#i wrote Jon Sims and shuddered | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

rosy-cheekx · 4 years

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Heard you were looking for prompts :) 1 of 2 - From favorite tropes: Blind date set up by mutual friends! And maybe combined with "I'm speechless you're so beautiful" from the fluff & kisses (and other stuff) prompts. Go wild with it!

This will go to AO3 soon, but it was a lot of fun to write and a nice distraction from any hypothetical realities the TMA fandom may be experiencing.

Double-Blind: 5K

Martin smelled like espresso. He wrinkled his nose and dusted his hands on his apron uselessly, as if doing so would rid himself of the months of coffee, cinnamon, and hazelnut baked into his skin. It wasn’t all that bad, he supposed, except what was the point in using cologne if it was going to be immediately overpowered?

The bell above the door jingled and Martin jumped, pulled from his thoughts on cologne and what he would like to smell like, given the opportunity. Sandalwood, maybe? Tobacco and vanilla? The musky-sweet smells are nice, they have a nice mix of feminine and masculine to them, almost—

“Ahem.” An exaggerated clearing of the throat, once again whisking him from his distractions. Martin locked eyes on the woman across the counter from him, grinning mischievously. “Welcome back to Earth, Martin.”

“Oh! Oh. It’s just you. Hi, Georgie.” Georgie Barker, a regular customer, moderately well-known podcast host, and most importantly, one of Martin’s favorite people to see at the tiny coffee shop he spent more time in than his own flat.

“Just me? Excuse me.” Georgie pouted and crossed her arms, coily hair bouncing around her face as she shook her head. “I’ll have you know you should be grateful to see me this fine afternoon, Martin Koffee Blackwood!”

Martin grinned and dropped the act. “I always am, Georgie. But I told you, there’s not a—”

“Like I said, you should be happy to see me.” Georgie barreled on. “I have good news.” She cocked her head and pondered the chalk-covered board behind the counter. “Two chai lattes, please. And make one of them extra spicy?”

Martin rang up the order and passed two cups down to Rosie, all the while checking the door surreptitiously, ensuring a little chat wouldn’t hold anyone up. “Okay? Spill.”

Georgie’s phone was in her hand, and she waved it at Martin like it contained the secrets of the universe. “D’you remember my roommate, Melanie?”

Martin nodded, pursing his lips. “Vaguely. I thought you guys were dating.” He raised his eyebrows, waiting for her to elaborate.

Georgie waved a hand dismissively, rolling her eyes. “Not the point. Anyways, she has a friend of a friend-“ Georgie frowned for a moment, “…of a friend who is looking to get back into dating. Mel says he’s short and nerdy and prickly until you get to know him. Apparently a real pain to work with according to the friend.” Georgie smirked and pulled a sticky note from her back pocket. “Thought maybe you’d want his number.”

Martin grimaced at the blue piece of paper as she smoothed it to the counter with a firm motion. “Wow, George. Really selling it.” It was his fault; they had bonded over being queer back in July when Martin had worn his gay and trans pride buttons and Georgie was proudly sporting her own pansexual patch firmly affixed to her laptop case. One lunch break discussing quirky exes later, their friendship had been sealed. Mentioning offhandedly that he was on dating apps and hating every minute of it seemed to have rooted itself in Georgie’s mind and had grown like weeds until she had taken it upon herself to become his personal wing woman.

“Do you even know his name?” Martin asked, regarding the string of numbers on the piece of paper in front of him.

Georgie blushed, shrugging apologetically. “Friend of a friend of a friend. Sorry mate. Melanie said he likes cats, documentaries, and-” she made air quotes with her fingers, “-being uptight.”

“Wow.” Martin chuckled in disbelief. “Really selling it here.”

Rosie sidled by Martin and set down Georgie’s lattes, who shrugged and picked them up after dropping a few coins in the tip jar. “You have his number. Just think about it, Blackwood. Melanie’s friend doesn’t spread the word about someone unless they’re something special.” She blew a kiss (clumsily, considering the cups requiring the attention of each of her hands) and made her way to the door.

“I just want you to be happy!” She called out as the January winds pulled her out the door and into the grey afternoon.

Martin chewed on his lip as he considered. January was always a tough month for him, and he had been feeling a little lonely recently. He really didn’t see anyone besides his coworkers, customers, and his mother. As much as he enjoyed his job, he wouldn’t call anyone there a romantic interest. He folded the sticky note and stuck it in his pocket as his next customer approached the counter. He did like cats, after all. Maybe that would be a good starting conversation.

Jonathan Sims groaned and shifted the stack of books in his hand as he inspected the knee-high table that was buried amongst the fiction books. He hated working the children’s section of the library. Although no food or drink was allowed, there always seemed to be crumbs everywhere. He was starting to wonder if children just manifested them. He made a mental note to come back with disinfectant wipes after putting the stack of child-suitable biographies away and turned, nearly walking straight into the chest of one Timothy Stoker.

“A-ah!” Jon jumped instinctively backward, clutching the books closer to his chest in an attempt to keep from dropping them. “Tim! Good lord, there’s really no need to be sneaking up on me like that.”

Tim grinned wryly and shrugged, taking half of the books from Jon’s arms. “Sorry boss, thought you heard me.” He gestured for Jon to lead the way through the half-sized bookshelves; an unnecessary act seeing as Tim worked the children’s library much more frequently than Jon did.

“I’m not your-” Jon sighed, deciding this wasn’t the hill he wanted to die on today. He made his way through the shelves, sliding books into their correct placements with practiced hands. “Do you need something?”

“Actually,” Tim checked a Dewey code and slid a book into a shelf a few rows down. “I don’t. But you do.”

Jon stared blankly, uncomprehending. Tim chuckled and gestured with a cock of his head towards the research section. “Melanie said she has a friend who has a friend she wants to set up on a date. And while normally, I’d jump at the chance-” he waved his left hand, the silver ring inset with tiny diamonds flashing in the fluorescents, “I’ve been wifed up and I don’t think my dear Sash would appreciate my going on a blind date with a stranger.”

Jon frowned, setting his stack of books down and eyeing Tim. “What, so I have to?”

Tim shook his head, a patient smile on his face. “No, no one is forcing you. I just think—well. It’s been a while since your last relationship and you’ve been a little…testy, recently.” The look on Tim’s face dared Jon to contradict. “Melanie says he’s apparently a really good guy, very kind and sweet and patient. I think his name is Melvin? I kinda tuned out after she wrote down the number she got from her friend.”

Jon scoffed, pushing his glasses up his face as if that would help him comprehend the absolute ridiculousness of what Tim was saying. “Y-You want me to go on a date with this guy, Melvin? Because I’ve been…grumpy? That doesn’t seem very kind to this mysterious date.”

Tim pursed his lips. “I just think you could benefit from seeing someone who doesn’t work here. I mean, we love you Jon, but god, you need to get a social life. I’m practically begging you.” Tim’s purse elongated into a pout, eyes going big and starry. Jon inwardly groaned. Tim was his oldest friend here at the library and he really never learned how to resist that face. Maybe he should ask Sasha.

“One date,” Jon promised. “I’ll do one date. And then you never set me up again.”

Tim grabbed the rest of the books Jon had set down and added them to his stack before whisking himself away down the aisles. “If we’re lucky, I’ll never have to!” He called down the aisles, grinning madly. Jon sighed and grabbed a small pink sticky note that had been stuck to the countertop, running his eyes over the numbers before slipping it into his pocket. He’ll call later.

Martin stared resolutely at the numbers on the blue sticky note, running his thumb over the curled edge of the paper, slightly stained from some sort of milk during the shift. Even his apron pockets weren’t foolproof. The underground was busy and he was jammed between an older woman who smelled weirdly like salmon and a man who seemed utterly too well-dressed to be on the tube. Elbows crammed into his side to keep from nudging anyone, he pulled out his phone and stared at the messaging app for what felt like several minutes. He typed the numbers into the message bar and watched his cursor blip in the body of the message.

Hey whats up?

No, that would be so weird.

Hiya, this is martin!

Georgie never said the man’s name, would this mysterious date know his?

Hey I think the alphabet is missing I and U together.

Gross. Just gross. Martin grimaced inwardly and chewed on his lip, thinking carefully before typing.

