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rosy-cheekx · 4 years ago

Note

Or, if you're more in the mood for something fluffier, “It’s too cold for you to come out here without a jacket on” from the protective sentence starters!

Combined this prompt with your “ for the holiday fluff prompts, how about any combination of one or more of these: ❄️ ☃️ ☕️ 🥘 🧩 ~ “ and went with flurries + holiday coffee date. hope you don’t mind it being a little derivative!

https://archiveofourown.org/works/28370325

It had been a few years since there had been a white Christmas. Snow in London didn’t last long anyway; it would be snowplowed off the streets and turn gray and slushy or melt under the trampling boots of passerby on their way to work or school. This meant that even when it did snow, no one held out much hope for it to last longer than a day, two at most.

All this to say that Jon didn’t think much of the snow when he saw the flurries drifting outside his bedroom window. It had clearly just started snowing– didn’t even seem like it was sticking. He really didn’t think he’d need a coat. His bus route took him less than a block away from the institute and he resented the way his puffy winter coat made him feel: bulky and heavy, restricted at his joints. His thick white woolen sweater, made with oversized yarn and thrown over his collared shirt, would work fine. He thought he looked rather fit like this, hair half-knotted and curling over his shoulders. Tim would give him shit for having an “academia” aesthetic but, he “worked in academics, Tim. Every aesthetic I have is an academia aesthetic.”

Jon was, as usual, the first person to arrive at the archives. Diligently, he began his workday ritual, cranking up the thermostat and pulling the day calendar on his office wall to reveal the 23 December and chuckling to himself at today’s cat: all grey and massive, green eyes staring at the observer innocently. Sasha was next, blustering in her red peacoat, calling a greeting, and shaking it off before hanging it on the coat hook in the bullpen. Then came Martin and Tim, who had begun carpooling after realizing they lived less than two blocks away from each other. Greetings from the pair, “Happy Early Christmas”es. Now, the quiet, empty archives hummed with life and warmth. Jon, now seated his desk in his small office, could hear the chatter taking place in the main office space, the electric kettle humming in the breakroom, the Christmas music being argued over from the small speakers. All felt right. The Archivist smiled to himself and settled into work.

“What the hell? Tim!”

“That wasn’t me, Sash! I’m right here!”

“Calm down, you two. It was just the lights.”

The commotion outside his office confirmed to Jon that he wasn’t the only one whose office lights had suddenly blinked once and cut out. For just a moment he was reminded of Julia Montauk’s story about Mr. Pitch, but shook his head. They were fine. He stood and made his way to the breakroom, eyeing the also dark room, now lit by three phone torches. Being the underground section of the Institute meant they didn’t have much by way of windows, save for the single squat one high up in the breakroom, and Jon could see from here something was blocking the light that usually streamed through.

“I think it’s the whole Institute,” Jon offered unhelpfully. “Can one of you ring Rosie and check?” He turned and wandered absently into the breakroom to investigate the window. It was covered with snow. Frowning, Jon grabbed a chair and dragged it beneath the pane, climbing and pushing on the window.

“I think you need to unlatch it.”

“Jesus Christ, Martin!” Jon swayed and recovered his balance. How could he not hear such a large man come up behind him? He did try the latch though and pushed again. Once, twice, th-

“Fuck! Cold, cold, cold!” The snow that had piled up against the window had shifted and fallen through the gap Jon had so helpfully created; his face, glasses, and sweater generously dusted with cold and white. He sputtered and brushed it off himself, feeling dot of cold seep into his skin. The pane had been cleared though, and Jon could see, as he shoved the window closed again, blustering snow sweeping through the alleyway the window looked out on to. Jon turned back, seeing Martin’s face red with the effort of suppressing a laugh. “It’s snowing. Hard.”

“Yeah,” his voice wavered, lips parting in a warm smile. “I-I guessed that.” Even so, Martin offered Jon a hand and he took it, stepping off the now-wet chair with little grace. “Let’s see if there’s word from Rosie. Sasha was calling her when I came in.” Jon nodded wordlessly, holding Martin’s a little too long (it was so warm! And he was so cold) before letting go and leading Martin into the bullpen.

Sasha was lounging in her office chair, a finger curled in her thick hair, with her legs on her desk and her free hand holding her mobile to her ear. She was nodding, brow furrowed, and kicking Tim idly, who was perched on her desk, feet perched on the handles of one of her desk drawers and shining his torchlight in her eyes while she scowled at him. “Alright, brilliant Rosie. Tell Elias we send our warmest, fondest regards. Especially Tim. Oh—What’s that, Tim?” She eyed her perched friend mischievously; his eyes were wide, and he shook his head vigorously. “Oh. Tim says to tell Elias that he’s deeply in love with him and has been since the day he started.” She listened for a moment and nodded gravely. “Mmhmm. Thank you Rosie. I’ll let him know. Happy Christmas!”

“You little-”

Jon cleared his throat and Tim snapped his head up, eyes alight with mirth. “Bossman, I’m being slandered! You can’t expect me not to defend myself.” Jon chose to ignore his comment, though his expression was soft.

“Sasha, any word from Rosie?”

