#jon sims of the magnus archives they could never make me hate you

[weom000]

SUCH, an old rant, heres idk this ig

at the end of tma, as we know, he dies. he gets killed, by Martin, his lover. this is known by you guys. HOWEVER, what you don't know, is WHYYYY. in the final episodes of tma he finds his friends, Georgie and Melanie (hehe lesbians) who are immune to the fear powers because Gorgie has this thing going for her where she doesn't feel fear (because of an encounter in college will explain later) and Melanie gouged her eyes out to escape the archives. Because neither of them have any ties with the fears anymore they can walk the domains without being affected by them at all. As well as this, underneath the institute there are these old tunnels, designed by the architect Robert Smirk, these tunnels, being right under what used to be the institute during the eyepocalypse means the eye can see it. (eye can't see itself yk?) they also had the ability to take people out of the domains; and bring them to the tunnels and out of their torment. this never lasted long. The watchers would almost always come back and find them and take them back to their hellscape. 

moving on, he and Martin find the two of them with 5 others they've taken from the domains within the tunnels; and since they are underneath the panopticon which is where Jonah is, they begin to try and find a way to turn the world back to normal. John knows it's impossible. he is the embodiment of all the known knowledge in the universe, while there are some things he doesn't know; because NO ONE knows them. he knows everything. he knows there is no real way to put the world back and for him to survive. he has resigned himself to this fate and can't bring it up to Martin because he is too stubborn to accept that Jon will not be making out alive. Jon is the pupil of the eye, he is too connected with it to be so separated from it if the fears went back to their edge of the universe. Georgie and Melanie would accept this if they knew it was the only way. but Martin, Martin would never accept it. and he doesn't! john tries his very best to gently let them know that no matter the options they talk about, he won't make it out. he tries so hard to hide how much he longs to be in his rightful place in the panopticon. He knows it's wrong that he wants that but I really don't think it is, he IS the eye, and he feeds on the terror and the fear of everyone around him, and he loves it! but he has so much guilt that this is what feeds him, and he feels so guilty that he enjoys the others suffering because the archivist was literally MADE to watch and perceive the fear of others.

they have some options on how they can turn the world back to normal, but only one of them would actually work. the options are basically to let Jon take over the hellscape, and monitor the fear domains, try and make them manageable, make them more “fair”; this is the one that Jon wants. he longs to take his place as the pupil, the archive. the rest of them hate that idea. they find it unfair and say it would change nothing. the other option is for Jon to take his place and then just move everyone towards the end. the end is the fear of death, meaning that in that domain people will eventually die, meaning as the world goes on everyone will eventually die, so if he moves everyone to the end domain, and then speed it up, it could be a mercy to let them die, compared to the hell they currently suffer. 

the last option is for them to allow the fears to go into a different world. there are other universes, and one of the avatars of the web has found a rift between them that has been worn and stretched enough to make it a gap. if they kill Jonah, and Jon isn't close enough to take his place, the fears will flood their way into other universes. this isn't a favored one either, because while their world will go back to normal, it means that thousands, maybe millions of other worlds will have the fears within them; still working as normal, but the risk is then added that people will take the same path as those in their world did, leading it to be doomed as well. they end up choosing this path, but no one there will listen to the all-seeing antichrist sitting next to them. he knows that he will not survive this, and Martin's main argument on all of them is that he does not want to lose Jon. he cannot lose Jon, Jon has to make it through with them. he is stubborn. Jon knows that he won't live. any option that means the world goes back to normal means that he dies. he tries to tell them but knows they won't listen to him, and won't accept it.

they have the plan to put the world back to normal, but Jon goes against it, when martin is supposed to go up and kill Jonah, Jon goes instead. he knows he'll die, and he knows that the plan will fail if he is not the one to kill jonah. so he does! and I honestly can't recommend enough listening to the first half of that episode because of the statement he does, it's incredible and it's the reason I relisten to it so much despite the pain it causes me mentally 🥲.

*ahem*

in short, Jon deserved more respect and more understanding, and people didn't value him enough, and hated him too much for decisions that were made out of his hands and happened to fall on his shoulders, and he should have been listened to more.

[quicksilver-castiel]

Goodnight tea

Fandom: The Magnus Archives

Pairing: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims

Archive warnings: None

Rating: Teen and up

Summary:

“Yeah, everyone else left. But, um… I figured you’d still be here.” Martin shifted a bit, his outlines moving against the light spilling in from the corridor. “Um. You know you’re going to ruin your eyes if you read in this bad lighting, right?” Jon couldn’t help it — he laughed. “I’m going to be honest, that isn’t my most pressing concern today.” Tomorrow, he would go and confront the disciples of the Stranger to try and stop the Unknowing. Who knew if he would ever even need his eyes again?

Author's Notes:

Today I bring you some slight Pre-Unknowing angst for day 2 of @jonmartinweek with the prompts I Trust You // Role Swap. The guys aren't very good at communicating. But they're trying.

Read on AO3 or under the cut

“Jon?”

Jon looked up from his notes, blinking in the dim light of his desk lamp, trying to make out anything at the door. Not that he needed to see him to recognise his voice, but he felt better when he managed to make out his silhouette.

“Martin? I thought you’d gone home.”

“Yeah, everyone else left. But, um… I figured you’d still be here.” Martin shifted a bit, his outlines moving against the light spilling in from the corridor. “Um. You know you’re going to ruin your eyes if you read in this bad lighting, right?”

Jon couldn’t help it — he laughed. “I’m going to be honest, that isn’t my most pressing concern today.”

Tomorrow, he would go and confront the disciples of the Stranger to try and stop the Unknowing. Who knew if he would ever even need his eyes again?

“I suppose not,” Martin said on a sigh. “Um, I just came by to check on you, and… and ask if you wanted any tea?”

Jon opened his mouth to decline, then hesitated. Why did he always shoot down Martin’s offers when he asked? Something about feeling like he didn’t need anyone to serve him tea, like he didn’t need any comforts.

Would it be a comfort, then?

“Actually… that would be nice,” Jon heard himself say. “Just maybe nothing with caffeine.”

“Oh.” Martin seemed startled. Was this perhaps the first time Jon had said yes to his tea? Possibly. “Sure. Um, would you like… some chamomile, or…”

“No,” Jon said quickly, feeling his lips curl into a snarl. “Anything but that.”

Martin blinked at him. Then he suddenly laughed.

The sound startled Jon as it echoed from the walls, loud and boisterous. Jon didn’t think he had ever heard Martin laugh like that. He had only ever heard him chuckle nervously, but never with actual humour, or, God forbid, delight.

“You really hate it, huh?” Martin asked with a smile.

“Yes. My grandmother always made it when I was sick. And only then.” Jon didn’t know why he was telling Martin this. It wasn’t relevant to anything. It couldn’t change or delay what was going to happen tomorrow. “I suppose it made me connect the smell and the taste with such wonderful activities as hurling my guts out.”

Martin snorted out another laugh. “Noted. No chamomile for you.”

None of them could be sure if Martin would even need to remember that bit of information. Maybe, in a few years, he wouldn’t remember a thing about Jon except that he had died tragically in a wax museum.

What a sad ending. Jon didn’t want to go out like that.

He didn’t want to die at all, if he could help it. Not for a long time, at least.

“Well, I’ll be right back, alright? Sit tight,” Martin said, turning towards the hallway.

Jon watched him walk away with a small, sad smile on his face. Maybe Martin wouldn’t remember anything about him. Even if Jon wasn’t replaced by some kind of Not-Jon… it wasn’t as though they had spent much time with each other.

Sure, they had tried in the last few weeks. They had gotten lunch together, and even gone out to a pub once, though it had been a somewhat somber reenactment of the few times Tim used to drag them all out for an ‘archives crew night’.

Maybe those few occasions wouldn’t be enough for Jon to sear himself into Martin’s brain. Maybe, when he was gone, there would be no one left to really remember him. Except Georgie, perhaps. Though she might be secretly glad to be rid of him.

Jon sighed. He supposed he would just have to believe that he would leave something — anything — behind.

“Here you go.” Martin sat down the tea mug on Jon’s desk, careful not to place it too close to any papers. That was difficult, of course — Jon’s desk was littered with case files.

“Thank you, Martin,” Jon said quietly, and picked up the mug. The smell of peppermint wafted up to him, making his shoulders sag with relief.

Martin didn’t answer, and Jon noticed that he had closed his eyes, and blinked them back open. Martin was looking down into his mug, just standing there, in front of Jon’s desk.

“Jon,” he finally said, still staring down into the tea, “I’m scared.”

Jon had to take a deep breath. “So am I,” he whispered. They couldn’t talk openly about Martin’s plan, not here, not where Elias might hear. Still, Jon felt like he needed to say something, anything, to make it better. “But… you’ll be okay, Martin. It will work. I… I trust you.”

The words hung in the air between them, so heavy that they weighed unbearably on Jon’s heart for a moment.

Then Martin’s lip wobbled, and he nodded. “I trust you too. B-but you have a tendency to get yourself hurt, and- well, you can be kind of reckless? And you don’t even have a weapon, except for the compulsion, which we don’t even know will work on those things, a-and-”

Oh. Oh.

Martin wasn’t scared for his own life. At least not solely.

He was worried about Jon.

“Just… promise me you’ll come back,” Martin said, unshed tears in his eyes as they locked with Jon’s. “Please?”

Jon let out a breath he hadn’t known he was holding. “I- I’ll try. I’m… sorry, Martin, that’s the best I can do.”

Martin nodded. “Okay,” he said. “Okay. I should… probably go home soon.”

“Yes, you should rest. Big day tomorrow,” Jon said, aiming for cheerful, though at the sight of Martin’s expression, he dropped the pretence.

“Goodnight, Jon,” Martin said as he turned to leave again.

“Goodnight, Martin,” Jon said quietly.

As the door closed behind Martin, Jon wrapped his hands more tightly around his tea mug.

The scent didn’t bring him nearly as much comfort as it had a few minutes ago.

Maybe it had never been the tea.

[ao3feed-jonmartin]

See all know all.

read it on AO3 at https://ift.tt/hWeaZs3 by hypnos_writes_stories Jonathan Sims is tired.   After causing the apocalypse, he can’t bring himself to look outside at what he’s done. So instead, he wallows in shame and agony as The Beholding taunts him with knowledge he doesn’t want anymore. Words: 463, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English Fandoms: The Magnus Archives (Podcast) Rating: Not Rated Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Categories: M/M Characters: Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Martin Blackwood Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist Additional Tags: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist Needs a Hug, Comfort/Angst, Hurt Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, POV Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Martin Blackwood Takes Care of Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Martin Blackwood they could never make me hate you, Jonathan Sims desperately needs therapy, They all need therapy, The Author Regrets Nothing, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, I Don't Even Know, I Made Myself Cry, I Wrote This While Listening to Mitski's Music, I Tried, Why Did I Write This?, why did i do this to myself, My first tma fic, The Magnus Archives Season 5, Spoilers for The Magnus Archives Season 5 read it on AO3 at https://ift.tt/hWeaZs3

[angelsandarsenic]

MASTERLIST OF FICS PT 2

The Magnus Archives/The Magnus Protocol

MAG24: Dreamscape

Summary: Statement of Zoe Elizabeth, regarding her roommate sleeping. Statement given November 3rd, 2011. Recording by Jonathan Sims, Head Archivist of The Magnus Institute

Status: Completed Words: 2,982

MAG31: Total Collapse

Summary: Statement of Toby Carmen, regarding an unusual firefighting incident. Statement given August 12th, 2009. Recording by Jonathan Sims, Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute

Status: Draft

MAG59: Alice, Alice

Summary: Statement of Alice--or possibly Leanne Torrance--regarding her...sanity. Statement given March 29th, 2000. Recording by Jonathan Sims, Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute

Status: Draft

MAG50: Time of Death

Summary: Statement of Ciaran Elsen, regarding his death. Statement given May 21st, 2005. Recording by Gertrude Robinson, Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute

Status: Completed Words: 2,948

Blurbs and Bits Regarding James and Elias

Summary: James Hawking works as the head of Artefact Storage in The Magnus Institute, London. He doesn't really know what goes on downstairs, and frankly, he doesn't think he wants to. Not after...the worms. He doesn't need to know. His department is his own little world; even if Sasha isn't Sasha anymore, even if Tim mysteriously dies, even if Jon is...Jon, and suddenly starts needing way more help than the Archives have ever requested in the past, even if everything is...changing. Oh, and sometimes he fucks his boss.

Status: In progress Pairing: Elias/oc Words: 1,407

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁. ˚₊‧꒰ა ☆ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚ . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.

Super Mario Bros Universe

Evil Turtle Rehabilitation Center

Summary: The aftermath of the Mario Movie. Mario is down bad, Peach has an actual pet turtle and Bowser and Luigi are...figuring things out

Status: In Progress Words: 757

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁. ˚₊‧꒰ა ☆ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚ . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.

Assassination Classroom

Shoot for the Stars

Summary: Reyna Cameron transferred to Kunugigaoka Academy in Japan part way through her third year of school at her parents' insistence that she "get her life together" in a disciplined, rigorous environment. For the headstrong, brilliant under-achiever, it didn't exactly go as her parents had planned. Then surprisingly, by getting sent down to E-Class at the start of the next year, Reyna might actually find everything she needs. ——— Shameless OC insert fanfic because Assassination Classroom will always be near and dear to my heart. Minor Karma and Asano shipping, but really we're just having fun with it.

Status: In Progress Words: 56,761 Pairings: Karma/OC and Asano/OC

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁. ˚₊‧꒰ა ☆ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚ . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.

Demon Slayer

Queen

Summary: “You could be ready for Final Selection quickly. If you can make it within the year, I’ll be waiting for you.”

It was probably supposed to be chivalrous, or kind. You narrowed your eyes. “What was your name again? Tengen?” You sheathed the sword at your hip. “I don’t need you to wait for me. I’ll catch up.”

———

On a mission for the Demon Slayer Corps not a year after his Final Selection, Uzui Tengen meets the most flashy infuriating girl, who, he hates to admit it, saved his ass against a demon. A girl who wasn’t even a demon slayer!

Status: In Progress Pairing: Rivals to lovers, young!Tengen x female reader

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁. ˚₊‧꒰ა ☆ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚ . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.

One Piece

The (Very Purposeful and Not Because He Got Lost) Adventures of Roronoa Zoro

Summary: Zoro can’t even begin to fathom how he got here this time. Forget buildings and streets moving around, a portal to another universe must have opened on him or something! Status: Draft

Lotus in the Water

Summary: Zoro stares up at the starless black sky and thinks it’s fitting. He’s never been much of a poet, but with a bloody lotus in one hand and Sanji’s rejection letter in the other, all he sees ahead of him is darkness.

A Zosan hanahaki au

Status: Draft Pairing: Zosan

Kaleidoscope Fractures

Summary: I’m projecting my gender and relationship issues onto Sanji, with a hefty side of Zosan pining

Status: Draft Pairing: Zosan

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁. ˚₊‧꒰ა ☆ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚ . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.

Harry Potter

but listen- fuck jkr

The Wandmaker’s Apprentice

Summary: An exploration of worldbuilding and magic systems with blatant disregard for what terfs declare as canon. If I don't get human rights, you don't get literary rights. Also some canon compliant plot

Status: draft

[thekisforkeats]

Love Languages

Info: The Magnus Archives, JonMartin, rated T probably for swears. Canon-Compliant. Set post-MAG 22, with a coda post-MAG 159. Everyone is ND and everyone is trans because that’s just how my personal S1 Archives gang rolls.

CWs: Mentions of ableism and Martin’s mother. I’d say canon-typical worms but the worms don’t really come up except in passing.

I do not know anything about BSL, so I did not try to describe the signs.

Summary: A love language is not just about how you best show love and affection; it is also about the ways you best receive love and affection. And so, for someone like Martin, who shows love by going out of his way to help others, someone going out of their way to help him, well. What better way for him to realize just how loved he is?

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

The first time Martin went completely non-verbal after starting work in the Archives, it was the morning after giving Jon the statement about Jane Prentiss.

It wasn’t a surprising development, really. Martin didn’t go fully non-verbal that often, but when he did it was almost always a thing that started in the morning and lasted most of the day. Sometimes it wore off by the time he went to bed, sometimes it lasted until the next morning.

After his mother’s diagnosis, he’d been unable to speak for an entire week. That hadn’t gone over well--as much as his mother wanted him to be quiet, she didn’t like the “silent treatment,” as she called it.

Martin hated that she’d called it that, as though his non-verbal episodes were anything he did on purpose. Some days talking just felt like a chore; those days he could get by only forcing words out when he had to. But some days, the worst days, he just couldn’t talk. He could understand other people just fine, he could make noises, sometimes he could even hum. And he could definitely read and write. But speaking words, aloud? No. He could not speak, on these days, however much he may have wanted to.

