#TMAHC

[janekfan]

Cage

https://archiveofourown.org/works/26130172

Jon jerked awake, uncomfortably soaked with sweat and trembling fit to shake apart, each thought swirling into wisps of cloud between his fingers even as he tried in vain to catch them.

He couldn’t breathe.

Not with his chest so unbelievably tight, caught in a vise; there was no room. No room. There was no room.

He ached badly. The caress of the bed linens against his skin was like a brush fire and his head pounded in tandem with his pulse as it hammered loudly through his blood and Jon couldn’t hear anything but a high pitched ringing between his ears. Disoriented, the plaintive sob grated on his sore throat, swallowed up by the deep dark so black he couldn’t see, and sudden tears slipped down his face, over the bridge of his nose where he curled up against the pillow, so hot. So hot. Nerves set ablaze, the roadmap of his veins spreading the pain like an injection of battery acid.

A nightmare. That’s what this was. It had to be.

Please. Just a nightmare or else he was surely dying.

Please. It hurts.

It hurts.

And then there was nothing.

Somehow, Jon slept through his alarm for the first time in his working memory, waking groggy and aching, shaky legs barely able to hold his weight as he made his way slowly to the kitchen. He was late for work. He was never late for work.

Two firsts in one morning.

The texts were. Worried? Martin was worried. Wondering. Wondering where he was. If he was okay.

He was fine. Just. Tired. Headachy. A bit rundown, that’s all. He couldn’t recall with much clarity, but it felt like he hadn’t slept well.

When he looked down at his hands, he found himself gripping the sink for dear life. The only thing keeping him up. Ridiculous. Of course not. He was fine. Jon drank down a full glass of water and forced a piece of dry toast on himself before dragging what felt like someone else’s body to the train.

It was nearing noon when Jon was able to drop into his desk chair, covering his eyes when the lamp was enough to make them hurt and the footsteps hurrying their way towards him inspired a sinking dread in his stomach.

“Jon!”

“Keep it down, Martin.” Abandoning all pretense, Jon flicked the light back off, unwilling to worsen what was already an awful ache, an awful, unrelenting pressure in the back of his skull.

“Oh, s’sorry, of course.” A flash of guilt passed too quickly, as did the moment in time he would have taken to apologize for snapping if his thoughts weren’t processing so slowly. “I was worried. You look. Jon,” and there was no mistaking the worry there. “You don’t look well.” Just as Tim decided to pass by for a friendly jab.

“Long night at the bar, boss?” What was once an endearment now sounded like a curse and Jon repressed the physical wince though it was nothing he didn't deserve.

“Leave off, Tim.” Exasperated, Martin pushed him on his way and opened the door to his office a little wider, speaking softly for his benefit. Kind. Always so kind and Jon didn’t deserve an ounce of it, not after the wrongs he’d done. “You look like you could use a day at home.” The fragment of concerned warmth coming off of Martin was inebriating, like he’d been socked in the jaw with a sudden and excessive want.

Or, like he was seconds away from begging for any and all scraps of affection, of human connection. A touch, another kind word, heaven forbid a genuine smile. He was just so. So.

Lonely.

“Just a bit of a headache.” He swallowed with difficulty, a little nauseated, trying to put forth even a quarter of the effort Martin deserved. “Th’thank you, Martin.” He gave him a wan smile, an olive branch, maybe he could begin repairing what he’d so thoroughly broken, and was almost hysterically pleased when he received a grin in return.

“Alright. I’ll bring you some tea--”

“You don’t have--!” Jon scrambled for words, afraid he’d been found out and Martin felt some sort of obligation, or, or.

“And paracetamol.” He looked back before leaving. “Because I want to.”

The hot drink and medicine revitalized him just a bit, enough to complete a couple hours work before he began to flag. Seconds dawdled. Minutes crawled. The next hour overstayed an incredibly rude and malingering welcome and Jon’s cheek met the blotter long before he would be able to skive off in good conscience. He felt strange. Cold and clammy but uncomfortably warm. His head was pounding in earnest now, an aura taking up residence in the corner of each eye, tunneling his vision and dizzying him despite his not moving. Thankfully, he’d been left alone for the most part.

Luckily.

Because something was wrong.

Wrong.

He felt wrong.

Frustrated, because there was a better word for how unbalanced, off center? he was and he couldn’t think of it.

Time was an unexpectedly slippery thing and as each moment wheeled by Jon became more and more confused, more exhausted, to the point where gulping for air seemed useless because none of it seemed to reach where he desperately needed it to go. When he lifted his head, his vision went spotty, blacking out for a terrifying split second before he laid it back down, tears welling in his eyes.

Why was he like this? So irrational, emotional.

Overwrought. When he finally.

Finally realized what this was.

Finally realized what he'd allowed to happen.

He was sick.

He’d come to work sick, contagious. He wasn’t supposed to be around people when he was sick; it was irresponsible and selfish to put others at risk. How could. After everything he’d already done to them, and now. And now he’s done this.

He would keep them away. He could do that. He was really good at that. Even when he wasn’t capable of anything else.

Breathing harshly through his nose, he forced himself to his feet, catching himself on his desk, a filing cabinet, the wall, in order to make it to the door and depress the lock. He would keep Martin well. And Tim. And stay here until it was safe to go, to go home but the idea of sitting back in the chair was too much. He needed. Needed to lay down. Soon. Now. Just as his knees gave way at the back of his office, behind the desk, and Jon let himself sink to the floor, the inside of him trying its best to claw its way out, and curling into his guilt when the pain and heat and cold crested over him like a smothering wave and he whimpered, pressing his hot cheek against the cool linoleum and shivering.

He wanted to go home.

Crawl into bed and hide from everything.

Isolate himself like he was supposed to so he wouldn’t make anyone else sick. But he couldn’t keep lashes seemingly painted with lead apart. Could hardly remember why he should keep alone in the first place, what he was supposed to be doing. Let himself fade. Until all the misery fell away into the background and he let the rest go.

“Jon?” He jerked awake, biting down on the groan all the aches and pains returning with a sudden vengeance pulled from between his teeth. It took too long to remember where he was, only able to focus on the sticky sweat all over his skin, tacky where his face rested on the floor, his damp clothes and the chill buried in the center of him. “Jon?”

Martin.

