#jonathan sims just started speaking shut the fuck up hold on

[glassamphibians]

HEY.

[karliahs]

It’s been months since he was this close to anyone. It might have even been Jon the last time, too; helping him walk down in the tunnels. How did they get from there to here? How-

“Tim?” Jon asks softly, pulling back to look him in the face, and it’s the loss of that warmth and pressure that makes Tim realise he’s started breathing in great, shuddering gasps. He screws his eyes shut and Jon reverses their positions, pulling Tim into his chest with unpracticed but fervent hands. His T-shirt is soft against Tim’s face; he hadn’t thought Jon would own anything so soft.

Tim’s throat is burning, but as long as he keeps his eyes screwed shut then he isn’t crying. He isn’t crying on Jonathan Sims the night before they both-

“It’s alright, Tim,” Jon says, searching for words of comfort he only half believes himself. “It’s - whatever happens tomorrow, it can’t - we’re safe here.”

Tim laughs bitterly. “Nothing’s fucking safe.”

Jon seems unable to decide between rubbing soothingly at his back and just holding on as tight as he can. Tim shouldn’t be here, shouldn’t be giving into this. But there's a reason he lost so much time when he should have been searching for the thing that killed his brother. The Institute was full of potential answers, but it was also full of bright, lovely distractions. He's buried in the arms of one of them.

Tim didn't used to think of that as weakness - but he didn't used to think there were worms that burrowed through your flesh, or creatures that took every true memory of your friend without you ever noticing, or monsters that played with skin, played with the fabric of who you were, because it was fun.

Tim doesn't know fucking anything, and maybe he never did, and now all that's left is to-

"What can I do, Tim?" Jon asks, and he sounds so honestly lost.

"Turn back time," Tim murmurs into his shirt. "Don't let go," he adds a moment later.

“I won’t, I won’t.” Jon clutches him impossibly closer. Tim’s world narrows down into warmth and pressure. “Tim, we don’t - we don’t have to do this. You don’t have to do this.”

The gentle vibration of his words is almost enough to distract Tim from the words themselves. He turns his head so he can speak un-muffled, and immediately misses the comfort of being closed in. “I do, Jon. I can’t…” Tim fumbles for the right words, wondering faintly if this is how Jon feels all the time, struggling to give voice to the unspeakable. “The worst thing in all of this, the worst thing would be if they hurt someone again while I’m just standing there."

Still not crying, not as long as his eyes are tight shut. He feels Jon hesitate, then push forward anyway. "Even if...Tim, even if you had moved, what could you have done?"

Tim squeezes hard at Jon's side and isn't sure if he means it as a warning or a plea.

"I'd never have met you," Jon says, so soft Tim isn't sure if he was meant to hear it.

"Was just thinking before,” Tim replies, because he’s fucked up enough that he might as well keep going, “I wish I'd met you somewhere normal."

Jon’s hands still, and for a moment the rise and fall of his chest does too. It’s the closest thing to absolution Tim’s ever offered. He’s glad he can’t see Jon’s face, can’t see whatever shock or gratitude is playing out there. At some point, he made himself into someone who no one expects to be kind. He wonders, vaguely, whether it counts as forgiveness, to want someone to spend what might be their last night on earth forgiven.

from: enemy of my enemy, aka jon and tim sit in various rooms and talk: the fic

thank you for asking!!! here we go:

It’s been months since he was this close to anyone. It might have even been Jon the last time, too; helping him walk down in the tunnels. How did they get from there to here? How-

do you ever just think about how fast things went wrong for the s1 crew...they were friends just a few months ago!! a few weeks in between no current supernatural experiences -> trying to survive supernatural experiences together by physically holding each other up -> complete alienation. some experiences just defy comprehension, emotionally speaking, even when you can see every step that led from there to here

i also like to make myself sad by thinking about the practical day to day aspects of everyone in the archives being alienated from everyone else. like...when were either of them last touched (non-violently)

so much has changed but they've circled back around to each other

“Tim?” Jon asks softly, pulling back to look him in the face, and it’s the loss of that warmth and pressure that makes Tim realise he’s started breathing in great, shuddering gasps. He screws his eyes shut and Jon reverses their positions, pulling Tim into his chest with unpracticed but fervent hands. His T-shirt is soft against Tim’s face; he hadn’t thought Jon would own anything so soft.

'person starts crying without noticing until someone points it out' is a trope i generally try to stay away from partly because i just can't imagine that ever happening to me and therefore it doesn't ping my realism senses, but i get one (1) because it is undeniably juicy

this fic is very zeroed in on tim's perspective in terms of small sensory experiences, for a few reasons - drive home emotions, portray dissociation, and because i like writing about how it actually feels to be in a romantic gesture, to make it more real than just like...an image of people holding each other

small detail that jives with bigger points - jon's shirt unexpectedly soft, jon's surprising ability to still provide him with gentleness and comfort

i think jon here has no idea what to do but has been given permission to touch so is living his best tactile life with this inexpert hugging and is hoping that does something

Tim’s throat is burning, but as long as he keeps his eyes screwed shut then he isn’t crying. He isn’t crying on Jonathan Sims the night before they both-

“It’s alright, Tim,” Jon says, searching for words of comfort he only half believes himself. “It’s - whatever happens tomorrow, it can’t - we’re safe here.”

Tim laughs bitterly. “Nothing’s fucking safe.”

tim spends a lot of this fic having his inner-monologue cut off to try and show as well as tell that he's struggling to stay present

that 'both-' hurts me, honestly. hurts more than it actually being spelled out, i think. write to upset yourself, maybe you will upset others in the process

half is a word i absolutely overuse in writing but cannot stop. no one ever does something all the way, they are half- believing, wondering, worrying, etc.

i'm never 100% sure if i'm accurately capturing the way that jon speaks in canon but i did always like and want to emulate the fact that he speaks kind of hesitantly, trips over his own words, etc

Jon seems unable to decide between rubbing soothingly at his back and just holding on as tight as he can. Tim shouldn’t be here, shouldn’t be giving into this. But there's a reason he lost so much time when he should have been searching for the thing that killed his brother. The Institute was full of potential answers, but it was also full of bright, lovely distractions. He's buried in the arms of one of them.

Tim didn't used to think of that as weakness - but he didn't used to think there were worms that burrowed through your flesh, or creatures that took every true memory of your friend without you ever noticing, or monsters that played with skin, played with the fabric of who you were, because it was fun.

again, jon does not know what to do so he is just trying. just trying to do any kind of soothing hand thing

i thought quite a lot about reconciling the seemingly happy-go-lucky tim that gets presented to us early on vs learning why he came to the institute in the first place. tim here is framing that as a failing because he's miserable and traumatised and guilt-ridden, but i think at least part of it was actual healing. he was taking time and enjoying the people around him and trying to make the best of things, until it all went wrong

related, the self-recrimination of tim hating himself for not having seen any of this coming, even though they were not predictable events...very human nature after you have been through something terrible. how dare i have not anticipated every trouble that ever befell me

'played with skin, played with the fabric of who you were' - a lot of this story was me just enjoying the themes of stranger-horror. i love the terror of knowing there are creatures who can change aspects of you that should be unchangeable, physically in skin and otherwise in terms of identity and memory. love applying that to jon and tim, who have been fundamentally changed against their will by trauma and their roles in a story neither of them wanted. skin as metaphor for identity, and learning that people can take away your skin is then utterly terrifying to someone who already feels like his identity is being forcibly eroded. and then that shared terror brings them back together, just a little

Tim doesn't know fucking anything, and maybe he never did, and now all that's left is to-

"What can I do, Tim?" Jon asks, and he sounds so honestly lost.

"Turn back time," Tim murmurs into his shirt. "Don't let go," he adds a moment later.

this fic...is so sad. why did i write this. why am i being attacked by my past self and their awful words on this day

explicit admission that tim wants/needs jon here...even a chapter ago he was like yeah i'm going to america with jon bc i am regrettably relying on him as my reality-anchor, nothing emotional here

“I won’t, I won’t.” Jon clutches him impossibly closer. Tim’s world narrows down into warmth and pressure. “Tim, we don’t - we don’t have to do this. You don’t have to do this.”

