t need him double checking their work. Even Martin wasn’t in need of it beyond a few grammar corrections. Regardless, he’d done it and he’d made quick progress. Perhaps he should have been spending his weekends at the Institute this whole time. He shivered, incredibly cold despite extra socks and an additional jumper. Cor, but he was dizzy, barely able to hold his head up on a weak and wobbly neck. Pretty sure he’d forgotten to eat yesterday. Hasn’t yet today and with the pain in his stomach he didn’t plan to. What did he have Sunday? Jon gave up wracking his clouded brain in favor of laying his hot cheek against the cool wood of the desk. Stacks of files and envelopes and notes so high he couldn’t see over them formed thick, impenetrable walls between him and the outside world. Was nice. Focusing his eyes on a brilliant pink tag, Jon let it take up his vision until it swam out of focus and tears slipped over the bridge of his nose, running down his cheek to the scarred surface. It was too easy to cry. He was being overdramatic, whinging because he was incompetant at his job and frightened he would lose it despite doing fuck all to earn it in the first place.

“Jon?” Angrily, he scrubbed the tears away before sitting up. “Oh! There you are. Wow, that’s. Well, that’s a lot of work.”

“I’ve noticed.” Irritated at being caught doing nothing, Jon scowled.

“I. Is there something I can do? To help?” Any closer and he’d surely notice that he’d been crying like a child over their schoolwork. Snapping, Jon let a defensive growl add a sharp, snapping edge to his words they didn’t need.

“Maybe if you spent more time researching and less on making tea.”

“Oh. Y’yes. I--of course.” The man stuttered around his apologies, leaving the tea behind on the corner of his desk before fleeing the room. Well, no surprise there. Jon Sims. Resident arsehole. He let his cheekbone smack into the wood, accepting his worsening migraine as a matter of course, deserving it. Through the valley between two mountainous heaps he could see just the handle of the mug. His favorite mug, if he was prone to those sorts of things.

Jon drank his tea as an apology and let the emails pile up in his inbox and the phone go to voicemail.

“Jon.” With no small measure of difficulty, Jon levered himself upright with brittle stick and string arms. He hurt all over. Sore and stiff and cold. It took conscious effort to pull air into his laboring lungs.

“Elias.” Voice like gravel, he clutched at his painful throat, wincing when tears stung his eyes after a short but intense fit of coughing.

“You look terrible, Jon.” It didn’t sound sincere or worried, more irritated. “Is this why I’ve had to come see you in person? Why you've ignored my correspondence?”

“Uh, y’yes?” Under the close scrutiny of his superior, Jon thought he might pass out, struggling to focus through the sweeping waves of delirious heat rushing through him from top to toes. “I, I’ve been under the, the w’weather?”

“Jon.” Sighing in frustration, he pinched the space between his eyes. “If I cannot trust you to care for yourself, how can I trust you to run my archives?”

“Apologies. It. I won’t let it get this bad again.”

“See that you don’t.” He turned, disappointment clear in the stiff line of his shoulders and the callous tone of his voice. “Take the rest of the day. Another if you require it. You’re useless to everyone as you are.” If Jon had been capable of it at the moment, he would have been shocked. As it was, he was filled to bursting with humiliation, shivering in his chair and trying to think of the steps it took to get home from here. His assistants crowded within the frame of the door, expressions displeased with him and he wanted for one moment not to feel watched. Not when he was so, so, so useless. Already his face was hot with embarrassment and shame, tears pooling in his eyes and god forbid he let them fall. He stood, hip knocking into the wooden edge hard enough to bruise and Jon had to catch himself on a filing cabinet when the room tilted abruptly on its axis, nearly taking him with it. A cacophony of noises and sounds and echoing commotion blocked up his ears. He ignored their faux concern, their questions, pushing them out before they had a chance to come in and locking the door behind them.

“Jon--” Tim. The rattling knob.

“Leave.” Staggering to his chair, he collapsed, curling tight around the blazing ache at the core of him.

“Jon, you’re, you’re not well.” He knew. And was useless because of it. He didn’t need to be reminded.

“Pease leave.” So, so sick, about to be sick, can’t move, can’t breathe, everything numb, numb, numb. Let him be alone so he can gather his things, deal with the ever present chanting in his mind.

Failure, failure, failure.

