quicksilver-castiel

[quicksilver-castiel]

Writing isn't the hobby. Being insane about little fake people is the hobby. Writing is just the only outlet i have for that

[quicksilver-castiel]

[quicksilver-castiel]

[quicksilver-castiel]

And finally they see Eye to eye

Fandom: The Magnus Archives

Pairing: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims

Archive warnings: None

Rating: Teen and up

Summary:

When Martin goes on an extended weekend trip, that leaves Jon alone with the newest addition to their lives: Their cat Butterscotch. So far, the relationship between Jon and Butterscotch has been a little rocky. He isn't convinced that this weekend will change that, though for once he would be glad to be proven wrong.

Author's note:

This was written for @jonsimsandcats Day! Because there can never be enough stories with Jon and cats in them.

This is an AU and can technically be read as a continuation of In a cat's Eye, but all you need to know is that the boys are alive and well, still working for the Institute, and adopted a cat that's so, so normal, I prommy. :)

Read on AO3 or below the cut

“There’s stew in the fridge, and I bought those mini pretzels you like if you need a snack,” Martin said quickly as he put on his backpack. Jon watched him silently and patiently, knowing that he wasn’t done yet. “Oh, and there’s an open can of food for Butterscotch in the fridge as well, so don’t open a new one today. Um, there’s still some pizza in the freezer, but there’s also rice and veggies if you feel like cooking. I threw out the tuna because it was past the best before date and I know you always say it’s fine as long as it smells fine, but you really shouldn’t risk it.”

“Martin,” Jon interjected gently, trying to hold down a smile, “you’ll only be gone for three days. I promise I’ll manage not to starve.”

Martin didn’t look convinced. If anything, he just seemed more worried. “You’re very capable in a lot of ways, but historically, taking care of yourself has not been one of them.”

Jon rolled his eyes. It wasn’t that Martin was necessarily wrong. But he was being rude.

“I promise I’ll eat. And feed Butterscotch.” Jon grinned. “I know you would be more heartbroken if something happened to her than if it did to me.”

Martin scowled at him, crossing his arms in front of his chest. “You’re being ridiculous.”

“I don’t know, you’ve been spending a lot of time with her. When was the last time I got to sit in your lap?” Jon asked, raising an eyebrow.

He was teasing, of course. Mostly.

Martin’s lap was rather comfortable, and he enjoyed being fully enveloped by his fiance’s body, held tightly to his chest by big arms.

Which was rather difficult to achieve when there was a cat contentedly purring in said spot.

Martin huffed, but a small smile tugged at his lips. “At least try to get along while I’m gone, yeah?”

Jon shrugged. “I’m not the problem. Butterscotch simply isn’t a fan of me.”

“Well, it’s the perfect opportunity for you to get some bonding time in.” Martin checked his watch, and cursed under his breath. “Shit, I need to go. See you on Sunday.”

“Have a good trip.” Jon gladly accepted the goodbye kiss Martin gave him before turning towards the door. “Text me when you get there.”

“The internet might be spotty, but I’ll try to send something. Bye!” With that, Martin was out of the door, off to the great adventure of a hiking trip on the Western coast.

Jon sighed as he thought of the days ahead of him. He was meeting Georgie on Saturday for a few hours, but apart from that, he would be alone.

Well, there was Butterscotch.

Jon sighed again. This would be a long weekend.

Jon approached the cat tree slowly, broadcasting his intentions. Butterscotch had already noticed him, her ears twitching in his direction every time his cane hit the linoleum floor, but it took a moment for her to turn her working eye on him.

The other eye was gone, scars running over that side of her face where another cat had attacked her. There was some sort of poetic irony in two followers of the Eye adopting a cat who had lost one of her eyes, Jon thought, though he supposed that might have been part of what had drawn Martin to the little furball.

Butterscotch regarded Jon haughtily from the top of what Martin called her throne, which considering what they had paid for the bloody thing, wasn’t all too far from the truth.

“Well,” Jon said as he stopped far enough away from the tree for Butterscotch not to be able to claw him while sitting on it. “I suppose now it’s just us.” He raised the bag of treats he had brought, and shook it.

Butterscotch’s ears perked up, and she looked down at Jon’s hand.

Jon smiled. “Didn’t expect to get treats from me, huh? Well, Martin isn’t here to spoil you, so someone has to.”

Butterscotch kept watching, her one eye darting from the packaging to the little nuggets Jon shook out into his palm.

He spread a few of them out over the cat tree so Butterscotch would have to climb a bit to get them. Then he put a handful into the toy specifically designed to make it challenging to get them out.

Finally, he straightened again, looking up at the queen herself.

“Well?” he said.

Butterscotch’s tail moved slightly, visible beyond the platform she was lying on. Apart from that, she made no move to leave her throne.

“You’re a tough nut to crack, huh.” Jon took out a few more treats, then returned the package to its usual (cat-proof) spot.

Afterwards, he sat down on the sofa, and waited.

And waited.

Butterscotch had put her head back onto her paws, but she was watching him with slow blinks, as though she wasn’t quite sure yet what his angle was.

“You know, it’s good that you like him so much. If you didn’t, Martin would only be blaming himself for it,” Jon rambled. “But it wouldn’t hurt for you to trust me a little more, you know.”

Really, if Butterscotch hadn’t liked Martin, then she would likely still be at the shelter, and her name would still be Tart.

Jon wasn’t even sure why he was talking to Butterscotch in the first place. Maybe he was subconsciously trying to make her get used to his voice.

Or maybe he had simply been lonely since Martin had walked out the door. Oh, good Lord, that would be pathetic.

“Martin says that we're similar, but I don’t really think so.” Jon leaned his chin in his hand, his elbow digging into his good leg. “At least I didn’t immediately see how lovely Martin is, while you realised it seemingly at first glance.” Jon hummed. “Then again, when he first met you, he didn’t immediately start talking about a dog.”

Butterscotch's tail swished a little more erratically, and her little face seemed to scrunch up in distaste. Jon was probably imagining it. There was no way that a cat could have understood his words, right?

“Well, Martin isn’t always right. He keeps comparing me to cats, anyway, when I'm clearly human.” 

Butterscotch just kept blinking at him, looking unimpressed.

Jon pursed his lips. “Or something like it. No need to look so judgemental.”

Jon was arguing with a cat. Great.

Maybe Martin had been right to be worried about him, after all.

Sighing, Jon leaned back on the sofa, his eyes falling closed. After such a long time of being, and living, together, he supposed he had not just gotten used to Martin’s presence. Rather, he seemed to have become reliant on always having someone to talk to, and on the steady, warm presence of another body at his back, big arms circled around him…

Jon shivered, a sudden cold draft making him rub his arms. When he opened his eyes, hugging himself, he checked the window, but it was firmly closed.

Butterscotch didn’t move, but her ears flicked in the direction Jon looked, possibly alert in case Jon had seen anything she hadn’t.

Jon sighed. “Sorry, wrong alarm,” he said, getting up from the sofa.

It wasn’t a cold draft from outside, though it certainly didn’t help that spring was only coming around tentatively, where each warmer day was chased by at least three days of icy rain. It was already April, but Jon wouldn’t have been surprised if they would get sleet again.

Luckily, Jon was prepared to fight the cold, even all alone as he was. It was only a few steps to the bedroom, after all, where they had an entire wardrobe of warm clothes. Martin’s sweaters were always especially nice, big and soft, not unlike his hugs.

Before Jon could open the wardrobe, though, he spotted something on the neatly made bed. There was Jon’s pyjama on his side, of course, but also a purple patch of cloth on Martin’s side.

As he picked it up, Jon realised that it was one of Martin’s sweaters. The one he had bought a few years ago, a suspiciously short amount of time after Jon had told him that boysenberry was his favourite colour.

The sweater wasn’t quite boysenberry, but close enough. Jon ran a hand over the fabric, which was well-worn and soft. Martin had worn the sweater the previous day, and must have forgotten to put it in the hamper.

Jon was alone, he knew that, but he still sneaked a glance around the room before burying his nose in the sweater. It smelled like Martin, and tea, not that the latter wasn’t already inextricably connected to Martin in Jon’s mind.

Come to think of it, Jon could do with a cuppa. His tea was never quite as good as Martin’s, of course, though he could never figure out what he did wrong. Maybe it was just the fact that he had made it himself that caused his brain to interpret it differently.

After pulling the sweater over his head, Jon padded to the kitchen, where he put on the kettle. Butterscotch showed her face for a moment when the water started boiling, but withdrew quickly when she realised that it was not her beloved Martin making that familiar noise.

By the time Jon was carrying his mug into the living room, Butterscotch was munching away on the last treat from her cat tree. Jon still had a few treats in his pocket, but instead of coming to him, Butterscotch moved on to her toy.