The gentle vibration of his words is almost enough to distract Tim from the words themselves. He turns his head so he can speak un-muffled, and immediately misses the comfort of being closed in. “I do, Jon. I can’t…” Tim fumbles for the right words, wondering faintly if this is how Jon feels all the time, struggling to give voice to the unspeakable. “The worst thing in all of this, the worst thing would be if they hurt someone again while I’m just standing there."  

Still not crying, not as long as his eyes are tight shut. He feels Jon hesitate, then push forward anyway. "Even if...Tim, even if you had moved, what could you have done?"

Tim squeezes hard at Jon's side and isn't sure if he means it as a warning or a plea.

warmth, pressure, vibration...continuing to be fascinated by the little tactile details of what it feels like to be close to someone

emotional logic is so powerful. tim moving most likely would have either made no difference to the outcome or worsened it (because both him and danny would have died) but of course for tim standing still while someone he loves was destroyed counts for everything about who he is. sometimes blame feels better than helplessness, which mirrors what happens with his friendship with jon - is it scarier if they are all helpless, or if this one guy is The Enemy

‘give voice to the unspeakable’ sometimes i like poetic descriptions of jon’s role as archivist

"I'd never have met you," Jon says, so soft Tim isn't sure if he was meant to hear it.

"Was just thinking before,” Tim replies, because he’s fucked up enough that he might as well keep going, “I wish I'd met you somewhere normal."

Jon’s hands still, and for a moment the rise and fall of his chest does too. It’s the closest thing to absolution Tim’s ever offered. He’s glad he can’t see Jon’s face, can’t see whatever shock or gratitude is playing out there. At some point, he made himself into someone who no one expects to be kind. He wonders, vaguely, whether it counts as forgiveness, to want someone to spend what might be their last night on earth forgiven.

:(

tim views talking with and connecting to people as fucking up. how much of that is even slightly shrouded in logic and how much is just - tim is depressed and deep in self-loathing, somewhere still at the core of him tim loves people and making connections, so of course doing the thing he wants to do is wrong

‘At some point, he made himself into someone who no one expects to be kind.��� tim has this thought once and then worries at it like a sore tooth because his default state is hopeless fury with himself, with everyone. i also think this demonstrates how new information/realisations often can’t help you out of a bad mental state on its own, because it’s all too easy to slot it into your existing thought patterns. pushing everyone away was making tim worse - he starts to feel like that was a mistake, but it just becomes more self-recrimination

forgiveness is one of those words that seems to encompass so many different concepts that i find it hard to know exactly what it’s meant by saying you forgive someone. specifying what’s meant by this little shard of maybe-forgiveness makes it mean more, at least to me

may i reiterate: :(

[bluejayblueskies]

ludus

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

Words: 2.0k

Fandom: The Magnus Archives

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

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

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

Summary:

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

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

Read on Ao3

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

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

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

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

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

 Gross.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 “Yes, well—”

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

 “Thank you.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[voiceless-terror]

Prompts? This is a happy day! If you wish! I'm writing something similar but I need more cakes in the flavor and you write emotions so well! But early days in the archives and Tim and Sasha are giving Jon the cold shoulder and maybe there's an accident or something Jon really needs help with but he doesn't think he can go to either of them and he doesn't know Martin. And the next day he rolls up sick, or beat to hell, or has a cast, or a black eye, and Tim and Sasha are like WAT? And then feels!

Here you are! How do you know EXACTLY what to prompt me??? This is so my speed. So here you go- I hope you like!

“You’ve survived your first month in the Archives! That’s cause for celebration, Martin. Drinks on me!”

Tim’s cheerful tones weren’t hard to miss. Perhaps he didn’t notice Jon standing in the doorway, small and timid. He realized it was the middle of a rather stressful work week, but he just needed a little bit of help with some boxes. He’d been tired and worn out for the better part of the week, and the small ladder in Document Storage was rickety at best. Martin and Tim were both much taller and stronger than him- hell, even Sasha could’ve probably gotten the job done. Just a few minutes and then they could be on their way, to wherever they planned to go. Without him. 

Sasha was the one who noticed him. “Oh- hey, Jon. Did you need something?” 

He looked at the other two, twitching with clear impatience. Martin opened his mouth to speak but Tim made some sort of hushing motion with his hand. A sinking feeling made its way through Jon’s chest and to his stomach- the thought of asking for even the smallest of favors filled him with anxiety. He didn’t think he could bear seeing their faces when they said no. 

“Er, no, just- have a good night, yeah?” His voice sounded off, even to him, but they didn’t seem to make much of it, nodding awkwardly.

“You too!” Martin called after him as Jon scurried down the hallway, biting down whatever sadness stuck in his throat. He’d be here all night most likely. 

It didn’t bother him.

______

Jon stared up at the boxes looming tauntingly on the shelf, filled with statements that were likely just as disorganized as the ones on the shelf below. But these were labeled with the most recent dates in the Archive, and that’s what he planned on going through for the rest of the week.

Back in research, Tim used to prank him by putting things on the highest of shelves- books he needed, tea he wanted. It irked him but Tim would always be right around the corner to lend a helping hand and a teasing word. It got Jon out of his head for a moment, something very few people could accomplish. 

Tim still put things on high shelves in their break room but it just felt cruel, now that he wasn’t comfortable enough to ask for help. Now that Tim was never around the corner.

He put a tentative foot on the step ladder, grimacing as it leaned to the side. He’d put in an order for a new one at the beginning of his tenure but Elias never responded. He felt bad bothering the man with such a petty request when he could just ask his assistants for help. What was he supposed to tell him? ‘Hey my assistants seem to hate me and I’m too scared to ask them’ didn’t inspire much confidence.

Jon took another step forward, willing the ladder to stabilize. He needed to get to the fourth step to even have a chance of reaching the box, high up as it was. Just a bit further.

He made it to the fourth when everything went to hell. As soon as he reached his hands toward the box the ladder creaked and listed dangerously to the side, throwing him wildly off balance. He flailed right off the side, landing with a yelp and a crack on the cold concrete floor of Document Storage. 

The pain emanating from his left arm was almost paralyzing-it had taken almost all his weight in the fall and was lying awkwardly across the floor. It brought tears to his eyes as he tried to move it so he just laid there for a bit, willing himself not to pass out from the pain. How ridiculous he must have looked, lying prone on the ground, defeated by a fucking stepladder. 

When he finally decided to sit up his head spun- he only got as far as scooting back and leaning his head onto a shelf, trying to control his breathing. He had his phone in his pocket. If he needed help, he could just call Sasha or Tim or even Martin. His arm didn’t feel right and he would probably have to go to a clinic or the A & E, something he hated doing. He didn’t think he could brush this one off.

But what if they didn’t answer? He thought about the three of them at the bar, laughing and talking. Tim would be regaling them with some ridiculous story, his phone would ring. He would glance down at it, see Jon’s name and flip it over, ignoring it. 

Or worse, they would come, see him huddled on the floor and laugh. They would try to hold it in at first- they weren’t that rude. But as they helped him to his feet they wouldn’t be able to contain it. How embarrassing he was, how ridiculous. Jon couldn’t bear to be laughed at.

Two weeks ago he had walked past the upstairs break room on his way back from a meeting with Elias. It was entirely unproductive; he could sense Elias’s growing frustration with his lack of progress. Jon wondered if he regretted making him his Head Archivist, if he was already thinking of suitable replacements. Jon wouldn’t blame him.

And that’s when he heard it- an odd, mocking voice that he knew belonged to Ryan from research. Ryan and Jon never got on- Ryan was talkative and prone to gossip, and every attempt he had made to talk to Jon had been shut down by his inability to carry a conversation. On the odd times they were paired together to work, Jon took the brunt of it with utter silence, unwilling to complain about the man lest he be deemed more difficult than he already was.

But the voice he put on- stuffy and posh- was a caricature of Jon’s own. And sure enough, when he glanced in the doorway he saw Ryan hunched over a table, someone else’s glasses on his face as he screwed it up in a scowl and carried on as “Jonathan Sims, Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute” to his captive audience.

His captive audience which included Sasha and Tim. 