“Mhmm. Two things. Firstly, power’s out in the whole building. Apparently there’s a bit of a blizzard. Elias said we can have the day off. Secondly, Elias said he’s promoting Tim to his personal ass-isstant.” Tim howled and lunged at Sasha, who was giggling madly. Martin had lost it now too and was chuckling behind his hand at the scene of the taller woman scooting away on her rolling office chair from her dear friend. Even Jon scoffed, eyes following the pair affectionately. Jon didn’t notice he was shivering until he felt a warm hand on his shoulder. Looking up, he saw the silhouette of Martin.

“Are you cold? I’m feeling it too. I think the heat’s off with the power.”

Jon shrugged noncommittally, turning his eyes back to the vague forms of Sasha and Tim, who had given up on their wrestling and were sharing the office chair, Tim lounging across Sasha’s lap and scrolling on his phone. At this, Sasha perked up, nudging Tim. “If it’s gonna get cold in here and we have the day off, we should go get coffee! There’s a cute new place across the street from the park. Steamed Beans or something.”

“Beaned Steams,” Tim mumbled under his breath, extricating himself from Sasha’s lap and getting to his feet, smoothing back his hair before refluffing it expertly. “I’m game. But Sasha’s buying my drink because she’s being a bully.”

Martin nodded, rocking on his toes behind Jon. “I’m in. But the snow is intense. Bundle up if you don’t want frostbite.”

Silence stretched in front of Jon. Of course he hadn’t thought to bring a coat today. There was no way his sweater could weather the snowstorm going on outside. He’d have to say no and wait it out, hope the snow dies down. Or he could just embrace it. The park wasn’t that far away…Four or five blocks. Not far enough to call a cab and too far to walk unprotected. Shit.

He’d been quiet for too long. The other three were poised, waiting for his response. “I don’t think you would let me say no if I tried,” he relented. Tim whooped and clapped Jon on the shoulder as he passed him, grabbing his coat and winding a scarf around his neck.

“That’s the spirit, Sims! C’mon, get your coats and we’ll leave before the weather gets worse.” Jon meandered into his office, the chill hanging in the air, and searched the room for any abandoned coats he may have left behind. He was a bit forgetful (and a bit of a packrat) but he was pretty sure he’d taken home his forgotten clothes before Halloween, when Tim was threatening to dress up as him for the archive party Sasha had hosted. The only thing he found was a pair of fingerless gloves, abandoned in his desk drawer. He slipped them on, flexing his hands against the knit fabric, and shrugged inwardly. It would have to do.

Jon closed the door to his office, locking it as he did so, before turning to see his assistants standing in the hallway, wincing at the lights they shone at him. “Jon? Where’s your coat?” Sasha’s voice was equal parts accusing and patient, like reminding a child to wash their hands.

“I-well, I didn’t bring one today,” Jon flushed like he had been caught in a lie. “The snow wasn’t that bad when I left the house. And I, I don’t like the way it feels to wear one.” He held up hands helplessly. “I have these.”

Martin crossed his arms over his vested chest and the tails of his scarf. “It’s too cold for you to go out there without a jacket on. Too windy. You’ll catch pneumonia and die or something.”

“You can’t catch pneumonia like that, Martin. It’s a wives’ tale.” “You get what I mean! You can’t just wear a sweater and button up and fingerless gloves of all things and call it winter gear.”

Tim was stroking his chin thoughtfully, head cocked. “Would the old married couple shut up? I think I have something.” He took off his coat and unzipped the inside, extricating a fleece lining from the waterproof shell. “Here,” he draped it over Jon’s shoulder when he refused to take it. “If you don’t wear it, Martin has to buy all our coffees. You wouldn’t want to do that to sweet ol’ Marto, would you?”

Jon shrugged on the coat, grateful for the dark to hide his scowl and blush.

Sasha let out a noise of realization. “Oh! I have something too.” She disappeared and returned in less than a minute, holding out a knitted cap of some kind. “I keep a spare for when it’s too cold down here.” The inside was soft, lined with silk or satin or something, and Jon could feel some sort of applique on the side. Realizing there was no way he was going to win this fight, he tugged on the hat, frowning at the way it squished down the knot of hair he had so carefully arranged to be just the right amount of messy and structured.

Martin was stepping forward now as well, stooping slightly to wind a scarf around Jon’s neck and gently tucking the ends into the neck of the fleece. “Uh, here.”

“I-hm,” Jon struggled for words, feeling warm from more than just the new apparel. “Thank you, all of you, I suppose. I’ll-ah, I’ll give them back to you after.”

“No rush!” Tim nudged Jon with his shoulder as he grabbed Sasha’s hand, pulling her through the hallway to the stairwell. “Come on, I need the most expensive drink they sell in my belly, pronto!”

As the Archival staff left the Institute, they waved goodbye and wished a Happy Christmas to Rosie, who was packing up her own desk. They pushed themselves through the rotating door, immediately bowing their heads against the blinding white snow and the buffeting wind.

“Shit,” Martin said, pocketing his glasses. “No point in having these out. The one day I don’t bother with contacts. Are we sure we shouldn’t cab?” Jon glanced at the road, somewhere between slush and ice.