“Damn it, Tim. We, we took this too far.” Faint sounds of muffled arguing faded further and further into the distance until he was left with only Martin’s fidgeting silhouette in the frosted glass of the window. He couldn’t stay upright, nauseated and unsteady and when he fell forward, vision blacked, body heavy, an avalanche of paperwork flowed over the precipice with the rest of him.

“Hey, Jon, Jon.” Unfamiliar hands roamed where they oughtn't, tilted him this way and that and he moaned because that was a sure fire way to upset the tentative agreement he had made with his stomach. “Jon!” Insistent, persistent, incessant.

“Go…” thick, nigh incomprehensible.

“There you are, now.” Martin, his palm blessedly cool and sweeping back clinging, irritating curls from where they’d stuck to his clammy skin. “You’re burning up, Jon.” Pity. He didn’t want pity. He just wanted to be left alone and tried to say it, ended up coughing instead, hugging himself desperately to stop the fire poker stabbing into his gut. “Hush, let’s get you sorted. Get you home so you can rest proper.” Drifting, he sensed more than saw Martin step out, closing the door behind him.

“How is he?”

“Not well.”

“What does that mean, Martin?”

“Means I need to get him home and into bed.”

“How can we help?”

“You didn’t want to help him before.”

“That--you know--!”

Out of earshot, out of body, out of mind, out of, out of…

Touch, soft and careful, lifted that thin veil of sleep, pulled him up by protesting shoulders, and he couldn’t stop the cry forced between his teeth at being unfolded.

“Sorry, sorry,” Martin tugged him until he was leaned against his side and held a glass to his lips, tipping water by mouthfuls, chastising Jon not unkindly when he chased it. “Slow, slow now. Or you’ll make yourself sick.”

“S’...um. I.” Thoughts fluttered like moths, all too quick for him to catch, in and out of the dark, seemingly out of nowhere, disappearing into nowhere.

“It’s alright. Take these, good man.” But he wasn't. He was bad. At his job. At people. At, at everything. Pills, bitter and chalky on his tongue, washed down with more water. “Jacket, good, good, I know.” Every action’s difficulty had increased one hundred fold and Jon latched onto Martin’s voice like it was a lifeline. “Okay, I’ve called a cab.”

“Can’...you can’t…”

“You can buy me a coffee, Jon. Pay me back if you have to but the train isn’t the place for you right now.” So lightheaded, so very lightheaded, if Martin hadn’t been there he’d be making acquaintance with the tile, he was sure. “I should take you to A&E. I really don’t like how you look.”

“No, no. Jus’...sleep.” A noncommittal hum filled him with worry. He wanted to go home.

“Alright, Jon. Alright.” Though his surroundings were a blur, Jon thought he saw Tim and Sasha when Martin whisked him to the lift but he couldn’t be sure. It hurt to walk, to move and he buried his face in Martin’s broad shoulder for the duration of the ride, breathing shallow and slow to stave off the carsickness.

Something cold and wet settled over his forehead and he struggled to open his eyes, staring up at a familiar ceiling, still dressed in his work clothes, sans wingtips.

“Welcome back.”

“Wh’where’d I go?” Martin’s hands were moving sections of his hair, plaiting it he realized after a long moment.

“So it stays out of your face, you don’t seem to like it.”

“Mm…” He didn’t, and the effort it took to put it up hadn’t been worth it lately.

“Should I stop?”

“No. Nice.” He was feeling marginally better now that he was laying down and out of the archives and away from the overwhelming pressure and stress. The shame was there, its blinding brightness dulled by distance and time and the fingers combing out the tangles calmed his thoughts.

“Sorry, sorry, love, I know you were having a nice sleep.” More medicine, diluted tea with sugar. Jon fumbled with his belt, uncomfortable, couldn’t get his fingers to do what he wanted, and didn’t remember taking off his slacks or his jumper or layers of socks or his button down leaving him in his loose undershirt. His heavy quilt was pulled up, he was tucked in, warm, comfortable.

“Okay, just breathe.” Jolted awake and bent double over his throbbing stomach, Jon’s back heaved with the force of a barking fit. “Here, another dose.”

“Mah…”

“You’re alright. Let the medicine work.” The damp flannel was back, sweeping over his flushed skin, ridding it of its disagreeable stickiness. Down his throat, over shuddering collarbones, cheeks, brow, repeat, slow, even, methodical.

