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dragimal · 1 year ago

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Fave Long Fics

good ol' @arahir is asking for everyone's fave long fics, so here are mine!

sorry if the rambling is a bit long, I just want to express my love <3

🌟: denotes a fic that belongs in the literary equivalent of the Louvre-- a stunning piece of writing even outside of its contribution to the fandom

JJBA

🌟 scheherazade -- shylittleghost; Josuke/Okuyasu-centric, but multiple POVs; canon-compliant prequel/sequel to part 4, necessary to read/watch part 4 to understand

this is one of those fics that not only elevates the original work in several ways, but it's a stunning piece of writing as a whole. the flow and tone of the piece is so unique and difficult to describe, with a fitting balance between mystery/horror and deadpan humor, and uses the narrating voice to play with the 4th wall in a really fun and satisfying way. oh, and one of the last chapters is a little RPG game, adding a bit little multimedia twist <3

BEASTARS

🌟 Mongrels and Strays series (mainly Mongrels and Lockjaw)-- HassouToby; technically Mongrels' primary ships are Legosi/Haru and Louis/Juno, but it's more genfic with multiple POVs. Lockjaw is Pina/Riz-centric; canon divergence from ch 156 of the manga, so it's necessary to read at least that far to understand

I have a complicated love/hate relationship with Beastars, but this fic honestly retroactively makes Beastars a better experience, imo. it not only enhances the source material, but engages and challenges its implications in ways that I frankly think Beastars itself failed to, introducing a new final antagonist, new thematic tension, and new challenges for the main characters to face. more than anything though, Mongrels feels like what the end of Beastars should have been. this fic isn’t afraid to up the stakes and have actual consequences, making the central conflict feel like a real threat to both individual characters and society as a whole. this fic is intense and brutal, and it’s not afraid to make the characters you love hurt

Homestuck

🌟 Detective Pony -- sonnetstuck; Dirk-centric(??); it's an extension of a one-off joke in the comic, but it's not necessary to know HS to read it (but it's def more satisfying if you're at least familiar with the Alpha kids)

does this fic even need to be stated, for any HS fan? this is a classic of classics, the best rec any HS fan could give. a fic that starts off with a goofy joke from the original comic (a Pony Pals kid's book that Dirk has edited with silly commentary), which gradually snowballs into a much deeper story. a stunning piece of writing, I rank it among the best works of metafiction literature of all time. this fic does an incredible job of imitating Hussie's writing style (specifically Dirk's voice) and the multi-media presentation of HS, it almost feels like it popped straight out of the comic

Endangered -- Mortior; Dirk/Hal, Dirk-centric; robot-apocalypse AU, not necessary to know anything about HS

rly fun au, and one of my fave whump fics, for any whump fans out there. it's also one of my favorite depictions of an AI personality, like the approach to relationships and perceptions feels believable

The Magnus Archives

🌟 Two Ships Passing -- pyrites; Gerry Keay/Jon Sims-centric; a canon-divergent au starting before canon which slightly shifts the flow of the original story, so it's not strictly necessary to be familiar with TMA, but it helps

I must admit I never got around to finishing this one after it finished updating (😭), but trust me when I say this fic is stunning. some scenes still grip me 'round the throat to this day even just thinking about them. and the additional lore/background-building for certain characters is so so fitting and satisfying, it adds so much depth

To The Moon and Back series (main fic is Banned Book Week) -- verboseDescription; several different POVs, though BBB is Gerry/Tim-centric; the main fic diverges from canon after season 3, so I suppose knowledge up to that point is fine

another one I need to get around to finishing someday (idk why I dropped off a bunch of TMA fics specifically...), but this one introduces some interesting new character dynamics, and additional lore-building for many of the characters that adds fun new depth. also a few OCs whom I simply adore <3

What Belongs to the Sea -- TwoDrunkenCelestials, WhyNotFly; starts Elias/Jon, with Jon/Martin endgame, Jon-centric; "Jon is a selkie" au, and the fic implies/explains the rest of canon well enough to read without being familiar with TMA imo

this fic approaches canon worldbuilding from the direction of a different species, giving a unique new perspective on established truths of the setting. I also love the way Jon's character is so different, but still fundamentally the same kinda guy-- "fuck around and find out"-ass man lmao. not to mention Elias' fucked-up dynamic with Jon is ramped up here in a really delicious way, it rly puts their canon dynamic into perspective

Danny Phantom

🌟 Phantom of Truth / Shadow of a Doubt -- HaiJu; Danny Fenton & Maddie Fenton-centric; "what if" scenario divergence from an unspecific point in canon, would prolly be best to be familiar with the show but u can prolly get away with some wiki skimming

this one's a classic, and one of the big contributors to the "dissection/vivisection" genre of whump in the DP fandom, haha. it's such an intimate analysis of Danny's relationship with his mom, and it refuses to pull punches on Danny's situation and resulting trauma. I think it also does an excellent job challenging Maddie's perception/ethics in genuine and fundamental ways

Rise of the Guardians (movie)

🌟 Shadows and Light series -- not_poignant; Jack Frost/Pitch Black, Jack-centric; canon-compliant sequel to the movie (can't speak for book canon), u can prolly get away with reading a wiki summary if u don't wanna watch the movie

one of my fave fics for a decade now, I absolutely LOVE what this fic does for ROTG worldbuilding. so much thought is put into the politics of the fae community, and how magic functions both practically and thematically. and it introduces a ton of cool fae ocs, many of which now have their own stories, as the author has used their fae world here in other original stories as well (would also recommend!!). and the relationship between Pitch/Jack is excellent of course, with a lot of interesting BDSM elements to their dynamic (a common trend in this author's other writing as well)

Mob Psycho 100

🌟 A Breach of Trust -- Phantomrose96; Ritsu, Mob, & Reigen-centric, but multiple other POVs as well; diverges from canon before the start of the canon story, so knowing MP100 isn't necessary

this is a really fun "what if Reigen and Mob didn't meet when they were supposed to?" canon-divergent au. it pushes basically every character to their worst, most self-destructive ends, and it makes me want to throttle some of them (affectionate <3). the fic isn't done yet (as of posting this), but it promises to end satisfyingly-- it just has to put everyone through the wringer first lmao

Welcome to Night Vale

🌟 run, run, fast as you-- -- (orphaned); Cecil/Carlos, Carlos-centric; compliant with early NV lore, mostly diverges in some of Carlos' background and motivations moving to Night Vale. familiarity with s1 would be useful, but not strictly necessary

really really stunning fic, I love the additional lore-building for Carlos and Cecil here, so much is added to their characters. since this is such an old fic, some of the lore here ends up being retroactively false, as the podcast introduced different lore later on. but I almost wish some of the lore here was canon b/c it's just that good (like Cecil's whole thing with the orphanage, and how the orphanage even functions OUGH!)

The Devil Went Down To Georgia (you heard that right, the country song)

🌟 The Devil Went Down to Georgia (And Then Went Down on Johnny) series -- notbecauseofvictories; Johnny/The Devil, Johnny-centric; I guess a modern take on canon, kinda treated like an original story tbh, but like. you can also just listen to the song beforehand

the author clearly has a deep knowledge and passion for music-- especially country music-- and it rly shines through in this fic. the celebration of music and community and country culture here is just. idk, it's like being invited to the table, somehow, I love it. this whole fic is poetry and it makes me ache

Portal

Blue Sky -- wafflestories; Wheatley/Chell-centric; canon-compliant sequel to the second game, necessary to know the games to understand

I must admit it's been several years since I've read this one, so my memory of it isn't quite as strong. but I remember it being a very loving rehabilitation of Wheatley and Chell's relationship, and I believe it's considered a classic by the ship's fans.

How To Train Your Dragon (movie)

I Hear Him Scream -- Rift-Raft; Toothless & Hiccup-centric; diverges from canon at the point when Hiccup downs Toothless with the net at the beginning of the movie, so watching the movie isn't super necessary, tho I imagine most of us have seen it (as we should!!)

