#god when he needs to send an archivist to fix everything:

[thunder-bringer25]

Honestly I hadn't really thought of it like that, like yes I thought it was an Archivist™ and all that but I honestly never considered it was following them bc of Alice and Sam going to the institute

[sidhewrites]

Chapter 6! I am suddenly confronted by the fact that I need to do some serious writing exercises with Haunted Archivists to figure out their interactions. But hey this is the first draft, it can be as stilted and awkward as it needs to be, so long as it gets written :3

Project Info

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I can't remember the last time a morning had gone so miserably. At least the sky is still overcast, which makes me feel a little better about life as a whole. The universe may not care about one idiot in a small town enough to change the weather for her, but it was nice to pretend it did. Josie had texted early in the morning, letting me know she had free time this afternoon, and could I call her to arrange things? I hated how quickly I sat up, not even fully awake by the time I pulled up her name in my phone and called.

She didn't even answer.

I was an idiot. As sweet as Josie was, she'd always been bad with confrontation of any kind, which meant she was probably chickening out and too afraid to talk to me directly. I missed her like hell, but I wouldn't miss this.

Instead, I send a text -- Is 3:00 ok?

By the time I'm dressed, she's texted back: Yeah.

I wait for the three dots to appear and disappear, Josie typing and erasing her message over and over again on the other side of her screen. It doesn't surprise me. No doubt she's trying to find a way to tell me how hard this is, and how sorry she is for causing trouble, and so on and so on. I feel bad sometimes. I know she's not trying to make things worse. But Josie has always been too nice for her own good, and it lead to things like this, where I had to fill in the blanks and figure out how to fix things between us in a way that would make us both happy.

I'm not smart. It took me a while to figure this out about her and how to work around it.

With a sigh, I turn on my coffee machine, and offer a compromise. How about we meet at Mean Mug, and you can get your things then

Okay, thank you.

Cool see you then.

See you. Thank you.

I force myself to put my phone down before I make the mistake of apologizing. It would honestly be easiest if I just went and dropped things off at work or outside her apartment, but there are too many valuables in there I don't want to risk getting stolen or broken before she has time to get to it. I know Josie feels bad for what she's doing, but if I say sorry, then she'll apologize and bend over backwards to make it up to me, and I've got to do enough groveling later today for both of us.

My stomach churns, and I barely force down breakfast before heading to work.

Mr. Ngo isn't happy to see me when I arrive. I mean, I knew he wouldn't be, but he really isn't happy to see me. The office feels smaller than ever, air even staler and more difficult to breathe.

"Hello Kaz," he says. He'd been going over the schedule for the next few weeks. I get a glance of the tree trimmers' contact information, and resist the urge to make a joke.

"Morning. How's things?" I try to sound chipper, but it's not believable.

My heart drops further as Mr. Ngo hesitates, and looks down at his hands. He pushes himself up from the desk with a sigh, and makes himself meet his eyes. There's none of the frustration or disappointment I'd expected. I had assumed the Haunted Archivist team would have told on me the second they left last night, but instead, his eyes are red behind his glasses.

"Mr. Ngo? Everything all right?" I think back to the phone call he'd had last night. Oh god -- Phan. In my shame and dread, I'd completely forgotten about the phone call last night. I feel like even more of an ass than before.

He sighs, pulls off his glasses and wipes at his eyes before finding his voice. "I'm...going to have to take a couple days off, Kaz. Phan came down with a fever last night, and it's not going down." He shook his head. I swallowed my guilt, and made myself wait for him to talk again. "Look, she's in the hospital right now, and doctors are looking at her. I'm sure it's nothing, but..."

"No, please. Take all the time you need. Just let me know what you need."

He sighs again, and nods. I'd never seen him look so worn out. "I didn't want to tell you this, but we have overnight guests this week."

Shit.

"I know you wouldn't have approved of me staying out late, but I was looking forward to working with these kids. They're a couple of ghost hunters, very sweet. You'll like them plenty."

Anything but that.

It's a fight to keep my face neutral, but I can feel the muscles around my mouth tense, pressing my lips into a thin line, eyes widening.

"I just need you to supervise for the next few nights. Let them in at nine and let them back out when they're ready to leave. I'll do what I can to get someone to manage the day shifts, but..."

"Anything you need, Mr. Ngo," I say, and I mean it. Forget everything else. I can't keep him from Phan, and if that means working double- or triple-time to keep things running, so be it. I knew how to reach out to funeral homes and inform them of staffing changes, I had all our contractors' information on file. There was just one burial scheduled for the week, and I'd be able to manage that just fine. "You trained me on almost everything. I promise I can handle it."

It's like a massive weight falls off his shoulders, and he deflates with relief. "Thank you, Kaz. I can always trust you to take care of things."

"Any time. You look like you need sleep. Why don't you go home, and I'll take over for the day?"

"I have to schedule..."

"The tree trimming. I see the business card. Let me handle it. Okay?"

"Okay." He hesitates. "And if you need anything --"

"I'll call. I promise. You get some sleep, okay?"

"Okay."

I walk Mr. Ngo to his car and help him in, but he sticks his head out the window one more time. "You sure you can handle it on your own?"

"I promise not to raise the dead and unleash a horde of the undead on Stronte without you."

Finally convinced, Mr. Ngo shuts the door and turns on the car. I stand in the parking lot with as reassuring of a smile as I can manage, watching him go. But as soon as the car is out of sight, any hint of levity disappears, and I fight back a wave of nausea.

Shit shit shit shit.

The Haunted Archivists hadn't told him about last night, which was good. My job here has never been at risk, but I would prefer that not to change any time soon. But there was no way to avoid them in plain daylight now. I could try to pretend that it hadn't been me last night, crouched behind a gravestone and sabotaging their work, but I could also pretend I was ten feet tall with wings and extra eyes.

I drag my sorry ass back to the office, and sit down at the desk to review the notes. It's easy to tell my chicken scratch from his perfectly-formed blocky lettering, and I sort out the various to do lists and notifications. It's hard to focus on work, my mind constantly drifting back to the inevitable meeting where I'd have to face the Haunted Archivists and admit that, yep, the assistant groundskeeper was in fact their local nemesis -- who, by the way, was so very, very sorry about last night, and, hey, can I buy all of you a coffee?

Ugh.

Schedules. Notes. The headstones had just been cleaned, so I didn't have to tend to them for another week or two. I'd have to survey the damage from the rains last night, however, and see if any burial plots were loosened and needed to be tamped back down. The diggers were coming tomorrow to prepare a new grave for the burial, and so on and so forth. It wasn't exactly easy to fall into the routine of paperwork at the best of times. I hated sitting still for long periods of time without something interesting to do, but I couldn't let things slip even an inch this week. Mr. Ngo worried about everything far too much, and the last thing I wanted was to distract him from his wife.

By the time afternoon rolled around, I had gotten most of the necessary paperwork done, which meant I was free to step outside and answer a few basic questions for visitors about the historical significance of this headstone or that unmarked grave. It wasn't officially part of my job. We had a few part-time volunteers to act as docents and tour guides to those who were interested, but I'd been here for three years and learned more than enough to fill in. 

Everyone asks about Lucille Blue. Have we seen her, when does she come out, what does she look like. But I've lived here almost five years now, walking through the graveyard to get to class if not working here outright, and I'd never seen a single orb, much less a full-body specter. I tell them as much every time.

[transition here.]

I had hoped to get a chance to talk to the team first. Step up, hold out my hand, and make my case with a friendly smile. So it was more than a little troublesome that they found me in the office instead, pulling me out of my apology rehearsals. And though I've got the nicest, sweetest smile plastered on my face when I greet them, they recognize me immediately.

"Hi." I wave. It's pathetic.

"Hi." Lourdes looks me up and down, not the least bit impressed. "We're looking for Kaz Pine. Quoc said we'd be working with her for the rest of the week."

"That would be me."

"Of course it is."

"Listen, about last night --"

[She's super unhappy]

"If it would make you feel any better, I could get on my knees and grovel?" I don't often wish I could melt into a puddle and disappear, but this felt like an appropriate moment.

"Look, we had an interview scheduled with Quoc today. Are you gonna be normal if I ask you to fill in?"

"I've literally never been normal in my life."

"Great."

Great.

Though I call it a graveyard, this is technically a cemetery, which means there's a church on the grounds. Funerals would be held by the local priest, and a grave digger would manage the burial itself. The church fell to ruin during the industrial revolution. With a population boom, the townsfolk commissioned a new church, and left this one to the elements.

Nowadays, the church is mostly used by squatters and dumb kids who think it's a cool place to hang out and summon ghosts or take photos of each other. I've seen a few people try to call themselves urban explorers for going inside, but really, they're just idiots walking around the DO NOT ENTER signs and risking a broken neck when they descend the old wooden stairs to the cellar. If they'd just wait for a tour guide, we could at least take them a safer route.

I take the Haunted Archivists to the side door and let them scout the [apse? main room] for the best lighting before sitting down to talk with them. I go over a basic history of the town and the cemetery itself, plus a few fun stories I'd heard from over the years.

"It's normal for people to take a shortcut from the residential area to the local university, or just spend time here, since it's part of the historical tours they give on the weekends. One of my old professors claimed to be haunted a couple years ago. A full-body specter of a child would follow him from one side of the graveyard to the other, and show up at the edge of his bed in the middle of the night. It got so bad that he called in a priest to help banish the dead, but not before a couple of students tried to host a seance."

