#martin and tim need to kiss urgently

[undeadboyfriendsupportgroup]

Timothy Stoker, I know what you are...........

[bakurasilver]

hello I am so curious about all of the WIPs but I'd love to hear more about Wout and About - being bratty on the bus <3

Sooooo way back when I was the world's most devoted shipper of Julian Alaphilippe/Tim Declercq (which I still am, even though they're on different teams now. There are like ten or so pictures of them where neither of them Julian is making a face.) but this was obviously not going to be a pairing which Took Off 😭. Reading other people's work (back when we had at most one fic a month) got me vaguely into the possibility of Wout/Mathieu, and I had a tentative go at writing them as the B Couple in a Julian/Tim fic (one of the others on the list), but then I saw them actually racing, and how could anyone not love Wout!! And despite how much this season is affecting their rivalry (also the media being constantly all, Wout Is So Useless), he and Mathieu will be linked forever in rl, let alone in fanfiction land. And whilst I think real Mathieu is way more 'no thoughts head empty' than my version of him, he's just so narratively honed that it's almost unrealistic he actually exists. He's just the perfect shape to project almost anything onto.

Then I had a just super pornographic dream about them, and thought, well, I don't even have to edit this, beyond removing Guillaume Martin (who was wandering around entirely bored by sub!Wout kissing dom!Mathieu's feet... I keep writing GM into the corners of things I shall never publish, knowing this will make no one laugh but me, but whatever shenanigans are going on with the main couple, he'll just be around and so wearily disinterested in their love life.)

But in this random bit of porn they were using hand gestures to continuously convey consent, and I couldn't help but wonder why. So I started a prequel to answer a question no one but me had, which is what Feeling bratty on the bus is.

The plot, such as it is, is Wout is grumbling on the team bus that sometimes he wants to push back against what Mathieu tells him to do for a while but does still ultimately want to be obedient, only Mathieu always halts procedings because he doesn't want to do anything Wout's not enthusiastically consenting to. Sepp Kuss (That's me, putting the dom into domestique! which I still think is one of the funniest lines I have ever written) then gives him a lecture about how it's okay to be a bratty sub, but Wout needs to explain this to Mathieu, as clearly neither of them have done any research. He attempts to give some examples from his own entirely offscreen relationship with Brandon McNulty (I'm still convinced this is a ship which has potential, but I do Not know enough about either of them to write it), but Wout is Inspired, and runs off to message Mathieu.

Mathieu does some research before the bus gets to the hotel (why is he there? Reasons! Why is he suddenly such a fast reader? Well he can read, he just doesn't!) and they go up to the hotel room, where Wout freaks out at being emotionally vulnerable. Mathieu tells him it'll be fine, even if Wout doesn't know how to say any of the above out loud, and that all Wout needs to do is find a way to let him know he's still super into what they're doing. Hence, the hand gestures. They then cuddle, and Wout takes a nap, exhausted by Having Had Feelings.

It's basically done, but also probably the least sexy BDSM-adjacent fic ever written (I don't think they even talk about sex, apart from in the vaguest terms). So I'm just not sure the world has any need for it, but sometimes I have an urgent need to read, Wout Was Having A Difficult Moment But Then Cuddles, hence why it's still sat there <3

[mslynnwrites]

So Dathen brought up the idea of Martin going with Jon to America in the Discord. Things snowballed, and all I could think about what Jon expecting the worst after he finds he’s dependent on the statements. I mean, our boy has like. NO self-esteem and is prone to martyring himself for what he thinks is right. It seemed like something he’d do.

AKA I had another excuse to write Jon being sad and then being comforted and I took it. Also they kees :3c

CW: panic, addiction (statement dependency) discussion, Jon’s incredibly low opinion of himself/depression

***

Jon leans over the balcony and watches the smoke of his cigarette drift up into the night sky like impossibly long fingers. He shudders and tries not to think about Michael. Tries not to think about the Circus. Just...tries not to think.

He...he wants to believe that there’s a perfectly rational explanation for why he feels...better. Martin had been fussing over him for days, now, trying anything to make him feel better, and that should have been all he needed! But now...well, he knows—perhaps Knows—that the statement was all he needed.

And Elias...he’d known and done nothing! Was that the point? To turn Jon into his little puppet to tug around along a string of statements he needed in order to...to what, exactly? He’s dependent on them, now, he’s sure—no matter how awful it is. But does he need them to...live? Is...is this what Jude meant?

He lets his head droop, despite feeling more awake and alive than he has for a week, and takes another drag of his cigarette. He doesn’t want to think. He doesn’t want any of this.

There is movement behind him, and he doesn’t need to turn to know that it’s Martin. He smiles internally; Martin has been...so much more than he’d ever dreamed. He never complains when Jon passes out on his shoulder during a long travel time. He’s pretty sure he remembers him wrapping an arm around him one of those times. He always takes Jon’s concerns seriously, even if they seem completely ludicrous. Hell, he even agreed when Jon mentioned he thought they were being followed. And he…

Jon doesn’t deserve him. Martin deserves so much better.

“Hey,” Martin says softly, leaning on the railing beside him. “Are you...how are you feeling?”

Jon lets out a dry laugh. “I feel good,” he rasps. “I shouldn’t, but…”

Martin looks over at him. There is something dark in his eyes, and Jon knows it’s because of what he is. “So it’ll...it’s going to ‘tide you over’, then?”

“I-I think so. Yes.”

Martin looks away again and starts picking at his fingernails. He doesn’t say anything, and his face is pinched in thought. Jon wishes he would just tell him off already. Tell him he’s disgusted and walk away.

His throat constricts. He knows it’s coming, and he hates it. He hates what he is, he hates Elias for doing this to him, he hates that Martin is trapped in this hell with him. He hates that he’s going to lose the only person who seems to care about him.

“So what do we do?” Martin asks, still not looking at him.

Jon swallows back his emotions and reels himself in. He will not cry here. He’ll save that for when Martin leaves; he doesn’t deserve to be pitied. “Th-there’s um...there’s a train leaving for Washington in the morning,” he croaks. “And...there’s a plane to London with a layover in Chicago leaving in 5 hours. I can...I’ll...stay- o-out here while...while you get your things together. Th-that way y-you don’t have to- to see...me.” He finishes with a half-choked sob. He doesn’t want Martin to go. He doesn’t deserve Martin to stay.

He wonders: will he treat him like Tim does? Or will it be more like Georgie—distancing himself? Honestly, that might be worse than violent hatred. Maybe it’s what he deserves.

Martin is looking at him, his expression twisted into confusion. “What? What are you talking about?”

His entire body is shaking, and he can feel the dam starting to break. He can’t—he can’t—let himself break, no matter how terrified and horrified and awfully good he feels. He is a monster. He deserves nothing. Nothing but pain and terror and abandonment.

He’s hyperventilating. There’s a panic attack tingling in his bones. It’d be so much easier if he were alone; he wouldn’t have to pretend. He could let everything out that he’s keeping bottled up right now. But he’s not, and he can’t.

There is a hand taking his. He thinks he hears Martin say his name. He thinks he must be hallucinating.

“Jon,” Martin says again, his voice urgent and stressed. He has both of his hands in his, now. He’s staring intensely into his eyes.

He can’t speak. He tries anyway, and all that comes out is a quiet whimper. Pathetic.