Hi! My name is martin. my friend gave me your number, hope thats okay. she said you were really nice and recommended we try a blind date. if this is too weird, I get ignoring it. but if youre game, I am! :)

As he finished typing, he heard the familiar robotic voice of the tube announcing his stop. Quickly, Martin shoved the phone in his pocket and carefully forced his way through the crowd and onto the platform, mind cast to what he had accessible for dinner.

----

It took Jon a few days, until Saturday, to remember to call the phone number they had been given. They could text, they supposed, but they always appreciated hearing someone’s intonation a little better. Especially a stranger, ugh, they shuddered at the idea of not being able to decipher the tone of this Melvin. It was half-past 11 when they decided to call, hoping this would be late enough in the morning to not wake him up.

The phone rang momentarily before a surprisingly feminine voice answered the phone. “Hello. This is Rosie. You’ve reached Swirl Café and Bakery.”

Well shit. This was not what Jon expected. They stumbled over their rehearsed speech, trying to scramble words together in a way that made sense. “Uh-sorry, I must have the wrong number. I-I was trying to speak to Melvin?”

“Mmm, sorry. No Melvin works here. We have a Martin, but he’s off the clock. Would you like to speak to our manager?” Rosie’s voice was clipped and courteous, but Jon could hear the bustle of voices in the background. It must be their weekend rush.

“Ah-uh, no, no thank you.” Jon shook their head into the phone, before remembering that did not translate aurally. “It’s alright. Thank you anyways.”

“Sorry, mate. Thanks for calling!” The dial tone droned on for a moment before Jon hung up, sighing and pressing the heels of their hands into their eyes. That was a waste. Melanie must have been playing them; Jon knew they generally didn’t get along, but they didn’t realize she would stoop so low. Honestly, shame on themself for getting excited about a date.

Later that evening, Jon was cooking and listening to music through the speaker that balanced precariously on a shelf next to their stove. The music was low, with a variety of orchestral instruments and sultry, smooth voices. Jon’s eyes were half closed as they stirred the curry in the pan in front of them, letting the music and heat of the kitchen entangle them in a sleepy feeling relaxing their whole body. As the cello in the song dipped low and resonant, Jon stood still, letting the music sweep them away—

They jumped as the ringer alerted them through the speaker that they had received a text, glaringly electronic compared to the rich notes of cello and viola that had been so rudely interrupted. Sleepy feeling gone as adrenaline washed through their body, Jon sighed and retrieved their phone, checking for the message.

An unknown number flicked across the screen:

Hi! my name is martin. my friend gave me your number, hope thats okay. she said you were really nice and recommended we try a blind date. if this is too weird, i get ignoring it. but if youre game, I am! :)

i meant to send this a few days ago but I never hit send. sorry ab that! rosie said someone called the café asking ab me and i assumed that was you bc i wasnt expecting anyone else and no one involved in the blind date thing ever asked for my mobile number.

if it wasn’t you, oops! either way it reminded me that i had never texted you. :)

Jon squinted at the screen as they read the messages a few times over. That was…a lot of words. So his name was Martin. It was certainly nicer than Melvin. Jon agonized over their words as they typed out a response.

Hello Martin. That was me who called the café…I hope it didn’t cause problems for you. Blind dates aren’t usually my thing, but my coworkers think I need to get out more. I’d be happy to meet you for dinner or coffee. Even if we don’t get along, we can say we’ve done it.

Unless, of course, you’re rather sick of coffee. I prefer tea anyways.

…not “done it” done it. Just. Had the blind date.

Jon winced at their follow up texts. God, that was embarrassing. Martin probably didn’t even take it that way until they bothered to clarify. They shook their head, warding away the growing anxiety in their chest and tucked their phone in their pocket as they turned their attention back to the simmering curry. Jon had embarrassed themselves enough for one night.

----

Martin chuckled at the texts that came through; one slow and the two follow-ups rapid. He could feel the awkwardness through the messages, desperately trying to give a good impression. He chuckled to himself as he set down his dinner plate.

dinner sounds perfect. but same about the tea! and about the coworkers tbh, my friends think im making friends with the espresso machine. which, i am, but only bc its good company haha.

btw i never got your name?

Martin’s phone was silent the rest of the night, as he plodded his way through a mediocre dinner and shower before settling into his armchair, desperate to work on his poetry. Words came slowly to him recently, thoughts about the world and darkness and the intersection of fall and winter. He really should up and move to somewhere warmer, he thought to himself, before laughing the notion away aloud. Yeah, right. He rolled his eyes and tried to focus on the poetry prompts book he had found at the charity shop. “Use noncolor words to describe a color.” Great. Martin settled back and tried to focus, but kept finding himself checking his phone impulsively, the foamed latte art he’d photographed, one of a cat he was particularly proud of, stared back at him judgmentally.

As he drew his evening to a close, Martin almost missed the buzz of his phone, now plugged in by his bed, as he brushed his teeth.

Congrats on the espresso machine. And my name is Jon. Anywhere you want to go for dinner?

________________________________________________________________

Jon hesitated, thumb hovering over the icon that would open a video chat with Tim. He didn’t want to come off nervous, but… he was.

Texting had been going well. Martin was good at keeping the conversation going and genuinely seemed to enjoy the long texts Jon had sent regarding his irritations with the research he was conducting as a part of his master’s in literature, asking him questions about details Jon had added for context. Martin was easy to talk to, too, he always seemed to have an opinion on subjects but always ones Jon was happy to hear, even if he was objectively wrong about spiders and oolong tea. Martin had sent an awkward text, letting Jon know he was trans and that if that was a dealbreaker he should tell him now, one Jon had blushed over and responded that he was nonbinary himself, and that it certainly wasn’t. The “okay fantastic! :))) remind me of your pronouns? he/him for me.” that followed it up had made Jon’s heart sing.

They had agreed to meet at an Italian place, equidistant between their flats and not too fancy. Martin had commented about getting ice cream after, but Jon wasn’t sure if he was joking or not, since it had also been a jab about Jon’s preference for rum raisin. Thus, he was staring at his wardrobe, paralyzed with indecision. Tim had offered to help, which Jon had initially rejected since he’s “not a child Tim, I’ve dated before. And I know how to dress myself.” But lord if he wasn’t wishing for someone to lay out his clothes and tell him to behave. He grimaced and jabbed the video chat button, bracing for the onslaught of teasing to come.

----

Martin adjusted his collar for what must have been the twelfth time, sucking on his lip as he waited at the reserved table. He hadn’t been there long, no more than five minutes, but his anxiety had been building up all day and a part of him was absolutely certain Jon wasn’t going to come. Neither of them knew what the other looked like; what if Jon saw him and had dipped out immediately? He was wearing mint green, as he had promised, so Jon would recognize him, and brought a bouquet of daisies, mostly because it felt weird not to bring anything, but he didn’t want to be too romantic. Not roses or anything. Besides, Jon said he liked daisies, said they reminded him of an old friend. Martin hoped it wasn’t too weird. He brushed his auburn curls out of the way of his eyes, part of him regretting not having gotten a haircut first, but he tucked those thoughts aside as he surveyed the restaurant from his vantage point.

He blinked in confusion as he watched long curls make their way towards him. Dark black hair, streaked with white, half bunned up in the back and rest left to hang loose, skimming purple-covered elbows. Martin wasn’t sure if they were wearing flowy grey pants or a skirt, but either way, the faint black pattern to them was stunning and Martin couldn’t help but watch the swoosh of the hemlines. As the person got closer, Martin realized they were tiny, stylized eyes.

“Ah-you’re Martin, right?” It took Martin a second to realize this absolutely beautiful person was talking to him.

“hmm—Oh! Yes! You must be Jon.” Martin stood, unsure whether he should shake Jon’s hand or hug him or? But Jon solved the problem himself by sitting, and so Martin did as well. “It’s nice to finally meet you…in person, that is,” he added, grinning shyly. “You look lovely, by the way.”

Jon blushed. “Ah, thank you. Y-You too. O-or handsome, whichever you prefer.” He sipped his water and fidgeted with his hands, eyes flicking around the room nervously before coming around to rest on Martin.

Martin shrugged. “A compliment is a compliment, they all work. Speaking of—what pronouns are you feeling today? I remember you saying it varies.”

