#elias deserves so much worse (peter) | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

archeyeved · 1 year ago

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silence , it stretched on it wrapped around the archivist like a chill . uncomfortable and heavy simply because of the subject . the more jon was left alone with his thoughts the more outraged he began , due to his own actions . how could he ? how could he have forced martin through the flames just for petty revenge ? fingers curl tightly into a fist at his side . but the anger hot and prickly for jude perry AGAINST jude perry was galling . at his weakest point that creature was there to make sure he felt it . how powerless how stupid how useless he was .

the pull back was quick, hands go up once more palms out . a gesture known to calm though at this point in time it was clearly having the opposite affect . reactive anger was felt and it was far worse than the heat of the flames licking flesh . biting at it . teeth grit and it was deserved of course , such venom . " martin .. " voice was low , almost whispered . tone held some strength , a warning ? no not quite but now was not the time to argue . this place was .. it was poison . they had to leave , certainly . ( or was that an excuse , oh he didn't want to discuss this not here not now not ever )

eyes avert as the other yelled though hands remain up . the hollow gesture accompanied by another apology , meek on the tongue because how many times could he say it ? it tasted wrong on his own tongue at this point . " there's a lot you're going to hate doing here martin we are in literal… hell…" the last two words spoken with an incredibly fine point , ready to pierce the other . " we are going to do things that make us uncomfortable , it's going to be painful . there are going to be hard choices ! " a weak argument , selfish . incredibly so but jon felt backed into a corner .

a part of him , the monster salivated at that fear the other provided . the anger and unrest and jon the human fought it down . no , not with martin . this thing would not feed !! off of martin in their most private moments . disgusting . he would respect the wishes of his partner never to SEE inside , never to look but by god now he had never felt such a pull to do so . to see what was wrong , demand a statement from martin and devour his words and feelings and resentment and helplessnes and sadness . perhaps in a way to rid him of all of that but he knew , jon knew that wasn't how it worked . it was a terrible thing .

all of that inner turmoil had stalled as heart seized in his chest and breathing practically stopped . " you're not .. " throat had practically closed as mouth dried up . " jesus martin you aren't worth less than her . " what he wanted to say perched upon tongue , at the very tip . i revolve around you . you give me life and i could not continue without you . i do love you . i selfishly love you . i would fight the world for you . i will fight the world for you .

" i won't put you through that again , alright ? " was all the archivist managed , emotions stunted , what words wanted to come forward were choked back down . " i .. i know it's too late now . if i could go back i .. " words caught on a tongue turned to sandpaper at this point . if he could go back he would have done the same thing , would have savored her death even more . this hatred held for her was intense . such vitriol for such a minor player in a large complicated game . much as he himself was the target of the rest of the team instead of elias . out of reach elias . most everyone had turned on him and why wouldn't they ? but martin hadn't , had he .

" i'm sorry . " again an apology . " i wasn't thinking , not about you . i wanted her to die and i chose .. " a trembling exhale of breath . " i chose her over you . it won't happen again , i won't let it . i've just .. " he glanced down at his own two hands . " i had .. i have all this power . i wanted to do SOMETHING . i wanted to destroy her as i did with peter lukas . it didn't make things better , it just made things worse between you and i . " eyes close briefly . " tell me about your scars . " there was the briefest of pause , once more fighting that irrepressible urge to demand it . " please ? " the word spoken softly under breath . desperate to compel out of instinct at this point , he did not . he wanted martin to tell his story on his own terms , as hungry as he may be for the information .

archeyeved: " i had to ! i had to do it , martin ! " voice lifted if only for a brief moment , anger rose it colored cheeks and flooded the archivist with warmth . " i've felt helpless ever since this all started ! they tortured me , kidnapped me , kept me in the dark i didn't … i didn't know what was happening they strung me along . " jon felt breath hitch as eyes glittered , staring at his partner . " she deserved it . " the severity of those last few words were spat from sharp tongue . and it was because he was so unsure , did he do the right thing ? what was the right thing anymore . at this point , he was trying to convince himself . a flinch as if physically struck . and there it was , really . martin was of course correct and it brought back the insecurity felt by his choice . martin was not protected , they could have gone another way and because of this fork in the road his partner was hurt . physically , emotionally . and he had every right to be . none of the excuses justified what was done . and when martin asked him to stop , he did . he grew quiet for the time being . they needed to move , the air was still thick with smoke . every breath was becoming uncomfortable but first he wanted to see the wound . after a few hesitant moments , martin held out his forearm . with a sigh , sounding exasperated he chided he other with a curt martin . and managed to reach out grasping his hand , gently moving it further up exposing the skin there . and the scarring that had clearly healed over years previous . a quick intake of breath as gaze shifts upward to look martin in the eye . " martin i… what is this ? " a bit breathless , chest tightened because now , even without the knowing . even though the information tickled along the back of his neck whispering effortlessly into his ear use me use me use me jon knew . recalling the reaction given to going through fire of course ! of course it was terrifying but martin had a fantastical reaction didn't he ? and wasn't his mother .. the information was there , the rest of it but he didn't look despite the desperation to do so. he just ..he knew . " oh god martin i'm so sorry . " the apology was strangled . " i didn't know , i never .. i didn't put it together - you told me not to use the beholding and i didn't . i won't . i just .. i should have known . "

it's strange, how something like the archivist losing his temper could actually serve to make martin feel less emotional himself. but jon is always so unflappable that it's almost a comfort to see him react at all, and for a moment ...martin's hurt and frustration and fear ebb to give way for at least some understanding. jude perry hadn't used him; not really. not for anything more than a moment of cruel amusement. she hadn't known about elias' grand scheme - she'd been the same as any of them, really: just another cog in his apocalypse machine. ...but she'd hurt jon when he'd felt his most powerless, when he'd been pleading for answers from entities that would have been just as happy to see him dead as anything else. of course he'd wanted to hurt her back, now that he finally had the power to do so.

...but if he needed to hurt martin in order to do it ...then was it really worth it to him?

what is this? the archivist asked in something that sounded like only the shadow of an actual breath, and martin immediately snatched his arm back as though it had been burned for a second or evidently third time. a tic settled into the blonde's jaw as it clenched, his other arm coming up to unconsciously cradle its scarred partner. he watched from behind a defensive expression as the other's all-seeing eyes worked, as his overflowing mind seemed to puzzle out the connections, and then -- I didn't know. and suddenly his defensiveness flares into something hotter and uglier.

" -- you shouldn't have had to!! " he bites back, perhaps somewhat unfairly. despite that, his words fly like artillery fire. " -- I shouldn't need to have some-some unshared trauma for you to listen to me when I tell you that I'm scared, jon! when I tell you that I hate something, or-or that I don't want to do something, that should be enough! if it's not something that we absolutely have to do, then that should be enough. "

his voice sounds strangled in his own throat, and martin can feel the hot threat of tears burning behind his eyes, so he casts them down and away from the archivist in a vie for some semblance of control. he's curled in on himself, feeling ...for the first time in nearly a year, like that self-same pathetic child groveling for the love of someone who was supposed to give it innately, to be able to care for him without conscious effort. and hating it more than he could possibly put into words. he attempted to swallow the lump quickly swelling up to fill his throat, but his voice sounded even more damnably weak when he tried again.

" ...it's not like I don't get why you felt like you needed it, jon. but if you had to choose between revenging yourself on her and sparing me ...all th-that. ...then was her death really worth it? ...or was it just that ...I-I'm worth so much less?" the last word was choked, like the noose of his emotions had finally slipped taut around his throat, and any further attempts at speech would only result in the garroting of his composure altogether.

#micah LMAO this got so long #its because i was working on it like throughout the night hahaha #you obviously dont have to match length I JUST KEPT ADDING TO IT BECAUSE MARTIN MADE ME SO SAD #tma

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the-kings-jester · 3 years ago

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this me can fit so much complex emotions about Lonelyeyes in it

#im trying to post more but all i can think about its tma #jonah didn't know he would die and i stand by that #jonah is not as thoughtful as he appears to be and i STAND by that #he doesn't plan everything to the letter like he says he does #THEY SUCK SO MUCH GRR #but like....#their marriages feed their respective entities #im just saying jonah magnus deserved so much worse and i think him realizing he truly loved Peter after hes gone would be neat #peter married him because elias was so self centered it felt like being alone. and also elias didn’t love him like he did elias #UGHFFHFBVDHF THIS PODCAST WILL KILL ME #theyre so horrendous #i dont know when jonah truly started loving him #but it fucking hurt after he died #all headcanon but GOD what a concept #all im saying is he should have gone through even more pain. and lonely eyes is perfect for that #the magnus archives #tmaposting #lonelyeyes

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ghostbustermelanieking · 4 years ago

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For the AU-Jon wakes up from his coma before Martin accepts Peter's offer?

1. Oliver Banks comes sooner. No one knows why it happens this way, but this is the way it happens, and it mostly goes the same. Georgie shows up, Oliver leaves, and Jon starts to breathe again. It all just happens earlier.

Basira doesn’t tell Martin right away, when Georgie shows up. He’s taken this whole thing so hard, and it might be nothing, it might be nothing at all. She resolves to call him as soon as they have more details—when she has a hold on the whole situation.

2. This happens only two days after Peter has made his offer. He gave Martin a few days to “think it over,” and Martin still hasn’t come to a clear decision. (He thinks that the decision should be obvious—should be—but he isn’t that brave, and he’s never been the hero, and the decision seems impossibly stupid at times, and what if—what if Jon wakes up?)

Peter’s offer is still sitting like a stone in his mind, and he’s halfway considering visiting Jon, for some grasp at clarity—or maybe an attempt to say goodbye—when Basira texts, tells him to come to the hospital. She doesn’t offer many more details besides that, and Martin is out of the Institute and in a cab before there is even time to consider what this might mean. He halfway wants to call Basira up and press for information. The thing that sticks in his mind—the thing he thinks it must be—is that Jon is dead. Jon has finally died, and Basira’s called him there to say goodbye—and that just makes him want to press Basira even more, to demand answers, because what if he’s heading to the hospital with even a glimmer of hope and it turns out to be the exact opposite…

(Or what if—what if he’s awake? What if he’s alive?)

Martin doesn’t let himself hope. Doesn’t know how to. He keeps going over the possibilities—He’s probably dead, or worse—keeps reapproaching Peter’s plan—If Jon’s dead, I’ll have to take it, it’s the least I can do for the others, what will I have keeping me here then… He goes straight to the hospital, and up to Jon’s floor—the nurses know him, and wave him on through—down the halls to Jon’s familiar room, to Jon’s door, all the while bracing himself for bad news.

3. Basira is waiting by the door, and she looks up when Martin comes down the hall. “What’s happened?” Martin snaps, immediately. “What’s going on? Is he—” His throat closes at the prospect of finishing that sentence; he can’t do it, can’t say it…

Basira’s expression is closed off enough that Martin can’t read it, can’t tell if it’s bad news. But then she says, “He’s awake,” and the force of it is like a gut punch, nearly bending Martin in half. His hand immediately shoots for the door, and Basira puts an arm out as if to stop him. “Martin. It isn’t what you think.”

“What is it, then?” Martin snaps, and he yanks the door open, the word pushing out of his mouth entirely of his own accord—”Jon…”

Jon is awake. Jon is sitting up in bed, with a crumpled statement in his lap, and a tape recorder running on the side table, and Martin can’t breathe. Jon looks almost exactly the same as he has for months now, except that he’s awake and alive and looking at Martin. “Martin?” he says—a lot of emotions crammed into this one word—and Martin doesn’t know what to say, can’t get past the reality of Jon actually saying his name.

“Martin, you’re… here,” Jon says, quietly, the statement crumpling in his hand. “I-I didn’t know if… you’re all right?”

Martin starts to cross the room slowly, to the chair he’s more or less grown accustomed to sitting in when he’s visited. He hasn’t said anything yet—hasn’t found the words—and Jon is still talking. “I wasn’t sure if… y-your plan, Elias, Basira hasn’t… hasn’t filled me in, and I… you’re all right? You aren’t hurt, are you? Martin?”

Martin shakes his head numbly as he sits. Looks down at the bed and almost reaches for Jon’s hand—a long running habit, this isn’t his first visit, they’ve become as routine as anything—but he stops himself. He doesn’t know if Jon would want that. Maybe Jon never would have wanted that.

“You, er,” Jon begins, stops. He takes a slow breath, and his voice sounds remarkably well put-together, even after months of disuse. “It’s, uh. It’s good to see you here, Martin.”

Martin chokes a little. “Jon?” he says—he isn’t sure he has the words for anything else—and he looks up, and Jon is looking back at him—something unreadable in his eyes, something almost like affection, maybe—and one of them, or maybe both of them, move before Martin even knows what is happening. Martin jerks forward, and so does Jon, and then they’re embracing, leaning over the bed, Jon’s fingers digging into Martin’s shoulders, Jon’s heart thudding in his chest—Martin can feel it now. And he doesn’t bother to stop himself from crying anymore. He just holds onto Jon—Jon, awake, Jon, alive, Jon's head on his shoulder—and keeps telling himself, over and over again, that it’s all okay, it can all be okay now.

4. Jon ends up staying with Martin. It makes sense—Jon doesn’t have a flat, and neither do the others—Basira and Melanie have been living in the Archives, and Georgie hasn’t said anything to either of them since the hospital (Martin has still never met her). But Martin still has a flat. And Jon deserves better than a cot, after months of hospital beds, so Martin offers to let him stay, and Jon agrees.

The marvel of it is too much—after months of quiet in the Archives, months of growing apart from Melanie and Basira, months of isolation and feeling lost, months of Jon being asleep… the reality of Jon standing in his kitchen, Jon drinking tea at his dining room table, is genuinely overwhelming. There’s a dozen things Martin wants to say without knowing if he should, a dozen things he wants to explain. Basira filled him in on most of the important things, but they haven’t gotten a chance to talk about any of them, and there’s even more things Martin wants to say, if he knew how to say them. He wants to talk to Jon about how much he’s missed Tim—how much of his mind has been stuck in the reality of that first year, when Tim was alive and Sasha was alive, and aside from Jon sort of hating him, everything mostly being all right. He wants to tell Jon about how much he’s missed him, when he was asleep—wants to say all the things he’s been able to say to Elias and a goddamn tape recorder, but not to Jon himself. He wants to tell Jon about his mum. He wants to tell Jon he visited every single week, sometimes two or three times. He wants to talk about how horrible this all has been, and what they do next, how they move on from this, because he genuinely does not know. He wants to talk about all of it.

He wants to tell Jon about Peter’s offer, and he wants Jon to tell him not to take it. Because a part of him still thinks he needs to take it. He thinks about Peter’s warnings, and his promises to keep them all safe. And yes, Jon is awake now, but shouldn’t that be even more reason to take it? To keep Jon safe, too, now that he’s awake and can be put in danger? And there’s still the others, in the same danger they would’ve been before, and they deserve to be safe, too—and Martin isn’t the hero by a long shot, but he wants to be, wants to do something more to make a difference besides lighting some fires while Tim and Jon went off to die. He wants to make the noble decision, even if it will be a thousand times harder with Jon here in front of him. But he also wants Jon to talk him out of it.

Martin doesn’t say any of this to Jon, because he can’t. Not with everything Jon’s been through—in a coma for months, how selfish can Martin be? He makes tea, and he sits at the kitchen table with Jon, and he answers Jon’s questions about what he’s missed, and he tries not to think about Peter’s offer. The urgency in his voice that was probably a lie. He keeps getting paranoid that Peter will see him sitting here with Jon (Peter is not Elias), and that Peter will insist that he can’t be doing this, that he’s breaking their agreement (except Martin never agreed), and then try to tell Martin that the deal is forfeit now, and it’s too late. And it’s absurd, because Martin doesn’t want to take the deal—except he’s scared about what not taking it might mean. Scared about how this will all end, scared that if he doesn’t take the deal that something will happen—and what if Jon (or Melanie, or Basira) die and it’s because of him, because he turned down this chance? Except that he was only going to take it because Jon wasn’t ever going to wake up, and now he’s here, and how can Martin leave now, after everything?

There is simultaneously too much and not enough to talk about, and Jon doesn’t seem to know how to initiate it either, so they talk about nothing. They end up on the couch, flipping through the television channels, and Jon asks some lighthearted questions about what he’s missed on TV shows Martin didn’t even know he watched. It’s easy enough to make that kind of small talk, over other kinds, and it’s enough to get them both laughing a little. They stay on the couch for a long time. (Martin halfway expects Jon to be tired, to need to get more sleep—and halfway decides to leave a couple of times, an attempt to give Jon space, before deciding in the other direction—but Jon never mentions needing sleep, and Martin guesses if he was sleeping for months on end, he probably wouldn’t be tired, either. So he stays on the couch with Jon.)