“I don’t trust lorry drivers on a good day.” Martin hummed an agreement.

Sasha led the way, the four keeping tight together against the wind and cold, the whirling of the snow drowning out all conversation, save for Tim’s occasional directions via his smartphone. Jon removed his own wire-rimmed glasses eventually, tired of them fogging up and of the snow melting into blurred spots, obscuring his vision even more. Martin held out his hand and Jon passed them over for Martin to put in his pocket. There was no one else out on the streets, no cars, no people. Jon imagined as they walked that they were the only four left in London, cursed to wander alone forever. His theory was proven wrong, however, when eventually the warm orange lighting of the coffee shop beckoned, the name Bean Village painted on the window.

“I think Sash’s name was better,” Tim declares in a low voice as they stamp their feet against the welcome mat and shake off snow from their hair and clothes. Jon removes the knitted cap to see the faux leather flower applique and the embroidered “S” he hadn’t been able to see in the dark, chuckling to himself and stuffing the mauve hat in his pocket. Their faces were all various toned shades of pink and the heavy heat of the air of the café, smelling strongly like coffee beans, vanilla, and cinnamon, made Jon’s once-numb nose and cheeks tingle as they were brought back to life.

Jon squinted at the chalk-written menu, moving to push up his glasses only to feel his hand falter when he found the nosepiece not there. “Oh-uh, Martin. Can I have my glasses?”

Martin frowned. “Ah, huh? Oh! Yes-yes, of course, sorry!” He fumbled for Jon’s glasses, drying the remaining melted snow on the hem of his shirt before handing them back.

The Magnus Institute’s archival staff were the only four customers in the store at present and made a point to order probably more than necessary, scones and muffins (blueberry for Martin and Sasha, cinnamon for Martin, a pumpkin muffin for Jon) in addition to the teas and coffees (chai lattes for Jon and Martin, a caramel latte for Sasha, and some sort of ridiculously sweet mocha for Tim), despite it being barely eleven in the morning. Jon saw Martin make a point to slip some extra money into the tip jar as well, feeling warmth bloom in his chest as he decided to do the same.

Honestly, this, squeezed into a booth, leaning into Martin’s side, with Tim and Sasha across from him, chatting, swapping stories, and sharing some institute-related memes Tim had drawn up on his phone, was the best Christmas gift Jon could have imagined.

#the magnus archives #tma #tma fanfic #season 1 archive gang #s1 polycule #kinda?#not officially but its the vibes that count #timsash #jmart #at the least #holiday fic

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cloburon · 3 years ago

Text

One Sunny Day

Summary: Jon's not sure how or when, but his mind has been thrust into that of his old self. Now he has to try and cope with having two lines of memory, minor memory loss, his uber creepy boss, and preventing the apocalypse. On top of that he's not quite sure where his husband went. It's messy, and confusing. Keeping track of the order of events suck when the beholding only wants to supply you with useless information. Chapter one: (Link) Chapter under the cut but beware it’s like 5k words long

Jon splashes water on his face and when he meets his reflection in the mirror he promptly feels his stomach drop out of his ass. He examines himself carefully. His skin is completely flawless minus the usual moles on his face. No scars, no dark circles, no eyebags, and no pockmarks. But mostly he looks at his eyes and he stares into his irises. They’re inky black. Not green, but black. Dare he be pretentious enough to say onyx black with his pupils damn near indistinguishable from his irises. Jon pulls away from his face and runs his fingers through his tastefully kept if not slightly too long hair. He remembered when he first got it cut but.. It’s not right. His hair was longer, wasn’t it? Waving just slightly, although that was mostly the fault of Martin’s need to braid Jon’s hair if it ever got in his face. Martin. Jon looks at his hands, turning his palms over. There’s no scar. He closes his eyes and tries to think reasonably. What did he do to get here, in another time? It wasn’t right- it certainly wasn’t the plan but he can’t remember what the plan even was. But he knows he had one, so that will have to be good enough. There’ll be time for planning later, he thinks. He only needs to keep it together until he can figure it out. If there was a plan he simply has to make adjustments once he can remember. Besides, if he’s here in this time then they’ll all be waiting for him. He checks his watch. It’s noon. Tim, Sasha, and Martin will be in the breakroom for lunch.

Martin... Jon washes his hands once more for good measure and heads to the breakroom. Their laughter rings through the empty hallways of the archive, and god how Jon missed it. He closes his eyes and stays hidden by a wall for just a moment. He forgot what they sounded like when they were alive and happy, before everything went to shit. What should he do about it? He Knows what will happen. Maybe preventive measures are in order. Jon steels himself with a breath and walks closer to the barely open door. He hears Tim flick something at Sasha and she squeals of mock terror. She sounds like herself, that’s good, very good. He’ll just make himself a cup of tea, try and be more open- a touch different but not enough to startle them. He should be able to handle that. Jon opens the door and walks in quietly, as to what his usual demeanor was.. Is? Was/is might be a better way to define it.