“Oh, Jon.” Martin’s hands leave his, and he screws his eyes shut because he cannot bear to watch him walk away. But then there are arms wrapping around his torso, and he is being pulled against a broad chest. “I’m not going anywhere, Jon.”

The dam overflows, and Jon crumples. His legs give way to the concrete floor beneath him, but Martin holds him. He gently settles him onto the ground, never letting go.

He tries to speak. He tries to apologise. He tries to do something that isn’t burying his face into Martin’s chest because he does not deserve this no matter how scared or upset he feels and he doesn’t understand why Martin isn’t walking away nor why he’s holding him so tightly and gently and warmly and he is scared and Martin is not leaving.

He’s whispering things that Jon can’t understand through his guilt-ridden haze, quietly shushing him and rubbing circles into his back the way he’d always wanted someone to but no one ever had.

Slowly, his sobs taper off until he can only shiver under Martin’s bulk with an occasional painful, wet gasp. Martin loosens his grip, and Jon doesn’t want to move even though he knows he should because he is a monster and Martin is wonderfully, beautifully human.

“It’s okay,” Martin whispers. “It’s okay; you’re not alone. I’m here. We’re gonna figure this out.”

“I don’t understand,” Jon gasps. He doesn’t understand why Martin is still here. Why would Martin want to stay—to help him?

“I know,” Martin replies. “None of this is your fault.”

“How could it not be?”

Martin shushes him. “You didn’t know. None of us knew. I’m not going to throw the blame on you just because- because you think you deserve to be hated, Jon.”

Jon finally finds the strength to pull himself out of Martin’s embrace. The warmth is gone and he is cold and afraid and he doesn’t understand. “I’m a monster,” he rasps. You should hate me.

Martin’s hands cup his cheeks and softly caress away the tears. “You’re not a monster,” he says, “not to me.”

If he’d had any tears left, they would be falling now. His whole body aches and his head is pounding and Martin is looking at him with an open yet unreadable expression and he has never been so close before.

He is slowly leaning closer, then stops when their noses touch. Jon searches his eyes and finds hesitation, fear, concern hidden in their oceanic depths. He is dizzyingly close and his fingertips are gently pressing into his cheeks while they’re sitting on the floor of the balcony of their shitty motel. Jon closes his eyes, barely breathing, anticipating, fearing, wanting.

Martin’s lips taste like mint. They are soft and gentle and do not pry. Jon balls his hands into Martin’s shirt and leans into the kiss like it’s the last drop of goodness in his hellish world.

It only lasts a few glorious seconds before Martin pulls away. Jon lets out an unconscious breath. He is still shaking, he is still a mess, he’s still a monster. But Martin...doesn’t care. Martin is going to stay. He doesn’t have to do this all alone.

“Where you go, I go,” Martin murmurs, resting their foreheads together. “Okay? I’m not going to leave you. Not ever.”

Jon takes in a shuddery breath. “O-okay…,” he whispers. “Th-that’s the deal.”

Martin is still smiling when he kisses him again.

[ollieofthebeholder]

leaves too high to touch (roots too strong to fall): a TMA fanfic

Tumblr tag || Also on AO3

Chapter 45: Martin Prime

“I Spy, with my mental eye, something that begins with…C.”

“Croft?”

“N—yes. Wait, how did you know that?” Jon sounded slightly indignant. “I didn’t even know you knew that word.”

Martin snorted. “Then you’re cheating.”

Jon sighed theatrically. “All right, fine, but which croft?”

“Hmm.” Martin pursed his lips thoughtfully. “The one two hills over, with the stone fence that was falling down in places. The one you had a hard time not seeing as sinister.”

“Well done.” Jon cupped Martin’s cheek in his hand and gave him a gentle kiss. “Right, your turn. Let’s go with…hmm. Let’s say Gertrude’s storage unit.”

It was a silly and relatively pointless game, but Martin loved Jon so much for coming up with it. They’d played I Spy several times when they were in Scotland because Jon had misunderstood Martin’s attempt to explain the one helpful thing he’d been given during his brief stint in therapy, but it had helped both of them, so Martin hadn’t told Jon until much, much later that it wasn’t what he’d meant. Still, it had been fun to play, and it had given them a brief moment of levity during their trek through the fearscapes between their tiny haven of sanctuary in Scotland and their ultimate destination in London. Martin had joked about playing it at Christmas, and Jon had apparently taken that to heart.

He’d come up with this variant not long after, and they’d played it a few times since. One of them would select a location they were both familiar with, and the other had to try and remember what it looked like, then pick something to “spy”. One part game, one part memory exercise, it was a continual surprise to Martin how many little details he could still picture in his head.

He sometimes suspected Jon of changing his answers solely so Martin could be “correct,” in the same way that Martin had never had a favorite color until Jon had guessed it to be green, but at least it was a fun exercise.

“Right,” he said, trying to cast his mind back over the storage unit. That one would be trickier. There’d just been so much crammed into a relatively small space, and Martin had admittedly been a little distracted by relief over having Jon back and talking to him, seeming to actually enjoy his company. It was hard to focus on details beyond the plastic explosives crammed in the hard case.

“I Spy, with my mental eye—” he began.

Jon’s fingers suddenly touched Martin’s lips as he hissed a warning to stay quiet. Martin froze and held his breath, and then he heard what Jon did—voices in the corridor. They were muffled but distinct, which did at least mean it wasn’t someone who didn’t need to be down there, but…

After a moment, though, Martin caught a laugh that sounded familiar and relaxed. “It’s them.”

“That’s…not good. It’s the middle of the day.” There was a rustle as Jon got to his feet. “God, what happened now?”

Martin bit his lip. Being blind and living essentially underground meant his internal clock was a bit off, but he trusted Jon. If it was midday, that meant it was Wednesday; Past Jon had been gone less than two days. He was probably still in Beijing. Nothing bad had happened to Jon while he was in China, unless there was something he hadn’t told Martin, and he probably hadn’t even had time to get into Pu Songling yet. Which meant something had happened to one of the others. Best case scenario, they’d uncovered a statement that bothered them or they wanted clarification on. Worst-case…

The door opened, and Past Martin’s voice came in, obviously in the middle of a sentence. “—like I’m offering to show you a pipe of Amontillado we’re keeping down here, it’s—oh, hey, you’re up already, that’s good.”

“What’s happened? Did something go wrong?” Jon asked urgently.

“Depends on your definition of ‘wrong,’ I suppose.”

There was a slight, nearly imperceptible creak as the door opened wider, and then a short pause before a female voice that sounded rather familiar spoke. “Is this some kind of a joke?”

Martin sat up a little straighter. “Melanie?”

He felt a surprising mix of delight and regret. He’d come to like the feisty firebrand in the short time they’d actually been able to get to know each other, despite the strain of the world having ended, and one thing he’d privately lamented when they’d made the decision to come back in time was that he wouldn’t get the chance to talk with her again, so having the opportunity was an unexpected pleasure. On the other hand, the fact that she was here and being brought down probably meant that she’d been trapped into working at the Institute, and that sent a stab of aching melancholy through his heart. They’d wanted so badly to keep her from turning bitter and angry…

She didn’t sound angry, though, at least not yet. Then again, their Melanie hadn’t at first either. “Are you clones or—you knew my name. What are you?”

Martin couldn’t help the grin that curled across his mouth, even as he got to his feet. “Me? Oh, I’m the Antichrist’s plus-one.”