At some point, they do start talking: about Tim, about the missing months, about how hard everything has been. Martin doesn’t bring up the thing with Peter, not yet, but he talks about all the rest. (The tremor in Jon’s voice when he tells Martin he’s sorry about his mother is almost too much to take. There’s still a lot Martin hasn’t talked about yet.) Martin tries to find the balance—he doesn’t want to put too much onto Jon, with everything Jon’s been through, he can’t do that—but he’s honest, too. He says, I… I missed you, Jon. We all did—but I… He says, It’s been… bad. Hard. While you’ve been gone, and he tries not to think about how often Jon was gone, before the Unknowing; how far Jon pulled away after Prentiss. They had time—limited time—between America and the Unknowing, but then Jon was asleep, and now—if Martin takes Peter’s deal; if Jon has to leave again…

Jon takes a sharp breath. The room is dark, and Martin isn’t looking at him, but he feels it when Jon, tentatively, takes his hand. (Like a dozen nights in his hospital room except Jon’s awake and his hand is warm, his pulse beating against Martin’s thumb, and Jon initiated it, and it’s all okay now.) “Well,” says Jon, uncertain and reassuring all at once, somehow. “I’m… I’m here now. And I don’t know how much help I’ll really be, with… everything. But Martin, I promise… I-I’m not going anywhere. Not anytime soon.”

5. And Martin decides, in that moment, and in the moments after, and in the email he writes out the next morning, in frank, firm language. He decides then. Jon is back, and there has to be another way out, a way that they can figure it out together. So Martin doesn’t take Peter’s deal.

(send me an au and i'll give you 5+ headcanons)

#i sort of hate this but!! here it is #tma au #tma fic #i wrote this

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naiive-and-starry-eyed · 2 years ago

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For the duo thing: Mergwaine, LonelyEyes, Akaza & Rengoku (is that the right guy?), Ciel & Finny, and Rohan & Koichi 💕

Thank you for the ask bestie!!!! And yes that is the right guy ❤️

Okay okay here we go

I love Mergwaine so much! @zounds-a-blog and I were on top of this one when we watched it together 😤 it's a great ship and I think the fandom is blinded by merthur that they don't consider a lot of other ships for Merlin, which is a shame since this one is so good!! I say it's better in fics just because we don't get to see Gwaine a whole lot with Merlin on the show, so it's fun to see the Situations they go through in fic. Especially give me ones where Gwaine goes off on Arthur for not appreciating Merlin ESPECIALLY cause he knows about Merlin's magic *chefs kiss*. They work whether it's a besties ship or romantic ship, they have the range

This is THE ship baybee!!! It's the template for they can make each other worse and I love to see it ❤️ the comedy is incredible but also the angst factor is so very good because what if Elias actually starts to care about Peter but haha whoops Peter is a Lonely avatar but can't love! Or can he 🤔 They really are JonMartin but make it evil and I absolutely love that for them. They definitely have a cat that they have shared custody of and it transfers between divorces. The cat is evil too btw. The ship makes me lose it and I'm vibing at all times

*chews concrete* THEM okay so the first I watched the train arc with my bestie it was like 3 am and I was kind of tapping out but going back and rewatching the two of them and also seeing posts and consuming fic, this pairing is prob second to lonelyeyes for me. They're so good, the angst is SO easy to write and think abt and I love them your honor. Wasted potential cause if Kyojuro would have become a demon (either willingly or even better UNWILLINGLY) we would have had it all. These two bother each other so much and Akaza is a huge simp who falls in love at first sight and doesn't know how to express his feelings so kills the person he loves sent tweet

I love these two so much!! ❤️ I've never considered them as a ship, but I can def see them being platonic! They both have Gone Through It ™ but Finny has kept his childish whimsy and zest for life that Ciel desperately needs, so this is a case of where they can fix each other!! Rn I think the dynamic is a bit weird since Finny is Ciel's servant, but with current events (spoilers to all not caught up) revealing Ciel is actually fake Ciel and stole his twins identity, and everyone therefore being on the run, traditional barriers can break down and they can become besties. On God Ciel needs more friends 😭

Rohan is MY personal bestie and fav character so unfortunately for Koichi this means Rohan is aroace and therefore not dating anyone <3 But they can def be besties and I love that for them! I do like their friendship that we've gotten to see so far; shoutout to Koichi for being willing to move past Rohan attacking and nearly killing him when they first met all so he could sell more books lmaoo. I do think Rohan can make Koichi more unhinged and make him worse which I think is good for him, king deserves to go apeshit on someone he's too nice

#joy speaks #thank you for the ask bestie!!!#merlin #mergwaine #demon slayer #black butler #jojo bizarre adventure #i was long winded with this answer but too bad you all get to hear my opinions ❤️#lonelyeyes #magnus archives #there we go got em all

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ech0-1409 · 4 years ago

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tma re-listen thoughts cont.

- hive is still so disturbing and jon's reading makes it so much worse (in a great way)

- i remember when i first listened to boatswain's call n was like what the actual fuck. but hearing peter lukas' name makes much more sense, although i cant stop imagining him in a sailor hat jsksks.

- Tim sounds so happy in s1 it breaks my heart, he sounds like a lil puppy.

- him and jon have that kinda "someone will die" "of fun!" dynamic in s1 n i love it.

- the va for anatomy class is absolutely fucking amazing. like legit some of the best va ive ever heard.

- the way jon says "tooth apple" in anatomy class is absolutely sending me ksksks.

- im so emo over gerry keay who took all his inherited knowledge and decided to help people and do some good. hes saved so many lives and aside from the magnus institute people dont know :(

- gerry 100% should've been allowed to fight jurgen leitner as a treat. its what he deserves.

- jurgen leitner is not only a rich pissbaby whose only talent is shopping, hes a karen who yells at people just trying to do their job.

- in old passages the 14 (13 ?) tunnels of the star are for the 14 fears *SCREAMS*

- burnt offering rlly hits different when u realise it was gertrude's ritual site. poor jason north :(

- fuck the homophobic vase, all my homies hate the homophobic vase.

- "I've been using them to record myself. i write poetry and the tapes provide a sort of low-fi charm." "...' "I see" JSKKSKS. tma is a workplace comedy actually.

- god poor sasha, we really knew nothing abt her im so emo :(

- timsasha dynamic im sobbing!! sasha tackles tim, tim tells her to go get help, they rlly saved each other huh🥺

- martin apologising for leaving jon and tim, god my poor lil bean :(

- im sort of assuming the gun used on gertrude was a pistol but like... how would you even access one in the uk??? like hunting rifles MAYBE but a pistol ???? wild. elias is on some black market shit n i love it jskdkkd.

#tma #the magnus archives #tma s1 spoilers #jonathan sims #tim stoker #gerard keay #sasha james #martin blackwood

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overdramatic-queer-antagonist · 4 years ago

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Stop The Apocalypse Out Of Spite

I kept seeing these Martin gets raised by Lonelyeyes fics and thinking ‘this is way to healthy’ so here’s Lonelyeyes son Martin being an uncooperative bastard like he deserves.

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Ao3 Next

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fic under cut

Martin is a nice man. Really, he is. He helps old ladies cross the street, volunteers at the local animal shelter, and all that jazz. People expect his parents to be equally polite, retired probably, with a home with a beautiful garden somewhere in the suburbs. This was not the case. Let's just say finding out that his parents were two billionaires who argued for sport was a top tier relationship ender. And yet, Martin's failed relationships didn't come even close to why he resented Elias and Peter.

To start with, they were plain evil. Not abusive. Like, supervillain, "eat this poison apple" type people. Also, there was the arguing thing. They had this weird game. They would fight, divorce, Peter would fuck off on the Tundra, and then remarry, rinse and repeat. He, honest to God, didn't care about their weird kink if they didn't so clearly want him to participate. When he had first moved in, he tried to stay in his room as much as possible. Not seen, not heard, that's what had worked with his mum. But they weren't having any of that, and pretty soon, he was a part of their little game. Then there was the whole thinking money equates to love, although he felt kind of guilty about that one. At least he had money. But the worst thing by far was Elias's insistence that Martin work for The Institute.

He had only really done it to shut Elias up, of course. He was planning on quitting the next week. Saying, "he tried, but he doesn't think it's for him. Plus, he feels so bad knowing that he has a leg up on all his coworkers." And all that bullshit that Martin and Elias both know was posturing. But he went up to Elias's office to resign only to find that he couldn't. Not like Martin discovered that he really loved the job, he was hired as Elias's assistant and did absolutely nothing all day, but he literally couldn't. Elias, of course, was smirking triumphantly at Martin when he found himself tongue-tied. That was the one time he called Elias Jonah. Never again. The pride on his face was immeasurable.

There were some alright things about them, though. Martin never had to worry about money, and they would usually leave him alone, probably The Lonley's doing, but whether it was Peter or himself doing it was a mystery to Martin. His job at the institute wasn't the worst. The pay was ridiculously high (another thing Martin hated: nepotism), and it was clear that Elias had only hired him to gloat. He didn't actually care what Martin did during his day.

Well, that's not entirely true. There was one thing Elias truly despised him doing. Elias couldn't stand him hanging around the Archives. Ergo, that became Martin's new favorite spot. He didn't like the first Archivist, Gertrude. She always seemed like she couldn't decide if he was an idiot or a spy. She never once seemed to consider that he might actually be able to help stop Elias. She was doing a great job pissing of Elias, though, so he stuck around. And then she disappeared. Elias was the culprit, no doubt, and he had a pretty good idea of where her body was. He didn't care about that rude old lady nearly enough to even consider going down there to look, though.

He liked her replacement. Jonathan Sims. He was ignorant, for one, which was refreshing. The less Jon knew the less his glares stung. He knew nothing about what was actually going on, so there was no actual malice in them. It was cute. Jon also had a very entertaining habit of forgetting that Martin was Elias's son. Whenever he was relaxed enough or drunk enough (thanks, Tim), Jon would rant about how much he hated Elias. Martin found this cute too. Maybe he just thought Jon was cute. Usually, Jon would pause suddenly, realizing who he was talking to, no doubt, and prepare an apology of some sort before being interrupted by Martin complaining about Elias more than he had. Martin would bring tea to Jon and his assistants, Tim and Sasha, and pretend for a second that they were safe. He liked it.

Then Prentiss attacked. He was worried all day, hilariously enough, not about Prentiss. That would be pretty simple to stop, and even Elias would be sure to try and prevent it from actually killing anyone. No, it was that fucking table. He wasn't stupid. He listened to every tape. He knew (not Knew he took a lot of pride in that) that the NotThem was connected to it. Jon and Tim had each other, but Sasha was all alone or worse, with Elias. So he managed to 'get separated' from Tim and Jon and hurried to Artifact Storage.

Just as he'd expected, there was Sasha, face to face with the NotThem, paralyzed. He may have panicked a little bit, but he liked Sasha. So he did what he had to. He grabbed her and dragged her into the Lonely.

Which brings him to now. In the Lonely, praying he can anchor Sasha enough, with Sasha standing in front of him, snapping out of her daze.

"Oh my God, Martin!" she said, rushing to hug him and sounding relieved, "Thank you! Thank-" She stiffened. Here it comes. Martin thought. "Martin?"

"Yes, Sasha?" He heard himself respond shakily.

"What are you?" Sasha asked calmly and, to Martin's relief, not letting go.

Martin laughed nervously, "Well, I'm Polish on my mother's side."

Sasha smacked his arm, "You know what I meant."

"... I'm gay? You already know that, Sash-"

"Oh, my God! Stop deflecting. I'm literally begging you!" She laughed, pushing off of him.

"If I had an answer, I'd tell you, Sash." He answered, honestly, "But if you're asking if I'm still human? Yes, I guess."

"Great. Can you get us out?"

"Oh, sure. Any suggestions?"

"Can you get us to Tim and Jon?"

Martin paused, "Maybe? I don't really know where they are. I don't serve the Beholding. They're in the tunnels, though. So I'll try, but I can't make any promises."

Sasha blinked, "I understood half of that."

Martin laughed and held out his hand for Sasha to take, "Yeah. We have lots to talk about."

Sasha took it, and Martin took a deep breath. Focusing on the sense of belonging he felt in the Archives (cliche, he knows, not his fault his patron is a sucker for the power of love), and pulled himself and Sasha out. They did not find themselves with Tim and Jon. They did, however, find themselves in the tunnels, staring at the year-old corpse of Gertrude Robinson with three bullets in her chest and a sickening lack of eyes. They both screamed and ran out of the room as fast as possible. They ran fast, not bothering to look behind them and not even noticing the lack of worms, only stopping to breathe when they flew out of the trapdoor into the Archives.

Sasha was the first to speak, panting with both fear and exhaustion, "Was that?"

"Yes," Martin responded, trembling quite a bit himself.

"Do you know who?"

"Who else? Elias."

#the magnus archives #tma #tma fic #fanfic #tma martin #tma elias #martin blackwood #elias bouchard #Sasha’s in it but it’s not really a fic about her and I ain’t about to Sasha bait #lonelyeyes #jonmartin #lonely!martin #I stg if I decide to make this a full thing (probably not I’m not good at commitment) there will be timsasha cuz it’s me #tw swearing #tw abuse ment #the word kink is written #this is all just a little passive agressive so if that’s something that will upset you take care of yourself

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wenttworth · 5 years ago

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People who think the Scottish cottage only has one bed forget the inherent romanticism of choosing to share a bed.

Jon couldn’t sleep.

This, in and of itself, wasn’t strange. He often had bouts of what could-almost-but-not-quite be called insomnia. And everything that had happened today, the fog of the lonely which was still somewhere in the corners of his mind, it was no wonder.

But that wasn’t what was keeping his mind buzzing and skittering down endless pathways.

He sat up, ran a hand through his hair—God it was getting long, he’d have to do something about that—and glowered at the other side of the bed. It was empty, unfortunately. It was a double, easily big enough for Martin and him. As was the bed Martin was currently in, when he’d caught sight of it through the cracked door.

It was stupid really, a streak of almost high school embarrassment, stumbling through a goodnight and hoping Martin would suggest they ignore the other bed and just share, only realising once they had two doors and an entire hallway between them that Martin had been anxiously awaiting the same from him.

This thing between them, still nameless and small and fluttering, Jon was terrified for it. He knew his own love for Martin wouldn’t fade, but he’d found with Georgie that love alone wasn’t enough to stop the sourness creeping in.

They shouldn’t be apart. Martin had been alone for far too long, months and months of being taunted and fed on by Peter Lukas. His conversation with Jon was still a little more stilted than before, as if he’d lost the habit of talking freely.

But still, the thought of actually getting up, walking those few steps. Weirdly terrifying. Martin loved him, he’d known that for a few months even before his coma, but there was still a chance he would reject Jon, a part that was still urging him to return to the embrace of the Lonely.

The swooping pit of anticipation in his stomach was just a little too strong to be pleasant. Had he ever felt like this? With Georgie it had been pretty simple. The short list of boyfriends and girlfriends at uni—if they could even be called that—as well. But he’d never cared quite so much as he did right now, at the edge of a precipice and still unsure whether it was safe to throw himself off. What if Martin wasn’t waiting at the bottom?

He pushed back a groan, still staring between the empty space in the bed and the door, ignored the nervousness trilling through his nerves, got up to open the door in a sudden flash of bravery that he wasn’t going to let pass.

He almost yelped out loud when the door opened to reveal Martin, his hand raised to knock. They stared at each other for a short moment before Martin smiled sheepishly. “Couldn’t sleep,” he said.

He was an idiot. Of course Martin would want to be with him tonight of all nights. They’d both spent all those months alone and apart, Martin’s desperation when he’d grabbed Jon’s hand and refused to let go on the long train ride here had been evident even without dipping into his powers. Martin wasn’t an open book, far from it as he’d only recently realised, but he didn’t hide everything.

The anticipation in the pit of his stomach was warm now, a pleasant warmth. Everything was going to be okay.

“Kiss me,” he blurted out, and Martin’s cheeks coloured a dark red.

“Wh—Really?”

Even on his tiptoes, Jon wasn’t quite tall enough to kiss Martin of his own volition. He’d always need a complimentary duck of the head from Martin to succeed, and thankfully Martin figured that out around the same time as Jon did, and crashed their lips together much more clumsily than Jon was expecting, pulling a short laugh from Jon’s throat.

Martin’s hands went immediately to his hair as he kicked the door shut and Jon focused on pulling Martin back to the bed. He was just warm now, warm and no longer alone. Hopefully never alone again.

There was a brief pause as Jon managed to push Martin to sit on the edge of the bed so he could climb onto his lap. Martin’s hands went back to his hair, playing with the lengths, twisting the loose curls around his fingers. Ah, maybe he wouldn’t cut it, if Martin was so obviously enamoured by it. He smiled against Martin’s lips.

“What?” Martin whispered against his lips.

Jon pulled back a centimetre. “Do you like it this length?” he asked, pulling a strand from Martin’s fingers. He tugged at it and let it fall. It just reached the top of his shoulder blades now, though when he pulled it straight it only just cleared them.

“I like it any length,” Martin said, simple and honest.

Jon swallowed against the lump forming in his throat. He could almost feel the love and affection rolling off him; how had there ever been a time he hadn’t seen Martin’s devotion. Or, worse, believe that it was a front for something much darker.