As Martin grew older and learned more about himself, he learned words and reasons and coping mechanisms. He realized that some of the problem came from dysphoria and the longer he was on hormones the less often it happened. He realized that he was autistic (even if he never got diagnosed), and learned how to handle the episodes that still occurred. He took sign languages classes because it was a good and useful thing to know regardless, to be able to communicate with more people.

As many Deaf people had learned before Martin, he’d found himself in plenty of situations when nobody around him knew BSL, so he’d found a phone app that let him type out things he wanted to say and repeated them in a tinny, mechanical voice. Feminine, but he found it didn’t cause dysphoria; it wasn’t his voice. It was the app speaking for him, a robot lady translating his words.

Martin was fairly certain he was going to need the robot lady to speak for him today, and he was dreading the whole idea. The app got him a range of reactions from scorn to derision to faux sympathy. The last time he’d done so at work, the Institute library staff had regarded him with such pity that he’d called in sick the two other times it had happened since.

He’d woken early, because he was always awake fairly early, to ensure he looked presentable and got to work on time. He did not want Jonathan “Crisply Professional At All Times” Sims giving him that look again. The particular look that was “I highly disapprove of your sartorial choices but I’m not going to get into it right now because I have so very much else to do. Nonetheless, if I could fire you for what you’re wearing I would.”

Jon had a lot of looks. Martin fervently wished he could stop categorizing them; he very much disliked his boss, and very much wanted to stop thinking about Jon quite as much as he did.

Jon was attractive, that much Martin had noticed the first day he’d come in, with a jawline Martin would’ve loved to trace with his fingers, eyes sharp and deep and intelligent, salt-and-pepper hair that Martin would have tangled his fingers in gladly.

Except, of course, that Jon was also a prick who didn’t like Martin one bit and made that very clear. He’d put down on record that he thought Martin would “contribute nothing but delays.” Martin was not such a sucker for punishment that he would put up with someone who hated him just for a pretty face. The tiny potential blossom of a crush had been, well, crushed five seconds after it had poked its head above ground, by Jon’s declaration that he could dismiss Martin if he didn’t resolve the “dog situation” immediately.

Martin counted his lucky stars every day that Jon had not, in fact, dismissed him, despite having had to deal with a doggy mess. The luck was really in having Tim around, Martin figured; Jon actually seemed fond of Tim, and the other man had managed to smooth the entire situation over.

Martin had fallen asleep last night thinking about the new look Jon had given him yesterday: concerned. Truly, genuinely concerned, which had rather taken Martin aback. He’d been certain Jon wouldn’t believe him, would scoff and roll his eyes at the entire statement, and instead he’d just looked… concerned. 

And then Jon had offered Martin the cot that he’d woken up in this morning.

It wasn’t the look of concern that had Martin non-verbal, though; of that he was certain. It was the stress of the last two weeks, and dumping out the statement yesterday, and all the whirl of figuring out how to live in the Archives. Jon’s insistence on going with him to pick up basics with a toothbrush at the convenience store, and then coming back to be sure he was okay. Jon finding clean sheets and discussing how he’d do his laundry. Jon had expensed clothing bought online to the Institute, including next-day shipping, because he’d “lost access to his flat and thus his wardrobe in the line of duty.” It had all been bewildering and overwhelming and it was no real surprise that Martin was in the state he found himself when he woke.

Martin had known as soon as he’d opened his eyes. It was just there, the feeling of nope can’t talk today. He’d pulled on his binder and the same clothing he’d worn the day before and then fumbled around for his phone. Which… he didn’t have. The damn worm-hive-lady had stolen it from him. Well, shit.

He managed to avoid having to figure out how to talk while he went out to get breakfast, just pointing at a scone in the display and smiling at the guy behind the counter as if he wasn’t secretly irritated by the price of everything in Chelsea. By the time Martin got back, Jon was already in his office, so thank God he’d avoided that awkward interaction. He went to make himself tea, and had his breakfast in the breakroom, and brushed his teeth, and then went to get started on…

Wait. He didn’t even know what they were working on right now.

Well, he wasn’t going to bother Jon about it; however nice he’d been last night it surely must have worn off by now, and Martin had no interest in summoning one of his boss’ looks this early in the morning. Normally he’d still be on his commute at this hour.

After a moment’s thought, he went to go see what they’d recorded in his absence, and soon had a stack of statements on his desk. They’d gotten through five statements in the two weeks he’d been gone. Maybe Jon was right. Maybe Martin did contribute “nothing but delays.”

Pushing the thought aside, Martin focused on listening to the tapes, and was just finishing up listening to the second half of Father Edwin Burroughs’ statement when Tim came into the shared office the assistants used.

“Hey, you’re in early. You get the email?”

Martin raised his eyebrows and shook his head.

Tim snorted. “Jon claims he’s got something to warn us about, something that ‘won’t parse properly through digital means.’” He rolled his eyes. “Which is Jon-speak for ‘it’s a weird thing and I don’t want to admit it’s a weird thing because I have to keep my skeptic hat on to preserve my self-image.”

Martin chuckled in solidarity, then gestured toward the door to Jon’s office, to indicate that’s where their boss was.

“Not coming?” Tim asked, his own eyebrow raised. When Martin shrugged, he said, “Well, I guess if you didn’t get the email…” Tim also shrugged, then said, “Guess I’d better get it over with. Wish me luck!”

Martin gave him a thumbs up.

When Sasha came in, Martin silently directed her to Jon’s office as well, then heaved a sigh of relief. He hadn’t had to explain being non-verbal at all yet, and it was already nine o’clock. Maybe if he was lucky, Jon would warn them off talking to him and he’d manage to make it the entire day without having to explain the whole “non-verbal” business to anyone he saw on a regular basis.

Alas, it was barely thirty minutes later that Tim and Sasha returned to talk to him, both wearing expressions of mingled concern and guilt. When they spoke it was a flood of the usual, expected platitudes:

“We’re so sorry!”

“We didn’t know!”

“Are you okay??”

And such like.

Martin shrugged and nodded and shook his head in all the right places, and evidently Jon had played them the tape of his statement so he didn’t have to explain it all again (thank God), and he thought maybe, maybe he could even figure out what statement they were working on right now if he just listened to their chatter after they were done with the niceties, but then…

Well. Then Timothy Stoker happened.

Which is to say, Tim actually looked at Martin, and said, “You’re being awfully quiet. You sure you’re okay?”

And then he and Sasha just… sat there, looking at him expectantly.

Martin sighed and reached for a piece of scrap paper and wrote, I’m autistic and sometimes I go non-verbal. Today’s one of those days, but I don’t have my phone anymore, so no communication app.

As he held up the paper so the others could read the words, Martin braced himself for the ensuing reactions. Pity, probably, like those in the Institute library, and he couldn’t even call in sick to avoid it; he’d rather have scorn and derision. At least those reactions were honest.

What he got from them was not pity, however, nor even scorn.

Sasha hummed. “Autism explains a lot, actually. Don’t worry, it’s not a problem.”

Tim grinned and clapped Martin on the shoulder. “Yeah, why didn’t you just say so? It’s fine, you’ve been through an ordeal. And so you know--you’re hardly the only neurodivergent in the Archives.”

Martin blinked at Tim, then wrote: Wait, what? Who…?

“Would you believe me if I said all of us?” Tim said with a grin. “I have ADD, Jon’s… well… he’s Jon, and as for Sasha…”

Sasha sighed in fond exasperation and cut in, “Tim…”

“I contend that you cannot be neurotypical, Ms. James. You fit in too well around here.”

“I am not admitting to anything on Institute property,” Sasha said with aplomb. “And you shouldn't have either, but here we are.” She looked at Martin. “If HR finds out and they give you any trouble, let us know and we’ll figure out what to do.”

Tim, in the meanwhile, pulled out his phone. “Here, go ahead and use mine for now, until your replacement gets here or whatever. What’s the app so I can install it for you?”

Martin’s jaw had dropped open. Tim having ADD made sense; what did he mean about Jon, though? And Sasha? And what did Sasha mean about HR? And… and why were they being so… nice? So… understanding? It wasn’t an act, or at least he didn’t think it was. They seemed… genuinely fine with it. Accepting, even.

It was the strangest thing Martin had experienced in a while, and that was including the worm-riddled woman who’d stood outside his door for two straight weeks.

From there the day just… went on as normal. Tim installed the app on the phone, Martin’s robot phone lady spoke for him, the three of them did their work, and everything was fine.

Until, of course, the nature of their work reared its ugly head. They were discussing the statement of Leanne Denikin, case #0051701, which they had yet to attach a pithy name to; hence the discussion. It had long since become standard practice to attach a name to the “weirder” statements, to make them easier to discuss. (Jon insisted on using the case numbers on tape still, which was annoying, given that was the only place he did that.)

Martin was reading through the statement, and he typed into Tim’s phone: What do you think of this bit? “Be still, for there is strange music.”

What came out of the phone’s speakers, however, was garbled static followed by high-pitched screeching that startled Martin so much he actually dropped the phone.

Jon was walking in just as this happened; he stopped in the doorway, blinking. “What on Earth was that?”

“Martin’s robot lady gave Tim’s phone an aneurysm, I think,” Sasha said, eyeing Martin as well.

Martin scrabbled on the floor for the phone, pulled up the app (which had crashed), and typed, I don’t know what happened!! I was just typing in something from one of the statements!

Jon frowned at him sharply. “What are you doing with Tim’s phone? Are you quite well?”

“No, Martin is not ‘quite well,’” Tim said. “Non-verbal for the day.”

Then Jon did something that stunned Martin: Jon signed at him, specifically, “Do you know sign language?” He spoke aloud as he said this, too, but also raised his eyebrows and gave a quizzical tilt to his head to convey that he was asking a question.

Martin blinked rapidly, then signed back: “Yes, actually. But Tim and Sasha don’t.”

Jon nodded, then said aloud, along with signing, “Why are you non-verbal, exactly?”

“I have autism,” Martin signed. “Sometimes talking is overwhelming and sometimes, especially in stressful situations, I can’t talk at all. Woke up that way today. It should be gone by tomorrow morning.” Why was he explaining so much more to Jon than he had to the others? Maybe just because Jon knew sign, and thus could communicate in a language Martin found much easier than even the typing.

Jon frowned thoughtfully, then nodded again. Then, still speaking and signing both, “What were you typing into your phone?”

“Be still, for there is strange music. From the statement.” Martin gestured to the statement on his desk.

Jon’s frown deepened and he repeated the words. “‘Be still, for there is strange music….’” His expression went slack for a moment, and then he shook himself. “Right. Well. Just… just… I’ll be right back.” Then he abruptly turned and left the room.

Tim and Sasha exchanged bewildered looks. Then Sasha asked, “Do you know what that was all about?”

“I forgot Jon knows BSL,” Tim replied thoughtfully. “Hard of hearing on one side. Not that he’d have agreed to interpret all day or anything.”

Martin shrugged. It’s alright, he typed. This works just fine.

“Well, no, obviously not for some things.” Jon had reappeared as suddenly as he’d disappeared, holding a small brown notebook the size of Martin’s hand. “Here,” he said, thrusting the notebook at Martin. “This will work better, for communicating about the statements. You needn’t use it with me, of course, unless signing is also taxing.”

Martin stared up at Jon. There was an entirely new look on his boss’ face. Not any level of scorn or sneer, nor even concern. He was… nervous. Fidgety. Like he was offering a gift that he was afraid might be rejected.

Something went flip in Martin’s stomach and it was like the entire world turned upside down. Suddenly, in light of Jon’s actions in the last 24 hours, he saw the way his boss had acted toward him the last six months for what it was: a defense mechanism. Armor pulled up around someone fragile and soft and sweet, someone so terrified of rejection that he went about making sure it happened preemptively so he wouldn’t be hurt.

Martin had a sudden, fierce desire to hug Jon and tell him everything would be okay. It was so bewildering a sensation--he didn’t even like the man! At all!--that he just took the notebook with a nod and a signed “Thank you,” eyes still very wide.

Jon nodded in return. “You’re welcome.” He let out a breath, and seemed to relax a little. “Well. Then. I think we’ve found the name for this one, given the way Tim’s phone reacted to those words. ‘Strange Music’ it is.” He straightened himself. “Tim, you said something about the organ reminding you of articles you’ve read…?”

Tim nodded, expression suddenly serious. “Yeah. I’ll see if I can find them for you.”

“Right. Well, then, Sasha, if I could ask you to look through the Archive like we talked about? I’m certain we’ve had a statement from Jane Prentiss.” Jon then turned to Martin. “And if you wouldn’t mind helping me with ‘Schwarzwald?’ You used to work in the library, right?”

Martin was still staring at Jon in confusion, but nodded.

Jon actually smiled at him. Faintly. “Well, then, I’m certain you must know where to find the German history reference books, if you could go grab whatever they’ll let you bring down?”

The strangest thing about it was, Jon seemed sincere. Like he actually believed Martin did, indeed, know the library well enough to just… go up there and find the German history reference books. The faint, confident-in-his-assistant smile was a new look, at least directed at Martin; he’d seen Jon look at Tim and Sasha that way many times before.

Martin’s stomach was doing cartwheels. There were butterflies taking up residence in his intestines. His heart was pounding. How had he never noticed how nice Jon’s smile was? Soft and small, like he was afraid to let it actually take up residence on his face for too long.

Oh, God, oh, no. Martin could not fancy his boss. Jon hated him. Or, well, no, evidence suggested that perhaps Jon did not hate him, but Jon most certainly did not fancy him. This crush had to disappear, just as fast as it had come. This would not do.

He was going to be writing poetry again tonight, wasn’t he? Crap.

“Martin?” Jon’s tone was concerned rather than sharp, and the way Jon said his name made Martin want to sink into the floor.

Instead, he scribbled furiously in the notebook and held it up so all three of the others could see: Yeah, sorry, was just thinking about where that’d be. I’ll bring them down as soon as I find them.

Jon practically beamed at Martin’s use of the notebook and he nodded briskly. “Right! I’ll be in my office when you have the books, then.” He started to turn away.

Martin’s heart went pound pound pound because oh wow Jon was really cute when he let that smile take up more of his face. Throwing caution to the wind, he made a noise to get the other man’s attention.

Jon turned around, quirking a brow. “Yes, Martin?”

Martin signed, “Tea?” He, too, raised his eyebrows and tilted his head to indicate the question.

Jon nodded. “Tea would be lovely, yes.” He smiled at Martin for a brief moment, and then suddenly looked flustered. He glared at them all. “Anyway,” he snapped in his ‘boss’ voice, the impact of which was ruined by the flush rising in his cheeks, “there’s still work to be done. So let’s… do it.” And with that, he turned on his heel and left the office.

Had Jon blushed because Martin had offered him tea? Did Jon like his tea that much? Was Martin imagining things? He had to be imagining things. He put his head down on the desk and wrapped his arms over it so he could grab at handfuls of hair. What was happening to him?

Sasha tried to make her voice serious, but couldn't quite manage it past quite clearly holding back giggles. “Mourn for poor Martin, working alone with Jon.” She looked at Tim. “We should call HR preemptively, it’ll be a bloodbath.”

“Nah, I think Jon’s softening on our boy,” Tim said with a laugh. He reached over to ruffle Martin’s hair with one hand while he took his phone back with the other. “Don’t worry, Marto. I told you he’d come around one day.”

Martin looked up at Tim with a stricken, betrayed expression. In the notebook: Is this how you comfort me in my hour of need??

Sasha shook her head. “For once, Tim’s being serious. You weren’t in the room when Jon explained things to us. He’s worried about you, he doesn’t want you to have to leave the Institute alone, he doesn’t want you to have to look for the Prentiss statement in case it’s ‘too traumatic’ for you to run across on your own. He actually asked us if we thought we should avoid any mention of Prentiss altogether in your presence.”

“I told him no,” Tim said. “I hope that was okay. You seem like you’d rather deal with trauma by facing it and figuring it out, rather than avoiding it entirely.”

Matin gaped at them. Really? he wrote. Jon’s… worried about me? Really? As if he hadn’t seen the evidence just now that Jon was, indeed… softening.

Tim gave Martin a very serious look. “I’ve told you before… I’ve known Jon, well, not as long as I’ve known Sasha, but for a long while now. He’s prickly and thorny, even to people he cares about, but that’s a front and I’ve said so. You just didn’t believe me.”

“In Martin’s defense,” Sasha put in, “Jon’s been awfully ‘prickly and thorny’ to him specifically.”

Tim put up a hand. “Oh, I agree. I have had words with our dear boss about the way he treats Martin, largely because I’m one of the few people he might actually listen to.” He looked at Martin. “I don’t want to take the credit, because it’s really been a remarkably fast turnaround, but I’d like to think I helped, a little.”