The surprised laugh sounded like Tim’s. Melanie actually sounded delighted. “Does that mean he’s the Antichrist?”

“Assuming you’re pointing to Jon, yes.”

“Melanie.” Jon sounded like he was struggling to keep his composure. “It’s—it’s good to see you. What are you doing here?”

“Getting initiated. Or hazed, maybe. Depends on how you want to call it.” There was a rustle of fabric, and Martin guessed Melanie had just folded her arms across her chest. “You’re looking at the newest Archival Assistant.”

“Oh, Melanie,” Jon murmured, his voice full of regret.

“Yeah, yeah, I know, evil fear things, spooky stories, you can check out any time you like but you can never leave, today we are canceling the Apocalypse, blah blah blah.”

“Any other pop culture references you want to throw out there?” Martin asked dryly.

He could imagine Melanie shrugging. “I mean, you might have to give me a minute to come up with a few. But they told me all about the crap they have to put up with. We have to put up with, I guess.” She paused. “So, neither of you really answered my question.”

“Melanie King, meet the Primes,” Tim said. “Jon and Martin, meet the crazy woman who knew what she was getting into and did it anyway. Ow!” he added, punctuated by the dull, wet smack of somebody being punched in the side. “Jeez, what were you, a boxer in another life?”

“You say that like I’m not a boxer in this one,” Melanie grumbled. “I just don’t compete is all. Prime whats?”

“So you know those pop culture references?” Past Martin said. “Here’s one more. They’re—they’re Jon and me, from the future. They’re the reason we’re trying to stop the Apocalypse. The reason we know we need to stop the Apocalypse,” he corrected himself. “Tim calls them the Primes, like—”

“Like Spock Prime. Got it. Okay.” Martin could picture Melanie’s scowl pretty clearly; it had been more or less her default expression for a while. “Well, then. Unless one of you can mind-meld, you’re going to have to prove that some other way.”

“No, fortunately, the ability to plant thoughts and memories in someone’s head is one I was spared.” Jon sighed heavily. “I—I don’t know if there’s anything I can…m-most of what I know about, about your future counterpart are things that haven’t happened yet, o-or the others could have told us.”

Martin pursed his lips as a thought occurred to him. “I can think of one thing, but you probably don’t want it bruited about.”

“I seriously doubt that there’s anything you can come up with I wouldn’t want them knowing.” There was a challenging edge to Melanie’s voice that was all too familiar.

“Melanie—” Sasha began. Great, everyone was there.

“No. You think you know some big secret about me, something I wouldn’t have told you until later? Fine. Say it. I look forward to being able to look you in the eye and tell you you’re wrong.”

Martin sighed in exasperation. “You got shot by a ghost while you were in India. In the leg. You told the doctors it was a—a mugging, right? They couldn’t find anything in the scans, but trust me when I say it’s probably still in there.”

There was another one of those long pauses. “Fuck.”

“I did warn you,” Martin pointed out.

“You did, and I should have listened.” Melanie snorted. “I mean, obviously. I’ve only been working here for three hours and I already know that’s the number one Archives rule: Always listen to Martin.”

“Excellent life advice, both in the Archives and out,” Tim agreed.

“Both of you shut up,” Past Martin muttered, but without a lot of heat behind it.

Martin laughed. “It really is good to—we have missed you, Melanie.”

“You guys must have had a really rough few years if we’ve known each other long enough for you to miss me,” Melanie said, but he could hear the smile in her voice anyway. “For what it’s worth, it’s good to meet you.”

There was a bit of an expectant silence before Jon made a flustered-sounding noise of surprise and tapped Martin’s arm. “She wants to shake.”

“He’s not an idiot,” Melanie snapped. “If he doesn’t—”

“No, I’m blind. Sorry, should have warned you.” Martin reached out and found Melanie’s outstretched hand.

“Oh.” The slight pull against Martin’s arm was the only clue he got before Melanie—at least he assumed it was Melanie—surged forward and hugged him instead. In his ear, she said, “You look like you need it.”

“Well, I’ll never say no.” Martin didn’t need physical contact quite the same way Jon did, but it did give him comfort to feel a friendly touch once in a while. And it was substantially more important now that he was blind to have a tactile connection to the world around him. He was just momentarily caught off-guard; he’d forgotten how much shorter than him Melanie was.

After a moment, Melanie pulled back. “Right. Do I get an explanation or is it ‘you’re from the future’ and we leave it at that?”

“We can explain. Right, Jon?” Martin added, raising an eyebrow in his fiancé’s direction.

“Right. Of course. Ha-have a seat.” Jon sounded like the entire situation had put him off balance. “We’ll see what we can do.”

In a lot of ways, it was easier than when they’d told their story to the crew the first time, close to a year ago now. First of all, the team was aware now of a lot of things they’d had to explain, and Melanie had lived through at least some of it, so there was less to catch up on. Second of all, Tim, Sasha, and Past Martin were able to help fill in a lot of details. Including some things even Jon and Martin hadn’t been aware of.

“And then the world ended,” Jon concluded, much as he had the previous year. “And Martin and I…well, eventually we decided to try and put it back.”

“By coming back in time? How’d you even know you could do that?” Melanie asked. “Is it in one of those statements up there?”

“No. N-no, I don’t—I don’t think so. I don’t know how the Keeper found out about that passage back. That wasn’t our original plan,” Jon said slowly. “I’m not completely sure we had a plan, come to think of it.”

“Head to London, kill Jonah Magnus, and hope for the best,” Martin said with a shrug. “Push the big red reset button. I don’t know. I think we were still figuring it out when we got there.”

He could hear the frown when Melanie spoke next. “Sorry, I’m new to all this, I’m sure you’ve been over it a lot, but—how did you know you could? Can’t imagine the big scary fear god that thinks it’s won just…giving you a map to all its vulnerable spots or whatever. How did you know there was even a way to fix it?”

“We didn’t,” Martin said simply. He felt Jon lean against his shoulder and wrapped an arm around him. “But we had to try.”

There was another long pause before Melanie spoke again, her voice almost too soft to be audible. “Who else survived? Besides you two?”

“What?” Jon asked with a frown.

Martin realized she had almost been too soft to be heard; he’d only caught it because he had to concentrate so hard. “You, Georgie, and Basira. And the Admiral. But in our timeline…Sasha’d been gone for years at that point, she died when Jane Prentiss attacked us. And our Tim died in the Unknowing. Once Daisy went over to the Hunt, we were the only ones left.”

“The whole rest of the world died?” Melanie demanded.

“No,” Jon said quickly. “No, not—not yet. They would have. Eventually. But no. After the Fears came through…the world divided largely into two categories. Watcher or Watched. You were either trapped in a fear’s domain or—or observing one.”

“So which one was I?”

“Neither. You and Georgie, you were both sort of…outside it. I don’t know that you were the only ones, either, but you were the only ones we knew about.” Jon paused, then added, “You kept going into domains and—rescuing people, actually. Or trying to. These tunnels are a blind spot, and that didn’t change even when the Institute became the literal center of the world. You and Georgie would run into a domain, get someone out, and bring them down here.”

“And inadvertently started a cult,” Martin added. He couldn’t help the slight smile that tugged at his mouth. “You hated it.”

“God, yeah, I would have. I swear, the worst part of Ghost Hunt UK is dealing with the fans. I just got into it to investigate the paranormal, not to be famous doing it.” Melanie sighed heavily. Martin felt bad for her. “So what happened to us? After you left. Did you erase the whole future timeline so none of it ever happened, or did the three of us have to either fix it ourselves or live in a post-apocalyptic hellscape for the rest of our natural lives?”