He didn’t deserve this man. The realisation hit him like a punch to the gut. Martin had always believed in him and supported him, either outwardly or from the shadows, had always treated him with a devotion that Jon had responded to with derision. And yet, they were still here. For now.

Jon pressed into another kiss, savouring how carefully Martin held him, how tentatively he deepened it, the groan Jon managed to coax from him with a particular movement of his tongue.

Martin shifted to start kissing the small scars that littered his neck, the bigger slash on his throat so deliberately that Jon wondered how long he’d thought about doing it.

He froze a little when Martin started to harden under him. It shouldn’t have been a surprise, really, with how Martin was kissing him. Sex was…okay. Sometimes. But definitely not right now. Kissing was good. Better than good. He waited for Martin to start insistently pulling at his clothes, when he’d have to decide if he should just lie there and let it happen or risk Martin reacting how…well, how people usually reacted.

It didn’t happen, though. Martin kissed him again, pulling him closer but nothing else. He didn’t try to get his hands under Jon’s clothes, didn’t try to rock into him. His hands stayed resolutely above Jon’s waist.

After a minute of Martin still hard under him, with no indication that he was going to do anything about it, or that he even noticed, curiosity got the better of Jon and he pulled away. “Are you okay?”

“Am I…? Yes? Why wouldn’t I be?” He sounded genuinely confused. Maybe he just liked really long foreplay?

Jon looked down pointedly, and Martin followed his gaze. “Did you want to…?” he trailed off, not able to finish the question.

“Did you?” Martin turned the question back on him.

Jon’s answer stuck in his throat. “I… not right now,” he said diplomatically.

Martin didn’t seem convinced, quiet as he stroked the arch of his cheek. “Maybe never,” Jon admitted, bracing against the rejection.

“Okay,” Martin said.

“Okay? But you’re… you’re hard.”

Martin laughed. “So are you, Jon.”

“Oh,” Jon said, mildly embarrassed as he checked.

“It’s not like I…miss sex or anything if I’m not having it,” he continued. “And anyway, tonight is not the right time even if you did want to.”

Jon chewed the inside of his lip. It wouldn’t take long for Elias—Jonah—to find them, frankly. Or any other of the entities that didn’t much care that he and Martin wanted a quiet life away from the monsters that should have just stayed in human imagination. He could already feel the vague hunger of the eye pushing him to discover, to pull all of Martin’s secrets from him by force. Vague memories were already spilling from the edges of Martin’s mind, and it only made him want more. Martin had so much to him, not just his experiences with the supernatural but his kindness and intelligence and determination, his desperation for love, the intense loneliness that had coloured his entire life. It would be so satisfying. “You’re right,” he said quietly, cutting off any connection between their minds he’d tried to forge on reflex.

Martin kissed the corner of his mouth, so gently and devotedly that Jon shivered. “I love you,” he said. Because it was true. Because he meant it now more than any other time he’d said it.

Martin stared at him, eyes wide and bright in the darkness. They’d forgotten to turn off the hallway light, and the warm yellow was reflecting off the brown of his eyes. “I love you, too,” he answered.

Jon couldn’t resist, then, to press their lips together again, in his exuberance pushing Martin so he was lying flat against the bed. His hands were trembling as he carded them through Jon’s hair—he definitely wasn’t cutting it—from where it had fallen like a curtain around them.

He managed to keep it up for a few more seconds, before a wave of tiredness hit him, and he had to pull away to hide a yawn against Martin’s shoulder. It didn’t work, as Martin laughed at him and poked his cheek. “Bed?” he asked.

Frankly, Jon was content to stay how he was, lying atop Martin, Martin’s strong arms around him, fingers defyingly gentle against his scalp. He melted against his softness, the steady beating of his heart. “We’re in bed,” he insisted.

“Blanket, then,” he amended.

It took a while for Jon to pull himself away the time it took to rearrange themselves more comfortably, but finally he was back against Martin’s chest, letting sleep overtake him.

AND THEN THEY LIVED HAPPILY EVER AFTER MKAY

#jonmartin #the magnus archives #martin blackwood #jonathan sims #my writing #they're stumbling through forging a relationship but they'll be ok #annddd read more doesnt work of course #this is a functional website #apparently #ok fixed fhdsjkaj

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voiceless-terror · 4 years ago

Note

Omg prompts! Could you do a" hug after not seeing someone for a long time" for jonmartin please?

Here you go! I couldn’t pick just one hug, so I gave you three. Hope you like!

Martin had been recording statements for weeks now.

It never got any better, somehow. Each one sent him spiraling into a pit of horror and he was getting less and less sleep. He’d never liked researching them to begin with, but this was so much worse. Was this how Jon felt every time he recorded? No wonder he was always so tired and snippy.

Jon. He hadn’t been back to the archives in a month now. Not that he’d been around before; after finally clearing his name, he seemed to be forever gallivanting around the country, coming back with more and more worrisome injuries. And then, nothing. Radio silence for a month. Elias would have told them if something was really wrong, right? He wouldn’t let Jon die. Grievous bodily harm on the clock, sure. But dying…

Nothing was out of the realm of possibility. Now that they were trying to ‘save the world’ or whatever. Tim had thrown himself into his work on the circus and was frankly awful to be around. Melanie and Basira were alright, but not necessarily friendly. Daisy was gone more often than not, thank god. But work used to be his place to escape, no matter how awful it got. Back when it was him and Tim and Jon and Sasha...Sasha. Best not to think about her. It made Martin’s head hurt and chest ache.

Now he worked at a nightmare factory and he came home to another one. His mother was getting worse and worse by the day, vacillating between pure hatred and mild irritation even in her most lucid moments. Martin didn’t know how much more of this he could take.

He stared at the piece of paper in his hand. I don’t think I can do another one of these. Should’ve gone to lunch with the others.

The door to the archives creaked open and he looked up, hoping to find Melanie or even Tim in a good mood. He got neither. Standing in the doorway was Jon- tired and sad and thinner than ever Jon, but still Jon. Before he could think it through he was on his feet, making his way across the room and pulling his boss into his arms.

And Jon felt so small in his arms, like if he squeezed too hard he could break him. He didn’t smell too pleasant either- a mixture of dirty clothes worn for far too long and an odd flowery scent, like perfumed lotion. It was strange, it wasn’t Jon.

Jon. His boss. Who was currently frozen and tense in his embrace. It was then he registered what he’d just done and turned red in embarrassment, starting to pull away and apologize-

But then Jon relaxed bonelessly, leaning against his body like it was the only thing holding him up. Perhaps it was. He wound his arms around Martin’s waist and buried his head in his sweater. He felt like he was shaking.

“Martin,” he whispered. He has never heard his name said with such relief, loaded with such sentiment. It was a poem in a single word that Martin will write when he puts pen to paper.

For now he holds Jon and says nothing. He’s home, and that’s all that matters.

_________

He needs to find Martin.

Martin, who supposedly was at his side through much of his six month coma. Martin, who’s lost his mother.

Martin, the last assistant standing from his turn as Archivist. Perhaps he was more like Gertrude than he thought.

Basira tells him that he’s run off, that he works for Peter Lukas now and doesn’t have time for them. But that isn’t right. Martin has always made time for Jon, even when he didn’t deserve it. Jon thinks that was more often than not. Tim would’ve agreed.

Tim. Best not to think about him. It made his head hurt and his chest ache. He’s lost so much in these last few months, but Martin’s lost more. He knows what it feels like to be utterly alone. God, why had he spent so much time wandering that hellish dreamscape? Why couldn’t he have woken up when Martin was by his side? Why did it take a stranger, a spider to pull him from his dreams?

Georgie left. She’d spent six months at his side, but waking up was somehow the last straw for her in terms of supernatural miracles. Jon thinks she would have liked him better if he never woke up. Stayed in her dreams, haunting her in silence.

But Martin wasn’t in his dreams. Martin was here and real and somewhere in this institute if only he could find him. Why was this so hard? He used to practically trip over the man. Was he avoiding him? Certainly seemed so. Jon couldn’t do anything right, not even a coma, it seemed.

He waded deeper and deeper into Document Storage. Martin was here, he could sense it. If only there wasn’t so much damn fog-

“Oof-” came the noise from the blockade he’d run into. Jon turned to snap a brisk apology when he saw that it was the man he’d been searching for. Tired and diminished somehow, but still- Martin.

“Martin!” he burst out. Happy, tentative, hopeful. Before he knew it he was throwing his arms around the man and burying his face in his sweater. The man felt brittle- cold when he used to be so warm. Smelling of salt and sea and something not right. He squeezed tighter, as if to ward off the scent.

It was then he noticed that Martin wasn’t hugging him back. He was awkward and tense and cold, so cold. Jon starts to take his arms back and meet his eyes to ask what’s wrong when Martin finally reciprocates, his touch light and tentative but still there.

It doesn’t feel right, but it doesn’t feel wrong either. Jon feels like something has broken in his hand and he doesn’t know how to put it back together.

But he holds on anyway. Martin’s here, and that’s all that matters.

____________

They are waiting for a train.

It will take them far from the institute, far from the chaos and the bodies they’ve left in their wake. Basira promises to call. They don’t talk about Daisy, or not!Sasha or the hunters or Jonah. There will be time for talking when they stop running. And they’re still running.

Martin has not let go of Jon’s hand since he led him out of the Lonely. Since he watched Peter Lukas die, torn apart at Jon’s insistent questioning. He felt nothing at all when it happened. He still doesn’t feel much, but the warmth of Jon’s hand in his is starting to register. The hesitant, broken smiles the man keeps giving. He wants to make them whole again.

So he turns to Jon, and he smiles back. The action feels foreign, but it is genuine. Jon’s eyes light up and he gazes at Martin like the sun rises and sets with him.

“Martin,” Jon says, and in it Martin can hear years of unspoken words and feelings. It is grief but it is happiness. What they’ve lost and what they’ve now found. What they’re heading towards.

Martin pulls him close to his chest and squeezes. Jon’s reaction is instantaneous and his arms say I love you as they wind around his waist. He smells right- like ink and tea stains and cigarettes and shampoo. He wants to wake up to that smell every morning. Wants to learn every little thing he can about the man in his arms.

But for now he just holds on. They are together, and that’s all that matters.

#asks #prompts #my writing #tma #jonathan sims #martin blackwood #promptingyou

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ollieofthebeholder · 4 years ago

Text

Lovely, Dark, and Deep: A TMA Fanfic (Whumptober 2020)

Also on AO3. S5 spoilers - this is Episode 170 from Jon’s POV.

No.8: Isolation

“I think we’re almost out,” Jon said, glancing around him. It was hard to tell for sure by the appearance of the realms—that was the point of them, after all, to seem infinite—but the sense that had guided them thus far told Jon they didn’t have much farther to go. “It’s amazing. I haven’t felt that need to make a statement about this one. I wonder if it’s because there’s no avatar here? Or at least because I took one out prior to...all of this?”

He glanced over his shoulder to solicit Martin’s thoughts on the matter and felt his blood run ice cold.

Martin wasn’t there.

“Martin?” he called sharply, stopping and turning around. There were dozens—hundreds—of people around him, all of them fading through various shades of grey, all of them seeming to ignore one another, and all of them looking lost and bewildered and upset. But nowhere in the room could Jon see the tall, broad-shouldered teddy bear of a man who should have been following him.

He paused for a moment, closed his eyes, and took a few deep, slow breaths. He knew what Martin looked like, of course he did. He held the image in his mind for a second: the mop of curly hair now streaked with white, the round glasses, the jumper he favored particularly because Jon had once offhandedly complimented it (and then spent the next several hours hiding in his office panicking that he’d said too much). The vibrant colors that made up the man. He even flipped through several possible facial expressions he could be making—exasperation at Jon’s pace or forced politeness at wading through people who didn’t notice him or (hopefully) mild panic. Dismissing that as an unimportant detail, he opened his eyes and looked around.

Nothing.

“Martin!” Jon called again. No response. There was nothing for it; he’d have to retrace his steps. Hopefully Martin had had the sense to stay put wherever he was when they got separated—how had they gotten separated? Martin had been right behind him the whole time, when he wasn’t right beside him. A crowd must have pushed between them. Jon must have just been going too fast to notice. That had to be it. It had to have been a crowd. He’d find Martin in one of the rooms, sitting on one of the probably-uncomfortable chairs, waiting for Jon to come back.

He wouldn’t have kept moving, Jon told himself as he started back the way he’d come, looking frantically around him. He’d have stayed. If he didn’t know where Jon had gone, he’d have stayed in the last room he was in, waiting for him, and Jon could just...retrace the route. Simple.

The problem with this place was that every room was exactly like every other room. Indistinguishable, unremarkable, impersonal. Short of marking the walls, there was no way to be absolutely certain what rooms he’d passed through and what rooms he hadn’t. And the route he Knew, he realized as he started backwards, was the route forward. They’d committed to this course, to heading to London and the Panopticon and the Eye and Elias, and he Knew where they were going. He didn’t Know where they’d been, except in the vaguest and most general of senses. They’d been through six nightmare realms so far, this being the seventh. But he couldn’t say for certain where exactly they’d been. This place was deliberately meant to be obfuscating, to keep you in a perpetual state of...not confusion, that was the Spiral’s bailiwick, but...

Isolation, his brain supplied helpfully, and Jon cursed at it. He did not need the reminder of which domain they were in. Which domain he’d thought, mercifully, he would escape without the need to make a statement about it. He did not want to think about this domain, this entity, at all. There was nothing, no one, here for him to take revenge on—he’d already done that—but, God, did he want to tear this house to pieces, brick by brick. He wanted to grab each person he passed by the shoulders and say I see you, I know you, there are others here, you are not alone—but he couldn’t. He couldn’t interfere in another entity’s domain, couldn’t free any of these people from their nightmares.

Couldn’t...oh, God. Isolation. Nightmares. Martin.

“Martin!” Jon bellowed, a little louder. He strained to hear. There was no sound but the faint susurration of the whispers of the people trapped here. There were so many of them, but each one thought they were alone. The ones that were talking—the ones that were still strong enough to talk to themselves, to make themselves feel a little less...no. Even them he couldn’t hear clearly, even when he strained to do it.

They were so convinced no one was listening that the one person who was listening couldn’t hear them. Martin. No. No, Martin had to know he was there, had to know he was coming. He couldn’t have forgotten. He couldn’t have...given up.

Unbidden, the thought of the last time he’d been in...this entity’s domain came to his mind. The fog, God, the ever-present fog. Calling desperately. The smarmy, taunting voice telling him He doesn’t want to see you. He’d known that was a lie then, known it with a desperate certainty. Peter Lukas had worked on Martin, eroded away at him for months, whittled him down until he was—until he thought he was nothing, less than nothing. Until he’d been willing to stay, thought he deserved it.

Jon had never told Martin, but he’d come close to succumbing, too. It wasn’t like he’d never been l—solitary before. He’d spent most of his strange, unhappy childhood with nothing but books for company, and it had almost been too late when he’d learned to make friends. He’d tried too hard to be professional his first year as Archivist and only hadn’t managed to isolate himself completely because all of his assistants, in their own way, had insisted on remaining or becoming a part of his life. And then after the worms, after the discovery of Gertrude Robinson’s body, when Jon had let his paranoia get the better of him and sealed himself away from everyone...only Martin hadn’t let him, even then, had fought to keep him present. And it would have been worse after Leitner’s murder and he’d gone on the run if Georgie hadn’t taken him in, at least at first. He’d certainly felt it then. He knew what it felt like. He’d almost given in to the fog.

But he’d held on, held onto the fact that Martin was in the fog somewhere. He wasn’t alone—neither of them were alone, because Martin had been there and so had Jon and even if they couldn’t see one another yet, they were both there. So he’d called Martin’s name, and then he’d found Peter Lukas and fought him and won, which he never would have been able to do if Martin hadn’t already fought him and won. And then he’d found Martin again, and Martin had seen him, and they’d come out of the fog together.

They’d done it once. They could do it again. Jon just had to find him before...no.

“Martin!” he called again, somewhere between a shout and a sob. This wasn’t happening, this couldn’t be happening. He couldn’t have been so feeble, so stupid as to lose sight of Martin in a place like this. A place that had almost taken him once.

Desperate, almost frantic, he wandered through room after room, searching, calling. Martin had to be here somewhere. God, how many rooms did this damned house have?

It didn’t matter, he realized. The realm was as infinite as it needed to be, and also as limited. Every room was different, but every room was the same. It could hold thousands of people, but each one would assume that they were the only one.

That they had always been the only one.

Jon fought down the panic and tried to think. Martin had to be in here somewhere. It was a feature of the domain. There was no way out beyond death, and it was too...early? Was that the word? The entities weren’t ready to relinquish their victims just yet. Death wouldn’t be able to start feeding off the other realms until it had completely depleted its own store. There was no way to leave, ergo, Martin had not left. The only one who knew the way out was Jon, and Jon was not with Martin; therefore, Martin had not found the way out. He must be somewhere in this house.

Yes, all right, that was perfectly logical and all that nonsense. But “somewhere” covered a lot of ground. And Jon didn’t know where he’d let Martin slip away.