Jon settled back on the sofa with his tea, one of their warmest blankets, and the book he was currently reading. Well, trying to read. The premise had sounded interesting enough, but Jon struggled to keep his focus, feeling like he had read something similar before, and appalled by the casual cruelty of some of the characters.

It was probably realistic, Jon thought, though that only made it more depressing.

Jon was scowling at yet another scene of two characters he cared little about making out when he felt a slight dip in the sofa next to him. Turning his head, he spotted Butterscotch, who had jumped up next to him to sniff at his sweater.

She meowed.

“It smells like him, doesn’t it?” Jon reached out to pet her, but Butterscotch ducked away. Sighing, he withdrew his hand, settling it on his leg.

Again, Butterscotch leaned in close, and sniffed at his wrist this time. Or at about where the wrist was buried under the long sleeves of the sweater. Jon had already pulled them up a little so his hands weren’t covered, but the fabric kept slipping back over his palms, leaving only his fingers pointing out of the bulging fabric like-

Jon swallowed, trying to chase away the comparison between his own hand and a spider. It didn’t work, not when the skin on that hand was still streaked with white lines like the fine threads of a spider web-

A loud meow pulled Jon out of his panicked thoughts. He looked at the cat, and something about her calm gaze and the relaxed movements of her tail made him realise that there was no danger here.

He looked down at his hand. It was just a human hand. Burned, sure, but it had — Jon moved his arm so the sweater pulled back from his thumb — five fingers. Not eight spindly legs which could have made it scuttle off into dark corners.

Jon shook his head at himself. The image of his hand moving on its own should have been ridiculous, not scary, he decided. He tried to imagine it like that hand from The Addams Family — Martin had shown him the films and the show from the late ‘90s. Jon vaguely remembered the show having been on air when he had been a teenager, but he hadn’t watched much television at the time, having been far too prone to wandering off.

There was another meow, and then a little nose brushed against Jon’s hand. Butterscotch sniffed him, and apparently decided this time that he was worth her attention, since she proceeded to rub her little head against his fingers.

“Martin has been gone half an hour, and already you’re lonely, huh,” Jon teased, and considered petting her. But he didn’t want to chase her off. “Well, I’m not really one to talk, of course.”

Butterscotch rubbed the side of her body against his hand — and went to sniff at his trouser pocket.

“Ah, so that’s what you want.” With a sigh, Jon pulled a couple of treats out of his pocket. “I should have known.”

He thought about trying to train Butterscotch to do tricks for the treats, but ultimately decided against it. Not only was it not worth the effort when Butterscotch would simply be ignoring him again once Martin was back. Jon was also reluctant to make a creature who was smaller than him and who he had power over jump through metaphorical hoops just for his entertainment.

“You’re a pretty girl, you know that?” he whispered when Butterscotch munched on the treats he held out in his palm. A smile flitted over his face. “Of course you know that. Martin keeps telling you, doesn’t he?”

Butterscotch looked up at him while cracking a treat between her teeth. Tentatively, Jon reached out to pet her. To his surprise and delight, she accepted the attention, only moving to get another treat.

Jon continued to pet her, his fingers carding through the ginger fluff. The colour always reminded Jon of Martin’s hair, only that Butterscotch’s coat was not as curly. It was soft, though, and Jon especially enjoyed scratching her little head.

Butterscotch also seemed to enjoy it, which was a nice change of pace from her usual behaviour towards him.

It wasn’t as though she was ever aggressive towards him, but mostly, her attitude was that towards the annoying boyfriend of a friend: Jon was a necessarily evil she had to endure to be around Martin, and she would be civil to him, but no more.

Well, perhaps now she was learning that he wasn’t as annoying as she had imagined.

Or perhaps she was simply desperate.

“Such a pretty lady,” Jon cooed. “When you’re being affectionate like this, I would almost say that you’re cuter than the Admiral. Don’t tell him or Georgie that I said so, though.”

Butterscotch’s eye was fixed on him now, and Jon had the odd thought that her gaze had focused at the mention of the Admiral. There seemed to be some calculation, or perhaps disdain, in her expression at hearing about another cat.

Which was silly, of course. She couldn’t possibly understand what he was talking about.

Butterscotch meowed, and turned, almost as though making a point. The more likely explanation was that she had finished her treats and was tired of Jon’s attention, though he still couldn’t shake the odd thought that she was miffed about him mentioning another cat.

“Sorry,” he said, illogically. “I’m not like Martin. You’re not the first cat I let into my heart.”

Butterscotch looked back at him where she had been walking towards her cat tree, seeming almost reproachful. Then she continued her trek, and made the few jumps up to her throne.

Jon made a thoughtful noise. “I feel like I was better at being the step dad than I am at being a real cat dad.”

Butterscotch meowed again, sounding to be in agreement.

“Thank you, daughter,” Jon said dryly. “You know, the easiest solution to this would be for you to meet your step brother and learn to love him.”

Butterscotch made a disgruntled sound.

“Alright, yes, that may have been wishful thinking. But I had to try.”

Jon wondered what Martin would say if he heard him talking to the cat. Martin did it often enough himself, but Jon always teased him for it, so he expected Martin to do so in return.

Jon let his head fall onto the back of the sofa, then angled it so he was looking at Butterscotch. “We’re one odd little family, aren’t we?”

Butterscotch meowed, and started licking her front paws.

Jon hummed. “Martin already taught you to wash your hands after eating. He’s a good father.”

Another meow. Jon picked up his phone from the coffee table.

Our little girl is being very vocal with me today. His thumb hovered over the send icon for a moment before he finally pressed it.

It took almost no time at all for Martin to react with a heart emoji. He sent back: 

I’m on the train

Already missing you two tbh

Jon smiled. “Daddy says he misses us,” he said absent-mindedly.

Butterscotch made a sound almost like a coo.

We miss you too, he wrote back. Don’t fall into the sea.

Martin reacted with a salute emoji.

Will do my best, he sent. Then he added: Tim is being annoying

Jon grinned. Martin had probably sent that less for complaining and more for annoying Tim back, who must be trying to see his text conversation.

Tell him that historically, annoying your boss’ fiance has not been seen as a smart move.

Martin typed, then stopped. Started typing again. Finally, he sent: He says you text like a boomer

Jon sniffed indignantly. Tell him he texts like a fourth grader.

A soft sound made him look up from his phone, and he spotted Butterscotch coming back towards him, having jumped down from her cat tree again. With a meow like she was announcing her intentions, she jumped up on the sofa, and pushed her little face close to the phone screen.

“Do you know that daddy is on the other side?” Jon teased, running a hand through her fur

Butterscotch meowed again, and touched the phone — fortunately gently, without claws.

Taking advantage of the situation, Jon opened the camera app, and switched to selfie mode.

The result wasn’t particularly good, but then Jon’s selfies never were. At least part of Jon’s face was visible behind Butterscotch, and the cat looked almost regal.

Did I mention that we miss you? Jon captioned the photo when sending it to Martin.

There was an almost immediate heart-eyes emoji reaction, and then Martin started typing.

Aw, two cuties <3, he finally sent.

Jon sighed. Martin had a rather warped sense of aesthetic. Surely, no one else could have considered Jon ‘cute’.

“Your daddy is such a weirdo”, he told Butterscotch, scratching behind her ears. “We’re lucky to have him.”

Butterscotch meowed in apparent agreement.

Jon smiled. Perhaps the cat and him could manage to bond, after all.

If only over both of them loving Martin.

[quicksilver-castiel]

To anyone waiting, I have not forgotten my jonmartin longfic, there will be a chapter today. But I spent about ten hours travelling and now need food and for someone to walk across my back, so it might take a bit longer for me to post.

[quicksilver-castiel]

The answer is staring you between your eyes

Fandom: The Magnus Archives

Pairing: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims

Archive warnings: None

Rating: Teen and up

Summary:

There's nothing wrong with Jon. Well, nothing except being the favourite chew toy of one of the Eldritch horrors plaguing his world, of course. But apart from that, he's a normal man. Nothing unusual going on in his brain at all. Unfortunately, the therapist doing his autism assessment begs to differ.

Author's note:

Written for day 8 of @jonmartinweek with the prompts Scottish Safehouse // Disability & Diagnosis.

Jon is having a time™ with the results of his autism assessment. Fortunately, Martin is there to be normal about it.

Read on AO3 or below the cut

“Do you ever find it difficult to look people in the eyes?” the doctor asked.

Jon’s frown deepened. “Not really,” he said, waving his hand dismissively. This was properly silly, and a waste of his time. “I just sort of… look between people’s eyes.”

The doctor’s hand came to a stop, the scratch of the ballpen on paper fading. “Come again?” he asked.

Jon gestured between his own eyes, over his nose. “Here. I just sort of look there.” Surely, that was what all people did, wasn’t it? After all, it was quite a bother to decide which of your counterpart’s eyes to focus on. And even if one did decide, it was still entirely too draining to try and interpret every minute twitch of someone’s eye movements and facial muscles all the time.