“I—I don’t know.” Jon sounded incredibly shaken.

Martin rubbed comfortingly at Jon’s shoulder. “We left before…we didn’t get to tell them we were going. The Keeper—the one who helped us get back in time—he promised he’d let them know what was going on, he said they’d be safe. As far as I know, we didn’t…that timeline still continued to its end. I just don’t know when its end was. And unfortunately, we never will. Personally, I think what would have happened is that when the Keeper told everyone that our plan went to hell and Jonah got away, your counterpart would have said ‘fuck this’, got a knife, and gone after him herself. She kept trying to kill him in our timeline and he saw her every time. I don’t doubt for a minute that she’d take advantage of the fact that he literally wouldn’t have been able to see her.”

“Why not?”

“Same reason he can’t see me. Because she was blind, she was immune to the Eye. And as hard as she was working on her anger, I think she knew how to turn it into a weapon. Also, she hated Jonah.” Martin sighed. “So yeah. We don’t know what happened to everybody in our timeline, but if anyone could fix it, it’d be our Melanie. Correcting the Apocalypse with a knife and sheer spite.”

“Damn right,” Melanie said. Someone turned a laugh into a hacking cough.

Jon sighed and leaned against Martin’s shoulder. Martin shifted slightly to settle him into a more comfortable position. After all these months, the movement was as natural as breathing. “I’m so sorry, Melanie. We—we’d hoped we could keep you out of all this.”

“Hey, don’t take away my right to choose. I knew what I was getting into.”

“Did he ask?” Jon asked. “Or did he just hire you?”

“Of course he asked.” Melanie sounded exasperated. She dropped her voice to a lower register and did a very poor, mocking imitation of Elias’ drawl. “‘I understand that your show is on a hiatus, and with Jon off traveling, I’m sure Martin and the others could use some assistance. Jon spoke quite highly of your research abilities. Would you be interested in a paid position here in the Archives?’ I could have told him to fuck off if I’d really wanted to.”

Martin replayed the words in his head a couple of times. “Yeah, sounds like he flattered and dangled bait in front of you, but didn’t actually force you. Very carrot and stick.”

“So why did you say yes?” Sasha asked, sounding curious. “Knowing what you were getting into, more or less?”

Melanie sighed heavily—Martin was incredibly familiar with that sound—but to his mild surprise, it was Past Martin who answered. “She told us that, Sasha. Or at least indirectly. She—you said you started Ghost Hunt UK to investigate. And when we were having lunch before you left for India…I saw how animated you got when you were talking about that student film you did. The supernatural, the paranormal, it’s genuinely something you’re interested in. You agreed to join the Institute because it lets you do all that and get paid for it, with the added bonus of not having to deal with people if you don’t want to.”

“Yeah, basically. And, you know, if I can help save the world, that’s a nice little plus, too.”

Martin heard the rustling of fabric, but he honestly couldn’t have said if it was a hug or a light shove or what, and Tim’s next words made him none the wiser. “Thought you couldn’t read minds.”

“I can’t. I just know people.” Past Martin’s voice softened. “I promise, Tim. I’m not developing any new abilities.”

From the way he said that, Martin could picture quite vividly what Tim’s face had to look like. It was probably somewhere between the way he’d looked when he’d brought Sasha her coffee after she’d been attacked by Michael and the way he’d looked when telling Martin what had happened to his brother—a mixture of concern and fear and maybe a little bit of heartbreak. Tim really did worry about the others developing powers from the Eye, but there was probably an additional layer here because it was Past Martin.

Martin did know people. He had a fairly intuitive sense for the mood of a room and the way people interacted. In his timeline it had led him to play peacemaker, or try to, attempting to mediate between Jon and their Tim. In this…go-round, he supposed…it mostly meant he was picking up on a lot of things that weren’t being said, or at least weren’t being said aloud. He’d heard the fabric rustling, the lighthearted banter, the genuine laughter. He’d picked up on the gentleness in Past Jon’s voice that reminded him of the way Jon had spoken to him so often after Prentiss attacked, after he’d been accused of murder, and especially during those agonizing months he’d been working with Peter Lukas and they’d been so close and yet so far apart. He’d noted the affection in Tim’s voice, the way he’d tried so hard to control his anger and fear and actually talk to them. And of course he knew himself, and by extension his past self, knew what he sounded like when he was trying to navigate a simple conversation without wearing his heart on his sleeve, when he was trying to throttle back an emotion he desperately wanted to express but didn’t think would be welcome…or safe.

He knew love when he heard it, and dear God, if it had been that obvious to him for so long, he was already mentally betting with himself against how long it would take Melanie to call them out on it. Because he also knew hidden love, and he was willing to venture that they weren’t trying to hide their relationship because they thought it was inappropriate in the workplace. He was willing to bet all three of them thought it was unrequited on their part and that they had to keep it hidden from the others lest they be shot down.

He’d never really thought about polyamory himself, but in retrospect, yeah, maybe he had had a bit of a crush on their Tim. At least for a while. That would never have gone anywhere, though.

“Do we need to get out of here?” Melanie asked. “I mean, is Big Nose McCreepy going to notice we left the Archives essentially abandoned?”

“No, we’ve got a bit,” Sasha said. “He’s supposed to be meeting some of the Institute donors for a lunch of some kind. He’s not on site and he’s going to be occupied for a good while. I’m kind of hoping he gets a little tipsy, too. Anyway, he thinks he’s got us over a barrel right now. He thinks he trapped you into the Institute, so he’s feeling smug enough that he’s not going to pay attention to us for a while. His plan is to give us the rest of the week, at least, to let you ‘settle in’ before—”

“Sasha!” Jon said sharply. He sat up so suddenly it almost pulled Martin off-balance.

“Oh. Oh, shit.” Sasha inhaled abruptly. “I swear that wasn’t on purpose.”

“That’s—Christ, Sasha, you shouldn’t be able to do that from down here—”

“I didn’t—I Knew that before we came down. I’m pretty sure.” Sasha took another deep breath. “Right, okay. I don’t know who’s nominally in charge while Jon’s away, but—I think maybe I should take tomorrow off? Just to…recalibrate. Ground myself. Get some distance.”

“Take the rest of the week,” Tim suggested. “I don’t know who’s nominally in charge either, but—”

“I’ll stand in for your Jon,” Jon said. “Tim’s right. Take a good long weekend. Don’t think about the Institute, or the Archives, or the Fears. Just…I know it’s easier said than done, but try to distract yourself.”

“I think I have a way of doing that.” Sasha sounded thoughtful. Martin was pretty sure it was sincere.

“What do you do?” There was a hint of a challenge in Melanie’s voice, but also a good deal of curiosity. She was genuinely asking. “When it gets too much. What do you have that keeps you from—doing whatever it is you shouldn’t do?”

“Going out and pouncing random people to draw their traumas out of them,” Jon said dryly. “And I have Martin. He’s been my anchor for…much longer than I realized at the time. We’ll read or—or talk, or take a walk or something. We played cards a lot when we were in Scotland.”

“We were playing I Spy earlier,” Martin added.

Sasha snorted, but Past Martin seemed to actually understand. “Like a memory game type version?”