“Y’yes?” He flopped to his back, the room split into a double image, and he closed his eyes against it, breath shallow. Panicking a little when he heard him check the handle.

“Are you alright?”

“Mm. Yes.” Forced himself to inject annoyance into his tone. Irritability. He was irritable and wanted Martin to leave him alone. Definitely didn't want any more tea or to see his face creased in something like concern or, or god forbid, he (please) touch him. Because if he came in here he would fall ill. “I’m doing.” Speaking was so hard, tongue clumsy in his mouth. “Important work.”

“With the door locked?”

“In an effort to limit disruption, Martin.” Breathe. Breathe. “If you would, please.”

“Yes, Jon.” Martin was upset with him. That was good. Good because he would stay on the other side of the door. He couldn’t get sick on the other side of the door and Jon let himself go at the sound of retreating footsteps. He’d gotten good at crying silently and did so now. His grandmother didn’t like being disturbed and he could hear her scolding voice explaining that young men weren’t supposed to cry. He doubted men his age were supposed to either. But he was scared. So scared. There were wicked things hiding in the corners, in the shadows, at the outermost edges of his unsteady vision. Flickering in the dark and he curled into himself, covering his head with his arms and pressing against the boxes containing the multitude statements that brought all these fears into being. But he would be safe here. With his eyes closed and hidden among his cardboard walls. Safe. If he was quiet. If he was quiet he would be safe and he clapped a hand over his mouth to stifle his silence.

He wanted Martin to come back. To beg him not to leave him all alone. To, to bring him tea. Would feel nice. Martin. Kind. Soft voice that didn’t hurt. Soft hands. Soft touch. Soft.

Jon burned.

Those shapes shifted, transformed into dangerous things. Mean things. Clinging in the corners of the room and coaxing fire from the very walls, unfurling wings of bone and ash and death.

It licked at his body, his skin, his clothes, and hurt, hurt, hurt.

He couldn't breathe.

Couldn't move.

Could only be consumed.

Eaten away to nothing by the creatures in the corners.

“Jon?” Martin was worried. He hadn’t seen Jon since he came in late (already cause for alarm), and his office was locked. “I’m sorry. I know you’re working, but can we talk?” He knocked again, listening hard, and was again met with only eerie quiet. No statements being read or tape recorders running. “Jon?” It was probably nothing. He’d stepped out. He’d gone home. He was ignoring him because Martin was a constant aggravation. But it didn’t seem right. Tim had a skeleton key from a while back. When things were simpler, and he found Tim in the breakroom, poking away at a game on his phone. “I need the key.”

“To what?”

“Jon’s office.”

“Ohh.” He raised an eyebrow, smirking in that knowing way of his and Martin felt himself go bright red.

“He’s not answering the door.”

“So?” He went back to his screen. “Why even bother, Martin? He’s probably just hiding from us because he thinks we’re after him or some other nonsense.”

“Please, Tim?” At least he turned back, knitting his brows at Martin’s persistence. “I think. I think something is really wrong.” With a put upon sigh, he pocketed his phone and gestured for Martin to lead the way.

It was calm and still and for a moment Martin thought Tim was right, that he’d gone home and just hadn’t been noticed.

“Jon?” It felt like he had to whisper, keep the dark undisturbed and was about ready to let it go when he heard something shift in the back of the room. He looked at Tim who just shrugged, leaving to go stand in the hall with his arms crossed. As his eyes adjusted to the dim, he caught sight of Jon’s jumper on the floor, it moved, there was a hiss of pain. “Jon?”

Dusty light from the hall filtered and fell across the figure curled up on the floor, skin ashen and pale despite his dark complexion, face dotted with sweat and dark swathes of charcoal drawn thick beneath half lidded eyes. Each breath was labored, too quick, too shallow, too uneven and Jon moaned, a pitiful, pained thing, struggling to put more room between them though he was already boxed into a corner.

“Jon,” Martin reached out, pulled back when he reacted in fear, glancing around at things only he could see.

“Nnnoo.” Voice thin and thready, barely audible as he panted, letting his temple fall back to the floor. “Mmartin. No…”

Jon, you’re not well.” He glanced back at Tim who at least looked somewhat worried now. “You need help.”

“No…” Fading in and out, chills made his thin frame shake, glassy eyes round and searching in the dark but not truly seeing him. “No. You.” He groaned, shaking his head back and forth. “Can’t. Can’t be here…”

“If this is some spooky shit, you should have told someone sooner.” Tim was angry and Jon winced when he spoke harshly, squeezing his eyes shut and ducking his chin.

“S’sick.”

“Yeah, I see that.”

"Tim, I think, I think he's just confused. He looks feverish."

“C’can’t.” Desperately, Jon was trying to make them understand something but he didn’t seem to have the wherewithal to elaborate, barely even conscious as it was and still distracted by whatever it was he saw in the dark. "M's'sorry. Sorry."

“I don’t understand.” Martin drew closer, pushing forward despite Jon’s frantic warnings. “It. It’s alright, I need to see.” To his horror, his breath hitched and tears rolled down his face. “Hush, it’s alright.”

“No, no. No.” He flinched, closed his eyes against Martin’s form inching closer to his tightly coiled body. “Can’t.” Wretched, small. Pleading and begging them to leave him here as if that were ever an option in any reality, let alone the one Jon was currently trapped in.

“S’alright, love.” He ignored Tim’s snort of derisive laughter.

“Not. It’s not.” Martin hushed him gently, pushing away the strands of sweat damp hair out of his face and keeping his expression and tone forcibly even despite the railroad spike of anxiety slamming straight into his stomach. Jon was burning up under his hand, hot as anything, and he stroked his head when he began to cry in earnest, speaking low.

“It’s alright, I promise, everything is alright. Let me help.” He glanced back at Tim and even through the intentional indifference could see worry in the way he bit his lip. “Can you get the paracetamol from my desk? Some water? Please.” Limp and exhausted, Jon struggled to focus, to move away, eyes fever glazed and vacant beneath damp lashes fluttering like a moth’s wing. “Shh, you’re alright.” Martin knuckled away the tears still tracing paths across Jon’s skin, shifting his shoulders despite delirious protests and rambling into his lap and folding his trembling, frozen hands into his own. “You’re alright.” He wished for a thermometer, Jon was like a brand even through both sets of clothing, but he was responsive if upset, and he’d give him another dose and see where they were in an hour or so.