“I see,” the doctor said, and wrote down something else.

What was he writing, exactly? Jon grew annoyed at himself for wanting to know, and pushed away the Eye which had started to metaphorically peer over his shoulder.

“And would you say you’re at all picky about your food?” the doctor continued.

“No, I wouldn’t think so.” Jon paused. “Well, there are some things I dislike, but it’s not as though I make a big deal of it. It is rather infuriating when restaurants put herbs on top of a perfectly good meal, of course. You know, when everything is cooked together, the flavours blending splendidly, and then at the last second, another flavour is added — and only in a certain place, to boot, only on top, so the first few bites taste only of those wretched herbs, and then you’re finally rid of them?”

Jon huffed, adjusting his seat in the armchair. “Apart from that, I have some likes and dislikes, like everyone else. I used to be picky, of course, as a child, but my grandmother made sure to drive that out of me. I still can’t stand some things — mushrooms have a horrible consistency, and I wish that people wouldn’t make mushy peas or mashed potatoes if they’re going to leave chunks in there. Raw tomatoes are an abomination, of course.

“But, as I said, it’s not as though I don’t eat them. I try to avoid them, but if there are no other options, I will eat them.”

The doctor scribbled some more notes on his clipboard. Probably writing down that Jon had grown up to become a normal eater, no more picky than anyone else.

“I see, I see. Do you ever have problems reading people’s facial expressions?” the doctor asked, his eyes flicking up to Jon’s face before quickly going back to his notes.

“Occasionally,” Jon admitted. “Generally, I feel that I’m able to judge people’s intents quite well, though I must admit, sometimes I can’t be bothered to.”

This time, the doctor looked up at him longer. “Can’t be bothered to?” he repeated.

“Yes. Admittedly, it is a vice —  laziness, I suppose. But sometimes I prefer to channel my energy into other things than the constant interpretation of muscle movements. I have been told, though, that my own face is rather hard to read. Of course I’m the wrong person to judge on this, as I don’t spend excessive time looking in the mirror. Some people have accused me of ‘resting bitch face’, though I’m half certain that it was a joke.”

The doctor made a thoughtful noise. “Yes, well. Mr. Sims… Do you ever find yourself becoming absorbed by specific things…?”

Jon pursed his lips. “Now, that is a rather unclear question, isn’t it? Define ‘absorbed’ and ‘specific’.”

The doctor did not sigh. Judging from the blank look on his face, though, Jon had the distinct feeling that he wanted to.

Martin heard the door open, then fall closed a moment later. It was unusual that Jon didn’t close it slowly, careful not to make too loud a noise, and so Martin peeked his head into the hallway to check on him.

“Everything all right?” he asked, then frowned when Jon just continued to stare down at his shoes.

That was even more unusual. Taking off his shoes was the first thing Jon always did when he came home — he hated how they constricted his feet. “Jon?”

Startling, Jon blinked up at him, then frowned and glanced back down at his shoes. Finally, he moved to take them off.

“Sorry, what did you say?” he asked.

“I asked if you were alright.”

“Ah, yes. Well. I-” Jon mouth worked, but no further sound came out. Eventually, he snapped it shut, looking quite mutinous. He got like that sometimes — frustrated that he was unable to properly convey what he wanted to say, or to say anything at all.

Martin usually just let him work it out in silence, waiting for him to come back with a properly laid out sentence. But this time he was worried, and so he poked and prodded a little.

“What did the doctor say?”

Jon hadn’t told him what the psychologist would be screening for, though from the way Jon had grumbled about it, Martin had picked up that it must be some kind of disability. Martin wasn’t exactly sure what to expect. Jon was a bit odd in some respects, sure, but no more so than other people. No more so than Martin himself.

And Jon couldn’t exactly have an intellectual disability. He was the smartest man Martin knew. A bit naive, sometimes, but with a sharp mind and an unerring focus.

So what was there to screen him for?

It was becoming clear from the tense set of Jon’s shoulder that Martin wasn’t going to get any answers in the hallway. So Martin ushered Jon into the living room, planting him on the sofa, while Martin went to make some tea.

It was only after half his mug that Jon spoke again.

“The doctor said that I’m-” He broke off, then tried again. “That I was-”

Again, Jon’s mouth worked around words that simply weren’t coming. He looked frustrated, and his eyes slowly grew red-rimmed as he huffed at himself.

Martin reached out with his hand, but Jon flinched away, drawing his legs up on the sofa as he curled in on himself.

“He said- he said that I was autistic,” Jon finally whispered.

“Wait,” Martin said. “Are you serious?”

Jon curled in on himself further. Fuck, that had been the wrong thing to say.

“Sorry, sorry, I was just surprised. Um… come here?” Martin held his arms open.

Jon only glanced at them warily before pressing his chin against his knees again.

“Sorry,” Martin said again.

“I’m not-” Jon’s jaw was so tense that all Martin wanted to do was reach out and rub his hand over it. But that would only have driven Jon further up the wall, he knew. “It’s ridiculous. Utter nonsense. I’m not autistic. Just because I can be a bit-bit clueless sometimes in social situations- I mean, I don’t exactly make an effort in those moments, do I? It’s not- it’s just laziness.”

“Did-” Martin cut himself off, biting his lip. But Jon was looking at him. “Is that what your grandmother always said?”

The deep annoyance on Jon’s face morphed into surprise for a moment, before settling back over his features. “I don’t- I mean, I suppose? She was right, though, wasn’t she? I could just never be bothered to make friends. It just always seemed like so much effort, and I don’t…” He trailed off, something like hurt passing over his face.

“Okay.” Martin took a deep breath to collect his thoughts. “You don’t like the diagnosis. That’s fair. But also, how much do you actually know about autism? Because pretty much everything I know is from Rain Man, and somehow I doubt that a Hollywood movie can teach us all we need to know about… any topic, really, but especially something like that.”

“So, what are you suggesting?” Jon said dryly. But the tension in his shoulders eased a bit as he looked up at Martin. “That we do research?”

Martin grinned. “I’ll set up a case file.”

Even though it had been Martin who had suggested it, and Jon had been extremely dubious about it at first, in the end it was still him who dug into the research the hardest.

When Martin went to bed at midnight, Jon was still at it, and when he trotted back into the living room at seven a.m., brushing sleep from his eyes, Jon was once again — or maybe still — staring at his laptop screen.

“Jon,” Martin said, holding back a yawn. “Please tell me you got some sleep.”

Jon frowned, his eyes still on the screen, likely finishing a sentence. Then he looked up, blinking. Turned his head towards the window, through which light was pouring.

Martin turned off the overhead light.

“Oh,” Jon said sheepishly. “What time is it?”

“Time for breakfast.” This time, Martin let the yawn out. “Did you find anything more worthwhile?”

Jon nodded, his eyes lighting up in that way they always did when they had found key information on a statement.

With a movement of his head, Martin indicated that he wanted to go to the kitchen, and Jon collected the laptop and his ebook reader and followed him. As they walked the few steps through the hallway, Jon started talking.

“There’s quite a lot of lived experience out there once you get past the more… second-hand accounts.” Jon’s displeasure at all the #AutismMom accounts and the countless guides aimed at parents drowning out any first-hand accounts had already been apparent the day before, but if anything, the disdain seemed to have only deepened. “What I can gather is that while things are better than they were forty years ago, they’re still rather dire. And I’m not surprised, if even people like us, who are generally aware of the state of rights of minority groups, haven’t really been in contact with this topic-”

Jon kept talking as Martin cooked their eggs and sausages, telling him all about false prejudices, the spectrum of autistic experience, and the challenges faced by autistic people with regard to employment, social lives, and autonomy.

It did sound dire indeed. So when Martin was half-way through his breakfast and Jon took a second to breathe and then another to shovel eggs into his mouth, Martin said: “Just because you were diagnosed doesn’t mean things will suddenly get worse for you, you know. It’s not like you have to even tell anyone.”

Jon blinked up at him, then, startled and with the fork still in his mouth. “Ah,” he said once he had chewed. “Yes, I… yes.” He looked away.

“... Jon, did you forget that this was about you?”

“No,” Jon said immediately, bristling. He squirmed in his chair. “It just… wasn’t at the forefront of my mind, I suppose.”

Martin sighed. “I think we need to tell your doctor to adjust the score on the ‘do you ever get absorbed by anything’ question. Maybe put it up a few notches, yeah?” he said teasingly.

Jon grumbled something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like it started with ‘bugger’ and ended with ‘off’.

“I mean, did you even tell him that you pull all-nighters all the time, because you simply forget that time exists?” Martin kept teasing.

Jon crossed his arms in front of his chest. “It didn’t come up.”