I don't know that I would call this one particularly well-written-- it can get kinda awkward and jarring at points, and the end of the story kinda goes off the rails for me. but the premise and worldbuilding make up for it, imo. but I admit I love xenofiction, so I love seeing the deep lore about dragon culture/society this fic presents

Kekkai Sensen

Fleißiger Junge -- TheLennyBunny; Klaus/Leo, Leo-centric; demon/angel au, not necessary to know KKSS

I really love the demon/angel worldbuilding in this one, with a delicious twist of horror that's so fitting to canon /chef's kiss/. and the way Leo's family is characterized (with several OC characters) is so so fun and charming. good eating for the starving Klaus/Leo fans out there 😭

RWBY

🌟 Teaching Qrow -- ByronNightshade; Qrow-centric; a canon-compliant prequel to the canon story, a bit of knowledge about the setting and Qrow's backstory are kinda necessary

I fucking love what this fic does for Qrow's character, it treats him with way more nuance and understanding than canon ever has (tho tbf, most Qrow fans do, lol). and all the additional OCs and building on the subtle implications of RWBY lore... AUGH it's good

My Hero Academia

Hero Class Civil Warfare -- RogueDruid; genfic with multiple POVs; "what if" scenario divergence from an unspecific point in canon, prolly necessary to at least be familiar with the world/characters to a point

really fun "what if this class exercise got got a bit too intense, haha~" au. it introduces a ton of fun new dynamics between the characters, and lets Izuku shine as a badass, chessmaster "villain"

Omniscient Reader's Viewpoint

Imaginary Truths -- Mythril; Kim Dokja/Yoo Joonghyuk-centric; actor au, not necessary to know ORV

this fic does an excellent job translating the canon relationships/dynamics to this setting, and keeps the core of the story/themes intact in rly interesting ways.

new game (+) -- illusionedwhite; Kim Dokja/Yoo Joonghyuk, Yoo Joonghyuk-centric; role-reversal au, and since it starts from the beginning where where canon would have started, I guess it's not technically necessary to read ORV first? but ORV provides more context

this fic is rly careful about the particular way Kim Dokja and Yoo Joonghyuk switch roles-- it's very much about their story roles. their core characters/themes remain intact, they're just interpreted through a new lens here. this is for the fans that read ORV and thought, "what if I want to read ORV again, but slightly to the left?"

Genshin Impact

🌟 Begin Anew, O Lost Child -- DarthPeezy; Childe/Zhongli/Guizhong, Childe-centric; a time-travel au that diverges from canon at the battle with Osial in the Liyue chapter, so familiarity up to that point is necessary

there's something about circularity and connection, here. about reaching across expanses of time to connect with those you love, and those you lost. about the horror of fate, and the hope for a future in spite of it. idk, this fic did something to me

we were lovers -- ThirteenSocks; Kazuha/his unnamed friend, Kazuha-centric; "Kazuha loses his vision" au, with a few twists. this fic doesn't really touch canon involving the traveler, but familiarity with Inazuma is necessary, so at least up through that chapter in-game.

what else can I say except this fic is beautiful-- it has the same melodic quality that I associate with Kazuha himself, so it feels perfectly appropriate.

To Be or Not To Be (Human With You) -- lilbittofmatcha; Aether/Scaramouche, Aether-centric; diverges after the end of the whole Sumeru chapter, familiarity up to that point is necessary

I really really love Traveler fics that acknowledge that the Traveler is essentially an otherworldy alien being, and was perhaps even godlike(??) before landing in Teyvat. I especially love Aether's characterization here, and the obvious comparisons to be made with Scara's situation

Sinking Ships in Liyue Harbor -- whereherbonesareburied; Diluc/Kaeya, Diluc-centric; a "what if Kaeya left" divergence from canon sometime after the events of the Mondstadt chapter. it's necessary to be familiar with Kaeya and Diluc's relationship, so reading up on their lore is best, though familiarity up through the Liyue chapter will help with this one

something about the pacing and framing of this fic really charms me. like, Diluc's journey to find Kaeya is kinda framed as a series meetings with several new people, like snapshots from a photo album? it's fun to see so many different, brief impressions of characters through his eyes

Osomatsu-san

Dissociation Disease -- PyrrhicFiend; Karamatsu-centric; technically features multiple AUs, but the core story is show canon. not strictly necessary to be familiar with the show

a fic I never ended up finishing (someday..), but I remember it being incredibly trippy and bizarre in the best of ways. though it may not be the best fic to read dealing with dissociation themself, because it grapples a lot with warped perception and hallucinations

🌟 Frater, Ave Atque Vale -- (orphaned); Karamatsu/Osomatsu, Osomatsu-centric; fantasy AU, not necessary to know the show

this one's perhaps on the razor's edge of not being long enough for this list, but I'm counting it anyways. there's something about 'brief' writing styles that often captures me, like parsing a scene down to its bare essentials makes the tone/emotion land more powerfully. this fic is probably my favorite example of this style

Voltron: VLD

The Rites of Courtship -- calibratingentropy; Keith/Thace, Keith-centric; canon-divergence from the end of s1 ep12, and it's kinda necessary to be familiar at least to that point, though u might be able to skim the wiki

a rarepair I never woulda considered if a friend hadn't recced this fic to me way back, haha. this fic features some of my favorite alien worldbuilding, with a lot of thought and care put into Galran culture and biology, I think about it a lot as a specevo creator myself

The Favored Champion -- sugarapplesweet; Sendak/Shiro, Shiro-centric; canon-divergence before canon, while Shiro is still a coliseum fighter

real fucked-up Stockholm Syndrome abusive relationship, Shiro goes thru the wringer </3. I love the way the relationship with the Lions is depicted here too, the chapter where Shiro basically screams at the Black Lion grips me by the throat. another great example of cool Galra worldbuilding too, not as heavy on the bio side as the last one but fun to see either way!

Tokyo Mew Mew

The Deal -- RizuOnceAgain; Ichigo/Quiche, Ichigo-centric; canon-divergent from an unspecified(?) point in canon, and I um. I've never watched TMM and know very little beyond TMM's basic premise and main characters? so take that as you will

I don't often read fics from things I'm not familiar with, but I trust my friend's recs with my life, and this one did not disappoint. I can't speak on how faithful it is to the original, but Ichigo/Quiche's dynamic here makes me go crazy nutso bonkers!! it has me banging on the walls and chewing furniture, oh my god!! it almost makes me wanna watch the show even tho I know I won't like it nearly as much as this fic 😭.

#there are still a few fics I can't in good faith rec here simply b/c of the source material #sigh. they still live in me heart tho. and my AO3 <3 #shut up ashley #I may end up updating this as I please #fic recs

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lunarvioletss · 1 year ago

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title: regarding one of the many times timothy stoker was dramatic in the institute

fandom: the magnus archives characters: sasha james, jonathan sims, tim stoker summary: pre-canon sillies of sasha, jon, and tim in the research department when jon is having a very long, warm day looking at microfiche. warnings: none (to my knowledge)

a/n: erm..... so it's my first fic on this account! but a long time since i've written in general oops,,, enjoy?

ao3 link

Jon chewed on the back of his pencil as he stared incomprehensibly at the newspaper on the microfiche display. His eyes scanned the words, and some of them were making it into his head. But it was hot. Far too hot in the institute to be able to think. In his few trips specifically to America, he’d learned to curse the lack of aircon in British buildings. Staring at the slightly smudged ink of a newspaper long since transferred to microfiche made his head spin slightly, and frankly, he was sick of it.

With a huff, he turned off the display and removed his glasses. To hell with it. The statement was from the 1930s; how desperately could Gertrude need a follow-up on it, really? Sasha was already looking into similar reports of the same time. Certainly, she was capable enough that he could spare five minutes resting his eyes.

“Jon! Look at this!"

Never mind.

Jon replaced his glasses and turned to look at Tim, who was grinning widely. “Yes?”

“Alright, well, you know how we don’t get to look at much of the stuff in artifact storage, right?” Tim’s smile grew with giddy excitement-- excitement that Jon knew could easily lead to unpredictable outcomes.

“Yes...”

“Well,” he drew out as he leaned forward ever so slightly. “I got one.”

Jon frowned. “Got what?”

In rhythm, Tim’s face fell comedically. “A real, haunted object!” With a flourish, he produced an archival-grade plastic bag, flicking it down to reveal a wooden stick inside of it.