“Well look at that! The second big boss has come to join us?” Jon walks to the cabinets, takes out one of the mugs and turns the eye towards him instead of the rest of the room. Maybe hot chocolate would be nicer than tea. His hand hovers about the sachets before he remembers. Tim technically asked him a question. “What? Oh,” Jon dumps the powder into his mug before switching the already full kettle on, “I came in for some hot chocolate. Hope I’m not disturbing,” it’s so weird to see Tim angry but not full of hatred. And Sasha- and Martin, who looks at him with his eyebrows nearing his hairline. “Bad statement?” Sasha muses. Jon stares then gives a terse nod, “I guess it was something like that. Just wanted to be around people and I thought it might be a good idea to uhm,” where is he going with this. It’s hard to think when Sasha’s looking at him and she’s actually Sasha and not Not-Sasha. He scans the image of her face to the absolute best of his memory. “To uhm?” He looks over at Tim again and feels the warmth rise to his face, “I’ll put it bluntly. I’ve never been great with people. But I figured since we’re a team it would be best if we got to know each other.. More?”

More like them getting to know Jon. It works, he doesn’t have to reveal that he already knows everything about all of them minus Sasha whom he didn’t get the chance to know. He stirs his hot chocolate with a wooden stirring stick. “Wow. It got you real bad if you’re reaching out to us.”

“Tim!” “I’m just saying. You normally brush us off.” Tim sniffs, drumming his fingers on the table with a deep crease between his brows. Jon blinks before nodding, “Right, well. I’ve never been good with.. I said that already,” he closes his eyes and tries to think of a better response. It’s hard. He’s better at responding to direct anger versus thinly veiled distaste. He taps the stirrer at the edge of his mug and takes a well deserved sip. The powder’s definitely gone off, hot chocolate was a shit idea. He purposefully does not look Martin’s way. He’s not sure what he’ll do with himself once his brain connects the dots between his Martin and this Martin, well they’re the same person. Two halves of a made up whole of who Martin will continue to be. Is Martin alright? They were supposed to be here together, weren’t they? Did he not make it through the door?

The door. Corridors? No, doors, a hallway. Same difference.

A warm hand grasps his forearm, “Jon?”

“Martin,” and Martin’s so warm and delightful. Face still full with youth and a decadent lack of trauma. Jon can almost count his freckles at this angle. “Are you sure you’re alright? I’ve tried talking to you about breaks but-” Jon waves him off in his usual demeanor, “No, it’s nothing like that. I’ll be in my office uhm-” “Lunch?” Martin offers, going to the cabinets. The institute keeps a fair amount of soup cans at the ready for ‘emergencies.’ Jon has never delved into the emergency soup and he really doesn’t want to start now. Besides, it’s not like the soup will actually nourish him. “No, it’s alright. I’ll leave you all uh.. Well, to it I guess,” Jon dumps his still warm mug of hot chocolate down the sink and deftly washes it before escaping the breakroom. At least he remembers why the hell he refused to go in there way back then. Too little space with just a touch of too many people. He needs to find Martin..

Martin’s face is far too warm. “Holy shit,” Tim laughs, “I think he’s finally snapped.” “Tim, stop it,” Sasha snorts, hitting his bicep over and over in a relentless way. Martin flexes the hand that grasped Jon. He seriously expected him to leap out of the way, he had done it before but for some reason he let Martin grab him and fuss a bit. “You saw that too, right Martin? Jon has finally gone looney on us. I bet it’s the bugs!,” “Oh stop with the bugs!” Sasha hisses, “They’re terrible. What if one’s in his brain?” “What if it’s in his brain and its controlling him?” “Will both of you quit it!” Martin really didn’t mean to be so loud, “Something could be really wrong not- spooky wrong but you know. Normal wrong. What if he hit his head or-or something?” Tim pulls a face, “How do you mean?” Martin thinks about how thin Jon’s arm is under his blazer. Is that why he insists on looking professional all the time? Is he hiding something? A serious something, not a spooky something. “He’s.. small,” Martin starts, and Tim snorts.

“No shit. He can’t be taller than 5’6.”

“I think he might be 5’5,” Sasha pops a crisp into her mouth, chewing thoughtfully, “And a quarter.” “Not small like that- I mean he is small,” Martin finds himself flushing again. He had taken notice immediately once Jon started working in the archives. It was hard not to. Martin just happened to be a bigger than normal kind of guy in most ways. Jon happened to be on the opposite end of the gene pool, “Small like.. He could use a meal, I think.” “Martin,” Tim sing-songs, “Don’t try to fret over the boss man.” “I’m not fretting!” He is fretting. He can’t help it. Martin sees a thing that needs help and he helps, it’s what he does. It’s only complicated now because Jon is his weird cagey boss but. He looks at the mug on the drying rack. Has Jon always preferred hot chocolate over tea? Is that why he was so dismissive every time Martin brought him a cup. Martin knows he makes amazing fucking tea and it definitely hurt to see them go cold and eventually be dumped out. But if Jon’s a hot chocolate guy- no, definitely not a hot chocolate guy. Martin never saw him take a sip. Jon stood there and only held it while he briefly chatted with that awful dazed look in his eyes.. “If you’re going to make a meal, do you mind sharing?” Sasha grins, all pretty teeth and unbudgeable red lip stain. “Of course I will! Sheesh, I’m not a monster.”