He felt his heart shatter as the group laughed at the impression. It was accurate, why shouldn’t they? God, why hadn’t he realized how much everyone hated him here? Any respect he thought he earned faded quickly with this showing. He found himself sprinting down the hallway and locking himself in his office, ignoring Martin’s concerned inquiries as he desperately tried to blink back tears.

Remembering the incident brought the shame and embarrassment back tenfold. No, he would deal with this himself. That was the best course of action.

He took fifteen minutes to properly wallow but once his heart rate lowered and the pain was at manageable, dull roar he got to his feet and staggered down the aisle, constantly searching for a handhold. He had everything he needed on him- it wasn’t so cold that he couldn’t go without a jacket, and he knew he wouldn’t get any work done this evening. 

Making his way down the hallway and up the stairs was almost tortuous; he paused several times and took deep breaths to avoid passing out and making the problem worse. By the time he got to the lobby Rosie was already gone for the day and Ed, the janitor, was idly mopping by the front door.

“‘Ave a good night, sir,” the man said without looking up. “Careful though, s’slippery over-whoa there, Sims!”

He must have looked as awful as he felt because the man dropped his mop and made his way over to his side, his face the picture of concern. Jon was holding his arm at an awkward angle so as not to jostle it. “S’fine,” he wearily started. “Have a good night, Ed.”

“Don’ look fine to me, Jonny.” Jon hated this nickname, but he never let on. He didn’t want to upset the one man who still greeted him day and night, no matter how stressed and irritable Jon looked. It was a nice, comforting routine. “Somethin’ happen?”

“Just took a fall, nothing serious,” he lied, well aware that his palm was scraped and crusted with blood. “I’ll just be going, got a train to catch-”

“Let me get you a cab, son,” he said, a paternal hand on his shoulder. “Shouldn’t be on the tube looking like that, bound to make it worse.” Jon began to voice his protest but the man was already out the door, waving and stamping in the street. He would smile at the scene if he had the energy for it. Instead he just staggered after him, wincing with every step.

“Over here!” the man shouted, standing by a cab a little ways down the road. Ed opened the door and ushered him in, hands helpful and gentle and so kind that Jon has to blink away tears. “There’s a good lad. Take ‘im to the closest A & E, will ya?” Jon watched as he shoved a pocketful of bills in the cabbies hand.

“Ed, you’ve already done enough-”

“Nonsense,” he waved Jon off, still looking at him with that mix of warmth and concern that Jon so desperately needed. “You just get that checked out, y’hear? An’ come back in one piece!” With that, he shut the door and gave him a wave, standing in place until the car was out of sight.

Jon couldn’t hold back his tears after that.

_______

Jon comes in the next day, arm freshly broken and in a sling, medicated to the gills. He paused at first, considering not taking the pain medication but he eventually gave in as the pain progressed throughout the morning. He’s a little late and he’s going to have to march past his assistants’ desks and attempt to avoid questions. 

“Whoa there, boss! What happened?” Tim says immediately upon his arrival. Jon avoids his gaze and looks to the ground, walking as quickly as possible to his office and shutting the door. He deserves a bit of peace before the inevitable interrogation.

Of course, he would never be so lucky. All three assistants are soon hovering around the doorway, looking at him with a worry he doesn’t deserve. He sighs as he casts his eyes to the desk and slumps down in his chair.

“Took a spill yesterday, nothing serious,” he mutters in as staid a tone as he could manage. “Now, if you could please get back to work-”

“You’re not getting out of this that easily,” Sasha says, coming over to his desk, Tim not far behind. Martin stays in the doorway, ever polite. “You were fine we left!”

“It happened shortly afterwards. I advise none of you to use the stepladder for the time being.” He manages a weak smile that none of them return.

“Stepladder? Boss, I told you not to use that anymore!” Tim plops down in a chair, legs immediately going over the arm of it. Jon always imagined them talking in the office like this- a stupid fantasy he entertained when he first got the position. No one had ever sat in those chairs, they just stood in his office and counted the seconds until they could leave. ‘Why didn’t you ask us for help?”

“I-I was going to,” he begins, feeling instantly guilty at the thought of making them feel bad. “But- well, you looked like you had plans.”

Tim and Sasha exchanged a look. “You should’ve at least called us when it happened,” Sasha says, a hand on his desk. Jon aches to take it. “We were right around the corner.”

“I know,” he says. He feels out of it, vulnerable and loose and unmoored. Likely from the meds. 

“You knew and you still didn’t call?” Martin this time, his voice incredulous.

“I didn’t think you would come,” his voice is no more than a whisper and his chest aches something fierce. His hands tighten into fists at the silence that follows; he nervously starts to fill it.

“I know-look, it’s fine we’re not friends any more,” he starts, trying to keep his voice level. “But it- it just seems like you don’t want me to be your boss either?” His voice goes higher in pitch and he can’t seem to stop babbling. “I just- I need to know where I stand. So I know what’s okay to ask. I know this isn’t ideal but I- I need help sometimes. Not a lot, just...just sometimes.” 

“Jon,” Tim has a hand on his arm and an urgency in his voice. “That’s not- of course we would have come. Of course.” 

“I didn’t want you to laugh at m-me.” Christ, could he not get a handle on his emotions for five goddamn minutes? Why was he still talking?

“We would never laugh-” 

“But you did!” The words burst forward, almost a yell. “I-I saw you the other day. With Ryan- laughing at me. You know I don’t-” The breaths come quick and he can feel the tears coming down his face. God, what a mess he was. “I don’t understand where it all went wrong. If- if you don’t like me, why did you accept this job? Why are you here? What- what do I need to do better? Why were you laughing at me!” Jon dissolves into a mess of sobs as he slams his chair back from his desk, desperate to put as much space as he could between himself and his assistants.

But Jon never gets what he wants. Tim has his arms wound gently around his body, taking care to avoid the sling. And Sasha is there, a hand on his back as well.

“We- we weren’t laughing, Jon,” Tim tries, but Sasha cuts in.

“But we didn’t exactly tell him to knock it off, did we?” Her voice is angry and Jon doesn’t know who it’s aimed towards. He feels so stupid, so childish for breaking down like this but he knows what he saw. What he heard. “Ryan’s a jealous dick, he was just being mean. And...I guess we were being sort of mean, too.”

Tim takes over from there. “Look- things have gotten messy since we came down here, yeah? We’re...adjusting, that’s for sure. And I’m sorry that we made you feel like you did something wrong.”

“I- I did though, I must have-”

“No- Jon, look at me,” He hazards a glance at Sasha’s face, looking anywhere but her eyes. “You know me. Emotions aren’t particularly my forte. It’s- it’s a lot easier not to talk about things, but that doesn’t mean it’s right. It was a lot easier to hold onto my anger at being passed over, y’know?”

“If you told me- I would’ve had Elias switch us, I swear-”

“We don’t have to switch. To be honest, I don’t think I know how the fuck an Archive is supposed to be run either. At least not one like this,” She gestures to the room and Jon manages a weak smile. 

“I’m not very good when things get messy, either,” Tim admits, leaning awkwardly on a file cabinet in order to keep an arm around him. Jon hopes the gesture is genuine, and not just an attempt to placate the man having an emotional breakdown in the middle of the office. “But for what it’s worth, I’m sorry. I’ve been a right ass. So while I’m trying to make it up to you, how about you let me and Martin handle the top shelf from now on, yeah?” The joke feels familiar. This is territory Jon can manage.

“Yeah, yeah,” Jon wipes a hand across his face, finally feeling a bit more stable. “S’fine. I forgive you.” He takes the tissue Sasha offers. “Sorry for being so- er, dramatic. The pain medication is quite something, to be honest.”

“Oh God,” Sasha is suddenly all business. ‘“You shouldn’t be at work right now. Not like this- Tim’ll take you home, right?” Tim nods, tightening his arm around Jon’s shoulder.

“Yeah- you’re not going to get anything done like this, Jon. Have a rest, Sasha’ll tell Elias what’s going on, yeah?”

“Of course.”

There it is again- of course. Maybe if they keep saying that, it’ll make it true. 