Martin frowned thoughtfully. Thank you, he wrote. If Jon’s at ‘I can stand Martin’ instead of ‘Martin is the source of all bad that happens in the Archives’ work might be… better than tolerable, for once.

“That’s the spirit!” Tim said with a grin. “Now, then, Jon did say to get back to work…”

Jon gave Martin another of those soft smiles when Martin brought in the tea, a smile which widened on seeing the stack of books he carried in right after. That afternoon, spent sitting and going through books and discussing the Schwarzwald statement, was the first of many they’d spend together, reading and talking and comparing notes.

Martin was feeling verbal again the next morning, but he kept the notebook. If nothing else, it was a good place to jot down poetry. And it came in handy when he found himself unable to speak the morning after Jane Prentiss’ attack on the Archives.

And the morning after Jon confronted him about his CV.

And the morning after Jon disappeared, leaving Jurgen Leitner’s body at his desk. (Martin blamed that on the corridors more than the body, really.)

Funnily enough, he didn’t need it the morning after the Unknowing. But he kept it with him that day all the same, the first gift Jon had ever given him, and one of the few things he had left of him with Jon in a coma.

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

When they reached Daisy’s safehouse in Scotland, Martin had hoped he’d somehow manage to dodge the threat of going non-verbal. He’d been the one to drive the car, over Jon’s protests; it was something to focus on, to keep him remembering he was alive and real. He’d clutched the wheel and driven north north north with Jon giving directions in the passenger seat.

Martin had finally figured out that it was the chance to stop and think about trauma that led to his being non-verbal, which was why it was almost always a thing that hit in the morning. Adrenaline would keep him running after a stressful event, and then he’d carry himself through the rest of the day trying to clean up whatever mess had been caused. But sleep was enough for his body and brain to both tell him to stop, to process, to deal with whatever he’d run into.

It was possible, in hindsight, that he’d gone non-verbal more than once since the Unknowing and just hadn’t noticed because he’d been barely interacting with anyone. He’d certainly had a bad bout the morning after his mother’s funeral, dealing with so much misgendering and fake smiles. And there had been more than enough trauma to try to process in the past year, so it must have happened before.

He’d just really, really hoped it wouldn’t now, because he didn’t want to put Jon through that. (Why he thought he was putting Jon through anything he didn’t really want to examine. It made him feel Lonely, and that was bad.)

At any rate, the realization of why he went non-verbal had led to him keeping busy in order to hold it off, in order to hold himself together. So he drove, and he puttered about the cabin poking into cupboards, and he talked to Jon, and he talked to the shop lady in the village, and he brought back food and made dinner with Jon, and everything was good and fine.

And then he woke up the next morning, in an unfamiliar bed in an unfamiliar room, and he could not speak.

There was the smell of bacon and eggs and pancakes cooking, and Martin made his bleary way out into the main room of the cabin and peered at Jon, already up and dressed and cooking.

His boyfriend turned to look at him and smiled, one of those soft smiles Martin had come to love so much. “Sleep well?”

"Not really,” Martin signed. “I mean…” He gestured at his throat.

Jon nodded. “I figured you might feel that way this morning. I, uhh… hold on a moment, I need to….” He grabbed the pan of bacon and moved it off the heat, pulled a pancake off the griddle and deposited it on a plate, then turned off the stove and went to poke around in one of the bags.

Martin chuckled fondly. “What’re you looking for?”

Jon was still digging through his bag. “When I was grabbing essentials at the store, back in London, I was thinking, you’ve been through a lot, and the notebook I gave you before must be full if you even have it anymore. I know you were writing poetry in it, and… oh, here we go.”

Jon came up with another small notebook. This one was not plain and brown, the way the first one he’d gifted Martin all those years ago had been. This one was black, and had silvery stars on its cover that, as Jon held out the book and thus tilted it through the light, shimmered into rainbows.

“Just in case, you know, the shop lady doesn’t know BSL.”

Martin blinked at the notebook.

“It, uhh… I know it’s not your usual style,” Jon said, his voice suddenly nervous. He was looking down at the notebook as he spoke, instead of at Martin. “Not… retro. But… I saw it and I thought of you.” He paused. “That tape, where you were talking to Simon Fairchild. He talked about the ‘cosmic scale,’ and how we’ve never even been alive on that time frame, and you said… what was it? You said, ‘I think our experience of the universe has value. Even if it disappears forever.’ And I just… that was… maybe the most… it was very… you. And there were other options, flowers or cursive writing, o-or… I don’t know, they all seemed so obvious, but this…”

Jon swallowed, and finally looked up at Martin. “I thought, after the Lonely, you might like a reminder that, you have value. That… that to me, you shine as bright as any star.” And then he flushed, and Martin knew it was for him, just as he now knew the flushes about tea all those years ago had also been for him.

Martin was gaping. Oh. Oh. Jon… loved him. Which he’d known, intellectually, but the emotional knowledge of it hit him suddenly, took his breath away. He knew it, all at once, in that “oh we could spend the rest of our lives together” way he’d never really thought he’d ever feel.

Jon had clearly misinterpreted the expression; he started stammering, “I-if… it it’s bad, I can… well, no, I can’t take it back, stupid, I should’ve just grabbed the one that had--”

Martin cut him off by reaching out to take the notebook from Jon and reached out with his other hand to cup the shorter man’s cheek. He smiled, and because he’d realized long ago how well Jon responded to physical touch, he leaned in to plant a soft kiss on his boyfriend’s forehead.

Then he pulled back to put the notebook aside on the counter and signed, “It’s perfect. Thank you.” A pause, and then, “I love you.”

Jon smiled, both speaking and signing, “I love you, too.”

And for once in his life, Martin knew that to be true, and trusted that knowledge. He was loved. He had been loved, and he would be loved for the rest of his life, whatever state his voice was in.

[nat-20s]

for @jonmartinweek THE FINAL DAY prompt- Pining/Longing. This one takes place, well, you’ll see

~*~

A Study of Longing, Told in Six Parts

Part 1

Martin wonders if he’ll ever get to a point in his life where kindness doesn’t feel like a shock to the system. It’s already surprising enough when Tim and Sasha invite him for drinks in a genuine offer of friendship, but for that kindness to come from Jon? Martin has no idea what to do with being believed, let alone being protected.

And now here he is, blearily opening his eyes only to find himself staring at a mass of hair. As he sits up and rubs the sleep from his eyes, the shape resolves into the form of one Jonathan Sims. He had apparently fallen asleep with his head cushioned on his arms, against the cot Martin was currently occupying. It’s not an image that Martin can fully process at the moment, so instead he debates whether or not to wake Jon up or quietly get off the cot to let him get some much needed sleep. He decides on the former, both thinking that it would be hell on his back to keep sleeping in that position, and that he would like an explanation.

Hand hovering above Jon’s shoulder, but not fully touching, Martin oh so quietly calls out, “Jon?”

That’s all it takes for Jon’s head to rush up with a gasp, glasses askew, and with the texture of his sleeves pressed in red marks on his face. It is a horribly endearing look. “Hrn?”

Martin opens his mouths, closes it, and waits for Jon to get his bearings. Jon smooths down his (frankly ridiculous) sweater-vest, adjusts his glasses, and slips back on his professional demeanor. “My apologies, Martin, I, ah, must have fallen asleep.”

Glancing to the crappy little digital clock resting on a file box next to him, Martin rolls his eyes. Only Jon could be quite so stuffy at 4:32 in the morning. “No apologies needed. Though, um, was there? Something you needed or..?”

Jon shakes his head and stands up, dusting off imaginary grime. “No, no, nothing like that. I had just, er. I had heard you cry out and I- I wanted to make sure nothing was going on. It appears that it simply a nightmare,so I will be.. taking my leave. Now.”

He doesn’t know what part of himself replies, “Oh! You don’t have to go!,” but he replies it anyway. Jon does that little thoughtful frown at him, which forces him to continue, “I mean, if you wanted the cot. For sleeping. I’ll probably be awake for the rest of the night, so, you know, no skin off my back .”

“Ah. No, that’s quite alright, Martin. Try to get some more sleep, there’s still a long work day ahead.”

Jon doesn’t even wait for a response before turning on his heel and leaving. Martin sort of hates how much he wanted him to stay.

Part 2

Jon is laughing. Jon is terrified, all the damn time, and yet, somehow, he’s laughing. Honestly, he was starting to wonder if he was still capable of it. Martin is gesticulating wildly with his fork, animated in a way that Jon’s only ever seen when in they’re in the middle of a rather silly debate. He thinks this lunch’s topic was something like whether or not snakes were cute? He lost the thread of conversation about half an hour ago, honestly. Covering his mouth, he lets the giggles run through his whole body, shaking his shoulders and heating his core. He feels light, heady, like he’s reminiscing with an old friend and they’re both on the edge of having had too much to drink.

He only wishes he could trust this feeling. He wishes that he could trust Martin, that they were normal coworkers having a normal lunch, that the previous person in Jon’s position had gone into an easy retirement instead of being violently murdered. He wishes he hadn’t read that letter telling him, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that Martin, Martin, who took him to lunch and brought him tea and seemed so very warm in so very cold circumstances, was lying to him.

Jon stops laughing.

Part 3

Of course, the second his body hits the simultaneously stiff and weirdly lumpy motel mattress, his phone goes off. It may only be about 8 pm, but he’s tired, and he’s sore, and he’s had a persistent headcold for the past week for some unholy reason, the last thing he wants to do is talk. However, only about four people have the number to the burner cell, and they’re almost certainly have a purpose behind their call.

Closing his eyes and letting out a sigh that turns into more of a groan, he picks up on the 4th ring. “Hello?”

“Hey, Jon! It’s Martin, I’m not sure if you have my number programmed in that phone, or if it even has caller ID if you do. Anyway, it’s been about a week since I’ve heard anything, and I wanted to make sure you weren’t, y’know, dead or arrested or anything.”

His previously tense and aching muscles all relax, without him consciously deciding to relax them, and a sleepy smile spreads across his face, because some time in the past year he’s become a parody of himself. Yes, maybe he should be more affronted by how much Martin’s tinny voice brings him comfort, but he’s had a rather terrible time of things since...since he began work in the archives, really, and he’s worn down enough that he can admit he misses his friend.

Huh. Friends. They are, aren’t they? Wonder when that happened. (He can guess, something involving a fake CV admission, but he doesn’t feel like it right now.) “Martin, I recognize your voice, no need to introduce yourself.”

“Right! Yes, uh, ‘course..of course you can. Right. Sooo...I take it you’re not dead, then.”

“Correct. I haven’t been arrested, either.” It’s only sort of a comforting lie, so Jon thinks it can be forgiven.

“Good. Great! Yeah, that’s...that’s good.”

The conversation could probably end there. Jon could probably tell Martin good night, and they’d hang up, and Jon could get the sleep he had been so desperately craving not moments ago. Somehow, he thinks that neither of them want that. Scrambling for something to talk about, Jon replies, “Hang on, isn’t it something like 2am over there?”

“It...might be.”

“Martin!”

“What! It’s not like you have a monopoly on bad sleeping habits. Besides, I was up anyway, and I just..”

“Just what?”

“I just missed your voice.”

Oh. Heat rushes to his cheeks, and tears start to prick at the corners of his eyes, and god. He had missed Martin’s voice too. “Really? I know you’ve had to listen to a fair number of tapes lately, thought you might be sick of it by now.”

“No. I mean, I am a bit tired of tapes, honestly, but even the ones that you recorded, that not really your voice, is it? I mean it is, but it doesn’t sound like you when you’re actually, um, you. I wanted..I wanted to hear you.”

Jon’s far too worn out to deal with that sentiment, and the way that it makes his heart clench. So instead  of addressing it, he says, “I am very close to being asleep.”

“Oh. Right, sorry, I’ll let you go-”

“No! No. Um. Would you mind staying on the line? Until I’m gone? I-I like hearing your voice. As well.”

“Oh! Sure, yeah, definitely. Anything in particular you want me to talk about?”

“Whatever you like. Something nice?”

“All right. I can do that. Um. Did I tell you about this little yarn shop I found the other day. It’s called ‘Puttin’ on the knitz’, and it’s…”

Jon peacefully drifts off, listening to the voice of the man who he can only admit in moments such as these, he wishes was in this bed, laying beside him.

Part 4

please come back please come back for the love of god come back I can’t believe you’re doing this do you have any idea how stupid this is come back to me come back come back come back

Part 5

There is plenty of things to long for in the apocalypse. A decent cuppa. The relief of actual sleep. Murdering Jonah Magnus. For there not to be a apocalypse. They are grateful, however, to not have to long for each other.

Part 6

Martin comes to without a knife in his hand, or bloodstains on his clothing. Those, under other circumstances, would be good things.

Martin comes to, laying in the grass, without anyone beside him. He barely has the moment to feel agony spike through him before he’s out once more.

There are no Jonathan Sims admitted to the hospital. As far as he can tell, no one was admitted into the hospital at the same time as him, and certainly no one with a stab wound.

There are thousands of ‘Jonathan Sims UK’, typed desperately into a library computer search bar, wielding mostly results about a sport manager and a romance novelist. None of the images are of the right person.

Sometimes Martin puts one foot in front of the other, carefully blank in heart and head. Surviving, even  during times that he’s not sure he wants to, is one of his greatest abilities.

Sometimes Martin despairs.

On the worst nights, he tries to call the Lonely back to him, tries to be swallowed whole. It never works. He’s not sure if it’s because the fears aren’t in the reality or if they’re not established enough to have any leverage or if his connection has simply been broken. (He doubts the last reason. He hasn’t been this alone since Tim’s funeral. Even then, Melanie had thrown a few stilted condolences towards him. No one is aware enough of him to give condolences now. He misses Melanie. He misses all of them. He misses Jon like a gaping, bleeding wound misses skin.)

Seven months later, and he has enough money saved and identity built that he moves on to Scotland. The little village they had been adjacent to exists in this reality. Daisy’s cottage does not.

On a whim, he enters the yarn shop. He’s not going to pick anything up, hobbies are the last thing he can focus on, but it’s nice to look. To feel the various textures, to take in the rich variance of colors, to, hopefully be present in his own body, if only for a moment.

Martin steps in. The bell chimes. He’s there. Standing in front of him. Whole. In a cry that’s closer to a gasp, he calls out, “JON!”

Jon turns, looks up at him, recognizes him even before he’s even fully seen him. It’s his Jon, he’s here he’s here he’s here. The callback of “MARTIN!” sounds like it was punched out of him, the start of a sob and a laugh all at once.

In a blink, they’re together, their embrace a tangle of limbs, a collision of lips, a mixture of tears. Martin can’t tell which of them is saying the litany of “thank god thank god thank god” and who’s repeating “it’s you it’s you it’s you.”

It’s Jon that’s telling him, “I knew you had to be here. I knew it, because I kept thinking. Surely. Surely this new universe wouldn’t be so cruel as to allow me to live, but to make me live without you.”

It’s Martin that replies, “I didn’t know. I thought it would be that cruel. Please don’t make me go through that again.”

Jon pulls him in tighter, eliminating the centimeter of space between them. Speaking into Martin’s neck, whispered in fierce devotion, Jon promises, “Never again. Never again. You and me. Together. For the rest of our lives.”

Barely discernible through his sobbing, Martin tells him, “I love you.”

“I love you too.”

~*~

There are people that think that wanting is more worthwhile than having. Martin thinks, frankly, that those people have never been in love.

[wolftraps]

Hey, what if Martin meets The Archivist because it’s been Watching him from a distance since it came, but then Jane Prentiss trapped Martin in his apartment, and the Archivist couldn’t have that, so it appeared to smite her. Martin’s stuck in his apartment when he hears Jon’s voice going “Ceaseless Watcher-“ and then Jane starts screaming. Once the screaming stopped, Martin peeked out of his apartment, worried about Jon, and saw the Archivist. Martin: Jon?! Archivist: I AM THE ARCHIVIST

(Cont) Anyway, Martin thinks that something has happened to Jon and takes the Archivist with him back to the Institute in the hopes that Tim and Sasha can help him reverse Jon back to normal. Only, when he gets there, Jon is already there. Cue shock and confusion from everyone. Elias, Seeing the Archivist and wondering if this means his Ritual works, drops in for a visit: hello :). Archivist, only seeing another Avatar near Martin: (bristles). Elias, realising that he’s in danger: goodbye

[this AU is going to devour me]

The knocking stops so abruptly it actually takes Martin a minute to notice, the phantom echoes of it still rattling in his mind. It’s the voices that make him realize something has changed. They’re muffled, indistinct, and he’s wary of getting too close to the door still. But after a moment of silence, he can’t resist anymore, pressing an ear to the wood.

The sound of the worms is still there, but it’s different now. More spasm than writhe. And beyond them, a man is not so much speaking as... as intoning.