“I’ll stick around for a while. Be in the office.”

“Thank you, Tim.” Martin knew a bit about what it took for him to make that decision and appreciated it, offering up a grateful smile before crushing up the pills in the bottom of Jon’s mug from earlier and filling it halfway with water. “Sit up for me, Jon. Just, there you are. Drink this down, good, good.” Praising and soft, getting as much water into him as he would take between his fits of pleading.

“Martin.” He sounded miserably undone, coughing weakly against the back of his hand.

“Still me.” Dark brown eyes, pupils blown wide in the low light, stared up at him though Martin couldn’t quite catch them. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“Martin.” He stroked light fingertips over his eyelids in response, continuing his murmuring and reassurances, at a loss in this situation where he found himself on the floor of his boss’ office with said boss half in his lap and now dead asleep. Martin let himself lean back against the shelves, listening to the slight wheeze on his breath and shoving the worry away. The medicine would work and then Martin would get him home and into bed.

“What…” Martin put down the supplementals he’d been leafing through to palm Jon’s forehead. Still high. But Jon seemed at least a bit more with it, voice stronger if still tired. “Martin?”

“How’re you feeling?”

“T’terrible?” He hadn’t seemed to realize where he was, still drifting in and out. “Gotta...go.” He sat up on his own, wavering, though Martin hovered, ready to catch him if he began to go down. “Can’t be here.” And he stood so quickly, Martin almost didn’t grab him in time when he started to collapse, blood draining from his already pallid face.

“Whoa! Okay, easy, easy, easy. Sit down.”

“S’sorry.” Bare more than an exhale, Martin was sure it was reflexive. Jon couldn’t possibly know what was going on. Not really, in the state he was in.

“I’m taking you home with me.”

“What?” Jon blinked, not really tracking or Martin was sure he’d argue harder.

“I’d hazard a guess you have few, if any supplies.” Getting him to the beat up car Martin still drove was fairly simple with Tim’s reluctant help, but even he couldn't hide his concern at the heat coming off him, going so far as to reach across and buckle him in when it became abundantly clear he didn’t have the coordination.

“Text me if you need anything.”

“Thanks, Tim.”

39.7.

Martin insisted he get a read on him first thing after he helped him stagger into the flat. Jon refused to think about how strong he was, how he probably could have carried him the whole way and blamed the fever for his inappropriate thoughts. It was bad enough Martin felt he had to supervise him.

If Jon wasn’t so very poorly, he was sure he’d be feeling much more embarrassed but as it stood, he was strung out and aching, so cold he couldn't stop shaking. Probably due for more medicine and speak of the devil, Martin handed him a cup of tea and some lemsip, setting a bottle of some sports drink he didn’t recognize on the table beside him and sitting across from him. Jon felt ridiculous dressed in Martin’s spare and well worn clothes, bundled up in a soft, plush blanket that made him feel better somehow though there was no reason for it to do so. Dutifully, he took his medicine and then hid behind the mug because he just knew Martin was going to ask and Jon had a feeling that he’d done something wrong.

“Why did you feel like you couldn’t tell us?” Martin probably thought it was because he felt better than them, better than the help they could provide. Or that he didn't trust them. He knew Tim felt that way. But really. Really. He didn’t deserve it. He’d treated them with suspicion instead of colleagues and friends and on top of that he was infectious, dirty, and needed to be isolated until he wouldn’t make people sick. They deserved at least that much from him and he couldn’t even accomplish that. So he tried again to explain.

“I’m. Sick.” Completely at a loss, and suddenly, Jon felt ashamed. It was becoming clear that his behavior had been abnormal and that at his most feverish he’d gone to harmful extremes. Martin probably thought he was a fool but he just waited patiently, adding quietly,

“I’m not angry or upset with you.”

Because he was such a good person.

“My grandmother.” Would be. Would be furious. Jon paused to turn his head away from Martin and cough harshly into his elbow. He was fumbling with words, worried that he would think. Well he wasn’t sure what he would think. “Wasn’t. I had to stay--couldn’t get anyone else sick.”

“Oh, Jon.”

“No! No, I. I thought. Thought that was what everyone did.” Martin sipped his own tea and Jon copied him. “I.” He withdrew into his borrowed blanket, weary and sick. “I’m sorry. I. Should have known better.” Martin looked upset. It wasn’t the right thing to say but he didn’t know what the right thing was and it hurt to think but thankfully he took pity on Jon’s poor aching self.

“You should get some sleep.” Jon felt small being tucked in but with being so tired it was a comfort when Martin let his hand linger on his forehead, lifted his glasses away to fold them aside and he relaxed.

“Thank you, Martin.”

Tim would laugh if he knew what Martin was thinking about. An even tinier Jon curled up in a dark room, sick and alone, and expected to stay away from everyone while he was ill. How lonely, how sad, to be isolated from any comfort when you were at your most vulnerable. No wonder Jon was so confused at the Institute today and Martin’s imagination had no trouble running wild with different worst case scenarios, so much so that he put aside the poetry he’d been attempting to work on in favor of turning in early.

Something snapped Martin awake and when he looked at his bedside clock the red numbers glared 329 and he almost turned back over to go back to sleep when he remembered who was sleeping on his couch and stepped out to check on him.

A whimper. In the pitch black of the room. He should have left a light on for him.

“H’hello?” He sounded frightened, shaky and his inquiry cracked around what sounded like tears.

“Jon?”

“Martin?” He sniffed suspiciously, voice thick and choked. “Wh’where are we?”

“You don’t remember?” He flicked the hall switch, letting enough light into the sitting room to see by and he met Jon’s wide, damp eyes, filled to the brim with fear, and he shook his head, bottom lip visibly trembling. “You’re at my flat, on the couch.”

“Wh’what?” Martin sat beside him where he was folded up onto one cushion, fever flush high in his face and a thin sheen of sweat glistening on his exposed skin. He should have known. Fevers were often worse at night.

“You’ve not been feeling well.”

“Feel.” His throat clicked with a heavy swallow, and when he closed his eyes, tears slipped down his hollow cheeks. “Feel. S’s’strange.” Martin helped him hold the bottle of sports drink, encouraging him to take at least a third and some more medicine, and when he couldn’t cajole anything else out of him, he let Jon’s forehead tipped against his chest, the heat billowing off him intense. Martin cupped the back of his head, let him cling, breath shuddering. “Thought. I thought I saw.” He broke off with a whine, burying his face in Martin and he stroked his back, counting his ribs without meaning too.