Jon doesn’t argue as he’s ushered out of the Institute- whatever that was took a lot out of him, and he knows he’s useless to his team like this, dazed and unstable. Martin follows them outside- Jon had almost forgotten he was there. He had slipped out of the office during the worst of it, kindly giving them some space. He wants to thank him but he doesn’t know how. Instead he listens as Martin rattles off all the things Tim should watch out for, like a nervous mother hen.

“I got it, Martin,” Tim says patiently. “But I’ll call you if anything happens.” Martin reluctantly backs off, giving the two of them a wave as they drive out of the parking lot.

“Jon,” Tim begins, putting a special emphasis on his name. He missed being called Jon. “You know I’ll always come when you call. I promise. I’d- I’d never laugh at you, not like that.”

You know. Of course.

“Okay,” Jon responds, staring out the window. He hopes it’s true. If not, well- the words are a start, right?

ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27334912

[lonelyaligned]

Hiraeth

So here it is! It's not done, I'll probably work on it for a while, or make a series I'm not sure yet.

But I'm very proud of it, I used to write all the time when I was younger, it really helped me work through trauma and other things. So I am very proud to show you my latest maladaptive daydream that is: What if Somewhere Else really existed, what would happen and why would I make the first few chapters pure angst? OR 'Hiraeth' One of my favourite welsh words to describe a form of homesickness for somewhere that doesn't exist, or you can never go to. Seemed appropriate. Not sure if this is a 'make better' fic or a 'at least it's not as bad' one.

Please go check it out over on my ao3 and check out my tma brain rot tiktok @//lonelyaligned too

or read under the cut <3

disclaimer: I'm a dyslexic chronically ill adhd person, so I may be flakey with the old grammar/spelling etc, do excuse me

Around them the panopticon rumbles, distorting and glitching like an old TV screen, an eerie halo of eyes surrounds Jon, inky black tears streaked his face. Martin had seen this before while he was doing a statement. The other man stood, warm tears streaming down his grubby face.

“I’m not leaving you trapped here killing the world while I watch!” he shouts, gesturing to the crumbling room. Loud painful static sounds from all around them while Jon stares on, eyes an unsettlingly vivid green.

“If you stay, you’ll die!” Jon shouts back, his voice distorting.

“Then I’ll die…” Martin responds, standing defiantly in front of him, he flings his arms out beside him as he speaks.

“No!” Jon quickly responds, losing Martin was one of the worst things he could imagine, but he'll lose him either way possibly. Jon knows he’s a monster, he couldn’t pull Martin down any further than he already has. Jon screams in pain as he feels the Institute ripping apart, tearing him from it.

Part of the ceiling between them cracks and falls, large chunks of Victorian masonry come crashing down. Jon manages to step back in time, his reflexes faster than his partners. Part of a large block catches Martin on the shoulder, blood starts staining his dirty woollen jumper after a few moments. He grabs his shoulder in pain and cries out. He can’t imagine anything worse than losing Jon… again.

Jon closes some of the space between them, “Martin, please! I can’t lose you. Not like this…” he reaches out a hand, going to touch Martin’s uninjured shoulder.

Martin flinches away angrily “Tough! Okay? Where you go, I go!” he winces through gritted teeth, the tears start welling up again, he feels the uncomfortable lump rise in his throat as he chokes back a sob.

The static around them grows louder and angrier, whining at a pitch that makes Martin’s head spin. Jon’s arm falls back to his side and he looks at Martin, taking in his hair, strawberry blonde in a mess of curls, the freckles hidden under the soot and dirt on his face, his glasses which by now have a large fracturing crack through one lens. The bulk and softness of his form, his arms which held Jon through so many nightmares and the hands which held his own through the past gods know how long in the hellscape outside of these walls. He knew he may never see him again.

Jon sighs, “That’s the deal…” the static grows more, swallowing almost every other sound, “Okay” he says, gently nodding.

Martin looks at him, worried and slightly confused, “What?”, he reaches out a hand to Jon, who accepts it on his own. Jon’s hand is warm and feels almost like it’s vibrating with energy, like the feeling of static.

Jon turned his head, looking towards the still figure behind him, “Do it! The knife’s just there. Let them go.” At this Martin pulls him closer, his eyes wide and tearful.

“I’m not going to kill you!” he shouts in anger and surprise, tears falling down his cheeks again.

“Cut the tether. Send them away.” Jon says, his voice strained from the pain, “Maybe we both die. Probably. But maybe not.” He looks Martin in the eye as he talks, “Maybe, maybe everything works out, and we end up somewhere else.” he lets go of his hand, Martin is reluctant to let go, he tries to pull Jon closer again.

“Together?” he sniffs, trying to hold himself together but he feels closer and closer to breaking down and just clinging to Jon as the building collapses. Jon releases his hand and turns around, making his way over to Jonah’s prone body. He scoops up the knife with a clink as it leaves the marble floor. He’s close to crying himself, he takes this moment to try to compose himself for Martin.

“One way or another. Together” Jon says with his back turned to Martin, gripping the knife tighter. Martin walks over to him, being careful not to trip on chunks of stone, trying to not look at the lifeless body of his former boss in front of Jon. He reaches out and touches Jon’s waist, “I don’t think I can…” he says almost defeated, the other man turns around, his eyes flickering a brighter green.

“It has to be you. The Eye won’t let me do it.” Jon says cupping a hand to Martin’s damp cheek, his thumb strokes away a tear as it falls. Martin squeezes his eyes shut and presses his cheek closer and closer to Jon’s hand. He leans his head forward to meet Jon’s forehead, his hand reaching out for the knife.

“Are you sure about this?” Martin sobs, Jon closes his eyes, with both their hands on the knife he guides Martin’s hand up to his chest.

“No.” Jon tries hard to not let his voice quiver, Martin's breath catches in his throat as he tries to calm his breathing down, “But I love you,” Jon says moving his hand to Martin’s chin, tilting his head gently so he’s looking him in the eye. As he says this Martin’s fear starts to melt away, maybe Jon is right and they’ll end up somewhere safer together, maybe he’s wrong but he knows, either way, they will be together.

“I love you too.” Martin chokes out, Jon reaches up and plants a kiss on Martin’s warm but chapped lips. Martin sinks into the kiss and pushes the knife in, guided by Jon. Jon’s lips part from the kiss with a pained gasp as a hot patch of red blossoms under his grey t-shirt. Martin lets go and starts to cry now, Jon’s legs give way from beneath him as his breathing becomes rapid and shallow.

The static hisses and glitches rapidly around the room, pained and angry. The green in Jon’s eyes turns to grey as he watches Martin’s face, he always wants this to be the last thing he sees. Martin gently folds to the ground, letting Jon fall, the knife still protruding out of his chest. The sticky blood on his shirt almost completely changed its colour. Martin cradles his head in his lap, one hand stroking Jon’s scruffy dark brown hair, he watches the glitter of the grey patches which run throughout it. Jon always joked it made people think he was older than he was.

The static becomes deafening as the ominously glowing halo of eyes around his head distorts and disappears. Jon blinks tears from his eyes, his vision goes in and out of darkness, he finds it harder and harder to focus on Martin’s face. His eyes return to their human deep brown as the static crescendos. Around the pair, a blinding white light appears and then suddenly vanishes along with the static. Jon’s eyes close as Martin pulls him even closer, he doesn’t even notice the door swing open as the darkness quickly enveloped the room.

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

10 minutes earlier, the tunnels under the institute

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

Basira opened the last of the gas valves, “That should do it” she says, Georgie absentmindedly nods. She, Melanie and Basira all have t-shirts tied around their faces as makeshift masks.

“I can’t believe him…” she scoffs, looking upwards towards the Panopticon, “W-well actually I can. But I mean seriously? Just leave everyone else to clean up his mess as he galivants off towards certain doom. Classic fucking Jonathan Sims”

“Just be glad Martin already thought of this,” Basira says.

“Are you done now, I really don’t want to stay here any longer than I have to?” Melanie says, she leans against the tunnel wall, it’s cool and firm, Georgie reaches out and grabs the woman’s hand in hers. “We’re done, let’s get out of he-” she’s cut off as the tunnel walls start to rumble and shake, dust pours down from the ceiling. “Oh fuck sake he’s done it already, okay come on” She pulls Melanie towards the exit, Basira follows them, the webbed lighter in her hand. They reached the door to the stairs and she set fire to the book they had with them, the last Leitner.