“- the agony of all your noxious devotion. Ceaseless Watcher, see this parasite in all its pitiful, writhing forms. Hear its sour song, feel its ravenous love. It. is. yours.”

Martin can only describe the sound that follows as a shriek because he has no stronger words. It’s a distorted, agonized scream that stabs through him and rattles his bones, and for all he’d been terrified by Prentiss lurking outside his door, the idea of something that could make her make a sound like that is paralyzing. For minutes, or maybe hours, he stands frozen with a hand hovering over the door knob petrified of what he might find on the other side. And for that entire time, not a single sound filters through from the hall.

Finally, he can’t take it any longer. Bracing himself, Martin eases the door open. He wants to breathe a sigh of relief when no worms flood in, but he can’t, because there’s still something standing in his hall, staring straight at him. Something that looks like-

“Jon?” Martin asks, perturbed and shaken and maybe a bit irritated. “What- what are you doing here? Where- Did you see Prentiss? What happened to her? What happened to you?”

“Martin Blackwood,” Jon says- because it is Jon, right? He sounds like Jon. He looks like Jon... mostly. Except now that Martin is looking, there are several scars that he doesn’t remember Jon having, that he could almost swear were closing eyes just a moment ago. His hair is longer than Jon’s should be. His face is gaunter. He’s... shaking. “Are you afraid?”

“I- I mean, yeah? I’ve been pretty well terrified out of my mind since yesterday, thanks.” The man continues to stare and Martin knows he isn’t asking about Prentiss. “Sh- should I be?

“It would be wise.” Martin wants to be indignant at the vague pseudo-threat, but the shiver running up his spine cuts the feeling short. Jon- probably Jon?- maybe-Jon tilts his head and still doesn’t blink. Has Martin seen him blink at all? “I have discomforted you.”

“A- a bit, yeah. You’re being... kind of creepy.”

“Yes. I... I’m meant to apologize now.” He says it like he’s going through a checklist or a flow-chart of social rules. This is what happened, so this is what you should do. “I’m... sorry.”

“S-sure. Er, look, Jon. I think maybe we should- go back to the Archives? And maybe talk to the others about this?” And hopefully one of them will have some idea what the hell is wrong with their boss. Jon somehow gives off the impression of looking into space and considering the suggestion while never actually taking his eyes off Martin.

“Will accompanying you be a more sufficient apology?” What kind of question is that?

“It’s not really... I’d be more comfortable than I am here?” Jon nods.

“Then I will accompany you. You should gather your things.”

-

The trip to the Institute is passed mostly in silence. Jon watches the people around them intently, unblinkingly, but even when his face is turned away, it still somehow feels like he’s staring straight at Martin. Sometimes, when Jon is mostly a dark shape in his peripheral vision, Martin could almost swear he sees eyes open in places where none should be.

“Look, Jon-” Martin starts as they near the Institute and the silence has gotten too heavy for him to take.

“You shouldn’t call me that,” Jon cuts him off, though his tone is casual.

“S-sorry, what? I shouldn’t call you Jon? Why?”

“It will... discomfort him.”

“Who?” Martin already knows he’s going to hate the answer.

“Jonathan Sims.” Yep. He hates it.

“Al-alright. What should I call you then?”

The man who is not Jonathan Sims stands before the Magnus Institute and studies its façade. There’s something in his face, something like nostalgia, but also like disdain. He doesn’t look away from the building, but still he looks at Martin.

“I am the Archivist.”

-

Martin had hoped it would be more of a relief, when they finally made it into the archives. Instead he’s uncomfortably aware of the tension building inside him.

Tim looks up and seems surprised. “Martin! I thought you were sick. What are you... What the fuck.” He gapes at the Archivist, who takes in the archive while staring back and still somehow has not looked away from Martin. “Jon?!”

Whether it’s a summons or an incredulous question, the answer comes not from the man behind Martin but from the one exiting the office behind Tim.

“Yes, Tim? What-” Jon- the one Martin knows- the familiar one that makes Martin nervous but has never left him so terrifyingly unnerved- freezes.

“No,” the Archivist says in response to questions not asked. “I am not any of those things. What I am will not exist for a very long time and has both always and never existed before. None of those questions would help you understand.”

“Why-” Jon chokes, but can’t seem to finish the thought. After a few more false starts, he finally says, “You’re the Archivist, aren’t you? The one we’ve been getting statements about.”

“Yes.” In the long silence that follows, the sound of someone descending the basement stairs should have been clear, but the only reason Martin isn’t startled by Elias suddenly speaking directly behind him is because the Archivist turns to face him before he ever makes a noise.

“I see we have a guest,” Elias says, staring at the Archivist with a perturbingly hungry fascination. “Martin, wh-”

Martin stumbles back to his desk under the sudden weight of being Seen. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Tim drop into his own chair and Jon, the real Jon, press himself against the wall. Elias doesn’t so much as sway, but he still seems off-balance.

“You don’t want to know the things I know,” the Archivist tells him.

Elias glares. “I rather think I do. Te-”

A second set of eyes snaps open on the Archivist’s cheeks. Then another. And another. Over its face, its neck, its hands. The sense of a hundred, a thousand, piercing eyes hovers in the air around it.

“You can try to steal or blind or destroy as many of my eyes as you can perceive,” the Archivist says. “But I will always have more.”

When Elias leaves and the weight lifts and most of the eyes close, the Archivist is still watching Martin, but it unnerves him now in an entirely different way. And when Sasha comes in with a coffee, frantically apologizing for being late, and freezes at the sight of two Jons, there’s something bone-chilling about hearing the Archivist ask,

“Who are you?”

[journalofimprobablethings]

She's complete! My very first finished multi-chapter and I am so happy and relieved that is done--and pretty proud at how it turned out.

Chapters: 4/4

Fandom: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)

Rating: General Audiences

Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist

Characters: Martin Blackwood, Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Annabelle Cane, Mikaele Salesa

Tags: Memory Loss, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Dreams vs. Reality, Angst with a Happy Ending

Chapter Summary: Martin finds Jon, and they finally make their way out of Upton House.

Preview:

Martin sits at the foot of the staircase in the foyer of Upton House, his head in his hands.

He doesn’t know what to do.

He can feel the pull of the Lonely again, the siren song of waves and fog, the promise of an escape from this situation, all these messy emotions.

He pushes it away as hard as he can, focusing on all the details of this room - the plush carpet runner on the stairs, the smooth shine of the bannisters, the faint smell of floor polish. The sound of Salesa playing the piano in another room. Anything and everything to keep him here, present, in this moment.

You're not alone, he tells himself. Jon is still here. You'll get him out of here and then he will be fine. You'll get him back.

You're not alone. You're not alone. You're not alone.

"Trouble in paradise?"

Not alone , Martin thinks with a silent, bitter laugh. He doesn't move, his head still resting in his hands, his eyes closed.

"Go away, Annabelle."

Annabelle does not go away. Instead Martin hears a rustle and then feels her sit down on the step next to him.

“Poor Martin. Things never get easier for you, do they? Even here.”

He remains still, only clutching his fingers a little tighter in his hair. He hates that a part of him softens at her sympathy.

"What do you want?”

"Nothing. I'm just enjoying the show."

Martin lifts his head then so he can glare at her, and as he does, a thought suddenly strikes him.

“Did you have something to do with this?”

He can’t believe it never occurred to him before. He doesn’t know if memory loss is something the Web can even do, but if she did—Jon might not remember how to smite Annabelle anymore, but Martin will figure out a way to end her all the same.

Annabelle only smiles at the murder in his eyes. “The Web doesn’t control everything, Martin. Whatever you might think. And as much as I might like to take credit for this particular thread." Her grin widens. "We haven’t had such excitement in the house in weeks.”

Martin lets out a sigh. It’s about as straight an answer as he can expect from Annabelle.

"Well I'm glad our distress is a source of entertainment for you,” he says.

“I would have thought you would be used to that sort of thing by now. Isn’t your boyfriend sustained by the distress of others?”

“It’s not the same. He doesn’t enjoy it.”

“Doesn’t he?”

Martin doesn't answer. He doesn't want to think about the look on Jon's face after he killed the Not-Sasha, or Jared, or Jude. He doesn't want to think about how comfortable Jon is in this twisted new world, how even amongst his guilt there is a strange satisfaction in him at his ability to finally Know, to understand the world and how it works, to no longer be helpless.

"How does it feel, knowing that he is so at home out there, but he can't handle even a few days without the Eye?"

She asks it like a real question, like she truly wants to know. And Martin almost answers her.

Terrible. Terrifying. I'm so afraid of losing him to it, that one day I'll look at him and there won't be any of Jon left in him, just the Archivist. The Eye.

But he doesn't say that. Instead he looks at her steadily, ignoring her placid, curious expression.

"I know what you're doing."

"And what is that?"

"You're trying to make me doubt him. To—to put something between us, drive us apart. It's not going to work." It's only as Martin says the words that he realizes just how true they are. "I know what Jon is. I know what he can do. But I believe in him. I trust him. And I'm with him, until the end. No matter what."

Annabelle studies him for a moment. Her gaze is almost as piercing as Jon's, but Martin forces himself not to look away.

"Yes, I think you are," she says. "Pity."

Annabelle smiles, and it seems a little rueful, that smile. Then she stands.

"He's in the drawing room, with Mikaele. You'd better go get him."

Martin eyes her for a moment, trying to work out what she could gain from telling him this, what new game she might be playing. But there doesn't seem to be anything behind her words. She states them flatly, plainly. Just a fact.

He doesn't thank her. He just nods, and she turns to go.

But before she can leave, he reaches out a hand to her. "Annabelle, wait."

She looks at him, expectant.

He has to ask it, the question he's been dreading since Jon first woke up and he realized what was happening. But it takes him a few tries to get the words out.

"Will it fix him? Going back out there. Will it—will he get it all back?"

She cocks her head. "Perhaps. Even the Mother of Puppets can’t see the future. But the Eye won't want to lose its Archivist."

And then she disappears down the hall, before he can ask more.

Martin sighs and scrubs his hands over his face. He is already so tired. He wants to go back to bed, to sink into those soft pillows and sleep and wake up to find that this was all a nightmare, that Jon is still next to him, whole. He wishes, just once, that things could be easy.

He sighs again. If wishes were fishes , he thinks. And then he stands, and goes to find Jon.

Thanks for reading! You can catch the rest of this chapter and the other chapters on AO3!

[yellowocaballero]

Jon & Sasha Arson fic

Little fragment of an idea that never went anywhere. No reason for it. Just thought it would be funny. I was right. Rest under the cut. 

Most people who were unlucky enough to meet Jonathan Sims assumed he had no friends.

This was true, up to a point two weeks after Jon became a researcher at the Magnus Institute: afterwards Jon had no friends, except for Sasha James.

Sasha James was attributable to arson.

Most people who were unlucky enough to meet Jonathan Sims assumed he had no friends. 

This was true, up to a point two weeks after Jon became a researcher at the Magnus Institute: afterwards Jon had no friends, except for Sasha James. 

*******

Sasha James was attributable to arson.

Arson was attributable to a bookshelf of Leitners, humming strange songs and spewing toxic energy into the air in rhythmic hissing motions. The Leitners were attributable to Artifact Storage, a testament to mankind’s hubris and a modern-day tower of Babel where a group of underpaid academics found themselves stress testing kevlar and fire suppression systems each day. Artifact Storage was attributable to the Magnus Institute, where Jon had managed to land a job after three months of desolate post-graduate unemployment. And the Magnus Institute was attributable to - well, probably Jonah Magnus, but Jon found that it was likely a bit of a reach to blame a long dead Regency gentleman for all of his problems. 

Jon needed this job. London was expensive and so were funerals, and he couldn’t keep living on life insurance forever. It was even a good job, with decent pay and the exact kind of limp, half-hearted academia that the private sector promised disillusioned English mastery holders. His coworkers were nice - well, Tim was nice, everybody else seemed to hate him for the same reason that everybody else hated him, likely intimidated by how smart he was - and the commute was short. He couldn’t afford to lose this job. Spiritually, metaphysically, and literally. 

Which was why he should stop staring at this piece of paper. The follow-up research to a statement given by some idiot unlucky enough to cross paths with what was certainly a Leitner. 

‘ORIGINATION OF PHENOMENA ISOLATED’, the page read out professionally, yet chipperly, like a young woman in a new office job. ‘ITEM QUARANTINED WITHIN ARTIFACT STORAGE (46B.1)’. 

Hm. 

Jon pushed down on the floor, rolling himself a meter to the left.

“Say, er, Mr. Stoker.”

Tim “I’m only four years older than you, please call me Tim” Stoker, who had been thumping away on his cheap plastic keyboard either writing up a report or messaging someone on one of those infernal casual sex websites, pulled down his headphones and blinked at Jon owlishly, before splitting his face into a grin. Jon could practically hear the David Attenborough-style narration within his mind: ‘After long weeks leaving out food for the wild Simothan, the feral yet gentle animal approaches the researcher of his own volition. A win for scientists everywhere.’

“Yes, Jon?” Tim asked, in an uncanny yet hopefully unintentional RP drawl. 

“What’s Artifact Storage?”

“God, I wish I was you,” Tim said feelingly. But he nodded sagely anyway, milking his ‘wise senpai’ thing for all it was worth. Jon could practically feel Tim calling himself a senpai. It was kind of embarrassing. “You know the shady room locked deep within the basement that exudes a terrible aura of malice and hatred towards you specifically?”

“The gender neutral bathroom?” Jon asked, confused. 

“No, the one that always smells somewhat of blood. You hear screams sometimes?”

“The Archives!”

“Yes, but no! It’s Artifact Storage. If the researchers dig up any creepy shit from a statement, or if a statement giver brings in something that melts the metal detector, then we dump it in Artifact Storage and let those miserable fucks take care of it.”

“Is it more of a containment facility, or would you say that they conduct experiments?”

But Tim just shrugged. “My source down there tells me that they do some experiments to justify their budget, but it’s mostly unscientific. Poke this and I’ll give you twenty quid, that kind of thing. They say that if you really want a sick day, all you have to do is touch a mysterious rock and whisper your mother’s name -”

“Fantastic, thank you for your help, must go back to filling now,” Jon said quickly, skittering back to his own desk. He tried to distract himself from the terrifying thought of the basement full of supernatural nuclear bombs underneath his feet by trying to remember his mother’s name, but he was stuck on if it was Marjorie or Margaret. Mary Anne?

Maybe Tim’s personal Meerkat Manor series of Jon’s life had paid off - Sims Shack? - more than Jon would like, because Tim squinted at Jon in an unsettlingly familiar way. As if he knew exactly what Jon was thinking about the literature of mass destruction, and he really wanted Jon to be thinking literally anything else. 

“I wouldn’t go down there if I were you, Jon,” Tim warned, sounding a little like a horror movie trailer. “Bushy tailed college grads who go down there don’t come out the same as they went in.”

“I’ll take that under advisement, Mr. Stoker.”

“For the love of christ call me Tim!”

It really was a pity - Jon had actually liked this job. 

*******

It was remarkably easy to commit arson in central London.

Jon had done it once or twice. Three times, actually, although when you think about it arson was a criminal charge and only truly existed so long as someone was charged with it, so technically you could say that Jon had done arson zero times. In his defense, you try making it through Oxford without doing anything embarrassing. 90% of your time was in class or schoolwork and 10% of it was being hazed. At least Jon hadn’t fucked any pigs. 

Jon hit up the usual stores, and stashed the usual implements in his rucksack. It was a careful week after his conversation with Tim, as he couldn’t afford for the older man to connect the dots. He made a show of going home at a timely five pm, startling everybody around him, and paced in a tight circle around his flat until he gave up and watched mindless telly until the clock struck midnight. 

He took a cab to the park a few blocks down from the Institute, and walked the rest of the way. It was a cool, dim night in London, and the foot-traffic had slowed down to a steady trickle of young people in tight clothing. Jon pulled down his baseball cap on his head, fished a key out from his pocket given to him by a helpful and friendly janitor, and took a back entrance into the Institute. 

Said helpful and friendly janitor, whose allegiance had been won because Jon was a “nice young lad” and “I always wanted to burn down the place myself, I’m happy to see the next generation give it a go” had helpfully told Jon that there were no security cameras inside the Institute. A grievous oversight, but good luck for Jon tonight. He took the stairs down to the basement, zipping his jacket up tight against the inescapable chill, and pushed his hat further down his head as he navigated his way towards Artifact Storage.

He unlocked the door with the janitor’s key, hands shaking, and slipped inside into the dusky and unlit room. 