“That should help.” Jon breathed unevenly, coming down from his nightmare or panic, the whole of him shaking with chills. “You’ll feel better when your fever isn’t so high.”

“S’sorry.”

“So you keep saying.”

“You’ve d’done so much.” He nuzzled Martin’s tee, curling into him, and it was so Not Jon he thought he might combust because it was adorable, even if he was sick. “And I’ve. I’m.” Now wasn’t the time for such serious conversations. Not when Jon could barely string two words together and was still seeing things that frightened him in the shadows.

“It’s alright.” It wasn’t a hard decision to make. “Up you come, now.” And this time Martin did swing him up into his arms, tucking him close, the gasp of surprise just a puff of warm air against his throat. No wonder this illness was hitting him so hard, he weighed far too little and Martin knew he wasn’t sleeping well. Eating well. He clung to him, dizzied and reeling.

“Head hurts…ev’rythin’ hurts…”

“I know.” He tucked Jon into bed, brushing a stray strand of hair behind his ear before climbing in beside him.

“You’ll...get sick.”

“I’ll be fine.” When he tugged him close there was no resistance, all pretense and worry stripped away with exhaustion and fatigue, and Jon melted willingly into the comfort he offered, too feverish, too tired, too frightened.

“Mm.”

“Sleep, Jon. Tomorrow, everything will be better.”

It wouldn’t. But the lie was enough for now.

[summerofspock]

Chapters: 1/? Fandom: The Magnus Archives (Podcast) Rating: Not Rated Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan “Jon” Sims | The Archivist Characters: Martin Blackwood, Jonathan “Jon” Sims | The Archivist Additional Tags: additional ships and character tags to be added, Ficlets, Hurt/Comfort, Tags On Individual Chapters Summary:

a collection of TMA ficlets for TMA hurt/comfort week on Tumblr!

**

this is how I learned to kiss, from studying this scene, and I remember quoting the hands, the eyes, the lips – Broken Testimony by Daniel Borzutsky

**

Jon is fine. As fine as he can be given the hunger pangs that don’t so much radiate from his belly but from his eyes. An ache like a migraine burrowing down his throat, taking root in his heart.

But he is here. He is alive. He is with Martin who fusses over him with tea and blankets and they haven’t kissed but Jon Knows Martin wants to. The same way he Knows that Martin looks at him with a different hunger. A hunger Jon will never understand. A hunger Jon is beginning to accept he will submit himself to if Martin ever asks.

Because this is it for Jon. He knows it. Lowercase k. The sort of knowing that curls inside him like a contented cat, like the steam from a perfectly brewed cup of tea, like the smoke from the fireplace as it swirls up and out the chimney. Jon loves Martin. He loves Martin in a way he has never loved anything before. In a desperate, hold it in your hands so delicately for fear of breaking it, heart racing, earth shifting way. And Jon won’t ruin it. There is the barest equilibrium between them in this small cottage surrounded by overgrown grass. This tiny corner of the world atop a hill.

Jon will not say no to Martin. He will not risk Martin leaving the only place Jon has ever felt at home.

They kiss for the first time for no reason in particular. Jon has set aside the book he was reading aloud for evening entertainment— I like the sound of your voice, Jon —and has stood to say goodnight, to take himself off to his bedroom, His very separate bedroom, when Martin catches his hand and pulls him close.

The kiss itself is awkward at first. Their glasses bump but Martin, clearly more experienced, readjusts and then it’s good, soft in a way Jon hasn’t felt anything be soft in a long time. And they are just kissing in the living room, the fire long burnt down, his hands fisted in Martin’s jumper.

And then Martin slips his tongue into Jon’s mouth and Jon has to push down a wave of discomfort, pretending everything is just as good as it was moments ago. Martin makes a sharp sound against his mouth that goes a long way to helping Jon forget how absolutely disgusting this is, how his stomach is turning, the barely-there thrum of arousal entirely washed away.

Martin somehow maneuvers them onto the couch, pulling Jon into his lap. Jon follows because that’s the done thing. Martin is hard in his trousers and it sends another crashing sense of harsh reality into Jon. He doesn’t do this. Not with anyone. Sometimes when he’s alone he thinks he might like it if he were in the right mood with a person he trusts, who he loves. But that mood is not now. Even if he trusts Martin more than anything.

Martin’s hands are warm and soft and guiding on his hips and Jon desperately wants to like it but they are kissing again and there are tongues. He tries. He does. He doesn’t want to be broken in this other way. This human way. He’s already a monster and somehow Martin is with him regardless. But this?

Jon is terrified this will be the thing that drives him away.

With shaking hands, Jon reaches between them and rucks up Martin’s jumper, only.to find he’s wearing a white t-shirt beneath. Jon can feel the heat of his skin through it, grounding. It’s nice and under other circumstances (holding each other in bed, a slow morning, trading lazy shallow kisses) Jon thinks the feel of Martin’s soft belly would bring on the low fizzle of heat he’d felt before when Martin had started to kiss him more deeply.

The shake in his hands grows worse and he tries to still them as he tugs at the undershirt as well. Wide hands grasp his wrists and he realizes his whole body is shaking.

Martin pulls away and a new fear threads its way through Jon’s heart.

“Jon?” His voice is soft and Jon realizes he has squeezed his own eyes shut as tight as they will go. He opens them.

Martin’s gaze is as soft as that single word. Concerned. In love. Jon sees it. Knows it. And knows it. Both cases. Both ways.

“You don’t like this, do you?” Martin says more than asks, blunt nose scrunching up adorably. Everything he does is adorable because Jon adores him.

“It’s fine,” Jon says hurriedly, not answering the question. “Let’s keep going.”

He runs his hand up under Martin’s shirt, feels the growing heat of the skin of his stomach, his chest. “I Know you want this.”

Martin’s hands tighten on his hips. His fingers have just dipped under the hem of his shirt and they are distractingly hot on Jon’s bare skin. Then his hands move away, sliding up his back, one to cup the back of his head and the other wide between his scapulae as he pulls Jon against his chest, tucking him close.

“Jon, I love you.”

His breath hitches in his throat, caught in the web of fear that makes him want to pull away, to push Martin down on the couch and give him what he wants.