"Did they find anything?" Mick asks.

"Nah. One of them -- uh." I hesitate, feeling a grimace twist my expression. "Sorry, one sec." I take a second to clear my throat, and school my expression back into something that couldn't be described as I didn't mean to mention my ex girlfriend and feel sick to my stomach now.

"You okay?"

I make a different face, and aim finger guns his way. And then, finally, I manage to recover and start over. "One of them says she saw a shadowy figure walking around in the background, but it was hard to make out any details. Just that they were too tall to be a child."

"It wasn't just a local in the cemetery at night?" I don't miss the pointed edge to the question.

"No. We didn't have a night crew at the time, and no-one else saw the figure."

"So what happened?"

"Don't know. The story kind of died down after the priest showed up, but the professor seemed to be sleeping better at least."

Mick nodded, and reviewed his notes.

"Can you give us your version of Lucille's story?"

"Don't you guys usually cover that with some aesthetic stock footage and animation?"

"For our notes, please."

Ugh. But I do as he asks. "Lucille, born Lucille Cooper, moved here with her family not long after the civil war. They just finished a railroad at the base of the mountains, and the town's population was growing fast. She met a clerk, James Blue, and they fell in love. According to legend, it was love at first sight. The newspapers say it was a three-month courtship, or whatever the equivalent was at the time, but on the day they were to be married, someone found James' body in the woods. Lucille was heartbroken, and the mayor allowed her family to sign the marriage contract for her, allowing them to be married in the eyes of the law, if not god. She wore full mourning for six months, starting to sleepwalk and getting weaker with grief. One night, her mother forgot to lock her bedroom door, and they found Lucy the next morning, curled up on James' grave, dead."

"How did she die?"

"Nobody knows. She was sickly, but not to the point of death. And there was no sign of violence either. Her clothes were rumbled, but not torn or stained. Even her mourning veil was only a little creased. There were rumors she might have poisoned herself, but nobody wanted to believe Lucille could do something like that."

"What then?"

"Then, the Blue family had her buried besides James, but there's not a single record of his ghost ever being seen. Legend has it, Lucille's still here, waiting for her husband to guide her into the next life. For the past hundred-fifty years or so, people claim to see her in her mourning gown, waiting by her grave or walking around."

"Have you ever seen her?"

I shrug -- then jump as my phone vibrates in my pocket. I pull it out without thinking, and swallow the sudden surge of emotion. Josie's name sits on my screen, leaving me nauseated with a swirl of hope and dread in turn.

3:00? is all she's sent.

tag list:

@adaughterofathena

@ambreeskyewriting

@carnelianflames

@feather-dancer

@halfbloodlycan

@nadunacreates

@serenanymph

@vigilantdesert

[musical-murder]

Man... I have too many ocs all of which I wanna use at once

However... This Man's my current favorite (Used a Picrew Cause I am not in a drawing mood)

Don't know which I like best but either way he is blind as fuck and it's creator dubbed him "The Timekeeper" (because it's inner workings are like a clock and if you press your ear to his chest you can hear the softest of ticks and I'd you open him up he's got a clock right where their heart should be!) and his purpose is unknown but they have a wicked ass library that holds all the knowledge they could ever need. They aren't too worried about finding their purpose however they exist in a place where no physical being can access. They have library locations within the psyche of everyone. Timekeeper kinda travels to every single one to make sure things are running smoothly.

They aren't a real physical being, think of memory personified. We also call Timekeeper the archivist. If he was an aesthetic he would be dark academia for sure. And if it was a song they would be Dream Sweet in Sea Major (Miracle Musical). He is just absolutely everything to me and I intend of making use of him in any way I possibly can... well I already have.

He's awful at comfort however can give an extensive knowledge on most things magic related. When he does provide comfort it's usually seen as awkward or unhelpful because he will try to figure out how to fix the problem in a way other than mentally and emotionally. He's none too great at making friends either but when he does he does his best to maintain the relationship. He's programmed in many ways to be the perfect archivist or librarian. He is not fond of interacting with people though. He often speaks proper.

... I love him and hope honest to God I can do more with him maybe draw him in the future. He just... he sparks joy...

(By the way.. if anyone would like the picrew links I'd be happy to send them your way!)

[ghostbustermelanieking]

tma fic masterpost

love letters (of a sort)

(jonmartin, seasons 1-5, fluff, angst, wc: 13k)

Want to grab dinner later? I know you're going to be working absurdly late anyway, and there's a new Italian place I've been wanting to try. — M

Yes, that sounds nice. I'll try to be finished by 7:00. — J

Oh, yes. God forbid you don't work absurdly late. ;) — M

-

Or: The notes and letters Jon and Martin have written each other, through the years.

cracks

(post mag 200, tim & sasha, jonmartin, wc: 1k)

Sasha finds a tape on her kitchen table. A new one. The last one. She doesn't even need to listen to it to know it's the last one. And she has a voice-mail on her phone from Annabelle Cane.

She calls Tim first, right then, at one a.m., and he picks up. She knew he would. She knows he felt the change, too. "We have to go," she says. "Right now. We've got to go back. Something's happened."

microfics: tender, trembling hands, drastic

in the moonlight

(wtgfs, pre-canon, fluff, wc: 2k)

6. things you said under the stars and in the grass

Or: Georgie and Melanie on a late-night ghost hunt (in an "unromantic" field).

after words

(jonmartin, mag 102 au, hurt/comfort, wc: 3k)

things you said prompts: "13. things you said at the kitchen table."

Or: After Jon's escape from the Circus, Martin offers for Jon to stay with him.

warm

(jonmartin, scottish safehouse period, wc: 2k)

things you said prompts: "1. things you said at 1 am"

Or: Huddling for warmth after the Lonely.

reunions

(post mag 196, canon divergent, jonmartin, wc: 2k)

Martin and Jon find each other again at the remnants of Hill Top Road.

cursed grounds

(bly manor au pt 1, jonmartin, ensemble, slow burn, wip, wc: 14k)

When there's a lull, Martin speaks up, because he has to, he knows he does, he won't get a better opportunity. He says, "I've got a story," and when they look at him with interest, he adds, "A… a statement, really. It might be hard to hear, but… I think we all need to hear it again."

He shifts in his seat, sits up straighter, clears his throat and looks out at the lot of them and begins. "Statement of Martin Blackwood," he says, "regarding the Magnus Institute, and everything that happened there." He takes a breath, hears the familiar words in their familiar cadence rattle through his mind: the Archivist is taking a statement. He says, "Statement begins."

--

Or: In 1985, after the disappearance of Gertrude Robinson from the reclusive grounds of the Magnus Institute, Jonathan Sims is brought in as a replacement. As he adjusts to the new job, and begins to bond with his new coworkers, the strange happenings on the grounds that the Magnus Institute sits on become harder to ignore.

Years later, Martin Blackwood makes a statement.

variations on a death scene

(ensemble, jonmartin, wtgfs, aus, revenge stories, wc: 6k)

Or: Eight times Jonah Magnus was killed, and everything was fixed.

tapes winding forward

(jonmartin, time travel, season 1/season 5 au, word count: 48k)

Chapters: 6/6

Martin gets a closer look at the calendar, and his breath catches in his throat. He's gotten a look at the year, and it's wrong, it's all wrong. 2018. October, 2018. Right there, in Martin's own handwriting, on a Saturday, he's written things on little dates that Martin can't read, because he can't take his eyes off the year. 2018. 2018. They look differently. They have scars they don't recognize. Their hair is longer. 2018.

Martin seizes the calendar off the fridge and goes back into the living room. Jon's still at the coffee table, poking through the tapes piled there, but he looks up when Martin comes back in and says, "Martin, where…" with a familiar bite in his voice.

Martin ignores him, stops him mid-sentence to say, "Jon, what have you heard about time travel?"

---

Martin and Jon wake up two years in the future. It goes about as well as can be expected.

cat's cradle

(georgie & jon, wtgfs, the admiral, s5 au, cat angst & fluff, mag 189/190, word count: 5k)

Jon and Martin go out one day, on a trip to the eldritch horror-trap grocery store, and show back up in the tunnels after a few long hours, longer than any of the trips to the store that Georgie has been on. Martin has a bag of horrible spooky food, and Jon has a bag shut at the top that is wriggling suspiciously in his arms. "Oh, great," says Melanie, when Georgie fills her in. "What monstrous thing has he brought home now?" Georgie would giggle if the situation wasn't at least a little potentially dangerous, Jon could have anything in there, really.

---

Or: an exploration of the fate of the Admiral, after the end of the world.

rising static

(archivist!martin, jonmartin, s5 au/canon divergence/spec, word count: 14k)

Martin forces his eyes open to look at Jon, bruise blossoming at the top of his forehead, eyes red and wet. "Wh-what's gone?" he asks softly, almost afraid of the answer.

"It. All of it, or at least some of it, I don't know… I can't feel it anymore. The statements, the Beholding, it's—it's…" Jon breaks off mid-sentence, shaking his head. He leans forward so their foreheads are together, and Martin can feel him trembling all over. He says, voice low and thick with fear, "I'm… not sure I'm the Archivist anymore."

