#i imagine here that tim had to take off martins glasses for him. they were too excited to make out and it kept getting in the way <3< /div> Explore tagged Tumblr posts

[cabinette]

An archeologist digs me up and pries these out of my skeletal hands like priceless jewels

[voiceless-terror]

I mean, I don’t believe in the predictive power of dreams, obviously, but still, it’s a deeply unsettling thing to find. I had Tim look into it, as I don’t entirely trust the others not to have written it as a practical joke and slipped it into the archives. - Episode 11, Dreamer

Jon stares down at the paper in his hands.

He’s had many an unkind thought towards Gertrude, his predecessor, the woman responsible for this mess and the current bane of his existence. She’s been the topic of most of his grumbling as he sorts through piles of nonsense and decaying cardboard boxes. He’s got no love lost for her, but that doesn’t mean he’s happy she’s dead. Or, specifically, to have a statement apparently predicting it through the medium of some prophetic dream. Ridiculous. He wants to feel detached, unaffected, but he can’t help the sickly sense of dread that creeps up his spine and lingers in his throat. 

It was your face and the expression upon it was far more fearful than any I had seen in eight years of wandering this twilight city.

Jon doesn’t know Antonio Blake and has no reason to believe him. But he’s known something’s wrong for a long time now.

He’s never admitted it aloud, never within his assistant’s hearing range, but he can feel it, as foolish as that sounds. This miasma of wrong, of being watched, of becoming...something else, that happens every time he records a statement. Despite the academic detachment he aspires to, he does attempt to empathize with each statement-giver and get into their mindset. But what he’s doing here...it’s different. He can visualize it so perfectly, the terror in their words sticking in his throat and setting his own heart pounding, as if he were the one experiencing it and not just regurgitating it to an ancient recorder. He’s always had an ‘overactive imagination,’ as his grandmother would say, but this is relentless in its manifestation. The fear is real, not imagined. Each statement draws him further and further away from the safety he used to cling to, where the only real cases were few and far between and the most sinister things lurking out there in the world were books and the monsters within them.

And as much as he wants to linger on the false accounts and take comfort in tearing them apart, his hands automatically seek the real ones, the right ones. It’s frightening, the ease with which he finds them nowadays. Perhaps he’s a better archivist than he thinks. 

She died and you’ll be next, something whispers to him. He’s being dramatic, as he’s wont to do, but it feels true. Every statement that doesn’t record correctly, every follow-up he has to qualify with an ‘I would dismiss this, but-’ is starting to add up. His nights have become restless. He often lies awake regretting that he ever took this job, that he left the relative safety of research for a position he’s not sure how to fill, his only reassurance Elias’s occasional emails that he’s ‘moving in the right direction,’ whatever that means.

Jon assumed he’d be more removed from the dangerous aspects of the job that research entailed- following up, going to locations, field work. And it’s true, he has assistants to do that for him now. Dependable, for the most part. And while he should feel safe in his tiny office with nothing but dust and paper and cobwebs (good lord, the cobwebs) he feels more unsettled and exposed than ever. He once joked he’d die of old age before getting the archives in order. But now a stroke sounds much more pleasant than whatever happened to Gertrude. If it’s true.

Perhaps it’s a joke, he thinks. Planted by one of the others, designed specifically to unsettle him. Well, it worked. 

It wouldn’t be surprising. He’s...not had the best start. The promotion was a surprise, but not wholly unexpected; he knew he’d been on Elias’s radar, though he wasn’t expecting it quite so soon. He’s young and unfortunately, it shows. The way he stutters through department meetings, talking about digitization while the others, all of whom have at least a decade on him, shoot pitying looks. He stays later and later, the desire to show some sort of progress even as he discovers more mess by the day. The permanent scowl that now graces his features becomes his armor as he walks the halls and feels himself becoming the uptight, unlikable curmudgeon everyone believes him to be. The one time I measure up to expectations, he can’t help thinking.

A joke. There’s a comfort in that. At least it’s familiar.

But it didn’t record to the laptop, his traitorous mind supplies. It's a bit sad he would prefer it to be a mundane attempt at bullying rather than a real expression of the supernatural, but he supposes it’s par for the course. There were many nights as a child he wished for the same thing, for that boy to go back to taking his lunch money and the occasional beating or two instead of…still, he dismisses it from his mind. You don’t know there’s a correlation. Follow up. Disprove it. 

He’s interrupted from his musings by a knock on the door and the vague outline of Martin through the frosted glass. “Come in,” he calls, attempting to inject some irritation in his voice to cover up the shakiness. “Did you need something?”

“Ah, I finished my write up for the Herbert case, was wondering if you had anything else for me?”

His hand hovers over the statement on his desk. He opens his mouth but then closes it, thinking better.

“Can you send Tim in, actually?”

______

“Sorry boss, I couldn’t find anything on this Antonio Blake fellow- well, at least with the details he provided, which were next to none. Proper spooky, though.”

Of his assistants, he trusts Tim the most with this sort of thing. 

On a surface level, it wouldn’t make sense to some. Tim can be loud and gregarious: the typical, charming extrovert. But he’s not unkind and he’s a hell of a researcher, especially when something grabs his interest. He digs into statements and doesn’t let go- not unlike Sasha, though he’s a bit better at empathizing and handling things...sensitively. Easily attuned to Jon’s moods, Tim’s always been willing to lend an ear whenever he gets too in his head about cases, helping him talk things through or on several memorable occasions, go down the rabbit hole with him. He’d taken the statement from his hands with an easy smile, though his face grew serious with the nervous look Jon shot him.

And if Tim couldn’t find anything, well. Maybe it was a prank after all.

He sort of wanted it to be true, frightening as the implications were. Because then it would mean this terrible, heavy feeling on his shoulders was real, and not just the byproduct of his own mediocrity. He doesn’t want to be scared, he doesn’t want to be in danger, but at least it would provide a real reason for panic, and not just his own inability to measure up.  He doesn’t want to prove them all right, collapsing under the stress of a job poorly done and so easily crumbling at a stupid, made-up statement, targeted as it may be. 

“A joke, then.” Jon says, rubbing a hand at his temples, trying not to let the hurt seep into his voice. Tim makes a commiserating noise.

“You know how people are, the institute isn’t exactly popular. You remember last Halloween, when-”

“Yes, I don’t need a reminder.” Jon sighs. He’d rather not relive that day, stressful as it was. “But that wasn’t quite what I was thinking.”

Tim stares at him for a moment, uncomprehending. Jon continues, attempting to make his hands busy as he pointlessly shuffles papers.

“It’s rather pointed, isn’t it? I doubt someone off the street would create such a detailed account of the death of an...archivist as opposed to the usual ghostly drivel.”

A look of pity flickers in Tim’s eyes and Jon has to turn away. “I don’t really think anyone here would-”

“Really? You don’t?” Jon lets out a mirthless laugh, rubbing a hand across his face as he stares down at his desk. “I’m not blind. Or deaf.” The derisive snorts if he goes off on ‘needless tangents,’ how Rosie pretends to be busy whenever he approaches Elias’s office, the way his name badge still reads ‘researcher’ after months of asking for a new one. He’s basically become a pariah.

“Jon, did someone say something to you?” The words are carefully chosen and he’s leaning forward now, making as if to stand up and god forbid, do something comforting. It’s not that Jon doesn’t want the comfort; he craves it more than anything. But he’s gone without for so long he doesn’t trust himself not to break at the gentlest of touches. Being on the receiving end of Tim’s protective streak is nothing new, but he shouldn’t need his assistant looking out for him like he’s some sort of helpless infant. 

He snorts derisively instead, covering up the insecurity and hurt with a sardonic, self-effacing smile. The kind he knows Tim hates. “They don’t need to. I’ve walked in on conversations, I’ve seen the way people go quiet, the looks they give me-”

“Hey,” Tim’s voice is low, like he’s dealing with a frightened animal. Jon wonders how he looks, if Tim’s going this soft. “Don’t listen to them, alright? You inherited a mess, we all did- but we’re doing our best, yeah? Study and record, like Elias said.” Jon doesn’t dodge the hand that finally lands on shoulder, and he’ll deny to anyone that he leaned into it. 

“Study and record.” He repeats listlessly, slumping back down into his seat. He’s let himself get too worked up, acting like a child instead of a boss. He’s not sure when he started wearing his heart on his sleeve, but Tim’s always been good at reading him. Though he’d rather people think him an arrogant ass than the seething mess of insecurity he truly is. 

“Atta boy.” The pat to his shoulder is purposefully light, devoid of Tim’s usually friendly force that sends him stumbling forward. “Now get out of here at a normal time, alright? We can grab lunch tomorrow. Just the two of us, if you like.”

Jon makes a noncommittal grunt, though the thought is nice.  He entertains the idea for just a moment, remembering their occasional outings back in research. Tomorrow he’ll make his excuses. He hasn’t been much of a friend as of late, and he’s not sure he deserves the kindness of company.

“And if there’s anyone that needs a stern talking to from me, I-” Tim wags a finger and Jon rolls his eyes, ignoring the pang of warmth the words send through his chest.

“Don’t, please. It’s fine.” It isn’t. “But...thank you, Tim.”

“Course.” A wink and a sloppy salute to lighten the mood, and Jon feels the tension in his posture ease minutely as Tim shuts the door behind him. 

He lets out a breath and reaches for the tape recorder. He’s wasted too much time already.  

Be careful. There is something coming for you and I don’t know what it is, but it is so much worse than anything I can imagine. At the very least, you should look into appointing a successor.

Good luck.

He fights a shiver as the man’s voice leaves him and the last vestiges of that twilight world fade back to his dimly-lit office. In his follow up, he tries to play it off as a joke. A bit of hazing for the new boss. And yet the uneasiness still creeps into his voice, and he ends another tape on a stilted, half-believed note.

If this is genuine…

Jon prays that it isn’t. 

And like most of his prayers, it goes unheard and unanswered.

ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/32165071

reblogs > likes

[dandy-writes]

Eyewishes - Ch. 2

AN: Did I just sit down and write all of this in like two hours on a whim after over a month of inactivity? Yes. Is it good? God, I hope so. Anyways. Obligatory spoiler warning! This fic takes place in season 2, but contains spoilers for certain things up through the end of season 4. Also, in this chapter I describe scars and thus, the implied wounds that caused them. So warning for that. Thanks for reading, and I hope you enjoy!

Chapter One

Someone had blinded them in their left eye.

Well, perhaps something might have been a better term given the situation, but Y/N truly didn’t know. It was incredibly disconcerting. They had no idea who or what had blinded them, nor any knowledge of anything about themselves from before they reached the doorstep of the Magnus Institute. It was obvious they were suffering from amnesia, and without much effort they Knew that if they were to go to a hospital their affliction would be diagnosed as retrograde amnesia specifically, as opposed to anterograde amnesia, the difference being… well, they could go on and on with textbook definitions and possible causes. But no matter how hard they tried, they could not See into their own past.

The handiwork was at the very least neat, so perhaps there was a clue there. On several occasions Y/N had found themself losing track of time and spending hours staring at themselves in the water-stained mirror of the Archives’ seldom-used bathroom, analyzing every detail of their wounded eye. Two lines of scar tissue ran over their brow and eyelid down to their cheek, perpendicular to each other in a way that formed an “X” over their eye. Was it intentional? By the way their gut churned when they asked themself that, Y/N suspected it might have been.

And though the damage done to their eye was horrific enough, Y/N wasn’t convinced that it alone was what was causing their stagnation. They could probably write it all off to that, but something that pulled at the back of their mind told them that there was more. That something else had happened to them, but they just couldn’t remember. Couldn’t See. There was, of course, the situation of their stomach, but… Well. That was a bit more difficult to address. Besides, they’d only learned of that when they’d first had the opportunity to change clothes over a day after they’d arrived at the Institute. Martin had been kind enough to locate and bring to them some clothing in roughly their size, but they’d decided quickly to keep the flannel. It was cold down in the Archives, and maybe it was just their imagination, but it seemed like when they wore it the barbed wire surrounding their memories retreated just a little bit.

The others weren’t as friendly. Tim and Jon were suspicious -- rightly so, if a bit misguided -- and only allowed them to stay in the Archives after quite a bit of persuasion from Martin. And luckily for Y/N, the thing seemed just as content to avoid them as they were it. Then, there was Elias.

Elias didn’t visit the Archives too often, but that didn’t matter, because he was always Watching, even if the others didn’t realize. He couldn’t See through Y/N’s eyes, though, something that had become apparent quite early on in their stay at the Institute. All the more reason to isolate themself from the others. They might have both been on the same “side”, but his demeanor towards them made it quite clear that this meant nothing to him.

That being said, it wasn’t that much of a surprise when Y/N felt the staticky presence moving down the hallway towards the bathroom door. They had been staring again (for approximately 42 minutes and 37 seconds), and again, no answers were coming. They gripped the edges of the sink and did their best not to look away from their reflection as the door opened.

Elias was immaculately dressed, as usual, in a dark green three-piece suit that was utterly out of place in the drab surroundings. His gray-streaked hair was pristine, and he had a pair of thin-rimmed glasses perched on his nose, through which he was watching Y/N intently.

“Ah, Y/N. I wasn’t expecting to see you here.” It was a blatant lie, and they both knew it, one of many that the two had passed between themselves since Y/N’s arrival. “Hiding from the archival staff? I suppose I can understand that. They can certainly be a little…” He turned on his heel so that he was fully facing the mirror, a slight smirk pulling at the corners of his mouth. “Unsettling at times.”

<What do you want.>

He chuckled (it wasn’t a genuine laugh, of course. Y/N doubted if they’d had any sort of genuine interaction since he’d threatened them) and began to approach them. His steps were slow, drawn out, giving them apt time to meet his gaze in the mirror, but they didn’t. He’d only enjoy it if they were to watch him as he was watching them. Like a curious predator.

He stopped mere inches from them, and Y/N was almost relieved until he leant forwards. The moment his chest hit their back they stiffened fully, only just able to stop their neutral expression from faltering as Elias dipped his head down to the right of theirs, not quite touching, but still far too close for comfort. Carefully, he brought his hands to rest on the edge of the sink next to their own. He had not stopped trying to make eye contact with them.

“I just want to talk, Y/N. I’m sure you must have questions you’d like to ask me.”

<None you’d actually answer.>

His gaze narrowed slightly. “No, probably not. But why don’t you try me?”

They had to close their eyes to stop themselves from looking up at him at that. Did he want them to try and Compel him? Even if they were at their strongest, they didn’t think he’d let them do so successfully. No, he was probably just gloating. They reopened their eyes, but did not look away from their own reflection. <Why don’t they know?>

“You’re going to have to be a little bit more specific than that, I’m afraid.”

Their brow furrowed. <The Archivist, and the others. Why don’t they know they’re under the Eye? Or that there’s a Stranger posing as their friend? Why haven’t you told them, when-->

Elias cut them off with a tsk, tilting his head as he did so. “Really, Y/N, don’t you have more important things to worry about?” They watched their eyes widen as he placed his left hand on their cheek, fingers just grazing their scars. His touch was cold. “Poor thing… I can’t imagine what--”

<Stop it.> They felt frozen in place as they watched his fingertips trace over their skin.

“Ah, right. All you can do is try and imagine what happened to you. Or am I mistaken? Please, tell me exactly just what it is you can remember, Y/N. Or is it really nothing at all? So much lost knowledge, it must be taking a toll on--”

<Stop it.> In a burst of movement Y/N spun around to face him, their gaze finally meeting his. They nearly gasped at the force of it, and a wave of shivers wracked their body as the raw feeling of being Watched invaded their senses. Their reaction was obvious, and Elias’ small smile immediately broke out into a pleased, toothy grin.

The trouble was, it felt very, very nice to be Seen by another avatar of the Eye. Of course, there was no way Elias could Know that Y/N felt that way, but if he’d had much experience with other avatars of their god, which was likely, then it wouldn’t take too far of a leap to come to that conclusion.

It didn’t help that with his hands firmly planted on the sink edge, Y/N was practically caged-in between it and his body.

“Oh, Y/N, it really is a shame…” He’d lowered his voice to a purr as he brought his hand up to cup their cheek once more. “Because judging off of what’s left, you truly must have had beautiful eyes.”

That was it. With as much force as they could muster they pressed their palms against the lapels of his suit and shoved him away from them. He must’ve decided he’d had enough fun for one day, as he let Y/N push him off with far more ease than they’d expected, and did not move to stop them as they stormed out of the bathroom and slammed the door behind them. Every nerve in their body felt hypersensitive as they focused on getting as far away from Elias Bouchard as they could while staying within the boundaries of the Archives. They didn’t think he was going to follow them, but they couldn’t be sure after the way he’d been Looking at them just moments before. Y/N wasn’t used to him being so direct -- the statements he’d made in regards to their lack of memory had surprised them, but it just meant he was better at piecing things together without the aid of Seeing into one’s mind than they’d hoped -- nor to being confronted with so much power from another avatar. Though, worryingly, they didn’t think that he had exactly been using full force in there.

He was just toying with them, that was all. They had expected him to start doing so at some point, so that in and of itself wasn’t a surprise.

They just didn’t account for how good it would make them feel.

Taglist: @decora-peaches

[janekfan]

You need to back off + Please come home for some angsty Jmart?

https://archiveofourown.org/works/29122362

Prompts are getting filled! Slowly but surely! :D

I hope you like it ^^

Jon woke himself coughing with the realization that what he’d hoped were allergies the day before was now full blown body aches, chills and a productive hacking cough. Reaching out for comfort, he encountered only cold sheets and he shut his throbbing eyes tightly against sudden tears, too emotional. Needy. Sick. Not that he wasn’t needy when he was well either, but.

Martin wasn’t here.

Jon gripped a handful of bedclothes, curling on his side in the space where Martin should be and wasn’t. He thought of warm hands and soft kisses testing his temperature and gentle tutting. Martin would fuss over him terribly, plying him with medicine and perfectly steeped tea with honey and lemon for his sore throat. He would want for nothing, of that he was certain, but.

Martin wasn’t here.

And it was Jon’s fault.

No. Not entirely. He was away for the long weekend for an international conference.

But the shouting match they’d had before he left was very much Jon’s fault.

It figured that he would chase him away. Jon was miserable and ungrateful on his best days and like a dog with a bone on his worst. Why couldn’t he just let things go? Why did he have to push and question and needle Martin like that when he knew his partner needed time to think? Was already anxious about being away for so long? Jon certainly knew how to pick the best time for a row. Impeccable timing as usual, god damn him. Another fit crept its way through his tight chest, up his throat, painfully forcing itself free, and he stifled himself in a pillow.

He wanted Martin.

He had no right to, but he wanted him just the same.

After allowing himself just a few moments to wallow in misery, he forced himself up, driving the heels of both hands against his eyelids. It was a cold. It’d been going around the university and he was always early to catch whatever pathogens his students carried with them. He’d been run down and tired the last week and not from finals apparently. He shuffled awkwardly to the bathroom, limping heavily on his bad leg, absently trying to massage the deep ache left over from the worms all those years ago. He let the water run for a moment, get as hot as he could stand it, and with Martin’s voice in the back of his head, resigned himself to the use of the shower stool he’d insisted on. Sagging forward, Jon let the pounding pressure beat heavy against his back, breathing in the steam in the hopes it would loosen the knots tied thick and rigid around his lungs. Washing up took everything he had left and he wanted nothing more than to collapse back into bed and curl up around Martin’s pillow. Instead he slipped on his favorite of Martin’s jumpers over his pyjamas and took up his cane and made himself tea with honey and lemon and forced himself to drink it even though it tasted wrong. Struggling through the foil of the blister pack exhausted him further but he dutifully downed the tablets with the dregs of his cold cup of subpar tea. Dizzy, nauseated, the room spun around him wildly and he swallowed it down with a sob, laying his hot face against the cool surface of the dining table.

He wanted Martin.

Martin asked him to please not call unless there was an emergency. This wasn’t that. This was some sort of bug and Jon was an adult and he could take care of himself. He shivered. Teeth chattering in his skull and against his better judgement he fumbled for his cell with numb fingers. He thumbed it awake, blinking at the blinding glare. Recents. Martin. Messages. Jon scrolled through them, lingering on his responses. It wasn’t enough.

It wasn’t enough and Martin had asked him. Asked him not to contact him. For emergencies only. This wasn’t an emergency. It wasn’t. The screen went dark. The tears slipped over the bridge of his nose, tracing the faint scar there left by some fear or another so long ago and Jon chose to be selfish.

What else was new?

“Jon.” Measured, but not cold like he feared so much it would be but focused enough to cut him off before he could even think to apologize. “You need to back off. I’ve asked for some space and I would appreciate it if you would let me focus on this conference. I’ll be back soon. We can talk then.” He paused and with it, so did Jon’s heart. “I love you.”

“I, I love you.” But he’d already hung up and Jon didn’t blame him.

Shivering with chills, Jon dragged his sorry self back into bed, curling into the duvet and closing his eyes against the woozy rolling of his stomach. The tea wasn’t sitting well and Jon found himself panting, shallow and fast, concentrating on keeping himself together and willing himself to sleep though that plan didn’t seem to be working. Salt flooded his tongue and he lurched for the bin beside the bedside, dry heaving painfully. Sweat poured down his face, dripped off his chin.