“Whatever way that looks. Separate bedrooms. Kissing. No kissing. Shagging like maniacs or whatever.” Martin’s breath tickles the hair on the top of Jon’s head as he brushes his fingers through the fuzz at the nape of his neck. “I love you and I don’t want you to pretend you like something you don’t.”

Jon takes a deep breath. It’s filled with the scent of detergent and earl grey and tinged with the subtle-Martin smell than Jon can’t get enough of now that Martin is always near. “I want you to be happy,” he confesses.

“I am happy. You’re here.”

Jon rests his head on Martin’s shoulder and that night, they share a bedroom for the first time, feet tangled together, waking up to the cool sunshine just to hold each other because they can. Because they love each other. Because they are safe.

[themagnuswriters]

Announcing: The Magnus Archives Hurt/Comfort Week

With the brief break we have from season 5 of the Magnus Archives wreaking havoc on our emotions, we thought we’d unwind by... wreaking havoc on our emotions!  In between the horror of canon and the fluff of escapist AUs lies the well-loved medley of suffering and support: Hurt/Comfort!

We are holding an event for Hurt/Comfort fan content, including both art and writing.  Your creations can be about any character(s) from The Magnus Archives, AU or canon, gen or shipping.  The event will run from Monday, August 24, to Sunday, August 30.

For each day of the event, one Hurt/Comfort trope and two other prompts will be provided for inspiration.  Use one or multiple prompts, or go in your own direction!  Any Hurt/Comfort fanworks will be included, as long as they contain both elements of the genre.

Event and Prompts

We will be using the #TMAHCweek tag to collect works on tumblr. To ensure the well-being of those enjoying the event, please make sure to include applicable content warnings (including NSFW content), even if they’re canon-typical, and use a read-more cut or link to ao3. There is a TMAHC Week tag on ao3 as well, if you would like to use it.

Our list of prompts for the event are below:

8/24  Monday Self-worth Issues  ♢    Pretend  ♢   Shaky hands

8/25  Tuesday Treating / Distracting From Injuries  ♢  Confession ♢  Fear

8/26  Wednesday  Sickfic  ♢   Misunderstanding  ♢   Overwhelmed

8/27  Thursday Touch-starved  ♢   Sharp    ♢    Fragile

8/28  Friday  Hiding Pain / Injury   ♢    Childhood   ♢    Calm

8/29  Saturday Delirium / Confusion    ♢     Cradled    ♢     Accident

8/30  Sunday Messy Breakdown / Panic Attack  ♢   Blindfolded  ♢   Home

Feel free to contact us if you have any questions, and give us a reblog to spread the word!

[blushingwithafever]

TMAHC week day 3: sickfic || misunderstanding || overwhelmed

I finished this at around 7 am so apologies if there’s any errors, I’ll fix them later on

Set sometime while Martin is still sleeping at the Institute

To be completely honest, Jon had no idea how he made it to work in one peice this morning.

Actually, it could be counted as afternoon now since it was around half past twelve when he stumbles into the Institute, but he still made it, and that’s all that counts.

He’d slept through the multiple alarms he had set, which was unusual for him since he’s normally not the deepest sleeper— the drop of a pen was enough to wake him with a start these days. A pulsing pain within his skull eventually drew him out of the comforting darkness of sleep as it throbbed in time with the annoying beep of his alarm. He wanted nothing more than to let sleep take him away again, away from the pain, but he knew he had to get up and head out.

Suck it up, you’re fine. It’s not even that bad. You’re just being dramatic, he grit his teeth as his exasperated grandmother’s voice rung out in his aching head. 

“Let’s get on with it then” Jon muttered while he scrubbed a hand down his slightly flushed face.

The day only seemed to get worse the more it dragged on.

He was already late, which of course Tim just had to make snide comments on, it was making the pounding headache turn into feeling like a jackhammer across his temples. It was bad enough that he was shambling down the hall like a drunkard, having to hold onto the wall for support every few steps, but he almost let out a frustrated groan when he heard Tim’s footsteps follow him.

He has neither have the time or the energy for this.

He wants to be left alone, is that so much to ask?

His office.

All he has to do was reach his office and he could find some peace, he was so desperate already that he flung open the door and slammed it after his entrance, nearly toppling over afterwards and wincing hard. He hadn’t actually meant for the door to slam shut as hard as it did, but the damage was done and he was regretting it. He had to lean back against the door as he rubbed at his temples with both hands, the loud slam made the pain 10x worse.

At least he was alone now. Alone in the quiet darkness, that seemed to help slightly after a couple of minutes.

The next three and a half hours are an agonizing blur of statement readings and recordings. A deep ache had made itself at home in his bones and his small frame is wracked with chills that switches to a sweltering heat in the blink of an eye. His free hand reaching up unconsciously to jam two fingers into his temple again for the umpteenth time, this time frowning when he notices the heat and sweat on his brow.

He isn’t sure if his throat feels sore from all the reading without anything to drink or if it’s just a little added bonus to his illness— but the coughs he produces after clearing his throat are answer enough.

Lucky him.

He’ll finish this statement, it’s getting a bit hard to focus anyway, and then lie down in the cot for a quick 10 minute power nap.

It’s worked in the past so why wouldn’t it now?

He remembers the old bottle of paracetamol in his desk before getting up, knowing that he should probably take something before heading over to the storage room, but his face falls upon finding it empty without so much as a rattle. Well... so much for that.

—————

Martin quietly shuffles around the Institute after hours; making sure everything’s locked up tight, washing up in the restroom, fixing himself dinner and a cuppa, and settling down by watching the telly in the break room before heading to bed on the cot that Jon lent him for the time being. It’s been his nightly routine since Jane Prentiss trapped him.

There’s no one else here to his knowledge, even Jon’s office is dark and empty, so he doesn’t expect company until at least 6 or 7 am.

Jon usually got here the earliest but today he threw a bit of curve ball at them by arriving at 12:30 pm while looking quite disheveled, almost like he’d just rolled out of bed. 

He really didn’t look good, and Martin wanted to press on the matter, but he’d promised to do the lunch run today so it would have to wait. By the time he returned, Tim made sure to let everyone know that ‘boss’ was in a mood. Martin went to check on him but decided against it when he felt the locked handle and heard Jon’s strained voice while he read aloud. He’d just check in before Jon goes home then.