Jon shook his head slightly. “I’m not going to pitch a fit either way, but ‘he’ is just fine.” It was nice to be asked. The library respected his pronouns, of course, but something about Martin going out of his way to make sure he was on the same page was… It made Jon’s heart thud deep in his chest.

They made small talk about the travel, the weather, Italian food preferences until the waiter came and relieved the tension. Martin felt his shoulders relax after they both ordered; it felt more real somehow.

“So,” Martin asked, sipping his water demurely, a smile tinged on his lips. “Melvin, huh?”

Jon choked on air for a moment. His mouth gaped open and shut again and Martin couldn’t help the grin overtook him. Jon’s embarrassment was sweet; his cheeks flushed and he bowed his head slightly. It was a lovely look on him. “For the record, that’s what I was told by my coworker, Tim.” Jon made air quotes with his fingers. “‘Melvin or something.’ Who was I to question your name?”

“Right, and I’m glad you respect names ‘n’ all. But Melvin?” Martin chuckled to himself, shaking his head. “I’m not the decimal system guy.”

“Nn-mmm,” Jon shook his head, nose wrinkled in a way Martin found particularly cute. “That’s Melville. Melville Dewey.” Jon emphasized, back straightening. “Distinctly different. I’m a librarian, actually.”

“Oh!” Martin blinked. “That makes sense. You work with Melanie, then, I assume?”

Jon grimaced again. “Unfortunately.”

“She’s not that bad!” Martin insisted. “I’ve met her once or twice and she’s been very polite.”

Jon rolled his eyes. “For someone who’s getting a degree in parapsychology, she seems very judgmental.”

“Oh? And what are you studying again?”

“English Lit-hey!”

Martin grinned behind his glass of water. “Just saying, I haven’t met an English Lit student who wasn’t obscenely pretentious.”

Jon faltered for a second and slumped his shoulders in defeat, though his voice still seemed to carry humor, albeit dry. “Unfortunately, I am no exception.”

“Well, I didn’t say I didn’t like it.”

Dinner arrived smoothly, shrimp scampi for Jon and eggplant parmesan for Martin. They ate slowly, chatting more about Jon’s graduate degree, Martin’s affinity for fiction and poetry, and their shared interest in tea.

“So, are you vegetarian?” Jon gestured to the eggplant on Martin’s plate. Martin wobbled his head slightly, not quite a negatory shake of the head.

“It’s complicated. My mother has—had—a sensitive stomach so we didn’t eat meat growing up. I think that turned me off the taste. And there’s something about the texture,” he shuddered. “Weirds me out.”

Jon’s eyes were sharp, boring holes into Martin’s in a way he should have found alarming, but instead found soothing. “Mine, too.” His tone—softer, almost reverent, clued Martin in: he wasn’t talking about being vegetarian.

Martin nodded, and gently placed a hand on Jon’s, the one that hovered near his drinking glass. “I’m sorry.”

They were quiet for a moment, Jon’s hand was small and warm under his, and Martin could feel a thin silver bracelet clinging to his wrist. Martin was amazed by how perfectly his fingers rested over Jon’s, how nice it must feel to hold hands with him on a walk or side by side against the world. Jon cleared his throat suddenly and reached for his glass, gulping down water while staring steadfastly at his plate.

Martin felt his own blush rise through his cheeks and pushed a stray noodle around his plate. “So, here’s a question,” he began, eager to clear the tension. “You said earlier your friend Tim gave you the number to Swirl, right? I don’t know a Tim. So how did he know me?”

Jon frowned, cocking his head. “Technically, I got the number from Tim but that was via Melanie. She said her roommate was friends with…well, friends with you.”

“Mmhmm, that makes sense. I know Georgie from the coffee shop.” He was about to continue when he saw absolutely paralyzed look on Jon’s face. “You…you alright?”

Jon was stock still, pausing the forkful of shrimp that was en route to his mouth. “Sorry, Melanie’s roommate is Georgie?”

Martin nodded slowly. “Yeah, Georgie Barker, that podcaster. She gets her an extra-spicy chai latte from Swirl most days and that’s about the most I know of the relationship. Why, you know her?”

Jon put the fork down, shrimp forgotten, and sighed, running his thumbs along the bridge of his nose, pushing his thin-rimmed glasses up to his eyebrows. “Y-yes, she’s kind of…my ex.”

It was Martin’s turn to freeze. “Sorry?”

“Mmm, yeah, we decided we were better as friends. It was back in Oxford. But I don’t exactly see her often much anymore.” Jon winced at his own words, as if he knew how bad they sounded.

Martin sat back in disbelief, chuckling to himself. “Y’know, she said you were a ‘friend of a friend of a friend.’ D’you think she even knew it was you?”

Jon cocked his head in thought. “I guess not. I mean, I think the whole library staff has been gunning for me to relieve some tension. I wouldn’t be surprised if they’ve been looking for a blind date for me for months now.”

Martin grinned, eyes sparkling. “Well, no matter. It was lucky for me.” Lucky again, was Martin, when he was rewarded with Jon’s warm blush.

----

The bill had been a painful affair, with both Jon and Martin vying for the privilege of paying. Martin struck a deal: he’d pay for the dinner, and Jon would pay for ice cream. Jon knew the differences would widely outweigh when it came to cost but he relented, and the self-satisfied smirk that blossomed over Jon’s face was payment enough.

Martin pointed out the ice cream parlor was a few blocks away and, though it was January, they decided to walk. The fresh snow on the ground glinted against the orange street lamps, and Jon laughed under his breath at the way Martin took great care to step on any unusually large clumps of snow, like he had a personal vendetta. When Jon’s chuckle had made it past the scarf he had wound round his neck and mouth, Martin had glanced over, embarrassed.

“I like the sound of it,” he mumbled, suddenly very meek for a man his stature. It was, regretfully, endearing. Martin was tall, but he was big too, and it was obvious underneath the layer of soft cashmere and chub, there was rigid muscle, and beneath that still, a gentle heart. Jon was struck by him, in more ways he had prepared himself for, and it felt second nature to slide his gloved hand into Martin’s and give it a solid squeeze of acknowledgement.

“Do you think it’s too cold to get ice cream?” Jon asked, watching a cloud of breath float by his lips.

Martin shrugged. “Technically? Yes. But who’s going to tell on us?” Jon swung their entwined hands a little. “Unless…you don’t want to?” Martin added, eyes locking on Jon’s before his head followed.

Jon shook his head. “No, I want to. I believe we have a debt to settle and I have a personal score involving rum raisin.” Martin beamed, clearly pleased, and Jon was certain the snow around him melted right off with the warmth of his smile. Jon leant into Martin’s side a little, and they continued in silence until they reached the ice cream parlor, the entrance to which glowed with pink and white LEDs.

Jon smugly ordered a scoop of rum raisin and was delighted to find Martin “didn’t hate it,” though he insisted his mint chip was better. That was genuinely the best Jon could hope for; not even Georgie in all her unusual tastes enjoyed his rum raisin sensibility. “My grandmother loved it when I was a kid,” he explained between bites, stirring the ice cream with his spoon. “It was the only flavor she kept around the house.”

“Not even vanilla?” Martin gasped in mock disbelief. “Any sensible person would say you’ve been tricked into enjoying it.” Jon chuckled and elbowed Martin mildly.

Jon found himself lingering over the bowl, realizing that the end of their dessert meant an end to the date. Martin seemed to be acting similarly, putting his spoon down between bites and taking more and more thoughtful swallows between their bouts of conversation.

“You-you took the tube here, right?” Jon asked, setting his finally-empty bowl off to the side. At Martin’s confirmation, Jon clenched his fist below the table. “Do you want to walk to the station together?”

Martin’s eyes lit up, nodding eagerly. “I had meant to ask, actually! I wanted to make sure you got there safe.” Jon winced at the blush that overtook his cheeks, though it was easy to blame it on the chill of the ice cream and the frigid night.

The walk to the tube was longer and the pair, heavily sated by pasta and dairy, were quiet, making soft comments about the snow or the odd remaining Christmas decorations, hands clasped tightly and shoulders pressing into the other. The fluorescents of the underground shone brightly, normally a beacon calling travelers home in the night, but to Jon it felt like a dreadful curse. He truly hadn’t expected to enjoy his evening with Martin so much, but they had just clicked. It felt like a shame to let it go.