It wasn’t an emergency.

It wasn’t.

He coughed, wincing and lifting a trembling hand to his throat and pressing against Daisy’s remnant souvenir, imagining the hurt there. A mewling whimper carried on an uneven breath escaped the cage of his fingers. Restless sleep crashed over him, was dragged away from him, uncomfortable, hot and cold somehow simultaneously. Jon picked up his phone repeatedly to call, to text. But he needed to let Martin have this. He wasn’t like him. He needed time and Jon needed to be patient no matter how ill he was feeling, no matter how much he wanted Martin’s reassuring voice. And it was his fault he couldn’t have it.

Jon couldn’t remember a time in his life where he felt this poorly; not even starved for statements, or scarred by numerous fears. Sleep hadn’t been forthcoming after he lurched awake to be sick again and he hadn’t had the forethought to put anything he might need on the bedside table. Objectively, he knew when he ran fevers they had a tendency to spike at night and that if he could just get up to fetch some medicine he would feel better. Subjectively, he was convinced his legs wouldn’t hold him, that he was dying here alone and when Martin returned for his things he would find his body. Panic built and built and built in his chest, cutting off his ability to breathe, stealing the air around him as surely as Crew had when he dropped him effortlessly, eternally through the void and before he knew it his fingers were acting without express permission.

Insistent buzzing next to his ear dragged Martin up from the depths and he groaned in irritation when the rectangle of light blinded him momentarily. He sighed when he could finally see the caller and he supposed Jon had waited as long as he could before giving in and ringing him again. The man was not known for his patience, after all. Martin glanced at his still sleeping roommate, a paramedic out of Brussels, and slipped out of bed to take the call in the hallway.

“Jon.” The frustration was warranted but melted away into concern when his only answer was a strangled, hitching gasp.

“I, I’m s’sorry.”

“Jon, darling, what’s wrong?”

“Y’you want space and, and m’sorry, but I--” A sudden explosive cough caught him off guard; it sounded painful and tight.

“Jon, I need you to listen to me.”

“I’m sorry.” His hoarse whisper didn’t hide the wheeze on his breath. “Shouldn’have called, m’sorry.”

“It’s alright, sweetheart. Tell me what’s wrong.” Martin clutched his phone, voice calm and steady, hundreds of miles away from where Jon was falling apart.

“P’please?”

“What, Jon?” He was openly crying; big, ugly sobs in between each shuddering syllable, and Martin was almost at a total loss, murmuring sweet things through the line in an attempt to calm him, until his hiccuping slowed and he asked again and he answered, sad and small.

“Please? Come h’home?”

“Jon?” Tim let himself into the flat, speaking soft and low, lest Jon was asleep. “Martin told me you aren’t feeling so hot.” He pushed forward to the bedroom, sympathy welling up at the sight of Jon curled up so small, face hidden in his sweat-damp pillow. “Hey, bud.”

“Tim.” Raspy and rough, like he’d been chewing on rocks, he finished his identification on a weak cough.

“The one, the only.” When he laid the backs of his fingers against his temple, Tim hissed through his teeth at the blazing, dry heat of his skin.

“M’sorry…” the ghost of an exhale, shaky and slurred, and Jon managed somehow to pry heavy lashes apart to reveal unfocused eyes glassy with fever. Tim stroked messy curls away from his face, heart clenching when he groaned low in his throat, before deep brown rolled back and dislodged more tears.

“Let’s get you taken care of, okay?” But first, a quick status update for Martin, who had called him nearly in tears himself.

“How is he? Are you taking him to A&E?” Tim could almost see the way he was clinging to his phone.

“I don’t think so. Gonna get some water and medicine into him and see how that goes.”

“Tim? Is he okay?”

“He’s sick, looks like the flu and he’s likely been down with it a couple of days.”

“God, he tried to call me and I--”

“Gonna cut you off right there, Marto. This isn’t anyone’s fault. It just happens.”

“I was so upset with him--”

“And I’m sure he earned it. When he’s well again you can talk it out.”

“Tim.” Trembling,

“I’ll make certain he’s alright until you get home. I’ve got him, Martin.” While on the phone, Tim gathered up supplies, thankful that Jon lived with someone with brains enough to keep a stocked medicine cabinet complete with a fancy ear thermometer with disposable covers. Because Martin. Jon didn’t so much as twitch this time. 39.4. “Okay, buddy. Up you come now.”

“Nng…”

“Mhm,” Tim hummed good naturedly, holding the glass of water to chapped lips and going slow. “Good?” He took the unintelligible noise as a yes, allowing him a few more careful sips before slipping the capsules onto his tongue. “There we go. We’ll see how that sits.” He divested Jon of the wash worn wool keeping in all the heat, soothing him wordlessly when he tried in vain to keep it. A clean set of pyjamas would make him feel better and he let the relatively cool air of the room wick away the moisture left from a cursory damp flannel.

“...Tim?”

“Hey, sleeping beauty.”

“Why’m’I in...in my pants…?”

“Did your best to sweat through the last set, here.” Tim helped guide loose limbs through the appropriate holes.

“S’cold…” punctuating his statement with a full body shiver, Jon slumped forward into Tim’s chest. “M’Martin’s cross.” Nodding, Tim gathered him up to deposit him on the sofa so he could change the bedclothes. “S’my fault…”

“When he comes home, you can apologize. Get him his favorite takeaway, yeah?” Jon listened intently, watery gaze fixed to Tim’s. “Put up those books of yours he’s always tripping over.”

“He, he. He’s coming home?” Lower lip trembling, Jon sounded too hopeful for this to be the distance of a long weekend.

“Oh, you daft fool, of course he is, of course.” He let Jon cry himself out on his shoulder. “He loves you, just needed some space, you know he likes space to get his thoughts in order. Of course he’s coming back.” Gentle and soft, Tim kept up his reassurances and hoped he’d forget that particular fear. Jon was too used to abandonment and all too accepting that he was the cause of it. That he was unlovable. “Alright, dry your eyes now.” Tim thumbed away matching saltwater tracks after settling him back on the couch cushions. “There we are.” Lord, he looked exhausted, the very textbook image of a bad flu with sore, red rimmed eyes limned with bruises. “Back in a tick, love.”

Clean, cool sheets, Jon tucked between them, kettle cooling off the hob, Tim set himself up on Martin’s side of the bed, getting another read, 38.1, and sending a quick update text before tapping open his most recent gaming obsession. The conference ended tomorrow morning and Martin would be home the same evening. With the next day off, Tim could wait that long. Jon’s burn-scarred hand snaked from under the blankets to grip his joggers.

“Hullo.” Tim tugged his fingers through messy curls. “Feeling a little better, champ?”

“Yeah…” It was still early hours and Jon needed all the sleep he could get.

“Sip on this.” And fluids. Tim levered him up, helping him hold the lukewarm mug of tea in shaky hands and laying him in his lap where he could knead out the knots tying up his shoulder blades until he sank deep.

Familiar voices hummed around him like moths just out of reach, melting together, drifting apart, slipping through his fingers. A door opened, closed, and Jon thought for a moment the Distortion must have him until a familiar palm pressed itself against his forehead. Martin’s face materialized in front of him and blurred just as quickly when tears filled his eyes. Wildly, he dove for him, not thinking about the edge of the mattress and collapsing into him when his legs gave way.

“Hey, hey, it’s alright, you’re alright, love.” Jon pushed his face into Martin’s neck, body numb with relief. “Shh, shh, shhh.”

“M’m’sorry, so sorry.”

“I know.” Martin curled around him, holding him firmly, tightly, running his hand up and down the shallow seam of his spine. Jon didn’t deserve this, he didn’t deserve how good Martin was to him. And he, he didn’t--

“I d’don’t unders’stand.”

“Understand what?” Jon couldn’t look at him for fear of what he might see, hiding instead in Martin’s jumper. He shouldn’t have said anything at all. “Why I came home?” He didn’t speak, shook harder, swallowed with difficulty past the cloying clot of emotion in his throat. “Oh, love. You’re not well and everything’s a little mixed up right now.” Lightly, softly, Martin kissed his temple. “I’ll always come home.” Jon felt needy and childish, choosing to believe Martin and taking comfort in it, in the chaste press of his lips against any skin he could reach. “Back in bed now, you’re burning up. Tea?” Nodding once, Jon couldn’t bring himself to open his mouth again, worried that he’d destroy this tentative peace and so, so grateful to have Martin home and the next time he opened his eyes it was to Martin climbing into bed in his pyjamas, tea already on the nightstand.

“Will you tell me about the conference?” Jon accepted the open arms as the offer they were, fitting himself like a puzzle piece against his side, sick and sweaty and lulled by the soothing rumble of Martin’s voice beneath his ear.

There were other things to talk about, but for now, the two of them, here and now, were enough.

[captaincravatthecapricious]

After the Circus Part 4

Some thoughts from Tim.  I did not edit this, sorry.  

@janekfan

cw: strained friendships, arguing, fainting, dizziness, trauma, references to Jon's getting covered in lotion, disassociation, food mention, mentions of panic attacks (none in the story), canon typical season three Tim headspace (although he's being less mean!)

Tim’s eyes are burning.   He rubs at them absently.  Christ, his back hurts.  Elbow numb from pressing it into the break room table. 

He feels like he hasn’t closed his eyes longer than to blink since after Prentiss with those pain killers knocked him flat.  Feels like he hasn’t even blinked since Martin found out that Jon was kidnapped.  Didn’t even have that small bit of respite that is due to most creatures.  

He can’t take his eyes off Jon’s fragile form.  

He’s asleep on the couch.  Jon, that is.  Martin has dozed off at the table.  Chubby cheek smashed into it.  He’s pale, Martin is.  And tired.  There are deep circles under his eyes, almost starting to rival Jon’s.  Tim wants to brush the hair off his forehead.  Wants to tell him that it’s going to be okay, but Tim doesn’t believe that it’s going to be okay.  In fact, he’s fairly certain it won’t be.  Especially not after the Unknowing.  

Maybe… Maybe he could try.  For Martin.  Maybe.  

A quiet voice from deep within says that maybe he could even try for Jon.  Maybe.  

After all, what had Martin said?  Something about not letting the Circus claim any more lives.  A voice that sounds suspiciously like Martin whispers that that includes Tim’s life too.  

Imagining things.  

Christ, he needs to sleep.  

Nothing keeping him here now.  Not really.  Just… worry that he though he was done having.  

He really thought he could quell his care for his …the people who used to be his friends.  

The people he wouldn’t mind trying to be friends with again.  

Which leads him back to Jon.  Who he’s been staring at since …well he’s lost count.  

He’s asleep on the couch.  He’s shivering, but Tim isn’t going to take the blanket from Martin.  

Tim might almost want to care for Jon (while aggressively pretending not to care, of course).  But… but he hasn’t earned blanket rights.  Not after every hurt Jon has caused.  (The Martin in his sleep deprivation induced imaginings reminds him that most of the hurts were not caused by Jon.  Most, actually.  Jon caused some, but not most).  But Tim isn’t ready to believe that.  Or even if he believes it, not admit it for long enough to give Jon the blanket.  

In any case, Martin deserves it more.  Poor, optimistic, besotted Martin.  Tim tries to call him stupid.  Just in his head.  But a phantom, imagined voice (maybe Sasha’s?) shuts that thought down.  Christ, he’s losing it.  He needs to sleep.  Take a double shot of sleepy time cold medicine and hope that knocks him out.  

He’d do that now… but he isn’t leaving Martin here.  

And Martin isn’t going to leave Jon.  Not like this.  Not in a million years.  

Apparently Martin is A-Okay with someone stalking them and just going back to calling him a friend.  

Stop it, Tim.  Not helpful.  

And Jon really just looks frail and pathetic.  And that’s just made him angry recently, but right now… right now it makes him angry at the Circus.  

Which… not the best way to fix a friendship… if that’s even what he’s trying to do.  And he doesn’t know that for sure.  He isn’t sure of anything.  Head and eyes full of sand.  Burning and heavy and gritty.  Can’t think.  Doesn’t know if what he’s feeling makes any sense.  

The feelings don’t even feel like they belong to him.  Not at this stupid hour.  

What time even is it?  His phone ran out of juice, he thinks.  Died not long after Jon fell asleep again, before Martin fell asleep, before Tim took up his vigil.  Feels like he’s taking over for Martin.  Trying to care in his stead.  Trying to care enough that Martin will let himself get some proper rest.  

Which… which means Tim needs to do something.  And by something …well that probably means he needs to open his home to both Martin and Jon.  

Martin’s flat is too small for just one extra person, even as small as Jon, and there is no way in hell that Tim is going to let Martin alone with Jon.  Not when he knows Martin will give everything he has left to watch out for Jon.  Martin is quickly running out of things to give.  

Not that Tim has much to offer, but he can’t let Martin burn himself out completely on Jon.  

And Jon… well Tim hasn’t exactly been paying attention, but he thinks Jon is essentially homeless.  If him going back to sleeping on a shelf is any indication.  Or intending to, if he hadn’t passed out before reaching it.  

See, Tim isn’t that bad.  He brought Jon to the cot.  Miles better than a shelf.  

Probably, anyhow.  

Jon might have a mattress by now.  

He idly wonders if that hypothetical mattress would be like the one Tim used to host sleepovers on.  

Like the one Tim and Sasha and Jon shared on late nights after drinks and days full or research.  

And then he feels decidedly ill.  Because the Sasha in his memory isn’t the right one.  

He’d be sick if he had the energy.  

But he doesn’t.  

So he just readjusts and ;ays his head down on folded arms.  Back glad of the movement, but still protesting the new position just as much as the last.  

He’s decided, though.  When Martin wakes up, all three of them are going back to his flat.  

Until then he’ll watch the delicate rise and fall of Jon’s chest.  The rest doesn’t look easy.  Hasn’t since he got back.  Tim has to wonder if it’s been that way since Prentiss.  But he’s too tired to think.  Only has it in him to watch.  

Watch Jon whimper in his sleep.  Too weak to move about, like Tim knows Jon does when he isn’t weighed down by another person or his weighted blanket.  

He considers going to grab that blanket for Jon now, but he doesn’t have the energy to move.  (And a private part of him is worried that Jon will vanish if he looks away for even a moment.  Like he will be stolen away again.  Or that he will just… stop breathing.  Just fade away quietly without anyone to notice.  Or… care.  

So.  So Tim tries very hard not to think about where else he’s heard these words as he waits, and he watches, and he listens.  

When Jon wakes with a strangled scream, Martin nearly falls out of his chair.  Tim barely blinks.  Too tired to even move at that point.  He doesn’t want to think about how long he’s been awake.  

Martin’s by Jon’s side by this point.  A hand smoothing down his hair, and Jon’s crying again.  

Distantly he thinks he should probably try to get Jon to drink something or eat something.  Get some salt and water into him somehow.  But Tim is too tired to do that, and Jon’s crying too hard to do anything.  

Tim gives himself 30 seconds.  30 seconds to close his eyes, then stand up.  

He should be alarmed by the head rush that nearly takes him back down.  That’s not something he experiences too often, but… well he hasn’t exactly been taking care of himself.  

He trudges off to see if he can remember if he brought anything in with him.  If he did, he’ll grab that and anything that Martin might have brought in, and after that he’ll grab Jon’s weighted blanket.  

his feet feel like lead and he’s trying not to stumble over himself or the trailing blanket.  He’s got Martin’s bag over his shoulder, with the Tim’s water bottle and phone charger shoved in on top of Martin’s stuff.  Keys in his pocket.  Phone is his pocket.  Stifling a yawn in Jon’s blanket.  

He prods Martin with his shoe.  

“Come on, Marto.  We’re leaving.”

“I’m not leaving him!”  Loud and sudden and panicked.  

It starts Jon whimpering again.  

Pathetic, he thinks before he can stop himself.  

“He’s coming with us.  You can take the blanket or Jon, but either way, both are coming with us.”  

Martin glares at him in bleary suspicion.  “Where?”

“My flat.”

“Why?”

“So you don’t fall asleep at the table again.  And if that means getting Jon and you on my spare mattress or in my guest room, then so be it.”  

Martin slumps.  Partly because Jon is needing something or other, and early because …well… he looks basically dead.   

Tim can see when he gives in.  

Marin nods.  

Tim can also see when Martin realizes there is no way he can carry Jon, at least not until he’s gotten some proper rest.  And Tim doesn’t make Martin admit it.  

He hands off the backpack and the blanket, and scoops Jon up himself.  

Jon’s eyes flutter shut.  Heart racing against Tim’s chest, head lolling against his shoulder.  Fainted again.  It’s… starting to get worrying, in all honestly.  He hasn’t seen Jon this badly off since… well the few times he was running some truly scary fevers and the one time he didn’t sleep for an entire week.  

Jon isn’t feverish.  At least Tim doesn’t think he is.  Which means, it’s not a fever or it’s very low.  So Tim has to guess whatever Jon went through lead to a hell of a flare up.  

Nothing to do for that now.  

Maybe he can stop by a charity shop and get Jon a temporary cane tomorrow.  After he’s slept.  After he’s certain he won’t pass out from lack to sleep, himself.  

Get Jon a new cane, and hope Jon is up for solid food, because damn Tim wants crepes.  

He would sell his soul for some crepes.  

Martin is struggling to his feet.  Just as warn out as Tim.  

It isn’t a long walk to Tim’s flat.  He tries to hail a cab, but… he guesses it’s a weird hour on a week night.  No one is out.  

It isn’t a long walk.  

But Martin stumbles into him every few steps.  Trying to lean over to check on Jon.  

Jon is… conscious?  Maybe?  

But barely.  

He nudges Martin onto the couch.  Then drops Jon into his lap.  That should keep Martin from going anywhere.  

Then Tim drags out the sleepover mattress.  It hasn’t been out since… since Sasha was alive.  

Since before the Archives.  

It smells a little musty.  But… it feels like home as he tiredly wrestles some sheets onto it, and kicks his coffee table out of the way to make room for it.  

Martin stares at him uncomprehendingly.  

Tim leaves him to it.  

Tim fetches a lucozade for Jon, and two glasses of water.  

He goes and showers.  He brushes his teeth.  He throws on some sleep clothes.  

Martin still hasn’t really moved.  

Tim lifts Jon off his lap and onto the mattress.  He sets Jon down with more care than he can really take in right now.  And takes his place on Jon’s side.  

Jon looks to be sleeping, not unconscious now.  Good.  

“Marto you can shower if you want.  Feel free to find some clothes if you do.  Something should fit.  Or you can just… take a load off and join us.  Whichever.  But I’m going to sleep.”  

It’s been ages since he’s slept with Jon.  But… it feels like home.  Or… something like home.  He buries them both under Jon’s blanket, and under the spare duvet.  Drawing and arm around Jon, trying not to get lost in the tight feeling in his chest when Jon snuggles up close and tucks his nose against Tim’s clavicle.  

Tim pats the empty side of the mattress, and giving Martin something adjacent to a smile.  

When Tim wakes up.  Martin is sound asleep in some sweats that are oversized on Tim.  

He feels… heavy.  Both from exhaustion and from the weighted blanket.  

He can’t tell what time it is.  Blackout curtains are drawn against any light that could be.  It’s just… a dim grey… meaning there must be light spilling in from the kitchen.  Probably light out, then.  

Then… then he spares a glance for Jon.  Looking small and beaten in his arms.  

His eyes are open, and… he might actually be lucid this time.  

He makes a small question sound.  

It damn near breaks his heart.  

“Why are you being so nice?”  His voice is still wrecked.  It looks as though Jon might have burst a blood vessel whilst sobbing at the Institute, but he can’t be sure in this light.  Still.  It hurts.  

He also doesn’t have an answer.  

Pity is the wrong answer to give to Jon, and he knows it.  

But… it was some pity.  And some for Martin’s sake.  

He doesn’t know what to say.  

His silence, however is scaring Jon.  Jon who is starting to hyperventilate.  

“Hey.  Hey.  It’s okay.  I… I don’t know why.  But… I couldn’t leave you there.  And I couldn’t leave Martin even if I could.”  

Jon finally seems to notice that Martin is basically spooning him.  And makes a small sound.  

He looks back at Tim, a little teary.  

“Glad to see you awake, but maybe you should rest a little more.  I’d get you something to drink, but I don’t think I can get out without waking Martin.  But… but if you do need anything, I’ll risk it, so uh.   Let me know?”

Jon just shakes his head, and buries his face in Tim’s chest.  

Tim is… surprised.  Last time he was this close to Jon, Jon flinched away.  And that kind of makes him feel sick to think about.  And this… this makes something melt in his chest.  Something he hadn’t felt in a while.  

“Get some sleep, bud.  I’ll be here when you wake up.”  

Jon hmms, and Tim lets himself sleep.  

[celosiaa]

Yo Connor! I made a post a while back about this but imagine s1 archives gang: Sasha and Tim wanna play hooky to go drinking so they pretend to be sick to get sent home early. But their work gets piled onto poor poor Martin whos starting to come down with something. Cut to Tim and Sasha coming back to work to find a super sick and overworked Martin (my post has diff situations that they could come back to but basically it’s all “Martin is completely miserable”)

~ ineedmysickfix

Hello friend!!!!! Apologies for the delay!! I hope you’ll like this all the same :)

CW nausea

 “Oh, Sasha—you’re gonna hate me,” Tim drawls dramatically, draping an arm around her shoulders, causing them both to stagger. “You’re absolutely going to hate me.”