“That’s a stick.”

“Nooo, Jon. Don’t do this to me.” The devilish grin was back and stronger than ever. Tim hummed, “You know what this is.”

The frown creased Jon’s face further. “A wand.”

“Yes! Ding, ding, ding, Jonathan Sims! A wand.” Tim closed the distance between the two of them and set the wand on the table in front of Jon. Upon further inspection, it was exactly like he’d said in the first place. It was a dark, wooden stick in an archive-grade vacuum-sealed bag inside of a larger archive-grade ziplock plastic bag.

Jon looked up with a bit of amusement starting to twinge at his lips. “It does really look like a stick.”

“Oh, shut up!” Tim’s laugh rang brightly throughout the research area, and he continued, “I bet Sasha would agree with me. Sasha?! Saaaasha!”

There was a small thunk the room over and a bit of shuffling before Sasha’s face peeked through the doorway looking playfully amused. “Yes, Tim?”

He snatched up the “wand” again and thrust his hand towards her. “Is this a wand or a...” His face contorted with disgust. “Stick?”

Sasha shrugged. “Looks a bit like something a first-day woodworking student would make.”

“Oh, you all hate me!” Tim cried, falling to the floor in a theatrical heap. “I can’t believe my closest friends would do this to me!”

“Tim, stop being melodramatic on the floor of the institute. It’ll put the research department in a bad light if everyone hears your moaning and wailing,” Jon requested as seriously as he could, but a laugh was really testing his deadpan abilities.

“All you care about is workplace status! Not your friend, Tim Stoker...”

There was a moment of silence as the three of them looked at each other before bursting out laughing. Sure, it may have been hot and sticky in the institute itself, but there was always something so refreshing about the lightened mood Sasha and Tim brought about together. Jon was glad for that.

#the magnus archives #tma fanfic #tma #tim stoker #sasha james #jonathan sims #sorry if this is weirdly formatted i haven't posted a fic on tumblr in foreverrrrrr #the moon posts fics

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thekisforkeats · 3 years ago

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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?

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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.

#the magnus archives #tma #jonmartin #jon sims #jonathan sims #jon the archivist #martin blackwood #tim stoker #sasha james #archives gang #otp: one way or another together #fanfic #my fanfic #ableism tw #jmart #canon tma fic

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nat-20s · 4 years ago

Text

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.

#jonmartinweek2021 #jonmartin #jon sims #martin blackwood #AHHH this is just over TWO THOUSAND words #i really was like for the last prompt i will not Shut Up lmao #also fun fact! part 4 was specifically designed to not be clear whether it was from jon or martins perspective

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wolftraps · 4 years ago

Note

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?”

#the magnus archives #martin blackwood #jonathan sims #tma #tma au #my tma fic #my writing #jane prentiss #elias bouchard #time travel au #the archivist #am i going to write this au?#unclear #will this scene be part of it if i do?#who knows #but i've been thinking about it for like three days straight #Anonymous #you asked #archivist time travel au

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journalofimprobablethings · 3 years ago

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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!

#tma #the magnus archives #jonathan sims #martin blackwood #jonmartin #tma fanfic #upton house #i can't believe it's done!#i've been working on this thing since may #wild #scribblings #cw memory loss

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yellowocaballero · 4 years ago

Text

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.

#tma #jonathan sims #the magnus archives #tma fanfic #the magnus archives fanfic #sasha james-centric #this is an implied fix-it everybody lives fic #crack #comedy #absolutely nothing sad? in a MEG FIC?#sasha james #tim stoker #jon is based off me at a new job anxiously calling everyone 'mr'#rest assured sasha is trans but it just never came up #my writing

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aerialflight · 4 years ago

Text

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)

#Fanfiction #AO3 #Fic Rec #Fic Rec List #Podcasts #The Magnus Archives #Supernatural #Avatar The Last Airbender #Naruto #The Magicians #Game of Thrones #Haikyuu!!#Crossover #Matilda #Welcome to Night Vale #Harry Potter #Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them #Katekyou Hitman Reborn

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amphitritemists · 4 years ago

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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.

#tma #the magnus archives #the magnus institute #jonmartin #jonathan sims #rusty quill tma #rusty quill podcast

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dangerous-disposition · 4 years ago

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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.

#jonmartin #the magnus archives #tma #tma spoilers #THE POWER OF LOVE AND TRUST WILL SAVE THE WORLD #also idk the proper format of like image id's but i didn't want to NOT type out the reply #my mag thots #500 notes

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bluejayblueskies · 4 years ago

Text

philautia

n. a love based on deep connection to one’s well-being and built upon a love for one’s self; a centered wholeness

Words: 2.3k

Fandom: The Magnus Archives

Relationship: Sasha James & Tim Stoker & Martin Blackwood & Jonathan Sims, Past Tim Stoker/Sasha James, Minor Jonathan Sims/Martin Blackwood

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

Additional Tags: AU - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Fluff and Humor, Statement Fic (but not in the way you expect!), Aromantic and Asexual Characters, Implied/Referenced Homophobia (very minor), Implied/Referenced Arophobia (also very minor)

Summary:

SASHA

So, according to Tim, I’m supposed to be recording a statement on, quote, my “most swashbucklingest experience as an esteemed member of the LGBT community.” He left this recorder on my desk and stole my scone. Timothy Stoker, I will not forget that.

---

Statements of members of the archival staff at the Magnus Institute, London, regarding certain facets of their aspec identities. Statements compiled by Timothy Stoker on 10th June, 2016. For personal use only.

Ao3 link in reblogs

Or read below:

[CLICK]

MARTIN

—really don’t think this is necessary—

TIM

Aaaaand we’re recording!

MARTIN

(exasperated) Tim.

TIM

Oh, come on Martin, it’s more fun this way!

[MARTIN MAKES A NOISE OF DISAGREEMENT]

TIM

You cannot look me in the eye and tell me that this doesn’t appeal to your, and I quote, “retro aesthetic.”

MARTIN

(reluctantly) It… might.

TIM

See! So it’s perfect!

…

[HE SIGHS]

Obviously you don’t have to if you don’t want to, Martin. I just thought it might be nice—to have something to look back on when we’re all old and sick of each other, you know? Here, I can go first.

MARTIN

Tim, you don’t have to—

TIM

(overlapping, adopting the ‘Archivist’ voice) Statement of Timothy Stoker, regarding the first time he went to Pride with his brother, Danny. June 10th, 2016.

(cheekily) Statement begins.

TIM (STATEMENT)

(in his normal voice) I realized I was into blokes too when I was 15, you know. Think it took me a while because of the whole ace thing, though that took me until I was in uni to really figure out. I was still fine with sex, you know, always enjoyed it when it came up, just… never really wanted it with anyone in particular. So I suppose I’d assumed for a while that the things I was feeling toward other guys weren’t romantic because I never had the sexual parts to go along with them. (with wry humor) Almost ruined a few relationships that way, actually.

But I’m getting a bit off-topic. Can’t be one of those rambling statement givers Jon hates. God, I can see his face now, that thing he does with his nose—Martin, you know the one, the- the way it looks like he’s just smelled something really, really rank.

MARTIN

I thought you said you weren’t going to ramble.

TIM

Cheeky, cheeky. Okay, where was I. Right.

TIM (STATEMENT)

Mom and Dad weren’t real big on the whole bi thing, so the first time I got the chance to go to Pride was in uni. The first time I got the chance to go with Danny was after he turned 18 and got his first modeling gig. At least, I think he was already modeling back then. Point is, we were both out of the house, and Danny had been dying to go to Pride with me ever since I sent him pictures of me and Sasha eating an entire box of rainbow-colored donuts that first year. I’d figured out I was ace by then, but it had been pretty recent, so when we got there, I found one of the vendors selling those big flags you drape over your shoulders and got an ace one. Felt a bit weird having the ace flag instead of the bi one like the other years, but I had worn that pink, blue, and purple button-down Sasha got me for Christmas once, so overall, it felt all right.

And Danny—god, he loved it. Pretty sure he ate his weight in fried food that day.

[HE LAUGHS]

Almost got the aro flag he’d borrowed from Sasha dirty, actually, when he—

(quickly changes course) Ah, nothing! Sasha, if you’re listening to this, absolutely nothing happened to your flag, and I definitely did not have it laundered before I returned it to you.