Smiling, Martin hooked a foot around Jon’s ankle under the table. “I love you, you know that?”

Jon hid his smile behind his tea mug. “You may have mentioned it before.” Then his smile wobbled. “Don’t you… I mean, isn’t it weird for you? If I am autistic?”

Martin shrugged. “Not really? I already knew about your quirks. This is just putting them into  context, I guess.”

Jon seemed to think about it. “I suppose,” he then said, not looking entirely convinced.

“Hey, I’ve been in love with you since you first shouted at me. You’re not getting rid of me that easily,” Martin said, mostly so Jon would laugh.

He did — it was a small, but beautiful laugh, making Jon’s face light up. “You’re such a weirdo.”

“Maybe.” Martin reached out for Jon’s hand, and hooked their little fingers together. “But I’m your weirdo.”

Jon’s expression softened, and he leaned over to press a kiss to the corner of Martin’s mouth. “That, you are,” he murmured fondly, fingers tracing the freckles on Martin’s cheek. “I love you too.”

Maybe they could just be weird together. If Jon was lucky, maybe even for a long, long time.

[quicksilver-castiel]

Sometimes it's hard

Fandom: The Magnus Archives

Pairing: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims

Archive warnings: None

Rating: Teen and up

Summary:

It's a hot summer day, which is generally a good argument against wearing clothes in the house, in Jon's opinion. He doesn't ask his boyfriend if he can lounge naked in his bed, of course. Surely, there would be no reason for Martin to protest. So he thinks. An embarrassed discussion ensues.

Author's notes:

This was written for Day 7 of @jonmartinweek with the prompt Ace Day.

Read on AO3 or below the cut.

“Um, Jon?” Martin asked from the doorway.

“Hm?” Jon made, turning the page in his book. It was just getting good. If Martin could only wait a moment, or perhaps a few minutes…

“Jon, can you… could you put on some clothes? Er, any clothes, really. Um. Pants, maybe?”

Jon’s eyes flicked up over the rim of the book, a frown forming on his face. “Martin, it’s- what are you doing?”

Martin had his hands in front of his face, covering his eyes. Jon had half a mind to crack a joke about a disciple of the Eye refusing to look, but swallowed it down.

“I-I just need to get a different t-shirt, but… it would really help if I could open my eyes,” Martin said, groping around for the wall which would lead him to the wardrobe.

“Who said you couldn’t?” Jon watched him with some amusement, at least until Martin hit his foot on the wardrobe, wincing in pain. “Martin, just open your eyes. What exactly is the problem?”

“Jon,” Martin said in exasperation. “You’re naked.”

Jon looked down at himself. “Well spotted. I still don’t see what the problem is. It’s too bloody hot for any clothes.”

Martin had opened the wardrobe now, and was finally daring to drop his hands to look into it, with his back to Jon. “You’re the one who told me to put on trousers when I lived in the Archives! I would think you’d get what the problem is.”

“Of course, but I was your superior back then.”

“Jon, you’re still my superior,” Martin grumbled as he fished a Zelda shirt out of the depths of the wardrobe.

“Yes, and also your boyfriend. I would think that changes things somewhat.” Jon focused back on the book. Or at least tried to.

“You can’t just go lounging around naked. You’re going to kill me. Especially when you’re lying in my bed,” Martin complained, clutching the t-shirt to his chest. He still had his back to Jon, but Jon could see that his ears were bright red.

“Would you prefer I lounge on the sofa, then?” Jon asked dryly. “Seriously though, what is the big deal? It’s not like you’ve never seen a man naked.”

“No, but usually when I have, it was because I was having sex with the guy!”

Jon stopped, holding his finger where he had been about to flip to the next page. “Ah. Is this about that, then? Sexual urges?”

Martin made a mortified sound.

“I could call it attraction, if you’d rather,” Jon conceded.

“Jon, I- look, I’m sorry, I know you don’t think about people that way, but yes, I’m very much attracted to you, so seeing you naked is very… distracting.”

“Yes, I’m sure I make quite the enticing figure,” Jon said dryly. He looked down at himself again, at the various scars where worms had buried into him, his discoloured hand, and the way his bones stuck out from under his skin. “Like a pin-up model.”

“God. Okay. I’m going to need more than one cold shower,” Martin said, and finally turned around, though he still shielded his eyes from Jon again.

“... I was joking, Martin.”

“Well, I’m not. You have no idea what you’re doing to me.”

That might have been true. Now that Jon was looking at him more closely, he could see a rather prominent tent in Martin’s trousers.

“Hm. Interesting,” he said.

“Oh God, I’m going to die,” Martin lamented as he crossed the room. “Just… stop talking. Unless you want to… never mind.”

Jon raised an eyebrow at him as he watched Martin slowly make his way towards the bathroom, almost stumbling a few times. “What does talking have to do with it?”

“Your voice is very sexy, aaaaaand I’m going to stop talking now before I make a complete arse of myself. Goodbye.” Martin had found the bathroom door and slammed it shut behind himself.

Jon shrugged, and tried to focus back on his book. A few seconds later, he could hear the shower running, though, and it made him wonder if it was really that bad for Martin. Did he really need a cold shower after just seeing his body?

Of course, Jon knew theoretically that Martin was attracted to him. He had made that much clear when they had first talked about sex, though he had preceded it by saying that he wasn’t expecting anything from Jon.

Perhaps they needed to talk about it again, though. Jon was aware, intellectually, that people could react quite strongly when they saw someone they considered hot, though he had always suspected that people exaggerated what it was like. What if they didn’t, though? What if Jon was basically dangling a juicy steak in front of a starving man’s nose?

Not that not having sex would kill Martin, of course, but perhaps it was more difficult for him than he had so far admitted.

Sighing, Jon marked his page in the book, then got up. There were more than enough of his boxers in Martin’s drawers for him to choose from, and he really should have taken one of them, but his eyes kept being drawn back to Martin’s t-shirts.

They would be warmer, Jon told himself, uncomfortable in this heat. That had been the reason he hadn’t been wearing anything in the first place.

Still, Jon couldn’t help but dig out Martin’s biggest shirt. It had no sleeves, but was long enough to reach past the middle of Jon’s upper thighs, making Jon feel almost like he was wearing a dress.

It was also black, which was the entirely wrong colour to wear on such a hot day, but then it wasn’t as though he was going to leave the flat in it.

With it on, Jon returned to his spot on the bed, and picked his book back up.

Now Martin wouldn’t be able to complain anymore.

It was true that Martin didn’t complain. Instead, when he came out of the bathroom, he made a high-pitched noise, followed by something that sounded startlingly close to him being strangled.

“Jon,” he squeaked, his hands once again flying up to cover his eyes.

“What? You told me to put clothes on, and I did.”

“I was thinking of underwear! Are you…” Martin gulped.

“... I’m not wearing underwear.”

Martin made another strangled noise. “You’re going to kill me!”

Not wearing anything could kill him, wearing something could kill him… “I’m starting to think you’re just ridiculously easy to kill.”

“That’s my shirt!”

“Yes, well, you’re not using it at the moment, are you?” Jon scoffed. “You don’t usually complain when I’m wearing your clothes.”

“Well, usually you have underwear on!” Martin sputtered.

Jon raised an eyebrow. “How would you know?”

It wasn’t as though they ever really undressed around each other. Sure, they took off each other’s shirt sometimes, when they wanted to feel closer while cuddling. But since Jon didn’t like sex, they rarely had reason to take their trousers off.

“Oh my God,” Martin yelled, throwing his arms over his face. “You can’t do this to me!”

Jon did, in fact, usually wear underpants, and had only been meaning to tease Martin. Not that he was going to tell him that.

“Martin… do we need ground rules about how many clothes I wear around you?” Jon asked, now serious.

Martin was holding back from doing something he liked for Jon. If Jon could make it easier for him by keeping his underwear on, it wouldn’t be the end of the world, he supposed.

For a long moment, Martin didn’t answer, his face obscured by his arms. But then he said: “Yeah, that would probably be better for my sanity.”

Jon held back a sigh. Alright. It would be annoying to remember, but he could do it.

He still didn’t understand how anyone could be excited by seeing his body, but then he also couldn’t understand why people salivated at the sight of famous actors who looked like they exercised solely for bulk instead of strength. Not to mention that they looked dehydrated.

Jon would probably never understand what it was like to be attracted to someone. And that was okay — he just sometimes needed to remind himself that other people experienced the world differently than him.

“Would you prefer I take off the shirt and put on underpants instead?” Jon asked to clarify.

Finally, Martin pulled back his arms, revealing his reddened cheeks. He looked utterly adorable like this.

“W-why did you even put it on in the first place?” Martin asked, his blush deepening.

Jon thought about it. He always gravitated towards Martin’s t-shirts over his own. They were nice and wide, less constricting than his own, though he hardly thought that was the entirety of the appeal.