It was pitch-black, and Jon quickly fished a torch out of his backpack. He flipped it on, letting it slowly scan the room. It was the lobby into Artifact Storage, familiar from his stake-out missions: you walked in, met the bored woman behind the desk, checked in or checked out what you wanted, and if you needed to go inside she would press the button that unlocked the heavy climate-controlled door and let you into the hallway inside. The only other door in the lobby was to the office of the Director of Artifact Storage, a terrifying short and squat woman with silver hair pulled into a bun. 

Jon leaned over the counter and jammed the button, holding his breath until he heard the door click open. He quickly twisted the handle, swung the heavy door out, and slipped inside, taking care to grab one of the chairs in the lobby and prop it open. Quick escapes were necessary. 

He was in. 

The torch lit up a map taped up to the wall, and Jon squinted at it. Section A, Section B, Section C...he remembered the classification from the document he read a week ago, and slowly walked down the hallway until he found the heavy climate controlled door marked ‘SECTION B’. He carefully wrenched it open, taking care to grab a rolling cart and using it to prop the door open, before stepping inside. He fished the canister of gasoline and the lighter out of his backpack, giving the gasoline a good shake. 

It was a library. Small, and instead of shelves there were long metal racks with filing boxes stretching long into the darkness, but Jon knew a library when he saw one. Each box had a clipboard attached to it, and most boxes had very large and terrifying stickers on them painted sickly yellow or dangerous red. 

The only thing in the library that wasn’t a filing rack was a battered and beat couch. And the only person in the room besides Jon was a woman, blinking up at Jon blearily from where she had been passed out on the couch. 

“Er,” Jon said. 

The woman sat up, squinting at Jon’s torchlight until he guiltily aimed it just to her left. She had a wild mane of curly brown hair, and was wearing a pencil skirt and ruffled burgundy blouse. A blazer was folded at one end of the couch, clearly being used as a pillow, and she looked strongly as if Jon had just woken her up from a very nice nap. 

“Whuh,” the sleepy woman said. 

“My mistake,” Jon said, “this isn’t the loo. Go back to bed, this is - er, a very bad dream, goodnight.”

“Whutuhiseet,” the woman slurred. 

“It’s - very late, go back to bed.”

“Alright,” the woman said, falling back on the couch. After a second, her snores echoed through the room again. 

Jon very slowly crept backwards. Actually, on second thought, his mission could wait for tomorrow. Bit of a cock block, this, but that was alright - 

“Hey! Who are you!”

Jon, hand on the handle of the door, squeaked and turned around. 

The woman was back up again, and this time she seemed actually awake. She was frowning mightily at Jon, and was already sliding off the couch in stocking feet to glare at him. Jon was aware that he did not look like an innocent person in these events. The gasoline did not help.

The woman’s eyes trailed to the gasoline, then widened. Jon ineffectually tried to hide it behind his back. 

“You’re trying to burn down Artifact Storage!” the woman accused, somewhat fairly.

“Not all of Artifact Storage,” Jon said guiltily, “just the Leitners.”

The woman stared at him further, as if she was a special guest on Tim’s Sims Shack nature documentary. 

“Why,” the woman said slowly, “would you want to do that?”

Despite himself, Jon found himself puffing up in indignation. “They’re evil, nasty little books that shouldn’t exist. Forget studying and - and containing them, we should be making sure no more of them ever disgrace the world again. We should be burning every one we see. They’re pure evil given literary form, they are a disgrace to books and libraries, and if I ever met Leitner myself I would beat him to death with a rusty pipe for subjecting me to his fucked up books.”

The woman stared at him. 

Finally, she said, “I’m Sasha James. Want some help?”

“I - er, wouldn’t that get you in trouble, Ms. James?” 

“I like this job but I hate Leitner and his fucked up books more,” Sasha said gravely. 

Jon, having found a kindred spirit, held out the lighter. 

Sasha James took it, a wide grin splitting her face. 

*********

Jon didn’t remember much else of that night. 

There was definitely arson involved - or, seeing as they hadn’t gotten caught, just some good old-fashioned fire starting. He had the sense that they had both been so giddy with adrenaline that they had immediately joined the raging uni students in the late night bars, toasting their success in toasting. There had probably been quite a bit of alcohol.

When he woke up the next morning, it was in his narrow and uncomfortable bed, face to face with an unfamiliar snoring woman. For a second, two, Jon was briefly convinced that he had done something so drastically out of character it meant that a fucked up book had body swapped him with Tim. Bodyswapping was more likely than him having casual sex. 

Then Jon remembered the arson, and he exhaled in relief as his life made sense again. 

“Ms. James,” Jon whispered, poking her in the arm. She snuffled and muttered something. Jon poked her harder. “Ms. James, we have work.”

Sasha turned around, turning her back to him and pulling up the blankets. “Go back to bed, Tim.”

Ti - oh god. Jon felt like he was in a CW drama. This was why he didn’t interact with people, far too much likelihood that he would accidentally end up interacting with somebody who had sex.

“Ms. James,” Jon hissed, extremely embarrassed, “you have to get up!”

“Mergh mergh fuck off,” Sasha James said. 

Jon, like a true gentleman and hero, got up and made them both strong tea. He squinted at Sasha, recalling everything he knew about her (slept a lot, liked arson, hated Jurgen Leitner) before digging out some instant coffee and making some of that too. Finally, after shoving a hot cup of sludgey black liquid at the woman, she grabbed the cup and chugged it until she was able to sit up and open her eyes. 

She blinked at Jon, who was already picking his hair in an attempt to get ready for work. He could clearly see the thoughts ‘you aren’t Tim’ run through her brain. Hah! He could be the narrator of the nature documentary for once!

“Uh,” Sasha James said, “I’m sorry, did we…?”

“Commit arson? Yes.” Jon paused a beat. “But as I don’t believe we were caught, call it an indoor campfire.”

Sasha James drank more of her coffee. Jon grabbed his clothing and disappeared into the loo to get changed. 

When he re-entered his bedroom, she snapped her fingers at him. “Right! We got pissed after! Good times, mate!”

“I have to assume,” Jon said politely. He was doing his very best to be very polite, because Jon knew he was rude and didn’t want his new coworkers to know that until his probation period was over. Maybe he should have waited until after his probation period for the arson? Would it look bad on his annual review? “Do you need to borrow some clothing? I think we’re about the same size.” Oh, no, was that rude to say to a woman?

Sasha James squinted at him. “It’s like you’re not hungover at all. How old are you?”

“Twenty five?” Be polite, Jon! “And you’re...thirty seven?”

“I’m thirty one, asshole!”

Oh no. Women hated it when you called them old. “You don’t look a day over twenty seven!” Jon cried, panicked. 

“Have you met a woman?”

“I had a grandmother?”

“I’m going back to bed,” Sasha James said. 

Unfortunately, Jon knew that it would be very suspicious if they both skipped, so he forced Sasha into one of his suits that...looked much nicer on her than him, but whatever, and hustled them both to work. Now that the adrenaline had worn away and the sense of purpose in his holy mission had burned up with the cleansing flames, Jon found himself biting his nails in agony in the Underground. 

They had to know. Someone must have caught them. Maybe there were secret CCTVs in the Institute. Maybe Sasha was going to rat him out - but she had helped, so wouldn’t she just be ratting out herself? Was she a double agent? Mr. Bouchard was never going to forgive him, no matter how nice he was and how much he seemed to like Jon to the point where he rather wished someone had given him the ‘Stranger Danger’ speech as a child so he would know what to do. Jon was going to go to jail, or worse - get fired. 

Sasha, cooly sipping her coffee and looking somewhat fly in sunglasses and his suit, did not seem disturbed by any of this. Jon’s rapidly spiralling panic attack must have been obvious, because she casually flicked a finger on his forehead. Jon yelped with pain. 

“Take it easy, mate. If they catch us, I’ll just say that the books made us do it.”

Jon scowled at her, rubbing his smarting forehead. “The books?”

“Sure.” She waved her fingers spookily as the Underground rattled forward into the heart of London. “Brainwashed us to do their evil bidding of -”

“Destroying them?”

“There’s a lot of arson Leitners,” Sasha James said sagely. “Trust me, this is just a normal day in Artifact Storage.” She clapped him reassuringly on the shoulder, and Jon fought a blush. “Don’t worry. We performed a public service, kiddo. St. Peter’s gonna give us a medal when we get to the pearly gates.”

“I’m an adult,” Jon said, scandalized. He had gray hair!

“Well, I guess, but I don’t know your name, so…”

 Jon squinted at her. She squinted at him back. 

“You’re thinking that if you don’t give me your name I can’t rat you out to the feds,” Sasha said flatly. 

Jon pursed his lips. 

Finally, he settled on, “You don’t rat me out to the feds and I won’t tell them that you’re in an illicit relationship with Mr. Stoker.”

“Mr. - how did - what!”

“It’s Jonathan Sims,” Jon said gruffly, crossing his arms. He was slightly hungover and his nerve were jittery and he had set fire to his workplace the previous night, but somehow Jon thought that his heart was jackrabbiting in his chest for a different reason. Somehow Jon felt as if his heart couldn’t stop thumping behind his sternum because Sasha James was staring at him, head cocked, as if he was a mystery she was interested in finding out. “That’s my name.”

Sasha James stared at him, as if surprised, before her face broke into a wide and happy smile. Jon hunched his shoulders up, embarrassed, faintly aware he was blushing. “It’s nice to meet you, Jonathan!” Then she grabbed him by the collar, shaking him slightly. “And there is nothing illicit about me and Tim, and there is nothing between me and Tim at all, we are just friends, so get that out of your little head -”

The train rattled on towards the Magnus Institute, and towards the slight smell of smoke in the air. 

*******

Sasha: are you coming 2 the pub w/us 2nite?

Sasha: come onnn you should comeee don’t feel awkwardddd 

Sasha: I know you hate a) group settings b) drunk people c) Tim in a group d) drunk Tim and e) Tim drunk in a group but that’s no reason not to come!

Sasha: Tim is physiologically incapable of not adopting men 3-5 years younger than him it’s in his blood you can’t escape his affection

Sasha: or at least I find it funny so I’m not letting you

Sasha: Jonnnnnnnnnnnnnnnn

Jon: Yes I’ll come, I need to talk to both of you.

Sasha: WAHOO

Sasha: wait

Sasha: really?

Sasha: did you commit ars*on again

Sasha: wait if you did don’t tell me the courts can request text transcripts

Jon: No, I just need your advice on an urgent matter.

Sasha: do you need to be drunk to do it

Jon: ...maybe.

Jon: ....Mr. Bouchard offered me the Head Archivist Job?

Jon: Which is stupid because I’ve worked here for barely four years and you’ve worked here for about ten years I think. And you’ve published five papers in parapsychological research. I know I helped you figure out that this place is a weird trauma mill but it was really mostly you. It’s completely ridiculous to promote me and I’m afraid it’s favoritism. For potentially heinous ends? This feels awful because it’s such an honor but I would never stop feeling stressed and guilty because I know so many more people (like you) are so much more qualified. Or qualified at all.

Sasha: holy shit

Sasha: ...do you remember the speech I gave you on stranger danger?

Jon: I’m afraid to mention this to Tim because he might beat up Mr. Bouchard for both my honor and yours.

Sasha: Jesus at this point I don’t even want a fucking job anymore. What bullshit. I’m never going to get promoted and I just need to accept that. This isn’t your fault, Jon, seriously, thank you for telling me. 

Sasha: we can talk about this at the pub

Sasha: in private. Off the radar. 

Jon: Looking forward to it :)

Jon: did I use the emoticon right?

Sasha: Yes, Jon, you did everything right. 

[aerialflight]

Fic Recs (cause it's always nice to give a shout out and get people into things I'm into rn)

[The Magnus Archives] (I recently finished the podcast and I fell into a hole for a while so here you go)

Sing a Song of Sixpence by Kaiel

Ship: Jon/Martin

In which Jonathan Sims is a Siren, and he fails to notice any new abilities granted to him by the position of Archivist. Or really anything about the Entities at all.

Takes place in season 1 featuring Jonah Magnus’s slow decent into madness

(The new mythology interwoven with tma's worldbuilding is so freaking good and I love how all the characters change and develop because of these changes. Also, f you Elias)

Along Came a Spider by Dribbledscribbles

Ship: implied Jon/Martin

Sasha James is the Archivist, as expected. Martin Blackwood is menaced by Jane Prentiss, as expected. Elias Bouchard weaves his web, as expected.

All goes as it should.

At least until something calling itself Jonathan Sims steps in.

(Web!Jon in this makes me want to weep, it's so freaking good. A pretty long, very excellent oneshot on what could've happened if Jon got taken by the web when he was a kid. And Sasha as the Archivist is ALWAYS so cool, we love her in this house.)

A Break in the Clouds by Ash_Rabbit

“I’m eight.” the kid sniffs as if eight was any different from four, maybe not an unspeakable horror then, just a regular horror. “And I heard that the Magnus Institute deals with-” his little nose scrunches, cute. “-spooky things.”

“Do you have a-” he cracks a grin, and then rethinks it as small hands tighten against their burden.”-spooky thing to deliver?” gods he hopes not, it’s bad enough when adults walk in and lay out all of their baggage, but for a child-

“There’s a spider in this book.” the kid says solemnly, raising his textbook sized parcel. “It ate Evan Pritchard.” a bloody fucking Leitner. Of course an eight year old would find a murder spider book. “This seemed like the best place to bring it.”

(I never thought about what the Original Elias could've been like AND NOW I CAN'T STOP THINKING ABOUT IT BECAUSE OF THIS FIC. I LOVE HIM, HE'S COMPLEX AND HE CARES AND JON CARES AND THEY BOTH CARE ABOUT EACH OTHER. THIS IS THE CONTENT I WANT, OMG. Also, Jon being even smaller than usual is adorable, so cute. No wonder Elias wants to hug him, a LOT.)

See the Line where the Sky meets the Sea by The_Floating_World

Ship: Jon/Martin, Jon/Oliver Banks

When Jon is a child he looks into the infinite abyss of space. The Vast looks back into him.

(One of my all time fave fics in this fandom, no questions asked. I have reread this three times and am open to doing it again, god. Vast!Jon, such a concept. It's written so beautifully and the relationships Jon develops, so good. ugh. My heart. Please please read.)

Sweet As Roses by Prim_the_Amazing

Ship: Jon/Martin

“Come in, Martin,” he says, not looking up from his notes.

“Hi, Jon,” he says, and Jon stops writing at the sound of his voice. “We’re out of the green tea, but we’ve got lemon?”

Jon looks at him. Martin smiles at him in his usual tentative way as he sets the mug of tea down on Jon’s desk. Heat spikes so sharply in his gut that he twitches with it.

“Thank you, Martin,” he says, mouth dry, and he stands up.

“Oh,” he says, sounding almost surprised. He smiles again. “No-- no problem-- um, what are you--”

Jon takes Martin by the shoulders, leans up on the tips of his toes, and kisses him.

(You have no idea how much I howled through this fic, my god. *buries face in hands* The number of times I wanted to cry from sheer hilarity and horror reading this good lord.)

Things Could Always Be Worse by theOestofOCs

Ship: Jon/Martin, Georgie/Melanie

Sometimes, the most horrifying thing of all is what might have been.

Somewhere, Jon could swear he heard a crowd laughing.

Or: in which Jonathan Sims is forced to swap places with his alternate self—a tall, chivalrous hero extraordinaire, who knows neither fear nor nuance—and is sent to the aggressively straight alternate universe the Magnus Archives was never meant to be.

“Whatever place this is,” Jon announced, “I just want to be sure it knows I hate it.”

(I will say this once, THIS IS THE MOST CURSED THING IVE EVER READ EVER. Like holy hell. I can't believe this thing exists. please read it oh please please please)

-

[Supernatural]

heard from your mother (she don't recognize you) by Schmuzz

Ship: Dean/Cas, Jessica/Sam

A man named Cas wakes up in 2003 with no memories, but he's able to piece together a few things:

1. Supernatural creatures exist, and most of them will hurt innocent civilians if he doesn't stop them; 2. He has abilities that no human hunter should have, but he knows enough about human hunters to keep that to himself, and finally; 3. He keeps running into another hunter named Dean Winchester, who seems to be about as lonely as he is if he's willing to put up with those former facts long enough to help Cas unravel the mystery of who (or what) he really is.

For his part, Dean's still (not) dealing with Sam's departure to Stanford, and figures distracting himself with a bit of mystery and intrigue is as harmless as it gets, right? Right.

(THE fic I'm most into right now, been following this from the very start and it's AMAZING. Cas has agency and is making friends and S1 Dean is growing out of John's influence and is becoming a Person and the both of them first being friends then more. The slow burn as their relationship develops, SO GOOD. SO SO DAMN GOOD. *screams* Seriously one of the best spn fics I've read in a long, long time.)

anamnesis by cenotaphy

Ships: Castiel/Dean, Sam/Eileen

Chuck is depowered, Jack is the new god, and the world is free. Dean and Sam get into the Impala and chase down the miles on an endless highway, and their story is finally, finally their own to follow. At least, that's what Dean tells himself. But the diners and motels and painted interstate lines are blurring together and the smallest details keep catching at his brain like tiny fishhooks and he can't quite shake the feeling that not everything is exactly as it should be.