He must have missed him.

But if Jon’s well enough to leave then he must be fine, maybe he was just exhausted after a few nights of restless sleep— Martin now knows the feeling.

He almost falls asleep in one of the wooden chairs as the show he was attempting to watch drags on. Turning off the boring show, he makes his way to the restroom one last time to change into sweats and a tee.

The silence of the Institute after hours is probably something he’ll never get used to. There’s just something eerie to it, like it’s too quiet, too calm.

A noise cuts through the silence, effectively spooking him, that’s coming from further down the corridor ahead of him. He’s not sure he wants to continue after that but he thinks it sounded like a moan of pain, there’s a beat of hesitation before his curiosity and concern win out as he continues to silently press on.

The door to the storage room is ajar so he makes his way over with caution until he can peer inside. What he sees isn’t what he was expecting. Jon’s on the cot, curled in on himself and shaking like a leaf while the blanket is hanging off the edge onto the floor. Martin’s quick to enter, concern overtaking caution as he hurries his way over.

“Jon?” Martin starts softly as to not cause more harm than good, “I thought you went home.”

He doesn’t like that Jon barely stirs at the intrusion, but instead he focuses on taking in more of the sight before him. Jon’s face looks too drawn and pale, a high flush on his cheeks, sweat making his shirt cling to his skin, and the ragged breathing that had a slight wheeze on the end— he looks a right mess. Before he even realizes it, he’s reaching a hand out to brush against Jon’s forehead.

He expects Jon to startle when he touches him, but the only response he gets is another moan that gets choked off as the poor man’s voice cracks painfully.

“Oh, Jon” Martin coos while brushing sweaty bangs out of the way, “that’s a pretty nasty fever you’ve got.”

Jon really doesn’t want to wake up and he wants to open his eyes even less with the spinning sensation he’d felt earlier when he woke. He registers a warm hand brushing his hair and chances cracking one eye open. It’s so gentle, working out the tangles and smoothing his sweat soaked curls, he almost falls back asleep before the person says something he can’t make out.

“Wha’d say?” It comes out a lot less elegant than he wants it to but whoever it is seems to get the point.

“I asked how you were feeling.” Martin is as patient as a ever while he watches Jon’s eyes blink blearily up at him as of trying to process what’s going on and what’d he just said.

“M’tin” recognition flashes in glassy eyes when he sees that Martin isn’t in his usual clothes anymore. “S’rry, I’ll get up. Jus’ needa sec.”

“No, no you’re fine there” Martin’s hands hover over Jon should he need to push him back down but Jon’s arms give out before then, “stay right here. You’re alright. I’d like to get a read on that fever and a bottle of water for you.”

“But your cot—”

“Don’t worry about it, plus it’s really yours and you need it more than me. Now, can you stay here for me? I’ll just be a second.”

Martin’s satisfied with the small nod he receives and bolts out to the break room for the first aid kit and a bottle of water from the fridge. Jon’s still in the same spot when he returns to his side.

He must really feel poorly if he’s accepting help so easily, Martin bites his lip while shifting through the kit, looking for everything he needs.

It’s a good thing he always checks the kit to make sure it’s well stocked with whatever the crew might need. He holds out the thermometer and waits for Jon to open his mouth far enough to slip it in. He’s already shaking a few tablets out of the bottle of paracetamol before the device beeps.

39.6

Martin tsks softly, helping Jon sit up before depositing two tablets and the bottle of water into his shaky hands. He doesn’t even complain when Martin helps lift the bottle to his lips.

The quick interaction seems to take what little energy Jon had left out of him as he slumps bonelessly against Martin, head pillowed on his chest. He’s never seen Jon like this before, and of course that’s concerning, but at least he doesn’t have to suffer alone through it.

“Stay” Jon whispers hoarsely against Martin before an even quieter, “please.”

“I’ll be here.” Martin shifts slightly to run a hand through Jon’s hair, gently coaxing him to sleep. He holds back a chuckle when he watches Jon try to fight against closing his droopy eyes.

Martin stays with him for the rest of the night and doesn’t dare move his body except for the hand that’s playing with Jon’s hair, even though the heat of the fever penetrates his shirt and leaves him a bit uncomfortable and sweaty— it’s well worth it.

[sickfics-for-days]

Knowledge is All We Have

Hello! This is my first fic for the TMAHC week! I went with the shaky hands prompt, as well as a dash of pretend. Enjoy! :)

The end of the world is here, and all Jon can do is hide here in this cabin with Martin. He knows they cannot hide here forever, but he is willing to try, even if for just a little while longer. He knows... well that’s the problem isn’t it? He Knows. He Knows everything that happening outside the illusion of safety the walls provide. He Knows the fear, the agony that he has brought to the entire world.

He Knows about the woman Martin spoke to at the shop in the village. She had smiled when she handed him his receipt, asking politely if he was in area on holiday. Martin had laughed, saying it was something like that. Now, she was trapped in what used to be her flat above the shop, consumed in an endless flame. He Knows about the farmer down the lane, whose cows Martin always enjoyed observing. He Knows that he is now running, always running, away from the Hunt. He is prey and there is nothing Jon could do to save him from his inevitable fate. Jon hates that as The Archivist all he can do is watch. He hates even more that somewhere deep down, he enjoys it.

Martin is doing his best. He is trying to give Jon the space he says he needs, give him time to come to terms with the fact that he just ended the world. But he will never Understand, and for this Jon is grateful. In this new world where rules do not apply and each moment is more terrifying, Jon is grateful that Martin is protected from the full force of it. However, he drowning under the weight of everyone’s stories. The woman in the shop and the farmer are not unique. He Knows the fates of everyone, who they were and what they are now reduced to. The best parts of humanity are gone, everyone is now just terror and fear. When Martin leaves, trying to offer the space he thinks Jon needs, Jon often finds himself on his knees, the heels of his shaking hands pressed into his eyes, trying and failing to stem the flow of knowledge that he cannot stop any more than he could have stopped the tide from coming in, back when things like that still happened.

Martin had returned during one of the first of these episodes, before Jon had acclimated and learned to hide what he Knew, and he had hurriedly set down the mug of tea in his hands and knelt beside him.

“Jon? Jon, what’s wrong?”