---

The initial confrontation with Jonah Magnus goes badly, and Martin wakes up outside the Panopticon to find Jon missing. In the wake of this initial loss, something about Martin starts to change.

northern-bound trains

(safehouse fic, jonmartin, post mag 159, pining, word count: 6k)

Martin rides with Jon to the train station. He insisted. Said he shouldn’t have to go there alone. “Nothing worse than leaving on a trip with no one to send you off,” he’d said. Jon had nodded, gratefully, and swallowed back the burning lump of what he wanted to say—Come with me, come to Scotland, I don’t want to leave you alone again. He kept hearing Martin’s words in his head: I really loved you. And he couldn’t ask Martin to do that, to leave his whole life and everything behind to become a fugitive, cower in Scotland and throw his whole life away. It’s too much. And Martin has already sacrificed so much for him.

He’ll be content with Martin seeing him off. That can be enough. That will be enough.

knowing

(s1 archives crew, timsasha, season 4 au, word count: 3k)

Jon falters, looks at the ground, one hand over his mouth. "You… you were both in the same place. In a… domain. D-Daisy was in one, too, a different one. I got her out. And I… I thought, afterwards, that maybe I could get the two of you back, too."

---

Or: After the Unknowing, after the Buried, Jon finds Sasha and Tim again.

journeys at the end of the world

(wtgfs, melanie king, season 5 au/spec, word count: 8k)

Melanie doesn't remember what happened after the world ends.

(Or: Melanie searches for Georgie in the wake of the apocalypse.)

a hidden statement

(season 1 au, s1 archives crew, jonmartin, timsasha, wc: 100k)

Chapters: 5/15 (wip)

Martin finds the tape in the wall. Specifically, in a small hole in the drywall, tucked behind boxes and stuffed with so much crumpled paper and tissue that it's almost impossible to see anything else in there. It's a cassette tape, the sort Jon uses to record statements, labeled on the front with a brown strip of tape. It's addressed to the Head Archivist in a spidery handwriting.

--

Or: Gertrude Robinson made a tape as a warning to the next Head Archivist. What if he had gotten it?

[rest-upon-the-morning-light]

JonMartin fic

So I’m trying to get back into fic writing, especially for TMA, and have a multi chapter fic planned but wanted to start with a smaller one shot style fic to warm up. It’s been an age since I’ve written anything, much less something that wasn’t just reader based or smut lmao. I’ve added trigger warnings but if I missed any do let me know! 

Any feedback would be great and if you like this, please send me prompts! Happy to write anything from fluff to smut, just as long as its TMA based :D 

So! Here is my cute fluff JonMartin fic! Enjoy~ 

Everybody Wants To Be A Cat 

Word Count: 2240 

Trigger Warnings: Mentions of Animal Abuse, but nothing to graphic. Anxiety. Self Worth Issues. Season 1 Jon being Season 1 Jon. Season 1 Martin being Season 1 Martin.

Fandom: The Magnus Archive

Pairings: Jonathan Sims/Martin Blackwood 

Summary: Martin was certain of two things. One, he had an enormous crush on his boss. Two, his boss hated him. Who knew a one eyed beast of an alley cat would bring them closer?

Martin Blackwood has two problems.

Problem number one. He was absolutely certain he was more than a little bit in love with his boss.

Problem number two. His was absolutely certain said boss hated him.

 Well, hated was probably a strong word. Hated implied that Jon thought of him at all, and it was far more likely that Jon thought of him very little throughout his day. Except, of course, when Martin did something wrong. Then those piercing eyes of his would be solely fixed on him whilst he shouted about how inept Martin was or how stupid his mistake had been.

It hurt, those moments. It hurt that the only time Jon ever truly seemed to see Martin was when he was angry at him. Not when Martin did an amazing follow up on a statement. Not when he’d created a great rapport with a statement giver or their family. Not when he brought Jon tea. Just when he did something wrong.

It was a running theme in this annoyance Martin called his life.

He still couldn’t help these feelings though. Jon was an arse half the time that much was true. It infuriated Tim to know end when Jon would lash out at Martin. “He has no right Martin. Mistake or not he’s your boss, he’s supposed to help you, not act like a massive dick all the time”

It was harder for Tim and Sasha in a way. They’d been Jon’s equal for a long time, working together. Moving to the Archive was always going to be a bit of a challenge. To have friend become boss. Especially for Sasha, who everyone thought was going to be become Head Archivist. But neither had held any real resentment over Jon for the change. After all, it wasn’t his choice, it was Elias’s.

But Jon’s sudden shift from rude but mostly recluse and occasionally friendly colleague to rude very recluse and stick constantly up arse boss was harder than any of them expected.

Martin could understand. It was big position and Jon seemed like the type to take everything he did very seriously. This meant holding everything in the archive to a high standard. His assistance included.

So yes, Jon was awful to him a lot of the time. But he was passionate. He cared. For all his blustering that none of this was real, Martin could see how much he empathised with the people who had given those statements. How he looked like he’d personally failed them when a follow up revealed they had died not longer after they’d come to visit the institute.

His crush probably wasn’t the most healthy but sue him! He liked being a bit in love. He liked having inspiration for his poetry. He enjoyed the fluttery feeling in his stomach when he came into work.

He just wished Jon didn’t quite hate. No. Didn’t quite dislike him so much.

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

There is a cat that has been hiding the alleyway behind the Institute for several days now.

Martin noticed the poor thing when he’d been taking out some rubbish that accumulated in the Archive. Usually that sort of thing wasn’t his job, but he’d been done for the day anyway and he liked to be useful, even if no one really noticed.

It was a mangy young thing. Light brown fur matted, one eye seemed to be damaged and it hissed every time Martin so much as approached it.

He couldn’t just leave it though. Poor thing needed help. It was out here, lonely, forgotten, damaged by the people that probably at one point said they’d love and protect it.

Was he projecting onto a stray cat now? God this was a new level of sad.

So he did what someone in his position did best. He researched.

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

There is a surprising number of places to buy cat supplies near the Institute and the workers in the shop were incredibly helpful with his questions.

Approach slowly. Don’t try to touch or hold the cat. Leave out food and water. He’d also bought a small plastic hut and shoved a warm blanket inside for the large cat. He didn’t know what breed it was. Just that it was grumpy and hurt.

It didn’t take a great deal away from his own funds either. His job paid well enough and he didn’t exactly go out with people very often, buying expensive drinks or tickets to shows.

His special treat was usually some sugar drenched coffee.

He couldn’t see any physical injuries on the cat, apart from its eye, so he put some treats in the hut, left out the food and water, then left.

He came back everyday with more supplies to keep the large growling cat comfortable. Every day that passed the cat came a little bit closer to him. He grinned at that. Hoping one day it would come close enough to pet.

He’d read somewhere that when cats blink, once and slow, it was a sign that they trusted you. Martin waited for that day with bated breath.

Tim and Sasha were a little bit suspicious as to where he was going on his lunch breaks. He told them he just taking a long walk, getting some fresh air away from the dusty old archives but he knew it wasn’t the best lie.

Lying for the sake of his job was one thing. Lying to his friends for no good reason was another.

It wasn’t like he doing anything bad. It was more that he wanted this for himself. He wasn’t even too sure why. Part of him wondered if he was worried the cat would somehow take some natural liking to either one of them or both. He didn’t want to lose all his hard work.

Or, if he was being more honest with himself, he didn’t want the cat to abandon him for someone better.

Yeah. New level of pathetic had been reached.

But one lunch, a few weeks after he’d first spotted the broken but massive feline, that the lying and the ill feeling became absolutely worth it.

Because the cat approached him.

Martin didn’t move a single muscle. He was sat on a small wooden box in the alley. Far enough away as to not frighten the poor thing, but close enough that the cat could make contact if it wanted to.

And today it did.

He held his breath the closer it got, keeping eye contact with its good eye the whole time. It paused for a moment, right in the front of his bent legs, before it let out a small mirp noise and butted its head against his knee.

“Oh hello” Martin laughed, chest feeling lighter than it had in an exceptionally long time.

He reached out his hand slowly to pet its head and let out another sign of relief when the one eyed cat let him.

“Well” he began

“I can’t very well keep calling you cat or beast in my head, you’ll need a name”.

It didn’t acknowledge his words in any way, just continued to let him scratch behind its ears and watched him with its one working eye. He could almost imagine its thoughts.

“Silly Martin, just come up with one already. Stop wasting time”.

He let out a soft chuckle at the thought, a name ready on his lips.

“Jon” he smiled gently.

“I think I’ll call you Jon”.

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

 It went well after that. Martin made plans to keep the cat. It would help the dreariness of his lonely flat, and he was lucky his landlord allowed pets in his building.

He couldn’t afford proper insurance but the workers at the pet shop knew an emergency vet that wasn’t too expensive, so he could get Cat Jon’s eye checked out soon.

Giddy as he was with his newfound friend, he didn’t realise that he’d been less subtle than usual about where he was going on his break.

It was one grey, wet Wednesday that it all came to ahead.

He’d been sitting crossed legged on the ground, his coat below him as a sort of makeshift blanket to keep his trousers dry, when Human Jon found them.

He hadn’t even noticed Jon had followed him until the backdoor that led the alley burst open with a bang that echoed down the narrow way.

“Martin” shouted Jon, looking at some papers in his hand.

“I need you to take your lunch late and follow up on this report. You made several errors in your research that, frankly, a child could spot. I don’t know what you’re doing out here but if you have time to sit around then –“

Jon’s rant was cut short as he finally looked up to the picture that greeted him.