“Basically, yes. We pick someplace we both know—or knew—think about what was in it, and pick something for the other to try and guess. Five tries or less. And no mind-reading.”

“It’s still your turn,” Jon reminded him. “The storage unit.”

“Hmm.” Martin thought for a moment, then smiled as he remembered the one thing he’d fixated on while they were there. “I Spy, with my mental eye, something…brown.”

Jon made an exasperated noise. “I swear that must have been her favorite color. That could be anything.”

“Well, then, you’d best get guessing.”

“Fine.” Jon sighed heavily. “The…box full of dolls.”

“Nope. Guess again.”

“The book? The one we didn’t know what it was?”

“That was black.”

“It was—never mind.” Jon sighed again. “The notebook?”

Martin shook his head. “Come on, Jon, think. This is me we’re talking about. What would I have been looking at?”

“The…the frame on the painting with the dogs in it.”

“One guess left.”

“Give me one more hint.”

“It was the first thing that gave me hope in weeks.”

Jon was silent for a long while. Finally, he said, “I give up. I honestly, genuinely cannot think of anything that was brown that might fit the criteria you’ve given me. What do you spy?”

Martin’s smile widened. “Your eyes.”

There was a chorus of awws and exaggerated gagging sounds in equal measure from the other four, but from the way Jon took his face in both hands and kissed him, tenderly but thoroughly, Martin could tell that his choice had had the effect he wanted.

[jonathanstardustsims]

so @fromeliaswithlove​‘s domestic au, huh. jonelias, 737 words, sfw, pre-slash.

Dreams don’t have to mean anything. Sometimes they mean something, and that’s fine, but most of the time, dreams don’t mean anything. They don’t. Jon dreaming about Elias taking him on a date means nothing.

Jon sighs in frustration and puts his hands in his hair. He knows the dream means nothing, and he knows he doesn’t have a crush on Elias, but that doesn’t change the fact that the dream had been nice. Like, really nice. The last time he was in a relationship of that nature was almost a decade ago, when he and Georgie dated in uni. He misses being with someone like that.

He doesn’t know why his subconscious picked Elias. It would have been more feasible for it to be Georgie, or Martin, or even Tim. Maybe it was his brain trying to cope? Like if he had positive memories—even just dream memories—of Elias, it would be easier to deal with him during his waking hours.

It would have been fine—odd, but fine—except that Jon can’t stop thinking about it. It had filled his thoughts from the moment he awoke until now, alone in his office with his head in his hands.

He’d read somewhere once that ignoring thoughts just made them stick around longer, that you have to properly and fully acknowledge them to get them to go away. And he doesn’t want to think about it, but if he has to think about it in order to stop thinking about it, he’s willing to give it a shot.

He closes his eyes and lets the memory of the dream fill his thoughts. They strolled leisurely through the park—not to go anywhere, just to see the park itself. Jon had his hand crooked through Elias’s bent arm, like they were a Victorian couple. Elias pointed out a fat robin with his free hand, and it sang its song at them as they passed. Jon slid his hand from Elias’s arm to the small of his back, and Elias moved his arm around Jon’s shoulders and smiled at him. Jon smiled back, and Elias dropped a gentle kiss on the top of his head.

The dream had ended there, but Jon continues the fantasy in his head. They went back to their shared apartment after their walk, and they made dinner together. They slow danced in the kitchen and kissed after brushing their teeth and climbed into bed and cuddled.

Jon drops his forehead to his desk with a groan. This is ridiculous.

“Jon? You alright? I heard a noise…”

“Yes, fine, Martin.” Jon waves him away.

“Oh, alright. Ah, here’s that paperwork you needed.”

“Thank you.”

Martin leaves and Jon flips through the paperwork. It all looks to be in order, he just has to bring it up to Elias―

Jon’s head snaps straight up. “Fuck.”

How is he supposed to look Elias in the eye? How is he supposed to just hand him paperwork after—after that?

Christ. Best to just get it over with quickly.

Jon drags himself up to the main floor, dreading seeing Elias with every step he takes. When he does see him, though, it’s a bit of a surprise. He’s already outside of his office, and as Jon approaches, he can hear him talking to Rosie.

“—should I say if someone asks?”

“If it’s an employee, let them know I’m taking a sick day. If it’s a donor or someone of similar importance, let them know I’ll get back to them as soon as possible. Give them my second cell number if it’s urgent, but try not to let it come to that.”

“You’re sick?” Jon asks.

To Jon’s surprise, Elias startles before turning around. “Jon! Ah, yes, I was—I’m not—ah, feeling my best today. Was there… something you needed?”

Jon squints at him. He’s never heard Elias stumble over his words like this as long as he’s known him. “Paperwork.” He holds it out.

“Oh! Of course.” Rosie hands him his briefcase, and Elias tucks the papers inside. “Thank you Rosie. Ah… have a good day, Jon.”

Elias hasn’t sounded this genuine since before Prentiss. “Thanks.” Jon hesitates, then offers, “Get well soon.”

Elias doesn’t turn away fast enough for Jon to miss the flush that colours his cheeks. As he leaves, Jon watches him go. Beholding whispers He Knows, and the blood drains from Jon’s face as quickly as it had risen to Elias’s.

[composereggwrites]

Love will not break your Heart (but dismiss your Fears)

Chapter 2: just let me go (we'll meet again soon)

Fandom: The Magnus Archives

Rating: T

Characters/Ships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims, Georgie Barker/Melanie King, Alice “Daisy” Tonner/Basira Hussain, Gerard Keay, Gertrude Robinson

Additional: Reincarnation AU, Soul Bond, Team as Family, Autistic Jon, Post-Canon Fix-it, Childhood Friends, Hurt/Comfort

They stand in the Panopticon, fire raining down from the sky, as the Eye stares down at them.

Jon takes Martin’s hand in his.

A wedding, a death, a fire, and Tim.

Chapter:  1 | 2 (below)

Ao3: 1 | 2

They stand in the Panopticon, fire raining down from the sky, as the Eye stares down at them.

Jon takes Martin’s hand in his.

“Are you sure you want to do this, Martin?” he asks, one last time, because fear has made a home in his heart. A palace in his bones.

“Jon,” Martin says, looking him in the eyes, so full of determination, filled with warmth, with love. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

“Sap,” he mutters, but a smile creeps onto his face nonetheless. “We’ve already left the message for the girls, and well… This is really it, isn’t it?”

“Got cold feet?” Martin asks with a laugh.

“Always,” he snorts. “You’ve felt them when we’ve slept. You’re the space heater between the two of us.”

Heart beating in his chest, Jon takes Martin’s hands. The world is crumbling in every direction. A year of this hell has been far too long. Searching, aching for answers, for a way to fix the devastation he has wrought-- no, the devastation Jonah Magnus used him to usher into the world.

Jonah Magnus, who, like the rest of the institute, is no more than a pile of ash at their feet now. Martin had been quite happy to have the honor of setting that blaze.

It’s touching, in a way. Finding the answer on how to set them both free, and Martin chooses to do it for him. No more ash on Jonathan’s hands.

(He’s more than a little fragile, at the end of the world, but he could’ve been the one to do it. The one to bring Magnus to the ground. That he didn’t have to means more than he can express with words. Martin has always been looking out for him, even when he was too much a fool to realize).