“Don’t tell me—ha! Tim—”

Sasha is broken off by a sudden, if sloppy, kiss to her cheek, the momentum of it nearly taking them both to the ground as they stumble on slightly-intoxicated legs. Well—perhaps more than slightly, after all.  It is later, much later than they had intended to be out, and dark has fully settled over the still-bustling London landscape as they attempt to make their way back to the Tube station from the pub.

Where they had been playing hooky. Gloriously.

It is a bit pitiful, how gullible their mess of a friend currently playing at being their boss could be. Shamefully, upon reflection, Sasha recalls Jon’s worried response that afternoon to the torrent of falsified coughs and sneezes he had heard from his office, before insisting that the two of them go home to rest. And to “not infect anyone else,” of course—tacked on in some feeble attempt not to care.

And go home, they had—if you can call a pub a home, that is. While it was not exactly buzzing with customers at the mid-afternoon, it had been a nice place to camp out for the day and enjoy each other’s company. Though they had lamented not letting Martin in on the plan—even if it was nice to have a evening just for themselves, something hadn’t felt right about leaving him behind. Not with the ever-growing tower of files on his desk, building up over the last week in a bit of an alarming fashion.

Sending out a quick thought for him as they walk, Sasha turns her attention back to Tim, linking her arm with his with a poorly-hidden smile.

“What have you done this time, Stoker? What else could there possibly be to make me want to kill you even more?”

“Even more? After I serenaded you at karaoke?”

“Especially after you serenaded me at karaoke,” she replies, pulling him just a little bit closer. “Bold move, especially knowing I’ve got a knife on me.”

“Yeah, a pocket knife,” he says, rolling his eyes. “Which we might have to use to break back into the Institute, by the way.”

“Tim, you didn’t!”

Groaning in dismay, Sasha stops their pace abruptly, searching his face for any sign of a joke—tragically, finding none.

“Tim. Hey, Tim.”

She grabs both sides of his face, pulling his forehead to rest against her own.

“Look me in the eyes and tell me you didn’t forget your keys again.”

A nervous swallow, a flick away of his eyes—before a poorly-hidden smile laces his tone.

“I did not…do this thing.”

“TIM!”

“Alright, alright!! I may have!” he laughs as she drops her hands from his face, in favor of using them to push back against his chest. “But don’t worry! There’s no way even Jon is still there. Pretty sure he was heading home to rest after Salat al-Jumu’ah—said he hurt his knee, and he has PT in the morning.”

“Jon was going home?” Sasha asks in disbelief, her face showcasing the wild array of thoughts flitting through her mind. “First of all—concerning. Second of all—do you mean to tell me that we left poor Martin there all on his own?”

“He’s fine, Sasha,” Tim assures, throwing an arm around her to keep them walking. “Martin’s an adult, he knows he can leave any time he damn well pleases. Especially since Jon isn’t there.”

“Well, yeah, but—I dunno, he just seemed…off this week,” she replies worriedly, twisting a finger around her long locks.”

“He’s fine. We’ll make it up to him on Monday, or something.”

“Right,” Sasha sighs, leaning a bit further into his warmth. “You’re right, we can—we can get him some of that good tea that he likes, the expensive kind.”

“Alright, rich kid.”

“Shut it.”

With another peck to the cheek, both silly and giddy, they continue on their way back to the Institute—neither too displeased at having the other so close.

—

Work.

Just keep working.

Just focus.

Cold, Martin feels the cold of the archives seeping deeper into his bones with every moment that passes. Or is it heat? Too hot, suffocating, can barely catch a comfortable breath before the coughing starts up again, pounding against his skull and leaving him exhausted. Surely it hadn’t been this bad this morning—his therapist’s voice rings out in his mind, telling him it’s alright to go home, that he ought not have come in anyway—but he does not listen. Cannot listen, not with Jon out and in pain, and Tim and Sasha both out sick.

No—this was his job. Just has to push through, pick up the slack, keep going.

Someone has to.

For as much as Martin tries to tell himself that he’s not ill, that he never gets ill, he knows it’s all a lie. Sleep has come in sparse patches for him these past few weeks—and that has left him vulnerable to what he is now fairly certain is a nasty case of flu. It’s just been so much recently, with his mum intermittently calling him from the care home in Devon, and not answering the phone when he returns her calls. Though he would never want to think so poorly of his own mother—ungrateful, cruel, sad excuse for a son—he cannot help but have the thought that she’s doing this on purpose, calling him when she knows he’s busy—

Stop it.

Selfish.

Cruel.

Focus.

The stacks of files in the corners of his vision, piled so high he can barely see his surroundings beyond his desk, very nearly manage to draw out the tears Martin has so desperately been trying to hold back over the past—however long it’s been, now. Overwhelmed, he’s overwhelmed and wants nothing more than just to sleep. But Jon. Jon needs this done, Tim and Sasha need to rest—none of them need to have a miserable next week if he can just. Focus. Now.

Sniffing back against the congestion sitting heavy in his sinuses, Martin steels himself as well as he can, and drags his attention back to the piles and piles of nightmares before him.

—

As soon as they found the door to the archives unlocked, Sasha knew something was wrong.

Jon was so strangely protective of the place; always kept such a careful watch on it that it was unfathomable for him to not make certain that everything was locked, and the lights turned out at the end of each day. Surely, even if Martin had been the last one there, surely Jon would have called several times to ensure he would do the same—possibly even dragging himself back over the the dusty old basement, just to make sure.

And yet—here they are. Standing before the unlocked door to the archives.

“Can’t be good,” says Tim, running a hand anxiously down his beard.

“Not at all,” Sasha replies at once, voice low as she carefully pushes the door open.

The office beyond is almost entirely darkened, corners obscured by shadows and cobwebs and god knows what else down here. Only the light from a single lamp illuminates a desk—messy, piled high with stacks of files and reference volumes, some spilled over and scattered onto the floor. Martin’s desk. And Martin, leaning heavily against it.

Though she cannot see his face where it has been propped heavily between both of his hands, Sasha immediately takes note of of the blanket he’s wrapped himself tightly with, the bin by his feet overflowing with tissues, the row of mugs set on the floor to make room for more files. The way one has been tipped over, creating a dark spot on the carpet where it had spilled its contents, but Martin has not seemed to notice. A rarity—and a concerning one at that, for certain.

Exchanging a quick glance with Tim, who looks very much as worried as she feels, Sasha steps a bit forward, clearing her throat before calling gently to him.

“Martin? You alright, love?”

The impact is immediate—clearly, he had not heard them come in, nor seen their shadows stretching across the light of his lamp. For he jumps bodily in his seat, tipping it back with such a heavy creak that Sasha is certain it will send him to the floor completely. A gasp, loud and deep, as his wild, fever-glassed eyes meet theirs—before it turns into a fit of harsh, painful hacks that he buries hastily in what appears to be his last remaining tissue.

“Aw, Marto,” Tim says sympathetically as he strides over to him, rubbing a hand over his back as the coughing continues, Sasha following suit to grab a box of tissues from her own desk, and set it in front of him.

“Sorry, m’sorry,” he croaks, voice weathered and broken in the wake of his fit.

“Dunno what you’re talking about, mate,” Tim says softly, slipping a hand over Martin’s forehead—evidently not liking the heat he finds there, if his grimace is anything to go by. “How long have you been ill? You seemed alright this morning.”

“M’fine, Tim,” he mutters back, sniffing heavily and reaching for the new box of tissues. “Thanks, Sash—”

A sudden look of horror washes over his face as he meets her eyes, letting out a shallow gasp and covering his mouth with one hand.

“Wait, you’re—you’re ill, you’re both ill, you need these—”

“We’re not ill, Martin,” Sasha soothes at once, cursing both herself and Tim for going through with what was clearly a terrible idea.

“You’re not?”

“We wanted to skive off work,” Tim echoes, pulling Martin’s blanket back up from where it had slipped off his shaking shoulders. “We…we went out to the pub instead.”

“Oh,” is the only soft response that comes from him, as he drops his eyes back to the statement in front of him—and the guilt welling up inside Sasha is enough to break her heart.

“We would never have done that if we had known you were actually ill,” she clarifies rapidly. “We should have…we should have said. Shouldn’t have done that at all, really.”

“Yeah. Sash is right, we’re really sorry, Martin,” says Tim, wincing as the terrible coughing starts up once again, doubling him forward—and this time, he does not straighten back up.

“Oh,” he says again, miserably, squeezing his eyes shut against the apparent dizziness—enough to send Tim reaching for the empty bin from beneath his own desk, just in case.

“You alright?” asks Sasha, setting a bracing hand against his hunched shoulders.

It takes a few moments for him to reply this time, as he breathes as deeply as possible for a bit—still altogether too shallow, in Sasha’s opinion. She can hear the hitching at the back of his throat, knows that he’s trying so hard to keep from coughing again, whether for their sake or to avoid worsening the nausea, she can’t be sure.

“M’alright. Sorry,” he apologizes again, shivering hard as he does, pulling the blanket just a bit tighter around himself and sniffling. “Shouldn’t be here, you’ll probably catch it.”

“You shouldn’t be here, love,” Sasha counters, catching Tim’s gaze and jerking her head toward the breakroom—and he heads in that direction at once. “We’re going to get some water and medicine into you, and then you’re going straight home.”

“Can’t,” he whispers in return, shaking his head against the fresh tears that have sprung into his eyes, breaking Sasha’s heart to bits again. “There’s so much—so much to do, and Jon—Jon’s not well, and you—well, I suppose you’re—you’re not, heh—”

“Martin,” she says, bending crouching down to the level of his eyeline. “You do not need to be here. You do not need to do all this work yourself—if it makes you feel better, Tim and I can get some of this done over the weekend. But I highly doubt even Jon would ask you to do all of this today.”

“He—he didn’t.”

And now here come the tears, spilling hot over his cheeks, unable to be held back in with the stress the fever wracks through his body.

“I’ve—I’ve gotten so behind, this is almost a week’s worth of work, I’ve just been—I’ve not been focused, I can’t—god, I’m sorry—”

“It’s alright, Martin,” Sasha soothes, handing him another tissue which he uses to swipe at his streaming eyes and nose. “There’s something else going on, isn’t there?”

Squeezing his eyes shut again, tears leaking from beneath his lashes, Martin nods—burying his face in his hands, before Sasha wraps her arms around him.

“It’s alright, darling. Just hush, I’ve got you.”

It is to this sight that Tim arrives back from the break room, armed with medicine and a thermometer and a glass of water. Upon seeing them, his face falls in sorrow—reluctant to interrupt the stillness of the moment—before the whistling of the electric kettle from the breakroom causes Martin to pick up his head, turning his head toward the noise only to find Tim frozen in the doorway.

“Oh—thank you, that’s—” he pauses for a moment to cough behind closed lips, swiping at his eyes as he does so. “That’s really kind, I’m—I’m alright. I’m sure it’s just the flu, or something.”

“Don’t really think there’s such a thing as ‘just’ the flu, Marto,” Tim says, rolling his eyes with a smile—which, to Sasha’s immense relief, Martin returns, if still a bit watery.

“Yeah, Martin—let’s get you some meds, and get you home,” Sasha insists. “I’ll go fetch you some tea as well. Can’t send you home without something warm in your stomach.”

“I—thank you, really,” he beams, accepting the pills from Tim with his own, rather more shaky hands. “You’re—that’s really kind.”

“It’s nothing at all, Martin,” she replies at once, relieved to see him swallow the pills readily. “Let’s get you warm, and get you home.”

[haberdashing]

What A Tangled Web We Weave (19/?)

TMA AU diverging from canon at the end of episode 92. Jon is forced into an arranged marriage by Elias; Martin does what he can to help.

on AO3

Martin took a few tentative steps towards the group of people still remaining in the church; Jon did the same, though he didn’t have quite the same look of trepidation that Martin was sure graced his own face at the moment.

Martin didn’t know what to say, didn’t know where to start explaining everything and making amends, but soon enough, the decision was made for him.

“Can I finally mention the giant spider in the room now?”

Martin could feel the blood drain from his face as Tim spoke, though it wasn’t as though he were giving away any big secret there anymore.

“Yeah, Tim, go right ahead.” Martin paused, thought about his wording a bit, realized that Tim hadn’t seemed to struggle with that reference the same way he had before. “I- I think you could anyway, actually? I mean, I said not to tell people, right, but it’s not telling them if they already know...”

Tim seemed less than impressed with Martin’s reasoning, though he still pressed ahead without hesitation.

“Martin has been a spider monster this whole time, and he made sure I couldn’t tell any of you.”

“Wait, what?”

“What do you mean, ‘this whole time’?”

“You did what?” Jon’s voice was soft, but it cut worse than Tim’s just the same, and Martin could feel the weight of Jon’s gaze upon him as he worked out how to respond.

“Okay, you’re not wrong, but... first off, it’s been like two weeks, that’s not that long in the greater scheme of things, is it? And, and secondly, I didn’t mean to do that to you. I told you that already, Tim. You know that.”

“Do I?” Tim’s gaze was filled with fire now. “Do I know that? Or- maybe you’re going to make sure I think that’s true, make sure I trust you, despite everything, despite myself-”

“I- I wouldn’t do that.” Martin’s voice sounded weak even to his own ears, and he tried to sound more confident as he added, “I won’t.”

“Could you do that?” Melanie’s expression had a certain sharpness to it, like a knife that hadn’t yet determined its next target. “Change our minds about something by just... saying the word?”

“...maybe? I don’t know. It’s not like I’ve tried it.”

“Why don’t you ask Annabelle Cane?” Jon’s voice sounded calmer than the others, but his gaze didn’t waver as he stared down Martin.

“I only met her this morning, and it’s not like she gave me some, some sort of user manual for my spooky spider powers or anything- she’s been less helpful than Elias so far, and you know that’s saying something-”

“And here I honestly thought you two were dancing around each other because Tim liked you. God, that wasn’t even that good of a lie, was it, but I didn’t know what else could be going on...”

“You thought I liked him?”

Melanie shrugged nonchalantly. “That’s what Martin claimed when I asked why you two were being so weird.”

Tim didn’t respond in words, but the way he wrinkled his nose said enough. (Martin tried to tell himself that it was just the prospect of being with an eldritch monster that disgusted Tim, that he’d be equally put off by anybody else with eight eyes who could make people stop moving just by telling them to, but Martin wasn’t so sure.)

“I was planning on telling you before the time came.” Martin tried to sound more confident than he felt. He’d meant to explain sooner, but... but he hadn’t, and whatever excuses he had were just that. “I had a plan, even, I just- didn’t think it would happen this fast.”

“Why did things get moved up, anyway?” Jon’s tone of voice was casual enough, but Martin could feel the question digging into him all the same, the words spilling out before he could second-guess them.

“I don’t actually know. Annabelle said something vague about circumstances changing, and I knew better than to press her further about it. She didn’t tell me until this morning, either. Said she thought I’d do something ‘unwise’ if she gave me more of a warning.”

A brief pause, a breath for air, and then Martin spoke of his own accord. “I don’t suppose Elias explained any more, then, either?”

Jon shook his head. “All I got was a phone call, and he only covered the what, not the why.”

A phone call. Annabelle Cane had been hovering over Martin’s bed before he woke up, and Jon got to be informed by a phone call. It almost made Martin want to laugh, if only because his other instinctive reactions would be even more situationally appropriate.

“Look, unless you guys are going to do more here than just stand around and talk, I’m out.” Tim’s voice was sharp, biting, snapping Martin back to the reality of the situation. (Were those teeth, in that stained glass window up there?) “Not like there’s much to celebrate either, and if it’s pity you’re after, you’ll need to find someone else.”

Martin shook his head silently; he wasn’t sure what he wanted from Tim now, exactly, but it certainly wasn’t pity, especially for a situation that he knew had been largely of his making, consequences of his own choices.

(As much as anything could be called a proper choice when the Web was involved, anyway. Perhaps they’d been planning all this for months, years, decades, longer than he could have possibly imagined. That wasn’t enough to absolve him, though, he knew that much.)

“Nobody’s asking you to stay.” Jon said.

“Yeah, that’s about what I expected.”

Before Martin could ask what exactly Tim meant by that statement, he was gone, fled out the front door faster than Martin had realized he could move.

“I think I’m out too.” Melanie’s voice wasn’t quite as sharp as before, but there was still an edge to it somewhere. The knife had been dulled, that was all. “I’m sure we can discuss... whatever this is later, back at the Institute. This place gives me the creeps.”

Martin nodded as Melanie stalked out, though he did idly wonder if there was more to her escape than her distaste for the odd little church they were in, if she held much the same feelings about Martin’s transformation as Tim and just wasn’t as willing to say as much.

The woman Martin didn’t know spoke up only once Melanie was in arm’s reach of the door. “Melanie, wait-”

“I said I’m out.”

And the door closed behind her.

Then the only ones left were Jon and Martin, Basira who Martin barely knew, and the woman Martin didn’t know at all.

“So.” Basira’s voice was calm as always. “I would give my congratulations if I thought any were in order.”

Martin let out a shaky laugh, and Jon let out a soft snort as he said, “No, I don’t think that’ll be necessary.”

“Condolences, maybe?” the stranger said. “Though that’s not quite right either, I don’t think you can find a greeting card for this one...”

Martin smiled at the thought, and Jon broke out into a laugh, short but genuine-sounding.

“The arranged marriage part you might be able to find greeting cards for somewhere.” Jon mused out loud. “But I think the supernatural bit is beyond even Hallmark’s capacity.”

The woman let out a snort not unlike Jon’s own.

“I don’t think we’ve met, have we?” Martin knew he hadn’t met the woman before, but he figured better to hedge his bets and err on the side of politeness just the same. “I’m Martin Blackwood, one of Jon’s assistants... though, er, I suppose you know that much now...”

“Georgie Barker. I’m Jon’s...” Georgie looked over at Jon for a moment before finishing her sentence. “...friend. Jon’s mentioned your name before, it’s good to put a face to it.”

“And it’s nice to meet you, Georgie.” Martin extended his hand, and Georgie joined him in a handshake without hesitation; her hand was big, cool, soft but with a firm grip. “Wait, not- Georgie Barker of What The Ghost?”

“The one and only. Always nice to meet a fan.” Her smile looked a little too wide to be genuine, but Martin supposed it was still better than the alternative.

“Didn’t you get mentioned in a statement once? I think Tim had to call you, was it?”

That wide smile shrank slightly. “Yeah, Melanie’s. We’ve got some mutual friends, one of them ended up weirder than I knew, that’s all there is to that.”

“Are we going to keep making small talk, or do you want to talk about something actually important?” Basira’s voice held only a hint of irritation to it, but that was enough to make her true feelings clear.

“If you’re looking for permission to leave, well, go-” No. Too close to a command. “...you know where the door is.”

“I’m rather enjoying the small talk myself.” Martin looked at Jon, surprised, saw Jon’s nonchalant shrug. “It’s a nice chance of pace, after... everything.”

“Right, well, see you in the office then.”

As the door closed behind Basira, Martin realized that he didn’t actually know how to get to his own home from here when he made his own exit, didn’t even know where “here” was... and his wallet and Oyster card were definitely back in his flat, not in the pockets of this perfectly-tailored suit...

“...I, er, might need help getting back. When the time comes. Annabelle drove me here, but she didn’t exactly set me up for the return trip...”

“I can help you out with that, since we’ll be going together anyway. No reason to overcomplicate things.”

Martin blinked a few times at that. “You’ll be, what, walking me home? Jon, I hardly think that’s necessary-”

“Walking you home and staying there, yes.”

“You don’t need to-”

“I don’t have a place of my own, Martin.” There was a bit of a sigh in Jon’s voice. “I haven’t for... a while, now. Ever since Leitner...”

“Oh yeah.” Martin felt like an idiot now. How had he forgotten about the murder charge that had kept Jon away from the Institute, away from him, only weeks prior?

“I’ve been relying on...” Jon’s eyes flicked over to Georgie for a moment. “...friends for a place to live. But if, if you’re willing to take me in, at least for now... well, it would certainly help spread out the burden, at least.”

“Right. Yeah, not a problem.” Except that his place was a mess and had always been too small and there were probably still cobwebs all over his ceiling, Christ, why couldn’t Annabelle have warned him about any of this... “Not that, that you’re a burden, and I don’t want to pressure you or anything...”

Another glance over to Georgie. “I think it’s probably for the best.”

“Alright, well... if you’re ready, then, feel free to lead the way.”

Jon held the door open for both Martin and Georgie, and crossing that threshold back into the hustle and bustle of London seemed like a dividing line of sorts.

That had all happened, and now here he was, back in the real world, ready to take the Tube home with a multitude of people who didn’t know the slightest bit about the supernatural, would never know that among their number would be a spider monster and an Archivist who knew too much.

God, Martin was married. He was going home with his husband.

He really wished the thought cheered him up more, but all it did was make him feel sick to his stomach as he waited for the other shoe to drop.