Swiping their cards, Jon and Martin passed through their respective turnstiles and stood at the bisecting tunnels through which the various lines waited to take them home. They faced each other in silence, hands still interlocked, unsure of how to begin.

“If you’d like to,” Jon murmured, eyes shifting focus to Martin’s curls, plastered to his forehead from the snow; his collar, peeking through his coat; the way the shell of his ear seemed to have a nick missing (was it from a childhood accident? Just the way it was grown?). “I’d like to go out again.”

Martin squeezed Jon’s hand, and Jon’s eyes flitted back to Martin’s own; they were grey-blue and reminded Jon of his childhood sea. “Mmhmm, yeah.” Martin rolled his eyes at his own words and tried again. “Yes, Jon, I’d love that.” Martin moved to hug Jon, a gesture Jon eagerly accepted, relishing the warm arms encircling him and the feel of Martin’s chin resting on the crown of his head. As they pulled away, Martin’s eyes flitted across Jon’s face and the hand around his back moved, cautiously, to rest on the side of Jon’s neck.

“I…I don’t want to presume,” Martin said quietly, and Jon was distinctly aware of how empty, how big, the station was. “Is it okay if I kiss your cheek?”

Jon blinked rapidly, nodding wordlessly, before clearing his throat. “Ah, um, yes. Please.”

Martin’s smile was soft as he pressed his lips to the apex of Jon’s cheekbone, almost into his hairline. Jon was sure the blush that rose across his face this time certainly couldn’t be explained away by the snow, but he honestly wasn’t really sure he cared.

#tma #tma fanfic #the magnus archives #the magnus archives fanfic #fanfic to a tea #jonathan sims #martin blackwood #jmart #jonmartin #georgie barker #rosie zampano #tma rosie #tim stoker #meet cute #blind date au #this is my love letter to TMA #prompt answer #fanfic prompt

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celosiaa · 4 years

Note

Hello! If you’re still taking TMA prompts, what about a scenario where Jon needs a little further observation/just needs some assistance until he regains his strength once he’s released from hospital, and Martin takes responsibility (because thinking about doting Martin makes me soft) 🥺 Thanks!

HELLO FRIEND THIS HAS TAKEN ME SO LONG AND I AM SO SORRY!!!!! but i hope you like this because it’s gonna be multiple chapters now!!! I got on a roll and wrote this whole first chapter in a fit of passion

featuring...Martin with Tourette’s! Hooray! :D

Set immediately after the episode where Jon wakes up from the coma, Georgie leaves, and Basira is soon to follow.

CHAPTER 1:

Soon after Basira returns with the water, it all falls apart.

“What did you mean, you ‘feel more real?’ What does that mean, Jon?” she demands, slamming the plastic cup of water on the tray hard enough for it so slosh over the edge. “What did you do?”

Perhaps it’s the post-statement, post-coma bit of euphoria; perhaps it’s the overwhelming hurt of hearing Georgie wish him dead—but Jon cannot quite stifle the laugh that bubbles up in his chest. Cannot quite swallow what he’s sure would be damp filling up the corners of his eyes, were he not still so dehydrated that he has nothing left to spare.

He has little left to spare of anything, it seems, after he spares a glance down his emaciated form.

“I d-don’t—I didn’t do anything, Basira. I wouldn’t—wouldn’t lie to you.”

“Bullshit,” she barks, crossing her arms and leering over him—reminding him so much of Daisy, it sends a familiar chill up his spine. “What. Did. You. Do.”

“I—please, Basira. Trust me.”

“Ha.”

“I-I didn’t. Didn’t do anything, I swear. If I did, I don’t—don’t remember.”

It’s the truth, it’s god’s honest truth, but it’s not enough. Of course it wouldn’t be—it’s Jon, after all. Jon’s word had never been enough for her.

“You know what?” she spits, sharp eyes meeting his after a few small moments away. “Georgie was right. This isn’t how it’s supposed to go. You shouldn’t be here.”

Shouldn’t be here shouldn’t be here

Old, terrible wounds he had hoped were long dead begin to fester once again in his mind. He had always considered Basira a friend, but now…now perhaps, it would hurt even worse if she were.

A slamming door, and he’s back in the present. Beyond a shadow of a doubt, he Knows Basira will not be returning—and is not going to get a nurse, either. No, Basira…Basira will no longer be part of this. Will no longer be part of him, as all of Jon’s friends come to be, eventually.

Friend.

She was my friend.

What else is there to do but sit, quiet and still, waiting on the world to turn again? Surely it had stopped. There is no window in this place—nothing to tell him the time at all. Perhaps they thought he hadn’t needed it, because he was never going to wake up. No one to disorient if there’s nobody there.

“No, please—he should—“

Scratching, a scratching at the back of his mind. A blurry picture, faded and torn, knitting together slowly with stitches formed from static and a searing pain behind his eyes.

“—he should have a window.”

Martin. It’s Martin, eyes soft and warm and loving and…despairing. The picture grows and grows and grows until—

“No, please,” Martin begs as he enters the new room they’ve just wheeled Jon’s body into, glancing around with distress, left hand banging rhythmically against his thigh. “He should—he should have a window, in case he wakes up—he’ll be disorientated, please.”

“Sir, I’m going to have to ask you to leave, if—"

“No! I’ll not—I’ll not sit here, and let this happen—"

Thrown physically back by the weight of the memory, Jon finds himself lying back dizzily against his pillows, head pounding, heart pounding even louder with the knowledge that Martin was here, he cared, he was here he was here—

And then he looks to the left, and finds a copy of The Lord of the Rings. His copy, to be exact—it must have been taken from his flat, it’s so worn and loved and read and reread and reread. Reaching out to touch it with a shaking, far-too-thin hand, he presses his fingertips against the cracked spine and Sees—

Martin, reading it to him.

“‘I wonder,” said Frodo, “But I don’t know. And that’s the way of a real tale. Take any one that you’re fond of. You may know, or guess, what kind of a tale it is, happy-ending or sad-ending, but the people in it don’t know. And you don’t want them to.’”

Taking a pause from the passage, Martin quirks up a little half smile, a sad whisper of a thing, before taking Jon’s hand in one of his own—using the other to remove his glasses, as he begins to weep in silence.

Aching, aching, aching is Jon’s chest—down through the depths of his soul, if indeed, he could still be said to have one. It is no longer a decision—he must phone Martin. If enough of him is still there to be phoned.

He hits the call button on his bedside remote and waits.

—

“Mr. Sims?” calls a nurse tentatively from the door, face still ashen from the shock of seeing him awake, and half-sitting back against his pillows. “I’ve got a phone for you.”

“Ah, thank you,” Jon breathes at once, reaching out a still-shaking arm to take it from her before she turns to hang another bag of saline on the pole to his right, hooking it up carefully to his line as she continues to speak.

“We—erm, just so you don’t waste your time, we tried your emergency contact many times with no response. A…Stoker, I believe is their last name?”

Any wind he had managed to pick back up in his sails is pushed right out of his chest with the devastation of these words.

Tim.

God, Tim.

“Mr. Sims? You alright?” she asks, looking moments away from poking or prodding him again—something he can’t bear, not with his skin crawling like this.

“F-fine, fine,” he assures, silently begging his hands to stop shaking. “Fine, thank you. For the phone.”

“You’re—you’re welcome. Erm,” she stammers, stumbling over herself in her hurry to back out of the door. “Ring if you need something.”

And then she’s gone, and he’s left alone again.

Alone alone always alone

He’s got to keep going; got to tear his mind forcibly away from his private anguish—and turns to what he desperately hopes will not become a new, unbearable grief. Punching in a number he feels he has no right to Know, he presses the phone against his ear and rings Martin.

It rings.

And rings.

Until he gets a notice that the voicemail box is full.

Stomach jolting, he realizes that Basira could have been wrong, that he could be in trouble, that he could be—

No no no

He rings again, waiting with bated breath, utterly motionless.

No answer.

He wants to tear it all down, to burn through every wall that separates him from Seeing him—

He rings one more time.

“Look, you’ve got the wrong number,” comes the irritated voice on the other end of the line after the third ring—and Jon will never be sure that it’s not the most beautiful sound he has ever heard.

“…Martin,” is all he can say, all he can feel as he collapses back onto his pillows, lips upturning in a smile he never thought would grace his expression again.

A pause, long and frozen, like an inhaled breath that refuses to be let out.

