#like the storage room is probably towards the end of a hallway because sasha had sprinted to tackle tim

[cass-cc]

diagnose me how you see fit but I just want to have a blueprint/floorplan laid out for the archives if not the most of the institute before I start actually drawing tma stuff with backgrounds

[yellowocaballero]

Jon & Sasha Arson fic

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

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

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

Sasha James was attributable to arson.

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

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

*******

Sasha James was attributable to arson.

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

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

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

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

Hm. 

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

“Say, er, Mr. Stoker.”

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

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

“What’s Artifact Storage?”

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

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

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

“The Archives!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“For the love of christ call me Tim!”

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

*******

It was remarkably easy to commit arson in central London.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He was in. 

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

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

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

“Er,” Jon said. 

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

“Whuh,” the sleepy woman said. 

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

“Whutuhiseet,” the woman slurred. 

“It’s - very late, go back to bed.”

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

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

“Hey! Who are you!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The woman stared at him. 

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

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

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

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

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

*********

Jon didn’t remember much else of that night. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Mergh mergh fuck off,” Sasha James said. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m thirty one, asshole!”

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

“Have you met a woman?”

“I had a grandmother?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Destroying them?”

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

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

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

 Jon squinted at her. She squinted at him back. 

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

Jon pursed his lips. 

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

“Mr. - how did - what!”

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

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

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

*******

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

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

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

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

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

Sasha: Jonnnnnnnnnnnnnnnn

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

Sasha: WAHOO

Sasha: wait

Sasha: really?

Sasha: did you commit ars*on again

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

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

Sasha: do you need to be drunk to do it

Jon: ...maybe.

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

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

Sasha: holy shit

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

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

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

Sasha: we can talk about this at the pub

Sasha: in private. Off the radar. 

Jon: Looking forward to it :)

Jon: did I use the emoticon right?

Sasha: Yes, Jon, you did everything right. 

[janekfan]

Commitment

https://archiveofourown.org/works/26181859

The tiny printed words on the statement Jon held in his hand seemed to swim on the page as he attempted to read it for the third time in as many minutes. Throwing in the towel, he slid it back into its folder beside the scraps of research and notes Martin left behind when he finally succumbed to the flu Sasha saw fit to spread to the staff before disappearing presumably to recover in peace. A persistent headache resistant to even a staggering amount of paracetamol rested just behind his eyes and Jon removed his glasses, folding them beside the copious paperwork, and let his forehead rest on folded arms.

He was, quite frankly. Knackered.

But there was too much left unanswered to not keep working and Jon would be damned if he allowed a little exhaustion to get in the way of figuring out what the hell was going on. Martin would be back soon and hopefully so would Sasha and until then he would pick up the slack. The sound of footsteps drew his attention and he reluctantly turned his head towards the window in the door, tensing when a Tim-shaped shadow paused for a few seconds before walking on and releasing the breath he was holding in a shaky sigh.

It wasn’t a secret, Tim’s dislike of him, and rather than invite his ire, Jon opted to slog through the work from his ill assistants himself. He’d pulled all nighters before, this was no different and it wouldn’t be much longer, he was sure of it. So lost in thought, Jon didn’t notice the footsteps again until Tim’s bulk was all but blocking the light sifting through the frosted glass. Even with that barrier between them, Jon could tell he was upset, shoulders set stiff, his voice slipped through and it was like he was trying to convince himself of something. Eyes wide when the door knob began to turn, Jon scrambled to sit up straight and look presentable before Tim’s cold presence filled the small office.

“Evening, Tim.”

“Haven’t you been home?” Jon forced himself to stay calm despite the scorn in his tone. There was a time. Before.

Well, that was over now.

“Ah, uh. D’didn’t seem worth it.” Mumbled as he gestured at the piles of research, confused when myriad conflicting emotions flew across Tim’s face and settled on weary indifference.

“Why didn’t you--” Tim shook his head. “You know what. Nevermind. Work yourself into the desk.” The slamming of the door and the rattling of the glass reverberated in Jon’s skull, and he groaned, letting his head fall again.