“I suppose it just reminds me of you,” Jon said.

Martin inhaled sharply, then let the air out slowly. “Oh,” he said breathily.

“Sorry, it’s silly. You’re right here, after all.”

“No, it’s-” Martin seemed to have difficulty getting the words out. “It’s fine. Good. Um, yeah, it’s good.”

Jon felt a smile tug at his lips. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Martin walked over to where Jon was still sitting on the bed, getting in on his own side. “Care to tell me what you’re reading?”

“It’s the Odyssey. Odysseus just came back home after a ten years long… well, odyssey,” Jon explained, holding the book open so that Martin could see.

“Oh. Poor guy. But, uh, good that he’s back, I guess.”

“I already know that his wife will recognise him, and that she has remained loyal to him all those years,” Jon said, worrying one of the pages between his fingers. “Though I’ve never actually read The Odyssey before.”

Martin elbowed him lightly. “Don’t tell me you just looked up the plot on Wikipedia.”

Jon kept down a smile. “Well. Something like that.”

Martin mock-gasped. “Jonathan Sims! Don’t tell me you skipped an assigned book!”

Jon rolled his eyes. “It was never an assignment. I just looked it up because Georgie was reading it at the time. But when I saw that it was, well…”

“What?” Martin asked.

“Poetry,” Jon said with the most disdain he could muster.

Martin chuckled. “Oh, yeah, that would have been too much for poor little college Jon.”

Again, Jon rolled his eyes, but he didn’t manage to keep down the smile this time. “Shut up.”

“Why are you reading it now, if it’s such a terrible genre?”

“I suppose I have built up an immunity against poetry,” Jon said haughtily. “Possibly through heightened exposure.”

Martin snorted. “Are you saying that dating a poet made you want to read poetry?”

Jon leaned against him, resting his head on Martin’s shoulder. “Maybe. You would probably love this.”

“It would probably go over my head, but sure. Maybe I’ll give it a try once you’re done.”

Jon pressed a kiss against Martin’s jaw. Being pressed against Martin made him sweat even worse in the heat, but for now, he didn’t care. He could smell Martin’s shampoo, the slight strawberry scent mixing with his natural scent as he started sweating as well in the sweltering heat.

It was nice. While Jon couldn’t understand why some people were turned on by scents, he could appreciate that Martin smelled nice. He had no words to describe the scent except Martin.

And maybe home.

Yes, that was a good word.

Home.

[quicksilver-castiel]

You spin me right round

Fandom: The Magnus Archives

Pairing: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims

Archive warnings: None

Rating: Teen and up

Summary:

What do you do when you have a bad day - over and over again? Martin's answer to this is mostly 'Try to get through it', apparently. Though maybe someone at the Archives can motivate him to seek out help.

Author's notes:

This was written for Day 3 of @jonmartinweek with the prompts Timeloops // Reccordings & Found Footage.

Somehow, it ended up being almost 13k. Frankly, I think this story wanted to trap me as much as it did Martin.

Read on AO3 - at this length, that seems like the more convenient compared to posting it here.

[quicksilver-castiel]

Goodnight tea

Fandom: The Magnus Archives

Pairing: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims

Archive warnings: None

Rating: Teen and up

Summary:

“Yeah, everyone else left. But, um… I figured you’d still be here.” Martin shifted a bit, his outlines moving against the light spilling in from the corridor. “Um. You know you’re going to ruin your eyes if you read in this bad lighting, right?” Jon couldn’t help it — he laughed. “I’m going to be honest, that isn’t my most pressing concern today.” Tomorrow, he would go and confront the disciples of the Stranger to try and stop the Unknowing. Who knew if he would ever even need his eyes again?

Author's Notes:

Today I bring you some slight Pre-Unknowing angst for day 2 of @jonmartinweek with the prompts I Trust You // Role Swap. The guys aren't very good at communicating. But they're trying.

Read on AO3 or under the cut

“Jon?”

Jon looked up from his notes, blinking in the dim light of his desk lamp, trying to make out anything at the door. Not that he needed to see him to recognise his voice, but he felt better when he managed to make out his silhouette.

“Martin? I thought you’d gone home.”

“Yeah, everyone else left. But, um… I figured you’d still be here.” Martin shifted a bit, his outlines moving against the light spilling in from the corridor. “Um. You know you’re going to ruin your eyes if you read in this bad lighting, right?”

Jon couldn’t help it — he laughed. “I’m going to be honest, that isn’t my most pressing concern today.”

Tomorrow, he would go and confront the disciples of the Stranger to try and stop the Unknowing. Who knew if he would ever even need his eyes again?

“I suppose not,” Martin said on a sigh. “Um, I just came by to check on you, and… and ask if you wanted any tea?”

Jon opened his mouth to decline, then hesitated. Why did he always shoot down Martin’s offers when he asked? Something about feeling like he didn’t need anyone to serve him tea, like he didn’t need any comforts.

Would it be a comfort, then?

“Actually… that would be nice,” Jon heard himself say. “Just maybe nothing with caffeine.”

“Oh.” Martin seemed startled. Was this perhaps the first time Jon had said yes to his tea? Possibly. “Sure. Um, would you like… some chamomile, or…”

“No,” Jon said quickly, feeling his lips curl into a snarl. “Anything but that.”

Martin blinked at him. Then he suddenly laughed.

The sound startled Jon as it echoed from the walls, loud and boisterous. Jon didn’t think he had ever heard Martin laugh like that. He had only ever heard him chuckle nervously, but never with actual humour, or, God forbid, delight.

“You really hate it, huh?” Martin asked with a smile.

“Yes. My grandmother always made it when I was sick. And only then.” Jon didn’t know why he was telling Martin this. It wasn’t relevant to anything. It couldn’t change or delay what was going to happen tomorrow. “I suppose it made me connect the smell and the taste with such wonderful activities as hurling my guts out.”

Martin snorted out another laugh. “Noted. No chamomile for you.”

None of them could be sure if Martin would even need to remember that bit of information. Maybe, in a few years, he wouldn’t remember a thing about Jon except that he had died tragically in a wax museum.

What a sad ending. Jon didn’t want to go out like that.

He didn’t want to die at all, if he could help it. Not for a long time, at least.

“Well, I’ll be right back, alright? Sit tight,” Martin said, turning towards the hallway.

Jon watched him walk away with a small, sad smile on his face. Maybe Martin wouldn’t remember anything about him. Even if Jon wasn’t replaced by some kind of Not-Jon… it wasn’t as though they had spent much time with each other.

Sure, they had tried in the last few weeks. They had gotten lunch together, and even gone out to a pub once, though it had been a somewhat somber reenactment of the few times Tim used to drag them all out for an ‘archives crew night’.

Maybe those few occasions wouldn’t be enough for Jon to sear himself into Martin’s brain. Maybe, when he was gone, there would be no one left to really remember him. Except Georgie, perhaps. Though she might be secretly glad to be rid of him.

Jon sighed. He supposed he would just have to believe that he would leave something — anything — behind.

“Here you go.” Martin sat down the tea mug on Jon’s desk, careful not to place it too close to any papers. That was difficult, of course — Jon’s desk was littered with case files.

“Thank you, Martin,” Jon said quietly, and picked up the mug. The smell of peppermint wafted up to him, making his shoulders sag with relief.

Martin didn’t answer, and Jon noticed that he had closed his eyes, and blinked them back open. Martin was looking down into his mug, just standing there, in front of Jon’s desk.

“Jon,” he finally said, still staring down into the tea, “I’m scared.”

Jon had to take a deep breath. “So am I,” he whispered. They couldn’t talk openly about Martin’s plan, not here, not where Elias might hear. Still, Jon felt like he needed to say something, anything, to make it better. “But… you’ll be okay, Martin. It will work. I… I trust you.”

The words hung in the air between them, so heavy that they weighed unbearably on Jon’s heart for a moment.

Then Martin’s lip wobbled, and he nodded. “I trust you too. B-but you have a tendency to get yourself hurt, and- well, you can be kind of reckless? And you don’t even have a weapon, except for the compulsion, which we don’t even know will work on those things, a-and-”

Oh. Oh.

Martin wasn’t scared for his own life. At least not solely.

He was worried about Jon.

“Just… promise me you’ll come back,” Martin said, unshed tears in his eyes as they locked with Jon’s. “Please?”

Jon let out a breath he hadn’t known he was holding. “I- I’ll try. I’m… sorry, Martin, that’s the best I can do.”

Martin nodded. “Okay,” he said. “Okay. I should… probably go home soon.”

“Yes, you should rest. Big day tomorrow,” Jon said, aiming for cheerful, though at the sight of Martin’s expression, he dropped the pretence.

“Goodnight, Jon,” Martin said as he turned to leave again.

“Goodnight, Martin,” Jon said quietly.