“Jon?”

The disbelief, the shuddering hope is so clear in his tone that Jon at last feels his eyes pooling with the tears that had so often refused to come.

“It’s me,” he whispers, like a prayer—begging to be believed.

“F—oh, fuck—“

Loud clattering resonates from the other end of the line as the phone is dropped—or perhaps thrown. A more common tic for Martin when he feels something very strongly.

Whatever feeling it may have been that brought it on, Jon is grateful to observe the humanity of it—tears slipping down his face at last as he sees Martin in his mind’s eye, collecting his phone with the massively thick case around it, checking it for cracks as he does every time, though the screen protector has never once been without cracks—

Jon finds himself weeping, laughing, gasping—so very fond.

I missed you I missed you

I miss you

“Hello? You still there?” Martin gasps, voice a bit wild, a bit desperate.

“Still here,” he assures, wiping his face with a heavy sniff.

“Listen, this—" he begins, voice forcibly hardened, though Jon can hear the shakiness beneath. “This better not be a—a fucking prank, or—"

“I-It’s not. Martin, it’s not. I promise.”

I’m still here.

“…how?” he asks, voice still sharp, and Jon hardly supposes he can blame him.

“I don’t—"

It’s a lie, you do know, you’re lying you’re lying

“—I don’t know. Something…something brought me back,” he stammers, tongue tripping over the acridity of the untruth in his mouth.

It’s a lie and you know it.

“And you’re alright?” comes Martin’s trusting voice from the shoddy speaker.

Of course, running fingers through his hair that had grown so long, so wild, he braces himself for another half-truth.

“Relatively—relatively speaking,” he sighs.

“What does that mean?”

Too weak—he finds himself too weak to answer, cannot bear to say the words that will let him ask for help. Never could manage it, really.

“Do you want me to come get you?” Martin asks, because of course Martin knows him, knows the way Jon’s mind works, however maladapted it may be.

“Yes,” he murmurs in response, tears beginning to run again at the prospect of seeing Martin, his Martin, here in this lightless room that reminds him so terribly much of the Archives.

“Please.”

“Be there soon.”

With a click, the warmth of his voice is gone—but well-replaced by the promise of his presence.

Martin never breaks a promise.

Jon allows the security of it to set him adrift on the tides of sleep.

#tma #the magnus archives #tma fic #tma fanfic #jonmartin #recovery #sickfic #my writing #i really hope you like this!!!

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bubonickitten · 4 years

Text

TMA fic: Who’s There?

Sooo, I wrote a follow-up to this fic.

Cross-posted to AO3 here.

Summary: Jon has a panic attack after Elias shows him exactly what happened behind the door after Mr. Spider took its victim. Martin helps him calm down, and Jon tells him the story of his first Leitner.

[CW for unreality, dissociation/drdp, panic attacks, tactile hallucinations, descriptions of spiders/arachnophobia, blood/injury, self-harm mentions (accidental in the context of a panic attack).]

By the time Jon shuts the door to Elias’ office, he can barely stand.

Trembling, he leans – nearly falls – back against the wall and squeezes his eyes shut. He's trying to untangle the dueling instincts to flee and freeze when his knees buckle and he slides down the wall to the floor. He’s breathing in gulps, shallow and quick, and when a long exhale dissolves into a shuddering sob, he Knows that Elias hears it and that he smiles, and Jon hates himself for it.

Elias.

A new wave of panic crashes over Jon when he realizes that the only thing between them is an unlocked door. The thought is enough to force him to stand, steadying himself against the wall with one hand as he makes his way down the hall on wobbly legs.

It’s easy, he tells himself: one shaky step at a time, no need to overthink it, just keep moving –

He’s nearly to the door at the end of the hall when it happens. Something in his mind fractures and he is a stranger to himself, a bemused observer floating somewhere else, somewhere outside himself –

…depersonalization: an altered state in which one feels unreal, as if one’s thoughts and emotions do not belong to oneself; often accompanied by a feeling of detachment from one’s own body and a dreamlike perception of the world around …

The Beholding pummels him with the information, an intrusive thought somehow made worse by Jon's awareness of its supernatural origin. Jon usually finds it comforting to have a word to describe his experiences, but it's no consolation now when he did not ask for it, did not ask for any of this. The way knowledge forces its way into his head these days, seeps into his mind unsolicited before he even notices what’s happening – he hates the invasiveness of it, the sense of violation it brings. Facts and figures bleed into the edges of his mind like so many worms pouring in through the crack under the door and burrowing into him and –

…he is a marionette with gossamer wire wrapped twice, thrice, a dozen times around his wrists and…

– Elias’ words wriggle in his mind like worms through flesh, writhing like a fly caught in a web, and just like that –

…the spider silk winds its way through the crack in the door, sticky and writhing; slowly and deliberately it twines itself around his arms, his knees, his neck, and he is pulled inexorably…

– and his head is full of cobwebs and all at once he is the struggling fly and the too-curious child and the hapless victim and the human prey –

…you opened the book, you stood on the threshold, you just as good as opened the door…

– and he is the hungry spider and the monster behind the door and the inhuman predator in the dark just watching, watching, watching –

…we both know that the Archivist in you can’t leave a question unasked or unanswered…

– as something Watches him back.

Jon is barely conscious of where he is until he's crossing the threshold to his office, smacking his shoulder on the doorframe on the way. The impact snaps him back to the present with a jolt, like a puppet jerked backward by its strings, and all at once he is aware of the staring. His assistants’ eyes bore into him as he passes them by; he feels their judgment and mistrust and anger and fear trailing behind him like the wispy threads of a broken web –

He shuts the door behind him.

But there is no escaping the watching.

The Not!Them watched him for months, delighting as he spiraled into paranoia and sabotaged his relationships. Elias knew all along, was always watching, is probably watching right now. And whatever patron Jon now serves – it never stops watching, does it? Watching him, watching through his eyes, watching through doors and walls and floors -

Is it still paranoia if you actually are being watched?

Jon is an insect under a microscope and a dispassionate Eye pries him open, considers the component parts, catalogs and categorizes, files him away and never once deigns to share its verdict: whether his classification is Jonathan Sims or Archivist, and what criteria should be used to measure personhood.

He is a thing behind a door, unsorted and undetermined, and he cannot breathe –

Knock-knock.

He opens bleary eyes and does not immediately recognize where he is.

Knock-knock.

“Jon?”

There is someone at the door, he thinks absently, but everything is muted, thick, cloying, and the thought disintegrates in the fog.

Knock-knock-knock.

Someone is at the door, but the sound is distorted, as if he’s listening to it from underwater.

“Can I come in?”

His thoughts are molasses-slow as he takes inventory his surroundings: He’s under a desk. His desk. (He thinks it’s his desk.) He’s huddled under a desk like a child playing hide-and-seek and, oh, there’s someone at the door.

Knock-knock-knock-knock –

“Jon, please open the door.”

He reaches up to rub his face and stops short, because there is something wrong with his hands. They're coated in something adhesive and coppery-smelling and when he clenches his fists and feels the skin stick, all he can think about is spider silk, tacky and clinging to his hands, his arms, his neck, his face –

KNOCK-KNOCK-KNOCK-KNOCK-

There is someone hammering on the door.

He is breathing too loudly. The thing behind the door will hear him.

KNOCK-KNOCK-KNOCK-KNOCK-KNOCK-KNOCK-KNOCK-KNOCK-KNOCK-KNOCK-

He clamps his hands over his ears, mindless of the mess. The thing behind the door cannot hear him.

Silence.

Then:

“Jon, I’m coming in.”

As the door creaks open, Jon jumps at the sound, smacking his head on the underside of the desk. His eyes fly open and all at once he is present.

“Jon? Are you okay?”

Martin's voice, tentative and concerned.

As the footsteps draw nearer, Jon hugs his knees tighter to him, shrinking as far under the desk as he can. It’s childish, he knows: there are only so many places to hide in here. He knows when Martin spots him because he can feel those eyes burning into him and –

“Jon? What – Christ, Jon, are you bleeding?”

Jon looks up then, pupils blown wide. Even the low light stings, and he squints against it.