“Night, Tim.”

Groggy, Jon swallowed around the desert in his mouth, coughing roughly into his elbow. Sleeping on his desk hadn’t been a good plan of action at all and if anything his headache was worse than before. Coffee. Tea. Whichever they had in the breakroom. And some more painkillers. He’d been foolish not to drink much of anything before and was certainly suffering for it now, staggering woozily into the rickety shelves against the wall and kissing a box of organized files goodbye as they spilled all over the floor. All he could do was blink dumbly at the new tile job he’d done, stepping carefully over the mess when he felt like he had a better grasp on which direction was up. When was the last time he’d eaten? Thankfully, with everyone either sick or avoiding him, Jon was able to take his time limping to the breakroom and preparing the tea he’d found. He added a generous spoonful of honey, feeling luxurious today, and closed his eyes against just how good the sweet, hot drink felt on his aching throat.

“You look shite.” The disdain was palpable and Jon swallowed around the clot of sorrow. He wouldn’t cry in front of him. He would not.

“Thank you, Tim.”

“Sound it too.” He couldn’t argue, instead finishing up his tea and setting about washing the mug. “Martin keeps telling me to check on you.”

“I’m doing just fine.” He braced himself on the counter.

“Clearly.” Dry.

“You can tell Martin and be on your way. I don’t want to keep you.” He met Tim’s narrowed eyes much more confidently than he felt, wishing he’d kept the mug so he’d have something to do with his hands.

“Tch.”

The day did not go up from there. Jon felt increasingly chilled, even bundled up in everything he could find. The files were still all over his floor and he couldn’t make himself care enough to do anything about it when he could barely lift his chin off his chest.

“Maybe. Maybe a, a lie down.” He took with him the bottle of water he’d been nursing (Martin would be proud and making him proud had climbed to the top of his priority list without him noticing) and the half empty bottle of paracetamol, having to lean heavily on the wall to even make it to the room that held the cot. The whole of him ached fiercely, like his joints were full of glass dust and he was stumbling through a brush fire, and by the time he arrived he had to admit that he was possibly, probably, ill. “Fan’fantastic.” Oh, he couldn’t pinpoint a time in his life when he felt this poorly. He was shaking too hard to get a grip on the cap, cursing children and their child safety, and ended up sending a handful of pills skittering across the floor. He salvaged four, swallowing them dry, and when he coughed, struggled again to open the water bottle only to spill most of it he sobbed. Frustrated, Jon felt tears spring to his eyes when faced with cleaning up the mess he’d made because all he was good for was making a mess of things and this was why he was alone because he deserved to be that way. He forced down the remaining water, scrubbed his forearm roughly against his face, and collapsed sideways, tossing and turning in increasingly vain attempts to get comfortable and only making himself nauseous. He couldn’t get up again. He didn’t want to be sick, instead leaning over the edge of the cot, Jon pressed his face to the cool tile of the floor, breath slow and measured, trying to focus on settling down. God, is this what Martin was having to go through? He should’ve checked on him. Why didn’t he think to check on him? Should. He should do that now. What if he needed help? He should help.

With numb fingers he fumbled for his phone, hissing through his teeth at the sharp stab of pain the bright screen lighting up caused. It was difficult to work the buttons with only one hand, when his contacts list, laughably small, wavered like a disturbed pond but. Each letter felt like a small miracle. But, if Martin was this poorly he shouldn’t, couldn’t be left alone.

mm artin, jut chdcking in hkw fj you ffele?

He knew he’d misspelled several things but had no more energy to contemplate trying a second time. Pressing send was already too much effort as it was and jamming his device back into the pocket he freed it from was out of the question. He wanted to wait for Martin’s response, felt the worry filling him up, choking him, but the phone slipped from his enervated fingers when his eyes slid closed and he finally fell into blissful darkness.

The notification blinked across the top of his screen and Tim ignored it for the third consecutive time, maintaining focus on the game instead of bothering with whatever Martin wanted. He’d checked on the guy and he was on his feet so job done. Martin calling however was a sight bit harder to ignore and he sighed heavily, rolling his eyes before picking up.