“Feels almost right that a burning book should bring down this place,” she says as she throws it as far as she can down the corridor before shutting the door and running up the stairs. It only takes a few moments for the gas to ignite and the blast sends the three of them crashing up the stairs. Georgie and Melanie had a head start, Basira got caught on her leg by a falling piece of rubble.

“Just run, I’ll find you” the woman shouts up to them, her voice getting lost in the roar of static around them.

Melanie kept one hand on the wall and the other firmly in Georgies. She felt glad that the steps out of this tunnel were even and uniform, not like some of the others which were uneven and worn over time. The static whirling around her head reminded her of the pain and noise she heard when she ‘quit’. The pained scream of the Eye as it was ripped away from this reality made her grit her teeth and just run harder.

“Come on, we’re almost there I think” Georgie shouted, she wasn’t sure though as she didn’t recognise this part of the staircase. She knew it wasn’t the same one they entered in but it felt like it was going on too long. They were going up too high, they should definitely have been at ground level by now.

They could hear others shouting in the distance, the static grew louder. They could recognise Martin’s voice carrying above the noise, Georgie’s pace slowed slightly, they shouldn’t be up the top of the panopticon, “Wait a sec,” she whispered, pulling Melanie’s arm to get her to stop, “Something wrong?” Melanie asked.

“I.. I don’t know where we are. We should have left the staircase a while back” The floor continued to shake and rumble beneath them, they could feel the heat from the fire making its way up, smoke curled a few steps down, licking at their feet. They couldn’t hear the shouting anymore, but as they ascended what happened to be the last few steps, the screeching static grew until they could almost bear it no longer. Melanie tripped on a step, holding her hands to her ears, tears fell down her face. “Make it stop!” she cried.

“Melanie please, come on, we have to go.” Georgie tugged on her arm, when she turned around she was standing in front of a door, bright white light streamed from around the frame. As Georgie puts a hand on the doorknob, the noise and light suddenly vanish, leaving a deafening silence behind. Melanie gasped, relieved and shocked.

Georgie pushed the door open.

[schrijverr]

Revealing Outfit

Jon invites Martin to stay with him for the weekend, because he felt bad about MArtin having to stay in the Acrhives (no he did not have a crush, shut up). His Mechs outfit is still lying there when they arrive and Martin sees it, causing Jon to accidentally invite him to a concert. 

Bit pre-slash and getting together :)

On AO3.