“Coulda fooled me,” Tim flicks a crumb at him and Martin decides he may as well get back to work.

Jon comes to work the next day in something more comfortable. Because his incessant desire to look as professional as possible made no sense and really didn’t matter in the grand scheme of things. He likes his blazer but that’s about all he cares for. He arrives to work before his assistants which is good because he really didn’t want to see the look on their faces if he showed up after them in a floor length floral skirt and a tucked in turtleneck. It’s half professional, in his opinion. The Institute only has a dress code for the length of skirts, not who wears them. Honestly, he’s comfortable like this. It’s fine. Jon relishes in the sound his fingertips make across his keyboard as he types up a request form. He’ll have to talk to Elias at some point, the sooner the better. He keys in an order for sixteen fire extinguishers and submits it under critical need. He supposes there’s a joke to be made about Gertrude and her guns and Jon and his fire extinguishers but he doesn’t make it. He sets a box of statements on his desk and goes about organizing them. Only three out of the box are actual statements and he doesn’t even have to read them… He’s forgetting something.

Right, the tape recorders. Jon gets up with a start and begins collecting all the ones he can find in his office. He ends up with three of the devilish little machines on his desk when there’s a knock at his door. “Come in,” Jon makes sure they stay off, willing them with his mind. If a single one turns on he thinks he might lose it. “Good morning, tea? Oh- Oh.”

Jon swipes a stray hair out of his face, “Good morning Martin,” it’s hard to not want to be around him. He is Martin. After all- wait he has an idea. The first cog for his plan that isn’t hiding every dangerous statement the archive holds, which could take weeks.. Or months. Probably months. Three months, beholding tells him. Thanks beholding, he really wishes he could have kept his estimate in the weeks area, whatever. Martin’s face is red down to his neck and Jon quietly adjusts the hem of his sleeves, “Martin?” “Right! Tea,” he sets the cup down on the coaster next to Jon’s computer, “I just got here early because well- I wanted to talk to you about something.” Jon nods, “Well, take a seat then. Is everything alright?” Martin looks from the chair to Jon, so Jon gives him another nod of approval before sitting down himself, crossing one leg over the other. The skirt had been Georgie’s- well it technically never was. She ordered it online and it came many sizes too small so Jon did what he did best and he thiefed it from her. Georgie didn’t like florals anyways. “Yes- uhm no, I’m just uh.. Worried.” Jon takes out a small notebook and a pen from his desk drawer, “Okay. What about? Did something happen?” “Not exactly uhm- it’s a question for you, though. Like about you, but you don’t have to answer if you’re uncomfortable or anything.”

Interesting. Jon balances his chin in his hand, “I have a question for you as well, Martin.” “Oh? Really? How about you go first. It’ll ease my nerves,” he chuckles nervously and Jon can’t help his smile. He doesn’t fight it off his face. He missed every single thing about Martin, the nervous laughter, the fidgeting, all of it.. “Very well. Do you remember Scotland?” “Scotland- Oh, Jon. I’ve never been. I mean. I’ve always wanted to go, it’s just so beautiful and the cows there are so cute.” That answers his question then. This isn’t his Martin after all. Does that mean Martin is lost somewhere? Jon’s heart sinks. He won’t give up. He’ll find a way to fix it, he always does. “What did you want to ask me, Martin?” Martin’s face goes red again, “Right. Right so.. Yesterday in the breakroom-” “Yes,” Jon interrupts, because he has to keep some semblance of being an absolute prick or all of them will become suspicious which might ruin everything, “I was a bit off after reading a statement, I’m sorry if I frightened you. You can write it off if you’d like. Pretend it never happened.” “It wasn’t about what happened in the breakroom, you’ve done weirder things, honestly.” Jon raises his eyebrows but stays silent as Martin presses forward. “I made lunch for everyone today. It’s a simple mac and cheese but it’s my mom’s recipe so it’s good, obviously. Uhm, you- you’re really small- I’m sorry.” Martin quiets, searching his mind for the words he wants to use. Jon fills the gap with a snort, “I’m alright, thank you for your concern.” “No!” “No,” Jon tilts his head over the top of his hand then sits up. He raises his palm toward Martin, “Come here.” “What?” “Put your hand on mine.”

“Why?” Martin’s voice raises an entire octave. Jon remains as neutral as possible if not a bit cross. “Evidence,” Jon shrugs. Martin complies with his request and presses his hand flush against Jon’s. His palm is exceedingly warm and a touch sweaty; Jon finds he doesn’t mind. His fingertips only reach to the middle of Martin’s fingers. If Martin wished it he could curl his fingers and trap Jon’s hand in it’s embrace. He wishes he would. Jon stifles his thoughts with a condescending hum, “Just as I thought.” “What?” Martin squeaks. “We all can’t be big, Martin. Really, I’ve been small all my life. I don’t appreciate it being told to my face like we’re in grade school-” “That wasn’t what I meant!” Martin wrenches his hand away, “I meant that you’re like small small- not short you’re.. Boney! I don’t like it.” “Weight comments are also incredibly immature-” “Nevermind then!” Martin gets up quickly, wringing his hands out in front of himself, “It’ll be in the fridge- if you want to you know.. Eat or something,” and just as quickly as he arrived, he left. Jon leans back in his chair and sighs. He should have expected that. This was why he never let any of them get that close. It’s a bit aggravating. There’s always the wave of concern before people realize Jon’s just not meant to have meat on his bones. He tried to gain weight once in college and it was a miserable experience to boot. So he won’t be making any attempts here, even if he knows that Martin’s mac and cheese can in fact taste delicious even through the apocalypse. None of the tape recorders turned on. He counts it as a success as he boxes them up to eventually be burned. Now then- to the rest of the archives.