“Tim!” He sounded mostly back to normal at least, feeling better if the energy behind his shouting was any indication. “Tim. Are you listening to me?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m listening.” Sort of.

“You need to find Jon. S’s’something is wrong.”

“I saw him earlier, he’s fine.” Mostly.

“Tim.” The noise over the line was a cross between frustration and anger. “Tim. He’s not. Please. I’m going to call a cab.”

“No, Martin. I’ll find him. Stay there and I’ll call you back in a tick.” Trust even Jon to cause trouble from another room. He wasn’t in the kitchen, nor was he in his office and the disorderly files littering the ground did send a pang of uneasiness through him. “Jon?” He wasn’t in the stacks and Tim began searching each hallway in earnest, finally considering that he may actually be sleeping and all but ran to storage, throwing the door wide and almost falling to his knees in shock. “J’Jon??” The pills. The water. Martin was right. Something was so, so wrong. “Jon!” When he didn’t move, Tim dropped to the floor, ignoring the medication he crushed to powder under his shoes.

He said he’d call Martin. He needed. He needed to call. 999?

Taking a deep breath and bracing himself for the worst, Tim lifted Jon’s upper body from the floor, exhaling the breath he was holding in a rush when he moaned, brow creasing. He cradled him against his knee to run his fingers through Jon’s loose, sweat-damp hair so he could see his deeply flushed face.

“You’re burning up, boss.” Murmuring absently, Tim let his hand rest on his forehead. Martin. He shifted enough to sit on the edge of the cot, Jon still halfway in his lap, completely out of it, and dialed.

“Tim?”

“You were right.” Tim sighed. “He’s down with what looks like your flu.”

“It wasn’t mine.” Barely audible muttering drifted through the speaker. “How is he?”

“I think. I could use some help here. If you’re feeling up to it.” He looked down. He had yet to remove his hand. Jon had yet to wake up. “He’s, he’s bad off.”

“Should you call A&E?” Martin’s voice went quiet at the same time the hazy brown of Jon’s eyes became visible through fluttering lashes.

“He seems to be coming awake on his own. Uh, see you in?”

“Fifteen.” And disconnected the line.

“Jon?” In response he coughed and it rattled in his narrow chest painfully.

“We, we, w’we’ll need to find a replacement.” Despite all that happened between them, Jon’s strange, slurred words made something in Tim’s chest ache and he laid his palm along the length of his feverish cheek.

“A replacement for what?” Fitfully, Jon turned his head, hiding his eyes from the light in Tim’s shirt and swallowing painfully.

“Teakettle’s.” The wheezing, struggling pull for air wasn’t good. “I’it’s gone walkabout.”

Oh dear.

“Martin’s on his way.” Thank god. “He’ll know what to do, just relax.” This was it, his brain was melting. “We need to cool you down.”

“N’no. M’already cold.” Shivering, like he had to prove it, the whine in his refusal was almost, dare he say it. Endearing. If only because this was so far on the opposite end of his usual spectrum and he was so poorly. “Tim?” Why did he have to be so talkative now?

“Yeah, boss?” Gently he eased Martin’s scarf from around his neck and for someone so oblivious of his own infatuation, Jon clearly had it bad for the man if he’d resorted to stealing Martin’s clothes for comfort.

“If you--stop.” Tim was able to bat Jon’s uncoordinated hands away from where he was working on the buttons of his jacket until the man forgot what he was doing. “If you were a beetle…” Despite himself, Tim couldn’t help but chuff. He should record this. It was gold.

“Yeah, boss?” Pressing his fumbling fingers down again, squeezing lightly.

“What would y’do with your extra legs.” When Tim laughed, easing Jon’s arms out of the sleeves, the archivist frowned so very seriously. “S’for research, Tim.” He shivered again, shaking delicately all over now. Of course there would be a sweater under here. No wonder he was boiling. “Tim?” This time he whimpered.

“Yeah, boss?” And Jon’s voice was the smallest, most broken thing.