Ships: JonMartin

Warnings: none really, Jon’s a little praise starved. Tell me if you want me to tag something and I will!

~~~~~~~~~

Jon was trying to be better. He knew he had been an asshole to Martin ever since they were moved to the Archives all because he would rather ignore the flutter in his heart and mistake it for irritation at the bumbling, clumsy, adorable, uhm, awkward man.

But, like he said, he was trying to be better. He had stopped insulting Martin at every turn and tried to be nice when the other made a mistake. Especially now that Martin was forced to live in the Archives. Jon felt terrible he hadn’t noticed his own assistant had been taken hostage for two weeks, which is probably why he had offered Martin his couch for the night.

Yes, The Jonathan ‘keep everything separate and professional’ Sims had offered Martin to stay at his place for a few days.

He hadn’t known what had gotten over him when he offered (that was a lie, of course, he knew. Martin had looked so sad? Deflated? At the thought of being alone in the Archives for the weekend again and Jon couldn’t bear it, but that was neither here nor there). The point is, he offered and through a terribly awkward misunderstanding and a quick coming out as asexual, Martin had gladly taken him up on his offer.

Which is how they’d ended up in this situation.

Honestly, Jon had forgotten he had left his outfit so out in the open. He hadn’t expected visitors when he had put it there, so it wasn’t such a stretch it had slipped his mind, but it was awfully embarrassing right now.

A little bit of backstory is perhaps required, you see, Jonathan Sims had a life outside his work, to contrary belief. And it wasn’t even a boring one. He was in a band, a steampunk band of immortal space pirates.

It was just something fun he did with friends and they had quite a dedicated following. They had a small performance this weekend (which Jon hadn’t at all forgotten about when he had offered Martin a place to stay, just to make him smile at Jon) and he had taken his costume to the dry cleaner, because it had gotten soaked in a mixture of sweat and beer last time, which didn’t make for an appealing smell.

He hadn’t taken the time to put it away, finding it useless when he had to get it later anyway. Instead he had hung it over his chair and laid the rest of his costume with it. The outfit was obviously not Jons usual work clothes. The steampunk vest and goggles vastly different than his librarian style cardigans. Which was why Martin had immediately pinpointed as odd when he’d seen it.

Without really thinking about it, he had lifted the article of clothing and frowned at it, before he heard Jon let out a startled cough and he dropped it like it burned, while apologizing.

When Jon was done with his coughing fit he said with pinched voice: “It’s alright, Martin. I left it there.”

“Still, I shouldn’t have just grabbed it. That is highly inappropriate.” Martin insisted.

Wanting to get the clothes out of the way before Martin could get a better look at them, Jon gathered them in his arms quickly and made his way out of the room as he assured Martin that it was really alright.

After he had fled the scene, Jon dropped his costume unceremoniously on the chair in the corner of his room, which also functioned as a closet since it always got covered in clothes throughout the weeks. He sighed in relief that he had made it, until he noticed one part was missing of his ensemble.

His goggles.

He must have dropped them in his haste to get everything out of Martins eyes. Panicked he turned around, hoping they were lying on his bedroom floor. But alas, no such luck was on his side. When he got back to the living room, he found Martin holding them in his hand as he looked at them curiously.

Jon swallowed and Martin met his eyes. Wordlessly he held out his hand and carefully Martin laid it down on Jons palm. Once the object was out of his hands, it seemed Martin regained his ability to speak and he asked: “Why do you have that?”

Immediately his brain caught up with his mouth and he stumbled out: “Not that you have to tell me, of course. No, I was just asking. Doesn’t seem your style. Not that I can judge, sorry.”

Jon cut him off, before it got more embarrassing for both of them. Only then he realized he now had to give at least some explanation, especially since he was going to disappear this weekend and stay out until late, leaving Martin alone in his flat.

Fuck.

This whole thing had been a terrible idea and Jon suddenly remembered why he kept everything nicely separated.

He floundered for a second, then he carefully chose his words: “I, uhm, I had forgotten actually that I had something this weekend, uhm, old uni friends. I, I- I needed to give those back to one of them.”

Internally he cringed at the vague and partially untrue statement. I mean, technically they were uni friends, but this wasn’t going to be that casual and although some of his friends did own goggles in a similar style, those were definitely his own.

“Oh,” Martin replied, “I can still go back to the Archives if that’s better. I wouldn’t want to impose and I assume you wouldn’t want someone you barely know in your flat while you’re gone.”

Jon has never claimed he is not a stupid man and what he did next only cemented that. Martin was already inching back towards the door, face crestfallen. And Jon, Jon quickly said: “Oh no, it really isn’t a problem. You can come if that’ll make you more comfortable.”

A heavy silence hung between them as both processed the words that had just come out of Jons mouth. Jon realized how weird and personal that sounded and he was about to take it all back when Martin said: “If it isn’t a problem, I think I’d like that.”

The retreat died on Jons lips with Martins agreement and smile. Jon just smiled back and said: “Alright, I’ll let them know. It’s going to be pretty loud, I hope you don’t mind.”

“No, thank you. It’ll be good for me to listen to something else than the silence of the Archives for a change.” Martin chuckled, but Jon caught the underlying truth and decided that he couldn’t back down from this, no matter how mortifying it was.

Then he realized how rude he had been and quickly showed Martin to his kitchen where started on some tea. The goggles were still dangling around his wrist and when Martin noticed he told him to put them away, before he damaged them and said he’ll finish the tea.

Grateful for the breather, Jon slipped out the room and into his bedroom where he send a frantically whispered voice recording in the Mechanisms groupschat: “I did something stupid, I accidentally invited a coworker to our show, but I didn’t tell him about anything and he doesn’t know and he’ll find out and it’ll be weird, but I can’t go back now and I don’t know what to do and I need help.”

To avoid suspicion he put his phone away and hurried back to the kitchen. There he had to do a double take, because Martin was sat at his table with two mugs, gently sipping from his cup as he scrolled through his phone.

It was oddly domestic and Jon had to swallow away a lump.

The sound alerted Martin of his presence and he looked up and smiled at him, gesturing at the tea opposite of him. This didn’t help the lump. He silently sat down and started to sip his tea to avoid conversation.

Martin seemed to pick up on it and he stayed quiet as well. They stayed like that for the rest of the afternoon, just sitting together in silence while they did their own thing. Jon broke it to ask Martin what he wanted from the pizza place and then they had a heated discussion when Martin wanted pineapple on his.

They ate on the couch and watched a documentary and Jon could almost forget that this wasn’t his life and it wouldn’t all come crashing down tomorrow.

After that he made up the couch and he and Martin brushed their teeth together. It was peaceful, kind of nice and if Jon had to admit it he missed this in his life. Before he retired to his room Martin called out a soft thanks along with a goodnight from the couch.

Jon returned it equally softly and with a smile. A smile that fell when he was met with the sight of his outfit in the corner. He checked his phone only to find his so called friends laughing at him and offering little support.

He slept little that night, lying anxiously awake, mulling over everything that would go down tomorrow. Only coming out of bed late after he finally fell into a fitful sleep.

Martin was already dressed, when Jon stumbled out in an oversized sweater with small short pajama bottoms. Jon yawned sleepily and rubbed his eyes as he excepted a cup of tea from a heavily blushing Martin.

Once Jon had taken a sip, he realized what the sudden appearance of tea meant and his eyes snapped wide open as he met Martins eyes. He swallowed and looked down at his own state of dress. Then he mumbled: “Sorry, I’m going to get some better bottoms.”

And hurried out of the room, unknowingly giving Martin to compose himself as he tried to imprint the image of sleep ruffled Jon in those pajamas in his mind.

When Jon returned he was dressed in his normal librarian clothes. During the night he had resolved to tell Martin as late as possible what was going to happen, so he would get dressed at the bar where the Mechanisms would be performing.

The rest of the day passed relatively normal. Martin had retreated to the couch with a notebook, while Jon was sitting in the kitchen with some statements, later leaving them in favour of reading on the couch next to Martin in silence.

Then it was time to leave and the nervousness grew inside Jon as they walked towards the little pub. They were pretty early, since Jon wanted to avoid any fans that would throw a wrench in his plan. Inside the others were already setting up. Jon stopped Martin, wanting to tell him what would be happening, before the others could do it for him.

Martin shot him a confused look and Jon came clean: “So, I might have undersold and lied a bit about what is happening, but you have to promise not to tell the others about this. Tim will never let me live this down, please.”

“I don’t- What are talking about Jon?” Martin asked, distressed.

“It’s nothing bad.” Jon assured him, “I’m going to get you settled at a good calm table and you’re going to be fine. I promise.”

“Jon.” Martin did not sound pleased.

“I’m preforming, with my uni band.” Jon blurted out.

“What?” Martin exclaimed.

Jon explained further: “I didn’t want you to ask me questions and stuff, so I lied and then I invited you and I got nervous and I was too afraid to tell you, so I kept it hidden. I’m sorry. You can still go back, I’ll give you my keys.”

Martin hesitated, but they were spotted and Gunpowder Tim called out: “Jonny, there you are! Come on, you need to get dressed and in makeup if you want this to go through. Here, introduce us to your friend.”

Jon looked back to Martin, who nodded. Jon shot him a smile and lead him to the stage, where he quickly introduced everyone. When everything seemed to be going well, he pointed to the table Martin could go sit at, before he left them and slipped away to get in costume.

He was done moments before they had to go on stage. Ashes nodded at him and grinned: “Your friend seems nice. Well informed.”

“Oh shove off.” Jon replied, embarrassed.

But there wasn’t time for more, since it was time to get out there. The Mechanisms stepped onto the stage and all the anxiety slipped from shoulders along with his normal life as he morphed into Jonny d’Ville, Captain (First Mate.)