The Web’s strings hang heavy in the air around them, coated with the remnants of their old life, of their meeting. But the Mother of Puppets doesn’t have control of all these ties. Jon’s body is linked to everything now, the perfect conduit of fear. The lynch-pin in this hellscape. Take him out, and the rest crumbles. The issue is in managing to kill a near-immortal Archive.

Martin has always been his anchor. He never needed that rib, Jon gets that now. And this is something they can use. Here.

“Martin, I love you,” Jon starts. “You keep me grounded. When I start to fall apart, you hold me together. Even as I dealt with the end of the world rather badly, you drew me back out of my shell. I promise to be at your side forever more, I promise to return the favor. You are not just a caretaker, you deserve to be taken care of, and I will be there for you. I am here, with you, as we stand, united.”

Martin is already tearing up, as his hands shake in Jon’s grasp. “Jon,” he says, with a waver in his voice. “I love you. I know, it was a long time coming. Back when we were both researchers, I thought I could ignore this little crush, because that’s what it was. But you’re so kind, underneath that abrasive exterior. You pretended that nothing could get to you, that you at most tolerated the people around you, but I could see through that.”

He takes a shuddering breath. “I’m with you, until the end of time. I tie myself to you like I’ve done a hundred thousand times before, in less words. In actions. Every step we take together has brought us here, bound to each other at the end of the world, and I wouldn’t do this any other way.”

The strings around them pull taught, smash them together. Jon clings to Martin. Holds him tight as the web holds them tighter. It hurts, the Eye observing this, burning through them as he clings for dear life, but observation just makes it real. The Web tries to resist, but Jon pulls harder, pulls the strings of his own design, and lets them bind.

A thousand stars scream in the sky, but the roar of the still-burning fire is louder. The pounding of his heart in his ears louder still. Or maybe that’s Martin’s. He can’t really tell anymore, as their hearts beat to the same tune, in the same time.

As the pain dies down, he can feel Martin, there in his chest. An ache subdued by his presence at his side. A new hole carved and filled with love, with his anchor.

Jon laughs, hysterical, for just a second. Tears on his cheeks until Martin puts his hands on his shoulders, steadying him.

“Ready for the next step?” Martin asks, worry flooding his voice, and oh, he can feel that in his heart. All the concern for him, bubbling over the edges of the pot. It makes him gasp, legs trembling, and all he can do is grip Martin back. It’s all he can do to not drown in the Tsunami of Martin, the whirlpool with them both at the center.

“Give--Give me a second, yeah?” he whispers. “Don’t tell me when.”

“Oh,” Martin replies, no doubt feeling the outpouring of gratitude. “Yeah, alright.”

They hold each other. Letting the waves of emotion crash down, drowning out the fear, out the pain. Held close together. This is what matters.

Then--

Pain.

Sharp, biting pain. Driven into his chest.

Blood meets his lips as he coughs, his own sharpened rib embedded in his heart, by Martin’s trembling hand.

As Jonathan Sims falls, he holds Martin’s hand, and wishes he could muster the energy to wipe those tears away.

“Don’t worry,” he whispers,  as the door in his mind becomes a vacuum, sucking all the fear out of him, waves of love and safety and peace replacing the frostbite of terror. “We’ll meet again, yeah?”

Martin nods. He sits down by Jon, and kisses him, ignoring the iron taste. Ignoring the poison that he takes from Jon’s mouth.

The fire closes in, and consumes them. But there is no fear. No pain.

The world bends.

 Good cows stand in a field, and no Eye bears down from the sky. No people scream in terror on that day.

Four bodies are found dead in The Magnus Institute, and the world dreams of a year that never happened. A year of fear and pain burying itself deep in their hearts.

A year that will never come to pass.

 And Jonathan Barker-King wakes up.

---

Jonathan has always been an odd child.

Georgie and Melanie knew this when adopting him.

But that doesn’t change the fact that one night, when he’s twelve years old, Melanie can feel him shaking her awake.

She rolls over, facing him. “Mm, what is it?” she murmurs, knowing the shaky hands as someone who is afraid.

Jon’s voice is heavy, edged with static, and Melanie wishes she could see his face, as he says, “There will be fire. We need to leave.”

That gets her out of bed, kicking Georgie awake.

“Mel, what’s wrong?” her wonderful, sleepy wife groans.

“Up up up, now! Phone Basira, tell her we don’t know how much time we all have, but we need to go.” She tries to keep her voice level, urgent but hushed.

It gets Georgie up, at least. Springing to her feet. “I’ll get the emergency bags. Fuck. Alright. Guess it couldn’t last forever.”

Melanie makes sure she’s holding Jon’s hand, as she leads him back to his room, digging out the always-packed travel bag hidden there. Filled with clothes and food and money, and for him, some books he’s shoved into it. “Pack up your laptop and anything else you want that will fit, alright?” she says, soft.

“Got it, mom,” he replies. “Go take care of what you need to. I’ll be out in five minutes. That’s the plan, yeah?”

She nods at him. “Very intelligent, you are.”

And then she dashes, grabbing her own bags and the keys, tossing them all in the trunk of the car. Important documents, keepsakes she knows they wouldn’t be able to bear losing, anything irreplaceable. From the the meowing coming from the back seat, it sounds like Georgie had managed to catch The Admiral and bundle him into the cat carrier, too. The stubborn old cat refused to die of old age or illness, but Desolation’s flames might be enough to do the trick, and none of them would want to risk it.

There’s sounds from the house next door, and that reassures her that Daisy and Basira are up now, no doubt going through the same protocol they’d set in place for just this event. Hopefully it’s a fluke, but they can’t take that chance.

If it’s the past coming back to haunt them, with fire and flames, then they can’t afford to wait.

In ten minutes Georgie is at the wheel, and the car roars to life. Basira is getting the last of the Hussain-Tonner bags in their car, Martin bundled away in the back no doubt.

“Can I say goodbye?” Jon whispers, and Melanie sighs.

“Sorry, kiddo, but we gotta go.” She reaches out, holding his hand between the seats, as they peel out, headed far away.

He’s quiet, solemn. After five minutes of quiet, he sighs. “That’s alright. I’ll see him again, someday.”

“Yeah, no doubt about that,” she whispers back.

The next morning, their houses are on the news, as they watch in their hotel room, a hundred miles away. A fire, a roaring blaze, arson. But no bodies to be found.

“It was Jude, no doubt,” whispers Georgie, while Jon is fast asleep.

She nods. “Guess we tested our luck too long, staying in one place like that. If Jon hadn’t… Known. Then we might’ve been dead by now.”

“I’m worried,” Georgie sighs. “About him, about Martin. They-- We’re right, yeah? They saved the world together, and it involved a soulbond. They were both absolutely miserable before they saw each other that first time.”

Leaning her head on her wife, Melanie says, “Yeah, but… We’ll just have to make do, for now. Keep an eye out on them both. I think it might be a good idea to keep them separate, no contact, otherwise they’ll be sneaking out to the car some day and meeting each other halfway.”

Georgie snorts. “That’s absolutely something this Jon here would do. We’ve really spoiled him, huh?”

“From what I understand, we’ve been parenting just fine,” she says back, a roll of her unseeing eyes. “It’s his grandma who gave him all that childhood trauma last time. And a Leitner, what the fuck? How do you let an eight year old get his hands on one of those?”

That gets a full blown laugh. “Yeah, alright, you’re right. We’ve probably fucked him up somehow, but he’s not nearly as fucked up as when either of us first met him. Man, he needed some intensive therapy.”