Know. Discomfort fluttered through Jon’s stomach. He’d been trying very hard to find Martin the traditional way, not to use his abilities. He’d promised to stay out of Martin’s head, and he had. Martin was the most important thing in the universe to him, even before he’d become the only real thing he had left, and he wouldn’t do anything to ruin that. Including, and especially, betray his trust.

But...this was different. Martin was lost somewhere...no, not lost, just...missing. This realm was near-infinite. Jon could wander forever and not find him, and although time wasn’t really a factor anymore per se, he was desperately afraid that if he took too long finding Martin, Martin would succumb. Maybe...think he’d been abandoned on purpose. That Jon saw him as a burden, a drag on his mission, or worse—that Jon had been humoring him up to this point, that he’d never intended to do what he could to fix the mess he’d been used to cause, and that he’d abandoned him at the first possible opportunity so he could...enjoy the apocalypse.

No. No, Martin had to know Jon wasn’t like that. Jon loved Martin, had loved him for longer than he’d been willing to admit, would love him until the end of the universe. And Martin loved him, had loved him even when he’d been doing his best to push him away, would love him as long as he had the capacity. He’d said as much, so many times, and Jon believed him without even needing his powers. He saw it in his eyes, heard it in his voice, felt it in his touch. Martin had to know that Jon felt the same way. It wasn’t like he was subtle about it, for God’s sake.

Martin hadn’t left Jon, even after he’d accidentally ended the world. He had to know that went both ways. He had to.

Jon took a deep breath. He was starting to spiral. It wasn’t the first panic attack he’d ever had in his life, but it was definitely on its way to being one of the worst. That wouldn’t help him. Or Martin. He had to hold on to that. Martin needs you. Keep it together. You have to find Martin. You can’t fall apart in a nightmare.

Right. So. He’d promised not to pry into Martin’s head. But it was the only way Jon could guarantee he’d find him. Surely Martin would forgive him, if—when—he knew. Because Jon would tell him, as soon as he found him. They were trying to be honest with one another, about what they did, how they felt. They were trying to communicate. Jon wasn’t particularly good at it, but he was trying. So he would Look, he would Know where Martin was, and he would find him and apologize and they would get the hell out of there.

He took another deep breath and concentrated on the question: Where is Martin?

A beat passed, another. Jon strained as hard as he could. He could...he could feel Martin’s mind out there, somewhere, in a room. Feel something about him. He was...talking. To someone? Most likely to himself. Jon couldn’t pick up the words. Everything was...muffled. Muted.

Faded.

No.

He had to have hope. The ones who were still talking were the ones who hadn’t given up yet. They talked because the sound of their voice made them feel less alone. If Martin was talking...that meant he was still holding on. It was when he stopped...Jon could feel the pauses in his words, and every time he stopped talking, he could feel him slipping a little farther away.

“Martin!” Jon shouted, his voice cracking with desperation and fear. “Martin, please answer me, please.”

Just like that, he heard his name, or maybe felt it. For a moment, there was a bright flare, almost of light, like a beacon, and Jon rushed towards it desperately. He went through a door, though, and the light was gone, leaving him even more lost than before.

No. Not lost. He wasn’t lost, and neither was Martin. They were...separated. It was just temporary. They would find one another. There was no way they would be trapped forever in this hellscape.

Well. Jon wouldn’t be trapped forever. He was too much the Eye’s creature to be trapped anywhere. These nightmares, as he’d told Martin repeatedly, weren’t for him—for them. This one was just trying to take Martin because he’d been Marked by the Lonely.

There.

He’d thought it.

This was the Lonely.

And it was trying to take Martin away from him.

No.

Martin was his anchor—had been a lot longer than he’d admitted it, even to himself. He’d wondered, once or twice, distantly, what would have happened if he’d realized that before going into the Buried after Daisy, if he’d realized a body part wouldn’t be his best choice for an anchor and used something else, like one of the recordings Martin had made of his poems while he’d been trapped in the Archives. If Martin’s voice wouldn’t have brought him safely out of the coffin sooner, and forced Elias—Jonah—to scramble for another way to have the Flesh mark him. If they’d have been able to suss out Jonah’s plan and foil it before it could fully realize. He couldn’t Know the future, even hypotheticals, but he’d still gone over it time and again. He’d never mentioned it to Martin, figuring his boyfriend had enough to worry about. But whenever he got a quiet moment to himself, he thought about it. And now Martin wasn’t there to keep him steady.

For a moment, Jon was tempted to give in to despair, the despair he’d been fighting since he’d woken on the floor of the cabin in Martin’s arms and heard the roar from outside and known, even more than Known, what it meant. He couldn’t get through this on his own. Even if he believed they were doing any good, even if he thought there was a chance that Gertrude was wrong and he could fix the apocalypse, he knew he couldn’t do it without Martin there to ground him, to give him a reason to go on. He did think those things, but...but it was Martin that made him believe that, Martin’s quiet strength and gentle guidance and above all the feel of his fingers laced through Jon’s when they strode through the more difficult terrain.

God, why hadn’t Jon held his hand? He’d known this would be a tricky one, but stupidly, he’d thought they would be okay. He’d thought that, because the floors were even and the path was regular and the people were...only barely there and not enough to really affect them physically, that they didn’t need to help each other walk. He was such an idiot. He always had been, really. He’d thought the end of the world would be enough of a monument to stupidity, assumed that there really couldn’t be more evidence that he made decisions that were both moronic and outright bad than the fact that he’d earnestly believed he was saving the people he loved, and the entire world, but was in fact taking gigantic leaps and bounds towards destroying them all.

He’d been wrong, because now his idiocy had cost him the one thing the apocalypse had spared him. It had cost him Martin.

No. No! Jon couldn’t let himself believe that. He couldn’t believe that this was it. Martin was still out there, he was still talking, and Jon would find him and once he did he would never let him go again. Martin was damn well going to have to listen to the next statement Jon had to make, because Jon was scared, damn it, and he was going to hold on to Martin as long as he could. Maybe even longer.

He felt something again, all at once. Something in his heart getting warmer, a strengthening of his willpower and determination, a grounding. He felt as if his foundations had been reinforced, all of a sudden. He could almost hear a voice thrumming through his chest, a steady, rhythmic chant, panic slowly easing out of the voice as it grew stronger and stronger—

Wait. He could hear a voice.

“Martin!” he shouted, putting every last bit of love and desperation and need in his body into his voice to give it as much volume as he could.

He heard his name, faintly, in reply, and his head snapped around. He practically ran, his steps taking him faster and farther than he’d thought possible. “Martin! Martin?”

“Jon! Jon, over here!”

Martin’s voice was the most wonderful thing Jon had ever heard. Jon gasped out in relief as he focused his knowledge on Martin’s whereabouts. “Martin, hold on, I—I’m coming, I just—”

And then he burst through the next doorway and there Martin was, on his feet, face pale and eyes wet, clutching something tightly in one hand and head turned towards Jon. Relief flooded through Jon’s entire body and he almost collapsed before he made it to Martin’s side. “Oh, Martin, thank God, I—I was—”

He broke off, unable to finish the sentence, and simply wrapped his arms around Martin tightly. Martin was cold, so very cold, as cold as he’d been the last time the Lonely had almost taken him away, but he was solid and real and his heart thudded strongly in his chest, and his arms as they went around Jon were just as firm as always. He was alive. He was safe. He was here.

“I—I thought you were behind me,” Jon managed.

Martin let out a soft breath—and then uttered the words that almost broke Jon completely. “I thought you’d left me behind. Gone on without me.”

“No, never. N-never, I—I just—” Jon pulled back from the hug and looked up at Martin, and the words tumbled out of him in a panicked rush. “I—I didn’t want to—Look too h—I, I-I promised I wouldn’t Know you, and with the fog, and—and all the rooms, I—I just—I lost you...” He managed to draw a breath, hoping it would steady him a little. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Martin replied immediately, and God, how had Jon managed to get so lucky?

It took him a couple breaths—both of them needed a couple breaths—before Jon managed to speak again. “No, I—I tried to use the—” He sighed, remembering he’d promised himself to be honest, and continued, “—to Know where you were, but it was—you—you were faint. It was so strange...it took me so long to find you.”

Martin squared his shoulders and straightened, rubbing at the back of his neck with his free hand. “Jon, it’s—okay, I promise it’s okay. This place tried, it really did, and honestly, I—” He sucked in a breath. “I wanted to believe it.” Before Jon could panic, he added, “But I didn’t.”

“This place, i-it—” Jon began. Before he could finish his sentence, his eyes lit on the object in Martin’s hand. A tape recorder.

The familiar static filled Jon’s head, and he suddenly Knew what was on that recorder. The statement filled his mind, telling him every word Martin had spoken into the device, every thought his boyfriend had had while struggling desperately to remember who he was, who Jon was. His self-deprecating jokes and his pathetic wistfulness, his smallness, his fear. Everything Peter Lukas had tried to make of him...except now Jon could hear that stretching back years, long before Martin had ever come to the Institute. Lukas had only built on what was already there.

“My God,” he whispered. The recorder was still whirring away, but Jon had heard the entire playback in a matter of seconds.

“Yeah,” Martin agreed.

Jon swallowed hard. What he was about to say went against every instinct he had...but he loved Martin, he had to give him a choice. Had to make sure he knew this wasn’t a forced death march or anything.

“M-Martin—if you—did,” he began. “I-if you wanted to forget a-all of it, stay here...” He closed his eyes for a brief second, fighting to get the words out. “I—I would understand.”

Time had no meaning in this place, in this post-apocalyptic world, so it was entirely possible that there was an actual eternity in the heartbeat of silence after Jon’s words, who was to say?

“N-no,” Martin said finally, and Jon felt relief crash down on him like a physical force. “It’s comforting here, leaving all those—painful memories, behind, but—it’s not a good comfort, it’s—i-it’s the kind that makes you fade, makes you dim and...distant.”

“Okay,” Jon whispered. He licked his lips, then said in a more normal tone of voice, “Okay, good. I—” He took a deep breath to steady himself. “I wanted to make sure you knew what this place was.”

“It’s the Lonely, Jon.” Martin’s voice, his eyes, were sad, almost resigned. “It’s me.”

The words pierced Jon through the heart. He pulled Martin back into a hug, even tighter than before. “Not anymore,” he said forcefully.

Martin gave a soft laugh that warmed Jon to his toes. He returned the embrace. “No,” he agreed. He let out all the air in his lungs in a long, deep rush. “No, not anymore.”

The sudden click made both of them jump. Jon realized it was the tape recorder, still dangling from Martin’s hand, evidently deciding that whatever it needed to record was over. Martin pulled back and looked at the recorder. He began trembling, ever so faintly.

Gently, Jon took the device from him and stowed it in his bag. It was difficult, with only one hand, but he kept his other arm wrapped around Martin’s waist as he did so. He needed the comfort, the contact, probably as much as his boyfriend did. He wasn’t ready to relinquish that just yet. It would turn out to be two more nightmare hellscapes and a small but intense fight before Jon would let go of Martin again, even for a moment, but there was no way to Know the future. All he knew, or Knew, was that right now he needed to hold on to Martin, to be sure he wouldn’t be taken away again.

“Let’s get out of here,” he said. “Quickly.”

Martin’s smile seemed to melt away some of the fog. “Lead on, then.”

They gripped one another’s hands tight enough to hurt, but Jon didn’t care. The pain was welcome if it meant knowing where Martin was. Jon tried to slow his pace a bit so Martin could keep up, but actually, he seemed to be moving along just fine. The fog had been what slowed him down before, and it didn’t seem to have any hold on him anymore.

At last, they emerged out the front door of the house and stood on a road leading between some barren fields. The Panopticon glowed in the distance, still watching over everything, and Jon Knew which way they had to go in order to reach their next stop. He even Knew which domain it was they would be passing through...which avatar they would meet when they did.

He stopped anyway.

He stopped and turned to Martin and looked up at him, intending to drink in the sight of him, to memorize the way his face looked in the sunlight, to map out the constellations in his freckles and navigate the topography of his curls. Instead, his eyes locked onto Martin’s and he was overcome, suddenly, by the powerful and crushing realization of how close they had come. He’d promised Martin nothing would hurt them. He’d promised he wouldn’t allow anything to harm Martin. And then he hadn’t been strong enough to hold on. He’d almost let Martin be taken, and in the end, he hadn’t even been the one to save Martin. Martin had saved himself.

Jon let out a ragged gasp of mingled pain and relief. He grabbed Martin’s face, pulled him down, and kissed him, desperate and hard and messy.

Martin made a muffled noise of surprise, as well he might. In the entire time they’d been together, Jon had initiated a lot of physical contact—hugs, hand-holding, spooning gently on the couch, twining together in bed—but while this wasn’t their first kiss by any means, Martin had always been the one to initiate them before, usually proceeded with a gentle brush to his cheek and a soft can I, Jon? Jon always acquiesced, of course. Martin’s kisses made him feel safe and warm in a way nothing ever had before. But he’d never been the one to go first. Jon’s attitude towards kissing was...weird, he supposed was the best way of putting it. He’d never been quite sure how he felt about it, and actually, he still wasn’t sure how he felt about the idea in general. But he loved Martin, and he loved Martin’s kisses. He’d just never been quite sure how to go about starting it exactly. Here and now, though, nothing in him said to do anything different but grab Martin and try to convey without words all the emotions roiling through him.

Thankfully, Martin’s surprise lasted no more than a split second before he was returning the kiss, pulling Jon close as he did so. Jon relaxed into Martin’s arms. He’d come a long way since he’d told Martin not to put his trust in comfort anymore; he’d learned that, in this post-apocalyptic nightmare world he’d brought about, you had to take whatever comfort you could get. If you lost sight of even the smallest things, you were lost.

And Martin was far from a small thing.

“Jon?” Martin sounded worried. He swiped his thumb across Jon’s cheek, and that’s when Jon realized he was crying.

“I thought I lost you,” he whispered.

“But you didn’t.” Martin rested his forehead against Jon’s. “I’m not going anywhere, Jon. I promise. Wherever we end up, whatever we have to go through...we will go through it. Together. I won’t leave you. I promised you that from the beginning.”

He sounded so strong, so determined. Jon wondered if Martin knew that he fell a little more in love with him every time he spoke. And he was right. If Jon was going to get through this, the only way it would happen would be with Martin at his side.

“I love you,” he murmured.

“I love you, too, Jon,” Martin replied. “More than anything.”

Jon held them together for a few moments more, soaking in Martin’s nearness, then nodded a couple of times and tilted his head back to kiss Martin again.

“Come on,” he said hoarsely, turning back to the path without letting go. “Miles to go before we sleep.”

#whumptober2020 #no.8 #isolation #the magnus archives #writing #jonmartin #spoilers for s5 #Episode 170 spoilers #The Lonely #in which I project my own Asexual Experience onto Jonathan Sims #ollie writes fanfic

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thehopefulsnowflake · 4 years ago

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Even more theories and opinions about the magnus archives from my brother, up to episode 110.

Michael and Gertrude did not have a fling

Did Michael know Helen would take over?

Was he trying to get Helen through his halls

Is that how the twisting Deceit carries on

Whatever the sprial Avatars say is untrustworthy

Michael changing into Helen is kind of like Doctor who's regeneration

Gertrude was up to shenanigans

Is Gertrude not actually good?

Gertrude found out what happened to the library of alexandria and that's her motive

Gerad ain't dead

Melanies obsession with being free is the reason she's trying to kill Elias

The only important part of nesting instinct was that Jon could now read French

The pig reminded him of Meat

Everyone who dies, dies in a mundane way

Elias is spying on them through the tape recorder

He can probably just see in the tunnels

The archive is the tape recorder

Gérard had suggested countless other things before Gertrude just said they should use Cement to kill the pig

Tim met the Phantom of the opera

The phantom was a clown

Tim should be used as a sacrificial lamb

The whole archive has a voice

The archive will give their Avatars Visions in the form of voices

Elias is actually against the Archive and Gertrude was trying to help the archive by burning it down to get rid of Elias

Tim should just sort himself out before the Beholding does

Martin is a badass

Melanie's severe, surprise bouts of homicidal intent are sus

Basira is very introspective and philosophical

Daisy is happy because she has a free pass to kill people

He thinks that he hates Tim because of how quickly his personality changed

The buried was the Maine entity in Total War

Hasn't heard enough about the death cult to know if they're a full on entity

Then went off on a tangent about historical accuracy...

The desolation is the most brutal entity

Jan Kilbride was too pessimistic, that's why they were never selected for space missions before

Because sound doesn't travel in the space, the daedalus was just shaken around

The isolation experiment was from the Lukas'

The next one will be Rayner

This one was just classic Fairchild

Elias is still the best character despite implanting the memories in Melanie's head

He says that he would trust almost anyone else over Melanie

He thinks Melanie deserved it

Elias is the best because he's dealing with people

Elias is the only one holding himself together

If Elias wasnt there it would be anarchy

Elias is the only thing keeping Jon alive

Elias is at least helping

Basira is cool

Everyone cared about Tim but he is just horrible and didn't want to see it

Martin will be the emotional anchor for everyone

They would probably be able to deal with their issues if they were stable people

Elias is the only nice person

Elias is the only stable person

Melanie should seek therapy

When Tim left the only reason he felt ill was because he caught the flu

Elias feels pressured because he's trying to prevent the end of the world

He is so happy Trevor is back

Just the London underground, no wait the desolation, no wait Michael, he's confused

Trevor is the only other character who is in anyway competent

Did Trevor discover an elixir of life or something

The London underground isn't going to be that big, he keeps calling the Buried the London underground.