* Fix-it/alternate series finale. Canon-compliant through the end of 15.19.

(THIS IS THE FIC THAT GOT ME THROUGH THE FINALE OKAY. WHY COULDN'T THIS HAVE BEEN CANON. It's Disturbing and honestly plot-wise this makes more sense. Why couldn't we have had this. *screams*)

-

[Avatar: The Last Airbender]

where the stars do not take sides by WitchofEndor

Ship: Sokka/Zuko

When Azula is nine, she becomes an only child. She hears the Fire Lord call for Zuko's life, and in the morning, her mother and brother are gone. Azula may be young, but she isn't naive. She knows what happened to them.

Which makes it all the more surprising when Azula tracks the Avatar down and fights his group of peasant friends, only to find herself staring into an eerily familiar face.

(The fact one of the tags in this fic is, "Sibling Dynamic: Fucked Up But Wholesome" should give you an idea what this fic is like. Chaotic as HELL and I just love Azula here, she loves Zuko so much in her messed up way and Zuko loves her back in the exact same way lol. It's batshit and I am Here For This.)

-

[Naruto]

Eclipse by AislingRoisin (JayBird345) for HybrisAnaideia

Ship: Nara Shikaku/OFC

"In life, it's easier to remain stagnant and wallow in your troubles. But life isn't merely about continued existence, nor is it meant to be gone through alone."

(This is a fic that's slept on and I NEED people to read this. A self-insert fic that I find really interesting in its approach and the worldbuilding for the post-third war shinobi world is fantastic. I feel like there's a certain pattern with self-insert fics, not that is a detriment in any way to how much I enjoy them, so this fic feels fresh to me in a way I haven't read in a while. I am waiting eagerly for this to get updated! Please read!)

On Freedom and Other Formalities by iaso

Ship: Kakashi/Genma/OFC

When push comes to shove, Hiwa Inuzuka doesn't go down easy. Reborn into a new, dangerous world? She puts her past life as a spy to work. Thrown into a war? Hiwa does her duty, for Konoha. And when she's forced into an arranged marriage? All there is to do is beat them to the punch and get married first. Thankfully, Genma Shiranui is willing to lend a hand. Literally. SI/OC

(Listen, LISTEN, it's about the slow burn, the longing, the communication (it both has and hasn't and isn't THAT great??), the messy way you fit three very different people together, it's so freaking good! Also, Kakashi is so Chaotic here this is my fave characterization of him, you can't change my mind. And Genma is a Good Boi who is Doing His Best, along with the Self-insert character who I LOVE SO MUCH, SHE'S FANTASTIC FNEIWOPAF. Sped past this fic in the speed of light, I could not stop reading!)(Honestly, read all of the author's fics, they're all really REALLY good!)

Building a Castle by WhisperingDarkness

Without needing anyone to tell her, Sakura knew that talking to someone no-one else could see or hear would make her weird. It would draw the bad kind of attention to her, something people could make fun of her for.

She didn’t like being weird, but she did like the voice. Her inner voice was helpful and it was a part of her that had always been there. The idea of it not being there would have been so much weirder than anything else.

It was during her first year at the Academy that Sakura realised the voice was not in her head at all, but that it came from a cloudy shape floating next to her.

(Basically a short-ish retelling of Hikaru no Go. Only with more Shogi and Nara and Ninja's)

(Sakura can see ghosts (I'm noticing this is a popular trope for her) and it's really cute haha! Her relationship with Tobirama is sweet and I just enjoyed reading this so much.)

-

[The Magicians]

So Long (And Thanks For All The Books) by IncompleteSentanc (Erava)

Ships: Quentin/Eliot, James/Julia, Quentin/Margo/Eliot

When Quentin is told Julia wasn't admitted to Brakebills, he realizes he has a drastic decision in front of him. If he tells Julia about magic, he'll have his mind wiped as well as hers. But he can't just leave her behind, either. He can't lose his best friend, and he can't let her life a life with her magical potential stolen away from her.

So he makes a third choice.

(Really, and I mean REALLY well-done canon divergent fic, this is the Quentin & Julia friendship fic I have been looking for forever. It explores so much of what could've happened and I just love Quentin here, I really really do. Characterization done so right. I also recommend the author's other works too. Been a follower of them for a long time, they're great.)

-

[Game of Thrones]

The Road to Victory by writing_as_tracey

Too late in preparing for the Night King and the Long Night, the last stand at Winterfell is close to falling. Bran takes desperate measures to ensure victory, and Jon, Sansa, and Arya pay the price for it in a time unfamiliar to them, on the cusp of another war. [GoT, time-travel fix it]

(I swear, this fic made me laugh so many times, all the Stark are BAMF and fantastic, and Rhaegar gets Wrecked lol. It's crack btw, and the plot goes in directions you'll never guess and it's amazing hahaha!)

-

[Haikyuu!!] (I am very very late to the fandom but here I am)

Ballare (To Dance) by MidnightSparks

Ship: Iwaizumi Hajime/Kageyama Tobio/Oikawa Tooru, and platonic Kageyama & Kentarou (really love their friendship)

Kageyama’s first love is volleyball. His second, however, is ballet.

In one world, Kageyama Tobio is left behind by his parents. In this world, the existence of soulbonds keeps Kageyama’s parents in Miyagi and leaves Kageyama in the care of his grandma and grandpa.

(In which soulmates exist and that changes everything and nothing at the same time.)

(*buries face in hands* I have fallen for this ship so hard and I can't get out fudge me. I understand now. Their DYNAMICS FIEWONPAF)

Kings of Tomorrow by bokubroya (liarielle)

Ship: Kageyama Tobio/Oikawa Tooru

On the eve of Tobio’s 16th birthday, he counts down the seconds to midnight, and emerges with Oikawa Tooru’s name on his wrist.

It’s been two years since then, and Tobio thought they had an understanding. A silent, never spoken about understanding that this thing between them is nothing, and they’re going to pretend it doesn’t exist.

Of course, it’s just like Oikawa to change the game and leave Tobio wondering what comes next.

(I am WEAK for soulmate fics between these two, I don't even really like soulmate fics half the times what is WRONG WITH ME-)(Please suffer with me, I'm begging you. Its a good fic, thumbs up.)

-

[Crossover]

Honey and Magic by JustARatherVerySillyWriter, White_Squirrel for Super Carlin Brothers

Fandoms: Matilda (yeah you read that right), Harry Potter

Everyone knew Matilda was a rather extraordinary child, but even she didn't know she was a witch. Matilda Honey receives her Hogwarts letter in the year of the Triwizard Tournament, and soon, she will leave her unique mark on the magical world.

(Do I even need to explain how amazing it is to have Matilda in the wizarding world? And Matilda is a HUFFLEPUFF AND I WILL DIE ON THIS HILL THIS FIC IS GREAT PLEASE READ!!!)

An Eye for an Eye by DpsMercy

Fandoms: The Magnus Archives, Welcome to Night Vale

In which Jonathan Sims is not from the UK but instead, if you took his origins and turned them sideways twice then flipped them over, he technically would be from the US, the town of Night Vale specifically. Elias can’t do shit about it and gets a headache and slowly creeping madness instead.

(Look, I know probably everyone has read this because if they haven't, what have you been DOING with your lives??? Jon interning at Night Vale is Incredible, nothing phases this man, it's Delightful. I laughed so many times reading this, I'm not even kidding right now. Read or perish.)

The Favour by R_Cookie

Fandoms: Harry Potter, Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them

Ship: Original Percival Graves/Harry Potter

Percival is ten years old when his grandfather tries to tell him that he's ensured the greatness of the Graves legacy for him, that he ought to be eternally grateful - but the explanation is hijacked by a stranger who manages to intimidate Chester Graves with an ease never seen before.

or: Hadrian (Harry) Potter is the Master of Death, who grants Graves a boon. Nobody could have known that the Deathly Hallows didn't turn you so much into the 'Master of Death' as into the anthropomorphic personification of Death. And so, Death becomes Percival's guardian angel, and Percival does not spit out his cereal.

(Look, I don't know how I stumbled back into the FBAWTFT fandom either, it just happened and I'm grateful for that. Otherwise, I wouldn't have found this amazing fic. Their relationship is slow and strange and I just love how Percival is characterized here. Also, one of the tag promises that it deviates from canon so I am really, really excited for that! XD)

baby that's what i do by natanije

Fandoms: Naruto, Katekyou Hitman Reborn!

"Are you telling me," Hidan exclaims, incredulous, "that you collect money all this time to give to orphans?!"

Kakuzu pauses. He blinks a few times.

"Huh. I guess I do."

(Tsuna reincarnates as Kakuzu and it's HILARIOUS. HE'S SUCH A MOM HAHAHA)

[amphitritemists]

Last year, I discovered The Magnus Archives through some fanart created by @sock.on.shoes on Instagram. At the time, I was at the peak of my Good Omens obsession, figuring out my sexuality, and looking for solid gay representation. Based on the fanart I saw, I assumed JonMartin were a cute gay couple from a tv show I never heard about. A quick Google search told me I was wrong.

I hated horror because I associated the genre with cheap jump scares or images that would haunt my nightmares. I hated podcasts because I didn’t think I was an auditory learner. I’m the sort of person that would usually zone out and lose focus trying to listen to someone speak for too long. Back then, I was only starting to tolerate audiobooks because I wanted something to do while I ate meals alone, but I restricted myself to books that I already read before.

Nothing about The Magnus Archives should have attracted me, and yet, I found it on Youtube and decided to listen to it. 

Right away, I fell in love with Jonathan Sims and Martin Blackwood (because Jon merely mentioning that Martin “would contribute nothing but delays” was enough for me to project all my love into a character I haven’t even heard the voice of yet). I found the horror intriguing because the statements were short, interesting scenarios that didn’t try to randomly scream in my ear just to make me jump. The podcast made me stop and think about ethics and morals, what the right thing to do was or even if there was a right thing to do at all.

The more I listened, the better the podcast got. Outside the beautifully crafted statements, there was an actual world. More characters were introduced, more characters for me to fall hopelessly in love with because of how well-written they are. Fears were given names and I could point at them like warped up Hogwarts houses, latching on to the ones I blamed the most for my effed up head. I’m still in awe of it all.

This podcast got me through the second half of the pandemic. Because of this podcast, I found myself drawing and writing for fun again. I made a Tiktok as an excuse to cosplay some of my favorite TMA characters because I didn’t want to wait till Halloween. I became more active on Tumblr because I had no one to share this experience with in real life and I needed to rant somewhere. Then, I found @m-e-w-666 and from there I joined a Discord filled with so many wonderful new friends (you all know who you are and I love you guys <3).

I don’t know where I’ll go from here or if I’ll ever find another podcast that will match the obsession that I feel towards this one. I know there are other good ones out there and I have a list of some I want to try, but this one will always hold a special place in my heart because of the community it led me to. Thank you to the Rusty Quill crew for giving me much more than a podcast. It’s been one hell of a ride and every day I’m glad I jumped on.

[dangerous-disposition]

On Tragedy vs. Bad Endings

[Image ID: user @frostyfrogz​ replied to your post “my mag171 #thots: I fully agree with. I love jonmartin I want nothing but the best for them. I know my answer today was an obvious twisting of dialogue but its just frustrating sometimes because it seems like people dont understand some sort of tragedy will indeed happen. I have never and will never suggest that something will happen to Jon and Martin’s relationship I’ve just been saying the shows not going to end well no matter what.]

So I have a lot of thoughts about this very subject, and too much for the replies on my post, so allow me to try to articulate what I mean, and what a lot of us mean when we say “it does not make sense for either Jon or Martin to turn evil in the end,” even in a show that has been advertised from day one as a tragedy.

First of all, no one thinks this is going to end happy. The few who do are usually unaware that this show is billed as a tragedy, and are quick to be corrected. I didn’t know it was a tragedy until I was on season 3 and someone told me. It’s overall just best to assume that the OP knows it’s not going to be a happy ending, because “reminding” people or “explaining” to people that the ending is going to be sad is a fast way from people to get annoyed and defensive.

Anyway! It appears, above all, that people have either fundamentally different ideas of what a tragedy is or accomplishes, or that people have a fundamentally flawed understanding of tragedy and it’s place as a narrative device/theme.

My thoughts are that tragedies hurt, and tragedies can be devastating, but they have to have a message and they should not be cruel to the audience.

A cruel ending would involve leading the audience to believe one thing for the entire book, show, movie, podcast, what have you, just to rip it away at the last minute like a big “fuck you” to the audience. Those sorts of endings are inherently mocking of the audience, and ultimately disrespectful. The only people in the audience that “benefit” from this sort of writing are the cynics who spent the entire show talking down to everyone for seeing the silver lining in the impending tragedy, even if, up until the finale, the silver lining was always part of the narrative. Like it took actual twisting and outright ignoring of the narrative as it’s written to be cynical and sceptical all the way until the end.

That is, plain and simple, bad writing. Jonny Sims is not a bad writer.

Now tragedies often have “happy endings,” they just also have an element of sadness colouring that ending. A good, tragic ending should, in my opinion, feel bittersweet. We should see it coming, we should know it will hurt, but it should be for the greater good and should further the narrative that has been told from the beginning.

I said a few weeks ago that a tragic ending without a silver lining is just torture porn, and I stand by it.

Now, if Jon or Martin are revealed to be Actually Evil in the end, where is the silver lining in that? What narrative has even possibly hinted at this outcome, without putting on cynic glasses?

Every single plot point and plot “twist” in TMA has been clearly detailed, never relegated to pure subtext that you would have to comb through a single interraction and analyzing the tone in which it was said (which could easily be actor shortcomings or error). They have always been obvious, at least in hindsight. This is why, for a while, I subscribed to the Web!Martin theory, but due to recent episodes I’m more inclined to believe those “obvious things” were red herrings.

Throughout The Magnus Archives, the common theme in every. Single. Season finale is that “we are stronger together.” What do I mean by that? Well, here’s the general idea:

Season 1: The one time someone gets separated by the group for any significant length of time, like I mean the main group, she gets killed by the NotThem and replaced.

Season 2: Jon is alone, due to his intense paranoia and his reluctance to reach out for help. This leads to a disastrous series of events that leaves him a suspect of murder, and his friends even more doubtful of his character.

Season 3: In the episode just before they deal with the Unknowing, Jon literally says that isolation was his downfall, and he was going to work on trusting his friends more. When they got separated during the Unknowing, things went to shit. When they found each other again, they were able to rally and they “succeeded.” Conversely, they are also teamed up with Melanie and Martin who hung back to bring down Elias. They were successful, working as teams on separate objectives, etc.

Season 4: This is, by far, their most “successful” feats while simultaneously their least. The whole season was again showing the downfalls of isolation. In the season finale, Jon has Basira and Daisy’s help, and while bolstering himself with their strength, and the strength in his conviction to save Martin to be with Martin, Jon was successful in stopping Peter Lukas and saving Martin. Conversely, Martin and Jon’s isolation in Scotland could be, theoretically, implicated in how Jonah Magnus was able to succeed in the end like that.

Now evidence of this same train of thought in season 5? Jon literally says it: Gertrude would not have done well in this post-apocalyptic world, because she had no friendships, no anchors, no reason to stay human. And then Jon says “you are my reason” to Martin.

It is in the text of the story that the only way to succeed, or win, or survive, is through trust, friendship, and love. One of the main factors in so many of the statements, on why the statement givers succumbed to the fear in their story, for even a moment, had to do with very little personal ties to anyone else. Many of the statements feature isolation and, as Jon put it, “lack of corroboration.” On the flipside, many of the statements that ended with the statement giver escaping successfully, and surviving long enough to be reached out to for follow-up questions, involved them having close personal ties to someone else that kept them safe, somehow. Like the girl from Italy; remembering her mom saved her from the Lonely. Or, more ridiculously, the guy and his dog that escaped the spiral because he was so distracted by his dog and had to be home for dinner. In MAG170, it was Martin’s love for Jon, and his trust in the love from Jon and his friends, that saved him from the Lonely again. Jon’s incredible amount of love, and respect, and trust in his friends is what’s kept him from becoming another Jared Hopworth or Jude Perry. In MAG155, Cost of Living, he expresses open disgust in how that particular avatar of The End justified her actions, killing and killing and killing again because she viewed herself as more worthy of life than that person. In that same episode, he talks of not blinding himself because he hopes to use his powers to protect his friends, that without them they’re too vulnerable. Honestly, this is the same reason Peter Lukas is unsuccessful, because Martin only helped him at all to protect his friends. The fact that he didn’t see his failure coming was hilarious.