---

Tim Stoker looks at the new-hire one time, and after the thought of I’m going to flirt with him so much passes through his head, another pops in of, wait that’d be weird--

Why?

He stares. Jonathan, the name tag reads, and why is that so familiar?

“Welcome aboard the library crew, my man!” He says out loud, giving a casual grin. “What’s a pretty boy such as yourself doing here?”

“You’re quite the flirt, Tim,” he says back with a laugh. “Sorry, not in the market right now. I’m not really… I’m not interested, mostly.”

He holds up his hands. “Hey, all cool, no worries, Jonny-boy.”

That gets a snort. “Call me Jon, nothing like that, please.”

“Got it, boss. Still haven’t answered my question,” he says.

“Oh, well…” Jon takes out a pen from his pocket, and twists it around his fingers, spinning to and fro. “I’m going to be working down in the archives, mostly. Gertrude’s taking me on as an… Well, an intern, I guess? Assistant? It pays decent, and it’s my chosen field, so… It’s a good chance.”

Tim nods. Opportunistic. Not many people get to work with good ole’ Gerty. “She works in the paranormal department yeah? That oughta be fun.”

“Parapsychology, specifically,” he says back. “With a focus currently in the not-apocalypse. Lots of info on that still to be gathered.”

“So you’re interested in spooky stuff, awesome!” Tim laughs. “You gotta tell me all the weird things. We should do a scary movie night sometime together.”

Jon stares at him, as if trying to piece together some mysterious puzzle. With big eyes, intense eyes, meeting his, looking into him, in a way that he hasn’t felt since--since--

A nasty migraine is forming in the back of Tim’s head.

Jon looks away.

“Sure, why not? You're off shift now, though, right? You should get to your class.”

“How did you--?” he starts to ask, but Jon has already descended the stairs into the archives.

 The pain doesn’t go away, as he makes his way through math. It’s all numbers and easy problems. A blur as the teacher speaks, and he can’t focus. There’s something he’s forgetting. A nagging sense at the back of his mind, and he’d ask Sasha, or his roommate Martin for some help, except that seems like a very bad idea right now. He doesn’t know why. But it does.

Crashing onto his bed as soon as he gets back to his dorm is the best idea. Martin will assume he’s been out having fun, and he can sleep this stabbing agony off.

 It almost works, too.

 Fire, fire, so much fire.

Danny--who is Danny?-- Danny dead. The world a mess. Revolving around him in Stranger ways.

Falling apart.

Sasha is Not Sasha. Jonathan Sims is a Monster.

Martin is a stubborn fool.

The world blurs.

Explosions ring in his ears.

 Tim Stoker r e m e m b e r s . . .

 Shooting upright with a gasp, Tim stumbles out of bed. It had only been a few hours, but if anything the migraine has gotten worse.

He runs to the toilet, puking up whatever's in his stomach from that morning. Dizzy as another wave of nausea hits.

“Fuck,” he mutters.

There’s a knock on the door, and Martin -- Martin Blackwood, Martin Hussain-Tonner, fucking Martin -- is there, asking if he’s okay, in that kind way he always has.

“Yeah--” his voice cracks. “Yeah, I’ll be fine. Don’t worry. Just some bad food.”

“Alright,” comes the reply. “Let me know if you need some help.”

“Got it,” he croaks. And then he’s alone.

Sitting on the cold tile, he holds his head in his hands, groaning.

He needs to contact someone.

Who?

Jon--? No. Not Jon, not yet. It was Jon’s presence that did this to him, no doubt, but he didn’t seem to actually know Tim.

Gertrude, maybe?

Fuck it, Gertrude it is. He has her number, she’s his boss, after all.

^Hey, Gerty, I think my head just died. Absolutely exploded with pain. Not coming in tomorrow.^

Not the most formal, but she hasn’t minded before.

^Well, I hope you feel better, Tim. Remember to check in if you’re staying out too long. It’ll be a circus here, otherwise, if we’re understaffed.^

“Fuck,” he hisses out again, because she definitely remembers. And she knows what happened.

^Mind filling me in on how the circus is doing?”

^They’re all in bits and pieces. It was quite the display, or so I hear. I have the tapes, if you want to listen to them.^

Of course she does.

^Sure, I’ll grab them on my next shift, sound good?^

^See you then. Feel better, Tim.^

 He does.

Looking at Sasha now, it’s bizarre. A deep pit in his stomach, knowing he forgot her, believed the Not!Sasha had been her for so long. It doesn’t sit right.

As he makes his way down the steps to the archive, he finds her following. A few feet before the door, he turns to look at her.

“Need to speak to Gertrude too?”

She blinks, crossing her arms. “If I do, it’s none of your business.”

A snort escapes him. “Learning how to be abrasive from our lovely head archivist?” he asks, raising an eyebrow.

“You know, he wasn’t really that bad. I mean, I totally got killed during the worm thing, so whatever you went through, I guess I still need to find out, but… He was trying his best,” she says, nonchalant as she picks at her fingers.

“Did seeing him give you the worst migraine of two lives too, then?”

“Absolutely. I thought I was dying. Turns out I had!”

They both start to laugh. He bumps his shoulder against her. “God I missed ya, Sash. Things went whack without you there.”

“Did the two lovebirds ever manage to work out their problems?” she asks, rolling her eyes.

“Not before I got exploded! Shit got weird. Honestly, you missed a lot of stuff. I--Well I’d fill you in, but whatever tapes Gertrude has will probably do that for me,” Tim says, gesturing back to the door.

“Listening party?” Sasha suggests, as she steps forward to open it.

“Sure, maybe the trauma of listening to our own deaths will be easier with a friend and some good wine. Gotta be at your place though, cuz Martin doesn’t know.” He steps in with her.

Gertrude looks at them, a box set on the empty chair. “Take it, have fun. I believe it’ll do the job enough to fill you in.”

“Thanks Gerty! We’ll get them back to ya’ when we’re done!” Tim says, giving a wave as Sasha scoops up the box. He can feel her hatred of the nickname, but it’s far too late to stop him from using it now.

 They pick up on tape 39, conveniently labeled in order by Gertrude no doubt, for Sasha’s sake.

It’s awful.

She’d been spared the paranoia, the depths Jon had been plunged into.

They stop on tape 50, for the night. It hurts too much to keep going.

---

Jon wakes up from his nightmare.

Shaking, terror coursing through his veins. Memories he can’t remember. He’s not a fool.

Reincarnation was part of what he’d studied, while looking into parapsychology. No conclusive evidence, of course, that’s impossible to get. Almost everything presented as esoteric is false. The most true subjects tend to involve the apocalypse, and even then, it’s not a sure shot.

But they always involve dreams. Dreams of memories. Past lives mean past memories, trying to find their way to the present.

And his dreams have been getting worse.

But that’s ridiculous, right? Utterly ridiculous. He’s being superstitious. Gullible. There’s never been proof of reincarnation adequately presented. To think he had a past life is to give into the folly of the people he criticizes.

(He knows, deep in his soul, that some things are true. He can’t discount everything.

But there’s no need to let this knowledge consume him.)

Jon sighs, sitting up. It wouldn’t do to dwell on this, not when he has a test today that he needs to last-minute cram for.

His phone lights up by his side, though, and he picks it up. Blinking blearily at the screen in confusion before yesterday hits him.

^Hey Jon! Good morning! How are you doing?^

From the contact of Martin!!