As the door closed behind Martin, Jon wrapped his hands more tightly around his tea mug.

The scent didn’t bring him nearly as much comfort as it had a few minutes ago.

Maybe it had never been the tea.

[quicksilver-castiel]

In a cat's Eye

Fandom: The Magnus Archives

Pairing: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims

Archive warnings: None

Rating: General Audiences

Summary:

They walked through a set of doors, and then another, and then Martin’s steps faltered as he was suddenly surrounded on all sides by cats. They were in cages, though not the small, cramped ones stacked atop each other that Martin had expected, but tall ones, with toys and places for the cats to jump and play. Sometimes, there were three or four cats in one cage, sometimes less, but it was still a room full of cats. Martin didn’t know how to feel about that. Jon, of course, had no such problems. His eyes lit up, and he looked around curiously, craning his neck as Isabel told him all about the different cats’ breeds and personalities.

Author's Notes:

This was written for @jonmartinweek Day 1: Cats and Pets // Feelings Realised. It's canon-divergent, could (currently) be read as a tie-in to my long fic And each doth good turns now unto the other, but you don't need to read that to understand this one.

Read on AO3 or under the cut

“Just a moment, please,” the employee called when Jon and Martin came in, throwing them a quick glance before focusing back on the people standing with her. One of them, who looked to be the father of the family of four, was handling a cat carrier, from which curious eyes were peeking out into the room.

Jon’s eyes fixed on the carrier. Martin could see him lift himself slightly onto the balls of his feet when the man moved, obscuring the view, before Jon caught himself and stood straight again, glancing around as if to see if anyone had noticed.

When Jon’s eyes met Martin’s, Martin smiled, but Jon still ducked his head and blushed slightly.

“Sorry for the wait.” The employee stepped over to them, smiling. “I’m Isabel. How can I help you?”

“Jonathan Sims,” Jon said, gripping the handle of his cane tightly while he extended the other hand towards Isabel. “We spoke on the phone, I believe.”

Isabel’s face lit up. Martin hoped it was because of the reason they were here, and not because she liked what she saw.

In any case, she shook Jon’s hand. “Ah, yes, Mr. Sims. You’re here to adopt a cat, correct?”

“Please, just Jon. And yes, that’s why we’re here.” Jon glanced at Martin, who gave him another smile, and shook Isabel’s hand in turn.

She didn’t seem deterred by the fact that Jon had brought someone else, so with a bit of luck she hadn’t gotten her hopes up.

“Have you thought at all about what you’re looking for? Kitten, adult, or senior cat?”

“An adult one. This will only be my second cat, and Martin has never had one, so…” Jon shrugged. “I suppose we’re not yet ready for a kitten or the more, ah, difficult cases.”

For some reason, Isabel’s face softened. “I see. Well then, follow me and let’s meet some of our little darlings.”

As they walked down a hallway, Jon and Isabel kept talking. Jon mentioned wanting to get an affectionate cat that liked being petted, glancing back at Martin as he did so. Martin rolled his eyes. Yes, he wanted a pet he could — you know — pet. Sue him.

Jon just smiled, and turned back towards Isabel, who was talking about different breeds and how some of their rescued cats were plenty affectionate.

They walked through a set of doors, and then another, and then Martin’s steps faltered as he was suddenly surrounded on all sides by cats.

They were in cages, though not the small, cramped ones stacked atop each other that Martin had expected, but tall ones, with toys and places for the cats to jump and play. Sometimes, there were three or four cats in one cage, sometimes less, but it was still a room full of cats.

Martin didn’t know how to feel about that.

Jon, of course, had no such problems. His eyes lit up, and he looked around curiously, craning his neck as Isabel told him all about the different cats’ breeds and personalities.

Martin took a deep breath. Then he hastened to catch up with them.

He was still wondering if coming here had been the right decision — not that he had anything against adopting a cat. In fact, he was quite looking forward to having a little furball at home, as long as it was friendly and didn’t try to scratch his eyes out.

But being here, surrounded by all these cats that stared at him with their yellow, slitted eyes, made Martin shiver.

That was, until Jon turned back to him, his face glowing with an otherworldly light that had nothing to do with the patron they both served.

“Martin, look,” Jon said, gesturing to one of the cats. Martin had no idea of the different breeds, since he hadn’t really been listening to Isabel, but it was a brown and white one, with fluffy fur. “His name is Scones.”

“Oh, that’s cute.” Martin leaned a little closer to the cage. The cat’s ears flicked, and it turned to look at them with lazy blinks.

“I was just telling Jon, Scones is our resident sweetheart. He’s three years old, and already very relaxed for his age. Quite cuddly, too. Due to his long fur, he needs to be brushed regularly though, so it’s a bit more work than with a short-hair,” Isabel explained.

Martin thought of how often he brushed and braided Jon’s hair, and only barely kept back from running his hands through the grey strands that were spilling freely over Jon’s shoulders today.

It was usually an issue of convenience for Jon to put his hair in a ponytail or a braid, though that day, he hadn’t been able to stand the tugging on his skull that either caused. This meant that he was always busy brushing back the hair that slipped out from behind his ears in an attempt to veil his face.

Not that Martin minded — he loved being able to run his hands through Jon’s hair. Though he had promised not to do so in public.

They moved on, looking at the other cats, listening to Isabel talk about their quirks and grooming needs. There were some that Martin could imagine taking home, which both put him at ease and made him anxious.

It was good that they would be able to find a fitting cat here. But how in the world were they going to choose?

There was one, an orange tabby — Isabel mentioned that ‘tabby’ wasn’t a breed, and specified it, but Martin forgot it again almost immediately — that Jon stared at for a bit longer than the others. Its name was apparently ‘Tart’, which made Martin wonder which of the different meanings the staff had chosen that for.

“She gives most people the cold shoulder, but if she likes you, she really likes you,” Isabel explained. “So far, the only one who has made his way into her heart is Mark, one of our staff. She keeps trying to sit in his lap when he’s here.”

That was adorable. Of course, there wasn’t much of a chance of Tart liking Martin, of all people. Jon, maybe, since he was a cat person and all that. But not him.

Martin sighed. It was a nice thing to daydream about, anyway.

“She’s also blind in one eye, so her depth perception is a bit off. Sometimes she gets startled when you come into her field of vision, or she runs into things.” Isabel smiled, and gestured towards another door. “Would you like to meet them a little more personally now?”

Jon was in heaven.

The room Isabel had ushered them into looked not unlike a playroom for children, though with more cat-appropriate toys. There were little doors in the wall for the cats to walk back into their cages if they had enough or needed some quiet, which was a set-up Jon would have liked for pretty much all rooms in his life.

But of course the best thing was that most of the cats stayed. Some were just lazing about, or playing by themselves, though others came towards Jon curiously, and got excited when he picked up a feather on a string.

Martin was sitting a little apart from him, tentatively reaching out to any cat that came close to him. Most of them ducked away from his hand, which he respected — Jon had long since taught him that you needed to give cats time. They would turn away from you the first few times, and once they learned that you could be trusted not to touch them when they didn’t want you to, they would seek you out in earnest.

Some cats were more immediately affectionate, though. One kept rubbing its head against Martin’s knee, demanding scratches, and another sniffed cautiously in the direction of his lap, but was startled when a third cat came looking at the new addition to the playroom.

Jon could understand the curiosity. If his experience translated at all to cats, then Martin’s lap was bound to be the most comfortable spot in the whole building.

For a moment, Jon’s hand stilled as he wondered if he was making a mistake. Would an affectionate cat take his favourite place from him?

But surely, he told himself as he continued moving the stick with the feather on a string, it was silly to be jealous of a cat. Especially if it was to be their cat, an addition to their household and possibly the closest thing they would ever have to a child.

Jon stopped his hand again when Scones caught the string and started gnawing on it instead of the feather. Jon smiled, and let his eyes wander, considering which cat would fit their criteria the most.

Then his eyes caught on Tart, who was sitting a little ways off, close to the door to its cage. She was surveying the room, not seeming to pay anything or anyone special attention, though Jon could tell from her body language that she was alert, if not tense.

Jon kept watching, and caught Tart’s eyes lingering on Martin while she blinked slowly. She turned away after a moment, but before long, she was sniffing in Martin’s direction, her butt leaving the floor for a second as she seemed to struggle with herself on whether she wanted to move or not.

It was only when Tart noticed Jon looking, and locked her one eye with his, that he turned away. Staring at something was a cat’s behaviour towards prey, and Jon didn’t want Tart to think that he was being in any way aggressive towards her.

He could have slow-blinked at her, of course, but it was better for him to focus back on the cats near him, anyway. One of them was trying to attack the stick he was holding, and Jon made sure to distract it with the feather at the other end instead.