“Don’t. I think. Think m’not well.”

“Understatement of the year, I’m afraid.” He heard his breath hitch when he tugged the sweater over his head to find him in his vest.

“Tim?”

“Yeah, boss?” To his dismay, tears slipped down his cheeks into the already sweat damp hair at his temples. Tim didn’t remember there being so much grey.

“M’sorry.” Lips pressed together in a trembling line. “M’so. So sorry.” Now wasn’t the time for this. Where was Martin? Martin who was so much better at this than he was. Who still worried about the man trembling in his lap.

“S’alright, Jon.”

“Tim?” Speak of the devil, Martin swung around the door frame, panting, having evidently run from the cab. “He looks really bad.” He unbundled himself, reaching into the bag he’d brought for a thermometer, passing it off to Tim and unpacking the rest of his supplies which included a thermos of tea. Because Martin. Soft and sure, he brushed his fingers through Jon’s flyaways, smoothing them out of his face. “I’ve brought some Lemsip. Christ, he’s so much worse than I was--what’s it say?”

“39.5. Never anything by halves.” Martin visibly relaxed.

“High, but not dangerous and he’s no doubt miserable. The medicine will help.” He knelt beside them, fixing a smile upon his face. “Hullo, Jon.”

“Y’should be resting.” He seemed confused to see him, limp and pliable when Martin switched places with Tim and knuckled away his tears.

“I will once I’ve seen to you, alright? We both will. Take these for me?” Clumsy, Jon followed his directions, even downing the tea without complaint, and Tim admired Martin’s control of their strong willed, idiot coworker, wished he still felt that easy around him. Martin was petting back his hair and Jon was struggling to stay awake, slightly cross-eyed and basically staring, besotted, at Martin’s face. “How’re you feeling?”

“N’need to.” Jon blinked hard. “Tell.”

“Hush,” he soothed, “whatever it is can wait.” But Jon shook his head, insistent.

“Queen of Egypt melted, ‘nd I’ll say that ye may love in spite of beaver hats.” The hell? Martin’s eyes went wide at his nonsensical rambling and Tim began sputtering.

“Was that part of a statement? Is he going all,” Tim wiggled his fingers for emphasis. “Spooky?”

Martin shook his head, clamping down on what appeared to be laughter as Jon finally slipped sideways into sleep.

“He just recited Keats. I am never letting him live that down.” It was Tim’s turn to laugh.

“You dunno the half of it, Marto.”

After tucking Jon in and cleaning up the mess he’d made earlier; only paracetamol, he’d probably felt ill but spilled the bottle in such a state, Martin checked his temperature again and found it lower.

“How’re you doing, Tim?” They were tidying the files Jon had knocked off his shelf earlier and even though Martin had given him an out, he found he wanted to help. He’d been scared earlier, finding him like that, and all the animosity between them unresolved made it worse. They were friends once. And like Martin said, Jon was going through things right along with them.

“Tired.”

“Thank you, for staying with him until I could get here.” Martin tapped together a neat stack of folders. “I know.” He sighed. “Well. I know.”

“He took over all your paperwork, so I owed him one.”

“Of course he did.” He began grumbling to himself about fools and their tendencies to not use their brains, compiling reports much more aggressively than before and it was Tim’s turn to shake his head because Martin.

He had it just as bad.

[haberdashing]

What A Tangled Web We Weave (7/?)

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

on AO3

Chapter 1 / Chapter 2 / Chapter 3 / Chapter 4 / Chapter 5 / Chapter 6 / Chapter 7

Martin slept well that night.

He wasn’t expecting to, really. When he put his head against the pillow, he was fully expecting a night filled with tossing and turning and nightmares and very little in the way of actual sleep. But both that night and the one before, once he made the decision that it was time to go to bed he was out like a light, lost in dreamless sleep, and before he knew it it was morning.

Part of Martin wondered if this had to do with his new connection to the Web somehow. Part of Martin wondered if it was just because he really needed the rest. Part of Martin wasn’t quite willing to look that particular gift horse in the mouth just yet.