A smile spreads over his face, dragging him out of bed and through his morning routine. Food. Toothbrushing. Clothes. Heading out for his class early, instead of almost late for once.

^I’m good, Martin. I have a test today, soon. Going to study for that. How about you?^

The reply comes almost instantly, which drops a small pit in his stomach, because martin’s first text had been two hours before Jon had gotten up.

^I’m good too! Thanks for asking! I’m working on an essay right now, but nothing super important.^

^Well, don’t let me keep you from your work.^ He’d feel bad if he were the reason Martin got a bad grade. It’d be awful.

^Nah, I don’t really need to worry about this class. I’m passing with a 96% right now, and I’m one of the only people who talks in class. Like, during the discussions and all!^

^Teacher’s pet, are you?^

Jon can picture the little laugh Martin does at this, scrunched up nose and crinkled eyes. ^Better than failing, that’s for sure. You’re absolutely someone who sits in the back of the class and does his best to avoid conversation, though, aren’t you?^

He chuckles, smiling. Then he rubs his neck, glancing around as he walks to make sure no one is staring. There’s the usual bustle of people, but no one looking at him. Just leaves falling in the breeze, and the nip of the autumn air. He’s good, so far, but it’d be dangerous to keep this up inside.

(He might not care, because this is Martin. Self-consciousness be damned.)

^Yeah, you’ve got me pinned.^ he says back.

^I hide behind my laptop screen whenever I can, studiously take notes, and never talk to another living soul if I can avoid it.^

^Wow, what a nerd :P^

^Can’t believe my best friend is a nerd :P^

Jon has to take a second to pause, sigh, and roll his eyes, because Martin, please. ^You mean the same friend who would spend hours recounting books he’d read to you in perfect detail? Or the friend who once asked their teacher for more homework because he was bored? That friend?^

^Absolutely.^

^What a shock.^

^I’ve been completely betrayed by your sudden nerdom that has arisen in the past 11 years that I have totally never encountered before.^

That tugs a full-fledged laugh out of Jon, and he has to duck onto a less-used path behind a building to hide for a full minute, because Jonathan Sims does not randomly laugh at his phone in public.

When the coast is clear, he keeps walking, and slips into the building with the ease of someone whose had classes in it for three years already. He navigates to his classroom and takes his (unofficial) seat in the back, pulling out his notes and pretending like he’s studying, not thinking about Martin.

^I feel like I’m not the only nerd in this conversation.” The text sends as a quick reply, and then he follows it up with: ^Also, in class now. Going to study. Chat later?^

^Of course! Let me know when you’re free! See ya :D^

He rubs his face, setting his phone to silent and in his bag, trying to scrub away the blush that must be rising to his cheeks.

Martin is… So Martin.

Over the past decade Jon had wanted so much to reconnect with his old friend. An ache in his chest, screaming until all he knew was the noise, yearning to find him. Fixated on the missing piece until the misery became background radiation in his life, his new normal. Settled deep in his bones. Uncomfortable weight buried in his skin, just enough to fade into his usual, everyday pain. There, but not the focus.

 (Not usually. There were some days, some nights, where the loss of Martin dug its claws in. His body full of hooks and they pulled. As if trying to tug him closer. Back to Martin.

He almost followed it, a few times. Deep in his mind, a haze of the gaping hole, guiding his feet onto an unknown path. But he never went far. Always turned around and walked back home. His moms raised him well, he knows better than to be alone.

College the first year was scary. Terror welling in his throat. New people, new places. Too many unknowns.)

 One small, niggling little voice in Jon’s head, a voice filled with the needles of anxiety, had tried to tell him that Martin wouldn’t be the same. That if they ever reunited, Martin wouldn’t care about him. Or maybe, maybe the years had warped his thoughts, his understanding of who his friend was. An idealized image instead of the real person.

But he also remembers Martin fretting over him when Jon fell ill. Spending the night out of worry, sneaking in through his window to bring him medicine at midnight.

He remembers Martin listening as Jon rambled, and then rambling in turn. Jon knows so much about spiders to this day, because Martin had found a book and read all about it to him.

He remembers the poetry, still scrawled in notebooks and on pieces of paper he refused to throw away. Packed into that bag as from the fire they escaped.

That voice in his head never held any real sway.

But it’s nice to be proven right, for a change.

[kellanswritingblog]

A Distraction

The prompt I chose for Day 3 of @tmafemslashweek is books! Instead of something potentially angsty with a Leitner, I decided to write something about how enthralled Basira can get while reading, and the lengths to which Melanie will go to get her girlfriend's attention.

Continue reading below, or head on over to AO3!

Basira dropped the book she was reading when Melanie kissed her.

“What?”  She cried and spluttered, looking all around her before settling on Melanie’s face.  “What was that for?”

“I had to get your attention somehow.”  Melanie shrugged and smirked.

“I’m sorry, I was… reading…”

“Yeah, I noticed.  I’ve been trying to get your attention for a while now.”

Basira startled in place again as an odd assortment of things, including paperclips, a small book, hair-ties, and her own mobile toppled off of her head.  Some landed in her lap, and others fell and clattered onto the floor.  Thankfully her phone ended up in the former category.

“Like I said, I was trying to get your attention,” Melanie explained.  “But you were really into your book and didn’t notice me talking to you, so I decided to see how far I could go.  Honestly, if you didn’t notice me kissing you, I’d have been kind of concerned.”

“How long was this going on?”  Basira asked while extracting a pen from her hijab.

“Uhh, long enough for Martin to come in, ask what was going on, me to tell him, and him to help before heading out again.  Probably almost half an hour?”

“Oh, wow.”

“It wasn’t a Leitner or something was it?”

Basira flipped to the front of the book to verify that it didn’t bear the stamp of Jurgen Leitner, even though she was already sure it didn’t.

“No, just a really good book.”  She paused.  “What did you need me for?”

“I was curious if you wanted to get milkshakes again tonight after work.”

“I mean, yes, of course, but was that question so urgent that you needed to decorate me?”

“Not necessarily, but I thought it was funny and I had to know much I could get away with.”

Basira tugged on Melanie’s wrist and dragged her in closer, until Melanie was leaning over the chair, their faces separated by a few short breaths.

“You can get away with a lot,” Basira whispered.  “You’re the only person I’ll let interrupt me while I’m reading.”

“Not easily though.”

“I’ve gotten good at ignoring distractions over the years.”

“Oh?  Am I a distraction to you?”  Melanie asked with a smirk and a raised eyebrow.

“I’m not going to answer that.”

Melanie leaned in just a little bit closer.  “But you already have.”

Not able to take the tension anymore, Basira grabbed onto the collar of Melanie’s shirt and pulled her in close, pressing their lips together with force and passion.  They kissed and kissed and kissed, Melanie crawling on top of Basira at one point so that they both tottered precariously in the chair.

Some time later, the door opened, and someone entered the room before uttering a curse under their breath and attempting to exit again before the happy couple noticed, but to no avail.  Despite attempting to cancel out distractions, it was pretty hard to ignore an intruder while making out at work.

“I’m sorry,” Tim said.

“It’s alright,” Basira said quietly and insincerely as Melanie slowly extracted herself from her lap.

“Hey, I am definitely not one to judge.  I’m going to head out and you two keep doing what you’re doing.”  Tim started back toward the door.

Melanie chuckled.  “Yeah, you know – just doing some light reading.”