TIM

Aaaaand that’s it! Statement ends, I guess.

See—easy! (a bit more seriously) But really—you don’t have to record one if you don’t want to, Martin.

MARTIN

…

No, I- I want to.

TIM

Are you sure? I don’t want you to do that thing where you just do something because you think someone else wants you to.

MARTIN

I do not—!

…

Okay, okay, fine. Point taken. But yeah, I- I’m sure.

[RUSTLING AS THE TAPE RECORDER IS PASSED FROM TIM TO MARTIN]

MARTIN

(with an audible smile) Statement of, er, Martin Blackwood. Regarding… a crush. No, no, wait—god, that sounds so juvenile. Regarding himself, and a person who- er, someone whom he—

[HE SIGHS]

Fine. Regarding a crush. Statement given June 10th, 2016.

Statement begins.

MARTIN (STATEMENT)

I’m always a little embarrassed to tell people that I’ve never dated anyone before? Okay, a- a lot embarrassed, actually. I try not to bring it up, but people will say things like, oh, you know how it is to shop for a partner or meeting her parents is definitely nerve-wracking—which is wrong on, er, two accounts, actually—and then I feel more awkward not telling them that I don’t know, actually, because I’ve never been in a relationship longer than a week or so. Then, they’ll get all sympathetic, like it’s some- some tragedy that I’m not involved with someone, and that’s worse, because then they’ll offer to set me up with people, or say that they don’t understand why I’m single because I’m a catch or whatever, and I have to give them some excuse about not interested at the moment.

It’s not that, not really. Dates with strangers, they- they just never work out for me.

I think I fall somewhere on the aromantic spectrum? I didn’t think about it much until Sasha mentioned it once over drinks—I think you were there, Tim, although you were (laughs) very drunk by that point. I told her I hadn’t had a crush on anyone since sixth form, and she threw around a bunch of terms. I- I honestly don’t really remember, it was kind of overwhelming and (laughs) I was also pretty drunk as well. But yeah, it… it sounds about right.

(hesitantly, as if bracing himself for impact) So… this person. Who I, er. Recently, that is, who I…

[HE CLEARS HIS THROAT]

It’s really strange, that’s all. And a- a lot. I—heh—I don’t really know what to do about it.

MARTIN

…

Uh, statement ends? I guess? I, uh, don’t really have anything else to say. (jokingly) It’s not like there’s any, er, follow-up or whatever. (to Tim) Was- was that okay?

TIM

(audibly smiling) Yup! Most excellent, Marto. (more seriously) You felt okay, right?

MARTIN

(huh) Yeah. Yeah, I- I did. A bit nice, actually. (quickly) As- as long as this stays in the archives, though. It… it is staying in the archives, right?

TIM

Oh, definitely. Right next to the section on love potions, I think.

MARTIN

Tim!

TIM

(laughs) Yes, Martin, it’s staying in the archives. Pinkie promise. Just you, me, Sasha, and Jon. (in the tone of a man who knows a great secret and wants nothing more than to share it) Speaking of Jon—

MARTIN

(quickly) Uh, recording ends!

TIM

(undeterred) —is he the—?

[CLICK]

SASHA

Right. So, according to Tim, I’m supposed to be recording a statement on, quote, my “most swashbucklingest experience as an esteemed member of the LGBT community.” He left this recorder on my desk and stole my scone. Timothy Stoker, I will not forget that. It was white chocolate raspberry, and I’m stealing the money it cost out of your wallet.

…

Anyway.

[SHE CLEARS HER THROAT]

Statement of Sasha James, given 10th June 2016. Subject of statement is… hmm. Let’s say… (laughs) A brief relationship with one Timothy Stoker.

Statement begins.

SASHA (STATEMENT)

Tim, I know you’re listening to this, and I just want to preface this by saying that yes, it was Italian that we had for dinner that night, not Greek. You’re thinking of a different friendship-turned-hookup-turned-awkward-aftermath-turned-friendship.

[SHE LAUGHS QUIETLY]

Anyway, I guess the best place to begin with this whole thing is by saying that I’ve known I was aro since I was 16 and that I’ve never been very good at talking about it. I’ve ended plenty of tried and failed relationships with the it’s-not-you-it’s-me talk because I didn’t know how to explain that I just… wasn’t interested in romance.

I wanted to explain it to you beforehand, Tim, I really, really did. We’ve had this conversation, I know I know—I won’t rehash it over tape.

[SHE SIGHS]

But the important thing is that I like you so, so much, and—god, this is stupid—I guess maybe I thought that it wouldn’t matter with you? That you could like me romantically and I could like you platonically and it would be fine. Like I said, stupid, but you asked me out to that Italian place—yes, Italian, for god’s sake, I had the chicken parm and you had some sort of lasagna abomination—and I just… couldn’t say no. And it was nice, really. I had a lot of fun.

And then we slept together. And… that was really nice. But then, the next morning, the… the guilt set in. Because I felt the same as I always had about you—which is to say that I loved you, just not in the same way you loved me—and I became convinced that I’d gone and ruined the whole thing.

Ignoring you for a week was probably not the correct response. (quieter) Yeah, definitely not my finest moment. But I’d gotten it in my head that the moment I told you that I didn’t feel that way about you and that I would never feel that way about you—or about anyone—you’d hate me. And you don’t have to say that you’d never hate me—I know you wouldn’t. I think I knew it then, too. But fear is a powerful thing.

…

Anyway, you know how it all turned out. You finally dragged me out to coffee and I finally told you why I’d been avoiding you and it was really, really awkward for about a month after that and then it just… wasn’t anymore. (audibly smiling) And you’re still my best friend, Tim. Even if you did steal my scone.

[THE SOUND OF PAPERS RUSTLING AND A CHAIR ROLLING BACKWARD]

Recording ends.

[CLICK]

ARCHIVIST

Statement of Kyle Henning, regarding a strange mushroom he found growing in his garden. Original statement given April 15th, 2011. Audio recording by Jonathan Sims, Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute, London.

Statement begi—

[DOOR OPENS]

TIM

Hey boss! Got a moment?

ARCHIVIST

(irritated) Tim, please at least knock when the door to my office is closed. I was just about to record a statement.

TIM

(unbothered) So if you were about to, that means you’re not recording one right now, which means you do have a moment.

ARCHIVIST

(flatly) Shut the door on your way out, Tim.

TIM

(brightly) Right you are, boss! Juuuust going to leave this here on your desk. Bring it back whenever you’re done!

[PAPERS RUSTLE AS SOMETHING IS PLACED ON THE DESK]

ARCHIVIST

(dryly) I’m fairly certain that I’m the one who assigns you tasks to complete, Tim.

TIM

That you do! I guess I better get back to them then. Have fun!

ARCHIVIST

(firmly) Tim—

[DOOR CLOSES]

[HE SIGHS]

ARCHIVIST

Right. Well, given that this recording is essentially useless now and I hadn’t even gotten to the statement, I may as well start over. (mutters under his breath) Bloody waste of tape and my time—

[CLICK]

[PAPERS RUSTLE. FOR A MOMENT, THERE IS ONLY THE SOUND OF BREATHING. THEN, JON SIGHS.]

ARCHIVIST

Before I begin, I would like to make it very clear that this is not an appropriate use of working hours or the tape recorders, which should be used for statements that won’t record digitally as per Elias’s request.

…

That being said, I am… not entirely opposed to this project. So, I suppose…

[HE CLEARS HIS THROAT]

Statement of Jonathan Sims, Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute, London, regarding… regarding a black ring worn on the middle finger of his right hand. Statement recorded by subject, June 10th, 2016.

Statement begins.

ARCHIVIST (STATEMENT)

I’ve often been told that I am not a very open person. I don’t necessarily intend to be closed-off, but I’ve also never found the need to disclose every aspect of my personal life to everyone I come into contact with. And yes, Tim—because I trust that you and you alone will be listening to this tape—that is a perfectly respectable way to live one’s life. Not everyone needs to know what I ate for breakfast that morning or who my favorite primary school teacher was.