Jon was so absorbed in the game that several minutes passed until he even so much as glanced at Martin again — though then his eyes were glued to him, and to Tart, who was swishing about him, never quite touching.

“Oh, erm, hello,” Martin said, chuckling a little nervously. He was probably remembering the stories about her being cold with most people, and was worried that she might not like him.

Tart sniffed at Martin’s arm, then circled him again, only to sniff at his knee on the opposite side.

Then she rubbed her head against his knee.

“Oh,” Martin made again, looking startled, though it was soon replaced by a slightly confused delight. “Hi there.”

He reached out hesitantly. Tart turned away, putting some distance between them with measured steps.

Then she looked back.

Martin had dropped his hand, and held it out to another cat to sniff instead.

In the same slow, but confident pace as before, Tart circled back, and pushed away the other cat.

“Hi again…?” Martin asked, his hand hovering over her uncertainly.

Tart just looked at him, blinking slowly. Martin blinked back, confused.

Then Tart got onto her hind paws, and headbutted Martin’s hand.

The smile that spread on Martin’s face as he was finally allowed to pet the cat was breathtaking. Jon always thought that he was the most handsome man alive, but in that moment, he looked practically ethereal.

Then Martin looked up at Jon, still glowing with joy and a little bit of pride, and Jon couldn’t help but smile back.

“Made a friend?” he asked teasingly, causing Martin to duck his head in slight embarrassment.

“I guess she likes me?” Martin said, continuing to pet the very satisfied-looking cat. She had her good eye closed — her bad eye was permanently closed anyway — and was leaning into Martin’s touch.

It didn’t take long for Tart to climb into Martin’s lap, curling up there. Jon noticed that none of the other cats would get close to Martin then, and figured it was because they didn’t particularly like Tart.

“She’s purring!” Martin exclaimed suddenly, startling Tart a little, though she settled down again soon enough. “Aww, she’s so cute. Jon, can you take a picture?”

Jon’s face was starting to hurt from how big his smile was. It dimmed a little when he struggled to get up, his leg aching after his time on the floor, but he managed to stand and walk over to Martin without too much effort.

“Say cheese,” Jon said as he had his phone camera trained on the adorable pair of gingers.

Martin just grinned, and Tart stayed where she was, only flicking her ear in Jon’s direction.

The pictures didn’t quite do the reality of the moment justice, but they were cute enough. Considering Jon’s usual struggles with getting a half-decent picture — a fact that always made both Martin and Tim snicker and make teasing comments about the pupil of the Eye not having an eye for photos —  they were even pretty good.

“Do we have a winner, then?” Jon asked when Martin handed him back the phone after inspecting the pictures.

“Oh, I-I think so? I mean, if you’re okay with it.” Martin didn’t often bring out the puppy eyes, but when he did, Jon didn’t stand a chance.

Not that he had any issue with adopting Tart, silly name or not.

“Should we call her something else?” Jon just asked, and reached out to pet her himself.

Tart peeked an eye open to glare at him, making Jon stop in his tracks. He blinked at her.

She didn’t blink back.

Only when Jon removed his hand did Tart close her eyes again, burrowing herself deeper into Martin’s lap.

Oh dear. Jon was going to be in competition with the cat after all, wasn’t he?

Martin didn’t seem to have noticed the little row, since he continued scratching between Tart’s ears enthusiastically. “You’re not naming her. Otherwise we’ll just end up with a Sergeant, or a Lieutenant-Commander, or something.”

“That’s not fair,” Jon said, omitting the fact that he had indeed been considering Sergeant as a name. “I was actually thinking about something like Miss Claw-lace.”

Martin looked at him weirdly. “You were?”

“Nancy Catstor would also be a contender.”

For a long beat, Martin just stared at him. Then he sighed fondly, shaking his head. “I stand by my opinion — you don’t get to name this cat. Or any, for that matter.”

“Why’s that?” Jon asked, huffing.

His suggestions were quite clever, after all, weren’t they?

“Jon, I love you, but those are terrible. We’ll give her a normal cat name.”

“What, so she won’t get bullied by her cat schoolmates?” Jon deadpanned, making Martin snort out a giggle.

“Exactly. It’s hard to be a little kitty cat, you don’t have to make it harder,” he said, smiling, one hand still buried in Tart’s fur.

“Yes, clearly, it’s an awful lot to be a cat being lovingly petted by a gentle giant,” Jon said dryly. “I would shudder to be subjected to the same cruel fate.”

Martin grinned. “So if a giant picked you up right now and put you in his lap…”

Jon rolled his eyes. “Shut up. What would you name her, then?”

“Hmmm. What about Butterscotch?”

Jon scoffed. “And that’s better than Nancy Catstor?”

“... Yeah, Jon, it really is,” Martin said, looking like he was holding back laughter.

“We might as well keep her name, then, if you’re just going to name her after a different pastry.”

“Yeah, but Tart is mean. Butterscotch is cute.”

Jon huffed. Then something came to him, and he smiled slyly. “We could call her Martina.”

“I’m sorry?”

Jon shrugged, even as his smile grew wider. “She does have the same hair colour as you.”

“Yeah, well, she’s also picky in who she lets near her — like you,” Martin countered unfairly.

“Hey,” Jon grumbled.

“We could call her Joanna.”

Jon kept grumbling.

“Our little tabby daughter, Joanna Sims-Blackwood.”

Jon stopped grumbling, his breath hitching. “Ah.”

“She gets her looks from me and her personality from you,” Martin kept teasing.

“Shut up.” Jon meant to make it sound scathing, he really did, but infuriatingly, it came out tender and loving.

“Maybe we can train her to research statements,” Martin joked.

Jon shivered. “Best not.” He reached out again, but this time for Martin, putting a hand on his arm. “We should probably talk to Isabel before we go about renaming Tart. We haven’t adopted her yet.”

“Right.” Martin looked like he would have gotten up together with Jon, if he hadn’t had his lap full of cat.

“I’ll go fetch her. You sit tight.”

Martin chuckled. “Don’t really have a choice on that, do I?” He kept stroking Tart’s fur, humming in time with her purrs.

Those two were utterly adorable.

As Jon grabbed his cane and went to look for Isabel, he didn’t know that the reason Tart had lost an eye had been because she had been staring at other cats with an unblinking gaze, causing them to become aggressive.

He didn’t know that the tether to the entity that loomed over them all had almost been broken with the gash across her eye, and had only been preserved through her own cowardice, which had prompted her to run away quickly, thus sparing her other eye.

He didn’t know that for her, everything had started with a bulging spider. Or that it was the fear of its hairy legs and its web that kept her wary of most people.

He would know, one day, of course. Not that day, but soon enough.

But by then, little Butterscotch would have become Jon and Martin’s little furry daughter.

She got her looks from Martin, and her personality from Jon.

And some mannerism from her godfather, the Eye.

[quicksilver-castiel]

Jonmartin Week is 1 Week Away!!!

Event Info

[quicksilver-castiel]

Thank you for the tag @thelunarchaos

1. How many works on AO3?

98! (Hopefully over 100 after Jonmartin Week XD)

2. Total AO3 Word Count?

1,013,190 — I didn't realise I'd broken the million mark! Yay! :D

3. Top 5 fics by Kudos

Come (back) for me — 1.5k of Midam (Supernatural), explicit

The Best Damn Thing - 111k of Midam (Supernatural) high school AU, teen and up

(Don't) fear the cherub - 1k of Midam (Supernatural) scaring a poor cherub who is only trying to do his job, not rated (I think I forgot to give a rating, it's not explicit)

And each doth good turns now unto the other - currently 146k, ongoing Jonmartin (The Magnus Archives) canon-divergent epos, explicit (the smut isn't the focus, but it's very much there)

God Knows I Want To Break Free - 7k of Michael- and Midam-focused (Supernatural) finale/15x19 fix-it, teen and up

4. What fandoms do you write for?

This may come as a shock after my answer under 3, but it's Supernatural and The Magnus Archives. XD

It's mostly tma right now, but I will get back to Midam, I swear.

5. Do you respond to comments?

Yes, I try to respond to every one.

6. Angstiest Ending?

Hmmm, I don't do a lot of angsty endings. It's probably To Play The Part, which is a Supernatural fic about Raphael and the virgin Mary and ends with Jesus' birth (and all the implications for his life).

Check out the art here - this fic was written for a reverse bang, so Bakh made the art and then we came up with a story around it. It was a lot of fun working on this!

Also now I'm remembering Throw me a bone to pick with you, though I guess the ending is more bittersweet? Hopeful, though, at least. Fraught brotherly relationships between archangels turned humans sure are difficult to heal within 3k words, lol.

7. Fic with the Happiest Ending?

Pretty much all of them. 😂 But uuh, if you mean 'I go 🥰🥰🥰 at re-reading it', then probably Michael, which is a Midam-focused introspection on Michael's feelings about his own name, and the way it has been spoken over his long life.