Cat Jon had leaped into his arms from the loud noise, clinging to Martin’s bright yellow sweater.

Martin froze, cat in arms as Jon stared at him with a look of equal shock.

“Oh” began Jon softly

“Sorry” Martin practically shouted.

“I – eh – this is, well um, a cat, I found? A few weeks ago, actually. I’ve been sort of taking care of it? Getting it food and water and um” he gestured to the plastic hut and blanket he’d laid out.

“He was hurt you see. Only one eye and really badly taken care of. Abandoned, I recon. So I’ve been out here on lunches making sure he’s, um, that he’s okay? Is that..is that alright?” he trailed off nervously.

He couldn’t look at Jon. It wasn’t exactly something to be ashamed of, taking care of a stray cat. But he could imagine Jon being the sort of serious no nonsense person who would see it as a waste of time, his lunch break or not. God would this make his relationship worse? Would Jon scold him for it? Did it make him seem more pathetic than before? Christ, was that even possible?

He didn’t notice the movement until Jon was sat beside him on the floor.

Jonathan Sims, Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute, sat on a dirty alley floor with Martin K Blackwood.

He watched with bated breath as Human Jon reached his hand out to Cat Jon and let out a small sound of relief when Cat Jon didn’t bite, scratch or run away.

“You poor thing” murmured Jon, eyes only on his (unknowing) cat counterpart.

“What have they done to you? Well, you look better now than you probably did before. Thank to our Martin here”.

Martin couldn’t help but blush deeply at that. Hot all over his face. He couldn’t handle this. Jon being all, all soft and gentle and calling him “our” Martin.

“You’ve been taking care of him then?” Jon looked up at Martin now. Eyes soft and kind for once. It nearly took all of Martins brain power to respond after receiving such a look.

“Yes” he began.

“Like I said, I found him a few weeks ago. Planning on taking him back to mine soon, get him out of the cold properly”.

Jon nodded, eyes never leaving Martins, hand firmly petting the cat in Martins arms.

“I’m sorry, about the work” Martin nervously bit his lip.

“I’ve been really worried about him so I rushed it to get out here on time. It’s no excuse and I know you don’t exactly think highly of my work in the first place. I’ll make sure I stay late tonight so I can catch up”

“Martin” interrupted Jon, eye straying on the bitten lip, a slight flush to his cheeks.

“I’m the one who should be sorry. I haven’t been fair to you these past few months. It’s been unprofessional at best and, well, and downright cruel at worst”

“Your job is stressful” Martin tried to defend

“And we both know I’m not exactly at the same standard at the others”

“Still” Jon continued.

“It’s my job to help you, not, berate you at every mistake. You came from the library, not research, so you have different skill set and – well, its been hard for us all. Not fair of me to put all that blame on you. God knows Tim could stand to be a bit more professional at times” Jon grumbled out the last part, a small pout to his lips.

Martin laughed at that, smiling wider than he could last remember.

“Tim just likes to keep you human, I think” he winked and watched with fascination as the flush came back to Jon’s dark cheeks.

Cat Jon leap out of his arms after that, toddling off to who knows where.

“Well” Martin began, getting up from his cross legged position on the floor.

“We still have time for lunch, we could, um, maybe eat together? If that’s okay I mean! You could help me figure out a name for him?” “You don’t have one already?” replied Jon, surprise in his voice “Uhhh not any suitable ones, no” Martin laughed awkwardly.

He couldn’t exactly say he’d name the poor blighter after Jon. He doubted Jon would take it as a compliment and he didn’t want to ruin whatever fragile peace they’d stumbled onto.

He held out his hand to help Jon off the floor. Jon eyed it, before bringing his own hand up and placing it into Martins larger ones. Martin pulled him up and held back a small gasp as Jon shot forward quicker than intended, his smaller hand landing on Martin chest.

Jon looked up at him, a small shy smile gracing his lips.

“Beautiful” Martin couldn’t help but think, face and ears bright red.

Jon pulled back, coughing every so slightly into his fist.

“Yes, well, I’ve named a cat or two in my time, it won’t be too hard” “Oh?” teased Martin

“What about Magnus? We did find him here” Jon shook his head at that, crinkling his nose slightly.

“Absolutely not, something more dignified. The Captain maybe?” “Captain?” countered Martin

“The Captain” continued Jon as they began to head back inside

“I suppose the one eye does give him a bit of a pirate look” Martin couldn’t help by laugh slightly as he said it.

“Yes” Jon laughed back

“Dignified but still fitting his nature” And off they went, back into the Institute. Unaware of any monstrous eyes watching them as they simply watched each other. A new, wonderful feeling developing between them.

Neither noticed that they still held each others hands as they made their way to the break room.

And if they spoke of cat names, and toys and flushed deeply when they did notice the hands still entwined, well.

Those moments were only for them.

[catgirlthecrazy]

Imposter Syndrome

Fanfic partially inspired by episode 161, and also these excellent bits of Archivist Sasha AU/Not!Jon related fanart by @skyberia

AO3

Summary: Martin doesn't have much left of the real Jonathan Sims. He doesn't even have a face. Not a real one. Just a recording on a tape recorder.

************************

"Come on…" Martin strains against the super glue cap. "Come on." The damn thing won't move. Frustrated, knowing it's a dumb idea but with no better ones to hand, Martin grips the cap between his teeth and twists.

"What are you doing?"

Martin yelps and fumbles the glue bottle. He frantically grabs for it, but his flailing arms just knock the tape recorder off the table and send it clattering onto the floor. He scrambles to pick it up. Please don't be broken, please don't be broken. There doesn't seem to be any damage. No new damage, anyway.

(He fails to notice that the record button was pressed on by the fall)

Jonathan Sims, Martin's fellow archival assistant and target of an extremely inconvenient crush, raises an eyebrow at him. "Um, sorry, I didn't see you there. You startled me." Curse Jon and his inconvenient good looks. He'd always had a weakness for dark hair and hawklike features.

Jon grunts. "I suppose that's to be expected, given the circumstances." He glances around the storage room. "No worms?"

"What? No, not in here, anyway. I've seen a few around the institute. Been stomping on all of them. Kind of satisfying, really."

Jon grimaces. "Lovely. You never answered my question by the way."

Martin racks his brain, but the last few minutes are a fuzzy, giddy panic to him. "Sorry, which question is that?"

Jon makes an inpatient noise. "What you were doing just now." He motions with his hand.

Martin glances at the tape recorder. "Oh, that. Just trying to fix the tape recorder."

"You? Fix a tape recorder? I thought your degree was in parapsychology."

Guilt gnaws at his insides. Martin does not want Jon thinking too much about his qualifications. "It's nothing complicated! Just one of the buttons broke off. Thought I'd try and glue it back on." He looks at the glue bottle morosely. "Or at least, I was. This seems to be glued shut."

"And you thought you'd pry it off… with your teeth? You do realize that's a good way to end up in A&E with your mouth glued shut." The raised eyebrow is back. He's good at that. Unfairly good at it. It makes Martin's insides leap with excitement. It also makes him want to curl up in a corner and die of embarrassment.

"I know, I know, it was stupid. I'm just frustrated, I guess."

"Understandable, I suppose. Not exactly pleasant accommodations here in storage." Jon pauses. "Are you alright down here? Do you have everything you need?"

"What, me? Oh I'm fine. Totally fine. No need to worry about me." He laughs nervously.

"I believe current circumstances have proven there is plenty of cause to worry." Jon coughs and looks away, his cheeks darkening. Martin has to suppress a lovesick grin. Jon always does this when he crosses his own personal definition of professional boundaries. Which as far as Martin can tell, encompass pretty much anything approaching genuine friendship. Not that Jon is very good at staying inside those boundaries these days. Not since the Prentiss incident.

"Anyway," Jon says, recovering himself. "Do you still have those files on Pinhole Books? Sasha said she'd assigned them to you." He's all business now, as if he hadn't just unbent enough to be outright friendly.

"Those? I think they're somewhere in my desk. Why?"

"Just looking into a few things related to Leitner."

"Alright. I'll try to find them after lunch."

Jon nods, and starts to leave, but hesitates. "You might want to try hot water." He leaves.

Martin heaves a heartfelt sigh. Then he realizes the tape recorder has been recording the whole time.

***

Months later, Jane Prentiss attacks. Jonathan Sims flees into Artifact Storage to hide. Something else comes out.

***

"Here you are Martin."

Martin blinks bleary eyes at the steaming mug that's just been set in front of him. He looks up to see Jon, a kind expression in his eyes. "You made me tea?"

"Of course." Jon smiles down at him. "You do it for me often enough. Seemed only fair."

"Wow, um. Thanks." Martin sips the tea. It's brewed exactly how he likes it: hot and strong with plenty of cream and sugar. "This is… this is really good!"

"Glad to hear it. And how've you been doing? It must be good to have your own place again."

"Not bad. Got a new flat not far from the old one." He'd lost the lease on the old place during his months in the archives. Not that he could have stomached going back there. There might still be worms. "Still unpacking boxes from the old place. At least the neighbors are quiet."

Jon nods. "Say, Tim and I were going to step out a bit early for drinks tonight. You want to come?"

Martin straightens. "Y- yeah, that'd be great." At that point, Sasha pops in with questions about the Herbert Knox file, and the conversation ends. Jon gives him a little wave and wanders back to his desk.