…

I… will admit, though, that in certain circumstances, I… could probably stand to be more transparent regarding aspects of my personal life. Perhaps that’s why Georgie bought me the ring.

It wasn’t a special occasion. She just brought it back from the shop one day, a few weeks after a… particularly illuminating conversation about certain sexual identities, and dropped it atop my copy of Wuthering Heights. Honestly, I had no idea what it was at first. I- (heh) I tried to make a joke about unorthodox proposals, but I- I don’t really think it landed. Georgie just looked at me and said that she’d seen it on one of the online forums, that it was called an ace ring, and that she thought I might like it. I think I was more surprised about the fact that the ring fit perfectly than at the fact that she’d bought me the ring in the first place.

So I wore it. And it felt… nice. Understand, I don’t keep quiet about my romantic and sexual identities out of shame or embarrassment or indecision; I simply don’t feel the need to announce them at any given moment. So I’ve always been fond of small things—pins and stickers and such—that I can incorporate into my life, insignificant enough that they aren’t readily apparent to anyone but me, as they’re for me more than for anyone else. My ring is one such thing.

[THERE IS A MOMENT OF SILENCE. MORE WORDS SIT IN THE AIR, WAITING. EVENTUALLY, HOWEVER, HE SIGHS, AND THE WORDS REMAIN UNSAID.]

ARCHIVIST

Statement ends.

…

Right.

(with something that might be a smile) As for your other request, I do have a prior engagement with Georgie and Melanie this weekend. Though if you’re willing to accommodate two more, I’m sure they wouldn’t be opposed to coming along. Georgie’s always telling me that Pride is more fun when you’re with a group, after all.

End recording.

[CLICK]

#tma #the magnus archives #tma fic #the magnus archives fic #AspecArchives #asexual jonathan sims #gray-aro martin blackwood #aromantic sasha james #asexual tim stoker #sex-favorable tim stoker #biphobia //#arophobia //#(minorly for both)#my fic #my writing

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athina-blaine · 4 years ago

Link

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.

“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]

#the magnus archives #tma #jonmartin #asexual awareness week #fanfiction #fic #yes it's late but please accept my humble offering!! ;w;

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janekfan · 4 years ago

Link

Click.

Jon,

I trust you’ll have the statement I left for you this afternoon recorded by end of work day tomorrow.

Regards,

Click.

Jon,

If you are to be useful in your position as Archivist, speak to your employees about what it means to research properly. I expect to see marked improvement following your discussion.

Regards,

Click.

Jon,

You must have forgotten to record the statement from last week. I understand. It takes time to settle into a new position. Still, you have new responsibility and you know I hold you in high esteem. Tomorrow will have to do.

Regards,

Click.

Jon,

Apologies for the late notice. Record the statement Rosie provided you prior to your leaving today. It is imperative.

Regards,

Click.

Jon,

Please refrain from spending the night in the Archives. It is a liability. I’m sure you understand.

Regards,

Jon cradled his head in his hands, massaging the tension taking up residence in his temples and rubbing his itchy, aching eyes. These were only the latest in a very long list of emails he could never seem to keep up with. As soon as he made his way through them, reordered his plans for the day, accepted a new assignment from Elias, always given at the very last minute, Jon’s morning was already eaten up. He’d taken to arriving an hour or two early just to give himself more time to organize his plan of attack.

Like clockwork, Martin arrived with a mug of tea prepared exactly the way he preferred it.

“Thank you, Martin.” Gratefully, he cradled the hot ceramic in his palms, waiting until the heat seeping through the walls became nearly unbearable before taking a sip and closing his eyes in the briefest ecstasy. As a researcher Jon doubted he’d get much out of him, at least not for a while. It seemed as though they had something in common--he was as inept at his job as Jon was at his.

“Pardon me for saying, but, Jon, you look terrible.” He felt terrible. Sore and tired and overwhelmed. This new job felt like drowning and for the life of him he couldn’t figure out why Elias chose him over Sasha. She had so much experience, was so much more capable.

“I will not. Now, thank you again for the tea. Please return to your desk and continue with the statement I gave you three days ago.” Properly chastised and flushing bright red, Martin stumbled over his farewells as poorly as he stumbled out the door. Jon took a breath that achieved nothing, then took another, trying to clear his head enough to read through a statement. With how far behind he’d fallen he really should read through two but the ones he ended up documenting on those old tape recorders made him feel strange, dazed and drained, like he’d spent the time sprinting instead of speaking. The phone rang, harsh electronic chattering jolting him awake and he glanced frantically at his watch; only a few minutes.

Hell, Jon.

At least pretend you know what you’re doing.

Isn’t that what Georgie always said? Fake it till you make it?

Gingerly, he lifted the phone from its cradle.

“Sims, Archivist.”

“Jon.” Of course. He’d already known. “I trust you’ve had a productive morning.” It was as though he was watching his every move and Jon surreptitiously skimmed over the room, searching for cameras while knowing even if they did exist, he would never find them.

“Y’yes. Yes, of course.” An oily sensation trickled down the seam of his spine and he had a sneaking suspicion that Elias could tell he was lying. “I’ll have that recording up to you straight away.”

“Glad to hear it.” There was amusement there, cold and calculating. Jon didn’t like being played with and Elias reminded him too much of a cat with a mouse. “I’ll be waiting. Jon.” The delicate severing of the line failed to make the watching any less. All the same he plucked the statement off the top of his pile knowing already not to bother with his laptop and sank into the smog and the smoke, gasping as the written words closed over his face and buried him in obscurity.

“Statement ends.” He heaved a breath, shuffled through the notes he did have to allow himself time to get his trembling fingers under control. “Supplemental. Victim does not appear to have any connections to, uh, well, anyone. It appears as though they cut themselves off to family and friends long before their voyage. They have never been found.” Lord, he hoped that would be sufficient for Elias. But he didn’t have any additional information and so it would have to do. Groaning between teeth clenched near hard enough to crack his jaw, Jon pillowed his heavy head on folded arms until the room stopped its spinning. A notification rang out, echoing painfully in the space between his ears.

A new email.

And rather than reading it, Jon took up the tape, packaging it neatly in an envelope on the way out of his office and toward Elias.

Jon,

You recall, of course, your promise the other day. I wish to inquire about the whereabouts of the paperwork I was expecting this morning.

Regards,

Click.

Jon,

Do try to arrive to work on time.

Regards,

Click.

Jon,

Did you forget about our lunch meeting? We shall reschedule.

Regards,

Jon thumbed through the calendar on his phone, disappointing himself with the distinct lack of invites to this mysterious lunch meeting. He went as far as to search his inbox. He’d never delete an email, preferring a papertrail himself, and could not find a thing. But Elias sounded so sure that Jon began to doubt his own memory. He’d been tired, working several late nights in a row. It was possible he forgot. He did that when he failed to write things down. He buried both hands in his curls and pulled. Damn it, all. Jon. Get a hold of yourself. Do your job.

Doggedly and with manic determination, Jon chewed through the stacks of files arranged in order of importance, lessening their number by a considerable amount and he was exhausted. Elias had kept calling with inane and frankly useless information at all the wrong moments, spiking his already rabbiting heart rate because no, he hadn’t yet had a moment to go over the first statement sent along today let alone the following three. Slowing the rise and fall of his chest deliberately, Jon pressed a palm over his upset and sore stomach.

Work was piling up at such a rate that Jon had the brilliant idea of taking home a messenger bag chock-a-block full each night. He’d been told off thrice about falling asleep in the archives and at least when he passed out in his own flat he was caught by couch cushions instead of the solid pine of his cheap desk. Alright, finally. Large, uninterrupted swathes of time in the evenings and on weekends and he was finally, finally catching up with all of his back log. The tight fist of anxiety clutched mercilessly around his lungs and stealing away any chance of a full breath began to loosen. He could do this. He was passable at this job.

He arrived Monday, bright and early, unloading his completed work and filing it all carefully and neatly away. A thing of beauty he took a moment to be proud of.

Until he sat down to check his emails.

Jon,

Statements are the property of the Magnus Institute and should not be removed from the premises. I trust you understand and this oversight will not happen again.