“Your hands are – is this your blood? Jon, let me see –”

Martin leans down to get a closer look and all at once Jon remembers his hands, covered in cobweb. He frantically rubs his palms on his clothes, digs his fingernails into his skin to claw away the layers; his heart is thundering in his ears, pulsating in time with his thoughts: get it off get it off get it off getitoffgetitoffgetitoffgetitoff -

“Jon, stop it! You’re hurting yourself!”

And so he is: one of his fingernails catches the skin on the back of his good hand and now it’s bleeding freely. Jon stops scratching, recognizes the blood for what it is now. He begins flapping his hands uselessly, flailing, overwhelmed; he feels the tears coming again –

“Jon! Jon, listen to me. You’re – you’re hyperventilating, just… look at me.”

It takes a moment, but he does. His hands still.

“I want you to breathe with me, okay? Just – watch me, okay?”

Jon watches. He does not blink.

“Okay, copy me. Four seconds in, hold seven seconds, eight seconds out, okay?”

Jon breathes, mesmerized as he watches the steady rise and fall of Martin's chest.

“That’s it. You’re doing great.”

Jon isn’t sure how much time passes, but eventually his breathing evens out and the palpitations start to recede.

“Okay. Okay.” Martin sighs; Jon can hear the relief in it, almost feels it vicariously. “Listen, Jon, stay right here –”

Jon’s eyes go wide again and his lips move in wordless protest.

“I’ll come right back, I promise, I just – I want to get a damp cloth, clean off some of the blood, okay?” Jon hesitates, but gives a curt nod. “Okay. I’ll be right back. Just… keep breathing, okay?”

Martin stands and moves away slowly, quietly, like one might around a wounded animal. Once he’s out of sight, Jon hears him pick up his pace.

Martin leaves the door open.

Jon isn’t sure how to feel about that.

He focuses on breathing.

As soon as Martin enters the break room, three pairs of eyes fix on him.

“Well?” Basira begins, schooling her expression into careful neutrality. “What was –”

“Just a panic attack,” Martin replies, walking briskly to the sink. “Don’t worry about it.”

“Wasn’t planning on it,” Tim says, feet on the table and tipping his chair back until the front two legs are dangerously high up off the floor.

“Martin,” Basira asks, “is that blood?”

“Yeah. Your friend slit his throat, if you hadn’t noticed.” Martin hadn't intended it to come out as biting. In fact, he didn't even register how angry he was until the words had already left his mouth.

In all the commotion, Martin hadn’t really had time to let it sink in, but now that he's seen the damage up close, he feels properly horrified. He thinks of how proud Daisy had sounded in Elias’ office when she admitted that she had slit Jon’s throat. He remembers how she interrogated him when Jon was missing, how she didn’t care about what happened to Sasha, how she had already decided that Jon was guilty, how she seemed to be enjoying herself. He realizes now that all along her plan was to hunt Jon down, to murder him, to leave his body in the woods where no one would ever find him, to -

To let him become another goddamn mystery.

A quiet fury coils tight in Martin's chest, heated and itching to claw its way out.

“I thought it had stopped bleeding,” says Basira. She doesn’t sound cold, exactly – just tactful, cautious. It’s a de-escalation voice, Martin realizes. The caretaker and mediator in him recognizes it - he makes frequent use of it himself - but in this moment it just makes him bristle.

“Yeah, well, he opened it back up,” Martin mutters, turning on the faucet and holding one hand under the stream, waiting for the water to run warm. “It’s fine. There’s just – there’s a lot of blood.”

“Can’t he deal with that himself?” Leaning against the wall nearby, Melanie rolls her eyes in disgust. “He’s a grown man. You don’t need to coddle him.”

“Lay off, alright? He’s scared –”

“He’s scared – Martin, we’re all scared,” Tim snaps, rocking forward in his chair. The front two legs slam back into the floor with a loud crack. “He’s the one who went and –”

“I know, alright, I know – and you’re right to be angry.” Martin would be lying if he said he wasn’t still hurt over Jon’s behavior toward him in the previous months, but he’s had this discussion with Tim so many times now, and he's tired of talking in circles. “I’m still not just going to leave him like that –”

“Why not? If he wants to wallow in his office, let him,” Tim says viciously. “It’s all he’s good for these days anyway.”

“That’s not fair,” Martin says, tight and defensive but trying so, so hard to keep his voice even.

“None of this is fair,” Basira chimes back in.

“No. No, it’s not.” Martin sighs as he pulls a large bowl out of the cabinet and sets it in the sink to fill. “But fighting each other isn’t solving anything.”

“More to the point,” Basira says, still composed and so deliberately impartial, “we all saw what he can do. We need to talk about that at some point.”

"Is he really all that different from Elias at this point?" Melanie makes it sound more like a statement than a question.

“He’s nothing like Elias." There is no hesitation when Martin speaks.

Melanie lets out a derisive laugh.

And Martin’s anger finally boils over.

“You know, it’s not Jon's fault you’re here, Melanie!”

Martin rarely loses his temper. He hates conflict, hates the inevitable second-guessing and guilt that always settle over him after the moment has passed, hates how his size and height can make his anger look so much more threatening than he feels. Whenever he senses tension building, he puts all of his energy into modulating his voice, regulating his emotions, mollifying and pacifying until the storm passes, even if it means swallowing his own hurt in the process.

Right this moment, though, he doesn’t have the mind for appeasement. He’s angry with Elias. He’s furious with Daisy. He hates being in the Archives with the ever-present feeling of being watched. And he’s frustrated with Jon for – for always being in danger, for turning up every day with fresh hurts and new scars. Martin knows he’s not being fair – Jon can be reckless, and careless, and self-destructive, and his obsessiveness eclipses his sense of self-preservation to an unhealthy degree, but it still isn’t his fault that so many things want to hunt down the Archivist. It’s just – Martin worries, and Jon gives him a lot to worry about.

When he feels Melanie’s glare on his back, senses her gearing up to tear into him, he slams the faucet off and whirls around to face her.

“You chose to come here the first time, and you chose to keep coming back, and – and you were just as curious as he is, just as fascinated, just as obsessed, just as – as reckless." He breathes a short laugh. "God, you two are so similar sometimes, you know that? You chose to go chasing monsters knowing full well you were putting yourself in danger, and – and hell, Jon wasn’t even here when you took the job!”

Martin is shaking. He takes a deep breath, counts to ten, tries to rein in his outburst.

“I don’t care,” Melanie spits, her voice low and dangerous and laced with venom. “He’s toxic. This whole place is toxic and he’s so wrapped up in it he may as well be part of it.”

“We’re all part of it."

“Whatever.” Melanie throws her hands up and stalks towards the exit. “Go fuss over him and have him berate you for caring.” Pausing at the threshold, she adds, scathing, “Seems that’s all you ever do.”

With that, she storms off, leaving a heavy, electric silence in her wake.

“She… didn’t mean that last bit,” says Basira after a moment. “She’s just – she's not herself lately.”

“Yeah,” Tim says, all sarcasm and resentment. “Welcome to the Archives.”

Martin says nothing. He grabs the overfull bowl of water, snatches a dish towel from the counter, and heads for the exit, water sloshing out of the bowl and onto the floor on his way out.

Jon hears footsteps coming back down the hall – Martin’s, he thinks distantly; isn’t it strange how you unconsciously learn to distinguish a person’s footsteps when you spend enough time around them? – followed by the soft click of the door as Martin closes it behind him. He walks around the desk and kneels down, slow and soft and careful, as if any quick movement would shatter Jon’s uneasy calm.

“Sorry for the wait,” Martin says with a forced smile. He tries to keep his tone light, but Jon can sense the strain underneath.

Jon had heard the shouting echoing down the corridor, had been faintly surprised when he heard Martin raise his voice, however brief. He couldn’t make out everything that was said, but he had a general idea. He didn't have to Know; it wasn’t that hard to guess.

Martin places a bowl of water on the floor, dips a dish towel into it, and looks at Jon expectantly. “Is it alright if I –?”

Jon nods once, slowly. Martin starts with his hands, wiping away the congealed blood coating his skin. It’s odd, Jon thinks, how absorbed he is in the task. Martin pays attention to the smallest, strangest details; scrubs at the blood-encrusted cuticles and scrapes away the stains under the tips of Jon's fingernails, frequently dipping the towel in the water and wringing out the mess.