[aflyingcontradiction]

The Magnus Archives Relisten: Episode 120 - Eye Contact

A cold and well-cleaned room, sterile metal tables that overflow with a gentle trickle of blood. The hearts that beat upon them spasm and spurt without any sort of rhythm, and were they to stand still for but a moment, it might become clear just how wrong they are in their construction. - Statement of Elias Bouchard

So when I first listened to this episode, I didn't realise that the statements referenced here are SPECIFICALLY those and ONLY those that Jon took himself. I also didn't remember what some of the references actually referred to. So I'm probably going to be spending this entire relisten going "Oh, that was THAT statement", starting with this bit, being clearly in reference to "Anatomy Class" (episode 34).

The doctor cannot bring himself to look at the tables, so instead, looks to the Archivist, whose eye watches him, and cannot close.

"Eye" singular sooo ... does dream!Jon appear as a cyclops? But no, I'm imagining him more as a three-eyed being. Two eyes closed in sleep, one Eye eternally open to watch.

Desperate, he tries to throw the apple at his observer, but it is too late. The doctor has forgotten how the elbows work, and wrenches it to the side with a sickening crack. He tries again to scream, but he hasn’t got the throat right, and the wheezing, half-choked gurgle that escapes would stir pity in the Archivist, if he had not heard it so many times before.

It's kind of fascinating to me that the doctor's nightmares focus not so much on the idea of inhuman strangers pretending to be human but on HIMSELF forgetting how to human. To be honest, that IS actually scarier, but not what I expected, exactly, given the origin of his nightmare.

He turns to see the familiar screen, the familiar woman beneath it. She looks up at him with an expression of recognition and weary dread. She types and types and types, her fingers a blur, flying across the keyboard, and yet never fast enough to outrun the relentless words that flow like dark water across the screen that stretches off into the sky.

Episode 65: Binary

He passes those places he can no longer watch – the silent wards of peeling skin, the empty warehouse of thick darkness and frightened children, the rusted train car that smells of eager, infectious hate.

Okay, so this one gave me trouble, so I ended up checking the Wiki to figure it out. The silent wards of peeling skin is Melanie's statement about the hospital. The empty warehouse of thick darkness and frightened children is Basira's statement about Rayner. The rusted train car is, once again, Melanie's statement. Why can he no longer access these? Basira and Melanie are both still alive, after all. Is it because they're being "protected" by their own Entities? But...

The rain is still there, though it is empty. The long and desolate road, slick with the downpour; a police car’s lights flashing over the unmoving van. The doors are open, and the too-familiar statues stand either side of the well-worn wooden box.

Daisy is about as Hunt as Hunt can be and has been for a long time, so why can he get to her nightmare just fine? So I don't get why Melanie's and Basira's nightmares aren't watchable.

Here he sees the train, twisted and pressed in on all sides, nothing but shrieking metal and cracked glass. He climbs inside, and takes his seat, mouth tasting of mud and soil, his eyes moving through the dust and grit unblinking.

Episode 71: Underground

He catches a glimpse of an advert above his seat: “Dig.”

"Dig" wasn't actually a statement taken by Jon, but then this nightmare is of the Buried, so it makes sense for it to be here anyway.

There is a door in front of him. A yellow door. He knows the dream it used to lead to; he knows it well. But that’s not where it leads anymore. He does not know what is behind it anymore, and he is deathly afraid of finding out.

This used to be Helen's nightmare, but of course Helen is now melded into the Distortion so yeah, going through that door would be one MESS of an experience.

The Archivist turns away. Behind him are the ants. They move like a terrible rolling wave along the hard-packed ground, and he can see every twitching antenna, every clenching mandible. Somewhere, underneath that twitching, burrowing mass, is the exterminator.

Episode 55: Pest Control

Before him rises an incinerator door, the glowing light of the flames curling around the cracks. With a wailing shriek, the door opens, and the burning silhouette that stands within is ingrained upon the Archivist’s racing mind. They smoke and sizzle, but still the worms crawl through her charred and pockmarked flesh, her now-singed red dress shifting with the movement beneath it.

Okay, this is interesting 'cause Jon is still in Jordan Kennedy's nightmare, but given how traumatised Jon was by Jane Prentiss, this may as well be his own. And his reaction to it as recounted by Elias actually does make it sound like this is one of the hardest dreams to watch because it hits so close to home.

When faced with her, he even longs for the terrible dream of the melted woman, who would see everything desolated without rhyme or reason. But she was beyond his reach the moment she knew he was there, so the Archivist can only stand and stare, as the hive goes about its infested, long-dead work.

Jude Perry (who somehow fucked off out of Beholding's reach)

The dark building is newer, but he knows it well; knows the two lost souls who creep through it with an alert hunger on their faces. He recognizes that look from the other hunter, whose dreams he has watched for so long. They stalk the darkness itself, and hope to catch and kill it before it can do the same to them. They see him watching, but they cannot catch his scent.

And this one is Julia and Trevor's nightmare.

At last, he is in the moonlit graveyard – the oldest of the dreams. It is peaceful, cool and damp, as the rolling, boggy fields stretch out in all directions. He hears her calling pathetically from the bottom of the graves, but by now he knows there is nothing he can do but stare. She begs to be released, to dream of this place no more, but there is nothing he can do.

And this is Episode 13: Alone.

Another dissection room, another figure standing in its centre – but this one is calm. She simply looks at him sadly, a pity in her face that burns him worse than any flame. More than anything, the Archivist wants to look away, to turn his eye from her gentle sadness, from the disappointment in what she sees in him.

Is this Georgie, then, who is beyond the reach of fear, even when she is still being watched?

Elias: Hello, Inspector. Martin. I’m, uh, sorry to hear about Tim

Until this point I was still hoping that Tim had somehow survived, despite the fact that the narrative was HEAVILY signposting that he wouldn't for multiple episodes.

Martin: You didn’t just see it in me? Elias: Honestly, I didn’t look. For all my power, I will admit I am not immune to making the occasional lazy assumption.

People keep making this mistake with Martin, don't they?

Peter: Oh, and if you want to talk to a counselor, the Institute will of course cover any cost.

Okay, but like, why exactly is the embodiment of isolating-yourself-and-never-talking-to-anyone-about-anything suggesting counselling? Is this something along the lines of ... making sure Martin doesn't actually talk to his friends and colleagues thing? Giving him an impersonal outlet that won't create the same sort of connection?

My impression of this episode

So I spent most of the first listen AND the relisten trying to figure out which reference goes with which statement, but actually, looking past the "spot the reference" game, this episode is very well written and when you let the horror of it sink in, it's really rather - well - horrific: all these people, endlessly relieving their trauma every night, including Jon who's being forced to watch and cannot look away. Where the overall plot is concerned: I did not imagine Martin getting Elias arrested or Peter Lukas becoming the new head of the Institute - at all. It is a pretty lovely set-up for the next season.

[bluejayblueskies]

ludus

n. playful or uncommitted love; love that is focused on flirtation, infatuation, and laughter 

Words: 2.0k

Fandom: The Magnus Archives

Relationships: Jonathan Sims & Gerry Keay, Jonathan Sims & Martin Blackwood & Sasha James & Tim Stoker

Characters: Jonathan Sims, Gerry Keay, Martin Blackwood, Tim Stoker, Sasha James

Additional Tags: AU - University, AU - Everyone Lives/No One Dies, Fluff and Humor, Drinking, Alcohol, Queerplatonic Partnership, Aromantic Character, Asexual Character

Summary:

Gerry generally doesn’t frequent pubs like this one, where the wooden table in front of him is sticky enough that his glass pulls slightly against his grip as he lifts it before it unsticks with a wet ripping noise. The pub is a small, dirty thing, aptly named The Rusty Bucket, and apparently, it’s the venue for trivia night every Thursday, of which Jon and his friends are regulars.

Gerry’s never met Jon’s friends. But he supposes there’s a first time for everything.

Read on Ao3

Or, read below (more content warnings below the cut):

cw: - implied drug use - teasing - assumption that an aro character is allo (corrected and apologized for)

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Gerry’s never really been one for drinking. For one, he thinks beer is gross (and that a much better use for wheat and yeast is bread, which he very much enjoys and happens to be quite skilled at making), and for two, he’s never quite been able to shake that ingrained notion that drinking is always a precursor to something else.

 Sometimes, that something else is simply being drunk. Sometimes, it’s to loosen up, to make time with friends that much lighter and freer. But sometimes it’s not. Sometimes, it’s buying a stranger a drink and punching your number into their phone with fingers made unsteady by liquor. Sometimes, it’s wine on a date, with lips stained a deep red and cheeks flushed only in part due to the alcohol.

 Sometimes, it’s more. And Gerry doesn’t like taking risks that he doesn’t have to. So he generally doesn’t frequent pubs like this one, where the wooden table in front of him is sticky enough that his glass pulls slightly against his grip as he lifts it before it unsticks with a wet ripping noise.

 Gross.

 “You don’t have to come,” Jon had said for what had to have been the fifteenth time, even as they’d caught sight of the pub that sat just a few blocks from campus. It was a small, dirty thing, aptly named The Rusty Bucket, and apparently, it was the venue for trivia night every Thursday, of which Jon and his friends were regulars.

 Right. Jon’s friends. It wasn’t necessarily anyone’s fault that Gerry had yet to meet everyone else who’d left a mark on Jon’s life (though if asked, Gerry would insist that it was his, probably; he wasn’t known for being overly social). It was just different walks of life, different cobblestone paths that happened to intersect in a five-foot-four skinny Pakistani man with wire-rimmed glasses and a perpetual line between his eyes that fell just as easily into a smile as it did a scowl. But now that he had the chance, he found that he wanted to meet them. Maybe it was because Jon had seemed so excited, in his own way, to introduce them to Gerry. Or maybe it was just because Gerry wanted to get to know every part of Jon, to peel back every layer of the man who had wriggled underneath his skin and refused to budge no matter how hard Gerry tried.

 Jon’s friends were one such layer, painted in lovely sunset hues that cast fondness and exasperation across Jon’s face in equal measure whenever he spoke of them. So Gerry wanted to meet them.

 Hell, maybe he’d like them. Jon liked them. And that was one hell of a stamp of approval.

 “I know,” Gerry said. “But I’m here, aren’t I?”

 And the look Jon gave him at that—something profoundly grateful and even more profoundly enamored—shot through Gerry like liquid cocaine. Though if Gertrude ever asks, Gerry certainly has no such metric to know what that would feel like.

 Jon’s presence next to him in the booth is a grounding one, even as Gerry feels himself getting lost in the conversation ebbing and swelling around him like white-crested waves on a sandy shore, like he’s a seashell that’s only kept from washing away by a deft hand that snatches it from the sand and holds it close. Most of the ebb and swell seems to be coming from Tim and Sasha, who bicker like they’ve been married for years but who, according to Jon, have already passed through their will-they-won’t-they stage and have settled quite firmly on won’t-they.

 “Sasha’s aro too,” Jon had said, almost too-casually, as he put away a plate he’d been drying. “And Tim’s ace. A- a bit different than me, though, with regards to…”

 Jon made a vague motion with his hand that Gerry recognized as his sex hand wave, and the giggle that slipped from him unbidden earned him a sharp glare.

 “Sorry, sorry,” Gerry said, his eyes still twinkling with mirth. Then, because he couldn’t quite help himself: “Are you just- just collecting aspec friends? Or is it some sort of magnetic pull? Because I’d like to know if I’m a trophy friend or a hapless victim of your non-sexual magnetism.”

 The wet sponge Jon threw at him was certainly warranted. It did nothing to wipe the smile from Gerry’s face.

 So there’s Tim and Sasha, carrying ninety-five percent of the conversational weight. Martin sits tucked away in a corner, his hands closed around a glass of cola and his mouth curled into a small smile as he watches Tim and Sasha bicker.

 (“I don’t drink,” Martin had explained quickly when Gerry’s eyes had found his glass the first time, throwing the words between them like some sort of barricade. Like it was any of Gerry’s business what Martin did or didn’t drink.

 It certainly made Gerry’s virgin piña colada a lot less humiliating, though it did nothing to diminish the curling embarrassment he’d felt upon ordering it. So Gerry tipped his head toward his own drink and said, “Me either. Virgin in more ways than one.”

 Which was probably not the right thing to say. Oh well.

 Martin’s face had gone cherry red, and the laugh that escaped his lips seemed to take him entirely by surprise. “Oh,” he said, sounding slightly strangled. “I- congratulations?”

 It certainly wasn’t the most awkward exchange Gerry had ever had. But it was up there.

 Gerry took a small sip of his drink and decided that he quite liked Martin Blackwood.)

 Gerry sets his drink back down with a grimace and says, quiet enough that only Jon will hear him, “When is the trivia bit meant to start? I’m dying to put my near-encyclopedic knowledge of 20th-century prose to use.”

 “Need I remind you,” Jon says without taking his eyes away from Tim and Sasha, “that we are both English majors?”

 Gerry knocks his knee against Jon’s under the table. “Guess we’ll just have to see who remembers Dr. Nimeiri’s class better then.”

 Jon groans. “I thought we agreed to never speak about that again.”

 Gerry gives Jon his best shit-eating grin. “And forget the place where we met and our lives were forever changed? Oh, I would never.”

 “One,” Jon says, holding up a finger and finally turning to face Gerry. “One B, Gerry. And it was that fucking class.”

 “Jon, nobody got an A in that class. Nobody. I barely passed.”

 “Yes, well—”

 Gerry raises an eyebrow. Jon’s mouth snaps shut and dips into what Gerry could only describe as a pout. After a moment, where Jon clearly recalls every other version of this conversation they’ve had and the myriad of insensitive things that Jon has said in quick succession, Jon finally sighs and says, “Fine. Trivia’s in thirty minutes, I believe.”

 “Thank you.”

 “Oh, there’s no need to look so smug.”

 It’s about halfway between then and trivia when the conversation finally, inevitably, and quite unfortunately lands squarely on Gerry’s leather-clad shoulders.  

 “So,” Tim says, leaning his elbows on the liquor-sticky table and flashing Gerry a conspiratorial grin. “I think it’s high past time we hear all the sordid details of how Jon managed to convince you to give him the time of day.”

 “Hey,” Jon snaps, giving Tim an impressive glare that bounces harmlessly off Tim’s million-dollar smile.

 “Not much to tell,” Gerry says with a shrug. “Switched majors, took a shitty class, and got a very critical peer review on my first draft paper. Had quite an illuminating conversation with said peer reviewer after class that day, actually. Can’t imagine how that evolved into getting coffee.”

 “You asked me,” Jon says in a sullen voice, looking very much like he’d like to melt into the woodgrains of the seatback behind him.

 “That I did,” Gerry concedes. “What can I say, I’ve got a thing for angry red pen and put-upon posh accents.”

 “For the last time, it is not put upon!”

 Tim’s laughter makes Jon’s lips fold into a pout, and Gerry presses his knee firmly against Jon’s underneath the table. He feels Jon melt against him, just a bit, like a bristling cat brought back to itself by a gentle hand between its ears.

 “So, then,” Sasha asks, pushing into Tim’s space as she leans closer to them with an inquisitive glint to her eyes. “Are you two dating?”

 “Sasha!” Martin squeaks, his eyes wide as saucers as he looks at her like she’d just suggested they all strip down to their socks or something. If Gerry weren’t so used to the question—albeit not directed at him and Jon before—he might have had a similar expression on his face.

 “What?” Sasha says defensively, leaning back slightly and crossing her arms over her chest. “It’s just a question! And a perfectly innocent one at that!”

 “Nothing with you is ever perfectly innocent,” Tim mutters under his breath, which earns him an elbow in the ribs.

 Gerry sighs in something close to resignation. He’d been expecting the question, really; Gerry hated the idea of his identity being spread behind his back like some sort of rumor, so he’d asked Jon to keep it private until he got the chance to disclose it himself. It had gotten a bit more complicated when they’d become queerplatonic partners but only because apparently Jon had a chronic inability to do anything halfway, and that included his relationships. Needless to say, Jon had admitted several hours before they’d arrived at the pub that his friends were all convinced that they were dating and that Jon couldn’t figure out how to correct them without explaining their situation in full.

 So, then. Gerry’s never been the biggest fan of speaking openly about his romantic preferences—or lack thereof, he supposes—but then Jon’s hand is brushing against his arm, the touch feather-light yet grounding all the same, and Gerry finds that the weight on his chest is all but gone.

 “No,” Gerry says. The word doesn’t burn on the way out like he feared it would. “Er. Not romantically, at least.”

 It’s less awkward than he thought it might be—putting the threads that run from Jon’s hands to his into words, skirting around textbook definitions for a bit before finally just biting the bullet and rattling them off rapid-fire, even though he hates how impersonal it all sounds and would much rather focus on how he feels when he sees Jon across the quad or how Jon’s fingers feel against his scalp when he brushes his hair or how Jon snores ever so slightly when he sleeps.

 In the end, Tim just makes some joke about friendship premium subscription, Sasha sheepishly apologizes for having made assumptions, and the conversation is blissfully cut short by the announcement that trivia will be starting in two minutes.

 Gerry’s hand finds Jon’s under the table and squeezes it tightly, just once. A silent thank you. The best I love you that Gerry can think to give right now. Jon’s shoulder knocks against Gerry’s in response, and Gerry thinks, just for a moment, about how fucking lucky he is.

 They end up losing trivia night—1967 is the correct date, Jon kept insisting, even when Tim finally pulled the book up on his phone and informed Jon that he was, in fact, off by a year and was therefore wrong—to Jon’s utter dismay and distress. But the sentiment still stands.

 And when Tim grins at Gerry and says, See you soon!, and Sasha follows up with, Next Thursday for trivia?, and Martin pitches in with a quiet, It was very nice to meet you, Gerry, Gerry doesn’t hate the warm, fuzzy feeling that spreads through him at the knowledge that Jon’s friends like him.

 Two cobblestone paths merge into one, the rocks threading together as easily as Jon’s fingers with Gerry’s, and the road ahead looks like nothing but wide-open sky and glittering stars.

[beholdme]

All the Many Shades of Gerry - Chapter 13

Chapters: 13/19

Fandom: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

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

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

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

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

He happens to love them back.

Find it on Ao3

[1] [2] [3] [4] [5] [6] [7] [8] [9] [10] [11] [12]

If someone had asked Martin where he had least expected to be on the day after his thirtieth birthday, the veterinarian probably wouldn’t have been at the top of his list, but it definitely would have made the top ten.

Honestly, Martin didn’t think he had ever stepped foot into a vet clinic before in his life. He had never owned so much as a pet hamster, and now here he stood, clutching a tiny ball of mewling fluff and trying not to get distracted by the pet toys.

He felt positively inundated with new information on all sides. There were about a million different types of pet food lining the walls, and everything seemed to be a new bright colour to draw his distracted eyes. Warning signs that made very little sense to him filled the space, most memorably ‘Large birds must be kept leashed at all times inside the practice’, and ‘Reptiles need to be secured inside their travel enclosures.’

There was indeed an iguana in a massive glass enclosure sunning itself under a heat lamp, but it appeared to be a permanent resident, not a guest. Seemingly opposite to this was the massive tabby cat draped across the reception desk.

Martin begins to panic slightly.

He desperately wished he had allowed one of his lovers to accompany him, but he had sent Gerry back to bed to sleep and Jon had been shooed off to work, both quite thoroughly hung-over.

Now here he stands, alone with his new fluffy friend, and doesn't even know where to start. Neither of his partners have ever actually had a kitten before, but at least they had both owned cats before.

Gerry had been adopted by Saturn as a full-grown boy when he arrived at the window of his shitty little flat in Edinburgh and demanded to be let in. Gerry had confessed to a romantic feeling of instant affection for the fluffy beast and had taken Saturn in without a moment’s hesitation. They had moved together as he traveled the country, eventually settling together in London, where he had found Jon again.

Jon had been raised with several cats that had all been born before him and had liked them, but he had told Martin once that he heavily associated cats with his Grandmother and his slightly cold upbringing. That was all the pet experience he had until he met Saturn and fell in love with him as easily as they’d both fallen in love with Gerry. Like goth, like feline companion, apparently.

Nevertheless, Saturn did not appreciate being taken to the vet and had never gone once since Martin had met him.

"Can I help you, sir?" A kind-looking older lady sat at reception, and she beaconed Martin forward gently.

"I- I-" He started, stuttering badly. He closed his eyes and shook himself to dispel the unfortunate remnant of his childhood. “I found this kitten, and I was hoping the vet could check on it for me?”

“And will you be wanting to surrender it into our care?” She asks, tapping away at her keyboard.

“What?” Martin shies away, pulling the cat protectively even closer to his chest.

“You’re more than welcome to keep it, but we do also take in strays if you aren’t able to.” She smiles at him soothingly.

“Oh, I want to keep her please.” Martin flushes a bit. “I already gave her a name.”

The woman smiles at him knowingly. “The vet can see you in 15 minutes then.”

She takes his contact information, and they weigh Martin’s new friend. She guesses the kitten's age to be about 2 weeks and sends him off to sit close to the iguana.

*

An hour later, Martin stumbles out the door, armed with more supplies than he could ever have imagined he needed to raise one small animal. His head is spinning, alternating between fond adoration and complete anxiety over this new task that he has given himself. Luna meows at him supportively, happy to be clean and have a full belly.