The best Jon could offer was a low moan, more of an instinctive response to the worried tone than a coherent answer. There was just so much information, he didn’t even have the brain space to comprehend what was being said, just the fact that Martin was scared. It triggered some last human instinct within him, the desire to respond, to say it was okay, anything to remove that fear from the one person he had privately resolved should not fall under the fear that had taken the rest of the world.

“O-okay, let’s, ah, let’s get you onto the sofa. Come on.” Gently, Martin lifted Jon to a semblance of a standing position, shuffling them backwards onto the cushions in a movement Jon barely registered.

He knows he isn’t helping, limbs moving stiffly, awkwardly, and relying too much on Martin for support. But before he can put together what to do, how to help, he is lost again in the tide, thoughts swallowed by pain and fear and suffering too great to imagine, and yet, he doesn’t have to. It plays out in his mind’s eye, and he can feel the pain, the fear. It’s not enough that he can see it, the Eye needs him to feel it too, to drink in the cocktail of terror as if it were the sustenance keeping him alive.

That’s the part that gets to him the most. All the horror, pain, gore, and terror, everything that should overwhelm him and shut him down with the absolute monstrosity of it all, and he is drinking it in. It feels right, natural, and in some ways he can’t get enough. After so long subsisting on dry, stale statements from the archives, this buffet of fresh terror feels like a feast.

As the tide recedes, he lets out a dry sob, and he is not sure if it is of relief or painful, aching loss. He finds he is on the couch, folded against Martin, and the fire is crackling in the fireplace. Martin has his arms around him, trying in vain to offer comfort and support, to ground him. Taking a deep breath, Jon sits up, pulling away ever so slightly to take his own weight.

“Is- is it over?” Martin asks hesitantly.

“Yes, I think- I believe so.” Jon lies, unable to fully describe how even now he still Knows and will never fully stop.

Delicately, as if the slightest touch could shatter him, Martin takes a blanket and wraps it around Jon’s shoulders. “It’s that bad?”

Jon inhales, a deep shuddering sigh, before replying. “It’s... it’s everything, all of it. I’m The Archivist, and the Beholding wants to... to reward me, I guess. I can see everything, every detail of every person and what’s happening to them.” He pulls the blanket tighter around himself, the shaking in his hands fading, but not gone yet.

“Some reward,” Martin snorts.

“I- I wish I could agree. But it just, it feels so right, and- and I hate it more than anything.” Jon crumples under the blanket, shame and guilt crushing him.

“None of that,” Martin rebukes gently, pulling him closer. “This was Elias’ fault. He tricked you. You never wanted this, never even dreamed of doing it. You were just a piece in a much larger game.” He picks up a still warm cup of tea from the coffee table and hands it to him. “Here, take this, it might help.”

Jon takes it, hands finally steady, savoring the warmth and comfort, even as he knows it cannot last.

[voiceless-terror]

First Day for TMAHC Week @themagnuswriters: Shaky Hands

CW: Mental Heath Issues, Talk of Medication, Talk of Anxiety and Depression, Minor Injury/Some Blood

[karliahs]

i’m gonna try and write something every day for tma hurt/comfort week even tho i predict absolutely none of it will be finished/edited by the end of the week. look out for some TMAHC fics from me long after the event has finished

so far this has mostly meant sleepily writing fic on my phone right before i go to bed but...it all counts

[silver-colour]

Tag game

Rules: post the names of all the files in your WIP folder, regardless of how non-descriptive or ridiculous. Send me an ask with the title that most intrigues you and interests you and i’ll post a little snippet of it or tell you something about it!

I was tagged by the lovely @pinehutch for the WIP tag game- and you can ask me aboit any of them you’re curious about^^

Aight here we go:

1 TMAHC week (yes the week is finished yes i still have wips for some of those)

2 tma fills (too many in one doc,don’t me like me kids)

3 promare

4 GO fills

5 GO gift for [REDACTED]

6 mystAU (good omens mystery AU)

7 halloween yall

8 swordtember (yes there’s wips no its nolonger sept, I know)

9 zuka fills

10 sapasapasapa

11 TMA vampires

12 GO vampire au babyyy

In conclusion I think we can say my doc names are boring af... but all of them are free to ask 💜

Im tagging @lost-in-the-land-of-stories @onestepatatime32 @yozoragumi and @the-ocean-in-motion if they feel like it 💕

[ao3feed-themagnusarchives]

A Brand on the Skin

by voiceless_terror

Jon gets marked by three entities in a matter of days and crashes.

Words: 1540, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English

Series: Part 3 of TMA Hurt/Comfort Week

Fandoms: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Categories: Gen

Characters: Tim Stoker (The Magnus Archives), Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Martin Blackwood, Melanie King

Additional Tags: Hurt/Comfort, Angst, season three, Aftermath of Episode 92, TMAHC Week

source https://archiveofourown.org/works/26124868

[janekfan]

Heart(ache)

https://archiveofourown.org/works/26199034

“You, you, you want to say something, Martin, so just say it!”

“I won’t, not while we’re both upset.” Martin gestured tiredly, somehow keeping his temper even as Jon flickered lightning quick between all of his emotions seemingly at once. “Not when you’re like this.” Like this, was pacing the length of the sitting room, shaking top to toe, each and every muscle stretched taut as a bow string. He felt out of control, like a war was waging inside his chest and there was no space, no way out.

“I didn’t.”

He hadn’t.

Because Martin had to bodily intercept him and drag him away from the child harboring the fear he practically tasted on the recycled air in the market. But he hadn’t. He, he wouldn’t.

But he would, wouldn’t he. When his tentative control over the horror roiling just under his skin snapped. When he ate, and ate, and ate up their fears and haunted their dreams until the empty, desolate abyss inside him stopped hurting.

“I know. But it was a close thing and I’m. I’m tired, Jon.” He pinched his nose, glasses riding up on his forehead. “A child, Jon. A child.”

Logically. The part of Jon that still existed logically knew this wasn’t easy on Martin. Knew it was impossible. Knew that this hunger was taking advantage of the man he’d been before this and exacerbating all the worst parts of himself.

And he let it. Some days.

Because it was easier.

It had always been easier to be alone.

Trust Martin to keep coming back and Jon to keep letting him; craving him like a drug, the only one that could quell the ravenous voice whispering in his ear all those seductive, cloying promises of freedom and power and Knowledge of all things.