There’s a little crease between his eyebrows, Jon notices, the familiar one that he gets when he’s deep in concentration. Jon plays back all the times he’s seen it: Martin standing in the break room, carefully measuring sugar before stirring it into his tea. Martin judging a trajectory as he aims to throw a crumpled ball of paper into the bin across the office. Martin making handwritten notations when working on his assigned statements; whenever he made a connection, one corner of his mouth would quirk up and his writing would become more feverish. Martin writing poetry. And Jon could always tell when Martin was composing poetry at his desk rather than doing his job: he worried his lower lip between his teeth, and he always leaned closer to the page.

With a distant sense of wonder, Jon notes that he… never really made a conscious decision to memorize those details. He ponders vaguely whether it’s something he Knows, or if he’s simply been paying attention all along without even realizing.

“You doing alright there, Jon?”

Jon inclines his head and closes his eyes. It’s – surreal, how safe he feels just then. He lets himself drift, loses himself in the sensation of a soft touch.

When Martin turns his attention to Jon's burned hand, healing but still stiff and sore, he braces himself for the searing pain, but it doesn't come. That feels wrong, somehow, and - and, God, what does that say about him? When was the last time anyone touched him with kindness? He didn't realize until just now the extent to which the boundary between physical contact and intentional bodily harm has eroded for him lately; how automatic his associations between touch and fear and pain have become.

When Martin pulls away - How much time has passed? - Jon's eyelids flutter open groggily.

“Will you be okay if I clean your neck?”

Jon lifts his head to expose his neck and sits up straighter and -

He immediately hits his head on the underside of his desk again. That seems to animate him. He huffs irritably and glowers up at it as if it’s the desk’s fault for being in the same place it always is.

Martin snorts at that, then winces. “Sorry, sorry. Didn’t mean to laugh –”

Then Jon's mouth twitches in a tentative smile, and Martin relaxes.

“Are you alright to come out from under there now? It’ll make this easier.”

Jon says nothing, just scoots out from the little hollow under his desk. He still presses himself up against the side, still feels safer the more compact he makes himself, but he's unfurling, slowly but surely.

“Okay, tip your head back for me. That’s it – just, hold still.” Martin pauses, considers Jon’s nonverbal state. “Tap me if you need me to back off, alright?”

Closing his eyes, Jon lets himself drift again, allowing Martin to dab at his neck with the damp cloth. How is he so gentle? Jon isn’t relaxed, exactly, but he can’t remember the last time he felt safe enough to let down his guard like this. It was only hours ago that he had experienced firsthand how simple it would be for someone to take a knife to his throat and press; he should be much more hesitant to expose it like this, to have someone touch it when it’s still raw and stinging, and yet… somehow, this is fine. Good, even.

Jon’s hair has gotten long - When was the last time he had a haircut? - and some of it clings to his neck, matted with drying blood. As Martin peels the strands away from the skin, Jon shivers.

Martin draws back immediately. “Did I hurt you?”

“Mm.” Jon’s lips move mutely for a few moments before he manages, “No.” It comes out as a hoarse whisper and he clears his throat. “Ticklish.” Still raspy, but better than before.

“There you are.” Even though Jon's eyes are closed, he knows - Knows? No, just knows - that Martin is smiling. He can hear it in his voice, can almost feel it radiating off him. Martin adopts a deliberately bland tone when next he speaks. "You... really did a number on yourself."

“Accident,” Jon croaks out. Opens his eyes, clears his throat, tries again. “There were – they were in my throat, and I – I needed to – I wanted them out.”

It’s still fuzzy, but he vaguely remembers scratching at his throat, trying to chase away the sickening feeling of hundreds of tiny legs skittering down his throat and into his lungs and –

That little crease is between Martin’s eyebrows again. “What was -"

“It was – nothing, stupid, imagined, just – felt them crawling and I couldn’t –”

“Worms?” Martin guesses.

“No, no. Too many legs.” An involuntary shudder rips through him; for a moment he can feel feather-light legs scuttling across his skin again; he flexes his good hand, chasing the tactile distraction, nails biting little crescent shapes into his palm. “It – just, too many legs. And – and cobwebs, blocking my – couldn’t breathe –” Growing agitated, his hands start fluttering again.

“Okay,” Martin soothes. “Okay. Stay with me. You’re safe. Take some breaths for me.”

“Mm.” Jon breathes, ragged at first, but evening out after a minute.

“Good.” Martin leans back in and continues dabbing lightly around the wound on Jon’s neck. "Keep breathing, just like that."

Several minutes later, Martin pulls away and drops the towel in the bowl. The water is stained a muddy red, now, and Martin frowns at the sight. God, he wishes Jon was better at keeping his blood in his body.

There are still some watery, diluted traces of blood on Jon's neck and hands, but at least he's not caked in the stuff anymore. Looking at the inflamed gash on his neck, Martin feels that little flicker of rage again, and tries not to let it show on his face.

“I have to change out the water before I do more. It might be easier to do the rest in front of the sink, though. And we should really bandage your neck and - and your burn. You, uh, probably want to change, too – you’ve got blood... well, everywhere. I assume you still have some spare clothes in the storage room?”

Jon is looking down now, picking at a ragged cuticle on his burned hand. Martin assumes that means he’s not ready to move quite yet.

“Do… do you want to talk about what happened?”

“No,” Jon whispers, but he has a peculiar look on his face, like he’s working up to something. Martin recognizes it – a sort of faraway look, like he’s gone into his own head for a moment to commune with his own thoughts. It always puts Martin in mind of a wait cursor or a blinking ellipsis.

It isn’t uncommon for Jon to trail off and walk away mid-conversation. When they first started working together, Martin assumed it was that he said something wrong, or that it was just one more way for Jon to snub him. But more often than not, a few hours would go by and Jon would pick up the conversation right where it left off, as if it had never stopped. Jon is buffering, Martin thought to himself with a smile when he first realized what was happening. It was almost endearing, the idea of Jon taking something - something Martin said, no less - so deeply into consideration that he spent hours thinking on it before composing a response.

On the other hand, Jon was equally as likely to dismiss something outright without even entertaining the possibility of a discussion. The contrast could be jarring, and even after all this time, Martin still hasn’t quite discerned any pattern that will let him predict which version of Jon he’s dealing with at any given time.

Either way, Martin is good at sitting with silence. And this silence is heavy, but not uncomfortable.

“I don’t,” Jon continues eventually, frowning slightly. “But… but I think I should?”

“Okay?” Surprise slips into Martin’s voice before he can tamp it down, but if Jon notices, he doesn’t comment on it.

“Apparently Elias can – can put knowledge in someone’s head? Or – mine at least, I don’t know if it has something to do with what I am, or if he can do it to anyone, but he…” Clearly searching for the right words, Jon opens and closes his mouth a few times. “I mean, I was already on the verge of a breakdown, wasn’t I?” His voice breaks and he covers it with a bitter smile. “I suppose I – I just needed one more little push.”

Martin resists the urge to point out that having the threat of imminent death hanging over your head every waking moment is more than a little push.

“He showed me – I saw – it… he made me Know, and I had to watch, and I felt how it –”

“Stay with me, Jon.”

Martin rests his palm on Jon’s unburned hand, then pulls back immediately, instinctively feeling as if he had crossed a line.

But Jon chases his hand and grasps it tightly. He doesn't make eye contact. “Is this okay?”

“I – sure, I mean – yes, of course,” Martin sputters. He feels his face heat and hopes Jon is still too foggy to notice how flushed he must be.

“Mm.” Jon shakes his head and laughs nervously. “I… this is harder than I thought.”

“Would... would it help to frame it as a statement?”

Jon seems to consider that for a long moment before shaking his head. “No. No, I don’t think so. I already gave a statement about this matter, and it feels... wrong, in some way, for me to offer the same statement a second time.”

Martin doesn’t really get it, but he takes Jon’s word for it.

“What if I… if I asked a direct question, would that help? I mean, I can’t compel you, obviously, but –”

“Okay.”

“What?”

Martin has never known Jon to be this receptive to his input. Jon just shrugs, not meeting Martin’s eyes.

“Ask me.”

“O...kay. Right. Um, so, what did Elias say to you?”

After a moment's pause, Jon begins to speak.

“He… he Knew something that I never told anyone before.” He starts slow, but seems to gain confidence after a few words. “The thing that first pushed me toward the supernatural, that started me on the path to – well, to all of this. Odd, to think that just… opening a book could lead me here.” His voice drops to a near-whisper. “I was only eight.”