Regards,

Projecting an air of confidence he most certainly did not possess, Jon approached Tim and Sasha with a short stack of files he hoped to divide between them. Understandably, they were cross with him for taking the position even though he really had very little say in the matter. He was hopeful their chilly attitude towards him would thaw over time because he missed them and they were his friends even if they were taking time away from him at the moment. Honestly, he’d like to take time away from himself and his mistakes and the crushing one tonne weight of his inability.

“What can we do you for, boss?” Tim’s new nickname for him didn’t altogether sound like a positive thing but Jon decided there was no use bringing it up. Especially when he’d come to beg favors. His voice got stuck in his throat and he cleared it, apprehensive and wishing he’d never had this idea.

“Hullo.” He nodded to each of them. Why was this so awkward? Because they hate you, you prat. “I’m, I wouldn’t normally ask, I know you’re working hard on the tasks I’ve already assigned you. But. I’m a touch overwhelmed?” He chuffed a laugh, it was either that or sob. “And, if you’re not too busy I. I’m sorry, I just.” As covertly as possible, he blinked away tears. “I need some help.” He held his breath. Swallowed nervously. Worried his bottom lip.

“Sorry boss.” And Tim looked so contrite the crashing guilt broke over Jon like a wave. “I’m still in the middle of the other things you asked me to do.” Sasha was next, tilting her head in sympathy, a small, sad smile not quite reaching her eyes.

“We’re all busy, Jon.” Gently, she spoke, probably trying to spare his feelings. “You should know, being the one passing out the work and all.” Oh. He’d thought. His desk was still piled impossibly high and Sasha and Tim had a few each but. No. Stop it, you know they're better suited to this than you. You know it. Don't blame your friends for your own ineptitude. They’d all been working so hard, he distinctly remembered recording and filing their work and Martin’s.

“Of course, it’s. I’m sorry. I’ll do better in the future.”

“Thanks, boss.”

Wonderful. Now he was trying to offload his own problems by putting undue pressure on his assistants and with as much as he was under he’d have thought he knew better than to burden them like that. It certainly didn’t make his job any easier. But. But he had thought they might be finished on some of the follow through, it had been some time. Okay. Alright. No harm done, not really, he murmured to himself, tucking the files under his arm and retreating to the safety of his office. He could brush off his researching skills and help out, it hadn’t been that long. If he planned better he could alleviate some of their stress.

Jon,

Going forward, I would appreciate if you would check over the work of your assistants to make certain all is well before being recorded and filed.

Regards,

It was a Tuesday.

He knew that because on Tuesdays Martin arrived an hour later. Something to do with taking care of his mum. Without knowing that, Jon wasn’t sure he’d know at all.

His stomach hurt.

There hadn’t been much time for sleeping, not with coming in over the weekend to sort through and double check perfectly adequate research. Why did Elias allow him to choose assistants in the first place then? What was the point if one didn’t trust their expertise? Tim and Sasha didn’t need him double checking their work. Even Martin wasn’t in need of it beyond a few grammar corrections. Regardless, he’d done it and he’d made quick progress. Perhaps he should have been spending his weekends at the Institute this whole time. He shivered, incredibly cold despite extra socks and an additional jumper. Cor, but he was dizzy, barely able to hold his head up on a weak and wobbly neck. Pretty sure he’d forgotten to eat yesterday. Hasn’t yet today and with the pain in his stomach he didn’t plan to. What did he have Sunday? Jon gave up wracking his clouded brain in favor of laying his hot cheek against the cool wood of the desk. Stacks of files and envelopes and notes so high he couldn’t see over them formed thick, impenetrable walls between him and the outside world. Was nice. Focusing his eyes on a brilliant pink tag, Jon let it take up his vision until it swam out of focus and tears slipped over the bridge of his nose, running down his cheek to the scarred surface. It was too easy to cry. He was being overdramatic, whinging because he was incompetant at his job and frightened he would lose it despite doing fuck all to earn it in the first place.

“Jon?” Angrily, he scrubbed the tears away before sitting up. “Oh! There you are. Wow, that’s. Well, that’s a lot of work.”

“I’ve noticed.” Irritated at being caught doing nothing, Jon scowled.

“I. Is there something I can do? To help?” Any closer and he’d surely notice that he’d been crying like a child over their schoolwork. Snapping, Jon let a defensive growl add a sharp, snapping edge to his words they didn’t need.

“Maybe if you spent more time researching and less on making tea.”

“Oh. Y’yes. I--of course.” The man stuttered around his apologies, leaving the tea behind on the corner of his desk before fleeing the room. Well, no surprise there. Jon Sims. Resident arsehole. He let his cheekbone smack into the wood, accepting his worsening migraine as a matter of course, deserving it. Through the valley between two mountainous heaps he could see just the handle of the mug. His favorite mug, if he was prone to those sorts of things.

Jon drank his tea as an apology and let the emails pile up in his inbox and the phone go to voicemail.

“Jon.” With no small measure of difficulty, Jon levered himself upright with brittle stick and string arms. He hurt all over. Sore and stiff and cold. It took conscious effort to pull air into his laboring lungs.

“Elias.” Voice like gravel, he clutched at his painful throat, wincing when tears stung his eyes after a short but intense fit of coughing.

“You look terrible, Jon.” It didn’t sound sincere or worried, more irritated. “Is this why I’ve had to come see you in person? Why you've ignored my correspondence?”

“Uh, y’yes?” Under the close scrutiny of his superior, Jon thought he might pass out, struggling to focus through the sweeping waves of delirious heat rushing through him from top to toes. “I, I’ve been under the, the w’weather?”

“Jon.” Sighing in frustration, he pinched the space between his eyes. “If I cannot trust you to care for yourself, how can I trust you to run my archives?”

“Apologies. It. I won’t let it get this bad again.”

“See that you don’t.” He turned, disappointment clear in the stiff line of his shoulders and the callous tone of his voice. “Take the rest of the day. Another if you require it. You’re useless to everyone as you are.” If Jon had been capable of it at the moment, he would have been shocked. As it was, he was filled to bursting with humiliation, shivering in his chair and trying to think of the steps it took to get home from here. His assistants crowded within the frame of the door, expressions displeased with him and he wanted for one moment not to feel watched. Not when he was so, so, so useless. Already his face was hot with embarrassment and shame, tears pooling in his eyes and god forbid he let them fall. He stood, hip knocking into the wooden edge hard enough to bruise and Jon had to catch himself on a filing cabinet when the room tilted abruptly on its axis, nearly taking him with it. A cacophony of noises and sounds and echoing commotion blocked up his ears. He ignored their faux concern, their questions, pushing them out before they had a chance to come in and locking the door behind them.

“Jon--” Tim. The rattling knob.

“Leave.” Staggering to his chair, he collapsed, curling tight around the blazing ache at the core of him.

“Jon, you’re, you’re not well.” He knew. And was useless because of it. He didn’t need to be reminded.

“Pease leave.” So, so sick, about to be sick, can’t move, can’t breathe, everything numb, numb, numb. Let him be alone so he can gather his things, deal with the ever present chanting in his mind.

Failure, failure, failure.

“Damn it, Tim. We, we took this too far.” Faint sounds of muffled arguing faded further and further into the distance until he was left with only Martin’s fidgeting silhouette in the frosted glass of the window. He couldn’t stay upright, nauseated and unsteady and when he fell forward, vision blacked, body heavy, an avalanche of paperwork flowed over the precipice with the rest of him.

“Hey, Jon, Jon.” Unfamiliar hands roamed where they oughtn't, tilted him this way and that and he moaned because that was a sure fire way to upset the tentative agreement he had made with his stomach. “Jon!” Insistent, persistent, incessant.

“Go…” thick, nigh incomprehensible.

“There you are, now.” Martin, his palm blessedly cool and sweeping back clinging, irritating curls from where they’d stuck to his clammy skin. “You’re burning up, Jon.” Pity. He didn’t want pity. He just wanted to be left alone and tried to say it, ended up coughing instead, hugging himself desperately to stop the fire poker stabbing into his gut. “Hush, let’s get you sorted. Get you home so you can rest proper.” Drifting, he sensed more than saw Martin step out, closing the door behind him.

“How is he?”

“Not well.”

“What does that mean, Martin?”

“Means I need to get him home and into bed.”

“How can we help?”