Out on the street, he finds Jon. It’s raining slightly, and he’s wrapped in a long peacoat, with a scarf Martin is certain was once his.

“What are you doing here?” Martin demands, shocked. He stumbles over to his partner, and Jon reaches out to steady him. “I thought you were at the library."

Jon presses a quick kiss to his shocked mouth, before taking several things out of his overcrowded arms.

"I know you said that you were going to do this on your own, but I wanted to be nearby in case you needed me, so I called off." He shrugs a bit, "I reckoned that I had earned it, what with all the overtime I work and don't get paid for."

Martin is filled with warmth, eyes welling a bit. "Oh, Jon."

"Oh no, don't cry. I'm sorry." Jon's face pinches in concern. "I can go if you want me to."

"No, I'm so happy you're here. I was just wishing for you, and there you were. Thank you." Martin steps towards him as best he can, and they kiss softly for a few moments, out in the rain.

In time, the kitten, haphazardly clutched to Martin's chest, makes her displeasure at the soggy conditions known. Gripping hands tightly, Jon and Martin set off towards the bookstore, just a couple blocks over.

It’s quiet when they arrive, the morning pre-work rush over, and the student and lunch crowds far off yet. The two baristas and Tim descend upon them immediately when they see the small head poking out of Martin’s coat. There is much cooing and fuss over Luna, and Martin recounts the tale of discovering her in the back alley of Gerry’s bar.

Once they return to work, Jon and Martin settle on one of the sofas, a coffee table before them. They make up a small cat bed, which Luna explores for a few moments, before sitting at the edge and staring at Martin imploringly. He scopes her up and plops her inside, before placing the tiny bed right in his lap. She happily passes out after that, the wild adventures of the morning catching up with her little kitten body.

Deciding to truly have the day off, Jon does not take out his laptop and start working on it, instead ordering their tea, picking a book to read from the store, and bringing it all over to settle with his partner.

“Thank you for coming,” Martin tells him, a soft look on his face. He leans an elbow on the back of the couch, head resting on his fist. “I didn’t even realise how much I needed you until I saw you there.”

“I know,” Jon starts, frowning in concentration, “that I’m not always the best at sensing these things, that sometimes I can be too focused on myself and the things going on in my head. I do hope that I always manage to catch the important moments, and I trust that you’ll always let me know when I don’t.”

Jon pauses, and sighs, a self-deprecating smile lining his face. He continues, “I want to learn to be who you need me to be. I want to be for you, what you always are to me. I love you, Martin.”

“I love you too, Jon.” Martin squeezes Jon’s hand, before placing a sweet kiss in his palm. “You are exactly who I need you to be.”

It is a soft, hazy sort of day. The rain pours outside, and Jon lies against Martin and reads two books before lunchtime. Martin practices bottle-feeding Luna, every few hours, and Jon sits nearby watching nervously. He wonders vaguely if his partner is alarmed to be around an infant of any kind for a while, but on the third feeding, Jon seems to rouse himself and offers to give it a try.

Each time a new client comes in, there's a round of cooing and petting, and Martin worries that she’ll be spoiled rotten in no time. He imagines that if she spends much time here, he’ll have to sell cat treats and Luna will one day be as fat as a house.

At one point, Jon starts to read aloud, and Martin seems to fall asleep gently propped against his shoulder. He wakes to find Jon laughing softly and Luna learning to use him as a climbing frame.

"I think she likes you, love," Martin whispers into his hair.

"Well, I think I might like her too," Jon confesses, a world away from his scepticism of just this morning.

After lunchtime, Gerry flies into the store very manically, clutching a very strange backpack to his chest. It has a weird clear window, reminiscent of a ship’s porthole, and the rest of it is hard structured plastic.

He ducks down to kiss first Martin, then Jon, before thrusting the backpack into Martin's hands.

"What is this?" Martin asks, holding it away from himself as if it might bite.

"It's a cat backpack. Saturn has always preferred it to a normal cat basket, and I thought it might be useful if we need to take her to work with us and then back to various flats." Gerry walks around the table, bodily picking up Jon's legs and sitting beneath them. He looks like nothing so much as a large, damp bat, black trench coat flapping around him like over large wings. "I ordered her one of her own, but it won't be here for a few days, so I brought Saturn's in the meantime."

There's a beat of shocked silence, so Gerry adds, "Only if you want it, obviously."

"I- I do, thank you." Martin can feel himself blushing with odd pleasure.

He had made sure to ask them if they were okay with Martin keeping Luna, but he hadn't really expected them to embrace the situation with such gusto, and his heart burns with an odd intensity at their gestures of support.

It's almost-

It's almost like they love him, and care about all the things he cares about.

Martin sits, staring at a cat backpack, and allows the realisation to wash over him. It hits him like a tidal wave, despite the dozens and maybe hundreds of times they've said the words to him.

He feels very foolish, left floored by the fact that his lovers- well, that they love him!

Martin knows, understands even, that he has been left slightly broken by his father leaving, his mother hating him, the things that he chose to do to survive in his early adulthood. He does understand that, and yet he never realized that he was hearing Jon and Gerry say they love him and saying the words back, and yet subtly holding on to the (clearly mistaken) understanding that they don't really mean them.

It makes a sick kind of sense, clinging to the idea that they don't really care about him, so when they decide that they don't anymore, it doesn't leave him broken beyond repair.

Martin puts the cat bag down on the table, hands Luna to Gerry, and gets up. He waves at them reassuringly when they try to ask him what's wrong, before walking to the bathroom, locking the door, and sobbing like a child for several long moments.

*

As Luna grows, she spends time with each of them.

Gerry takes her most of the first nights, feeding her through the evenings and then handing her back to Martin as he leaves for the bookstore.

This means she spends quite a lot of her formative life in a bar, but when Martin goes in to check on them, he finds Gerry's plastered clientele just as enamored with the kitten as his own tea-drinking patrons.

Jon likes to have her in the late afternoons, keeping her at the library for a few sleepy hours before he leaves for the day. He tells Martin once that the children's reading group comes in during that time, and he likes to sit in with them and let Luna listen along.

The children, of course, adore her and Jon tells Martin very primly, "Listening comprehension is a very important skill in a developing infant."

Martin finds it hilarious and adorable and can't help but pull Jon into his arms and kiss him breathless, an unimpressed Luna trapped between them.

Saturn does not appreciate Luna at first, disappearing in a huff the first few times Martin brings her over to the studio.

"Don't worry about it, love." Gerry had waved away his concern casually. "He's just a jealous baby. He'll figure out that she wants to play with him eventually, and then they'll be the best of friends."

Indeed, Martin walks into the kitchen one morning to find the two cats curled together in a shaft of sunshine. Saturn is gently giving her a bath, and Luna purrs sweetly at the attention.

When Saturn notices him watching, he untangles himself, shows Martin his bum, and then disappears. He's reminded of nothing so much as Gerry himself, caught eating ice cream for breakfast, or smoking during the day, an activity he would insist is a nighttime pursuit only. The same drama is employed as a distraction technique, and Martin wonders whether the cat learnt it from the goth, or the goth learnt it from the cat.

Luna grows and settles, and Martin adores having her more than almost anything.

He takes the time, as they raise her, to force himself to accept his life for what it truly is. He puts aside the constant nagging fear that Jon and Gerry will lose interest in him one day and begins to notice all the ways they show him they love him, which makes the words all the more precious to him when they take the time to tell him.

[ollieofthebeholder]

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

Tumblr tag || Also on AO3.

Chapter 37: Martin Prime

It was weird hearing his fiancé arguing with someone who sounded like him but wasn’t, Martin mused idly. Like listening to a tape he didn’t remember recording.

It was also weird, and would probably always be weird, that he could tell the difference between Jon’s voice and Past Jon’s voice, at least when he was paying attention and not overly upset. Theoretically they were the same person. Practically, they were very different, just because of what they’d both been through. Jon’s voice had just the faintest rasp to it, the lightest bit of scarring on his vocal chords from both Daisy’s knife and Jane Prentiss’ worms, and Past Jon’s voice was a tad softer, less hardened by time and circumstance. The distinction in their voices was subtle, but it was enough.

“You knew about the bullet. You should have said something to her,” Jon said, for what was at least the fifteenth time in the last week. Martin could imagine him waving his arms as he did so. “If she gets shot because she didn’t know to avoid it—”

“It wasn’t like I had an opportunity in the conversation,” Past Martin protested. “I did tell her to be careful.”

“Why didn’t you say anything?” Jon demanded.

From the stress on you, Martin guessed he’d turned the argument on someone else, and it was Past Jon who answered. “What was I supposed to say? ‘Oh, don’t worry, you’ll come back alive but with a ghost’s bullet in your leg that’s going to make you irrationally angry’? I did the best I could. We were recording.”

“I’ve told you before, the recorders aren’t the Eye—”

“Uh, I need to take this back to the library before it closes for the weekend,” Tim said, but it didn’t seem to make an impression on the argument that Sasha was now chiming in to.

“He’s right, you should have told her. Should have warned her against joining the Institute, too.”

“I can do that when she gets back,” Past Martin pointed out.

“I told Basira what was going on,” Sasha said.

“But not in relation to herself,” Past Jon said. Martin could imagine that being accompanied by an accusing jab of the finger,  but he wasn’t going to make assumptions. “Besides, that’s different. Basira is the type to weigh all evidence and theories against her options when making a decision. Melanie’s more the type to give in to emotion, especially anger. It’s impossible to tell which way she’d go if you gave her that kind of information first. It’s very likely to make things worse.”

“Don’t you Know at me, Jonathan Sims.”

Tim made a noise imitative of a supermarket’s tannoy crackling to life. “Manager to Mr. Kettle, manager to Mr. Kettle, there’s a Ms. Pot for you on line two.”

“Would that be the pot calling the kettle back?” Martin asked. He was rewarded with a choked-off laugh from Tim’s direction, but he was pretty sure nobody else in the room heard either one of them. With a sigh, he heaved himself out of the armchair. “Want me to come with you to take that book back? This is going to take a while.”

“Sure. We’ll be back, guys.” Tim evidently directed this at the others, but again, no reaction from anyone. He sighed. “Here, give me your arm. Bringing your cane?”

“Better not, just in case we run into someone. Get me to the stairs and I should be okay.”

The sound of the argument faded into the background as they made it to the steps; Martin let go of Tim’s arm and gripped the railing instead. By leaning forward, he could anticipate when they hit a landing. “Thanks. What’s the book on, by the way?”

“Oh, it’s one of the circus books. I—I know I’m obsessing a little about it. I know the circus itself isn’t the important bit, but…I don’t know. Forewarned is forearmed, I guess.” Tim was silent for a moment. “Unless it is something about circuses that are important.”

“No, not really. Just…an excuse, I guess.” Martin tried to put into words what even Jon had never asked his opinion on; there hadn’t been much of a chance before the Unknowing, and after it there hadn’t been much of a point. “I’ve noticed that’s one of the places the Stranger is drawn to, is the entertainment industry. Not just the circus, but the theater. I-I mean, don’t get me wrong, it’s not the only one drawn to it. You know as well as I do the damn things overlap, like the bleed on the edge of colors.”

“Mm…hang on, I have a question, but we’re hitting the main floor. I’m gonna throw my arm around your shoulders like I’m telling you a bad joke, okay?”

“Thanks. And thanks for the warning.” Martin braced himself against the railing.

Tim’s arm came down heavily over Martin’s shoulders, and he turned his face towards him, hoping anyone passing them would assume he was engrossed in Tim’s extremely skewed sense of humor. True to his word, Tim picked up in the middle of a joke as they left the stairwell. “…the Brother Superior stands up as usual and sings, ‘Good morning, broooo-theeers.’ And all the brothers sing back, ‘Good moooor-niiiiiiing,’ except for the one little brother who’s rebelling. He sings out—”

“’Night, Martin,” a sweet, young-sounding voice called.

“Night,” Martin called back. It sounded like Manal, but he didn’t want to risk saying the wrong name and drawing attention to himself.

“Oh, hey, are you heading upstairs?” The voice got closer, and Martin and Tim drew to a halt. “This came in the mail drop for Mr. Bouchard. I meant to bring it up right away, but we got slammed with students and I forgot. Must be the first paper of the term coming up due. Can you give it to Rosie, please?”

“Sure, no problem.” Martin reached out uncertainly and—fortunately—touched a cardboard packet; he was able to grab it before it became obvious that was luck. He hoped. “Have a good night, Manal.”

“You too.”

Tim got them started walking again, continuing as he did, “Anyway, so the brother who’s rebelling sings, ‘Good eeeeeeve-niiiiiiing.’ A hush falls over the whole refectory. Brother Superior stands up, looks around the room, looks each brother in the eye, and then sings, ‘Someone chanted eveniiiiiiing…’”

Martin let out a long, protracted groan. “God, Tim, how long have you been sitting on that one?”

“Years,” Tim admitted sheepishly. “You’ve got to have the right audience for it, you know? Someone who both appreciate puns and knows enough about music to catch the reference.”

“If I could see you, I would hit you.”

“Must be my lucky day. Mind the steps.”

Martin switched the cardboard packet to his other hand in favor of the railing, and was surprised when someone tugged it away from his fingers. “Hey—”

“Sorry, should’ve warned you I was doing that,” Tim said. “I just figured it’d probably be better if I hand it off to Rosie, since…” He trailed off.

Since Martin couldn’t see her, wouldn’t know where to find her, and the last time he’d been in her office it had been…somewhat different. He tried to push the image of the top of the Panopticon out of his mind. “Yeah, probably for the best. If she’s still there.”

“She will be. Always one of the last ones out the door. Not sure how much of it is Elias keeping her to the last minute and how much of it is she doesn’t want to miss anything.” Tim paused. “Speaking of being unbearably nosy, wonder what Elias is getting from one of the Lukases that can’t be delivered in person?”

“They don’t like doing anything in person if they can help it, Tim. It’s kind of their whole…deal.” That close to Elias’ office, it didn’t feel safe to mention the Lonely out loud, or any of the fears, really. “I very much doubt we’ll find out, though.”

The railing didn’t level out—it just stopped, something Martin discovered when he almost pitched forward from abruptly not having something to lean on. He caught himself against the wall with a rather loud slap and thanked his lucky stars he’d always had a (mostly undeserved, to be honest) reputation as a klutz. Assuming anyone was still around, they’d probably just think oh, Martin tripped over his own two feet again, insofar as they thought about it at all. Rosie was probably watching, though.

That was confirmed—more or less—when Tim said in a bright, jovial voice, “Rosie! Good to see you. Can you give this to Elias? Manal asked us to bring it up.”

“Of course.” Rosie’s voice sounded just like Martin remembered it, and he curled one hand into a fist to stave off the memory of her staring up at them, face perfectly blank except for her eyes, somewhere between dazed and terrified, as she blandly asked if they had an appointment…

Not for the first time, Martin wished there had been any other way of protecting him from the Eye than by destroying his vision. Setting aside the usual, mundane difficulties that came with total blindness—difficulties any person faced with complete loss of sight would have to deal with—there was the simple fact that the last thing Martin had seen, live and in person, had been a post-apocalyptic hellscape. The last time he had seen the Institute, it had been a tower of black glass and twisted steel looming up into the stratosphere; the last time he had seen London, it had been swarming with very interested cameras and monitors and paintings of eyes; the last time he had seen the sky, it had seen him back. He could remember the way things had been before, but those last impressions were awfully powerful, and it hurt.

“Was there anything else, Tim?” Rosie asked. Martin frowned slightly. Under her voice was something eager, something…hungry. She wanted something, and he wondered what it was. He remembered Jon’s unwilling statement, where he’d talked about her constant desire for secrets—she could probably give Sasha a run for her money in terms of snooping, and no wonder Gertrude had always talked to her as if she was in the know. Was that all it was? Was she prying for secrets? Or—Martin bit his lip—was it possible she’d been taken over by the Not-Them, that she was drawn to Tim because of his Stranger mark? She sounded like he remembered, but if she were replaced in this past, would it replace his memories of the future, too?

He bit back a groan. Douglas Adams was wrong about the biggest problem to time-travel being grammatical tenses; clearly, the biggest problem was making sense out of the recursive nature of body-stealing, memory-altering creatures.

“Nope, that ought to do it. Gotta get to the library before they lock it up for the night. Have a good weekend, Rosie.” Tim knocked twice on something wooden, probably her desk, then came over and touched Martin’s arm. “Let’s go, Freckles.”

“Night, Rosie,” Martin called, because he would have before and Past Martin would too and there was no sense in making Rosie—or Elias, if he was still there—suspicious. He could imagine the false, charming smile she flashed in his direction, but there was no audible response and he didn’t expect one. Instead, he simply linked arms with Tim, let him lead him down the corridor, and prayed nobody had left a door open for him to run into.

The sensation of stepping into the library was instantly a familiar one to Martin—the feeling of stepping into a soaring, open space, but an oddly safe one—odd because of the sheer number of truly dangerous and terrifying works contained there. Any book with Jurgen Leitner’s bookplate on it was destroyed long before it got this far, of course, but even before he’d gone to the Archives, Martin had wondered if someone would be able to tell one of Leitner’s books if the bookplate was papered over or removed. Once he’d learned the truth, that Leitner had been a collector rather than the author or even the commissioner, he’d wondered how many books of power were actually in the Institute’s library. On the one hand, it didn’t seem likely that Jonah Magnus would allow any genuinely powerful books to get this far; on the other hand, it would certainly explain the library’s asinine and borderline ludicrous lending procedures.

Martin hung back by the door, sliding his hands into his pockets and hoping he was sufficiently out of the way of everyone bustling to get their assigned tasks completed so they could be out the door on time. Idly, he wondered who was on the desk. He’d usually ended up working it on Friday afternoons; everybody else hated it because, as Rebecca had once complained, there was always one person who came back with an enormous stack to return with ten minutes to go before they were supposed to clock out. Every book had to be checked against three different lists, certain inspections had to be made, and the identity of the person returning the book had to be checked twice. And it all had to be done by hand; every attempt to automate and bring in a computer had been met with catastrophic failure. Martin had actually kind of enjoyed it, especially since it usually meant he was left alone at the end of the week and could take his time, lingering over shelves and experimenting with the acoustics. If he thought he could get away with it, he might creep up here some evening after the Institute was closed and throw a few more songs into the darkness. It was different in the Archives.

“Well, hello there, Martin!”

Martin almost leapt out of his skin and whirled around, his heart pounding. “Jesus!”

“Sorry, didn’t mean to sneak up on you.” The voice was coming from roughly Martin’s height, but that was about all he could tell, that and that it was female. It had no distinctive characteristics, nothing to trigger a name in his mind. And yet, whoever owned it knew his name, which meant it was someone he should know. He’d have to bluff. “Haven’t seen you up here in a while.”

“Yeah, just—been busy,” Martin said lamely. He waved in the direction of the desk. “Kind of figured you’d be glad to see the back of me, to be honest.”

“Oh, now, why would you think that?” The woman, or at least Martin presumed it was the woman, patted him on the cheek with a soft, fleshy hand; he tried not to flinch at the unexpected touch, or the unpleasantly dry feel of her palm. “You’re such a hard worker, and always so cheerful. You’ve been missed, but I’m sure Jon appreciates having you in the Archives.”

If this was a joke, Martin didn’t think it was very funny, but he managed a smile anyway. “Well, we all had a settling-in period, but that’s in the past now. I do miss it up here sometimes, but I like being down there, too.”

“And we’re very glad to have him,” Tim said, suddenly right next to Martin. “C’mon, buddy, we’ve got a weekend to catch before it slips away…have a good one.”

“You, too, Tim. And you, Martin. Don’t be such a stranger—come back and visit us more often. We’d love to see you again.”

“Sure,” Martin said softly. “’Night.”

Tim didn’t say anything the rest of the way back down to the Archives, which Martin appreciated. Going down stairs was a hell of a lot more complicated than going up; he couldn’t lean as safely, and the kick-and-drag method was a bit less effective. It took concentration to keep from pitching forward and tumbling down the entire flight, and if he tried to spare any braincells for conversation, Martin was pretty sure he’d end up missing his footing. Tim’s hand at his elbow helped, especially since the main floor was crowded with people leaving for the day. A few called greetings to Tim, but they all ignored Martin, which was fine by him.

There was a sense, when they re-entered the Archives, of an argument put on hold, something that was confirmed when the first thing Martin heard anyone say was Jon’s voice. “What do you think, Martin?”

“Gender is a social construct, Shakespeare is overrated, and paisley is horrendously tacky no matter what color it is,” Martin replied promptly. Someone hastily turned a snigger into a cough.

“I mean, about whether or not you would have told Melanie more about what to expect in India.”

Martin felt around until he located a chair. “I think my opinion doesn’t matter.”

“Of course it matters,” Past Jon protested.

“Not in this.” Martin met Jon’s hand coming towards him and squeezed it gently. “What I would have done doesn’t have a lot of relevance here. It’s not our story anymore.”