“A book?” Martin frowns. “You don’t mean –”

Jon smiles, but it’s a fragile, humorless thing. “My first Leitner.” He takes a deep breath and speaks through the exhale. “A Guest for Mr. Spider.”

“Oh,” Martin whispers as the pieces fall into place.

“Yeah. I knew it was – wrong, somehow, but I just… I had to know, so I opened it, and I… I read.” Jon swallows hard and leans forward, curling in on himself somewhat. “I started walking. I didn’t know where the book was taking me, and I couldn’t stop reading, couldn’t even blink.” A pause as he maps out his next words. “There was… an older kid in my neighborhood. He wasn’t very keen on me. I was an annoying child, easily bored, always trying to show off how much I thought I knew. Never really was good at people.” He huffs a short, self-deprecating laugh. “Guess that hasn’t changed. Anyway, he – he was in the wrong place at the wrong time, or – or maybe I was, but he decided to knock the book from my hands and it… broke the hold it had on me.” Jon gives a little half-shrug, and his voice drops to a low murmur. “He didn’t mean to, but he saved my life.”

Jon’s thumb rubs absentminded little circles on Martin’s hand, and Martin feels his heart skip a beat. Focus.

“Anyway, he – he picked up the book, and he opened it, and then he was reading. And he started walking. I didn’t know what to do, so I followed him.” Martin notices frantic, rapid little movements behind Jon's shut eyelids. “And then he was standing in front of a door, and he knocked, and it opened, and the – the thing behind the door pulled him in. I never saw him again.” Jon falls quiet for a long moment, his jaw tensing and unclenching. When he finally opens his eyes, they’re brimming with tears. “I don’t even remember his name. He died in my place, and I don’t – he deserves to be remembered, but I can’t –”

Martin gives Jon’s hand what he hopes is a reassuring little squeeze.

“I – I never knew what really happened to him, you know? The door closed, and I just… left him to his fate, what was supposed to be my fate. I couldn’t stop thinking about what happened after the door closed. I was certain he must have died – hoped he was dead, because the alternative was...” Jon shudders miserably. “I obsessed over it, how he died, how long it took, whether it hurt, whether he was afraid, and – well, you can guess what a child’s imagination can do with that. Though I rather think my imagination now is just as overactive as it was back then. Certainly still obsessive enough.

“There’s something uniquely torturous about the not knowing, about the way the brain can flesh out a scene with mere scraps. I used to think that – that if I knew what happened behind the door, it would be better, because at least I would know, and I wouldn’t have to see a million variations in my nightmares. I could just – just have the one nightmare, and acclimate to it.

"But I was wrong. Elias – he showed me – showed me what happened, and made me feel it and it – I…” His voice gets very soft, and he glances at Martin with haunted eyes. “You know how spiders feed, Martin.”

“Oh, Jon.” Martin can hear his voice crack. “I’m so sorry, I – I knew you didn’t like spiders but I didn’t realize – God, all the times I’ve prattled on about them –”

“No, I – it’s fine, you couldn’t have known.” Jon waves him off. “In fact, I actually used to seek out information on them when I was a child. I thought if I learned everything I could about them, examined them through a – a detached, academic lens, I could get over the fear. But apparently a phobia doesn’t care about – about ecological niches, or the wonders of evolution, or…” He trails off and a shadow passes over his face. “I suppose I’ve always assumed that I could solve a problem if I just learned everything there is to know about it. Spent years making myself miserable obsessing over spiders and nothing changed.” His laugh is brittle. “Knowledge at any cost."

Another heavy silence falls. Judging from Jon's expression, there's more; he treats conversations like impossibly complex puzzles sometimes, picking his way through words to find one that will slot just so into a sentence. Martin wonders how Jon would react if he ever told him that that's what writing poetry is like.

"The thing is, though," Jon continues after a minute, "I think it’s only right, for me to know what happened to him in the end? Because why should I be spared from the knowledge when it’s my fault he –”

Jon’s breath hitches; he struggles to compose himself before continuing.

“But beyond that, it just feels right for me to know. Like I’m owed every scrap of knowledge that comes my way, as if I have every right to consume and possess these stories. And I hate it, Martin,” he says with sudden, surprising ferocity. “I hate it because I’m just this – this uncaring watcher drinking it all in, and there’s a sick, detached fascination that comes with it, and I don’t know if that’s me or whatever master the Institute serves – that I serve, now, or… I hope it’s not just me, but even if it isn’t, I – I still feel it, it still feels right. But it’s not. I know it’s not,” he says, breathing in erratic, shaky gasps.

“When I read a statement, it’s like I’m there, experiencing it right along with them, but the fear is also – muffled? Like the fear is being filtered through the words – through my voice, before it reaches me. And hovering in the background there’s this alien thing – part of me, but not me – gorging itself on a story that doesn’t belong to it, doesn’t belong to me, doesn’t belong to anyone except the one who actually lived it. It just… worms its way into my mind, forces me to feel its pleasure at their fear. At my fear.”

He shakes his head, his voice thick as he chokes back tears. “God, I’m sorry. I’m treating you like a therapist.”

“It’s alright, Jon.”

“No, it’s really not.” Jon sighs. “I tried counseling once in uni, you know. Georgie suggested it. Quit after a few sessions, though. Not good at opening up, I suppose.” He shrugs. “And – and now? I mean, what am I supposed to tell them? That - that closed doors make me uneasy because I almost met a monster when I was eight, and let it take someone else in my stead? About the flesh hive, how some days I still feel the worms burrowing into me and it’s everything I can do not to – to grab a corkscrew and start digging for them?” He laughs, a little hysterically. “That any time I look at my own hand, I can still smell the flesh melting? That a man dropped me into the sky and let me fall, and then he was shot in front of me by a rogue cop who made me dig his grave? That she tried to shove a knife through my voice box for good measure? That I’m becoming a monster, no different than that thing behind the door, and I can’t stop it, and it’s my own fault for asking too many goddamn questions?”

He’s not even crying anymore, Martin notices. There’s something… hollow about his voice. Resigned. Tired. Martin’s heart aches with it, and he grips Jon’s hand more tightly.

“Jon, listen to me. You’re not – you’re not a monster.” Jon scoffs. “I’m serious. Look at you. I mean, no offense but – you’re a mess. Right now all I see is a frightened, exhausted human covered in his own blood, putting way more thought into what it means to be human than most humans do, and – and when’s the last time you even slept?”

“I don’t know,” Jon murmurs. He loosens his grip on Martin's hand and pulls away, scrubs at his eyes to wipe away the residual wetness there. “That’s not high on my list of priorities right now.”

And just like that, Jonathan Sims throws a wall back up between them. Martin recognizes the slightly stiff quality his voice takes on, and knows that he won’t get anything more out of Jon today.

But then -

“Thank you, Martin.” Jon’s voice is quiet, but somehow loud in its impact.

“Oh! Don’t worry about it, it’s – it’s no big deal –”

“It was to me.”

“No, that’s not what I – I didn’t mean that it’s not a big deal, I just –” Martin puffs out a breath of air, feeling flustered. “What I mean is, I’m glad that you – that you trusted me to help.”

“I trust you.” There’s a finality to it. It’s similar to the terse this-conversation-is-over tone that Martin is so familiar with, but somehow… gentler. Warmer. “Present tense.”

“Oh.” Martin’s voice is very, very small.

“I just…" He heaves a sigh. "Thank you. For being here. For being patient with me. I know I’m not – I’m not exactly pleasant to be around. I don’t make it easy to be near me. And I treated you, and Tim, like enemies when I - when you - when all of us needed allies.” He looks up and meets Martin’s eyes. “I'm sorry. But - I’m trying to be better. So, thank you. It… means a lot.”

He can’t stand to see Jon hurting, but some small, guilty part of him is still glad that Jon trusted him, opened up to him, accepted help – Martin’s help – for once.

Martin smiles. He intends it to be reassuring, but he’s pretty sure it comes off as a little delirious instead. “Any time.”

When Jon tries to stand, he accepts Martin's outstretched hand without another word.

#tma #the magnus archives #jonmartin #jonathan sims #martin blackwood #tma fic #long post #tma spoilers #(up to mag 92)#spiders cw #self harm mention cw

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