It isn't until later that Martin realizes: the rushing giddiness is gone. He'd had an entire conversation with Jon being nothing but nice to him, and his insides hadn't done one single swoop. He's still plenty fond of the man, but only that. Is his crush evaporating already? That was quick. Martin had expected to be pining after Jon for months yet.

It's probably for the best. Nothing would have come of it, except possibly Martin making a fool of himself. More of a fool of himself. And really, it's remarkable Martin ever had a thing for him to begin with. He doesn't usually go for blond hair.

***

Sasha takes Tim and Martin out to lunch. That's not particularly unusual. Jon is out following up a case, so he can't come, but that's not unheard of either. It isn't until she leads them away from their usual place and towards a park that Martin worries. He's not at all prepared for what she tells them.

"What do you remember about 0070107? Amy Patel's statement?"

Martin and Tim glance at each other. "That's the one where her neighbor was eaten and replaced by an evil drain pipe, right?" Tim said.

"I remember something about… changing photos?" Martin ventures.

Sasha pulls out a tape recorder. She doesn't look at it as she presses play. She doesn't even look at them. She's staring at some indefinite point in space to Martin's left, like it's a window to hell. The recorder plays.

"You're aware it's pronounced Kuh-ly-o-pee, right?" A man's voice, acerbic and dry, that Martin doesn't recognize.

"Really? I've always heard it pronounced ka-lee-o-pee." Sasha's voice.

"I suppose technically there's no correct pronunciation. But the organs are named after the Greek muse Calliope, so…"

Tim frowns. "Isn't that Leanne Denikin's statement? Who's that you're talking to?"

Sasha closes her eyes. "Jonathan Sims. The real one."

***

It takes them a week to find a way to deal with NotJon. During that week, Martin has to pretend that nothing has changed. That he isn't aware that his coworker and one time crush has been replaced by this… thing that calls itself his name. Martin has to smile when he says hello. Thank him when he brings tea. Laugh when he tells a joke. Just like normal.

(Were any of those things normal Jon behavior?)

Sasha's background in artifact storage provides the answer: an old diving bell with a penchant for disappearing people to infinite crushing depths. In his nightmares, Martin can still the the way the thing distorted, when it realized it had been caught. The way its limbs stretched into a grotesque parody of the human form as dark water sucked it in.

And then… things are normal again. There isn't even a police investigation. Jon apparently had no surviving family to raise a fuss about his disappearance. They get drinks, but even that is hard. It's hard to remember which of their fond stories belong to the real Jon, and which to the imposter.

***

One day, Martin finds an unmarked tape in the storage room. Thinking it's an old poetry tape he forgot to label, he pops it in a recorder to play. He could use a pick me up.

It's not poetry. The recording starts with a loud clatter, like the recorder being dropped. Then, Martin's voice. "Um, sorry, I didn't see you there. You startled me ."

"I suppose that's to be expected, given the circumstances ." A man's voice. Acerbic and dry. Martin can't breathe. He remembers this conversation. The voice on the tape is saying all the words that Martin remembers. It's not the same voice.

How long has this tape been sitting here? NotJon had hidden all the tapes containing the real Jon's voice, but apparently he'd missed this one. If Martin had found this earlier, if he'd managed to keep his poetry tapes in some kind of order for once … But Jon had already been dead by the time Martin had first met the imposter. His research on the NotThem made that abundantly clear. They might have caught on sooner. But it wouldn't have saved him.

"You never answered my question by the way."

"Sorry, which question is that?"

God. Had it really been that obvious, how much he'd liked Jon? Martin on the tape sounds like his head has floated off like a child's lost balloon. Jon's annoyance is audible even via tape. He remembers recognizing it as cover for genuine concern. It's so totally unlike the kind, smiling man Martin has known for the past year. How the hell did he never notice the switch?

Maybe he had. Hadn't his crush dissipated around that time? That makes Martin queasy to think about, but he clings to it anyways. That crush might be the truest thing he has left for Jon.

"Are you alright down here? Do you have everything you need?"

Martin blinks away wet, stinging tears. He remembers clear as day the kind and concerned look on Jon's face as he'd said these exact words. Except… those memories were fake. Had the real Jon looked at him like that? What would that even look like? Martin still doesn't know what the real Jon looked like. All he has is Melanie's vague description ("Short. Greying hair. Bit of an arsehole. Definitely not white."). All Martin's photos show only the imposter. He hasn't been able to find any Polaroids. God knows he's tried. He spent a week tracking down old yearbooks and photo albums and anything else he could think of. Plenty of photos of the imposter at varying ages. Nothing else.

Martin tries to construct an image of Jon. Take the few details he does have and paste them over the memories of the imposter. It feels less real than the fake.

Maybe that's the real horror of this monster. When someone you care about dies, you can normally take comfort in your memories of them. The NotThem has stolen that from him. No, worse than stolen. Corrupted. Taken Martin's memories of Jon and plastered them over with a false, smiling face.

All he has now is a tape and a voice.

[haberdashing]

open your eyes (i see your eyes are open) (4/?)

Jon, faced with being the last one left in a dying world, sends his memories back in time to someone who might be able to fix things before the worst can happen.

Sasha James, for her part, is very confused.

Chapter 1 / Chapter 2 / Chapter 3 / Chapter 4

on AO3

The visit to Artefact Storage was nice, but just like when she’d been reassigned, Sasha was only too happy to get out of there and head to the Archives, though she knew well enough now that the latter was plenty dangerous in its own right. At least she knew what to expect from the Archives. At least the Archives weren’t literally paying her to test out horrible, unpredictable things...

...no, that was Jon’s job now, wasn’t it? Elias had chosen him, the Web had chosen him, and now he was the Archivist, and he was going to be put through things much worse than anything Artefact Storage had to offer...

Sasha had started this train of thought in the hopes of reassuring herself, but instead, as she entered the Archives, she just felt a little queasy as she thought of what lay in store in Jon’s future.

Or what would lay in store in Jon’s future, anyway. Things wouldn’t be so bad this time around, not if Sasha had a say in it.

Jon was already in the Archives, perched over Tim’s desk as the two spoke about something, and Sasha was struck by the sight of him. He looked so different than he had in his final days before, and not just because his skin was free of scars--his hair was short and much less gray than before, he was still wearing a suit of all things rather than the hodgepodge of outfits he’d rummaged through as his professional mask slipped and his options grew slimmer...

...and, as Jon turned her way, Sasha could see his eyes focus on her, and though his gaze was still dark and meaningful, there wasn’t the same weight to it, the same sense of the universe itself staring back out of those deep eyes.

(She still felt like she was being watched, but that was only to be expected now, wasn’t it?)

“Good to see you, Sasha.” Jon shot her a quick nod. “I was just briefing Tim on his next project--you’re still working on the Hodgson file, correct?”

God, that felt like ages ago, though Jon had only given Sasha that assignment last Thursday. The Hodgson file wasn’t even one of the real ones, just somebody who’d gotten drunk and mistook what was probably a plane for an alien vessel, though Sasha was struggling to recall all the details at the moment. “Right, yeah, I was, er, having trouble looking up the relevant flight patterns, I believe it was? But I’ll keep trying, of course, so-”

Jon looked over Sasha again, and his gaze softened slightly. “Are you feeling alright? You look a little pale.”

“I’m fine, I... it’s just, um...” ...hell, she was struggling to come up with an excuse, so why even bother? She wanted to tell Jon about what she’d learned eventually, and perhaps now was as good a time as any. “Actually, could we talk in your office? When you’re done with Tim, I mean, I don’t mean to rush you.”

“I think we’re done here already.” There was a flat tone to Tim’s voice that set Sasha on edge--had he and Jon been arguing, perhaps?

“Oh, yes, we’ve covered pretty much everything I wanted to discuss at this point, so.” Jon rapped twice on Tim’s desk with a slender fist, a gesture Sasha had never seen him use before his promotion but had already encountered several times since. “I’ll leave you to it, then.”

“Sounds like a plan, boss.” Tim’s voice had a bit more energy to it now, and as she walked with Jon to his office, Sasha saw him shoot her a wry grin.

Sasha closed the door behind her and took a seat as Jon got settled.

“What was it that you wanted to talk to me about?”

“Well...”

That feeling of being watched that permeated the Institute was making the hairs on the back of Sasha’s neck stand up, and she knew it wasn’t just because Jon was looking at her with an expression somewhere between curious and impatient.

What were the odds that Elias- that Jonah Magnus was watching them right now? Probably not great, really, he did have an actual job besides just spying on his employees, but he certainly could be watching. Was thinking about it that much more likely to make it happen, drawing his attention to her thoughts? God, it was hard to know, wasn’t it? And that was the problem, being caught up with knowing and not knowing...

“Now that you’re the head archivist here, it’s your job to hear when the general public’s encountered something supernatural, right?”

“If it’s in a statement given to us, yes, but those are usually made by liars and the mentally unwell.”

Sasha did her best to drum up a smile. “Good thing this isn’t a statement, then, right?”

It could be a formal statement, probably, but Sasha didn’t want that, not when anybody with access to their archives could read it afterwards, not when there was information she now knew that could prevent the literal end of the world if the right people acted upon it.

A soft sigh, more perfunctory than anything. Jon was trying to play the grump again, but Sasha was pretty sure she could see through it even without everything she now knew about Jon masking his true feelings. “Where are you going with this, Sasha?”