Over and over and over…

“Jon!” Dark, smothering dark, hands, striking like snakes in, out, everywhere, trying to hold him down, trying to keep him still, from getting up. “Jon, hey, hey, shh.” Panting, can’t. Coughing, not enough, choking. What, what... who… he. Work. He had work to finish? Have, so. Elias was, was angry, disappointed? Pinned, arms close, soft, warm, behind. Up and down. And. Sick...he was. “Shh, it’s alright, s’alright.”

“Mah…’in. W’why, ah.” How was he supposed to finish...he had to finish but there’s so much how. How. When he was...

“Hush, Jon. Hush. Don’t worry about any of that archiving nonsense right now. When you're well, when we go back I’ll help you sort through that mess.”

“Don’, don’need h’help.”

“It’s fine if you do.” Martin’s kind, soft tone was enough to make the sorrow spill over and lightly calloused fingers brushed them away. “It is, Jon. I, I know I’m not the best yet, but I want to help.”

“T’Tim and Sasha...even, it’s. Too much on you all.”

“It’s too much for you.” For one frantic, delusional moment Jon believed Elias had sent Martin here to dismiss him. That he wasn’t even worth letting go in person and he panicked, distraught.

“No! No! I can, I can do this! I ca--” Fire erupted, coursed through flayed open veins when he coughed, gasped, tasted iron against his teeth. Sobbed. Then Martin hugged him and it should have been awful because Jon didn’t do hugs but he returned it anyway. “I was asking too much.” Hoarse and choked and sad. No one should feel like he did, at the end of a rope knotted too much like a noose, and he’d gone ahead and done it to Tim and Sasha and overloaded them with more and more and more work and then he tried to add even more because he couldn’t handle his own damn job and, and--!

“Jon! You weren’t asking enough.”

“They, you, were so busy, I, I couldn’t--”

“Jon, love, I need you to listen to me.” When he made to interrupt, Martin settled him back into the pillows and took his hand in a loose hold Jon was free to escape. He didn’t understand. “Tim and Sasha. They were having a go at you.” That didn’t sound right. They were. They were friends. “Pretending to be slow, putting the pressure on their new boss.” The sharp shock of electric grief cracked through his breastbone as though it were a lightning rod and he wasn’t grounded.

“Y’you’re lying.” He had to be. And Jon wasn’t the best at interpreting these sorts of things on a good day but he had to be. He had to be because they, they were friends. They wanted to help, they said.

“They were upset with you, I suppose.” His fingers tightened around Martin’s hand and he returned it. “I don’t think they meant it to go this far. I don’t think they really understood what Elias was asking of you.”

“Why?” Broken, shaking so violently he nearly bit his tongue. “Why would they? What did, I didn’t mean to be chosen. I didn’t mean it Martin, I didn’t, I never. I.”

“I know.”

“Elias, he. He didn’t--” Pathetic. He barely knew Martin and the man was in his flat, in his room, consoling him because his coworkers couldn’t stand their new boss.

“I don’t want you to think about it right now.” Helpless, hopeless, Jon looked up at him. “I want you to sleep.” Martin cupped his jaw and brushed the tears away with two balanced sweeps of his thumbs and Jon clung to his wrists. “Try to sleep, things will be better in the morning. I promise, Jon. I promise.” It didn’t feel like it could ever be better. But sleep sounded good. Sleep and he could forget about it for a little while. Martin tucked stray curls back away from his face, into the messy plait, talked about nothing, poetry, the dog he’d let run into the archives forever ago. Jon let him, trying not to think about anything else. Following the currents of his voice down, down, down, where the weight of tide dragged him under.

“Your fever is still higher than I’d like.” Jon frowned. He wanted to be miserable alone but in the end he slept when he could, when his worsening stomach ache let up, and watched Martin tidy his cluttered flat through half lidded eyes. He snapped awake when the door closed thinking he’d finally had enough of his sour mood and left. But no. He’d gone to the Tesco down the street to purchase him some essentials and was coming back. Jon missed him leaving. He was irritated with Martin for taking his phone even though it was probably for the best. The emails kept coming, enough to bury him, and his vision was swimming so badly he could barely read them anyway.

Still, he couldn't help but think about the archives and the new statements that no-doubt waited for his return. They’d be further behind now, out one terrible archivist and one archivist’s assistant all because he couldn’t take care of himself properly.

“Are you sure you feel well enough?” Martin was helping him take slow, unsteady steps to the kitchen table where his laptop resided. “You’re so pale.”

”Can’afford to waste more time.” He could glance through some emails. He was well enough for that. Probably.