“You didn’t want to help him before.”

“That--you know--!”

Out of earshot, out of body, out of mind, out of, out of…

Touch, soft and careful, lifted that thin veil of sleep, pulled him up by protesting shoulders, and he couldn’t stop the cry forced between his teeth at being unfolded.

“Sorry, sorry,” Martin tugged him until he was leaned against his side and held a glass to his lips, tipping water by mouthfuls, chastising Jon not unkindly when he chased it. “Slow, slow now. Or you’ll make yourself sick.”

“S’...um. I.” Thoughts fluttered like moths, all too quick for him to catch, in and out of the dark, seemingly out of nowhere, disappearing into nowhere.

“It’s alright. Take these, good man.” But he wasn't. He was bad. At his job. At people. At, at everything. Pills, bitter and chalky on his tongue, washed down with more water. “Jacket, good, good, I know.” Every action’s difficulty had increased one hundred fold and Jon latched onto Martin’s voice like it was a lifeline. “Okay, I’ve called a cab.”

“Can’...you can’t…”

“You can buy me a coffee, Jon. Pay me back if you have to but the train isn’t the place for you right now.” So lightheaded, so very lightheaded, if Martin hadn’t been there he’d be making acquaintance with the tile, he was sure. “I should take you to A&E. I really don’t like how you look.”

“No, no. Jus’...sleep.” A noncommittal hum filled him with worry. He wanted to go home.

“Alright, Jon. Alright.” Though his surroundings were a blur, Jon thought he saw Tim and Sasha when Martin whisked him to the lift but he couldn’t be sure. It hurt to walk, to move and he buried his face in Martin’s broad shoulder for the duration of the ride, breathing shallow and slow to stave off the carsickness.

Something cold and wet settled over his forehead and he struggled to open his eyes, staring up at a familiar ceiling, still dressed in his work clothes, sans wingtips.

“Welcome back.”

“Wh’where’d I go?” Martin’s hands were moving sections of his hair, plaiting it he realized after a long moment.

“So it stays out of your face, you don’t seem to like it.”

“Mm…” He didn’t, and the effort it took to put it up hadn’t been worth it lately.

“Should I stop?”

“No. Nice.” He was feeling marginally better now that he was laying down and out of the archives and away from the overwhelming pressure and stress. The shame was there, its blinding brightness dulled by distance and time and the fingers combing out the tangles calmed his thoughts.

“Sorry, sorry, love, I know you were having a nice sleep.” More medicine, diluted tea with sugar. Jon fumbled with his belt, uncomfortable, couldn’t get his fingers to do what he wanted, and didn’t remember taking off his slacks or his jumper or layers of socks or his button down leaving him in his loose undershirt. His heavy quilt was pulled up, he was tucked in, warm, comfortable.

“Okay, just breathe.” Jolted awake and bent double over his throbbing stomach, Jon’s back heaved with the force of a barking fit. “Here, another dose.”

“Mah…”

“You’re alright. Let the medicine work.” The damp flannel was back, sweeping over his flushed skin, ridding it of its disagreeable stickiness. Down his throat, over shuddering collarbones, cheeks, brow, repeat, slow, even, methodical.

Over and over and over…

“Jon!” Dark, smothering dark, hands, striking like snakes in, out, everywhere, trying to hold him down, trying to keep him still, from getting up. “Jon, hey, hey, shh.” Panting, can’t. Coughing, not enough, choking. What, what... who… he. Work. He had work to finish? Have, so. Elias was, was angry, disappointed? Pinned, arms close, soft, warm, behind. Up and down. And. Sick...he was. “Shh, it’s alright, s’alright.”

“Mah…’in. W’why, ah.” How was he supposed to finish...he had to finish but there’s so much how. How. When he was...

“Hush, Jon. Hush. Don’t worry about any of that archiving nonsense right now. When you're well, when we go back I’ll help you sort through that mess.”

“Don’, don’need h’help.”

“It’s fine if you do.” Martin’s kind, soft tone was enough to make the sorrow spill over and lightly calloused fingers brushed them away. “It is, Jon. I, I know I’m not the best yet, but I want to help.”

“T’Tim and Sasha...even, it’s. Too much on you all.”

“It’s too much for you.” For one frantic, delusional moment Jon believed Elias had sent Martin here to dismiss him. That he wasn’t even worth letting go in person and he panicked, distraught.

“No! No! I can, I can do this! I ca--” Fire erupted, coursed through flayed open veins when he coughed, gasped, tasted iron against his teeth. Sobbed. Then Martin hugged him and it should have been awful because Jon didn’t do hugs but he returned it anyway. “I was asking too much.” Hoarse and choked and sad. No one should feel like he did, at the end of a rope knotted too much like a noose, and he’d gone ahead and done it to Tim and Sasha and overloaded them with more and more and more work and then he tried to add even more because he couldn’t handle his own damn job and, and--!

“Jon! You weren’t asking enough.”

“They, you, were so busy, I, I couldn’t--”

“Jon, love, I need you to listen to me.” When he made to interrupt, Martin settled him back into the pillows and took his hand in a loose hold Jon was free to escape. He didn’t understand. “Tim and Sasha. They were having a go at you.” That didn’t sound right. They were. They were friends. “Pretending to be slow, putting the pressure on their new boss.” The sharp shock of electric grief cracked through his breastbone as though it were a lightning rod and he wasn’t grounded.

“Y’you’re lying.” He had to be. And Jon wasn’t the best at interpreting these sorts of things on a good day but he had to be. He had to be because they, they were friends. They wanted to help, they said.

“They were upset with you, I suppose.” His fingers tightened around Martin’s hand and he returned it. “I don’t think they meant it to go this far. I don’t think they really understood what Elias was asking of you.”

“Why?” Broken, shaking so violently he nearly bit his tongue. “Why would they? What did, I didn’t mean to be chosen. I didn’t mean it Martin, I didn’t, I never. I.”

“I know.”

“Elias, he. He didn’t--” Pathetic. He barely knew Martin and the man was in his flat, in his room, consoling him because his coworkers couldn’t stand their new boss.

“I don’t want you to think about it right now.” Helpless, hopeless, Jon looked up at him. “I want you to sleep.” Martin cupped his jaw and brushed the tears away with two balanced sweeps of his thumbs and Jon clung to his wrists. “Try to sleep, things will be better in the morning. I promise, Jon. I promise.” It didn’t feel like it could ever be better. But sleep sounded good. Sleep and he could forget about it for a little while. Martin tucked stray curls back away from his face, into the messy plait, talked about nothing, poetry, the dog he’d let run into the archives forever ago. Jon let him, trying not to think about anything else. Following the currents of his voice down, down, down, where the weight of tide dragged him under.

“Your fever is still higher than I’d like.” Jon frowned. He wanted to be miserable alone but in the end he slept when he could, when his worsening stomach ache let up, and watched Martin tidy his cluttered flat through half lidded eyes. He snapped awake when the door closed thinking he’d finally had enough of his sour mood and left. But no. He’d gone to the Tesco down the street to purchase him some essentials and was coming back. Jon missed him leaving. He was irritated with Martin for taking his phone even though it was probably for the best. The emails kept coming, enough to bury him, and his vision was swimming so badly he could barely read them anyway.

Still, he couldn't help but think about the archives and the new statements that no-doubt waited for his return. They’d be further behind now, out one terrible archivist and one archivist’s assistant all because he couldn’t take care of himself properly.

“Are you sure you feel well enough?” Martin was helping him take slow, unsteady steps to the kitchen table where his laptop resided. “You’re so pale.”

”Can’afford to waste more time.” He could glance through some emails. He was well enough for that. Probably.

“That didn’t answer the question.” It ended up being a waste anyway. He was too dizzy to sit up let alone read and Martin did him the kindness of not saying “I told you so.” Currently, Jon was leaning his temple on the chilly glass of the dirty window and Martin was fixing some tea for him. He didn’t want it, worried that if he moved or even thought about food or drink he’d lose his tenuous battle with the nausea. He jumped when Martin touched his shoulder, closing his eyes when it just hurt. “You’re shaking.”

“Mm. C’cold.”

“Back to bed.” Jon shook his head. He couldn’t. “You need to rest.”