He balances with one foot on a step ladder, which isn’t an ideal position by any means but it’s the best shot he has at getting this stupid tape recorder from a top shelf. Why are the shelves so high in the archives? Right, because nobody knows how to file things away ever. He scowls and stretches out onto the tip of his toe. He’s almost got it. He flails his hand left and right until his fingers find purchase on the smooth plastic and the warmth of the red recording light. Jon yanks it down and shuts it off before taking the cassette out. Better safe than sorry. But his ears ring. He grasps the shelf for support as the static fills his mind. Jon screws his eyes shut and he Knows who’s coming. “Elias,” Jon says without turning around, “What a surprise.” “Hm. I didn’t think you heard me coming.” Jon didn’t hear him at all. He happened to Know he was going to be there. His head feels like a mass of electrified cotton. “I need to talk to you in my office.” Jon clutches the tape recorder and he doesn’t think about what he says until it flies out of his mouth, “I won’t be doing that.” “What?” “I won’t be doing that,” he says again, mouth moving faster than his brain, “Unfortunately if you want to meet it will have to be in my office.” “And why is that, Jon?” Elias smiles icily, his head tilted just slightly to the left. Jon can feel the presence of eyes on him, but he’s learned to deal with it. He inhales through his nose and tilts his head, “It’s an awful lot of stairs, isn’t it?” Elias snorts, “Don’t be ridiculous.” “I’m being serious, Elias. We can talk in my office or we can talk here, your choice,” Jon folds his arms stubbornly across his chest. His fringe is getting in his eyes. He silently curses his hair for growing too fast. “I guess it doesn’t matter. Why do you want fire extinguishers?” Oh, is he jumping to compelling this soon? How has Elias already become suspicious of him?

Jon stares at Elias for a few seconds, letting his words linger in the air powerlessly. The eyes look forth but Jon slowly steps off of the ladder and smooths down his skirt. “Carbon dioxide kills bugs, I’d figure it was the cheaper option. It is far more effective than repellents, and covers more area. I thought it was a reasonable request.” “Well I suppose-” “Will you be getting them, then? Otherwise I will be paying out of my own pocket and I expect to be reimbursed later.” “Jon-”

“They are less expensive if you buy in bulk,” Jon finishes, “Are we done here?”

“No-” “I have work to do. So if you wouldn’t mind either being brief or saving this for later, I would like to go.” Elias’ eye twitches and Jon offers no sympathy. He keeps his face as enigmatic as he physically can. On the inside he’s fluttering with the delight of knowing he can easily get under Elias’ skin. If only he brought his knife.. Knife.. Knife. What knife? Jon rubs his temples. He considers hitting himself across the head to jog his thoughts but that would do little more than perhaps prove that something is wrong. But nothing’s wrong. Not yet, at least. Jon has control of the situation and the upper-hand because he Knows what will happen. “Are you all right, Jon?” The question isn’t genuine. Elias’ voice is full of venom and malice hidden under the air of politeness. Jon listens to the way the toe of his shoe taps impatiently against the hardwood floor of the archives. “Perfectly marvelous,” Jon purrs, taking the ladder with him on his way back to his office. Elias’ reaction to that Is genuine. He straightens up suddenly as Jon marches past him, putting the ladder in its proper place before swinging back into his office with this small victory under his belt.

Martin has never felt more frustrated in his life. Not eating his famous mac and cheese because of an off statement was one thing but Jon simply didn’t eat anything he ever made and Martin has gone through his entire recipe book by the end of the month. Everyone else keeps eating but Martin hasn’t seen Jon eat anything! Not even a taste of the lovely dishes Martin’s been pouring his heart into. It bothers him more than it should, and not because his cooking skills are being insulted but because he hasn’t seen Jon eat. At all. Tea doesn’t count, and that’s all Martin’s actually seen him consume. He has to assume Jon eats at home but with the state he’s been in recently he can’t trust that assumption in the slightest. He’s not sure if Jon’s having a crisis but crisis be damned, he still needs to eat. Martin grips a tupperware full of warm vanilla custard because maybe Jon isn’t a savory guy and to be fair all Martin has brought is savory food. He enter’s Jon’s office without knocking, his first mistake. Jon nearly jumps out of his skin and swears, “I have told all of you about knocking- Christ,” his hands clutch against his chest, fingers curled towards his neck. Jon inhales shakily, “What is it, Martin?” Martin manages the most placid smile on the planet, “Sorry, forgot. I uhm you know.” Jon rolls his eyes, “I know?”