“Well, I’ll say one thing for this planet, it does produce some spectacularly ugly people.” he started, creating the normal banter with the crowd, he went on: “Killers and vagabonds, liars and thieves. We are the Mechanisms, a band of immortal space pirates roving through the universe on the starship Aurora, having fun wherever possible, violence when necessary and if were very lucky both at the same time.”

He scanned the crowd filled with smiling faces and desperately ignored the corner he knew Martin was in. He didn’t let it show though, as he went on: “Allow me a brief moment of self indulgence to introduce to you, the crew of our mighty starship.”

Jon gestured to the side as he started to introduce everyone next to him on the stage, until he got to himself: “And last, but the opposite of least, myself. Jonny d’Ville, your humble Captain.”

The crowd along with the band corrected him and he grinned, shedding the last bit of nervousness over who he know was in the corner watching as well.

With the adrenaline pumping through him and the energy of the crowd feeding into his confidence, Jon was in high spirits after the very successful performance. He had chatted with some fans that had hung around, but now the pub was mostly empty. The other were packing up and were chatting idly when what Jon had known would happen, but also dreaded, happened.

Martin walked up to him.

Sitting on the edge of the stage, Jon didn’t move, just swallowed heavily as he waited to see the anger in Martins eyes after he’d been lied to and forced to sit through such a strange thing as this. Jon was sure Martin must be weirded out. He knew it wasn’t everyones taste and most didn’t get it and that was okay.

It was okay, if it wasn’t Martin.

Fiddling with his vest, he kept looking to the ground until a familiar set of shoes appeared in his sight. Preparing himself for the worst, he winced a bit as he met Martins eyes, only to be pleasantly surprised at the smile along with the excitement in Martins eyes as he exclaimed: “That was amazing!”

Jon blinked for a second, then he bashfully asked: “You really thought so?”, all the confidence of Jonny d’Ville disappearing.

Martin nodded and said: “Yeah, I loved it. I’ve always been pretty text orientated, so having a full story with great music is something I didn’t know I needed until now, but I definitely did.”

With the praise a smile appeared on Jons face (he was just happy Martin didn’t hate him for lying. It wasn’t at all that Jon desperately wanted to know he had done well and that his heart fluttered with the slightest praise, especially from Martin. I don’t know where you got that idea).

“I’m glad.” was all he managed in return.

Their eyes stayed locked for a long moment after that and they only noticed when Tim called out: “Jonny, we’re done here, you gonna get something to drink with us.”

Jon looked back at his fellow bandmates, then at Martin, before looking back again. He shook his head and yelled back: “No, I think I’m going home. I’m pretty tired. It was fun seeing you.”

“Okay, bye, Jonny.” Ashes said.

The sentiment was echoed and returned. As the other filed out, Jon looked back at Martin and whispered: “I should probably wipe the makeup off or get out of this outfit at least.”

“I don’t know, I think it suits you.” Martin said, before his eyes grew wide and he spluttered something incomprehensible.

Wanting to please him, Jon said: “Thank you, I think I left my makeup wipes at home anyway, so I just have to hope I don’t run into anyone else I know.”

Martin looked up at him and smiled. He waited as Jon gathered his normal clothes and haphazardly threw them into his bag. Before he left, he looked into the mirror self-consciously. His dark hair was braided, grey streaks running through the interwoven hair. Perched on top of his head were the goggles and around his eyes was black lighting. He had black jeans on and a white shirt with a light brown vest over it. He had too many belts wrapped around him, with a golden ornament over his heart and a holster with fake gun by his hip.

Out of context he looked like an idiot, but Martin liked it, so he breathed in and walked out to where Martin was waiting. He threw his coat on over it and together they walked back. Jon was happy he lived near the pub, so the walk was short.

During the walk Martin filled the air with chatter about the performance. Jon wished he could blame the cold instead of the compliments for his read cheeks, but the weather was quite nice.

Once they were inside Jon switched his persona's clothes for his pajamas, this time he did put on longer pajama bottoms immediately. He wiped his face clean and when he looked into the mirror just plain Jonathan Sims looked back and the anxiety began creeping up again.

Slowly and unsure he made his way back to the couch where Martin was sat at. When he entered Martin looked up and Jon swallowed as he tried to smile back, but he probably couldn’t manage more than a grimace. Martin didn’t seem to mind, just offered him a cup of tea.

Timidly Jon sipped his tea and didn’t bother to start a conversation, dreading what the conversation would be about. It seemed Martin picked up on his unease, but he didn’t know what it would be about, so to try and ease the tenseness in Jons shoulders he said: “I have to say this was not what I expected when I think about how you were in uni.”

“No?” Jon asked curiously, not wanting to be the one to fill the silence.

“Not that it’s bad thing.” Martin told him, “Just- well, uhm, no offense, but you can be kind off stuck up from time to time. And that’s fine, but then you don’t really assume this.”

He gestured with his hand to encompass the Mechanisms.

Jon chuckled slightly at that, relaxing bit by bit when Martin didn’t suddenly backpedal and hate him anyway. He shrugged and said: “I can’t fault you for that, really. You are mostly right, I was pretty studious and probably a bit pretentious. The Mechs was my spot to let go and just have fun, you know. I don’t like to advertise it, it isn’t really professional.”

Martin was quiet for a moment, then he said: “Thank you for sharing it.” then he gasped, “Oh my, I hope I didn’t force you or anything! I didn’t mean to.”

“Martin, Martin, I invited you.” Jon said, trying to calm him, but also dreading what might come.

“Yes, but.” Martin began, “But you only did so, because I was being awkward about it, you shouldn’t had to.”

“No, I invited you.” Jon insisted, “I made that choice, it isn’t your fault.” then he bashfully went on: “Besides, I don’t mind you knowing.”

It was silent for a moment as the two met one another's eyes and stared as they started to breath in sync due to close proximity. Then Martin swallowed and looked away as he asked: “You don’t?”

“No.” Jon forced out, “You, you are, uhm.”

Jon didn’t know how to go on, so he rubbed his temples and sighed with frustration. He clenched his eyes shut and allowed the pressure to calm him. Then he met Martins inquisitive eyes and the flush retook his face. He stumbled out: “You’re kind, Martin. I know, I’ve been harsh on you and I’m sorry about that. I know you wouldn’t judge anyone over something like this and you don’t deserve to live in the Archives and I should have noticed and I didn’t. I’m so sorry about this and this is the least I could do to make it up to you and I don’t mind you being here. You’re a good person.”

He finished his rant. Martin blinked in confusion a few times as he processed everything. Then he carefully said: “Thank you, I guess. Uhm, that’s quite a lot, sorry. Let me just- uhm, give me a moment, please.”

“Of course, apologies.” Jon said.

“You didn’t invite me out of pity, did you?” Martin asked, sadness on his face.

Jon hated to see the sad expression on Martins face and he quickly shook his head and answered: “No, no, I didn’t. I did it, because I like you.”

Immediately after he clasped his mouth shut, but the words had already tumbled out and he couldn’t stop them. For a moment they hung heavy in the air. At the same time they spoke: “You like-” “Forget about it-” “-me?” “-I’m sorry.”

Then in union they said: “What?”

Martin repeated his question: “You like me?”

Jon was now resembling more a beetroot than a person. He silently nodded then said: “Yes, I’m sorry that was highly unprofessional of me. I didn’t mean to tell you, sorry. I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

“It’s not making me uncomfortable.” Martin rushed to assure him, “I just didn’t think you even found me an acceptable person.”

Jon winced and curled a bit into himself. What he had already known about himself and hadn’t wanted to admit was out in the open and if he wanted to explain he would have to admit another thing to himself and Martin. Something that would also open up the possibility in the back of his mind, something about the feeling he was being watched.

But for Martin he would admit it, so he did: “I, uhm, I know I am not the best person when it comes to emotions and I hid behind irritation instead of admitting it. Sorry, I know that is no excuse.”

Then the most unexpected thing happened: Martin started laughing. It wasn’t malicious or mean spirited, but Jon didn’t know how to react, so he snapped: “What’s so funny?”

Martin composed himself and said: “Sorry, it’s just, it’s just- I’ve been trying so hard to get your attention and approval only to find out I already had, but you’re just terrible at expressing it and all it took was a performance by a band of immortal space pirates for it to come to light.”

When Martin put it like that Jon had to admit it was pretty funny, he chuckled lightly then the rest of the statement caught up and he stopped laughing. He looked at Martin and asked: “You’ve been trying to get me to notice you?”

His voice was vulnerable, just like Martins when he answered: “Yes, it’s embarrassing, really, but yes.”

Jon took a deep breath, then he said: “Martin, uhm, would you like to accompany me to a date somewhere next week? A proper one?”

Martin agreed with a smile and Jon silently thanked the murderous alter ego he had created to have some fun in uni for helping him open this conversation.

The rest of the night they spend talking and when they came into work together they had established a comfortable companionship between themselves. The other assistants immediately noticed the shift in dynamics between the two, but when Tim asked Martin about it all he replied was: “Nothing happened, I went to a concert that’s all.”

[statementends]

Okay that cousins au thing was The Cutest Shit and if you’re still taking prompts... more of that? In whatever way you wana interpret that

So this story happens in a universe that is sort of a blend of By the Seashore and Broken Web.

By the Seashore involves Gerard on vacation with his little cousin Martin who he takes to the beach and helps him win the attentions of his crush, Jon. 

Broken Web takes place a few years later. Gerard saves Jon from A Guest for Mr. Spider and comforts him. He promises to remain Jon’s pen pal and tell him more about the supernatural. Jon and Gerry do not recognize each other from the events of By the Seashore

This story takes place when Jon and Martin are thirteen and Gerard is about twenty. The timeline is a bit shaken up since Mary doesn’t bind herself to the book until 2008 when Jon and Martin would be twenty-one. In this universe it happens earlier. 