Gerry said in Family Business that there is no “entities of love”, and that might be true, but love and trust is literally what saves you from fear. How many of us deal with things that are scary in our lives, if only because we have some level of trust in the people or things around us. How many of us have been brought out of a panic attack by someone we love and trust?

So all of this has been presented to us, over and over and over again, which is what I, and others, mean when we say “it does not make sense for one of them to be evil.” That’s what we mean when we say “it would be Bad Writing to make one of them evil in the end.” The entire show has driven home the message that we need love, we need personal connections to survive fear. To rip that away from the main characters at the last minute and call it “tragedy” would be a spit in the face of every single listener who took the story at face value, without picking it apart and reading lines out of context. And Jonny Sims and Alex J. Newall have both said they hate lazy writing.

Now, none of the JonMartin fans I follow are deluding themselves to think this show will have a happy ending outside of very self-indulgent fix-it au fanfics.

The way I see this going down is that Jon and Martin will figure out how to put the world back to the way it was, but Jon will not be able to be part of the new world with Martin. That’s the tragedy; that the world gets saved, and Jon helps save it, but he doesn’t get to benefit from his efforts in any way. The tragedy is Jon loves Martin so much, and they deserve their happy ending, but they don’t get it. But, they still saved the world so others can have their happy endings.

Idk about you, but between the “Jon turns evil in the end” and “Jon stays good and sacrifices himself to save the world” endings, only one of them has me in tears right now as I type this out, and it’s not the former.

I’m not against sad endings,I’m against bad endings that punish the audience for having even a bittersweet hope. I’m against sad endings that are just sad for the sake of being sad, with zero pay-off or reason to happen, especially when those endings throw out 5 years of hard work.

And hey, I might just be forced to eat my words in the end, but not before I fly all the way to England and make Jonny Sims eat a knuckle sandwich.

This was a lot longer than I meant for it to be, but I just have a lot of feelings.

[alistair-blackwood]

By the times things settled, when Martin had finally managed to crack through his cold shell, feel some of his old self returning to him in bits and pieces, they had found their little routine.

One that had the two of them sleeping in the same bed, making breakfast, going to the mart. Where Jon reached for his wrist while they slept, and Martin luxuriated in the gentle warmth of his fingers.  

But not one where Martin reached back. One that had Martin kissing Jon awake or taking his hand over the breakfast table, because … Martin never had the courage to try. And then it never became a part of the routine.

And Martin desperately wanted it to be.

–

Martin and Jon have an important conversation.

Chapters: 1/1 [Complete]

Pairing(s): Martin Blackwood/Jonathan “Jon” Sims | The Archivist

Words: ~4.2k

Additional Tags: Fluff, Pining, Canon Asexual Character, Sex-Repulsed Jonathan “Jon” Sims | The Archivist, Asexual Awareness Week 2020, Domesticity, Sleeping In, making breakfast, going shopping together, Set in Episodes 159-160 | Scottish Safehouse Period (The Magnus Archives)

Based on @chalroe‘s comic for Ace Awareness week here!

–

“Martin.”  

There was a hand on his shoulder; Martin noted this more as a simple fact than something he could really feel. There was the press of fingers, a squeeze, yes– but he couldn’t feel the warmth. Never the warmth.

“Martin,” the voice said again. No, that was … Jon. Yes … Jon was still here. And he still looked so … sad. Staring at him with desperate eyes. “Look at me. Look at me and tell me what you see.”  

It was tempting to ignore him again. It’s just … it hurt, the things Jon asked him to do sometimes, and this was no different. Trying to look was like trying to ascend the water too quickly, risking collapsed lungs and decompression sickness. 

But the hand on his shoulder squeezed ever tighter, the eyes starting to mist, and … and something in Martin’s chest … pricked. He could feel it. It was numbed, in a place he’d thought had already withered away from disuse, and yet …  

Martin blinked. Jon was still there. Jon was looking at him.  

Seeing him.  

Seeing him.  

“I …” A heavy weight was pressing down on his chest. A warning. It was too fast, too much, but … “I see …”  

Sometimes, Martin found himself missing his more gruesome, shocking nightmares. At least with those, he would snap awake in an instant, drenched in an icy sweat, instead of being held down, trapped in a fog of confusion and fear until he finally managed to break its grip. 

But at last, he managed to blink awake, sunlight pouring through the window and straight into his eye. Ah, damn. He’d meant to close the curtains last night.  

Groaning, Martin scrubbed his eyes, the contents of the dream were fading away. The damp moisture of the fog sat heavy in his throat– reminding him too much of the air in nursery homes and hospital rooms.

It’s not so bad, though. When they first arrived here, Martin used to wake up with tears tracking down his face. He’d hated waking up to a wet spot on his pillow. Or the soft, concerned eyes of his … special someone.

Martin turned over onto his side. Jon’s eyes were still closed, blankets pulled tight around himself and snoring softly. The sound brought a truly silly smile to Martin’s lips.

Yes. Waking up from the dreams used to be much worse. And then, perhaps four days after arriving at the cabin, Jon had declared that taking turns sleeping on the couch was absurd, and that there was more than enough room for the two of them in the master bed.  

The speech had been said with such blunt rigor that Martin wondered if, perhaps, something Jon had rehearsed. As if Martin wouldn’t have immediately agreed to waking up next by Jon’s side every morning. 

And so, Martin didn’t wake up crying anymore. Not as often, anyway.

In his sleep, Jon sniffled, before burying his face deeper into the pillow. A low, groaning noise rumbled in his throat, sounding not unlike a dissatisfied cat, and Martin’s throat was crushed under a wave of affection.

What would it be like if he were to lean over just then? Card his fingers through Jon’s hair? Wake him up with a kiss to the forehead? That would be … good. 

That was when Jon woke up, blinking soft brown eyes heavy with sleep. 

Martin smiled, hoping his expression wasn’t betraying his thundering heart.

[Continue on AO3]

[ieattaperecorders]

Notes on Causality - Chapter 2: Georgie and Elias

An addendum to Something's Different About You Lately. Small scenes of Jon attempting to change the future that I didn't want to put in the larger fanfic.

The events of this chapter take place around the end of Chapter 8, Stranger.

(Incidentally, the main fic will be updated very soon. I'm mainly just holding off till the finale drops, in case whatever happens makes me want to tweak anything mood-wise in what I have planned.)

Read on Ao3

- - -

One ring. Another. Then another. Maybe she wouldn't pick up, Jon thought, drumming his fingers on the desk. Maybe it would go to voicemail . . . he could hang up, try again later. Take a little time to mentally rehearse what he would say.

A click, and her voice asked, "hello?"

"Georgie . . . it's Jon Sims, from Oxford?"

"Jon? Hey, been a while! How've you been?"

"Ah – good? I've been good," he lied. "Yourself?"

"Oh, not bad. Got a new roommate since you last saw me . . . he lays around the apartment all day and won't share the rent, but he's cute so I let it slide."

"Good to hear that your landlord is cat-friendly."

"You should hear him, he has the loudest little meow. Hang on, I'll if he'll say hello . . . ."

For a moment and he heard some vague coaxing noises, distant as if she was holding her phone away from herself. They were followed by a close-up, disinterested sniff, then Georgie's voice returned.

"Ah, never mind. Not in the mood, I guess."

"I've heard the Admiral's color commentary before," he smiled. "He's in all your mailbag episodes."

"Didn't know you were a listener."

"Well, I need something for the commute . . . it might as well be the UK's most onomatopoeic source of paranormal research."

"Ha. Knew you'd hate the sound effects."

"I don't hate them. Anyway, they're . . . distinctive," he leaned back in his office chair, the nerves he'd built up slowly dissipating as they fell into the rhythm of conversation. "They're very you."

"Classic Barker." There was movement in the background, and a few soft thuds. Likely the Admiral jumping to the floor. "Well from what I hear, we're in the same field. Aren't you working for the Magnus Institute now? You must hear plenty of ghost stories there."

"That's actually sort of why I called. I think we might have a mutual colleague . . . Melanie King?"

"Yeah, she's the one who told me you were there," she said knowingly. "Sounded like you left a hell of an impression on her."

". . . Not a good one, I imagine."

Georgie made a non-committal sound, being decent enough not to rub it in by overtly agreeing with him.

"I was trying to be helpful, but I think I just came off as dismissive. Ended up arguing with her over nothing," he sighed. ". . . Classic Sims."

"Accept no substitutes," Georgie said fondly. "So, what's the call about? If you want me to try smoothing things over with her –"

"It isn't that. Did she tell you about her experience?"

"Not really. Asked a lot about Sarah – she's a sound tech I recommended to her? Got the impression she'd been unreliable. She was nice about it, Melanie that is, but really evasive. I just assumed she's caught onto something interesting and wants to be the first to report on it. The risks of being friends with competition, I suppose."

"Ah. . . ."

"Not that she has anything to worry about. Climbing fences and squatting in abandoned churches is her thing. I'm all about doing research from my computer desk with a cup of tea, personally," she paused, and he heard a distant clink of ceramic. "Hey, are we even allowed to talk about this? Isn't there some sort of confidentially thing?"

"As it turns out, privacy isn't really something this place values," he muttered, "I don't suppose she's talked to you recently?"

"No . . . not for a couple of months."

"I'm concerned. Her experience left a powerful impact on her. Now she's chasing after anything that might bring her closer to what she encountered, and I'm afraid she doesn't care about the cost. She's going into some dangerous territory. And, well . . . it's not my place to judge her emotional state. But I am worried."

"Yeah . . . I saw the memes," he heard a frown enter Georgie's voice.

"I've tried to talk to her about it, a bit. But she and I always seem to push each other's buttons somehow. I'd be grateful if you looked in on her. I think that she could use a friend right now, and –" he smirked. "I happen to know you're good with obsessive types too stubborn for their own well-being."

"Ha. You trying to set me up or something?"

"Wh–" he started, taken aback. "I mean, well, that's really your business, not mine."

". . . Wait. I was joking, but are you really?" There was utter incredulity in her voice. "Jonathan Sims, did you call me out of the blue to set me up with someone I knew before you did?"

"Of – Georgie I don't even know if you're single, don't be ridiculous," he sputtered, feeling blood rise to his face. She laughed, and the uncomfortable heat spread.

"Okay, okay," she said. "I'm just giving you a hard time."

"I just . . . " he spoke slowly, trying to be precise. "I think that Melanie needs someone else around her right now. Someone grounding. If you're not looking to take that on, I understand, of course. But for whatever it might be worth, I would be grateful if you checked in."

"I'll give her a ring," something in Georgie's voice was familiar, and profoundly comforting. "See if she wants to get coffee and talk spooky-shop."

"I think that might do her a world of good," he said with relief

"Also? We should get coffee sometime too, catch up! I want to hear all the creepy stories you're apparently so free to talk about."

"Really, it's mostly drug experiences and conspiracy theories . . . ."

"Even better, I'll get to hear you complain. Then I'll be entitled gripe to you about all the weird emails I get. It'll be perfect."

Jon wanted to say yes. He really, really did. The thought of sitting down for a few hours with Georgie and talking about nothing particularly dire was a nice one. But he could only bring trouble to her door.

"I'd . . . like that," he said, "But I don't have much time to myself right now . . . maybe after everything calms down."

". . . Sure," she sounded a little disappointed. Georgie could always tell when he was brushing her off. "Some other time. Hope you can get some rest, then."

"I'll do my best."

"And thanks for the heads-up about Melanie. Really," the smile in her voice was back. "Don't be a stranger, huh?"

"Right," he smiled back, hoping she could hear it. "Ah. Goodbye, then."

"Bye."

He stared at the screen of his phone, not sure what to name the feeling in his chest. In his mind's eye, he saw her form vanishing down a long white corridor, and he knew she would have made this choice herself, eventually. He was just respecting that. Speeding things along.

"Trying to set her up . . . honestly," he muttered.

What he'd said about Melanie needing someone to talk to had been true. He was hoping Georgie's influence could nudge her away from the path she was on, one that had its natural end in blood and pain and the drumming of war. It was hardly his fault if he knew that particular matchmaking arrangement had already worked out once.

The call had barely ended for a minute before his phone vibrated with an email notification. He opened it, frowning when he saw who it was from.

Jon,

See me in my office at your earliest convenience.

Also, in the future please remember not to make personal calls during work hours.

- Elias

It was the most direct contact he'd had with Elias in months. Aside from a few institute-wide emails, there had been nothing since their conversation about the recordings. Jon hadn't even run into him in the hall. At least on the surface, he'd stuck to his promise to involve himself less directly. Not that Jon imagined Elias was truly keeping his distance, but he had begun to get comfortable with not having to see or talk to him. He dreaded the idea of going up there and actually breaking the silence.

That comment about personal calls irked him, too. He was taunting him. Going right up to the edge of admitting he'd been watching while giving himself just a little deniability.

He could ignore it, of course. Why should he do anything Elias asked him to, however small? Why should he make any part of his life easier? But that wasn't a smart attitude, he knew. Elias was keeping his distance for now, but if he saw Jon as too troublesome things would escalate. It would be foolish to bring that moment any closer by antagonizing him over nothing.

Jon still remembered the comment he'd made when they last spoke – I'm sure one of your assistants would be up to the task. If it came down to it, Elias knew exactly whose throats to hold the knife against.

With a distinct lack of pleasure, he climbed the stairs out of the archive.

Despite his mood he smiled at Rosie, tried to seem friendly as he greeted her. The words insecure and aggressive had a tendency to turn over in his mind when he saw her lately. He was earnestly hoping to be easier to talk to, but fairly sure he just came off as awkward. At least she was friendly with him. But then, she'd always been.

She said he was expected and should go right inside.

Elias was at his desk, writing on something hidden inside a folder. He glanced up and nodded as he entered.

"Ah, Jon. Sit down, I'll just be a moment."

As he took a seat and waited, Jon couldn't quite banish the idea that the folder was just a prop. A way to make whoever he'd called in wait, to make it absolutely clear how much more valuable his time was than theirs. Or perhaps to give them time to stew, to sit in anxiety and worry. Then again, maybe Elias really did have paperwork that needed doing, and the fact that it was absolutely, positively maddening to sit there in silence and watch him was only a bonus to it all. Eventually, he finished.

"It's been a while since we've checked in, hasn't it?" he paused just long enough for Jon to wonder if he was supposed to respond, then continued. "I'd like to hear your version of how the last few months have gone. What sort of progress you feel you've made, etcetera."

Oh, God. Was he actually expecting Jon to keep up the pretense of doing actual archival work? He hadn't been prepared for that at all, and felt preemptively exhausted at the thought of coming up with some nonsense progress report.

"Well. . . as you know, Gertrude left the archives in a state of serious disorganization, so progress has been hindered by that," he tried to remember what projects he'd put the others on to keep them all going with a token show of work. "I've set aside a section for discredited statements, which has been steadily growing. I imagine . . . it will make things more efficient for researchers in the future? And, uh . . . ."

"Let me stop you there," Elias said, holding up a hand.

Please do, Jon thought, relieved he wouldn't be subjecting them both to several minutes of this. Elias leaned forward and looked at him seriously.

"Have I done something to offend you, Jon?"

The question took him by surprise, to the point where he had to bite back a sarcastic laugh. What hadn't he done? "I'm not sure what you mean."

"Really. Because it seems to me that I've be extremely generous to you," that familiar tone of disapproval, of bland impatience. "I've given you a unique opportunity, allowed you free reign in setting your own priorities, and you still seem determined to resent me."

Fleetingly, Jon wondered if the elaborately decorated letter opener on the desk between them was sturdy enough to sink into Elias's chest without snapping. Not worth it, either way. Not with what it would cost.

"I . . . apologize if I've created that impression," he said evenly. "I've been told that I can be standoffish in my manner."

"Why does that not surprise me?" Elias smirked. "Though ‘standoffish' is a great deal more polite than the words people actually favor. Isn't it?"

Jon tried not to look away, tried and failed to meet Elias's eyes. Perhaps his inability to maintain eye contact with a conduit of the Beholding spoke well for his remaining humanity, but it still twisted in him. Made him feel weak.

"Are we done here?" he asked, voice tight.

Elias sighed, as if all of this was such a burden to him, as if he wasn't basking in the anxiety that Jon knew must be radiating off of him like heat.

"What was it you said to Martin . . . about discarding the facade once it stopped being useful?" That startled Jon enough to look back, to see the condescending smile on Elias's face as he continued. "Maybe you ought to do the same."

He stared, suddenly voiceless, heart pounding. This was it . . . should he be relieved or terrified?

"I've been where you are now, Jon." Elias continued. His voice was stern, with only the barest concession to false sympathy. "Trapped in a world that no longer makes sense, surrounded by malevolent forces, seeing enemies everywhere. And I can tell you that the only way to survive in this world is to recognize what resources you have."