“That didn’t answer the question.” It ended up being a waste anyway. He was too dizzy to sit up let alone read and Martin did him the kindness of not saying “I told you so.” Currently, Jon was leaning his temple on the chilly glass of the dirty window and Martin was fixing some tea for him. He didn’t want it, worried that if he moved or even thought about food or drink he’d lose his tenuous battle with the nausea. He jumped when Martin touched his shoulder, closing his eyes when it just hurt. “You’re shaking.”

“Mm. C’cold.”

“Back to bed.” Jon shook his head. He couldn’t. “You need to rest.”

“Can’t…” He folded thin arms over his middle. He was being lifted to his feet, the room blinked in and out and his mouth flooded with salt.

“Jon?” There was fear in Martin’s voice but he couldn’t alleviate it, not when he was trying to keep still, keep from collapsing then and there. “Jon? Ambulance is on the way. It’s alright, it’ll be alright, hang on.” He didn’t mean to be sick but his lips wouldn’t form the shapes of his apologies.

Red.

Bright red

A gout of it coating his tongue in copper.

“Jon!”

“S’sor…” His legs gave way with another gush, there was pain but he couldn’t pinpoint it, falling, slow, drifting like leaves cradled in autumn wind. Clothes soaked and tacky with carmine buds blossoming, blooming, growing, fields of poppies spreading from him to Martin and pressure, pressure, pressure on his hands.

Frozen.

Wet warmth traced the contour of his jaw and the uneven pounding, pounding, pounding of his heart drowned out all else as it tried to escape the cage of his ribs.

Flashes of light, sound, lifted, his connection with Martin severed and he choked on rubies instead of his name.

Speaking. Wouldn’t answer, couldn't the cloying smell of iron lay thick all over this place. Didn’t want to be here.

A sticky toffee grip. Squeeze can’t feel it.

Jon Jon Jon the chirp of birds calling shouting screaming warning him of what comes next cold in his skin in his veins the dark takes all and gives nothing back.

Bright white blazing phosphorescent fire burning burning no one is coming to save him from the shadows hemming him in trapping him under swaying shifting indifferent lights that blind his eyes and pull cherry sweet claret from his insides with a fishhook.

Lashes lined with lead fought against the weight of muffled murmuring, the piping trill of electric monitors, but there’s only soft dusk dim and exquisite detachment. Nowhere, nothing hurts and his sum total is velvet wool and fleece and he sleeps.

The distinction between dream and wakefulness was little more than a gauzy veil but Jon thought he recognized Martin and Tim and Sasha and when he could he forced his clumsy apologies, inadequate though they may be, through jumbled words, slurred and stuttered and slow and he was sorry he’d gone and made such a mess of things and he’d fix it if he could, it they told him how, he’d do anything, just please don’t hate him.

Soft sounds, familiar sounds, kind sounds. A thick blanket of cloud and cool fog and…

Jon woke with a mouth full of cotton and a dull pain somewhere in the vicinity of his middle. When he lifted his arm the tug of an itchy catheter in the back of his hand drew his attention to the leads and the lines leading to bags of fluids refracting prisms built by bright beams streaming into the room between gaps in the shades.

“Hey.” The relief Jon felt in hearing Martin’s voice was too complicated to think about so he didn’t. Instead trying to dredge up a smile from somewhere as he sat next to him. “You’ve been awake a few times. I wouldn’t be surprised if you didn’t remember.” He blinked.

“I--ah.” Wincing, Jon put a hand to his throat when speaking was akin to gargling glass, and he accepted the water Martin offered gratefully, as well as the help of his steady hand. “I, I don’t.”

“The fever has just started to go down. Lowest it’s been today I think.”

“You’ve…”

“After work. Just to check in. ‘Bout a week now.” The surprise must have shown on his face because Martin knit his brow. “It was touch and go there for, for a little while. But, you’re on the mend.”

“I d’didn’t...what did, what?”

“Well. Jon. An ulcer, first of all. From stress--exceedingly rare mind you. Which worsened when you began getting ill.” That, that made sense. “And, uh. I don’t know if you remember the day it happened.”

“Not really, no.” Snapshots of time sure, but nothing concrete and when Martin explained he’d lost what he thought was a litre of blood on his kitchen floor and another all over himself Jon had no rebuttal. “Was. I thought I saw?”

“Tim and Sash? Yeah. They visited a few times.” There was more there, just unspoken, and Jon didn’t push him for anything else.