“This weekend, my mind just- just filled with a ton of information suddenly. Info about you, about the other assistants, about the supernatural, about a little bit of everything really. Things I should have no way of knowing, but now I do. I figured you ought to know--could come in handy down the line.”

“Do you have any proof of this?” Jon tilted his head to one side slightly. “Something you shouldn’t know about me, perhaps--and not just from hacking, either?”

Sasha thought about arguing the point about hacking with Jon, but honestly, it was fair enough that she be called on it. Instead, she just nodded and took a deep breath--not that she really needed the extra air for what she was going to say, but because it felt right, and who was she to deny the moment that extra bit of dramatic flair?

“Mister Spider wants more.”

Jon’s face went pale in an instant, his gaze unfocusing as he seemed to look more through Sasha than at her.

“Jon?”

Jon didn’t respond.

“Jon, it’s okay!” Sasha rapped gently on his desk. “It’s just me. It’s not... it’s not that.”

Jon blinked rapidly a few times before shaking his head.

“You alright?”

“I’m fine.” Jon was clearly not fine, as his hands were shaking slightly and his face still didn’t have its full color back, but Sasha wasn’t going to argue the point. “But I- I’ve never told anybody about that, how did you-”

“I told you. Weird supernatural information shoved into my head over the weekend. Simple as that.”

“Right. You- you weren’t making that up, then.”

It wasn’t really a question, but Sasha answered just the same. “Of course not. I wouldn’t do that to you.”

Jon looked unconvinced, and Sasha suddenly remembered how when “Antonio Blake”’s statement had appeared, Jon had thought only Tim could be trusted to investigate it, only Tim could be ruled out for having written it as a practical joke on his new boss--that felt like an eternity ago, and yet it hadn’t even happened yet...

“You said you didn’t want to give a formal statement, correct? Was there any other action you expected from me regarding this?”

Sasha shrugged. She still wasn’t sure how much she could share, especially here, in the belly of the beast. Maybe in the tunnels, some time... assuming there still were tunnels, and they weren’t being plagued by worms or Not-Thems or murderous Jurgen Leitners...

“I just wanted you to know about it, mostly. I know a lot about these old archives now, so if you’ve ever got a question, I’m glad to do what I can. Not that I wouldn’t be willing to help anyway, but, you know, if I already know the location and validity of statement number 0051701, or whatever, might as well use it, right?”

Jon squinted a little. “What is statement number 0051701?”

“Oh, it’s...” Sasha let out a soft giggle. “We haven’t gone over it yet, but it’s about an old calliope organ.”

“Kuh-LY-o-pee.” Jon corrected.

“Ka-lee-O-pee.” Sasha repeated, a grin growing on her face. “Though there’s really no one correct pronunciation, or so I’ve heard.”

“...right. Well, thank you for letting me know about all this, I suppose.”

“Of course. You are the boss around here, right?”

“As Tim keeps reminding me, yes.”

Sasha stood back up and cracked open Jon’s office door, but before she left entirely, she added, “Seriously, reach out if you need me- or any of us, really. It’s not healthy to spend too long cooped up in here by yourself.”

“Duly noted.”

As the door closed behind Sasha, she could only hope that she was doing enough, that her offers to help would be taken advantage of when Jon needed it most.

[somuchbetterthanthat]

Anyway. I finally wrote a hug, though, really, this is merely season 3 slight-awkwardness-but-we’re-trying-to-bond mood. Also, he wasn’t hurt physically, but he was still hurt. It was a month. A month. i’m emotional. 

Martin finds Jon in the Archive’s kitchen, broken glass all over his feet; he’s standing very still, staring at his hands like they’re a very complicated mystery he’s trying to solve, brows furrow and mouth pinched in a concentrated way. 

“Jon?” he asks, a bit unsettled. “Are you alright?”

“What?” Jon startles, hard, and then blinks up at him. His shoulders relax at his sight, and some tiny part of Martin is pleased, though he’s mostly worried about why Jon was so tense to start with. 

“Are you alright?” he repeats. “Do you need - help? with the glass?”

“I, ah - right. Yes I - I mean, I’m fine,” Jon mutters, looking down at the floor. His cheeks colour slightly. “I’m fine, Martin, sorry -”

He is, Martin decides, definitely not fine. He doesn’t know what’s going on, but that doesn’t mean he can’t do something.

“Sit down,” he tells Jon, putting on his firm voice, the one he knows has worked before, few months back, when Jon was being particularly - difficult. Jon doesn’t even put a show of resistance today, which is... well, it’s worrying; he sways on his feet for a few seconds, and then goes to sit quietly, awkwardly. Martin watches him, worried. 

“Are you hurt?” he asks. “You don’t - Please tell me, if you’re hurt.”

“I’m fine,” Jon repeats, and then, his lips twist in a odd little smile: “Never looked better, probably.”

You always look good, Martin absolutely does not say, because it’s a creepy thing to say to your boss-maybe-friend-maybe-not-who-knows-with-jon. He’s pretty sure it’s one of those jokes that apparently Jon makes, but since he’s not sure, he goes the safe road and says: 

“I’m going to clean that up, and then I’ll make you a cup of tea, alright?”

“Alright,” says Jon, still much too compliant. He does look somewhat embarassed, though, when Martin gets the small broom out. “I - I should help you. I’m the one who - I should do that.”

“It’s fine,” Martin reassures him. “It’s already done, really, I don’t mind. Besides, you really look -” he hesitates, scratching idly the back of his ear, and then asks: “Is this, uh - you know, a, a world-saving problem? Or a... um. An archivist one?”

Did you just read a statement, is the implicit question, because now that he’s read a few, he knows how exhausted they make you feel afterwards, and he can’t believe Jon - well, Jon does so many. All the time. 

“No,” says Jon. “No, I don’t think it’s an Archivist problem. Certainly nothing that concerns the world either I -” he’s staring down at his hands again. “I’m just tired,” he says at last. He’s lying. Martin tries not to be hurt about it.

“Right,” he says. He puts the shards of glasses in the bin, puts away the broom, and goes to the kettle. “Right, well; i’ll fix you that cup of tea, and then you can go home, alright? How’s - How’s the new flat?”

“It’s fine,” Jon says. “It’s, uh. It’s quiet.” he adds, a bit awkwardly. “I - Georgie likes... well, obviously, she - she listens to all sort of podcasts, you see?”

“Yes,” Martin says. “Of course.” 

His tone is too bright; he tries not to think of Georgie Barker, if he can; he guiltily went on her facebook page, and on the What the Ghost fan page, and he’s listened to all the episodes and, god damnit, it’s a good podcast, and she sounds fun, and Jon lived with her for months, and Martin’s not jealous, he’s not but she could stand to be just a little bit less cool, maybe, he thinks pettily while grabbing Jon’s favourite tea. He hopes she’s bad at this. She’s too cool to be good at making tea.

“I miss the Admiral,” Jon says behind him, a bit wistful. 

“You could get a pet?” Martin suggests. 

When he turns to look back at him, cup of tea in hand, Jon still looks a bit sick, his shoulders hunched, his fingers curling and uncurling on his lap. Martin idly thinks of running a hand through his hair, perhaps kissing him, just a bit, and then sending him home (with him, if Jon’s lonely; they could go home together, nothing - nothing ontward just - just both of them, cuddling on the couch, perhaps -). He flushes a bit, clears his throat, and almost misses Jon’s snort:

“I can’t take responsability for an animal; i don’t even know if i’ll be alive for much longer.”

“Don’t say that,” Martin says sharply. 

Jon looks disconcerted, blinking up at him. Then he frowns slightly: “Sorry.”

“We’re going to make it,” Martin affirms, putting the cup of tea right next to Jon, on the table, before sitting as well. “We’re going to save the world, and then, everything will be - well, probably still not that good, but better.” 

That, incredibly, manages to make Jon smile; one of his true smiles, too; small but fond and warm. Martin’s stomach twists pleasantly. It’s enough to make him bold, and he lets himself put a hand on Jon’s shoulder, squeezing it gently.

Which, of course, is a mistake, because Jon makes a sharp, abrupt noise, and recoils instinctively. Martin flushes bright with embarassement and moves away, an apology already on his lips, but then, just as quickly, Jon grabs his hand. 

“Wha -” 

“I -” Jon is blushing too now, but there’s something fragile and uncertain in his eyes. “I don’t - I’m sorry,” he says. “I just -” he squeezes Martin’s fingers with upmost carefulness and gentleness, and Martin’s heart is beating wildly in his ears, it’s so loud Jon has to be hearing it - “You feel real,” Jon admits, very, very quietly, without looking at him.

Martin opens his mouth; closes it; “....What?”

“Ever since I spent that month in the museum,” Jon tells him, looking like every word is excessively painful to say. “There are some days where my - my body doesn’t... feel. Real. It -” he lets out a small, painful laugh. “It feels like I’m inside the body of a stranger.”

“Oh,” Martin says; it hits him, almost violently. The way Jon was staring at his hands, earlier - “Oh, Jon -”

“i didn’t mean to react so poorly,” Jon continues. “Only you’re... Well, you’re the first person I - Well, it’s only, since I don’t live with Georgie anymore I haven’t really -”

“Jon,” Martin cuts him off - Jon looks impossibly relieved by the intervention - “Can I hug you?”

“I don’t - I mean, you obviously don’t have - I’ll be fine, I just meant to explain -”

“Jon,” he repeats. Firmer tone. That works like magic. Jon’s shoulders fall a bit, and he nods, quickly. 