Unless Melanie stops trying to kill Elias she's going to be worse than Tim

Thought that Adonis biros had something to do with the stranger or The desolation

Was he acting out a play from a leitner

The cloaked figure was of the stranger

It's unlikely that there is another faction thats going to be introduced at this point so it's likely the stranger

Peter Lukas is chill

He doesn't think Peter Lukas had any part to play in Adonis Biros statement

Julia first encountered the people's Church

That sect died out after they killed the leader

Thinks that everyone in the archive is going to try some shit

Thinks that they're all being daft because they think Elias is always lying

They have no reason to be so murderous

They're as bad as the monsters and have no right to try and kill Elias

Thinks Jon should stop them

Melanie is a serial killer

Unless she was possessed by the Ghost that shot her

Daisy would make better decisions

Michael would have made better decisions

Thinks that everyone is just disregarding Elias warning

Thinks Elias is telling the truth

Why wouldn't Elias' threat be real

Unless it's because there is no successor available, and if there was everyone would live

Which of course would be Martin because he is the spirit of the archive

When they go down into the tunnel's and not-Sasha gets them he is going to laugh his ass off

Is sure he's going to be proven right

Elias is either canny and knows how to manipulate people

Or he is telling the truth and they all die and the world gets fucked

They've had no proof that Elias' lies

Thinks Martin and Melanie will die at the end of this season

Not-Sasha is going to get one of them

Thinks that they have been given more reasons to trust Elias than not

They have no reasons to doubt him, at all

Thinks that the only motive now is just to kill Elias, which there is no motive behind

Melanie's life hasn't changed all that much

Melanie could just leave

Martin is becoming an equivalent archivest

Tim has just decided that the circus is his life goal

Peter is going to tell Elias that he is an Arse

There is no rationale behind killing Elias, he keeps repeating this

At the moment Tim and Martin are the most stable

If people actually did their jobs they'd actually be able to think of actual plans, yes he used that many actuallys

Melanie is being possessed by a murder ghost

Martin and Basira won't be able to get rid of Elias

#He's just so cruel to Tim and Melanie #the magnus archives #the magnus archives spoilers #tma #tma spoilers #The magnus archives theories

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haberdashing · 4 years ago

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No Puppet Strings Can Hold Me Down (14/?)

The Magnus Archives fanfic. An AU that diverges from canon between episodes 159 and 160, in which Peter Lukas’ statement that “he got you” takes on a different meaning.

on AO3

Jon looked back up at Martin, whose eyes were wide and staring right back into his own. (A small part of him was reassured upon seeing that Martin’s eyes were the same as always, that they hadn’t been replaced by Jonah’s in turn.)

“J-Jon? Is it really you?”

Jon nodded, trying to ignore the lump in his throat as he spoke; he’d expected his voice to sound hoarse or raspy, but it wasn’t, presumably since it had in fact been used this whole time, just not by himself. “I-I’m not sure if I can prove it, or, or what I can say that he wouldn’t know, that would prove I’m myself again and not him-”

Jon’s mind swam with half-formed ideas about things Jonah Magnus would never say--not something he wouldn’t know, helpful though that might be if his possessor was anyone but the nigh-omniscient head of the Magnus Institute, because that was doomed to futility--or just ways to get the conversation started regardless, perhaps turn things away from the information he hadn’t meant to leak to his possessor, the confession he hadn’t meant to give secondhand...

“...I can sleep on the couch from now on, if you’d like.” The words escaped him before he could second-guess them any further, though Martin’s look of bafflement almost made him wish he could take them back.

Martin shook his head and blinked rapidly before eking out a “What?”

“I, I know that’s probably not- not the highest priority at the moment, but it’s been on my mind all this time. You deserve the bed, deserve to sleep somewhere where you actually fit--I’ve slept worse places than the couch here before, I, I used to sleep on that ratty old cot back in the Archives-”

“So did I!”

“You did it because you were afraid of being eaten by worms if you left. I did it because I couldn’t be bothered to take the bus back that late at night. It’s not the same.”

Martin looked like he was going to protest again, but before he could Jon took another deep breath and held up a finger before adding, “And you know Jonah Magnus is too egotistical to even think of offering something like that, so it must actually be me talking.”

Jon half-expected to hear Jonah Magnus’ voice echoing through his head in protest, had spoken the words as much for Jonah’s benefit as for Martin’s, but the only response Jon got was Martin looking at him as if he’d grown a second head for a long moment before letting out a short, shaky laugh.

“Well, you’re not wrong. I do believe you... though, uh, it helps that your eyes changed back too. Always did like how dark they are.”

Jon raised a hand up to his face as if to examine his eyes before remembering when Jonah had made a show of performing that same examination and returning his hand to his side with a shudder.

“Are... are you alright, Jon?”

“I mean, given the circumstances...” Jon tried to laugh, but the noise he actually made fell pretty far from the mark; a strand of hair fell onto his face, and Jon felt a strange, simple pleasure as he brushed it back out of the way with little effort. “Could be worse?”

“Right, right... stupid question, I suppose...”

Jon shook his head, stifling a laugh as much of his hair fell onto his face and he had to pull it away again. “No, no, it makes sense, I appreciate you asking...”

“Was- was Elias telling the truth?”

Jon blinked a few times. “Sorry?”

“Er, Jonah Magnus, really, I guess. What he said about you just now. Was he telling the truth?”

Jon could feel his face turn warm, wondered distantly if Jonah could still feel the heat of it from wherever he’d gone off to now. “I, uh, I mean... yes, it’s true, but I hadn’t meant for him to hear, I hadn’t- hadn’t intended my thoughts on the matter to be available for Jonah Magnus’ personal consumption... though I suppose there are, er, bigger issues at the moment..."

Martin blinked a few times before letting out a snort of laughter, the sound of it enough to make Jon’s heart race. “I understand, Jon, and we can talk about that too--though I assume we don’t have all day here?”

Jon hesitated, waiting for Jonah Magnus’ voice in his head to smugly inform him of how much longer he would allow this to go on, before giving a small shrug when no such voice came. “Your guess is as good as mine, but I’d imagine not.”

“Right. Well, I do want to have that conversation eventually, but I was actually talking about the whole you feeling everything even when he’s in control thing.”

“Oh.” Jon let out a low breath, felt his face heat up again for a different reason. “Right, that. He wasn’t lying about that either, no, I’m still along for the ride the whole time...”

Martin’s face fell as Jon spoke, and Jon rushed to do what he could to fix it, or at least to do damage control.

“But it hasn’t been too bad so far, and the one time it was was my own fault, so...”

“What d’you mean?”

“That time I passed out mid-statement? I tried to Know something and I knew that could happen, but I figured it was worth the risk. Didn’t help much, but I imagine Jonah felt as bad as I did at least.” Jon shrugged again--a small movement, but one he treasured now, enjoying his freedom of motion while it lasted.

“But if...” Martin bit his lip for a moment before continuing. “He’s right then. If I try to stop him, I’ll just be hurting you, won’t I?”

“You’ll be hurting both of us, and Martin, listen to me--I don’t know exactly what Jonah Magnus is planning, but...” Jon hesitated for a moment, all too aware that any word he spoke could be his last, that at any moment his freedom might be stripped away from him again if he dared go too far. “I think he’s trying to end the world, or, or change it at least. And if you’re going to stop that, you shouldn’t let one person’s feelings get in the way.”

Martin made a noise that was somewhere in between a huff and a sigh. “I’m not going to hurt you, Jon.”

“If it’s between that or the world ending, by all means, do whatever you need to do.”

“Jon-”

“I’m serious. If it means hurting me, or knocking me out, or... or whatever it takes, if it’ll stop his plans, just go for it when you have the chance. You have my permission--my blessing, even.”

Martin opened his mouth for a moment and then closed it again before speaking up. “...if you say so.”

Jon locked eyes with Martin, forcing what intensity he could into his gaze. “I do.”

Martin nodded, a strange solemnity in the gesture. “What do you know about what he’s planning, then? What should I be looking out for?”

“Well, from what he’s tried already, I believe it’s another r-”

And then Jon found himself cut off from speaking, from moving, felt that strange shift inside his mind once again before his own voice spoke up without his willing it.

“I think that’s quite enough of that. You wanted proof that Jon was still in here, that it’s not just his body you’d be preserving, and I daresay you’ve gotten it.”

Martin broke away from Jon’s gaze, still locked on Martin’s face as he looked back down at the floor. “Yes, I... I suppose I have.”

“I trust that’s enough to prevent you from doing anything stupid without my having to resort to more... drastic measures.”

“No, no... I don’t want to hurt Jon, even if it’d mean hurting you too. You’re both safe for now.”

Jon wanted to yell, to scream, to beg Martin to stop Jonah Magnus by whatever means necessary, to explain that he hadn’t valued his life much even before it’d been reduced to this sort of half-existence, to quote the old saying about the needs of the many trumping the needs of the few... but instead he felt himself just nod silently and turn away.

#tma #tma au #tma fic #tma fanfic #the magnus archives #the magnus archives au #the magnus archives fic #the magnus archives fanfic #personal #my writing #jonmartin #jmart

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that-one-girl-behind-you · 5 years ago

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Illicio 7/?

Chapter 6

"Hm. Melanie's worried about you," Helen says. Her eyes are swirling as she runs them over Gerry's hunched form, and her lips curl with distaste. "You don't look good."

Gerry laughs, or he tries to, before it devolves into a wet cough that leaves droplets of ink sprinkled all over the desk. "That tracks. I have never felt so far from good in my life."

"What about when you were a book?"

"When I was a book I didn't have to worry about a man that seems to be actively trying to run face first into any entity he can find," Gerry sighs.

There's people around him, that much Jon knows. He hears them trying to move, trying to dig not even to escape, but just to carve a pocket of air big enough to pull in a mouthful of air before everything closes down again. They don't know and they don't care, that the pressure around them is not always dirt or water. Sometimes it's sadness. Guilt. The Buried has no qualms against using the memories of those you left behind to drag you in further.

He knows the way to Daisy, but only barely. The only hint he has as to her whereabouts is the dull ache of the scar across his throat, and Jon Knows with a feeling of grim satisfaction that the only reason he's able to even feel that much is because made sure to feed beforehand. Still, a single thought plays through his mind on repeat, the only thing that keeps him moving forward anymore.

He doesn't know the way back.

The rib stopped calling to him as soon as the lid slammed shut above his head, and Jon has the bitter thought that he could've skipped the encounter with Hopworth, for all the good it did to him.

Jon's next step sinks up to his ankle, as his thoughts turn dark. Why did he think he could save anyone? When has that ever worked? This was nothing but his arrogance. Another failure at helping what he broke. Gertrude stopped dozens of rituals on her own, but Jon had to bring an entire team into the Unknowing, and make everyone but him pay for his incompetence. Gerry was right, this was a mistake and-

Gerry.

The name has his stomach constricting with guilt, and the Buried clings to it like a ravenous dog; the thick mud he's wading through swallows him up to his thighs in a single motion. Gerry's going to die, or- or worse. Without Jon's voice to feed him he's going to waste away, trapped forever in his own body because Jon made a stupid choice for them both. Gerry- Jon was supposed to make things right for him. Jon was- Gerry has done nothing but be nice and patient to him, and Jon left him alone.

Was this the Eye's plan? To tie him to someone as intrinsically good as Gerry, so that Jon would think it twice before throwing himself into danger again? Gerry's playful, easy kindness has made Jon feel... wanted. He knows he doesn't deserve it; that the warmth in his stomach when he looks up from his reading to find Gerry's face relaxed in his sleep is dangerous.

Jon's affection is poisonous, and one needs only to look at how it's killing Martin to confirm it.

The pressure is up to his waist now, and the memory of Martin's gray eyes only pulls him deeper. The Eye should've chosen a less selfish Archivist, because these two men tried their hardest to keep him safe, and Jon was still ungrateful enough to throw it all away, just to try and earn back a little bit of worth in his own eyes. To be a savior for once, instead of a monster.

Jon closes his eyes, as the heavy pressure of dirt or water or guilt closes up over his head.

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

Martin looks away from the bright screen, and slides a hand under his glasses to rub at his closed eyes. It's been three hours, but he's finally finished putting this month's payroll in order. He will definitely not need to lie about his capabilities on his next job interview. Or he wouldn't, if he were actually able to just walk away from this mess.

A single, dormant tape recorder rests next to the keyboard, and Martin gives it a sad look. It appeared on his desk yesterday, about five minutes before Gerard started banging against the door and, if he had to guess, at around the last second before Jon stepped inside the coffin, because the entities have that kind of humor.

The button clicks when he presses it, and the tape begins to move as usual, but it lacks the feeling of life the recorders usually have when they turn up around Martin. This may have been one of Jon's tapes, but whatever part of him that was inside it is long gone.

"Statement of Martin Blackwood, regarding... a lost Archivist," Martin sees the fog encroaching the office as he speaks, and he sighs. "What were you thinking, Jon? Actually, scratch that. I think I can guess exactly what you were thinking," Martin feels the pinch of resentment and anger burning in his stomach. The fog around him recedes for a moment. "Some weird combination of 'this was all my fault, and I have to set it right if it kills me', and 'It's not that bad if it kills me, because I'm a monster anyways'. Sometimes I don't know if- are you ever going to stop trying to hurt yourself?"

His eyes burn, and Martin yanks his glasses off his face and all but throws them on the desk to bury his face in his hands. This is ridiculous. Jon is- this is how he is, Martin knew it from the start, when he stopped daydreaming about the smooth voice and hypnotic dark eyes and started noticing the many subtle ways Jon neglected himself, and it drew Martin like a moth to a flame.

The broken ones are the safest, because he can tell himself that they'll love him when he fixes them, all the while being blissfully aware that he can't. The openly relieved, almost adoring look on Jon's face the first time they ran into each other after Jon came back was the most terrifying thing Martin had ever faced. And now here he is, selling himself over to try and protect a man he forgot he can't protect from himself.

"You're coming back, aren't you? You have to. You can't do this to me again Jon, I can't-" Martin doesn't even care that his voice sounds slightly wet. He feels suspiciously like himself, all this emotion is not something he's used to anymore. "End recording."

Martin takes in a deep, strained breath. That's- it's alright. He still has a purpose. Melanie's still here, and Basira. There's people to look after. There's work to do and-

"Are you done with that?" Martin's head whips up, and his hands scramble over the desk to find his glasses and jam them back on his face just in time to see Helen reaching for the tape recorder. The door to Elias' stationary cabinet is no longer obscenely expensive mahogany, but a gaudy yellow material instead.

"What?"

Helen shrugs at an angle that shoulders should never move, and Martin averts his eyes before he can get a headache. "I usually grab them when you leave but you didn't seem like you were going anywhere now."

Martin blinks. "I- that's not- why do you want my tape? Have you been stealing my tapes?"

"Only some of them. The ones that don't go back to Jon immediately. Also it's not stealing if you leave them behind. Finder's keepers."

"Finder- why do you want my tapes?" Martin wishes his face didn't feel so hot. One would think being halfway into the Lonely already would spare him from being embarrassed over this, but there's clearly something still very human in him that's mortified at Helen hearing his sad tea parties with the tapes. This might just be enough to kill it. "What are you doing with them?"

"Not much. You don't take very good care of them, but he can't come into my hallways."

"He- do you mean Peter?"

Helen blinks once, her eyelids moving horizontally. "Can I have it now?"

"I- uhm. That's- that's actually very nice of you," Martin frowns. It's difficult to discern sometimes, if Helen is actually on anyone's side or just enjoys puzzling them. "Thank you?"

"So can I ha-"

"Yes, you can have it." Martin rolls his eyes, and Helen's fingers wrap many times around the tape recorder. "Please don't show them to any-" the yellow door closes, before Martin can finish, and he darts a look around the office.

It would be just his luck if Peter stepped out of the Lonely right now, but there's barely any fog left in the office. Martin sighs. He needs to call it back, or it'll look suspicious.

Martin closes his eyes, and thinks of his mother.

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

"I'm just really glad you're keeping up with therapy. I know it made you very antsy at first," Georgie smiles behind her coffee cup. Melanie's brain goes blank for a couple seconds. She loves Georgie's smiles, her dark lipstick contrasting starkly with the white of her teeth when her full lips part just the slightest bit.

"It's- I feel better," Melanie says once she's regained her faculties. Then she adds, "but I think my favorite part of going is that I get to be with you," because she's a tiger, not a kitten.

"Are we doing this?" Georgie laughs, and her cheeks darken a little. Melanie doesn't think her heartbeat was this intense during even the worst episodes of the Slaughter.