He didn’t feel quite as, well, off as he had the day before when he woke up, either, and Martin figured it was probably time for him to head back to the Institute. No use putting things off any further, delaying the inevitable and risking seeming all the more suspicious because of it. Besides, he did still have a job to do... even if that job wasn’t nearly as mundane as he’d thought when he’d first signed on.

Martin was nervous on his way to the Institute, scared even, but that wasn’t really new. The specific cause was, sure, but he’d been scared of something ever since Prentiss trapped him in his flat, and probably even earlier than that if he was being entirely honest with himself. At least now the fear and anxiety had a clear rationale behind them, had a single cause he could focus on dealing with as best he could.

He’d picked his nails half to shreds by the time he made it through the front door of the Institute, but Martin was pretty sure his eyes were two in number and human-looking in appearance, that nobody was staring at him any more than usual, and that was more important right now than having intact fingernails.

Jon was tucked away in his office again, or so it looked from a glance towards the place to see the door to it closed and light peeking out from the gaps between door and frame. Martin wanted to try to draw him out of there, to give him comfort and reassurance, but he didn’t entirely trust himself to do so without something going terribly wrong, at least not yet. Maybe later he could just so happen to make himself and Jon a cup of tea and use that as an excuse to stop inside again, but for now...

For now, he had work to do.

Martin wasn’t sure if it was just his imagination, or if it was because of the day that passed without him in the Archives, or if it was because of his return to the Archives now, but the other archival assistants (including Basira, whose set-up was still a little haphazard, but was a fair sight better than sitting on the floor now; Daisy was nowhere to be seen, and Martin rather preferred it that way) were a lot quieter now than they were two days ago. No open-ended speculation about whether Elias’ claims were true, no discussion of Jon’s fate. Melanie was actually doing some research, by the looks of it, while Basira had another book open at her new desk, and Tim was playing a different violent video game on his work computer.

Was being the operative word there; as Martin booted up his own computer, he saw Tim pause his game before strolling over to him.

“Martin, can we talk?”

Martin shrugged. “Sure?”

Tim looked around the archives before adding, in a slightly lower voice, “I mean, can we talk alone?”

Martin gulped nervously. While he didn’t know exactly what Tim wanted from him, his mind jumped to the worst easily enough, and it being something that he wasn’t willing to say within earshot of the other archival assistants definitely wasn’t a good sign. “Y-yeah, sure.”

They followed the path together, no words needing to be exchanged beforehand; this wasn’t the first time Martin and Tim had wanted to speak without others overhearing them, and they’d identified one particular document storage room that went almost entirely unused some months back for that purpose. (Though back then if they couldn’t talk in the Archives, it was because they were avoiding Sasha--Sasha, whose death still felt like a freshly opened wound--and that memory sent a pang of loss coursing through Martin.)

As Tim closed the door behind him, Martin leaned against a pile of old boxes, though he regretted the move almost immediately as a cloud of dust emerged from the boxes with his touch and he had to fight to stifle a sneeze. “What did you want to talk about?”

Tim laughed a little, and that should have helped, should have eased the tension at least a bit, but the laugh was short and bitter and Martin didn’t trust it even slightly.

The pause between Tim’s laugh and his actual response to Martin’s question must have taken only a few brief seconds, but in Martin’s mind, that period of uncertainty and unease dragged on much longer.

“Did you really take a day off work just because your crush is getting married?”

Once Martin finished processing the question being asked of him, he couldn’t help but burst into laughter, even though it just made the fire in Tim’s eyes burn brighter.

“That’s what this is about? Seriously?”

Tim raised an eyebrow. “Why, what did you think this was about?”

“...nothing.”

“Right. Look, I thought you were still all gung-ho about working here. Did you change your mind about all that, or are you really just that taken with Jon?”

“I...” Martin had been prepared for a few different ways this conversation could go, but this fit none of them, and now he was left grasping at straws. “Neither, I guess?”

“Then why didn’t you come in to work yesterday, hmm?”