“What?” Past Martin sounded genuinely confused. “Of course it’s—”

“I mean,” Martin said quickly, “that you’re not us and we’re not you. What I was like at this point in things isn’t anywhere near where you are, and vice versa. Same with Jon and your Jon. To be honest, I don’t even know if I would have made the effort to be friends. But at this point, things are different enough that telling you how we would do it isn’t very…efficient, I guess? It’s your story, your lives. You’re the ones shaping it. Trying to do things the way we wish we’d done it…well, if the circumstances aren’t the same, it won’t have the same outcome necessarily. You’ve got to do what you think is best.”

“That’s…a good point, actually,” Jon admitted. He sighed. “I apologize for lecturing.”

“’S all right,” Past Martin said. “Gave me a chance to stand my ground and all.”

“Which you need to do more often,” Tim said cheerfully. “Anything to boost your self-esteem.”

“Ouch, Tim, really?” The effectiveness of Sasha’s reproof was lessened by the obvious smirk in her voice.

“Yeah, okay, I probably shouldn’t have said it like that, but it’s true. I’m not completely oblivious, you know. I can put the pieces together, and from the little you’ve said about working in the library, I got the impression you thought they hated you up there. Especially Diana.”

“They did,” Past Martin protested. “The only one who ever even spoke to me directly was Diana, and even that was just to give me orders. It’s hard not to know someone hates you when their method of asking you for help is to wait until you’re in earshot and then tell someone else to ‘just leave that for Martin, he’ll fumble his way through it eventually’.”

“Did they really do that?” Jon asked quietly.

“Constantly,” Martin affirmed. “Speaking of, Tim, who the hell was that who was talking to me while you were checking that book back in? I didn’t recognize the voice.”

“Wait, seriously?” Tim said with an audible frown.

Martin sighed. “Look. Down here it’s pretty easy to tell who’s talking. You’ve all got pretty distinct voices from one another. It’s hard to tell my Jon and your Jon apart if I’m not concentrating, but there’s enough of a difference and I know you well enough to be able to figure it out, usually. But out there? If it’s not someone with a distinctive pitch or accent or speech pattern or whatever, it’s hard to tell. And something like ninety percent of the people who work here speak with the exact same voice. About all I could tell was that I was talking to a woman.”

“I guess that makes sense. Just figured you’d recognize Diana’s voice when you heard it.”

“Pretty sure I would. So who was that?”

There was a half-second’s pause before Tim said, “Diana.”

“Diana?” Martin repeated incredulously.

“You’re sure you didn’t recognize her?”

“No, and it’s not just the accent. I didn’t think the ladders got that close to where I was standing.” Martin rubbed his forehead. “God, my mental map of the library is all off now.”

Jon wrapped an arm around his shoulder and pulled him close. Tim sounded bewildered. “What do ladders have to do with anything?”

“It sounded like whoever was talking to me was around my height. I mean, that could’ve been the way sound bounces in the library, but—”

“No, that’s—she is around your height. She always intimidated the hell out of me.”

Martin sighed. “Okay, I think we’re talking about two different Dianas here. Which Diana was this I was talking to?”

“Diana—what the hell is her last name? The head librarian?”

“Caxton,” Past Jon supplied.

Something cold trickled down Martin’s spine. “Describe her.”

“Uh—tall, broad-shouldered, dark hair that she usually wears piled up on top of her head, looks like a Quentin Blake illustration come to life—?”

“That’s who the artist is! I can never remember his name,” Sasha said, punctuating the remark by—from the sound of it—slamming her open hand against the desk.

“That’s not Diana Caxton,” Past Martin said decidedly. “I don’t know who you’re talking about, or why she would have told you she was, but—”

“It’s the Diana Caxton I know,” Past Jon said. “And you should, too. She was there when I took Melanie up the first time, said they missed seeing your smiling face up there.”

“Look, that’s not Diana,” Past Martin insisted. “I should know. I worked there for ten years, Jon. She’s shorter than five feet tall, her hair’s been completely silver for a while now, and she has a Korean accent. I don’t know who this woman is you’re describing, but it’s not Diana Caxton.”

Jon tensed, his arm tightening around Martin’s shoulders. Softly, he said, “I think it is now.”

There was a moment of horrible silence as that sank in. Martin had to admit that the idea of the Not-Them taking over Diana hadn’t even occurred to him. He’d just…assumed that if it was anyone, either it would be someone in Artifact Storage foolish enough to disregard the warnings or it would be Rosie. And, okay, maybe there’d been a foolish little part of him that had hoped it wouldn’t take over anyone. But somehow, the idea of it being Diana Caxton just felt wrong. It was true that she hadn’t liked him all that much when he’d worked for her, but then, he’d been unqualified and incompetent, bluffing his way along, and she’d likely had to pick up a lot of his messes. And he knew for a fact that the twice-widowed bookworm had a flock of grandchildren who adored her—he still remembered the day her youngest had come to visit, just before he’d been transferred to the Archives, and attached herself to Martin with a thousand innocent questions and bragging stories about “my Nana”. It wasn’t fair for anyone to be taken by that thing, but especially not someone like Diana.

There was a banging noise, like the Archives doors had just blown open, and Martin jumped, clutching at Jon’s arm. His first thought was that it was the Not-Diana, having realized they knew, coming to take them out. His second was that it was Elias, the jig would be up, and they would have to try and implement their plan now, and what if Jon wasn’t strong enough to do what had to be done and—

“Basira?” Sasha said, sounding somewhere between shocked and relieved. “What are you doing here?”

Oh. Martin relaxed, but not much. There was absolutely no hiding his or Jon’s presence. Past Jon sounded nervous as he said, “I can explain about—”

“Save it. I don’t care.” There was a thump and a rattle as Basira—her voice was unmistakable, too—dropped something on the desk in front of them. “Here.”

“Are those the tapes?” Past Jon asked.

“As many of them as I could get,” Basira replied.

“What happened, Basira?” Sasha’s voice was gentle, but—surprisingly—there was no static in it, even though Martin could almost feel it building in the room. It hit him, suddenly, that Sasha’s ability from the Eye didn’t enable her to ask for secrets. Only to take them. He decided to keep that particular unpleasant realization to himself for the moment. “I thought you said you were done with the Institute.”

Basira let out one of those frustrated noises Martin, unfortunately, knew all too well. “They’re covering it up. Altman’s death. Saying he was dirty. That he got stabbed in a drug deal gone wrong.”

“Wait, so the operation you went on—” Past Jon began.

“Doesn’t exist. I mean, I didn’t know Leo well, but…it’s not right. And they seemed happy enough to get me out the door.”

Someone poked at the box, if the rattle was any indication; Martin guessed it was Sasha, since she spoke again. “So why bring us the tapes?”

“Well, they’re sure as hell not going to solve Gertrude’s murder,” Basira said. “And from what you said the last time I was here, they’re probably of more use to you anyway, even if her death’s not in here. Before, I guess I had enough police in me not to steal evidence, but…”

“They’ve rather lost your loyalty,” Jon supplied softly. Martin slipped his arm around his waist and pulled him close.

“You won’t get in trouble for this, will you?” Tim asked, actually sounding concerned.

“Don’t think so. Daisy knows I’m bringing them to you. They won’t know they’re missing until they do inventory, and then only if they check the sectioned stuff.”

“Thanks, Basira,” Sasha said. “I owe you a drink or two. Just say the word.”

“Long as you promise not to talk shop,” Basira replied. “If I never hear another thing about this place…that’ll be enough for me.”

Martin heard footsteps starting to retreat across the Archives floor. Impulsively, he called out, “Basira.”

The footsteps stopped. “What?”

Martin looked in what he hoped was the right direction to look her in the eyes. “Keep her close. You’re her tether, and excuses only carry you so far.”

It was the same thing he’d said to her, once upon a time and simultaneously in a nonexistent future, loitering in the hallway of an abattoir outside an instrument room. She hadn’t wanted to listen then, and if he was honest, he hadn’t really taken his own advice all that well. He could only pray she would listen now, and that she would understand what he was talking about—and what he wasn’t saying. Don’t let your partner turn into a monster because it’s easier than saying stop.

After a moment, Basira said, her voice so soft it almost wasn’t audible, “Right.” With that, evidently, she left the Archives.

Jon pulled Martin around and wrapped him in a tight hug; Martin could feel his face pressing into his shoulder as he hugged him back. He, at least, had understood. They held each other for a moment, both hoping—despite what she’d done to them months ago—that Daisy could still be saved.

There was another rattle as someone poked at the tapes. “Where do we start?” Sasha asked.

“We go home,” Tim said firmly. “It’s Friday, and it’s past quitting time. Let’s just—let’s just go home, take the weekend to regroup, and we can come back and look through these on Monday. Maybe, um, maybe you two can go through and pick a few you think we ought to listen to.”

“Or,” Jon suggested, “we can sort them out. Gertrude labeled some but not others. If I set the blank ones aside, that might be good practice for you to sort out the color muddle. If that’s all right.”

“Either way, Tim’s right,” Past Jon said softly. “It’s late and we’re all tired. Especially…now. Let’s just go home. We’ll see you on Monday.”

Everyone wished one another goodnight, and the team departed, leaving Jon and Martin alone in the Archives. Martin waited a moment, then asked, “Do you want to start looking through them now?”

To Martin’s surprise, Jon hesitated for a minute, then said, “No. I think I want to put these in the Archivist’s office, and then I want to take a walk with my fiancé and maybe go out to dinner. What do you think of that?”

Martin smiled. He could feel himself blushing a little, but he didn’t care. “I think that sounds like an excellent idea.”

[eldritchteaparty]

Chapters: 8/20 Fandom: The Magnus Archives (Podcast) Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist Characters: Martin Blackwood, Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Tim Stoker (The Magnus Archives), Sasha James, Rosie Zampano, Oliver Banks, Original Elias Bouchard, Peter Lukas, Annabelle Cane Additional Tags: Post-Canon, Fix-It, Post-Canon Fix-It, Scars, Eventual Happy Ending, Fluff and Angst, I'll add characters and tags as they come up, Reference to injuries and blood, Character Death In Dream, Nudity (not sexual or graphic), Nightmares, Fighting

Summary: Following the events of MAG 200, Jon and Martin find themselves in a dimension very much like the one they came from--with second chances and more time.

Chapter Summary: Following their misadventure at Hill Top Road, Jon finally takes some time off; Martin remembers something disturbing about the archives’ collection of books.

Chapter 8 of my post-canon fix-it is up! Read at AO3 above or here below.

Tumblr master post with links to previous chapters is here.

***

“Jon, take the pills.”

Jon, wrapped in a blanket and staring out over the railing of the flat’s small balcony, stayed silent.

“Fine, I’ll just wait.” Martin set the vitamin bottles and the glass of water on the sturdiest-looking part of the railing, and shifted the second chair enough so he could sit down.

“You’re going to get cold,” Jon said.

“Yeah, probably.” Martin was dressed in a light jumper with only a t-shirt beneath it. It had been warm enough earlier in the day—the weather was getting nicer—but as the sun started to go down it was cooling off.

“Your choice.” Jon picked up his lighter from the small table between them and lit another cigarette, and they sat together as the sun continued its journey below the horizon. It really was beautiful, Martin thought. He hadn’t taken the opportunity to observe any part of nature in a long time. It hadn’t ever been much of a priority to him, but there was something nice about taking in the colors that spilled across the sky—deep yellows and oranges that gave way to pinks and purples, and eventually a dark glowing blue that was only barely distinguishable from black.

Martin wrapped his arms around himself.

“At least get a coat,” Jon said.

“At least take those pills.”

“God, you’re stubborn.” Jon readjusted in his seat to pull his legs up under the blanket a little more.

“Pot and kettle, Jon.”

“Why should I take them? You heard the doctors, there isn’t anything actually wrong with me. They’re just grasping at straws.”

After an hour or so on the porch at Hill Top Road, Martin had calmed enough to make the decision to go to A&E. Although Jon had protested, the fact was that he had been too weak to do anything about it, and Martin only felt a little bad taking advantage of that. As he’d said then, he couldn’t believe he hadn’t insisted on doing it before; he’d become so used to not being able to get help, that he hadn’t really considered it until then. He wasn’t going to mess around anymore, though, especially now that he realized he might not always be able to help on his own.

After hearing about Jon’s recent fatigue and his fainting episode, the healthcare staff had run a lot of tests. They’d hooked him up to monitors, measured things, done blood draws. Martin had to admit Jon’s description of their conclusions wasn’t far off—they didn’t find anything explicitly wrong with him. There was no diagnosis they felt comfortable giving, although they had pointed out a few possibilities that they should monitor. And they’d recommended the vitamins, of course.

“They did say you have nutritional deficiency—”

“—minor nutritional deficiency—”

“—and your vitamin D levels were actually quite low.” Martin shivered involuntarily in the cool night air.

“God damn it, Martin.” Jon fidgeted with the lighter on the table, but didn’t actually reach for another cigarette. “Will you take the blanket, anyway?”

“Will you take those pills?”

“They won’t help with anything,” Jon protested. “We both know that. This is ridiculous.”

“Speak for yourself,” Martin countered. “I’m not assuming anything about what will help. Beyond that, given how you’ve been eating, they can’t hurt. And finally, yes, I am being ridiculous, and I don’t care.”

“I didn’t say you were being ridiculous.”

“No, I said it. I’ll own it. I am being ridiculous, because I don’t want to lose you, and I’m scared. I don’t want to lose you now any more than I did when we were walking through an apocalypse together, or when you were being kidnapped by actual monsters every week, or when you were taking unannounced holidays in coffins or whatever.” Martin shivered again. “Look, it’s just not that hard to take them, Jon.”

“Well, when you put it that way, I’m behaving like an ass,” Jon sighed.

“Now I didn’t say that,” Martin replied. “I’m not trying to ignore what you’re feeling Jon, and I know there’s not a quick fix for any of it. It’s just that it’s—it’s such a small thing, and if it helps, at least it’s something.”

Jon grumbled.

“And not to bring this up again, but—I mean, it might help if you would just talk to me?”

Jon shook his head. “I can’t. When I try to put it into words, I—it never comes out right. I sound like a—well, a monster.” Jon seemed to shrink back into the blanket even more. “Or maybe I am one, and I can’t face you knowing it.”

“Jon…” Martin hesitated, but decided to finish the thought. “I’ll be honest with you. I’ve asked myself if—if you are.”

Jon turned to him. “And?”

“And I don’t think so,” Martin said simply.

“Why not?”

“To be completely clear, it’s not the most rational reason. I just don’t think I could love you like this if you were. You’re just not bad. You’ve only ever wanted to do the right thing. You’ve only ever wanted to protect people, to protect me, even if—” Martin cleared his throat. “Even if we haven’t always agreed on what that looks like.”

“I see,” Jon said softly, turning to look over the railing again.

“So, if you don’t want to talk, that’s fine.” Martin leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees, blowing warm air into his hands. “But in that case, it’s vitamins and freezing myself.”

“May I ask a favor first?” Jon said, eyeing the glass of water warily.

“Depends on the favor.”

“Will you make me some tea?”

“Of course.” Martin was relieved; that was one thing he imagined he’d always be happy to do. “But you’ll take those pills if I do?”

“Yes,” Jon said. “You’ve made your case.”

He reached down to kiss Jon’s head before he walked back into the kitchen, and noted with comfort that Jon leaned into him as he did.

***

That was Sunday evening. Since they’d returned from A&E, Jon had spent most of the time before that afternoon sleeping. He’d been restless, and Martin had slept on the couch for a few nights to try to let Jon get as much sleep as he could. Of course, he had woken anxiously every few hours needing to check on Jon, so he was more than ready to go to bed after their discussion on the balcony. He ended up turning in before Jon, so he was a little surprised to find him already awake and sitting back against his pillows when he opened his eyes on Monday.

“Hey,” Martin said, moving closer to rest his face against Jon’s hip, throwing an arm over his legs.

“Hey.”

“Did I keep you up?” Martin asked.

“No.”

“What time did you get in bed?”

“I don’t know exactly. Not that long after you. I’m just not that tired. Maybe I finally slept enough.”

“That makes one of us.” One night of sleep hadn’t done Martin as much good as he had hoped.

“I’m sorry.” With his eyes still closed, Martin felt Jon’s hand come to rest on his head, gently rubbing his scalp just above his ear.

“I’m going to have to cut my hair soon.”

“I like it,” Jon said, gently tugging at a few strands. “I mean, I like it shorter, too. I guess I just like your hair.”

“Flatterer.” Martin yawned, then pressed his face into Jon even harder for a moment before rolling back to his side of the bed. “Just so long as you know it’s not getting you out of those pills. Do you want to shower first?”

“Actually, I was thinking I might not go in today.”

“Really?” Martin sat up to look at Jon. “How are you feeling?”

“Better.” He picked at an invisible spot on the quilt. “It’s more that I’d just—I’d like some time to think. If you’re ok with it.”

“Yes, of course I’m ok with it. I’ve been trying to get you to take it easy ever since we got here. We can—” He stopped when he saw the look on Jon’s face and realized what he was actually asking. “Oh, you meant—just you. Yeah, no, of course that’s fine. That’s great.”

“Are you sure? I mean—if you want to stay too—”

“No,” Martin interrupted. “No, it’s really fine. It’s not a problem. I mean, I know I’ve been really irritating with the—”

“That’s not it,” Jon said reassuringly. “It’s really not. I’m—I’m glad you’ve been here for me. It’s just my mind’s been so cluttered, and it finally—I feel like I can gather my thoughts.”

Martin nodded. “I get it. I do.” He did, mostly. “Would it be ok if I called to check on you?”

Jon smiled. “I’m sure I’d worry if you didn’t.”

So Martin went in by himself. He told Tim and Sasha the truth, mostly; Jon had blacked out after therapy, of course, not in an abandoned house in Oxford where there existed a possible gap between dimensions and realities, but the part about going to A&E and Jon staying home to recover was straightforward enough.

“Glad something slowed him down,” Tim said, and Sasha gave him a look. “Well, something was bound to happen, and at least Martin was there. It could have been worse. He was pushing himself too hard.”

“You’re not wrong,” Martin agreed, and Sasha patted him soothingly on the shoulder.

He went in by himself the next day, too. Jon seemed to be doing well enough. They didn’t talk much; Martin was tired and Jon seemed lost in his thoughts. Martin wasn’t sure what Jon was doing most of the day, though it didn’t seem to be much of anything. He was eating—well, drinking the nutrition shakes Martin had picked up for him—and Martin suspected he was sleeping a little, based on how the bed looked when he came home. Jon managed to eat solid food at supper again that second night, and reached protectively for his half-empty plate when Martin assumed he was done.

“Sorry,” Martin said with his hands up in apology, leaning back into the couch. “Does that mean—maybe you’re feeling better?”

“I think so. Starting to.” Jon stretched out his feet to rest them on the bottom ledge of the coffee table. For an instant, Martin already missed the feeling of Jon falling asleep against him—but this was better, he knew. He pushed the mournfulness away.

He went in by himself again on Wednesday. A little after noon, Sasha joined him and Tim in the assistants’ office.

“Want to come to lunch?”

Martin assumed she was asking Tim, but when he didn’t hear an answer, he glanced up to find both of them looking at him.

“Oh—me?” Martin asked.

“Yes,” Tim replied, grabbing his jacket off the back of his chair. “Might be nice to take up some old habits again.”

Martin didn’t have to think for too long to figure out what Tim was referring to; memories from this world came easy now. Not long after his mother had died, they’d started going out for lunch together once a week. It had almost certainly been for his benefit, but no one had ever admitted that to him; instead, they’d all acted like it was a spontaneous idea that for some reason had never occurred to any of them before. Martin had been so grateful for the company that he’d simply accepted it without thinking about it too hard.

“We’ll miss Jon, of course,” Sasha added, “but he can come with us next week.”

“Oh, whatever,” Tim said, elbowing Martin good-naturedly as they left the office together. “This just makes up for those times Jon couldn’t wait and stole Martin out from under us.”

Martin remembered that, too; there had been a few times when, despite their best intentions, he’d been overwhelmed by the thought of lunch with the whole group. Jon had somehow understood and anticipated those days, and had come up with some reason he had to go early, asking Martin if he’d wanted to join. They hadn’t said much when it had been just the two of them, nothing important, but that had sort of been the point, hadn’t it? It was a nice memory, anyway, and Martin was glad he had it now. He wondered if Jon had remembered it yet.

***

Lunch was pleasant enough, if a little bit awkward. Martin hadn’t spent much time with Sasha, at least not compared to how much time he’d spent with Tim, and he could tell she was being careful with him. She was polite, keeping the conversation easy, deliberately avoiding topics that held anything other than surface interest. After he finished eating, he decided to ask her some things he’d been wondering about, and hoped she’d chalk up anything strange about it to him being a little thrown off from last week.

“Sasha,” he asked, setting his fork down, “do you—like being the head archivist?”

“What do you mean?” she asked, leaning toward him slightly over their table.

“Do you like it? Is it a good job? Is it—is it how you thought it would be?”

Sasha crossed her arms in thought. “Well, I’m not really sure how to answer that. I mean, the Magnus Institute has its issues, I suppose. It’s an academic joke, of course, but it’s not like the respect of my peers was ever that important to me.” She laughed at herself. “And some of our benefactors are… well, a bit full of themselves? But I suppose that’s true anywhere. I am quite happy with the job security, and it pays well enough for what it is. Plus I’m actually using my degree, which is more than I can say for most of my classmates.”