"I could do this. If you wanted to," Melanie reaches out slowly and rests her hand palm up on the table. It's a hand that has slashed and maimed and killed, but it's trembling somewhat as it waits on the wooden surface.

Georgie's big dark eyes glint with amusement, and the warmth in Melanie's chest is enough that she forgets about everything else for a moment. The Institute, the fears, nothing is as important as the curve of Georgie's smile.

"I'd like to do this. If you're feeling better," and she lays her hand on Melanie's, giving it a little squeeze.

"I do. I feel amazing, I'm cured. It's a miracle," Melanie blurts out, and Georgie laughs animatedly, before leaning over the table to plant a kiss on Melanie's forehead. "Thank you."

The world could end tomorrow, Melanie thinks; all the fears out there can't touch them inside the little restaurant.

"I'm here for you." Georgie nuzzles her nose against Melanie's. "You're... very brave, Melanie."

-------

Melanie's still floating a little by the time Georgie drops her off at the Institute. With all that's happened lately in her life, this feels a little too good to be true. Of course, reality crashes back down on her soon enough.

"How are you holding up?" Melanie pushes open the door to Jon's office, the man's recorded voice reaching her immediately "...oh"

Gerry's asleep on the desk, a hand clenched tight around a playing tape recording, and he looks terrible. The injuries on his face haven't healed at all; listening to the tapes slows the bleeding, but Melanie knows if she were to press stop on the tape, the papery white flesh under Gerry's skin would seep with dark ink again.

Melanie sighs, and walks up to him to see how much longer the recording has left. Jon's talking about worms and fire extinguishers, and the spool is almost empty of tape. She reaches over to the pile of unlistened tapes by the desk, and selects one at random. There's an empty recorder on one of the bookshelves, and she crams the tape inside it and presses play before dropping it next to Gerry. This should last until he wakes up at least.

She doesn't want to think of what they'll do when they run out of tapes.

"At least he's alive," Helen observes, coming out of a door that should've led to the break room. "Or not. Existing, I guess."

"That would be a way of putting it," Melanie purses her lips in a tight line. "I- this is sort of my fault I guess. I shouldn't have taken him with Hopworth."

"He would've known eventually. Like with your bullet," Helen says, shrugging. "He might still come back."

"I don't care-" Melanie starts, then stops and sighs. "I do want him to come back. For them. I still haven't told Georgie because I don't want her to be sad, I think Jon pestering him was the only thing still keeping Martin from whatever stupid plan he's attempting, and it's only been two days but Gerry's already dying." She huffs. It was a lot easier when all she could feel was rage.

"I wouldn't worry about Martin," Helen says simply, and Melanie snorts.

"You're lucky I like your cryptic bullshit." Melanie looks towards the closed door of Jon's office, and the weight on her shoulders intensifies. "I should call Basira."

"Good luck with that"

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

Jon doesn't dream like before, in here. Or rather he does, and he's just not used to the way humans dream anymore, all wishful thinking and nonsensical thoughts strung together.

Tim looks down at him and says he forgives him, before pressing down on the detonator. Sometimes he even climbs out of the rubble cackling like a madman and declaring they're all going for drinks because they stopped the apocalypse and they deserve it, and he throws an arm over Jon's shoulders like he used to do before the Archives.

He walks into his office and Sasha -the real one, he knows, even though he cannot remember her face- is sitting at his desk, merrily going through his emails with a smug grin.

Georgie picks up his calls. She tells him about her life, and she says she doesn't like that he's accepted this, but she knows he didn't choose it.

Martin's eyes are green and bright. They're sitting at a coffee shop and Jon's hand is free of scars -burns or worms- where his fingers slot perfectly between Martin's, and they're joking about how Martin ordered tea despite his unreachable tea standards.

Gerry's napping on his sofa because he wants to, not because he doesn't have anywhere else to go, and Jon sits on the floor next to him just to be able to hear him breathe. He's suddenly enveloped in a warm, tight embrace, and all around him it smells like peroxide and lavender. The mix should be jarring but it's not because it means he's safe, and he's home. Wherever that is.

Jon opens his eyes to darkness, and a single, muted click from somewhere on his body.

"I've been... sleeping, I think," he says, because he remembered he's supposed to speak when the tape recorder turns on. "Or I've been dreaming, at least. When I- I'm deeper in, every time I wake up, as if allowing my mind a momentary escape from the reality I find myself in only serves to condemn me even further. I suppose I could stop sleeping, it's not like I need to anymore, but- I don't think I want to."

Jon heaves a sigh that tastes like moist dirt and desperation, before he starts dragging himself forward. If he's awake, he should be moving at least, because the Buried presses on closer the longer he stays still.

"How long have I been here for? It feels like weeks. Months, maybe. By this point I have already accepted I'm not going to find what I came looking for, so why shouldn't I give myself the respite of my dreamscape? It doesn't really matter how much deeper I get dragged in. I don't Know the way back." The dull ache in his throat remains; a bitter reminder of- of what? "...What did I come here for? I- I had a reason, I'm sure. Was it... did I lose something here?"

He can feel the knowledge dancing just at the edge of his mind, and his throat throbs harder the more he thinks about it. The path before him -if there even is something that could be called a "path", here at this pit that feeds on despair- gets rougher. Jon feels rocks and roots dig against his arms, slicing at the skin in places as he moves.

"I don't- I can't remember what I lost," he mumbles to himself. The pain in his throat intensifies, and so does the pressure around his body. He goes to move again, but- but he can't. "I'm- I'm stuck. I can't-" he pulls and pushes,and he hears his bones creak and the dirt around him shift, but the Buried doesn't want to let him go.

If that weren't enough, the pain in his throat keeps growing more and more intense. Did he cut himself on a rock while he slept? It's- no, he... he had it before coming here and- the Buried presses down harder on him, but he Knows this, the scar on his neck, the sound of a gunshot-

"Daisy?" Jon calls out with his last breath, and the Buried crumbles over him. Sharp rocks dig into him, and the weight is too much to breathe. His open mouth fills with dirt so tightly packed around him he can't even lift his eyelids-

"Jon?!"

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

"-made the mistake of spending an entire night outside my safehouses. I was almost beaten to death by an angry goth."

"That would be our Gerard."

Gerry pauses the tape again, and rewinds it the past couple seconds before going to rub at his temples. It doesn't help with the throbbing headache -nothing has, and he suspects nothing will unless- until Jon comes back- but it's what one does when one has a headache, and it does make him feel better, somehow.

Did Martin know what was in the tapes he left behind before taking off with the rest? Gerry's heard every recording that mentions him in passing, even the one in which his page gets destroyed. It was... nice, to hear Jon shake off the Beholding's barbed grasp to keep his promise to him. The pained grunts and gasps as the page burned away in the background were decidedly less so.

Click. "-almost beaten to death by an angry goth-". Click.

Logically, Gerry knows it wouldn't have solved anything or helped anyone. But after listening to Jon's little adventure with the spider book, he wishes harder than ever that he'd finished the job.

Leitner had had all the damned books in his possession once. He could've destroyed them, instead of just writing his name on them and stashing them on a shelf. A Guest For Mister Spider had been clearly meant to emulate a children's book, was Leitner too much of an idiot to figure out how that would end up?

Gerry has seen the result, and it's a man who walks into eternal torture because he lives in a constant state of survivor guilt.

"Are you still listening to that one?" Helen's echo-y voice asks by his elbow. Gerry looks down to find she's turned the bottom of an open desk drawer into her door. Gerry can only see about half of her face, but he has no doubt she'd be able to push herself through and unfold to her full size.

"It's just..." Gerry shrugs. He needs to keep playing tapes, and listening to the same ones again and again renders them less effective each time. But he can't bring himself to push the one with Leitner's questioning away. It's something about the circumstances of the two men involved; one with all his knowledge, hiding like a coward for decades, while the other one, so terribly scared, braves the unknown just to learn. Of course the Beholding wanted him. "It's hard to explain."

Click. The low chuckle sends a jolt of something straight to Gerry's stomach. "That would be our Gerard.". Click.

It really is hard to explain. When did this happen?

"Hm. Melanie's worried about you," Helen says. Her eyes are swirling as she runs them over Gerry's hunched form, and her lips curl with distaste. "You don't look good."

Gerry laughs, or he tries to, before it devolves into a wet cough that leaves droplets of ink sprinkled all over the desk. "That tracks. I have never felt so far from good in my life."

"What about when you were a book?"

"When I was a book I didn't have to worry about a man that seems to be actively trying to run face first into any entity he can find," Gerry sighs. "Did he- do you think you could have stopped him?" He asks. The thought has been plaguing him nonstop over the past two days. Jon knew going into the coffin meant death, Gerry made that very clear that day at the flat. Jon is also extremely depressed and lacks a self preservation instinct at the best of times. "I know you were there when he went in."

"If you couldn't do it, what makes you think I would've had better chances?"

And isn't that another fun little link in the blame chain? Gerry had thought making it about Martin would be enough, that Jon's love for the man would outweigh his hatred for himself. Now he's paying for the mistake.

"What did Martin do in there?" Gerry asks instead of responding. Martin had locked the door behind him after coming out, and handed Helen the key before going back to Elias' office. A smart move, Gerry has to admit. The Distortion is the only one inhuman enough to not be lured in by the unchained coffin.

"He placed the tapes around it," Helen's voice resonates even more oddly than usual inside the small drawer. "They've been playing. They rewind on their own." Which is a good sign, all things considered, but Gerry's mind latches on to one detail only.

"He didn't even try," he spits out. He'd also thought, hoped really, that what Martin felt for Jon would be strong enough to call him back. Martin doesn't think the same, clearly, and Gerry can't help but to feel a little bitter about it. "I told Jon he could do better."

"I'm going to leave now," is all Helen says. Nice, not even the monsters want to hear Gerry mope around over a man in love with someone who doesn't deserve him. He goes to close the drawer after Helen's door disappears, and stops when he notices the tapes at the bottom. Were they there before? He doesn't think so.

Whatever, they're the closest within hand's reach, and Gerry can already feel cut at his forehead welling with inky black blood.

Click. "Hello there." Martin's voice coming out of the tape instead of Jon's feels like a slap to the face. "Not doing anything really interesting right now, but you can stay if you want." Gerry clicks the tape off with a huff.

It clicks back on right away.

"Really?" Gerry glares at the tape, because it's the best substitute he has for Jon. In the background, Martin complains about Peter Lukas being exhausting, which Gerry guesses is true but also probably the least remarkable thing to complain about Peter Lukas. "You're trapped in another dimension and you're still going to defend him?"

Gerry clicks the tape off again just to be contrary, right as Martin mentions something going extinct. He can almost picture the stubborn curve to Jon's lips as the button clicks back on.

"Ugh. Fine, fine." Gerry reaches for a tissue to wipe at the ink on his forehead. "I'm going to listen to it, but just this one, or I'm going to bleed all over your office, and I'm not in the mood to clean that up."

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

Elias knows the value of waiting.

He's learned through trial and error the importance of good timing, and how moving a piece a second too soon can change the entire board so irreversibly that it leaves you no choice but to start over.

Gertrude, for example, had only been the latest failure in a long line of unrealized Archivists, though she was by far the most remarkable out of them all. Elias is ashamed to admit he ruined her for himself; if he'd been more careful about what he pushed her to discover, perhaps she wouldn't have noticed her transformation until it was too late. A pity, but of course it had been her discoveries that sparked the idea of the Watcher's Crown, so not a total loss.

There's not much to do at jail except for waiting and watching anyways. Waiting for meals, for breaks, for Peter, for Basira, for the time to walk out of this gray, boring confinement.

For now, Elias Watches his Archivist.

There are certain places where even the Pupil is blind, but the Buried does not care that you see how trapped you are, and it leaves itself open to being Known.

Jon has just found Daisy, and they cling to each other like twins in the womb, the only thing they know and love in this world of darkness and pressure that has claimed them for itself. Elias is not above being surprised -his current domicile can attest to that-, but he can't deny his stubborn, raggedy Archivist has once again proved more resilient than he expected.

Elias really hopes he makes it out of the coffin, because it would mean he has a real possibility of escaping the Lonely when the time comes. The Forsaken and the Buried have so many things in common.

Also, because it would be a real shame to lose him so close to the end, and he doubts he could find someone else with the sheer luck -or the blessing of the Web- needed to survive these many marks.

He tries calling him one more time, but while the Buried doesn't seem to care that Elias looks inside it, it's not about to give up two victims. Pity. Jon's on his own it seems.

There's a knock at his door, three single, evenly spaced hits Elias recognizes immediately.

"How unexpected," he calls out as he pushes his hair back and straightens his shirt. A wasted effort on his future visitor, but it's the principle of the thing. "Please do come in, Peter."

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

In the years since she’s been trapped in the coffin, Daisy has begun to wonder if she actually knows anything about herself. How much of what she considered her personality was actually just the beast boiling just beneath her skin, waiting for the right moment to pounce?

Daisy doesn’t consider herself to be a particularly difficult woman to understand. She’s unpredictable, a creature of emotion; she loves and she hates with the same fierce passion that called the Hunt to her, and her loyalty’s hard to win and harder still to lose, the driving force that calls her back whenever she’s too lost in the sound of her own blood. She’s ran into a few of her kind before, and she knows this is a shared trait between those who serve the Hunt. A bit of a bad joke, really, that all hunters instinctively seek a pack. She mentioned it once to Basira, but she didn’t seem to find it funny -Daisy always did have a weird sense of humor-, and it had made that odd underlying tension in their every interaction even heavier.

She wonders now, which part of her it was that saw Jonathan Sims and disliked him immediately, and she hopes it was the hunter rather than the woman, because she has come to the conclusion that she has never misjudged a person this badly in her life.

“I’m sorry, Daisy.” Jon says again. He apologizes a lot. Daisy thinks she had noticed this before, but she just didn’t care back then. “I thought- I’m sorry I can’t pull us out.”

“It’s not- you still- you found me,” Daisy says. It’s difficult to form thoughts in here, but her words have been coming back slowly ever since Jon’s hand found hers in the dark. Whether it’s whatever remains of his powers, or just Daisy remembering how to be a person again is really anyone’s guess. “We’re together.”

“Yes, we- is that better?” Jon’s left hand tightens in the fabric of her shirt, and his right twitches as it tries to do the same. It’s burned, Daisy remembers suddenly, and she has the briefest flash of rage, the urge to find Jude Perry and kill. The Buried presses harder around her, quelling the sound of her blood. “Daisy?” Jon’s voice pulls her back, something to focus on other than the feeling of dust in her throat.

“I think- y- yes,” she says after a moment, the thought sudden but hard to get out. “Yes. I- it’s much better. Th- Jon, thank you.” She clings to him a bit tighter, when the dirt around them shifts and tries to get between them. The Buried can try all it wants, but Jon is hers now, and it won’t take him from her, the same way it couldn’t take away the memory of Basira’s firm, grounding voice.

“Good, I- that’s good.” Jon’s head rests on her shoulder, and Daisy’s chest tightens impossibly, the feeling completely different to the pressure of the entity around her. Whatever happens now, she’s not alone.

----

Airports are odd places to be at. There's something strange about a space that was designed to be just comfortable enough that you can stand to wait until you're finally allowed to leave it. A tired man with a crying baby in his arms pulls his suitcase out of the luggage belt and turns to leave. Basira feels something in her rear up like a snake in the grass; this man has some kind of information for Jon, and as he walks towards the automated doors he seems to leave behind a trail of fluorescent footsteps, visible only to her but so easy to follow, if she needed to find him.

Her phone rings in her pocket, and Basira shakes her head. The trail goes cold and fades from her mind as she pulls the device out and brings it to her ear.

"It's me. What now?" Basira says into the speaker as soon as the call connects. It's been a while since she's had friends who call only to catch up, and she doubts Melanie's one of those.

Melanie's voice sounds odd through the line. Nervous, somehow.

"I did, some things." Basira sighs. "Melanie did you kill Jon?"

An elderly woman waiting next to her shoots her an alarmed stare, and Basira gives her a little wave and a shake of her head. The woman sighs and seems to relax a little as Melanie speaks some more.

"What do you mean 'not just me'? Melanie did someone kill Jon?"

The woman moves further away to keep waiting for her suitcase.

"I'm- what? Why did you- Melanie I told you to be nicer to him, not help him kill himself." Basira can feel a migraine starting to bloom behind her eyes. "Yes of course Keay's dying he- yes I knew, Elias told- I forgot to tell you okay? I had more important things to do."

She spots her suitcase a few pieces away on the belt and shoves her way to it, yanking it to the floor with a sharp tug and walking off in the gap the other travelers have opened for her.

"I'm on my way. Don't do anything."

#jongerrymartin #jonathan sims #gerry keay #martin blackwood #j/g/m #vit writes

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bubonickitten · 5 years ago

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Summary: Jon goes back to before the world ended and tries to forge a different path.

Chapter 4 is up!

Previous chapter: tumblr // AO3

Full text & content warnings below the cut.