". . . Resources."

"Yes, if you could just get past this irrational distrust you seem to have of me. I can't hold your hand through everything. But if you have questions . . . I might be able to give you some answers."

Answers? That would make a change from before, Jon thought bitterly. The Elias he remembered used misdirection, contempt and sometimes flat refusal to avoid giving Jon any information he could hope to use. Unfortunately there was only one question Jon really had for him anymore, and it was one he couldn't ask: how much do you know?

. . . Did Elias have that same question for him? It would explain why he was directly inviting him to ask about his situation.

Jon paused. He had to be smart about this. If Elias had sat him down like this before, he'd have wanted to know everything. If he didn't seem curious, it might point to how much he already knew, and that would be disastrous. But he also couldn't look too naive . . . he'd made his suspicion clear, already warned the others, he couldn't pretend to know nothing about the Institute's nature.

He tried to think back to when he was only just getting a sense of the way things truly were. What would he have most wanted to understand then?

". . . What happens to me," he asked quietly. "When I read statements? The real ones. You know what I mean. I can feel something happening, I know it's not just reading."

"The answer to that is rather complicated . . . ."

"Are you going to give it to me?"

"It would help if I understood what you already knew. How much did Gertrude tell you about the nature of this place? The Institute?"

"Enough to know I can't trust it," he glared across the desk. "And maybe the reason I don't trust you is because you're constantly peering over my shoulder."

"You must have some sense by now of the dangers the Institute attracts," Elias raised his eyebrows. "Can you really blame me for wanting to keep tabs on everything?"

"Because you ‘keeping tabs' was so helpful when I was pulled into those hallways for weeks."

"You opened the door of your own free will. I do what I can but I can hardly be expected to protect you from yourself."

"You're the reason I'm here in the first place! You've been--"

Jon cut himself off, he could feel himself beginning to shout, losing control of himself and it was stupid, so stupid. What was the point in arguing with him? Jonah Magnus knew exactly what he was doing, he wasn't going to be shamed about it.

"It doesn't matter," he said, trying to gather himself back to a neutral tone. "Can't change the past."

". . . For what it's worth, Jon, I do sympathize," Elias said, folding his hands. "Someone has to be the Archivist. You were just the best option available."

Why had he thought he could play along with this? As if he'd really be able to sit there, feign ignorance and draw information out of a man who'd been doing that exact thing to others for centuries. He wasn't going to beat him at his own game . . . far more likely he'd let something slip out of anger that would get somebody killed.

He pushed his chair back and stood, turning towards the door.

"I'll find my own answers," he said.

* * *

The door slammed shut, loud enough to echo. Jonah supposed he was going to have to get used to outbursts like these.

"I expect that you will," he muttered to the closed door.

Blind spots. He didn't like blind spots. Sometimes they were unavoidable, but having one so near to him was profoundly irritating. It was like knowing he'd forgotten something important, but being unable to dredge up any details.

He could watch Jon as easily as anyone else. Though there were moments his gaze would unfocus, and he suspected Gertrude might have taught him a few of her tricks, overall it wasn't hard to keep an eye on him. But lately, that was all he could do. No matter how he tried, he couldn't Know anything deeper than what appeared on the surface. He might as well have been following the Archivist around with a camera crew rather than channeling the overwhelming power of an Eternal and Unblinking Gaze From Which No Secrets Can Be Kept, for all the good it was doing him.

It was as if the knowledge was all there, but had been shifted somehow. Nudged just outside his field of vision.

A part of him was tempted to start over with another Archivist, one he could See more clearly. But the Web mark was hard to find, and he couldn't even be sure this anomaly was unique to Jon – that it would go away with his death instead of attaching itself to his successor. Despite its frustrating obscurity, something about it that felt like an aspect of the Beholding, though he couldn't say why.

So he'd tolerate the blind spot for now. At least Jon was easy enough to read without the Eye's assistance – the man wore his heart on his sleeve, was helpless in that way. Jonah liked that about him.

What he needed was encouragement. Something to get him out of his comfort zone – four marks was progress, but not fast enough, not with the Unknowing looming closer every day. Jonah wrote a quick note on a post-it and stuck it to the folder in front of him, then pressed a button on his intercom.

"Rosie?" he said, "I need you to run something down to the archive for me. Just drop it on Tim's desk, he'll know what it's for."

[beholdme]

All the Many Shades of Gerry - Chapter 18

Chapters: 18/19

Fandom: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

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

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

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

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

He happens to love them back.

Find it on Ao3

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

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

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

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

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

Martin talks, voice quiet and even.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

They blink at each other, bewildered.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Especially because of that." Jon chuckles.

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

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

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

[eldritchteaparty]

Chapters: 21/22 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, Melanie King, Georgie Barker, Alice "Daisy" Tonner, Basira Hussain, Allan Schrieber 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, Spiders

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: It’s time.

Chapter 20 of my post-canon fix-it is up! Read above at AO3 or read here below.

Tumblr master post with links to previous chapters is here. 

***

Sasha hung up her phone and turned back toward Jon and Martin. “Well, that’s it then. They’re ready.”

She was referring to Allan and Elias, who were at Hill Top Road; Allan had wanted to take a few last-minute measurements, but mostly he’d wanted to be there to record what was about to happen.

Tim looked down at his own phone. “And Melanie just confirmed there’s no one left in the building—no one she and Georgie have been able to find, anyway.”

That morning, Jon had called Basira and asked her to shut down the Institute under the guise of further police investigation; she’d done so with remarkably little questioning. Martin didn’t know what Jon had told her they were doing, and he didn’t want to. He’d wondered for the first time that morning if she had been seeing him in her dreams. Now Georgie and Melanie were in the Institute, somewhere above them, waiting.

Sasha nodded. “Ok. Jon, look, I want to be completely clear—you can still change your mind. No one’s telling you you have to do this. You can still back out.”

“I understand,” Jon said. “And I’m not backing out.”

Sasha sighed. “Ok. Um—what’s next, then?”

Jon met Martin’s eyes for the first time since they had made their way in through the tunnels; he looked back at Sasha and Tim. “Would you give us a moment?”

“Yes—yes, of course. We’ll—um—”

“Don’t go too far. Stay in sight.”

“Right. Come on, Tim.”

Tim looked at Martin like he wanted to say something, but decided against it. Sasha spoke to him quietly enough that Martin couldn’t hear her words, and they turned their backs as they walked slowly toward one of the tunnels that converged on their current location in the Panopticon.

“I hate this place,” Martin said. It was the first thing that came into his head.

“So do I.”

“Do you, though?”

“Yes.”

Martin looked away, crossing his arms over his chest. He didn’t want to fight with Jon right now, but the only words that came to his mind were angry and bitter. They were words he might have used to try to stop this, if he’d thought he could, but he knew they were well past that.

“I’m sorry,” Jon said, reaching a hand to Martin’s elbow.

“I’m—Jon, I’m scared.”

For a moment, just a moment, Jon faltered; he pulled his hand back slightly, and drew in a quiet breath. In the next moment, though, it was like it had never happened; Jon set his jaw and squeezed Martin’s arm.

“Are you ready?”

“No.” He nodded, though, because he knew Jon needed to see it.

“All right,” Jon said softly, before turning toward Tim and Sasha. “It’s time.”

Sasha took a deep breath. “Where should we—”

“Where you are,” Jon said. “That’s good. You should be safe if—you’ll have a chance to run if I’m not fast enough.” Martin assumed Jon was referring to the possibility of a tunnel collapse; if the apocalypse actually started, there was not going to be any outrunning it. “Martin, if there’s any chance you’d join them—”

“Absolutely not.”

“I didn’t think so.” Jon paused. “I—I have to say the words. I’m pretty sure you don’t—”

“I don’t,” Martin said. He brought his hands up to his ears and closed his eyes.

What happened next happened quickly, or at least it felt that way to Martin. It wasn’t at all like he’d imagined it would be. He was waiting to feel the terror, the darkness, the heavy weight of the apocalypse; it never came. Instead, there was stillness and quiet and tension. When he looked again, Jon stood in front of him, just as he had before.

“Jon?”

“I’m still here,” Jon said, but Martin wasn’t sure he agreed. Jon was looking at him, yet looking through him at the same time.

“Is it—”

“Yes.”

“This—this isn’t like before.”

“No. This part—this wasn’t for us. It was for him. For Jonah.” Jon’s voice was even, his words controlled; he didn’t sound like himself. “This time it’s mine.”

“Jon—”

“Hey,” Tim shouted, and Martin was pretty sure it wasn’t the first time he had tried getting Jon’s attention. As he remembered they weren’t alone, he looked up. Something was happening; there was a faint shimmer from the edges of the tunnels, almost but not quite beyond his range of vision.

“I thought you would only have a moment,” Tim said.

“This is only a moment,” Jon replied.

“What do you mean?”

“They’re already gone. Everyone outside of—of here, they’re already gone. They’re safe.” Jon smiled, but it wasn’t his smile, not really. Martin liked Jon’s smile; he didn’t like this one. “Just as long as I can—”

“What do you mean, this is only a moment?” Tim repeated.

“I meant—that it’s only a moment.”

Martin knew what he was trying to say. “Time isn’t—it’s different, Tim. It’s different in here.”

“Yes,” Jon said.

“Jon.” Sasha was visibly fighting to keep the fear out of her voice. “Jon, are you all right?”

“I’m fine. I’m—I’m fine.”

“You’re not,” Martin said. “What’s happening?”

“It’s fine.” Jon was quiet; he sounded very far away.

“Come on,” Sasha said. “Jon, come on. Talk to us.”

“It’s—it’s getting harder now that—I can do it, though. Just—just give me—”

The shimmer Martin had seen at the edges of the tunnels was slipping closer now, moving toward them. A static hum began to rise, although he couldn’t trace it back to anything in particular.

“They’re already too weak to escape. I just need to—I just—”

“Jon, what’s happening?” Martin stepped closer to him. “Tell us.”

“I can—” Jon swallowed; as he did, the calmness in his voice wavered. “It feels like—”

“Jon, please.”

“It’s like—it’s like pieces of me are—oh god.”

“Jon, just—just hang on.”

“Martin, I’m—I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize, just—”

“I won’t be leaving here. When it’s done.”

The words didn’t hit Martin as hard as he thought they would. In fact, he realized, he had been expecting them. He felt something very much like relief, now that they had been said.

“Jon, don’t.” It was Tim who was angry. Martin wasn’t entirely surprised; he understood, not for the first time, that Tim would always choose anger. “Don’t just give in like that. Fight it.”

“I—I can’t. I’m not—this is where I’m supposed to be.”

Tim grimaced; Martin watched as he struggled, as he attempted to walk toward them, but he couldn’t.

“Martin,” he called out. “Come with us.”

Martin shook his head. “I’m staying with Jon.”

“No. You’re not.” Jon was working harder to get words out now. He seemed pained. “You can’t survive here. You’re not—listen to Tim. They’ll take care of you. You won’t be alone.”

“But you would be.” Unsure of whether Jon’s unfocused eyes could even see him, he took Jon’s hand. He wanted Jon to know he was there.

“Martin, don’t do this.” Tim called to him again. “Don’t be stupid. He’s—he’s gone.”

“If he’s gone, I am too.”

“Don’t make that choice.”

“You let Jon make his. I get to make mine.”

“Martin—”

Sasha put a hand on Tim’s shoulder. “Tim, I know it’s—it’s awful, but—he’s right. We can’t make him leave.”

“But it’s wrong. It’s the wrong choice.”

“That’s not your—”

“Jon,” Tim tried again. “Do something, make him—”

The shimmer grew brighter, closer; the static grew louder. Although he could no longer see where they had been standing, he was sure Tim and Sasha were gone.

“Did you just—”

“Yes. They’re safe now. Please, Martin—”

“Are you going to do that to me too? Just shove me off into the next dimension?”

“I—I can’t.”

“You tried?”

“Yes.”

“Jon, how—how could you?”

“I just want you to be all right.” Jon was gasping now. “You have to be all right.”

“Then come with me. You already said they’re too weak to leave. You’ve won.”

“Martin, there’s too much of me that—that’s them. It’s too much.”

“Could you leave? If you wanted to?”

“I—it’s not—” Jon panted between his words. “I deserve to be here.”

“Well then, you know the deal. I don’t know if this is coming from you or—or something else, but you’ve always known the deal. That’s it.”

“You can’t,” Jon said.

“I can. I am.”

“Martin, you’ll—you’ll die.”

“I don’t care. And until I do, I’ll be with you."

They stood together, locked in a battle of wills. Martin could feel the pull now, the draw of whatever place the rest of the world had gone to; he resisted it. The static was very loud now. He wondered how long Jon could last like this, how long he could keep the door open. He hoped it wasn’t much longer.

“Well. This is not going very well, is it?”

Martin couldn’t see anyone—he could barely see where he and Jon were standing anymore—but he knew that voice well enough.

“Ignore her,” Jon pleaded desperately. “Martin—ignore her.”

He intended to ignore her, he really did, but she had found some foothold in his mind, hiding inside the static, and he couldn’t displace her.

“He’s lying to you, Martin.” Annabelle’s voice filled his head. “Well, not lying, he’s never been very good at that—but hiding things, now that’s a different matter entirely.”

“Shut up.”

“You’ll have to forgive him; he truly is in a lot of pain. I can’t imagine what it must be like. Having to choose between two parts of yourself as they are literally being torn away from one another.”

Jon. He grasped tightly at the hand that he still held in his own; if there was any response, he couldn’t feel it. If Jon was talking to him, he couldn’t hear it.

“It will be over soon enough.”

“Go away.”

“I intend to. I just wanted you to know first that if you stay, part of you will survive. And he knows that.”

“What?”

“You wouldn’t know about it, of course; you wouldn’t be conscious of it. The Archivist is telling the truth, in as much as you couldn’t survive in a—well, traditional way. You’re not one of us. That’s probably a good thing for you. He’s just made things very messy.”

“Wait—I don’t understand—”

“Concentrate, Martin. I know it’s hard. There is a part of you—that part of you that is tangled up in the Archivist—that would survive. That part would stay here. With him.”

“What do you mean, with him?”

“We’re going to be here for a very, very long while, Martin. I don’t know if we’ll die—I don’t know if we can—but it is going to get quite lonely here for someone who was once a man. Are you listening?”

“Why are you telling me this?”

“Does it matter?”

Martin thought about it, or he tried to; the pull he felt was growing stronger, more insistent. Certainly, she wouldn’t be here if making sure he stayed if it weren’t in her own interests. He had already been set on it; there was more to it, for her to risk this kind of intervention.

But it doesn’t matter, does it? The realization settled on him; he believed her, and that was enough. He wouldn’t let Jon suffer that mindless torment alone if he didn’t have to. Whatever else that brought, whatever the consequences were—whatever Anabelle wasn’t saying—it wouldn’t change anything about his decision.

Although the static continued to rise, the pull of the other dimension seemed to weaken, become less. He didn’t know if it actually had—if Jon himself was finally weakening—or if Annabelle’s words had pushed him harder to resist it. Perhaps it was both.

“Martin.” Jon’s sudden, renewed grip on his hand was painful. “Look at me. Tell me where you are.”

His eyes were clear again; his voice was steady. At least I can say a proper goodbye, Martin thought.

“Jon. I’m—I’m here. I’m with you.”

“You need to go. Right now.”

“I’m not leaving you.” He smiled; he wanted Jon to know it was ok, although he didn’t have the words anymore.

“You don’t have to. I’m coming with you.”

“What?”

“I’ve changed my mind. I’m going. But you need to go first.”

“I—I don’t believe you.” The finality that Martin had felt, the peace of knowing it was over, that it was decided, began to give way to uncertainty. “You’re lying.”

“Martin—please. I’m not lying. I will follow you. I want to.”

“If you’re really going, just—just take me with you. Like you did last time.”

“I can’t.” Jon brought his palm to Martin’s face, and the rippling static subsided just a little. “I can’t. It’s—once I leave here, leave them, that bond between us, it’s—it’s broken. I can’t bring you with me. You have to go first.”

“Jon—"

“I’ve already let this go too long. Maybe, though—if you go now, we can still—”

It wasn’t fair. It was never fair. “I—”

“Martin—trust me. Please, just—just trust me.”

The buzz of static was wearing him down; it was too hard to think. He was tired. He was confused.

If he stayed, then Jon would stay too; Jon wouldn’t be alone.

If he left—

Trust me. Jon’s voice broke through the static.

Trust me. Martin wanted to; he always wanted to. It was just that—

Trust me.

“Ok.” The sobbing, panicked voice he heard didn’t feel like it belonged to him. “Ok.”

Jon’s forehead pressed against his. “I love you.”

“I love you too.”

Jon kissed him.

Martin closed his eyes; he made his choice.