Characters: Gerard Keay, Martin Blackwood, Jonathan Sims

Pairings: Minor Jon/Martin background in this chapter

Rating: T

Warnings: Parental neglect, homophobia. The story starts out sad, but I do plan for warmer feelings in the later chapters. 

Summary: Gerard opens the door of Pinhole Books the summer after his acquittal. Standing in front of him is his younger cousin asking if he can stay with him. 

AO3: Link

-

Gerard almost didn’t get the door.

It wasn’t like he got any customers for the dingy old bookstore by appointment or otherwise. When there was a ring it meant the paparazzi or some busy body wanting to see ‘where it happened.’ He wanted to sell it, but his mother wouldn’t let him. It was tempting to burn the place down when she was weakened.

After the mistrial he had tried for normal as he had done in the past. It hadn’t lasted long. Didn’t help that people recognised him. He considered cutting his hair short and bleaching it, but the thought of it made him wince. He’d rather be miserable as himself rather than miserable as someone else.

The buzzer rung again. He sighed, but decided to shoo off whoever it was bothering him. Last time he had left it someone had tried climbing through the window not knowing they were already nailed shut.

He opened the door. His scowl switched to confusion.

He had grown a lot. He would still be one of the tallest boys in his class, he already overtook Gerry. The chubbiness hadn’t faded any and the freckles had multiplied. He was big, and if it wasn’t for his babyface he might be mistake for a full grown man, as it was Gerard recognised him as his thirteen year old cousin, Martin Blackwood.

“Why…” The answer was probably Gerard’s luck honesty. It had been… a very bad year. Not that he disliked Martin, but…

Well, whatever this was it was going to complicate his already complicated life, he could feel it.

Martin was trying very hard to smile, but there was a watery look to him. Brittle. He opened his mouth to speak, but inhaled suddenly, as if realizing he couldn’t bring himself to start the sentence.

Gerard frowned. “Martin?”

“I–” Martin’s voice cracked. “Could I maybe stay with you for a little while? I… I don’t have anywhere to…” He crumpled and quickly wiped tears from his eyes.

Oh shit.

Gerard looked wildly around. He couldn’t bring him upstairs. He couldn’t slam the door and say no, which was tempting only because if Martin thought he would find safe shelter here, he was very much mistaken.

“I…” Gerard said slowly. “You… you know about the…” He gestured. Surely his Aunt had told him. Not that she had kept in touch for more than the occasional Christmas card, especially in the last few years, but she had been pretty clear about him staying the fuck away from her. She rung him up the night he got out of prison.

Martin nodded miserable and hesitant. “I don’t–they wouldn’t have let you go if you had done it.” He offered weakly.

Gerard shrugged. Honestly they would have jailed him. He knew he didn’t do it and knew there wasn’t much of a chance of convincing anyone otherwise unless he wanted to show them his mother’s ghost. Martin’s uncertainty did hurt a little though.

“You must be desperate then…” Gerard sighed. He still had Martin on the doorway. He quickly glanced around. No one seemed to be watching, but that didn’t mean someone with a camera wasn’t around the corner. He relented and pulled back.

“Close the door behind you and lock it,” He told Martin.

“Y-Yes of course, thank you Gerard.”

“Don’t thank me yet, we need to talk about this.” Gerard led him up the stairs. He felt the usual claustrophobia of all the books stacked around him. He lead Martin to his room. It was the only place free of clutter and the stench of paper and the crawl of silverfish. He sat on his chair at his desk and Martin sat on his bed. Martin looked amazed in the way someone is amazed by a house fire. There was no way he could let him live here even if his mother wasn’t literally haunting him.

“So.” Gerard said. No use beating around the bush. “What happened? Why are you here?”

Martin bowed his head. He played with the hem of his shirt. “Do I… do I have to say, Gerard? I… Mum kicked me out and I … there’s no one else…”

“She kicked you out?” Gerard asked. His Aunt had never struck him as a warm woman. He had only spent a long length of time with her once, a summer vacation in Bournesmouth. She didn’t seem to be a particularly tolerant woman, but Martin did his best to be obedient. Only a kid but he was well behaved… maybe… maybe too well behaved…

Martin was nodding still playing with his hem, not meeting Gerard’s eyes.

Gerard almost asked what he did, but caught himself. He doubted it had anything to do with what Martin had done and more to do with the fact that she was a terrible woman.

Must run in the esteemed Von Closen line.

“What happened,” he asked instead. “I won’t hold any of it against you.”

“I… you can’t know that you won’t.”

“Martin I was suspected of murdering my own mother,” Gerard said bluntly. Maybe to shock Martin out of it. “There’s not a whole lot worse than that.”

“You didn’t do it though.” Martin said, more certain this time.

Gerard sighed. “Right, but I’ve had a lot of people hold things against me, so I’m not inclined to do that… especially not to family.” Not that family inspired anything in him really, Martin was probably the only exception.

“I’m … I…” Martin took a deep breath. “I’m gay.”

“Right.” Gerard couldn’t be less surprised by the revelation considering he facilitated Martin getting to spend time with his first summer crush. He felt a weird sort of emptiness though. Mary Keay wasn’t a good mother, but he had a cold comfort certainty she would never abandon him.

There was a long pause. Gerard shrugged.

“I… already knew,” He said thinking it might put Martin more at ease. Martin looked terrified.

“You can tell?” He squeaked.

“Oh–no. I mean… you and your friend that you played with that summer. Jack? Josh? You were obviously smitten.”

Martin’s cheeks heated. “Oh…” He said softly. “I… I never thought of it like that… but… yeah…” He looked down. “I guess it’s weird to want to marry a boy you just met.”

“It’s not weird,” Gerard said. He felt tired all of the sudden. He can only imagine what Martin’s Mother said to him before throwing him out of the house. “It’s just… love.” he shrugged. He didn’t really have any sort of experience with that sort of thing, but he knew it was stupid for people to get offended over it.

Martin still had an ashamed look on his face.

Gerard wasn’t sure how to comfort him. He had embraced a very alternative lifestyle at the age of eleven. Was used to sneers and jeers and assumptions about his personal life. Had the shit kicked out of him a few times for it. He had never slept with anyone to make either side of the argument true, but he considered beautiful people beautiful, and the idea of masculinity incomplete and shortsighted. Gay probably wasn’t quite what he was, but he was certainly queer. It had just… it hadn’t mattered. It wasn’t a worry, it was just… part of him. Like liking oranges and getting sunburned easily.

But for Martin this was probably the most afraid he had been in his life.

“You’re fine,” Gerard said. “Hey.”

Martin looked up.

“You’re fine,” He repeated.

Tears spilled down Martin’s face.

“Th–Thank you. Gerard.”

Gerard got up and sat beside him on the bed. He squeezed his shoulder awkwardly. Martin instantly pressed in quietly shaking on his shoulder. He gave his back a few pats, but let him cry it out. It was uncomfortable. So uncomfortable, but the kid needed it, and Gerard was emotionally distant for his own sake, but he wasn’t emotionally dead.

His crying subsided eventually.

“Why don’t you rest in here for a bit, I’ll get us some food. That alright?”

Martin nodded. “Y-yes. You really don’t mind me staying?”

Gerard knew he should kick him out. Give him to child services and let the government sort him out because keeping him here was a bad idea.

Maybe he was lonely… or maybe it was because he wanted to believe family did matter in the good ways. Maybe it was just Martin’s lost look. Whatever it was he nodded.

“Long as you like,” He told him.

Gerard left the room and headed upstairs to his mother’s old office. He dug around and found a plain brown box, packing tape, and a sharpy, as well as enough stampage. He stared at the book he had avoided touching knowing she might pop out at any moment.

“Right.” He inhaled slowly. Slipped the book into the box and wrapped it. Carefully wrote out the address of the Magnus Institute.

If anyone could hold her it was them.

He went out and threw the book in the post, then grabbed some curry and headed back. He opened the door and stepped on the junkmail. There was a letter among it all in familiar and precise handwriting. He dipped and picked it up, slipping it in his pocket. He knocked on the door.

“Come in!” Martin said. His voice sounded a lot stronger.

“So, it’s actually good timing if you don’t mind the work,” Gerard said as if Martin was just here to visit him. “I need to pack up and sell this place.”

“You’re moving?”

“Yeah,” Gerard nodded. There was a strange lift inside him saying it out loud. “I mean… we are…”

Martin nodded eagerly. “Right. I can help!”

“We don’t have to start right now, eat your curry.”

“In here?”

“The place is a disaster,” Gerard said. “I’m almost tempted to burn it all and save some time.”

Martin laughed. The first time he heard since he got here. Small and a bit timid, but there all the same.

-

He gave Martin his bedroom and made do on an old couch in a room Gerard couldn’t have put a name to. It was full of books like the rest. So more of the store. He remembered the letter and pulled it out. Neatly written in Jon’s handwriting:

Dear Gerry,

You haven’t written back since my last letter and I’ve lost patience with you which is why I’m writing now. If you’re trying to protect me, or think that I might think the worst of you for what I’ve read in the papers you’ll find yourself very much mistaken. All you’re doing is being stubborn and thickheaded.

I know that you didn’t kill your mother, and if you did, you probably had a good reason for it and she probably wouldn’t have been considered anyone’s mother anymore, so you need to write me back, or I’ll break the promise we made and come straight to this address and make you talk to me.

Gerry snorted at that. He’d like to see Jon try. He hadn’t seen the weedy boy in years, but he had the feeling he hadn’t grown all that much.

So. Write back to me. You said you would. I know whatever happened you did what you had to. And I’m sorry for your loss. I hope you’re okay.

Sincerely,

Jonathan Sims, Bournemouth  

P. S. I think I’m right about the docks.

Gerard scowled at the post script. That little… he sighed. Two thirteen year old boys he had no business looking after. He shook his head.

The ending was nice. Through all of his bluster Jon was worried about him, but if he thought Gerard wouldn’t go down to Bornemouth and kick his arse for going anywhere near the docks after he had explicitly told him not to…

He got up and grabbed a pen and paper.

Jon,

Do. Not. Go. To. The. Docks.

I’ll look into it.

-Gerard

P.S. I’m fine.

He stared at the letter. He should go into it a bit more, but he was too tired for it. He put it in an envelope and addressed it, planning to send it the next day. For now he’d sleep. Try to figure out what to do with Martin.