CWs for Chapter 4: description of a panic attack; blood & injury (within a dream); canon-typical worms; canon-typical horror/nightmare imagery (think MAG 121: Far Away). Also, some canon-typical scopophobia in the form of the continued presence of some unwanted and very rude eldritch tagalongs.

Chapter 4: Interlude

Calm down, Jon tells himself, quaking with panic. Breathe. Four seconds in, hold seven seconds, eight seconds out. Just –

Wait. He has no body. He has no lungs. How – how is he supposed to breathe with no lungs? He can’t – he can’t –

Stop, stop, stop – shut up and think about it, he reprimands himself.

No lungs means he’s not hyperventilating. No heart means there are no palpitations. He still has a body, he’s just – disconnected from it right now. And even if he wasn’t, during his first coma he had no pulse or respiration, so – so there’s no way he’s experiencing the physical symptoms of a panic attack right now. He’s imagining it.

Forget about breathing for now. Think about – think about the positives –

His plan worked. Sort of. Yes, he’d hoped the rift would take him back to the very beginning – before he started reading statements to that damn tape recorder, before he’d started compelling answers without even realizing he was doing it, before Prentiss and paranoia and burned bridges and the Circus and Sasha and Tim –

Oh, God. If he could have showed up just a few months earlier, he could have stopped –

Stop, he thinks, imagining Martin talking him through his racing thoughts, like he used to do whenever Jon got like this. Think about what you can change.

This is still an improvement on the future he left behind. The world hasn’t ended yet, and now he has an advantage that he didn’t have last time. He knows who Elias really is, what his plans are, and all the little traps that he set along the path.

Jon can still stop the Grand Ritual.

Okay. What else?

He might not have been able to prevent Daisy from ending up in the Buried, but he can still save her, just like he did before.

And he knows more about Peter’s intentions this time, knows about the Extinction and the extent to which Peter might be exaggerating its imminent threat. He… he can keep Martin from succumbing to the Lonely.

…can’t he?

Yes. Yes, he can. He won’t entertain any alternative. He knows Martin much more intimately now, knows himself more intimately. The first time around, it took Jon far too long to identify how he felt about Martin, to find the right word for it, to admit it to himself – and then, it took him even longer to confess it out loud. He was almost too late.

There is the pressing question of how to approach Martin now. It depends on how soon Jon can wake up and how much of a stranglehold the Lonely has on Martin by then. Lonely or not, though, he probably won't be receptive to a love confession at this point in their timeline. From Martin's perspective, it would seem to come from nowhere. He wouldn't believe it. As difficult as it is to accept, Jon knows that he can't corner Martin with a declaration of love and expect to pick up where they left off.

But Jon also knows what words used to comfort Martin and how he liked to be held and where his boundaries lay. Jon had painstakingly learned the best gestures to convey his affection – how best to help Martin believe that he is loved, that he deserves to be cared for, that he doesn’t have to be lonely. Hopefully it will be enough. Hopefully those things are still true, present tense. And if they aren’t, Jon will unlearn it all and relearn how best to be there for Martin here in the past – present, now.

Jon is feeling calmer already. Okay, good. Go on.

This is before he started to actively hunt for statements. It’s too late for him to save the ones who came before – and even though they came to the Institute willingly, and even though he didn’t know at the time he took their statements that the nightmares were real, he still feels guilty about the nightmares – but now he knows better, and he knows he can stop.

He will not take live statements this time. He won’t. It doesn’t matter what it does to him, he just – he won’t do it.

Keep going. What about the others?

Jon isn’t sure exactly what the date is, but based on Martin’s visit just now - his last visit, Jon thinks with a pang - Jon is definitely too late to warn them about the Flesh attack. That means the Slaughter likely has a strong hold on Melanie by now - but if Jon can wake up earlier than he did before, maybe he can save her before she gets any worse. Maybe this time he can find a better way to approach the bullet situation. Maybe. She probably still hates him, but it’s worth a try.

He can warn Basira about the true motives behind Elias' false leads. Last time, Basira felt like she had to carry everything on her shoulders, but maybe this time, he can give her the support she needs - if she lets him. Maybe this time he can earn her trust again. Maybe this time he’ll even deserve to be trusted.

And maybe… maybe he can even salvage his relationship with Georgie – if she’s amenable, that is.

All of that is bound to be easier said than done, but at least it’s a starting point.

Now if only he can figure out how to wake up.

Time has even less meaning here than it did in the apocalypse. Jon can’t Know or even guess at the passing of time as he drifts aimless in the void. He splits his time evenly between panicking, talking himself down from the panic, planning, and sleeping. Or – something like sleep, anyway. It’s more like his mind just goes blank, and it’s – rather nice, actually. It’s the first dreamless rest he’s gotten in years, even if it is under such grim circumstances.

It doesn’t last, though. One moment he is nothing and nowhere at all, and the next he’s in a very familiar graveyard surrounded by very, very familiar fog.

So much for dreamless sleep, he thinks. A moment later, the muffled sound of crying reaches him through the mist.

He waits, then, to be overtaken by the nauseating sensation of being puppeted. It was a familiar routine. The dream would string him along, stopping him before each victim in turn. He would be compelled to behold their torment, unable to flee or speak or even close his eyes. It never got any easier, but at some point it had become his new normal, and during his previous coma, after six months of the same endlessly looping nightmares, he did start to feel numb to it all.

During the apocalypse, though, he didn’t sleep. He didn’t dream. There was no need, not when the nightmare was all around him and he could See all of it at every moment. A creeping sense of dread washes over him at the prospect of returning to this again every time he tries to sleep, and he realizes that the old numbness has worn off. He isn’t looking forward to cultivating it all over again – and he doesn’t know if he can take months of this nonstop a second time.

As he stands there lost in his own head, time ticks by second by second until finally he notices that he’s waiting for a compulsion that… doesn’t seem to come. It never takes this long for the dream to commandeer his body.

Jon decides to take a step forward, and his legs surprise him by obeying. That’s new. He stares blankly at his feet until another choked sob, louder this time, cuts through the fog. He cautiously takes a step toward the sound, and then another, and another, expecting the entire time for the dream to rip his agency away from him again. It doesn’t. He finds himself at the lip of the grave, as usual – but for the first time, he came here of his own volition.

When he looks down, he sees her sprawled at the bottom of her lonely plot, one hand scrabbling weakly against the earthen wall. The skin on her arms is pallid and covered in gooseflesh; her face is covered in dirt, but where her tears have eroded watery tracks down her cheeks, the skin underneath is ashen. She looks… grey, colorless, as washed out as the mist clinging to her. The moment she sees him, a soft, broken wail clambers up her throat.

Naomi Herne.

“Why are you doing this?” Naomi croaks weakly. It’s a refrain that Jon has heard time and time again, and he feels his heart clench painfully in his chest – or at least, a convincing psychosomatic simulation of it. “Why won’t you just leave me alone?”

“I’m so sorry, Naomi,” Jon whispers.

They both flinch simultaneously. Naomi flings herself bodily against the wall and Jon jolts backward into thin air so abruptly that he loses his balance and ends up in a heap on the muddy ground.

He’s never, ever been allowed to speak in this place. Years of apologies have sat heavily on his tongue, piling up and crowding his throat with every live statement he consumed, and never once has he been able to let them out. And more than that, it’s – it’s his voice. It’s not the Archive, it’s just… it’s just Jon. Staring ahead in stunned silence, he brings one hand to his throat and lets it rest there.

“I… I…” Naomi’s hoarse voice drifts up into the fog, confused and frightened.

Limbs still trembling, Jon crawls over to the edge of the grave and looks down again. Naomi watches him, her eyes wide and pale and wet.

“You… you spoke to me.”

“I…” Jon clears his throat uncertainly. “I – yes, I – I suppose I did.”

“You’ve never spoken to me.”

“Yes,” Jon murmurs, massaging his throat again.

“Why?” When Jon doesn’t reply, Naomi smacks her palm against the muddy wall of her plot and raises her voice. “Why?”

“I –” Jon shakes his head and tries to corral his thoughts into some semblance of order. The fog in his brain just might be as thick as the haze choking the cemetery. “This is the first time I’ve been allowed to speak.”

“That’s not good enough!” Naomi shouts, rising to her knees now. “Do you realize – do you know how long it’s been, how many times I’ve been forced to sit here, watching you just stare down at me with… and – and how many times have I asked, how many times have I begged for you to just – just say something, or look away, or do anything else other than – than watch me?”

“I…” Jon clears his throat again. “You gave me your statement on 13 January, 2016. I’m not sure what the exact date is right now, but – I think it’s December? 2017.”

“Almost two years!” Naomi’s voice cracks. “I can count in double digits the number of decent nights’ sleep I’ve gotten in two years.”

“I know,” Jon says quietly. “I know, and I’m – I’m so, so sorry.”

Naomi looks like she wants to rail against him some more, but she seems speechless.

The apologies are throwing her off. She wants to scream at a monster, and you’re robbing her of the opportunity –

Jon had forgotten how strong the Knowing is in this place. He swats at the nearest group of eyes hovering around him, and the influx of information is interrupted as they scatter and fade out. Whether he successfully distracted the Eye or simply redirected his own attention, he doesn’t know, but either way, he finds the quiet – at least for the moment.

Naomi watches the movement with utter bemusement, then schools her expression back into defiance and suspicion. “So what changed?”

“I’m… not sure, exactly. This is the first time this has happened, and…” Jon pauses, suddenly feeling self-conscious staring down at Naomi from six feet above. “Do you want –” He cuts himself off. He’s going to have to get used to dancing around questions again. “I can help you out of there. If – if you’d like.”

“Why?” She sounds less incensed now, but fire still simmers just below the surface of the word.

“I’ve – I’ve wanted to this entire time,” Jon says haltingly. “I did try, at first, when all of this started. I tried to reach down to you, but I – the dream has never let me move or talk or – or blink before.”

Naomi stares at him with narrowed eyes, arms crossed over her chest defensively. “I don’t trust you.”

“I… yes, I suppose that’s fair.”

Naomi falls silent. Jon watches her gaze flit nervously from eye to eye to eye as they blink open in the open air out of nothing and then pop out of existence again like soap bubbles, an endless shuffle of Watchers of varying sizes. The light they emit bounces off the water molecules in the air around them, illuminating the fog and bathing the entire area in a sickening greenish glow.

“Here, let me try…” Jon trails off, closes his human eyes and focuses on shutting the others, hoping to make himself appear just a little less monstrous. At one point he manages to pare their numbers down to just a couple dozen before all at once several dozen more blink open again, every one of them immediately swiveling to fix him with a reproachful stare.

He’s so preoccupied with glaring back at each of them in turn that he jerks when a hysterical giggle bubbles up out of Naomi’s throat. Now it’s Jon’s turn to look bemused. When his human eyes meet Naomi’s, she laughs harder. She still sounds tear-choked, but Jon can feel the fright draining away from her.

“Naomi…?” Jon tilts his head slightly, brow furrowing in consternation.

Naomi wipes tears from the corners of her eyes as she tries to catch her breath. “It’s – nothing, nothing. You just… you looked so put out, and it’s just – it’s hard to feel intimidated by a monster when it’s pouting like a toddler chasing peas around a plate with a fork.”

Jon feels his face heat, and then suddenly a quiet, involuntary chuckle is clawing its way up and out of his throat as well. It’s just – the tenor of her teasing is so, so reminiscent of Martin.

“Sure,” he says, his voice taking on the same teary-and-tickled tinge, “bully the penitent monster.”

Naomi stifles another giggle and doubles over, shivering with the surreal hilarity of it all. Both of them stay like that for a long moment, fighting back the bizarre combination of tears and laughter. Jon can’t remember the last time he’s laughed like this, and the realization brings another swell of tears to his eyes.

Eventually, Naomi stands on wobbly legs and rubs her eyes, carelessly smearing the moisture and dirt on her cheeks into a thin paste.

“Well?” She stands on tiptoe and stretches one hand up toward him. “Are you going to help me out of here?”

With a surge of gratitude – he’s being allowed to help someone for once – Jon stretches out flat against the ground and reaches down. A single eye sprouts uninvited on his palm and he scowls at it until it melts into his skin and out of existence. He looks back at Naomi, expecting fear and disgust, but she just looks fascinated and more than a little amused. When he extends his hand again, she reaches back. Their fingertips just barely brush and he scoots closer, head and shoulders leaning over the edge until Naomi’s clammy hand is clutched firmly in his.

“Are you actually going to be able to pull me out? You don’t look like you have any upper body strength.”

“Every day with the schoolyard bullying,” Jon sighs, reaching out a second hand to grip her wrist more firmly. She takes his cue and does the same, clasping his wrist with her other hand until it aches. “It’s a dream, Naomi. I don’t think physical laws matter much.”

She begins to pull herself up, her bare toes digging into the wall as she clambers up. She slips a few times, and Jon grimaces as he takes more of her weight.

“Seems like the dream’s decided your noodle arms are just as useless here as they are in the real world,” Naomi says with a strained grunt.

“Watch it, I might just drop you.” Jon panics as the retort leaves his mouth and he hastens to add, “I’m – I’m kidding, I wouldn’t – that was in poor taste, I’m sorry –”

“I know,” Naomi says with a breathless laugh. “Are you always this awkward?”

With one final burst of energy, she heaves herself upward and Jon shuffles back, pulling her over the edge until she has enough leverage to drag herself up the rest of the way. They both lay there for a few minutes, waiting for the adrenaline to fade.

“Thank you,” Naomi murmurs shakily.

“The least I can do, right?”

“The absolute least.”

Jon lets out a tired chuckle. When he realizes that one hand is still linked with one of Naomi’s, he starts to pull away, but she tightens her grasp and the look in her eyes turns panicked.

“Please,” she blurts out and then looks away, embarrassed. “I’m – I’m not trying to make it weird, I just –”

“It’s okay,” Jon says quietly, and gives her hand a reassuring squeeze. “I understand. We can stay like this for now.”

Naomi nods gratefully. She still looks a bit mortified – the color is returning to her cheeks, Jon notes – but more than anything else, she seems relieved. They spend the next few minutes in a slightly awkward but mostly companionable silence.

“I really am sorry, Naomi –”

“You said.”

“– but I don’t know how to stop this from happening.” When Naomi doesn’t reply, Jon continues: “I – I promise that if I find out, I’ll do whatever I can to stop it. I just – I wanted to say that, if this is a fluke – if next time we find ourselves here, I’m back to…” Jon hesitates for a moment. “Remember your anchor.”

“My… anchor?”

“The first time you got lost in the fog – think about how you found your way out.”

“Evan,” Naomi whispers, and Jon nods.

“Next time you find yourself here, if you’re alone, or – or if I’m… unresponsive, remember your anchor. And - and it doesn't have to be Evan, it can be anyone or anything that tethers you to the world you came from. I don’t know if it will lead you out of the fog in a dream – it might not even allow you to leave the grave – but it should… it should help you remember that you're not lost. That this is a dream, and you will wake up from it.” He swallows and closes his human eyes. “That the fog doesn’t actually go on forever, even if… even if sometimes it might seem like it.”

Naomi is silent for a long moment before she speaks again.

“Will you stay with me until I wake up?”

“I – I – yes?” Jon stammers, taken aback by the idea that she’d want to willingly pass the time in his company. “Yes, if you – if that’s what you want.”

“I wouldn’t have asked otherwise,” Naomi says. She rolls her eyes, but it comes off more as indulgent than annoyed. “Keep talking?”

Jon opens his mouth and closes it again. He’s never been a great conversationalist, especially with people he doesn’t know well, and it’s not like he’s had much chance to practice for… a long time. Not since he lost Martin. There was Helen, of course, but their chats were seldom rewarding, even before Jon was reduced to speaking in statements.

Apparently Naomi senses his struggle, because she fills the silence for him. “Do you have an anchor?”

Jon is glad of the assistance. Answering questions – that’s something he can handle.

“Yes,” he responds, just a bit dreamily, fighting back a smitten half-smile. “Yes, I do.”

Naomi raises an eyebrow.

“I… can tell you about him, if you’d like?”

“Sure, why not?”

“Alright then.” Jon fidgets nervously; being open about this sort of thing doesn't come naturally to him. “Statement of Jonathan Sims, regarding his anchor, and all the intricacies of being Seen.”

“Wow,” Naomi says flatly. “I take it he’s the one responsible for changing you from an arrogant prick to a besotted puppy?”

“He… may have had something to do with it,” Jon says, simultaneously fond and abashed. “He’s a poet and a hopeless romantic, and it may or may not have rubbed off on me. Now, do you want to hear this story or not?”

“Definitely, but I reserve the right to make fun of you when you’re done.”

“That seems like a fair deal, considering the past couple years.”

“I think so.” Naomi gives him an expectant look. “Well? Go on.”

“His name is Martin K. Blackwood.” Jon doesn’t bother holding back his smile this time. “The ‘K’ doesn’t actually stand for anything – he just, and I quote, ‘liked the way it looked’…”

It doesn't take much prompting for Jon to start rambling about Martin, and it takes him a few minutes to remember that Jonah might be listening in. He hadn’t been planning on mentioning the apocalypse to Naomi, but he reminds himself to be careful not to mention any major events that haven’t happened yet, anything that might hint at his foreknowledge of Jonah’s plans.