“I didn’t feel well.” Technically true, that, the best kind of true. “Might’ve had some sort of 24-hour bug, I’m better now.”

Tim’s eyes narrowed. “Oh, so you just happened to fall ill yesterday.”

Martin threw his hands in the air. “Yes! Why is that so suspicious?”

“Because you’re back now, not at all worried about being contagious, the very next day.”

It took Martin a moment to put together the pieces, to remember the time he’d chewed out Sasha (...was that Sasha? Martin didn’t know for sure, couldn’t remember the timing well enough) for coming into work after taking two days off for a cold and returning while she still had a slight sniffle, how he’d gone on a rant about how easily germs could spread in an office environment, but once he realized what he’d done Martin could feel his stomach sinking until it seemed like it must be resting somewhere around the floor.

“Maybe it wasn’t a bug, actually-”

“If you’re trying to avoid this place, trust me, it’s not that easy. But if you’re just trying to avoid Jon-”

Martin could feel his face growing pink and hot. “It’s not like that!”

“If you say so.”

“It’s not, I swear it’s not-”

And then Tim’s eyes went wide and he started backing away, and Martin didn’t know why until he realized that the room definitely hadn’t been this bright when he’d entered, and he could see the cobwebs in the corners more clearly now-

Shit.

“Tim?”

Tim kept his eyes fixed on Martin as he reached for the doorknob, only breaking eye contact once the door was flung open and he began running past it into the hallway beyond. Martin followed, but if he tried chasing after Tim Martin would likely end up losing the chase, and then he’d end up parading through the Archives looking like- like this, and everything would just unravel that much faster...

Better to try using his words, then. Maybe he could still talk Tim out of doing anything too drastic.

“Tim, stop!”

Tim went from sprinting away from Martin to practically screeching to a halt on a dime in a motion that looked more like something out of a cartoon than something unfolding in real life. It was almost comical, how quickly he stopped in his tracks when Martin said the word. Almost.

“Tim...”

Martin approached Tim, who was standing still in the middle of the hallway now, not moving an inch from where he’d been when Martin had called out to him. Martin circled around until they were face to face again, halfway between the archives proper and the room where their conversation had begun.

“Please don’t- don’t tell anyone about this. Don’t tell Jon about this, especially. Please. I know it looks bad, and it, it kind of is bad I suppose-” Martin let out a soft, bitter laugh. “But I want the time to figure this out myself, handle it on my own terms, alright?”

Martin looked into Tim’s eyes, which looked strangely unfocused, as if he were looking through Martin instead of at him. For a moment Tim didn’t respond, and Martin held his breath as he waited...

“Fine, sure, I won’t tell anyone.” The bitterness in Tim’s voice was audible, but Martin still let out a sigh of relief. “But if you go around looking like that, I doubt me keeping mum will help much.”

“Right, right, yeah.” Martin concentrated, thought back to those hours spent staring at his own reflection in the bathroom mirror, and the world grew dimmer and his peripheral vision shrank away as he willed eight eyes back into two. “There we go. Now, can we talk about this?”

Martin blinked a few times before realizing that his vision wasn’t failing him, that Tim really was nowhere to be seen. Apparently he’d taken the time Martin had used to adjust his appearance to run off to who-knows-where.

Martin sighed again. “Tim?”

No response came as Martin made his way down the hallway.

“Tim, I’d like to talk. Tim!”

Even once he reached the main part of the archives, Tim wasn’t there, wasn’t waiting at his desk as Martin had expected, his video game still paused on the same screen as before.

As Martin made his way back to his own desk, Melanie asked, “Looking for Tim?”

Martin tried to summon up a grin, though he wasn’t sure how successful he was on that end. “That obvious?”

“Well, you were practically yelling his name just now-”

“Right, uh, about that-”

“But he just ran off. Literally. Looked a little like a deer in headlights when he was at it.” Melanie paused, clearly hesitating before asking, “What was it you needed from him, anyway?”

Martin let out a laugh that he hoped sounded less bitter than it felt, shaking his head as he replied, “Nothing, actually. Nothing at all.”