“Custard?” “No thank you.” Martin’s brow twitches. It’s been hard to navigate around Jon lately. Sometimes he’s the same as always. He’s frigid and stern and takes no nonsense whatsoever. Other times Jon almost seems.. Thoughtful and warm, as if he’s taking everything in and stamping it to memory in his head. Apparently he’s in a frigid mood. Martin can work around that. He clutches the tupperware tighter, “I’m going to be frank, Jon. I’m worried.” “You have no reason to be,” Jon shuffles through a pile of statements. Martin scans his desk for a tape recorder but he can’t seem to find it. No telltale whirl of the cassette either, or the red glow of the recording light, “Please continue your work as normal, I’m fine.” “But you’re not.” Jon’s jaw clenches, “Martin-” “I haven’t seen you eat in a month and it’s honestly really scary, you know? You’re a human too, and you need food.” Jon gawks, an embarrassed sort of heat rising to the unfortunate sharpness of his cheeks, “I do eat!” Martin scoffs, “Do you, really?” He doesn’t think Jon does. He can tell he’s smaller, he’s not sure how but he can tell! Maybe it’s the way Jon’s sweater is dangerously close to slipping off the angular planes of his tawny shoulder. Stop looking at his shoulder. “Yes.” “I don’t believe you,” Martin takes the chair across from Jon’s without question and pries the lid of the tupperware off. “Can’t you indulge me?” “Martin, this is hardly appropriate.” “Neither is starving yourself.’ “I don’t starve myself,” Jon says defensively, “I’m just picky.” “Is there a difference?” “There is,” Jon eyes the custard, “And I’m not a particular fan of custard.” “What are you a fan of, then?” Jon rolls his eyes again, “I like apple sauce and soup, sometimes I fancy a sandwich.” “That’s it?” Martin watches Jon’s head bob up and down before he tucks a lock of hair behind his ear, “Yeah.” “Why?” “Why what?” Martin fumbles, “I just- that sounds boring.” “Oh, it definitely is,” but Jon makes an effort; he takes a spoon from his drawer and pokes at the warm custard hesitantly. “Why not try something new?” Jon’s mouth tightens into a thin line, “I don’t care much for the texture of foods I guess. It’s too much guesswork. I used to eat a lot of meat because I know how that texture is but these statements they’re.. Well..enough to put me off of that for a while.” Martin frowns, “Oh. I see.” “Yeah,” Jon offers a softer sort of smile but something shifts on his face. Any expression falls away and for a moment his eyes unfocus. “Jon? Hey,” Martin reaches across the desk and places his hand atop Jon’s arm. He ignores how slight he is Jon doesn’t reply. His eyes are glued somewhere just beyond the threshold of his office but he pales, looking more stricken than he had before. A muscle in his jaw tightens just as his gaze finally returns to Martin’s. “Where did you go?” Martin asks, squeezing Jon’s arm for good measure. Jon blinks, “I’m sorry?” “You spaced out.” “Oh. Ah yes I just.. I just uhm, well it happens that. You know- I was thinking,” Jon tucks another loose hair behind his ear. Martin doesn’t want to comment on the speed Jon’s hair has been growing lately. He knows it’ll lead to him wanting to call Jon pretty and he’s positive Jon might physically hit him if those words ever came out of his mouth. Doesn’t mean Martin can’t admire him, though. Jon’s eyes flick to the planner on his desk and he looks back at Martin. Martin tries to smile patiently. “What is it?” “I have a request,” Jon starts, poking the custard once and then twice. Martin bites his cheek to keep quiet, “You can say no- I just.. Remembered. There’s this cabinet in my flat that I can’t move on my own.” Martin nods, “Oh..kay?” “And I was wondering if you would mind.. I can pay you or you can you know- eat dinner with me but..” “Jon, what are you trying to ask?” Martin leans forward just a bit, “Do you need help moving this cabinet?” Jon nods, “Yes. Obviously you can say no I just- you look strong so-” Martin tries very hard not to blush. He isn’t that strong, he thinks. His size is more of an illusion if anything but he might be able to manage a cabinet. “You’ll make dinner?” “Yes.” “Fine.” Jon’s eyes light up, “Really?” Martin nods, “Sure,” and he hides all of his excitement at the prospect of seeing Jon’s flat, seeing him cook, tasting his cooking. There’s so many small things he’s been curious about and now Martin gets to know them. If Jon weren’t across from him he would absolutely be punching the air right now. “I’ll drive us after work then,” and there’s definitely a smile on Jon’s face, just a small one. Martin puts it under his belt as a small victory.