There is a risk of raising suspicion just by talking about Martin in such affectionate terms. At this point in his timeline the first time around, Jon was fully occupied with regularly having his life threatened – and then routinely, studiously refusing to process that ongoing complex trauma in any remotely healthy way. He didn’t exactly have the time or breathing room or emotional capacity to examine his developing feelings for Martin, and even if he had, he wouldn’t have been able to tolerate the vulnerability of admitting it to himself, let alone to Martin.

But Jonah can’t always be watching them; he has to assume that he misses out on things from time to time. He probably won’t think too hard on mundane slice-of-life moments involving tea and poetry and debates about what criteria should be used to identify a good cow, as long Jon is vague about the time frame and contextual details of each story. He avoids explicitly putting a label on the nature of their relationship and tones down any particularly romantic interactions. In the end, he succeeds in sounding like he has a not-so-subtle crush on a coworker and is both too emotionally repressed to acknowledge it and too unobservant to realize that it’s reciprocated. (It’s… not a difficult act to pull off.)

Jon manages to get through several non-incriminating anecdotes like that before Naomi wakes up. He hopes he’ll still have his voice the next time he sees her. It’s… nice, to talk to another person after so long with only the Distortion to keep him company.

He stands and brushes himself off as well as he can, which isn’t much. Resigning himself to the drying mud clinging to him, he steels himself and prepares to continue his well-traveled tour of the dreamscape.

Jon’s first stop is Dr. Lionel Elliott’s anatomy lab. Jon manages to snatch the apple away from him before either of them have to catch a glimpse of the molars hidden inside it, but it doesn’t stave off the bone-crunching contortions that always dominate this part of the dream. It takes Jon some very long, very painful minutes to talk Elliott down from his fear long enough to redirect the dream’s trajectory, and even longer to convince the man that he means him no harm.

Jon does eventually manage to coax him out of the dissection lab and into the hall – (“I think sitting on the floor out there is preferable to staying in here with all the…” – and here, Jon gestures at the nearest blood-spurting heart) – but they don’t get very far into their conversation before Elliott wakes up.

They’ll have to see each other again the next time Elliott sleeps, though. Jon can try again.

Next up is Tessa Winters, sat at her computer. She nearly has the keyboard to her lips before Jon manages to reach her. In his haste to stop the dream sequence, he overturns the table and sends the entire setup crashing to the floor, yanking the keyboard away from her for good measure. Tessa promptly drops to the ground and makes a grab for the nearest shard of glass from the broken monitor.

Unable to control her own body, she shoves the glass between her lips and crunches down on it before Jon can wrest it from her. When it slices into the roof of her mouth, an identical gash opens up in Jon’s, and soon both of them have blood running down their throats. As Tessa reaches out a shaky hand to snatch up another piece, Jon catches her wrist.

“Tessa, listen to me – you don’t have to do this anymore.”

The look she gives him is a perfect mix of enraged and terrified, and she tries desperately to pull away.

“Tessa – Tessa!”

Shaking her head frantically, she shuts her eyes tight, sending tears streaming down her cheeks. Jon chokes a bit on the blood still pouring freely out of the cut in his mouth. He can only imagine what a sight he must be right now: covered in mud, teeth stained red, all those hungry eyes looking on. He’s loathe to use compulsion, but…

“Tessa, look at me.”

She abruptly stops struggling and a glimmer of cognizance flares in her eyes. A moment later, she rips her hand away from his grip and backhands him across the face.

I probably deserved that, Jon thinks. He puts both of his hands up in a nonthreatening gesture and leans away from her, giving her space.

“What is wrong with you?” Tessa seethes. She spits blood onto the ground through her teeth, never once breaking eye contact with Jon. With his human eyes, he notes. “I’ve been having this dream for nearly a year and – and…”

“You… know that this isn’t just a dream.” It isn’t a question; Jon already Knows the answer.

“It’s a very lucid dream.” She’s clearly aiming for decisive, but Jon can detect the waver of uncertainty concealed underneath. Tessa looks away and wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, leaving a crimson streak painted across her skin.

“You don’t really think that, though,” Jon says gently. He could tell from the first time he met Tessa in her nightmares that she knew there was an element of the supernatural at play.

“Then what? You’re – you’re secretly a monster in disguise, siphoning off people’s ghost stories? Feeding on nightmares like some kind of – what, dream vampire?”

“I…” Jon frowns. “I’ve never heard it phrased that way, but I suppose? Sort of? I mean I was – I was human once. When you first gave your statement, I hadn’t realized what I was becoming just yet. I was having nightmares like this, but back then I still thought they were just… bad dreams.”

“So why are you suddenly talking to me now?”

“The dream has never let me talk before. Usually I don’t have control of my body, I just get piloted around and made to… well, Watch.”

“And what, I’m supposed to feel sorry for you?”

“No, I – not at all, I just –” Jon sighs. “I’m answering your question. The reason I’m just now speaking to you is because this is the first chance I’ve gotten to do so. I don’t intentionally bring you here and I wish it would all just stop. But…” He falters, struggling to get the words out. “But it is because of me that you’re brought here, and so I – I owe you an apology.”

“Why?” Jon looks at her questioningly. “You’re saying you don’t bring me here, and that you didn’t know what would happen when you took my statement. So, what are you actually apologizing for? Because you feel guilty, and you think saying sorry will make you feel better? That’s not an apology, that’s a cop-out.”

Jon’s first impulse is to deny it, but he stops himself, because that is the impression he’s giving, isn’t it?

“I do feel guilty,” he admits, “but apologizing isn’t going to make me feel better, trust me. I’m sorry because… like I said, even if I didn’t expect or intend this specific outcome, it’s still because of me that you’re here. I need to take responsibility for that.”

Jon gnaws on the inside of his cheek nervously, trying to organize his thoughts. Taking Tessa Winters’ statement was, in retrospect, a watershed moment for him. He had taken several live statements by that point, but all the earlier statement givers had made their way to the Institute independently. (Well, except Helen – Jonah had confessed that he was the one to lead her to the Institute – but Jon didn’t know that at the time.) Tessa was the first time Jon actively and knowingly brought someone to him – and he did it under false pretenses.

It’s been eating away at him ever since that first nightmare they shared.

“The forum post that drew you to me,” he says in a rush, “asking for statements.”

“What about it?”

“I’d never solicited statements before then. People would just come to the Institute on their own.”

“And?” Tessa fixes him with an intense look. “What changed?”

“Well, I… I had an ulterior motive in posting on tech savvy message boards specifically.” Jon picks at his cuticles, human eyes carefully averted from Tessa’s. “The laptop you helped me with, it belonged to my predecessor. I didn’t learn until after I was selected to replace her that she was murdered. It was an unsolved case, and I… I needed to know why. I thought, if I could get access to her computer, maybe there would be a clue somewhere.”

“And if it wasn’t for that post…”

“You would never have come to the Institute. You wouldn’t be here now.”

A full minute passes before Tessa speaks.

“Did it even help?”

“Not as much as I would have liked, no,” Jon says with a short, humorless laugh.

Tessa’s lips move wordlessly for a few seconds before she eventually snaps, “Why the hell did you feel like it was your job to solve a murder, anyway?”

“It seemed unlikely that it would ever be solved – the police certainly didn’t seem invested in it – and I was worried that I would be next.” Jon rubs the back of his neck for a few seconds before twirling a lock of hair around his finger, tugging gently. What does it say about his life that he misses when things were as simple as a workplace murder? “There’s more to the story, but – suffice it to say, I was paranoid and stubborn and - and unstable, and people got hurt because of it.”

The silence stretches between them for several minutes this time before Tessa speaks again.

“I don’t forgive you.” Jon winces before he can think better of it, and Tessa continues: “But your apology is accepted.”

Jon gives her a baffled look. “I… I don’t understand.”

“I can appreciate a genuine apology, and you seem sincere enough.” Tessa shrugs. “Sounds like you acted out of disregard for others, rather than out of malicious intent. Still not great, but I don’t think one action defines a person.” Her expression hardens and her voice turns firm. “But that doesn’t mean I have to forgive the action. And I’m not ready to forgive, not when I’m still living through the consequences. Maybe not ever.”

“That’s fair,” Jon says, and he means it. “Especially since – well, I don’t know how to stop the dreams. If I find a way, I’ll do it, absolutely, but for now… I can’t promise an end to this.”

Tessa makes a noncommittal noise.

“I am hoping that I’ll maintain basic bodily autonomy going forward. That way, I can – I can try to intervene again, the next time you get trapped in the loop. I’ve done this a couple times now, with other dreams. So far, it seems that if the script gets interrupted, we can ride out the rest of the dream without the nightmare component.”

“And if you go back to how you were before?”

“Then I’m forced back into the role of Watcher, I suppose.” The thought of it fills him with dread, but he isn’t about to make Tessa process that with him, so he quickly moves on. “But – but I think maybe you don’t need me to break the script? It might be enough to just… memorize how you feel right now.”

“What do you mean?”

“This is the first time you’ve been here and still had control of your own actions. The moment you’re sat in front of that computer, you become a passenger in your own body.” Jon gives his hair another gentle tug as he hunts for the right phrasing. “Find something – a word, a gesture, a memory, anything – that you can associate with how you feel right here, right now. Something sensory, or at least simple enough that you can remember even when – when your thoughts start to disintegrate.”

“'The angles cut me when I try to think,'” Tessa recites quietly. It sends a shiver up Jon’s spine, and he Knows it does the same for her.

“It’s an accurate description, isn’t it?”

Tessa gives him a suspicious look. “You can feel it?”

“Yes.” Jon shifts uncomfortably at the memory of it. “Like having your consciousness shredded until everything is sharp edges and… and noise.”

Jon can feel Tessa’s anger soften a bit, and he Knows that it’s not out of forgiveness. It’s because she feels vindicated, knowing that the one responsible for her suffering is at least facing the same torture as she is. She feels a twinge of shame over that feeling, he Knows, but even if she didn’t, he wouldn’t hold it against her. Honestly, he isn’t ready to be forgiven any more than Tessa is ready to forgive him.

“Anyway,” he says, unceremoniously shoving the Knowing away, “breaking the association between the computer and the loss of control might be enough to snap you out of the usual dream sequence.”

“Trick my brain with a bit of classical conditioning?” Tessa snorts. “That’s your advice?”

“Just a suggestion.” Jon shrugs. “I’ve found it helpful from time to time.”

“Alright then, Pavlov’s monster.”

Jon gives an awkward little laugh. “Never heard that one before, either.”

“I’m sure I can come up with more,” she says, and graces him with a very small, very tentative smirk. It feels remarkably like an olive branch – or maybe just the ghost of one. He doesn’t feel like he deserves even that.

Tessa refuses Jon’s offer to stay with her until she wakes up, so he stands and takes his leave.

Jon isn’t walking for long when the dreamscape shifts around him again. Rain patters down on the asphalt of a lonely road, stretching onward and outward with no end in sight. The harsh police lights refract off of the rain and the mist, the incessant bright flash sending a stabbing pain right to his temples.

He drifts towards the coffin on autopilot, never once breaking his stride, and he throws the chains aside. Before he can think twice about it, he walks down those familiar steps, taking two at a time in his haste to get through this segment of the dream as quickly as possible.

The instant the soil closes in around him, he reflexively calls Daisy’s name. It takes him three desperate shouts before he remembers with a sinking feeling that he won’t find her here. The coffin doesn’t allow for sleeping or dreaming, and it will be another few months before Jon can go in after her.

As soon as he resigns himself to that realization, the earth falls away and he’s standing in a coffin of a different sort, watching Karolina Górka from across a sweltering, buckling train car. All around them, the twisted metal groans and strains under unimaginable pressure. Karolina does not respond to his explanations, his apologies, his offers to help, his questions. She simply watches him, as he used to watch her, and smiles, until the train car collapses in on her and the scenery fades.

Next time, he tells himself, fighting back nausea and guilt. There has to be some way to reach her, and he has plenty of time to figure it out. Next time.

When Jon finds himself in front of Helen’s door, standing solitary in open air, he’s half-tempted to fling it open, finally see where it leads in this place. He has to force himself to turn away –

Which, as expected, gives him a full view of the undulating carpet of ants. He scans the swarm diligently, watching it writhe and twist until he catches sight of a hand reaching out to him, and he lunges to grab hold of it. As soon as Jordan is free of the horde, he shrinks away in terror, and Jon can feel the way his emotions vacillate: gratitude, confusion, fear, suspicion.

“This way,” Jon says urgently, trying to keep his mounting fear out of his tone and waving Jordan forward. Jordan looks hesitant until the incinerator door materializes beside them, heralding the appearance of Jane Prentiss. “Keep walking.” Jon's voice is definitely taking on a panicked edge now, despite his best efforts. “Don’t look at her.”

Much to Jon’s relief, Jordan listens and hastens after him. In this part of the dream, Jordan has always stood there frozen, eyes darting between the Archivist and the hive, unable to decide which was the lesser of two evils. This time – for now, at least – Jordan seems willing to take his chances with Jon.

Jon, of course, can’t fully avert his gaze. Even as he walks away, a few mutinous eyes watch behind him, captivated by Jane and the simmering worms wriggling and tunneling through her flesh. Jane’s burning stare burrows into him like larvae, and he fights the urge to scratch.

“Cover your ears.” Jon is careful to keep the compulsion out of his voice. Luckily, Jordan complies of his own volition – and not a moment too soon, as the hive begins to screech out its death knell only seconds after the words leave Jon’s mouth. He watches as Jane’s eyes liquefy and run down her cheeks. All the while, she screams and screams and screams until finally her throat crumbles to ash along with the rest of her.

Jon stops then, bending over with his hands on his knees, trying to quell his trembling. Jordan nearly runs right into him, throwing himself backward at the last moment and hitting the ground with a grunt. He takes one look at Jon and begins to scramble away. Now that Jane Prentiss is gone, all of his terror can be directed at the sole remaining monster.

“W-wait,” Jon says, voice raspy. “I – I don’t want to hurt you.”

Jordan stops moving, but continues to stare with wide, terrified eyes.

“I know what I look like, and I’m – I’m sorry about that, I don’t have control over them.” Jon gestures half-heartedly at the eyes phasing in and out in the air around him. Their focus darts about in all directions, greedy and possessive and eager to See everything there is to See. Even just a momentary glance of their restless movements elicits a burst of annoyance, and he can’t resist once again striking out at the nearest grouping of them. They instantly dissipate and Jon turns his human eyes back to Jordan. “But I want to help.”

“You’ve never helped before.”

“I know. The dream wouldn’t let me.”

“But now suddenly it will?”

“Yes, and I’m hoping it stays that way. But – but if it doesn’t –”

Before he can finish, Jordan flickers out of sight as his real body wakes. Jon groans in frustration. He would have liked to outline a contingency plan in the same way that he did with Naomi and Tessa, but… hopefully the next time Jordan sleeps, Jon can continue the discussion.

The eyes that he had previously banished pop back into existence one by one to his left.

“I really, really hate you, you know that?”

In unison, they all blink and reopen, slow and purposeful. He tries not to assign personality to them, but he can't help thinking that they look amused.

Jon swears, turns away from them, and kicks the ground uselessly. Hopefully Jonah isn’t watching this impotent little outburst, but just in case, Jon takes the time to glower up at the Eye looking down on him before he stalks off. It definitely makes him look even more like a petulant child, but at the moment, he can’t bring himself to care.

Jon paces feverishly in front of the door to the dissection lab, scratching absently at the back of his burned hand as he tries to calm his nerves. In one fluid motion, he reaches out to grab the door handle, then shrinks back again and runs his fingers through his hair with an agitated sigh. At this rate, she’ll wake up before he works up the courage to go in there.

He reaches toward the handle again, but stops at the last moment and raps his knuckles lightly against the door instead. Knock-knock, his mind supplies, sending a chill down his spine.

Even though he’s expecting it, he still starts at the answering, “Hello?”

Jon steels himself and opens the door, and suddenly he’s eyes-to-eyes with –

“Georgie…”

The customary sadness and pity in her expression fade away, replaced by faint surprise.

“Jon?”

End Notes:

- JON GETS TO USE HIS WORDS AGAIN! Finally. (There will still be some more Archive-speak peppered in throughout later chapters, though.)

- I took some liberties with Naomi's and Tessa's characterization, since we only got an episode each of them + some glimpses of their nightmares in MAG 121, and Naomi was in the middle of grieving during her episode. Hopefully they don't come off as too OOC, but either way, I was having fun writing their dialogue like this, so I just kinda ran with it.

- The scene with Georgie was running long, so I decided to end it there and pick it up in the next chapter. (Chapter 5 should be ready by this weekend, hopefully.)

- Btw, it was very tempting to title this chapter “How Am I Gonna Be an Optimist About This?” because Bastille’s “Pompeii” has been stuck in my head for days now and honestly?? It's probably not a bad song choice for these first four chapters.

#the magnus archives #tma #tma fic #jonathan sims #tma spoilers #long post

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