8. Do you get hate?

Not really. I keep waiting for the day that people will yell at me for not having the same headcanons as them, lol, but so far people have been lovely.

9. Do you write smut?

All the time. It's actually surprising to me that only 34 out of my 98 fics on AO3 are explicit, lol.

10. Do you write crossovers?

I started a WIP for a Supernatural/Stargate Atlantis crossover at one point, but it never went anywhere. Other than that, no attempts have been made so far.

11. Ever had a fic stolen?

Not that I know of.

12. Have you ever had a fic translated?

I think so! People have asked if they could translate my fics into Russian. Since I can't read Cyrillic, though, it's difficult to say if they actually did translate it.

13. Have you ever co-written a fic?

I started to with a friend, though we haven't made it very far yet. So it's just sitting in a Google Doc right now.

14. All time favourite ship?

I'll have to go with Kaiba/Jonouchi (Joey) from Yu-Gi-Oh!, if only because they were my first ship and even after half my life, I keep coming back to them. Other ships have yet to stand the test of time.

15. WIPs you want to finish but doubt you ever will?

There's an unfinished Destiel (Supernatural) fic on AO3 that's always staring at me accusingly, but let's be real... I fell a bit too out of love with Destiel to finish it, I think.

16. Writing strengths?

Dialogue comes the easiest to me, so I would count it as a strength. Hopefully others will agree with that. XD

17. Writing Weaknesses?

Descriptions 💀 You'd think I've never seen a single thing or person in my entire life.

18. Thoughts on mixed language dialogue?

Depends on how it's executed! I find it cool when I can still understand what's being said (either through knowing the language, or there being notes). Of course it's also effective if the point is that the POV character isn't understanding what's going on.

(And then tma taught me that it's effective when I don't understand, but the main character does. And doesn't even realise he's being spoken to in another language, haha.)

19. First fandom you wrote for?

Yu-Gi-Oh! This was back when I was still writing fics in German, lol. Have I mentioned that this was half my life ago... *staring wistfully out the window*

20. Favourite fic you’ve ever written?

Oh, that's difficult. I would say I'm quite proud of In the end, which is an alternate (Midam-focused, of course) version of events for the alternate timeline from the Supernatural episode The End.

I wrote this for a challenge, where there were 31 prompts for the month of October, so it has 31 chapters. Maybe i might have made it better if I'd had more time, but I still like it very much.

I also love my current tma epos (And each doth good turns now unto the other) though. It's already my longest fic and only growing more and more each day. XD (I actually need to go publish a chapter for it now, lol.)

No pressure tags: @leatafandom, @quietwingsinthesky, @mxchifer

20 Fanfic Author Questions

Thank you so much for tagging me @distracteddream !!

1. How many works on AO3? 9

2. Total AO3 Word Count? 48,365 words

3. Top 5 fics by Kudos

From Black to Blue (152) [on indefinite hiatus] Fandom: Yu-Gi-Oh! Pairing: Ryou Bakura/Yami Bakura/Marik Ishtar Rating: E Bakura had been back with the living for just two months. At least physical. Before that, he had spent an unknown amount of time in some kind of limbo of darkness and pain, his soul fragmented into a thousand tiny pieces which floated in the confines of the Millennium Ring, seeking something. A purpose. A voice calling out his name to draw him close. But the voice never came and he was simply greeted by the everyday frustrations of being alive instead. To top it off, things soon go from bad to worse for him and he finds himself seeking out Ryou, who has gotten himself into more trouble than he alone can handle. However, he doesn't want to talk to anyone about it and just pretends to be fine. As Bakura slowly begins to put the pieces together, he stumbles upon something that doesn't only endanger his own new-found life but also makes him question everything he thought to know about his former host. And the only one he can rely on for help is the one who betrayed him before.

Jacob's Ladder [93] Fandom: Yu-Gi-Oh! Pairing: Ryou Bakura/Yami Marik, Yami Bakura/Marik Ishtar Rating: T Glad that he could spent a night without his roommate, Ryou gets ready for a horror movie marathon. But just then a surprise visitor appears.

Mirror and Candles [40] Fandom: Yu-Gi-Oh! Pairing: Ryou Bakura/Yami Bakura Rating: T Ryou is running out of ideas how to summon a certain Spirit. But what's the harm in one more try?

The Pocky Game [39] Fandom: YGOTAS Pairing: Yami Bakura/Marik Ishtar Rating: T Marik found out about a so-called Pocky game online and now wants to play it with Bakura. The goal was to be the first one to get to the middle, right? Right?

Nox Aeterna [30] Fandom: Yu-Gi-Oh! Pairing: Yami Bakura/Marik Ishtar Rating: M It was another one of those nights of which Bakura knew that he wouldn't get any sleep. And the reason for that was a certain Egyptian who just didn't leave his mind.

4. What fandoms do you write for? I currently write for The Magnus Archives. I used to write for Yu-Gi-Oh!

5. Do you respond to comments? On my new AO3 account, yes. There's quite the backlog on my old one, however...

6. Angstiest Ending? Normal is Boring

7. Fic with the Happiest Ending? Oof, this one is tough because I don't really do happy endings. I guess the closest would be Jacob's Ladder ?

8. Do you get hate? Can't get hate when you hardly get any writing done *finger guns*

9. Do you write smut? I do, but none of it has made it to the publishing stage yet which is kinda wild to think about.

10. Do you write crossovers? I have one in my WIP folder!

11. Ever had a fic stolen? Not that I'm aware of.

12. Have you ever had a fic translated? Nope.

13. Have you ever co-written a fic? The only co-writing I ever did was RPing.

14. All time favourite ship? That depends. Back in the day, it was Thiefshipping (Marik/Bakura) and Tendershipping (Ryou/Bakura). Now it's JonElias.

15. WIPs you want to finish but doubt you ever will?

The Allure of Darkness (Xellos/Zelgadis, Slayers) This one has a finished rough draft which sits at 22k words.

Glory and Gore (Crime and Punishment/Demons Crossover) I really enjoyed the idea of putting Rodya and Stavrogin together to make each other worse

Hungry Eyes (JonElias, JMart, Omegaverse) I have rewritten the plot several times now but it still rubs me the wrong way.

We don't talk about From Black to Blue...

16. Writing strengths? From what I've gathered it's fluff and conveying emotions.

17. Writing Weaknesses? The execution of the themes I had in my head, descriptions of locations, my style in general.

18. Thoughts on mixed language dialogue? It's fun as long as it doesn't get into stereotype territory.

19. First fandom you wrote for? The first fanfic I ever wrote was for Knight Rider. The first one published was for Yu-Gi-Oh!.

20. Favourite fic you’ve ever written?

Nox Aeterna I honestly don't know how I did it, but I love it style-wise so so much.

They Say Only The Good Die Young Fandom: The Magnus Archives Pairing: JonElias Rating: T Jon just wanted to have a moment to himself, but instead he has to deal with Elias who is a bit too fond of 19th century music. The first story I published after a seven-year hiatus. I'm allowed to like it then, I think.

No pressure tags: @buried-in-the-archives @beheldandcompelled and everyone else who wants to do this

[quicksilver-castiel]

For real!!!

serious question: is elias bouchard just. allergic. to employing straight people. anytime he looks at his employees, he's like "ah yes, i know who we've got here. bi ace man who really shouldn't be in a managerial role, man who will fall in love with his boss who barely talks to him, a lovely young woman who probably isn't straight, a man who fucks with cops of all genders for information, an angry lesbian, an aromantic ex cop, and Daisy Tonner." peter lukas comes in like "have you considered employing some heterosexuals?" and elias just goes "nope"

[quicksilver-castiel]

When your WIP doesn’t write itself:

[quicksilver-castiel]

don't want to write I want to think very hard about my fic until it emerges from my head fully formed like athena

[quicksilver-castiel]

[quicksilver-castiel]

And each doth good turns now unto the other

Fandom: The Magnus Archives

Pairing: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims

Archive warnings: None

Rating: Explicit

Chapter: 3/? (long fic)

Fic summary:

Jon had to run because he knew he would get blamed for Leitner's murder. Now he tries to get as much information as he can, about everything - but he needs an inside guy at the Archives. And who does he still have who would even help him, except Martin?

Chapter summary:

“Well…” Martin sighed. “Back to the topic. Would it maybe help if we, uh, shared the bed? I-I mean, if it’s just about someone breathing, I’ve been pretty good at that for the last 30 years, soooo…” “I don’t know if it will help,” Jon admitted, closing his eyes again for a moment. He laughed humourlessly. “But honestly? At this point, I’m desperate enough to try.”

Author's notes:

Okay, so hear me out, but what if there was only one bed... and you and your sleep-deprived, paranoid boss were basically forced to share... Wouldn't that be horrible, haha.

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