Jon’s flat is nothing Martin could have expected. Martin always thought Jon would live somewhere immaculately plain, the opposite of his office at the archives. For some reason it made sense in his head for the archives to be where Jon must lose it and let things get out of control in his office and Martin couldn’t blame him for that. When organizing and making a filing system is your job it feels natural to let some aspects of control go. But Jon’s flat is not immaculate, it’s not polished and pristine, it’s the exact opposite in the best way possible. Jon somehow managed to cram six bookshelves full to burst in his tiny living room. Abandoned books are left open across his coffee table along with many empty mugs of tea and a few loose coins. It’s cozy, Martin decides. Cozy and homey in a way he can never achieve for his own flat. Jon’s space is clearly lived in and rich with life. “Where’s this famous cabinet?” Martin asks, “I can get it moved while you cook.” Jon drops his bag by the door and throws his hair into a short ponytail at the back of his head, “It’s just there. Please be careful, it belonged to my grandmother so it’s sort of an antique,” he leads Martin into a smaller hallway and then into a bedroom. Martin assumes it’s the guest bedroom considering the lack of general mess. But he sees the cabinet, small yet menacing. Definitely an antique. “Wow, it’s gorgeous,” Martin whistles, “Where do you want it?” “In the living room,” Jon says casually, like his living room isn’t already full to burst with items. “Will it fit?” Jon looks at the cabinet, lips pursed, “I think so? It should fit in the corner.” Martin won’t argue about it, he hefts the thing up with a moderate amount of difficulty and slowly walks it into the living room. He sees the empty corner Jon spoke of and quietly sets it down. Jon lingers in the entryway, arms folded across his chest. He has that same unfocused look in his eye that he had in his office. “Jon?”

Unfocused quickly becomes teary eyed. Martin takes a step forward but Jon shakes his head, “I’m gonna start dinner. Feel free to sit down if you’d like, I have a lot of.. Books, yeah- or the television.” Martin hardly notices the television but he clicks it on with the remote to hopefully make Jon a bit more comfortable. He’s not sure what to do. He’s never seen Jon get emotional like that before and he quickly brushed it aside before Martin could react. Martin sighs through his nose. How should he talk to him about that? They’re not at work so it’s not like he has to worry about that part of it but Jon’s also not the kind of person to talk about his feelings, Martin can tell. The smell of spices and onions quickly fills the small flat. Martin’s stomach lets out an incessant growl and he decides to see what exactly Jon’s making. It smells incredible. Martin lingers by the fridge, watching Jon toss things together in a pan. His spice collection is massive, he realizes. Martin feels a bit guilty for assuming he wasn’t eating because it quickly becomes clear that Jon enjoys cooking. He hums under his breath while the pan crackles and sizzles deliciously. “What are you making?”

Jon looks up and his lips twitch upwards into a smile, “Chicken salan. Is that alright?”

“Smells delicious,” Martin tests the waters and gets closer. Jon spoons some of the sauce out for him and holds it out. “Try some, just in case it’s too spicy.” Martin gently takes the spoon from him and ignores how intensely Jon stares at him. It is a bit on the spicy side for Martin, his tongue burns and his nose starts to drip incessantly but it also tastes amazing. “It’s good,” Martin hums, going over to the sink to wash the spoon. Jon nods to himself. “I’m glad. I thought you might like it, you- really enjoyed it- sorry,” Jon raps his knuckles against his forehead a few times, “Thinking of someone else.” Martin frowns, “Sorry?” “ “It’s nothing, I was thinking about two things at once,” Jon puts a lid over the pan and turns on the rice maker on the countertop. “You seem pretty distracted lately. Is everything alright?” He doesn’t mean to pry, really. Jon looks at nothing for a moment, eyes locked on an empty spot in the air. “Elias has just been,” he waves a hand in the air, “A bit antsy I suppose. Puts me right on edge when I’m working. I feel like I’m being watched.”

Martin smiles, “Trust me, we’re all feeling that right now. It’ll settle though, promise. Elias has always had these moments, apparently.” Jon kisses his teeth, “Don’t I know it..” but the rice maker beeps, and his brief spout of anger seems forgotten as he focuses on making up both of their plates. Martin wonders if he should make tea but it doesn’t look like Jon even has a kettle in the place which is a proper abomination. “You don’t mind the living room, do you?”

Martin shakes his head, “Not at all,” which is the truth. He follows Jon to the couch and Jon takes up the remote, flipping through the channels a few times before finally settling down next to him. He crosses his legs and tucks his feet under his knees and honestly it should be illegal for Jon to look so soft. “Food channel okay?” “More than okay,” Martin smiles and Jon smiles back at him. They eat together in comfortable silence. By the time they’re both done eating Jon looks at Martin and asks if he’d like to stay the night. Martin selfishly agrees. He doesn’t want to leave Jon’s flat, which feels more like a home than what waits for him otherwise. Jon promises to take him back to his in the morning. Martin doesn’t tell him that he could care less when Jon takes him back. The guest room is less full than the rest of the place but it’s still oddly comforting. Martin lies awake for most of the evening, staring at the dark shadows of shelves and boxes in the corners of the room. Jon’s flat smells bizarrely enough, like a library, but in the best way. Like old paper and leather book covers. When Martin tucks his face against his pillow it lightly smells of incense, woody, and a bit spicy. The smell lulls him to sleep, unforgiving of the phone call he’ll receive in the morning.

#my fic #its me fic #cross posting onto tumblr for funsies and #exposure i guess #tma #the magnus archives #time travel fic #jonmartin #jmart #jonathan sims #martin blackwood #sasha james #tim stoker #i think i might have it be timsash bc im real soft for them #but eeeeeh idk yet!!!#typical elias bouchard being a pompus ass activities.

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