Martin breathes out slowly, and then, he leans forwards, and pulls his arms around Jon, holding him tightly. Jon tenses first, but Martin tightens his grip, just a bit, because he may not know when Jon makes a joke, or he may not be Georgie Barker, but that - that he knows; there are times when Jonathan Sims looks like he’s pushing you away when he is, in fact, yearning for you to stay. 

And Jon nodded; Jon needs this; it takes a few very awkward seconds, but then Jon sighs against his shoulder, and his own arms move shakily around Martin. They stay like that for a long time in complete silence; Jon doesn’t protest, when Martin starts to gently rub his back. In fact, he leans deeper against him, and Martin is so stupidely in love with him it hurts. 

“Thank you,” Jon murmurs, eventually, still without moving;

“You don’t need to thank me, Jon,” he says. “We’re - we’re friends. It’s what friends do.”

He feels Jon smile against his skin and helplessly smiles to the wall in return, wishing foolishly for the moment to never end. 

[canyouhearthelight]

The Miys, Ch.44

Happy Tuesday, Everyone! I am pleased to announce that this chapter has been beta’d by @parisconstantine​ this time... I know, right?  I’m working on getting back ahead of things, since March and April pretty much ate my buffer chapters.

I promised some of you that Simon not having Miys help him with social interactions would have some pretty hilarious repercussions, and hopefully I do not disappoint with this chapter.  Also, we get to see a bit more of our favorite grumpy-puss, Alistair Worthington (created by @baelpenrose​), and a little more of his personality beyond ‘total grouch’.

My new Administrator was thrown almost immediately into the thick of things.  Simon had taken my suggestion to try interacting with people sans Miys proof ‘reading’ his conversation; this alone led to social gaffes by the minute, to the horror of the man newly forced to work in close proximity with us.  Tyche, for her part, wasted no time in making it clear that she was no longer my acting Administrator, first by uploading my entire calendar to the former archivist’s data set and spending about an hour showing him how to set up the alerts necessary to ensure he was constantly one step ahead. New items and requests were directed to him, even while he was working to get on top of existing commitments. To top it all off, he had come on board in the midst of the Food Festival planning, which included coordinating with Sebastian Reed for the grand opening of his pub.

Alistair Worthington rose to the occasion like he had been born to do it.

“Why have humans never quite evolved the understanding that the word ‘no’ is a complete sentence,” he grumbled rhetorically. It had been only ten days since his replacement took over in the Archives, and only nine since he started devoting nearly fifteen hours a day to getting caught up.

“What is it this time?” I asked, more out of curiosity than any concern that he had declined something without even asking my opinion.  Worst case, I could override his decline.

He simply glared at me. “One of the vendors for the Food Festival is adamant on being positioned between the halal and kosher vendors.”  I gestured for him to go on, since that alone was not cause for alarm. “Miss Reid – “

“Sophia,” I interrupted. “We are going to be working entirely too closely together, so I prefer you call me Sophia.”

“Sophia,” he conceded with a chagrined look. “They want to set up a bacon buffet.”

I choked on the tea I had been taking a sip of, sputtering inelegantly all over the floor – fortunately missing Alistair. “That’s pretty brave.” I gasped, trying to convince my lungs that the tea was gone.

He shook his head and held out a cloth to wipe my face with. “Survived an assassination attempt, only to be felled by a cup of ginger tea.  Your epitaph will be set the standard for decades to come.” As I fought to glare at him and smother a laugh, he continued. “I understand that all meat products on the ship are artificially constructed from protein banks, and therefore everything will be kosher, halal, and vegetarian, but that is quite beside the point. It’s rude.”

“I completely agree,” I conceded, holding my hands up in a peaceful gesture. “The entire point of the festival is to bring everyone together with respect and unity, which putting a pork palace between those specific vendors is most certainly not doing.  My question is who even approved a ‘bacon buffet’ in the current climate?  I love bacon as much as the next pork-eater, but come on!” I threw my hands up dramatically. “With all the terrorists who were just executed, it’s just tacky!”

Rather than answer immediately, he dug through the vendor’s application. With a groan, he flicked the file over to me.  I echoed his sentiment when I saw the approver. “That explains a lot,” I sighed before looking up at the ceiling. “Simon, did you really approve a bacon buffet for the festival?”

The response was nearly immediate. “Yeeesssss?” he answered uncertainly. “It sounded like a delicious idea.  Lots of people are really passionate about bacon, and did you see some of the flavors?  Cayenne and tupelo honey, Sophia! It sounds amazing!”

My assistant looked like Simon had just asked him to eat waste materials.  I just ground my teeth and rubbed the bridge of my nose. “Simon. Why are we having this festival?”

“Ship’s unity,” he responded suspiciously.

“And why do we need that?”

“Because some people tried to sabotage the ship and kill everyone on board?”

“Correct. And what were those people?”

“Terrorists.”

“True, but not what I’m looking for. Arantxa Bidarte was…” I trailed off, praying he would figure out what I was getting at.

“A high-ranking – ohhhhhhhhhh. Shit.”

“Yep, a high-ranking shit. In the Baconist movement.”

“I’m sorry. I really am. I wasn’t thinking clearly on the optics.” He really did sound contrite.  I knew he was trying, so I wasn’t going to be hard on him.

“It’s okay,” I sighed. “I know you didn’t mean to do something like that.  And we can fix this.  How about you tell him you reconsidered his offer, and due to recent events we decided it wouldn’t be a good idea to have an entire alcove dedicated to just bacon. However, there are several vendors who will be serving items that can include bacon, and we will happily put him in touch with all of them to let them feature some of his wares in their dishes, including advertising.” Alistair hummed and nodded in approval at that compromise.  “And Simon? Before you send that, reach out to Sebastian with the entire list of this guy’s bacon flavors.  Let him have first dibs.  From what I’ve seen of the food he’ll be serving, he has a great mind for flavors and will probably have a dozen ideas before he even finishes reading the list.”

“You just want that sundried tomato and basil bacon in a Bloody Mary,” he accused playfully.

“You know it, because you do too,” I retorted before sticking out my tongue.

His voice softened. “Thank you for catching that, Sophia. Seriously.  And for helping me figure out how to fix it.”

I waved my hand absent-mindedly. “It’s okay, Simon. You’re trying to figure out people again, and mistakes happen.  If no one helps you figure out how to, we can’t exactly expect you to fix them, right?”

“I’ll reach out to everyone now,” he confirmed before going silent.

When I looked at Alistair, he had a very approving expression on his face. Before I could say anything, it was gone, replaced with a smirk. “Bacon, in a Bloody Mary?” he asked, amusement in his voice.

“I’m pretty sure it’s something distinctly American,” I explained. “But don’t knock it until you try it.  Perfect amount of salt, I’m telling you.”

He shuddered, but I had spent enough time around him at this point to know it was faked. “The entire drink is the most American thing I have ever seen, to be honest.  Imagine, someone from the former United Kingdom naming a drink after the Usurper. Not likely, I am telling you.”

“Considered the second most common garnish is pickled okra, I can’t exactly argue with you on that,” I laughed. “I don’t think there is a vegetable more American than okra.”

“Corn,” he pointed out, distracted as he went through the items on his data pad. Since he started working with me, he had gone from hardly using it to keeping it displayed the majority of the day. Eventually, things would calm down, but until then it was a frequent thing to see him forget to dismiss it and just have it projecting at his side, following his gestures. “Councillors Kalloe and Hodenson have sent a notification that the gravity will be increasing – again? – and to be prepared for any inquiries. Wait, what is this ‘again’ nonsense?” Consternation and mild alarm warred on his face.

I nodded firmly. “Yes, ‘again’. The gravity on Kepler 422b is estimated to be half again the gravity of Earth. While it isn’t anything that will hurt anyone on the ship, the effects of such a sudden gravity change are enough to be worrisome if done to anyone suddenly. Fatigue, blood pressure slowing down, slight dizziness, muscle soreness, etc. The decision was made right before the incident on Level One to slowly increase the gravity on the Ark by five percent of Earth gravity at a time.  Once we are certain that nobody is experiencing any long-term effects, or the effects have been addressed, we schedule the next increase.”  I shrugged, since we had no reports of any effects from the first increase.  As a matter of fact, no one even noticed.

“And you felt there was no need to inform anyone on the ship?”

“Oh, we informed everyone,” I assured him, though I felt a bit guilty. “We sent a ship-wide notification, including what to do if anyone noticed any of a long list of side-effects.  And we will be sending another notification before we do the next one.”

“I would remember if I received such a notification,” was the stiff response.

“Yeah, about that,” I told him sheepishly. “We dropped out of FTL about three hours after it was sent.  In our defense,” I held up my hands to fend of any protests, “that was entirely beyond our control, and the entire Council was too preoccupied to cancel the process or send a reminder. By the time it was all said and done, the change had been in effect for over three months.  I’m not saying it was okay, at all.  The goal was never to be sneaky. To make sure it doesn’t happen again, we are making a point to send the next one a week after the Food Festival, with full audio cast directly into our implants.” I tapped my left temple for emphasis. “And the process has to be triggered, rather than being set with a timed automation.”

“So, God forbid some other crisis occurs, the change will just have to wait?” he asked reproachfully.

“Absolutely.”