“Have you ever—wanted to leave?”

Sasha frowned slightly. “No—no, not really. Why?”

“No reason,” Martin said as casually as he could. He couldn’t exactly say just wondering if you’re trapped here. “Just been doing some thinking, I guess.”

“Well,” Sasha said, “I’ll admit the job’s felt a little bit different lately. Hard to say exactly how… I guess I’ve been struggling a bit with—well, I’m still not sure how to handle the—incidents, I suppose? It doesn’t make any sense, but it feels like I’m responsible for the people who come here to talk to us. Like I should be keeping track of their stories, somehow. I just don’t know what to do with them. Honestly, I’ve just started asking them to write everything down. I feel bad, but I just can’t listen to some of them. I’ll have nightmares.”

“Oh. They’re still coming in, then?”

“Sometimes. Not every day, but enough.”

“I—I didn’t know. Does Jon know?”

“He’s been there for a few, yes.”

Martin took a few sips of water. Jon hadn’t mentioned that specifically, but it probably wasn’t anything.

“What about—what about Elias? He doesn’t seem too fond of the Institute. Why does he stay?”

“You’ll have to ask Tim,” Sasha said, poking at what was left of her salad with her fork again. “They’re best friends.”

Tim laughed. “We are not best friends. However, I do think you should spend a little more time with him outside of work. You’re missing out.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Oh, come on.” Tim poked her arm playfully with the tines of his fork, and she batted him away. “He and Allan are a trip.”

“Exactly,” she replied.

“What I meant was, they’re funny. Especially Elias.” He turned to Martin. “Now the key to understanding him is to recognize that he has money—and also that he hates money, even though he has no idea how to function without it. And people with money, he especially hates. But at some point, I suppose, his father wore him down, and he has now accepted his position in life with as little grace and composure as he can.”

Martin thought back to what little he knew about Elias Bouchard, the actual Elias Bouchard, from his own world. “That… makes sense, actually.”

“And it makes him a pain in the ass when I need something,” Sasha added. “But on the positive side—he does leave me alone to do my job, for the most part.”

Martin remembered Allan’s name too; Martin remembered he had died after finding an old book. “So Allan is—his roommate?”

Tim raised his eyebrows. “That, Martin, is none of our business.”

“What?” Martin was genuinely confused before he realized what Tim was getting at.  “Oh—oh god, no, I didn’t—”

“However,” Tim interrupted him, “if you find out let me know, because I believe Sasha will owe me 10 quid on that day.”

“Doubtful,” Sasha said, grinning over the phone she was now scrolling through. “Very doubtful.”

Martin could feel his face turning red, so he was grateful for the distraction when Sasha leaned forward with her phone.

“Speaking of working at the Magnus Institute—look at this,” she said, attempting to angle the phone so both Martin and Tim could see at once. “I cannot get over how much she’s enjoying her retirement. I never thought she’d leave, but then it was like she was just up and done one day, and she never looked back.”

It took Martin a moment to understand what she was showing them, but it was a picture of Gertrude Robinson—a Facebook picture. He might not have known it was her, if it wasn’t for the name posted above it. The biggest difference was that in every picture he’d ever seen of her, she’d been wearing her hair in the same tightly-pulled grey bun; here, she was wearing her hair down, and it flowed softly past her shoulders. The next most obvious difference was he didn’t think he’d ever seen her smiling in a picture before, and she looked quite happy in this one, drink in hand, next to an equally-cheerful looking older man who had been holding up the phone to snap the photo. The caption read catching up with an old friend.

Sasha pointed at Martin to emphasize his surprised reaction. “See, that’s what I’m saying. I guess you just never know.”

“Who—who’s in the picture with her?” Martin asked.

“Oh right, I forget you never met him in person. That’s Jurgen Leitner.” She shook her head. “I didn’t think she was that fond of him, really. Must be another retirement thing.”

Jurgen Leitner—what was his connection to the Institute here? It’s not like he would have been living in the tunnels, there was just no—

The realization hit him like a ton of bricks. The Leitner Room. In this world, the Magnus Institute was home to every book Jurgen Leitner had ever collected. He had collected them, of course, only his library had never been destroyed because there was nothing to make that happen. When he’d decided to downsize in his later life—when he didn’t feel quite the same sense of pride in them—the archives had been the perfect home for his books. Of course, up until now, it meant nothing except a new collection and a nice endowment for the Institute.

What did it mean now?

“Are you ok?” Sasha asked. “You look—”

“You look like you just got run over,” Tim finished.

“Sorry.” Martin pulled his hand away from his mouth; he hadn’t even realized he had put it there. “I just—I just remembered something. It’s, um…”

“Do you need to get back?” Sasha asked after a moment of silence.

“Yeah,” Martin answered, apologizing with his voice. “Yeah, if you don’t mind. You can stay, if you want—”

“No, I’m done.” Tim took one more drink to empty his glass. “Sasha?”

She shrugged. “I’m ready.”

“Thanks,” Martin said. “I—there’s something I need to take care of for Jon.”

***

After they got back, Martin tried to look busy at his desk, hoping they’d think that he was taking care of whatever it was online. He took the opportunity to review the records in the system, and was comforted to note that nothing in the Leitner group currently had any special notations connected to it. All of the books were, at least in principle, on the shelves, and no one had requested access to any of them. He’d been hoping that was why his attention hadn’t been drawn to any of them previously, and it seemed like he’d lucked out. It was an obscure collection, and there were a lot of restrictions on them at Jurgen Leitner’s request; not just anyone could come in and browse them, and only a very specific set of research purposes qualified for special permission to remove them from the library.

He relaxed a little, and then waited for an opportunity to leave the office without attracting attention. He had to wait a while, but eventually Rosie came in with something for Sasha to review. A moment later Sasha called Tim in to her office, and Martin took the opportunity to leave. He just didn’t see a reason to risk drawing anyone else’s attention to the Leitners, especially since it seemed they were all but forgotten as they were.

He walked out past Rosie’s desk and back into the stacks; the room really was quite out of the way, buried deep in a corner of the shelving units. It wasn’t a large room, and if you weren’t looking for it, it would have been easy to miss. Even the sign above the door, emblazoned with the word Leitner, was barely distinguishable from the metal door frame behind it. The room was kept locked, but as an archival assistant Martin had a copy of the key. He held his breath and turned it.

Walking into the room was anticlimactic; it didn’t feel like much. There was no threatening aura; there was no sense of danger. It felt like nothing more than a small room full of musty old books, like many other small rooms of musty old books Martin had been in before.

He took a quick look at some of the titles on the shelves. At first glance, he didn’t see any he had heard of before, but of course he hadn’t heard of most Leitners. He continued to look, straining his eyes at words written on faded spines, occasionally pulling one gingerly off the shelves to check the front cover; he just needed something to prove to himself he wasn’t overreacting. Finally he found one he knew: a thick, black paperback labeled The Boneturner’s Tale. Martin felt a shiver run down his back as he involuntarily jerked his hand away from it.

He closed the door to the room, locking it behind him, and pulled out his phone. Thankfully, he had service, and he immediately dialed Jon’s number.

“I ate,” Jon said when he picked up.

“No,” Martin said. “Well, yes, I’m glad, but—”

“Martin, are you—what’s going on?”

“I—I don’t know how to tell you this. I’m…” Getting Jon to remember for himself was going to be much easier than explaining it.

“Are you ok?”

“Yes, I—well, all right. At lunch, Sasha showed us a picture of Gertrude Robinson. On Facebook.”

“Oh,” Jon sounded puzzled. “I knew she had retired, but I hadn’t thought to—”

“Well, that’s not it. She was with someone in the picture.”

“Who?”

Martin took a deep breath. “Jurgen Leitner.”

There was a prolonged silence before Jon spoke again. “Oh. God.”

“Yeah.”

“You’re there, aren’t you? Right now.”

“Yes. I’m—I’m not sure what I should do.”

“First, don’t touch anything.”

Martin didn’t respond.

“Ok—don’t touch anything else, then.”

“All right,” Martin said.

“Damn it. I should be there. I should be there with you.”

“No—no, it’s fine. I just—what should I do?”

“I don’t know.”

“Can I—ok, can I destroy them?”

“What do you mean?”

“Like—” Martin swallowed. “Ok, I’m sure this isn’t the best idea, but—what if a fire were to start in here? Or—something?”

“Do not,” Jon commanded. “Martin Blackwood, I have never been more serious in my life, do not do anything of the sort.”

“Ok, ok,” Martin said. “I said it probably wasn’t a great idea—"

“Some of those books would—let’s just say burning them would not have the desired effect. Or wetting them down, or chopping them up, or—”

“All right, all right. I get it. I mean—that’s not surprising, I guess. So what do I do?”

“Did you check the system? Are any checked out, or reserved, or—?”

“No,” Martin answered. “I mean, yes, I checked the system, and they’re all—they’re all here, in theory. No one’s asked for any of them.”

“Ok.” Martin heard the relief he’d felt earlier echoed in Jon’s voice. “That—that’s good.”

They sat in silence for a moment, before Jon spoke again.

“You’re—you’re not going to like this, but—I think you should go. For now.”

“And just leave them all here?”

“Yes. Believe me, I’m just as frustrated as you, but I don’t think there’s another option just yet. They’re relatively protected there, and hopefully they’ll continue to not draw attention.” He paused, and then added softly, “Right now, I just want you out of there.”

Martin sighed. “Right. Ok. Um… I guess… I can at least set up an alert so I get notified if anyone puts in a request?”

“That’s a good idea. And I’ll—I’ll keep thinking. Are you leaving yet?”

“Right after we get off the phone. Just in case. I don’t want to attract attention if someone else is down here.”

“All right. Message me when you’re back at your desk.”

“Sure.” Martin hung up, disappointed there wasn’t more to be done, but Jon was almost certainly right—it would be much too easy to do damage instead of prevent it, if he acted rashly.

Before he left though, he had one more thing he wanted to do.

***

That night, when Martin got home, he found Jon on the small balcony in back again; that was what he’d been hoping for. He grabbed the small metal trash bin out of the toilet in the hallway and stepped outside, closing the door behind him.

“Martin,” Jon said, stamping out a cigarette in the ash tray on the small table as he stood up. “You startled me. You’re a bit early—we can go in.”

“Sorry, didn’t mean to—I should have said something. Actually, I wanted to catch you out here. I brought you something.” He set the bin he’d brought out with him on the balcony, between the two of them.

“It’s a trash bin,” Jon observed.

“Well, that’s only part of it.” He picked up the lighter Jon had left on the table and handed it to him.

“If this is commentary on my smoking habit, I think the ash tray is big enough. Besides, I don’t plan to keep—”

“No—no, that’s not it. I don’t care about the smoking. Well, I don’t love it, but that’s really not it.” Martin sighed. “Look, I know you said not to touch anything in the Leitner Room, but—well, here.”

From behind his back, he brought out a small, square book; he could see Jon didn’t need to read the title to recognize it in the dim evening light.

“Martin,” he whispered. “I—”

“Don’t say anything. Don’t think, don’t open it. Just—take it. Burn it. This one should be fine. I can do it if you don’t want to.”

Jon reached a hand toward the book, running his fingers hesitantly over the scribbled black spider webs illustrating the otherwise plain white cover. He spoke as if he were in a dream. “Yes. I imagine this one would be ok.”

“Light it,” Martin encouraged him, reaching for the hand that held the lighter to pull it closer. “Now.”

It seemed too easy; he was afraid it wouldn’t catch, or that Jon would change his mind, or any number of other things would go wrong—but nothing did. The cardboard cover caught beautifully, the yellow-orange flame spreading elegantly out from the corner in less than a minute, swallowing the book front and back.

“Now let go,” Martin said, as the flame began to spread, and Jon nodded. They dropped it together into the trash bin, and Martin watched as the title words A Guest for Mr. Spider were consumed, slowly, letter by letter. They watched together, transfixed, until the fire burned itself out and all that was left was a smoking pile of ash.

“You shouldn’t have done that for me,” Jon said quietly. “Going through the shelves—taking it out—it could have been dangerous.”

“Yeah, well, you said the web was probably still weak, and—” Martin reached for Jon’s arm. “Anyway, it’s done now.”

“Thank you,” Jon stepped carefully around the trash bin, and then his arms were around Martin’s waist and his face was in his chest. “Thank you.”

[voiceless-terror]

Could you do 11 for JonMartin maybe??

Had two people ask for this, so here you go! a little silly pre-canon au jonmartin + things you said when you were drunk

Martin looks at the clock. Ten. He’s still at the institute at ten o’clock at night.

He shouldn’t have agreed to go through all of the new book arrivals by tomorrow, a ridiculous deadline. But Hannah looked so stressed, she’s always been so kind to him and he wants to repay that. 

Still, he wishes he told her he’d have it done by the end of the week. Not tomorrow.

“Shhh! They’ll hear you!” The voice startles Martin out of his mundane reverie, and is followed by the sound of footsteps in the hallway. No one should be here this late, save the janitor. Did someone break in? Is he about to be robbed? Should he hide?

Then there’s a manic, drunken giggling and suddenly two figures are stumbling into the library- Tim, the handsome man from research and-

Jon. Oh god, it’s Jon. The grumpy researcher who always stamps down the hallway in his stupid little sweater vests with his long hair tied back in a bun and his glasses on a goddamn chain. Jon, who most certainly doesn’t know Martin exists but Martin of course knows him. How could he not? Jon doesn’t have the greatest reputation, what with his perpetual scowl and generally dour disposition. But he’s unfortunately very much Martin’s type- tiny, bossy. Cute. 

And he’s...happy? Martin’s never seen him so relaxed, with a dopey smile and an arm around Tim’s waist, cackling about something Martin didn’t hear. Tim seems to be the only thing holding him up, and he brightens when he spots Martin.

“Hey there!” Tim starts toward him, dragging a pliant Jon along with him. Martin freezes.

“Um..hi?” Jon gives him a lazy wave in response and Martin almost dies on the spot.

“Sorry to bother, forgot my keys!” Tim says, giving him a sunny smile and suddenly shoving Jon into Martin’s arms. “Watch him, will you?”

“U-Uh-” It’s too late. Tim’s already off around the corner and Jon’s wrapped his arms around Martin’s waist, an almost dead weight against his chest. Martin’s arms come up to awkwardly steady him but Jon’s making it difficult, insistently rubbing his face against Martin’s jumper. Oh my god-

“Y’smell...nice,” Jon slurs, lifting his head to smile drunkenly at Martin. “Like...friend. Y’smell like a friend.” Martin smells like a friend and he’s unable to form any sort of response to that. This seems to displease Jon.

“Did you hear me?” He tugs petulantly on Martin’s jumper, almost unbalancing them both. “Said you smell like a friend.”

“Th-Thank you?” he squeaks, grabbing at Jon as his eyes close and he lists dangerously to the side. This is not how he imagined their first real conversation going. Jon’s supposed to come up to him at circulation, or drop some papers in Martin’s vicinity, or thank him profusely for finding a book he so desperately needed. He hopes Tim comes back before Jon throws up or worse, continues to speak.

And he does, thankfully. Tim stumbles back around the corner, looking only slightly more sober than Jon. Martin wonders if he should call them a cab, he hopes they aren’t attempting to navigate the tube like this. Jon’s barely conscious and yet scratching at him like a cat, running his fingers down Martin’s side like he’s giving him a good itch.  

“Thanks for watching him, he can be a real handful when he’s drunk,” Tim pulls at Jon but he holds fast, his nails digging into Martin’s side. “C’mon buddy, leave Martin alone-”

“Mahhh...tin,” Jon says, savoring the name like a fine wine. His eyes open briefly to meet Martin’s with a surprising clarity. “S’good name, that is. Mah-tin.” 

Martin lets out something between a shriek and a cough. “J-Jon’s a good name too, but I-I think its time for you to go home, now.”

It takes the two of them and not a little bit of strength to pry Jon away; he slumps into Tim’s side with a whine. “Uber’s here. Thanks a million, Mart-o! Sure the lil guy won’t remember it tomorrow, but he thanks you too!” He picks up Jon’s limp hand in an approximation of a wave that Martin half-heartedly returns. Yeah, he doubts Jon will remember.

And he’s right. The next day Jon breezes past him in the hallway, grumbling to himself. It’s probably for the best- he doesn’t want Jon to feel embarrassed, or remember the hole he tore in the side of Martin’s jumper. Not a good look for him, really.

But two days later Jon approaches the circulation desk, avoiding Martin’s eyes as he hands him a particularly heavy tome to check out. Martin’s just going through the motions, scanning the book and handing it back with a receipt when he hears it.

“Thank you...Martin.” By the time he looks up, Jon’s gone. And maybe Martin imagined the whole thing, it wouldn’t be the first time. 

But Jon gives him a nod in the hallways now, occasionally asks him how his day is. Inexplicably turns red whenever Martin greets him. Jon doesn’t...like him, or anything. He’s probably still embarrassed over the whole thing, really. That’s why he starts bringing Martin croissants from the bakery next door. And talks to him on his lunch breaks. 

And asks him what detergent he uses.

[toosicktoocare]

Ooh, if you're looking for TMA prompts: I'm starved for Tim & Jon friendship content, and I know you love Tim, so maybe something where Jon is sick (migraine? Fever? Up to you!) and everyone thinks he's just in a mood and ignoring/snapping at them. So Tim goes into his office for something and finds him all miserable and is like ":( boss" (if you don't like this one, I can try again! ☺️)

I am here for this! 

Set in season 1 around the Jane Prentiss drama llama. 

Tim’s starting toward the archives to see Jon when he hears a door shut rather loudly. Not a slam, per se, but as close to one as, he expects, Martin can muster within his too-nice core. Sure enough, he spots Martin whipping around the corner, his face pinched together in frustration that contradicts the pain welling in his eyes. 

Martin’s walking fast, eyes cast forward, and he stumbles to a stop right before Tim. Tim arches a brow, cocks his head to the side. 

“Where’s the fire, Martin?” 

“It appears, Tim, that it’s up Jonathan Sims’ arse.” 

Tim doesn’t mean to laugh; he really shouldn’t laugh, but he does, and he brings his fist to his mouth in a poor attempt to cover the laugh with a cough. “What happened?” he asks, clearing his throat, amusement still playing wildly on his face. 

“He’s in a mood,” Martin grumbles, “and he genuinely had the audacity to snap at me because I, god forbid, wanted to inquire about the table that was delivered. The table, I might add, that he’s acting so odd about because of a prevous statement.” 

Tim hums, trying for sympathy, but it falls short for Martin only looks more irritated yet also more defeated, as if he’s just walked from a high school break up. 

“If you’re going to see him, don’t get your hopes up for a pleasant conversation. He snapped at Sasha, too, though she handed it back to him very fast, and he completely ignored Elias.” 

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Tim says, starting past Martin, but Martin latches onto his forearm with an interestingly strong grip, one that catches Tim off guard, and he stops, eyeing the fingers wrapped around his arm curiously. 

“Please don’t tell Jon what I said.” Martin sighs, and Tim looks to see his shoulders slump almosy dramatically. “I’m just tired. Sleeping here is quite.. difficult at times.” 

Tim can only imagine. He nods, and Martin’s hand drops back to his side. 

“Your secret is safe with me,” Tim tries, light-hearted, unsure of how to fully approach this rather curious side of Martin, but Martin only offers a half-smile that falls far too quickly, and he leaves Tim. 

Tim considers dwelling on this, but he has to prod Jon about the follow-up research he gave him two days ago because his work is at a standstill until he hears from Jon regarding his next statement. 

When he gets to the door, he knocks lightly, and when he hears Jon’s dark voice griping about the table and how it doesn’t concern him, he opens the door, offering a small smile and wave. 

“Ah, Tim,” Jon mutters, and Tim leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, and watches as Jon slips his glasses from his face to pinch the bridge of his nose. 

“I thought you were Martin.” 

“Sorry to disappoint,” Tim says around an easy laugh that hides his narrowed eyes. Though Jon’s head is cast down, Tim can see that Jon’s normally, sharp, dark skin looks hollow, dull, and his normally straightened posture has taken a huched look that almost makes Tim’s own back hurt. 

He looks further down, spotting his follow-up notes scattered across Jon’s desk above his current statement, and he frowns briefly and clears his throat. “Hey, boss, if my notes aren’t up to par with your standards, I can try again. No worries.” His easy tone echoes hollowly against the dark, archive walls, and then Jon looks up at him and sighs deeply. 

“It’s fine.” 

Nodding, Tim pushes off against the wall and rubs at the back of his neck. He should leave, but there’s something off with Jon, more than just a mood. It’s too dark in the archives, with only a soft table lamp casting a dim glow across the room, and Jon’s jaw is clenched tightly, sharp angles jutting out and trembling slightly. If he didn’t know any better, he would think Jon’s in pain. 

“Is there something else?”

“Acutally,” Tim draws out, “yeah.” He plugs in missing pieces, pushing the final one in place when Jon absently massages at his temples. “Do you have a mirgaine, Jon?” The dim lighting, apparent headache, the mood, Tim thinks, all make sense. 

“Excuse me?” 

The heat behind Jon’s voice has Tim holding both hands up in a visual show of mock defense. “Sorry, it’s just the lights, your sour mood-”

“-I’m only in a mood because I cannot, for the life of me, get through one single, bloody statement without one of you interrupting me!” Jon rises to his feet, but then one hand flies to his head while the other grips at the edge of the desk.