Jon was trembling with fatigue after the doctor did their poking and prodding and sent him on a painful jaunt down the hall with Martin and his IV stand as his chaperones, leaning more and more of his weight on his arm. Another day saw him discharged and home for the weekend with Martin to fuss and fret and force him to follow instructions to the letter.

“Boss.” Tim’s chair nearly tipped over with how fast he was on his feet. “You, are you sure you should be?” Weakly he gestured to the office, concern evident in his haggard face. Sasha composed herself with a bit more decorum, actions careful and precise.

“Jon, maybe you should take more time away.” When she stepped toward him, he stepped back. He was capable of doing his job; please let him do it. “We understand if you--”

“I’ve recovered well enough. Thank you both. For y’your concern.” Ducking his head he retreated into his office, not sure what to expect from the state of it and surprised when he was faced with only statements to record organized by length and supplemental research. The heaps of papers he’d accumulated over his short tenure were all but gone and while it ameliorated the panic he’d lied about to Martin, it also proved the man was right.

Tim and Sasha.

Best not to dwell.

There was work to be done.

“Let me get that for you.” Sasha reached past Jon before he could even extend his arms toward the box. “Martin told us not to let you lift anything.” Traitor. Speaking of, a fresh cup of tea rested beside a new translation. Passable. After the tea, he had the strength to log into his email for the first time.

Jon,

I trust you are ready to begin recording statements. Please do so at once. Your assistants have proved themselves capable enough in your absence to not require such close supervision.

Do well on your promise. Do not let this happen again.

Regards,

Jon exhaled, the tension seeping out of his body replaced by profound weariness. When he blinked awake, covered in the throw from the break room, Martin magically appeared with another cuppa.

“Nice nap?” He suppressed a yawn, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, as Martin suppressed a smile. “Pain?”

“Not bad.”

“So, not good?”

“I’m fine, Martin.”

“Glad to hear it!” Tim’s bright tone and appearance were surprising but more surprising was the container of soup in his hands. “Followed Martin’s instructions, boss. Lemme know what you think.” Jon wasn’t even sure what expression he threw towards the man holding out the fresh tea but he was certain there was very real fear there and by the time he’d recovered Martin patted his hand and left him to lunch.

To be fair, Tim was a good cook.

Jon took a deep breath and cleared his throat to gain the attention of all three of his assistants.

“As we are all. Aware. I was ill recent--”

“You nearly died!”

“Nothing of the sort.” He waved a hand dismissively.

“That’s not what your doctor said!”

“My doctor shouldn’t have divulged anything.” He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I’m alright, now. I’m fine.” He looked at each of them individually. “This was a, a perfect storm, nothing more.” Jon understood that they were upset and didn't want to be around him. They didn't have to, to like him. “We should have spoken before, I should have. I know you’re angry with me.” This time he held up a stern hand to halt them. “And I may have no right to ask, but I need help if I’m to have a chance at doing this job. I. I chose you because.” Nerve lost, he glanced at his wingtip shoes, counted the worn scuff marks. Be a boss, Jonathan. “We worked well together. Before. And. I wanted to apologize.” Deep breath, a decisive nod. “I hope we can develop a positive working relationship moving forward.”

“Jon, Jon, no. Don’t apologize. This. This is our fault. I was upset and Tim and I we, we didn’t mean for it to go this far.”

“You couldn’t have known Elias was. Burying me.”

“We would have if we’d asked after you. If we’d given you the time of day. When the Big Boss came down to personally boot you out of the office you. You looked like hell. And then Martin said--” he had the sense to look sheepish when Jon glared at him.

“Is there no hope of keeping anyone’s confidence?”

“No, probably not. We were so worried.” Tim provided.

“And when we visited. All we did, Jon, you were so upset.” Everpresent, the shame colored his face.

“I. I don’t remember much.”

“Let us help.” Gingerly, Sasha touched his shoulder. “Properly this time.”

“A team!” Tim slung his arm over his other shoulder and gestured with a wide hand. Both of them were taking such pains to be careful with him and Jon wondered how much Martin had told them. “Like the old days, plus Marto here. Resident boss saver and tea maker.”

“Tim.” The ache in his chest lifted, lightened for the first time since he’d been handed this department.

“Come on, boss. Let us pamper you.”

“I will not!”

“It doesn’t look like you have much of a choice.” And Tim and Sasha embarrassed him further with a gentle hug.

“Martin’s right, Jon. You really don’t.”

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