“Can’t…” He folded thin arms over his middle. He was being lifted to his feet, the room blinked in and out and his mouth flooded with salt.

“Jon?” There was fear in Martin’s voice but he couldn’t alleviate it, not when he was trying to keep still, keep from collapsing then and there. “Jon? Ambulance is on the way. It’s alright, it’ll be alright, hang on.” He didn’t mean to be sick but his lips wouldn’t form the shapes of his apologies.

Red.

Bright red

A gout of it coating his tongue in copper.

“Jon!”

“S’sor…” His legs gave way with another gush, there was pain but he couldn’t pinpoint it, falling, slow, drifting like leaves cradled in autumn wind. Clothes soaked and tacky with carmine buds blossoming, blooming, growing, fields of poppies spreading from him to Martin and pressure, pressure, pressure on his hands.

Frozen.

Wet warmth traced the contour of his jaw and the uneven pounding, pounding, pounding of his heart drowned out all else as it tried to escape the cage of his ribs.

Flashes of light, sound, lifted, his connection with Martin severed and he choked on rubies instead of his name.

Speaking. Wouldn’t answer, couldn't the cloying smell of iron lay thick all over this place. Didn’t want to be here.

A sticky toffee grip. Squeeze can’t feel it.

Jon Jon Jon the chirp of birds calling shouting screaming warning him of what comes next cold in his skin in his veins the dark takes all and gives nothing back.

Bright white blazing phosphorescent fire burning burning no one is coming to save him from the shadows hemming him in trapping him under swaying shifting indifferent lights that blind his eyes and pull cherry sweet claret from his insides with a fishhook.

Lashes lined with lead fought against the weight of muffled murmuring, the piping trill of electric monitors, but there’s only soft dusk dim and exquisite detachment. Nowhere, nothing hurts and his sum total is velvet wool and fleece and he sleeps.

The distinction between dream and wakefulness was little more than a gauzy veil but Jon thought he recognized Martin and Tim and Sasha and when he could he forced his clumsy apologies, inadequate though they may be, through jumbled words, slurred and stuttered and slow and he was sorry he’d gone and made such a mess of things and he’d fix it if he could, it they told him how, he’d do anything, just please don’t hate him.

Soft sounds, familiar sounds, kind sounds. A thick blanket of cloud and cool fog and…

Jon woke with a mouth full of cotton and a dull pain somewhere in the vicinity of his middle. When he lifted his arm the tug of an itchy catheter in the back of his hand drew his attention to the leads and the lines leading to bags of fluids refracting prisms built by bright beams streaming into the room between gaps in the shades.

“Hey.” The relief Jon felt in hearing Martin’s voice was too complicated to think about so he didn’t. Instead trying to dredge up a smile from somewhere as he sat next to him. “You’ve been awake a few times. I wouldn’t be surprised if you didn’t remember.” He blinked.

“I--ah.” Wincing, Jon put a hand to his throat when speaking was akin to gargling glass, and he accepted the water Martin offered gratefully, as well as the help of his steady hand. “I, I don’t.”

“The fever has just started to go down. Lowest it’s been today I think.”

“You’ve…”

“After work. Just to check in. ‘Bout a week now.” The surprise must have shown on his face because Martin knit his brow. “It was touch and go there for, for a little while. But, you’re on the mend.”

“I d’didn’t...what did, what?”

“Well. Jon. An ulcer, first of all. From stress--exceedingly rare mind you. Which worsened when you began getting ill.” That, that made sense. “And, uh. I don’t know if you remember the day it happened.”

“Not really, no.” Snapshots of time sure, but nothing concrete and when Martin explained he’d lost what he thought was a litre of blood on his kitchen floor and another all over himself Jon had no rebuttal. “Was. I thought I saw?”

“Tim and Sash? Yeah. They visited a few times.” There was more there, just unspoken, and Jon didn’t push him for anything else.

Jon was trembling with fatigue after the doctor did their poking and prodding and sent him on a painful jaunt down the hall with Martin and his IV stand as his chaperones, leaning more and more of his weight on his arm. Another day saw him discharged and home for the weekend with Martin to fuss and fret and force him to follow instructions to the letter.

“Boss.” Tim’s chair nearly tipped over with how fast he was on his feet. “You, are you sure you should be?” Weakly he gestured to the office, concern evident in his haggard face. Sasha composed herself with a bit more decorum, actions careful and precise.

“Jon, maybe you should take more time away.” When she stepped toward him, he stepped back. He was capable of doing his job; please let him do it. “We understand if you--”

“I’ve recovered well enough. Thank you both. For y’your concern.” Ducking his head he retreated into his office, not sure what to expect from the state of it and surprised when he was faced with only statements to record organized by length and supplemental research. The heaps of papers he’d accumulated over his short tenure were all but gone and while it ameliorated the panic he’d lied about to Martin, it also proved the man was right.

Tim and Sasha.

Best not to dwell.

There was work to be done.

“Let me get that for you.” Sasha reached past Jon before he could even extend his arms toward the box. “Martin told us not to let you lift anything.” Traitor. Speaking of, a fresh cup of tea rested beside a new translation. Passable. After the tea, he had the strength to log into his email for the first time.

Jon,

I trust you are ready to begin recording statements. Please do so at once. Your assistants have proved themselves capable enough in your absence to not require such close supervision.

Do well on your promise. Do not let this happen again.

Regards,

Jon exhaled, the tension seeping out of his body replaced by profound weariness. When he blinked awake, covered in the throw from the break room, Martin magically appeared with another cuppa.

“Nice nap?” He suppressed a yawn, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, as Martin suppressed a smile. “Pain?”

“Not bad.”

“So, not good?”

“I’m fine, Martin.”

“Glad to hear it!” Tim’s bright tone and appearance were surprising but more surprising was the container of soup in his hands. “Followed Martin’s instructions, boss. Lemme know what you think.” Jon wasn’t even sure what expression he threw towards the man holding out the fresh tea but he was certain there was very real fear there and by the time he’d recovered Martin patted his hand and left him to lunch.

To be fair, Tim was a good cook.

Jon took a deep breath and cleared his throat to gain the attention of all three of his assistants.

“As we are all. Aware. I was ill recent--”

“You nearly died!”

“Nothing of the sort.” He waved a hand dismissively.

“That’s not what your doctor said!”

“My doctor shouldn’t have divulged anything.” He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I’m alright, now. I’m fine.” He looked at each of them individually. “This was a, a perfect storm, nothing more.” Jon understood that they were upset and didn't want to be around him. They didn't have to, to like him. “We should have spoken before, I should have. I know you’re angry with me.” This time he held up a stern hand to halt them. “And I may have no right to ask, but I need help if I’m to have a chance at doing this job. I. I chose you because.” Nerve lost, he glanced at his wingtip shoes, counted the worn scuff marks. Be a boss, Jonathan. “We worked well together. Before. And. I wanted to apologize.” Deep breath, a decisive nod. “I hope we can develop a positive working relationship moving forward.”

“Jon, Jon, no. Don’t apologize. This. This is our fault. I was upset and Tim and I we, we didn’t mean for it to go this far.”

“You couldn’t have known Elias was. Burying me.”

“We would have if we’d asked after you. If we’d given you the time of day. When the Big Boss came down to personally boot you out of the office you. You looked like hell. And then Martin said--” he had the sense to look sheepish when Jon glared at him.

“Is there no hope of keeping anyone’s confidence?”

“No, probably not. We were so worried.” Tim provided.

“And when we visited. All we did, Jon, you were so upset.” Everpresent, the shame colored his face.

“I. I don’t remember much.”

“Let us help.” Gingerly, Sasha touched his shoulder. “Properly this time.”

“A team!” Tim slung his arm over his other shoulder and gestured with a wide hand. Both of them were taking such pains to be careful with him and Jon wondered how much Martin had told them. “Like the old days, plus Marto here. Resident boss saver and tea maker.”

“Tim.” The ache in his chest lifted, lightened for the first time since he’d been handed this department.

“Come on, boss. Let us pamper you.”

“I will not!”

“It doesn’t look like you have much of a choice.” And Tim and Sasha embarrassed him further with a gentle hug.

“Martin’s right, Jon. You really don’t.”

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