It takes Tim a good few seconds to realize Jon’s swaying, but once he does, he crosses the room easily, and places a hand to small of Jon’s back, gently easing Jon back to the chair. 

“Easy, Jon,” he says softly, hand moving to the back of Jon’s neck. Subtly, he checks for a fever, finding Jon’s skin cool to the touch. Definitely a migraine, he thinks, pulling his hand back as Jon leans backward in his chair with a groan. 

“Sorry,” Jon mutters through clenched teeth. He moves one hand to cover his eyes. “Perhaps you’re right.” Another sigh. “I feel quite dreadful.” 

Tim’s surprised at the admittance, more so that it’s to him and not to Martin. He slips his hand into his pants pocket, fingers ghosting against his cell phone. 

“When’s the last time you’ve slept?” Tim prods lightly, and Jon removes his hand, a tired look of annoyance washing over his face. 

“I thought Martin was the only one to dote.” 

“It’s just a question,” Tim pushes, cocking one head to the side at Jon’s following silence. “I take it you don’t remember?” He tsks quitely, slipping his phone from his pocket. “I’ll call a cab.” 

“I’m busy-” 

“-Cab or Elias,” Tim interrupts, arching both brows. “No offense, boss, but you look like hell warmed over, and I doubt you’ll be able to concentrate much on anything with a migraine. You’ll be better off at your flat where,” he spares a glance down to see a worm sliding in from under the door, and he smashes it with the heel of his shoe, “you’ll be free of worms and pesky interruptions.” 

Jon almost snarls at the remenants of the worm, and he nods. Tim’s face lights up, and he quickly phones for the nearest cab. 

“It will be just a few minutes,” Tim relays when he ends the call. “Do you think you can make it to the front door by yourself?”

“Of course I can,” Jon snaps. “I’m not an invalid.” 

“Right,” Tim says, laughing lightly. “Well, I’ll be sure to send Martin if I hear you fall.” He laughs louder at the sharp look Jon shoots him as he turns toward the door. He stops, one hand resting on the door frame, and he looks over his shoulder. 

“Oh, and Jon?” 

“Yes?”

“Do feel better, yeah? Give a ring if you need anything. I’ll be sure to let Elias know you’ve gone home for the day.” 

Jon nods, an unclear expression pulling across his face. “Of course. Thank you, Tim.” 

Tim starts back to his desk, pretending to work until he hears Jon’s office door close. He decides, then, that it would be a good time to head toward the entrance, maybe take a brief walk outside, get some fresh air, not, he tells himself, only leaving the building at the same time as Jon to ensure his boss doesn’t topple to the ground. 

Definitely not. 

[janekfan]

https://archiveofourown.org/works/28583328

“Thanks for coming, Tim.”

“‘Course, Marto.” Tim looked past him to the man loosely curled up on the couch, propped up on several pillows and looking worse for wear.

“I’m sure he’d be okay, I just--”

“I understand.”

“You know how disoriented he can become with fevers and it’s been so high today.”

“It’s alright.”

“It’s your night off is what it is!” Martin pinched the bridge of his nose. “I’ll make it up to you, I promise.” Shaking his head and chuffing a laugh, Tim gripped both his shoulders and squeezed.

“Martin. I promise, it’s okay. We’ll watch bad telly and Jon will sleep and everything will be just fine.” Still conflicted, Martin knelt beside Jon and schooled his expression into a soft smile before pressing a kiss to his hot forehead.

“Hey, love.”

“Martin?” Breathless, Tim remembered Martin saying something about a bad chest cold. “Work, habibi?” He nodded, levering him up when one cough turned into two into three, four, and Jon waved away questioning, fussing hands. “M’alright, darling.” He clearly wasn’t convinced. “The sooner you leave for work, the sooner I’m rid of Tim.”

“You know you love me.”

Jon’s eye roll was near audible and it felt good to tease and be teased back. With all the hurt they’d dealt each other in the past, the rekindling of their friendship had been fraught with setbacks as their wounds healed into scars.

They said their goodbyes, Martin giving instructions even as he was shoved out the door by Tim, who flipped the lock and joined Jon on the couch.

“Budge up.” Grumbling, Jon sat forward and let Tim take the place of all the pillows. “What docs have you been watching?”

“You said they’re boring.” Despite the faux vitriol in his tone, Jon shoved Tim like a particularly lumpy body pillow until he was in the most comfortable position before attaching himself to his side.

“Yeah, but the sooner you’re asleep, the sooner I can watch ATLA reruns.”

“Tiiiim.” Jon whined, body language belying his irritation.

“You love it.” Ruffling his hair, Tim offered him his mug of tea and another tablet, shutting down his whinging. “Gets worse at night. Don’t make me call Martin.”

“You wouldn’t.” But he downed both quickly, exacting revenge by knocking the air out of Tim when he crashed back down. They fell into an effortless silence and, sure enough, Jon was out like a light barely half way through, snoring just the slightest bit and probably drooling all over him; easy to ignore now that he had his own kids. True to his word, Tim switched to something more interesting, trailing firm fingers up and down Jon’s side when he became restless just episodes in, noticing suddenly a pair of dull brown eyes, half lidded and glassed over with fever staring up at him in confusion.

“Hey, bud.” Barely a whisper, trying to gauge where he was at and if he’d drift off again on his own.

“T’Tim?” Filled with awe and damp with tears, Jon’s voice shook. “You, you’re alive.”

Aw, hell.

“That I am.” He tried to will the sleep back into him but Jon’s stubbornness wasn’t having it.

“B’but why. Why are you h’here?” And as soon as the last syllable slipped past his lips static rose in a tide to envelop them. As it crescendoed, Jon’s eyes went round as saucers, welling with the panic seizing up his limbs and causing him to tremble and shake. Tim let it wash over him, giving in without a fight at the same time Jon scrambled to mitigate the damage he was sure he’d done.

“Martin asked me to watch you.”

“I, I, I’m sorry, I--” A too-fast breath caught ragged in his chest and he doubled over, choking on frantic apologies and fear. This had happened before, back when things were still fraught between them. Fever and illness loosened Jon’s grip on the Beholding and Tim knew he hadn’t meant to compel him but he was already somewhere else, too far away for any reassurances to reach.

“Easy, easy, I know. It’s alright.” With one arm Tim pulled him out of his contorted knot, reaching for Jon’s inhaler at the same time, shaking it hard and murmuring encouragement until he was able to draw a tight half lungful of air between chattering teeth. “Okay, I’ve got you, I’m not upset.” He splayed his fingers over Jon’s breastbone, running his thumb back and forth over his sweat damp shirt. “Deep breath and hold.” In a practiced tandem left over from so long ago Tim depressed the button and Jon inhaled and held until it exploded from his chest. “One more time.” And thank god it came easier because Tim did not want to call the station and explain to Jon’s husband how he sent him tailspinning into a panic attack. Later. But not now. For now, he listened to the push/pull of oxygen finally flooding into Jon’s system, felt the overwarm draught ghosting against his throat as he collapsed into him, lax and loose. “Good job, buddy.”

“Tim...are we…?” Jon shifted, sighed, hot forehead resting on his neck.

“Shh, just relax. You’re not well, and in a minute we’re gonna do something about it, but for right now, just rest.”

“Tim?” Martin was kicking off his boots and stripping himself of his uniform before he even made it to the sitting room. “How is he?” Immediately, he began fretting over him, waking him when he went to check his pulse, test his temperature.

“Mmm.” Petulant, Jon turned his face into Tim’s jumper, fingers twisting up in the wool as he tried to escape Martin’s poking and prodding. “M’fine…”

“He’s fine, Martin. Probably more than ready for bed.” Untangling him, he nudged Jon forward so Martin could gather him up, smiling when Jon wrapped spindly arms around his neck. “Had an ‘accident’ during a spike, but he probably won’t remember it.” Fond, Tim ran a hand over his head.

“I can’t thank you enough. Can’t imagine where he would have wandered off to with me at work and Em away.”

“Anytime, Marto. Now, put him to bed, he’s a damned limpet like this. You’ll never get anything done if he doesn’t sleep it off.” Tim let himself out, contemplating his copy of their key before locking the door behind him.

[localswordlesbian]

can i ever forgive me?

After dyeing his hair, Martin is nervous about bringing attention to it. To make him feel better, Jon suggests they dye his grey hairs pink to match.

ie. a sequel to rose-coloured boy, or: cotton candy haired jon becomes cannon

read it on ao3!

“You know, they’re not going to mind.”

Martin sighed as he glanced over to Jon, who was lying on his side on the bed with his glasses perched on the end of his nose, a book sitting open on the bed next to him. “Yeah, I know. I guess I’m just not ready to draw attention to it?”

“You could always postpone. Tell them you won’t be able to stream this week – that you’re just not feeling up to it.”

Martin considered this. “I could,” he agreed. “But I’m not sure if I want to. I think if I put it off I’ll just be anxious about it for longer.”

Jon nodded. “I understand.” He seemed to contemplate solutions. “I’m sure if you ask them not to mention it, most will be courteous enough to listen.”

Martin knew this, of course. “Yeah, yeah, I know. I guess I’m just worried? It’s a change, and people are bound to say something.”

“They’re watching you stream Stardew Valley for two hours every week while you talk about how much you miss the cows in Scotland, how vicious could they possibly be?”

Martin snorted a laugh and smacked Jon on the head with his phone. Jon ducked, a mischievous grin on his face. “I’m serious!”

Jon laughed, and Martin felt his heart expanding in his chest at the rush of affection that sound elicited from him. “Alright, alright. Well, what if you weren’t the only one who’d changed their appearance?”

Martin tilted his head to the side. “How do you mean?”

Jon twirled a strand of his own long hair around his index finger. Martin had always loved Jon’s hair – the way it fell in gentle waves down his back, the black strands streaked through with premature greys. The way it parted around Martin’s fingers as he braided it, Jon’s head in his lap and his hair soft against Martin’s hands. The stripes of grey were nothing short of stark, though Martin always thought it added to it, made Jon look even more beautiful – not that he was biased or anything.

“Well, this grey isn’t doing me any favours aside from making me look decades older than I really am,” Jon explained wryly at Martin’s confused tilt of the head. “Perhaps we could try turning them into cotton candy.” He said the last part with a mischievous grin on his face, and Martin narrowed his eyes at him, which caused Jon to let out a chuckle. “What do you say?”

“You want me to dye your hair?” Jon nodded. “Well, yeah, if that’s what you want.”

Jon smiled, closing his book and sitting up before pressing a chaste kiss to Martin’s lips and swinging his legs over Martin’s and off the bed. “Come on, let’s do this.”

Martin chuckled as he stood. “Someone’s eager,” he teased as he followed his boyfriend out of their bedroom and into the bathroom. Jon turned and stuck out his tongue, causing Martin to snort. “You know, if you wanted me to dye your hair sooner you could have just asked.”

Jon laughed as he sat on the edge of the tub and watched Martin fumble through the clutter they had stored under the sink, looking for the bottle of pale pink hair dye. “I suppose I didn’t think about it until now,” he mused as Martin finally managed to wrestle the bottle out from the back of the vanity. “Until I saw your hair.” His voice was soft, that familiar soothing baritone. “It suits you.”

Martin’s mouth curled up in a half-smile. “Thanks.”

Jon looked around the bathroom as Martin pulled gloves onto his hands. “This takes me back,” he murmured, almost as if to himself. Meeting Martin’s inquisitive gaze, he continued. “Georgie used to love dyeing my hair in university. Eventually the bleach damaged it to the point where it became unsalvageable, so I ended up having to cut it off.” He chuckled. “That was an interesting one to explain to my grandmother.”

Martin laughed as he tried to imagine Jon from all those years ago – a younger Jon, unburdened by years of grooming and terrors and fear, of pain and distrust and manipulation. A Jon without grey streaks in his hair or circular scars marring his skin or scar tissue enveloping his right hand. A Jon whose biggest worry was an upcoming exam.

This Jon, his Jon, was none of those things. Martin watched him as he adjusted himself into a comfortable sitting position – the current Jon was scarred, from the line across his neck to the circular scars dotting his skin, the stark pink of scar tissue on his hand against his brown skin to the knife scar on his other hand from being stabbed. This Jon had grey streaks in his hair and an air of exhaustion about him that made him seem so much older than he really was. He had tired eyes and a limp and regular nightmares that often had him waking up shaking and sobbing uncontrollably. This Jon was sitting in a bathroom with him, oversized shirt hanging off of his bony frame, waiting for Martin.

Martin felt his heart twist as Jon turned and gave him a small smile, turning so his feet were in the tub and his back was to Martin. This gave Martin pause, the bottle resting in his gloved hand. “Are you sure about this?”

“Of course I am,” Jon replied. “It’s just dye, and if it doesn’t suit me it will wash out eventually.” He sounded so nonchalant, so relaxed, and Martin’s throat closed up. Noting the silence, Jon turned to look at him, his brow furrowed in concern. “Martin, are you alright?”

Martin tried to nod, but the knot in his throat had grown and he felt tears building behind his eyes. Jon’s eyes widened in alarm as he stood, taking Martin’s hands in his. “I’m fine,” he croaked, trying to blink the tears away.

Jon led him to the tub where he’d been sitting, wordlessly guiding him to sit down until he felt the cold ceramic beneath him. Tears silently escaped and fled down his cheeks, dripping onto his trousers, and suddenly his face was buried in Jon’s neck as Jon wrapped him in his arms, his voice murmuring “it’s okay, you’re okay, I’m here,” into his ear, his hands rubbing calming circles on Martin’s back as Martin sobbed.

His chest was tight as he cried, all his sorrows seeming to want to burst out of him and having nowhere to go, trapped in a place in Martin’s mind that he’d never wanted to breach but that wanted to escape. The weight of where he was had hit him so suddenly, and just when he thought he was fine, was beginning to recover from all he’d been through, the memories reared their ugly heads.

Eventually he was able to breathe again, the tears slowed to a stop, and he loosened his grip on Jon. He didn’t move his head from where it rested on Jon’s shoulder – he didn’t want Jon to see him like this, his face no doubt pink and swollen from crying, tear tracks prominent on his freckled cheeks.

Jon’s hands moved to Martin’s cheeks, pushing gently to urge him to lift his head. Martin had half a heart to resist, and he knew if he did, Jon wouldn’t push; but he allowed Jon to hold him, raising his head and meeting his boyfriend’s eyes.

Jon’s eyes were gentle, warm, a soft brown where they had once glowed green. He had no pity in his gaze, and Martin was grateful – Jon understood, even if he didn’t know how to help. “Are you…” Jon paused, rubbing his thumb across Martin’s cheek. “Do you want to talk about it?” Of course he knew the answer to Are you okay? Of course he knew the answer would be No, no not really .

“I– I guess it all just hit me. Again,” he added ruefully. “I was thinking about you,” he confessed. “And you in university, before the Institute, and the fears, the end of the world, all of it. Before me,” he whispered. Jon leaned forward, placing his hands on the back of Martin’s neck and touching their foreheads together. “I guess I keep thinking about the before , who we both were before all of this. Hell, even in the early days of working in the Archive, when I would make you tea and you’d call me useless.” Jon snorted at this, his face close enough that Martin felt the rush of air on his lips. “Sometimes I can hardly remember it, those days where it almost felt like a normal job; the little things blur together, and I can remember the bigger picture but not the details.

“Then there’s times where I can’t forget all the things I did – God, I hurt you, Jon. When I was working for Peter Lukas, I– I was thinking about it, recently. You’d just woken up from a six month long coma, Tim was dead, Daisy was gone, Melanie was– Melanie was hurting, and she was cruel and just as broken as you were. And I– I had sacrificed myself because I thought I had nothing left for me, between losing you and Tim at the same time, I wondered what the point even was. But then you came back, and you were all alone, and you were blaming yourself for everything and I couldn’t even tell you, couldn’t talk to you or comfort you, and it hurt. It hurt so much, and even now I sometimes forget that that isn’t the case anymore.

“Even now, you’re here with me, and we’re both okay and I can’t stop thinking about what if it’s not as okay as we think it is? Where will the next horror come from? Will I be able to protect you? Or will I make the wrong call, think I’m doing the right thing but hurt you in the process?”

“Martin,” Jon said softly. “It wasn’t your fault. None of it was ever your fault. You were hurting; I can’t even imagine what you went through under Peter Lukas’ control – you had no clue that I would wake up.” He pulled away, looking directly into Martin’s eyes, the intensity startling him. “I understand. God knows I’ve had my share of… consequences of what happened to me – to us. But it. Was. Not. Your. Fault.”

Martin bit his lip. “I know that. I can know that and still… feel like it is.”

Jon nodded, a look of sorrow overtaking his features. “I know. You think I don’t blame myself for dragging you into everything?”

Martin choked out a laugh. “Jon, I don’t want to disturb your self-blame fantasies but I would have followed you through hell and back even if you tried everything you possibly could to stop me. You must know that.”

Jon chuckled. “Yes, I suppose I do. Doesn’t mean I can’t feel guilty.”

Martin nodded. A beat of silence passed as they simply sat on that cold tub, holding each others hands like they were each other's only tethers to this world where the other option was a realm of nightmares neither of them ever wanted to return to. “I love you.”

Jon smiled. “I love you too.” They sat there for a while, not talking, simply being together as Martin’s head cleared. He knew Jon was right – the Lonely hadn’t been his fault. But trauma didn’t care about blame; it worked in awful and twisted and funny ways, warping reality to show what it saw fit to cause the most pain. It was up to him to unravel it and see the past for what it truly was – an inexorable part of him, but not something that defined him.

After a while, Jon squeezed Martin’s hands. “Well, shall we?” he asked, gesturing to the bottle of dye that had rolled on the floor and was resting by their feet. Martin was even still wearing the gloves. “Unless you’re tired – we don’t need to–”

Martin shook his head. “Let’s do it.”

Jon nodded, leaning in to give Martin a quick kiss before releasing him, resuming his position of sitting with his feet in the tub and his back to Martin.

As Martin began to apply the dye to the grey streaks running down Jon’s hair, Jon began to hum softly, and the sound filled Martin’s chest with happiness. He ran his fingers through Jon’s hair to the tune of the lullaby, the soft strands parting at Martin’s touch, the greys clumped together with pale pink goop. He let himself be lulled by the soothing motions and the sound of his love’s voice, allowed his mind to be cleared – he didn’t need to think right now, didn’t need to unpack his past and his trauma at this exact moment. For now, he could enjoy the soothing motions of running his fingers through Jon’s hair, turning his grey hairs pink.

Maybe he could accept that Jon was doing this for him. Perhaps he didn’t need to feel guilty whenever Jon did something for him – his entire life, he’d been the one giving. To his mother, to Jon, to his friends and even to people who didn’t seem to like him all that much. It was how he’d learned to express his caring, his personality, his love. Maybe now, as a man in his thirties, he could finally begin to learn to accept the same from those who loved him .

Jon loved him. He believed that. He knew that. Nothing to feel guilty about there, and Jon was doing this so he’d feel more comfortable doing his job when it had been his impulsive decision to dye his hair in the first place.

Once the dye was in, Martin stood, his knees aching from crouching on the cold, hard floor. “Alright, you’re good. It just needs to sit for half an hour, then you can wash it out.”

Jon nodded, turning and stepping out of the tub. “It’s certainly quite the process,” he mused. He held his hand out, brushing Martin’s hair behind his ear with a soft smile on his face. “Worth the results, I think.”

Martin snorted a laugh. “You know, for all your virtues, flirting isn’t one of them.”

Jon shrugged ruefully. “It was never my strong suit, no.” He met Martin’s eyes. “For what it’s worth, meeting you was the best thing about the Institute.”

Martin said nothing, fearing that if he did he’d burst into tears again. He didn’t need to – Jon knew. He’d always known how Martin felt about him, how much he loved him. So instead of answering, he lowered his lips to Jon’s. The kiss was soft, and it was sweet, and Jon’s fingers were running through his hair as Martin wrapped his arms around Jon’s thin frame, holding him close. They kissed almost lazily, simply content with being together, holding each other, like a salve to a stinging wound – nothing urgent, nothing rushed.

It hadn’t always been like this – they hadn’t always felt as though they didn’t have to worry about running out of time.

Once half an hour had passed, Jon washed his hair and let it dry, waiting to behold what it looked like in all its glory. They hadn’t realized how late it was – it was well past two in the morning – but neither of them were tired, simply sitting in bed and talking until Jon’s hair was dry.

The pink stood out sharply against Jon’s black hair, and Martin’s heart swelled at how young it made Jon look. It looked like strips of cotton candy had been woven into his hair, and accompanied with the smile Jon was giving him was enough to make a laugh bubble up in Martin’s throat. And when Jon smacked him indignantly and asked why he was laughing, Martin could only respond with “You’re beautiful.”

The coming years would be full of ups and downs, of more heavy mornings weighed down by a fog only he could see, of comforting the man he loved after a particularly vivid nightmare, of questioning whether he was worth this kind of love at all. But for tonight, he could allow himself to feel that love, to savour it and to let it cloak him like a blanket.

For tonight, his life was perfect.