That seemed to be acceptable, as he quickly changed the topic. “About what happened with Councillor Simon. That was quite kind of you, Miss – Sophia.”

I could feel my face heating up as I shook my head, hair flying. “Simon has had a very unique experience, and he needs someone in his corner.  The fact is, he was brought on this ship before anyone else, and there is a reason he was chosen, just like everyone else.  He has value, but he and everyone else seems to have forgotten that.  I refuse to do the same and just forget that, too. And until he believes in himself… well, I’ll just have to believe in him enough for everyone on this ship.”

With that, I stood to leave for the evening. It was Wednesday, and the first ‘family dinner’ in a long time.  I needed this night, and nothing was going to stand in my way.  Exchanging a nod with my Administrator, I padded out of my office.  I hadn’t gone far when I heard a quiet comment, not intended for me to hear.

“With faith like that, I truly believe the mountain came to Mohammed,” Alistair stated softly as I walked away.

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[theritaminute]

What about some jonmartin w/ Jon finally telling Martin that he cares abt him

Thank you!! This took a little while because I had plans yesterday, but I hope it’s okay!! It ended up being…A Little Long.(send me prompts)

Under any other circumstances, Jon would probably try toremain professional and polite when writing an email to his boss. Under thesecircumstances, however, Jon is down two ribs and up one three day, horriblytraumatic experience in a coffin that buries people alive. And Peter Lukasdoesn’t even ever fucking read hisemails.

So instead of being polite, Jon curtly informs Lukas where heand Basira are going, why, and how long they expect to be gone. He probablywouldn’t even send the email if not for his experiences suggesting that thingscould go horribly wrong, and it would be a good idea to have a record of wherethey are in case a rescue team needs forming.

What Jon does notexpect is for Martin to read the email. Or show up in his office while Jon is finishingpacking for the trip.

“What the fuck is this?” The stern but familiar voicestartles a yelp out of Jon as he spins around, half looking for something todefend himself with. He softens immediately when he instead sees Martin,despite the outraged look on his face.

“You’re here,” is all he can say, try as he might to come upwith an answer for the phone Martin is shoving in his face. “What’s this?”

“That’s what I want toknow,” Martin’s voice is dripping with something angry that Jon has neverheard from him before, not even when he’s had the man’s anger directed at himself.He takes the phone and holds it away from his face to where he can see it.

“My email? But how did you-“

“How exactly do you think things get done around here withoutPeter reading work emails. I have to go through them and relay importantinformation to him. What is this, Jon?”

“Have you read…allof my emails to Lukas?” Jon feels the blood drain from his face, rememberingone in particular where he had deprived himself of sleep for so long that he hadwritten extensively about how terrible of a person he was for taking Martinaway from his team.

Martin flushes, though out of anger or embarrassment Jon can’ttell, and grits his teeth, “Yes, Jon. Answer my question.”

“I explained everything in the email,” Jon doesn’t know whatelse he wants to know, “Basira and I are going to stop the Dark’s ritual. Weshould be back in a couple of weeks.”

“By yourselves? Do you have any idea how dangerous that is?”

“Some, yes,” Martin’s expression tells him that his joke isnot appreciated, “We’ll be alright, probably. No one will even be there, theritual doesn’t take place until the winter solstice.”

“Do you really believe that?”

“No, but putting ourselves in danger is kind of in our job description,isn’t it?”

“No, it’s not! You’re an archivist, you should be…archivingthings!!”

“I am The Archivist, Martin. There is a difference,” Jontilts his head at Martin’s pained expression, “What are you doing here, Martin?Why did you come to see me when you have been so adamant that we can’t meet?”

He stutters, the anger had bled out of him during theirargument and now Martin just looks helpless and scared, “Why do you think I’mdoing this, Jon? I made an agreement with Peter to keep you safe- to keep everyone safe. You can’t just go gallivantingoff and putting yourself in danger every month, I- I need you to be safe.”

“I don’t think that’s an option, Martin,” Jon says softly,wincing at the little noise of protest Martin makes. He steps forward, and whenMartin doesn’t flinch back, doesn’t do anything but tilt his head down tocontinue looking Jon in the eyes, desperate, Jon reaches a hand up to cup hisface. “I’m sorry I couldn’t protect you all before, that I have been and stillam reckless in trying to fix things. I don’t know what Lukas is promising youbut Martin, I need you here. On my team. Not knowing where you are, or whatcould be happening to you has scared me more than almost anything.”

Martin gives a nervous laugh and a look of disbelief, andJon smiles.

“Alright, not anything,but we both know the situations I have gotten myself into. It still ranks quitehigh on that list, and I just…I need youto be safe as well, I need to know you’re not in danger because,” he takes astuttering breath and licks his lips. All the words have just been pouring out,and he isn’t sure how welcome his next will be, but he’s powerless to stop themcompletely. They’ve been boiling inside of him for so long that he feels like hecould explode. “I care about you, somuch. Don’t give me that look, I do. I know I have mistreated you and takenyou for granted. I don’t deserve to have you on my side, but-“

His words are cut off when Martin sweeps down and captures Jon’slips in his own. In his eagerness, he catches his own lip on Jon’s teeth whilehe is still talking in a way that is painful more than it is sexy, but Jonlaughs lightly and moves his hand from Martin’s cheek to his hair, the other reachingup to fist into his sweater.

For a moment after Martin pulls away, Jon keeps his eyes closed,pretending he isn’t minutes away from going on some dangerous mission to stopyet another apocalypse. Then Martin says his name, soft and sweet, and he hasto open them to look into Martin’s. And Godthey’re so nice, and deep, and brown, and they look like they could contain theentire universe.

“I’m sorry I should have-” Martin is saying, startling Jonback into the moment, “Was that okay?”

Jon breathes out a laugh and relaxes, suddenly realizing thathe has pushed himself up to his tiptoes. “That was fine, Martin. It was, ah, itwas good.”

Martin is grinning, his nose crinkling like it does when heis actually happy, something Jon has seen very little of. As if he can’tresist, he pushes himself back up and steals another quick peck before steelinghimself.

“I still have to go.”

Martin’s smile takes a sad turn, but he nods and whispers, “Iknow.”

“I will be back, though.”

The anger is back then, not full force but enough that hisface changes and his jaw sets. Jon has to struggle not to find the way he worksit attractive. “I don’t need you to lie to me to placate my feelings, Jon. Youdon’t know what’s going to happen.”

“No, I don’t,” Jon admits, and swipes his thump over Martin’scheek in a move he hopes is comforting, “But I will come back. To you. I will.”

He feels confident in this, and his belief seems to convinceMartin, who relaxes. “But you do have to go.”

“I do. Soon, too, Basira is waiting.” Martin takes on adesperate look, like he wants to try again to convince Jon to stay, but hedoesn’t say anything, just nods again. “Will you…Um, will you wish me luck?”

Martin laughs and leans in again, and when their lips meet Jonfeels a confirmation that, if for nothing else, he will come back to theInstitute to experience this again.

[r0b0tb0y]

Bonus material: the emoji-ful draft of Roasted chapter seven:

Silver texts Flint during his lunch break. He might be rushing things, but now he’s had one good conversation with Flint, he’s craving another.

it’s lucky i’m good at frothing. because you were really good at roasting me he writes.

Flint texts back in three minutes.

It’s how I like my men 🔥 Well roasted.

a little bit syrupy? Silver grins. He hadn’t expected the puns, let alone emojis.

Don’t forget hot and large 😏

‘Well, you don’t fuck around, do you?’ Silver murmurs. He’s almost glad Flint doesn’t talk in the shop, if all he does is flirt like this.

what do you archive?

Everything they bring me 📚🗞🗂 with a specialty in 18th century colonial documents.

what time do you finish archiving your 18th century colonial documents?

🕒  What time do you finish frothing?

3:30. the museum is open until 6. Silver reconsiders. unless you’re so good at archiving things yourself that you hate the museum or you’ve already been 100 times because that’s your day job

No. Flint texts, and Silver exhales through his teeth in disappointment, but then: I haven’t seen the Revolution exhibition yet 👍

Silver manfully does not punch the air.

so is there anything i should know about going on a date with a deaf guy?

Big D. Flint texts. Silver almost chokes. Flint continues: It’s Deaf, not deaf.

sorry! he replies. Then, you timed those on purpose

😂😂 Wish I could’ve seen your face.

Silver takes a selfie. He tries not to spend too much time on anything other than his scandalised expression. He only fixes his hair a little bit.

Flint sends back a 😘

Silver asks: should i learn some sign language or anything? the right language this time

Not yet, you’ll probably hurt yourself 😅 I’ll wear hearing aids again.

Silver‘s stomach flutters a little at ‘not yet.’ How far does Flint see this going? He checks: are you sure?

I wouldn’t offer if I didn’t want to. Then: Just don’t tell everyone I’m oral 🤭

Silver stares at the screen for a moment before replying: typo?

It means I can speak English when I need to 😉

of course, i guessed that Silver lies.

Flint texts back: ✊👊✊👊

Silver’s not going anywhere near whatever that is.

Flint follows: I’d be more worried about taking an archivist to a museum ⛈🏛🤐

well you know they say there’s no such thing as stupid questions

🧐 I’ve never heard anyone say that.

Silver is halfway through texting really? when Flint sends:

You’d be amazed at the number of things I haven’t heard 😇😅😆

oh my god Silver texts. you are like this aren’t you

You’ve already asked me out now 😈