But Martin would never be able to understand how deep the dark went and how much of it was Jon himself and it was shameful that he couldn’t tell where he ended and the Eye began and Martin could never understand. Wonderful, beautiful Martin asked how he could help and Jon didn’t know because nothing helped except that which he tried so hard not to take.

God. He was tired of being a burden.

Tired of being helpless.

Tired of losing bits and pieces to that covetous pit.

And he was just so angry.

Static filled his head and he realized he was holding it in both hands, tugging at his greying hair and Martin was still talking but he didn’t understand what he was saying. Could only pick up on the displeased nature of his tone.

Martin was upset. Jon made him upset.

He couldn’t breathe.

“Jon.” And he didn’t deserve the concern in his voice.

“You were going to say something. Before. Please.” Jon couldn’t feel his hands. His arms were numb.

“Not now.” But he needed it now. He needed to know so he could fix this.

“Martin--” He was turning away. Leaving. He was leaving.

“No, Jon.” He could. Fix. He could fix this. He just needed to Know. If he Knew he could fix this. Then Martin wouldn’t leave. He wouldn’t leave if he could just fix what he broke. He just needed to Know.

“Tell me!” Despite the desperate fracture in his voice, the compulsion was like a physical blow and Jon grieved it the instant he spoke but the damage was already done. Dangerous satisfaction that didn’t belong to him flooded his mouth with salt.

Time slowed.

Jon watched (because that was all he ever did) in horror as Martin struggled against the Eye’s power, his power, before his answer erupted from his throat like a gout of acid.

“I hate that you’re like this!” Martin clapped both hands over his mouth, hurt, and confusion, and disappointment welling up in his eyes as Jon turned tail and ran into the night.

There were no shortage of places to hide in the highlands and quick as he could, Jon wedged himself, trembling fit to shake apart, under the shadows of a fallen stone wall before the hysterical sob fighting to break free wrenched itself painfully from the dead center of his chest.

And once it was set free there was no way to stop, not even when he became light headed from the lack of air, not when he knocked his head against the stones with his frantic rocking back and forth, curled up as small as he could get. He couldn’t stop crying, hyperventilating between his knees, the mocking laughter of his god echoing in the hollows of his mind.

It’s over.

Over.

I’m alone.

I’m alone.

I can’t do this alone.

I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.

Hard, Job bit into the skin between his thumb and index finger, muffing himself with the bite and begging the pain, this new pain, this different pain, to cut through the noise taking up all his spaces, stealing away his control and he’s had so little of it lately. This time he slotted a knuckle between his teeth until he tasted blood.

Again.

Again.

Until his paralyzed lungs heaved in a great breath and dizzied him with it.

Until the panting slowed.

Again.

Until each hand was covered in healing, bruising, bleeding marks of his own making.

Until he could think again.

Until the shame blossomed in him and he cried anew, cutting the edge of his pinky on an incisor. Anything to stop feeling for just one moment. He sank in on himself, making himself somehow smaller amongst the rubble boxing him in, resting his hot, hot forehead against the chilly stone. He could feel the cold seeping in, could see his breath on each exhale and took to counting each plume until the only thing he was left with was an aching exhaustion down deep in his string-and-stick bones.

Sodding blighter.

You never stop when you should. Always pushing.

Always needing more than someone gave. Never grateful for what he was given. Selfish. Martin would realize sooner or later, that Jon needed more than he had any right.

And now.

Martin, sweet, kind, beautiful Martin, would let him down gently. Explain that he hadn’t known how much of himself Jon would try and take. That he hadn’t known the depths of his greed and couldn’t allow Jon to use him up. He would be sorry.

And then he would leave.

And the idea that Jon found a certain comfort in the familiar order of these things, knew what to expect, was sickest of all.

Tears slipped down his cheeks, dripped off his chin, and Jon didn’t know whether the furious shuddering was from the temperature or the residual shock of his panic attack. As he continued to calm, the Eye flickered and danced along to the thrum of the insect song all around him, identifying each species, genus, family, order, latin name, who discovered each one and when; the list was infinite. Jon let it have its fun, blinking slowly, wondering absently who’s dreams he’d lurk through if he just fell asleep right here.

He was contemplating that very thing when he heard Martin’s voice calling out and Jon knew if he stayed still he wouldn’t be found and considered doing just that, not knowing how he could ever face him again after what he’d done. The beam of a torch swept over the wall and Jon heard quiet cursing as Martin tripped and almost lost his footing.

He would hurt himself stumbling around out here in the dark looking for Jon so scrubbing his face free of any tears, he stood on unsteady legs, limping forward filled to bursting with regret and shame.

“Martin.”

“Oh, Christ, Jon.” He whirled, hand clutched over a pounding heart no doubt and watched him scan him up and down, expression forcibly neutral and more tears rolled down his cheeks. Wordlessly, Martin bundled him up in his coat and warmth engulfed him as he was led back to the cabin by the hand settled against the small of his back.

He was sat in a chair in the tiny kitchen and Martin made no motion to take his coat so he hunched himself up inside it to watch him putter around preparing tea. Jon knew better than to interrupt. Could tell he was angry by the clipped movements, his stiff shoulders. He swallowed, pushing down the panic. Martin had every right to be mad. To yell at him. To hurt him if he needed to. It wasn’t fair to manipulate him with more tears.

He would be patient. He would wait. Because Martin needed him to wait and he didn’t wait last time.

Jumping when the mug was set in front of him, Jon waited until Martin settled across from him, watching his body language, noticing how he wouldn’t meet his eyes. Noticed how he relaxed after the first sip.

“I’m--”

“Drink your tea, please, Jon.” Terse, but not unkind. Until now, Jon had kept his hands hidden in the long sleeves. The bites were healing. Quickly. They weren’t gone. And Martin would see if he reached for the porcelain in front of him.

Would he be mad?

“Breathe, Jon.” How? When he’d ruined the only thing good he had and that knowing was crushing him like he’d been crushed in the Buried. “You’re freezing, love.” Jon’s eyes went wide in surprise, welled up. Spilled over. “Drink your tea.” Softly, like he was coaxing a cornered animal. Ashamed, he looked down at the surface of the worn table speckled with his tears, and reached out his hands, closing his eyes at the sharp intake of breath. He couldn’t look. Too afraid of what he’d see and I don’t need to Know, thank you very much, please, stop.

The first swallow began to thaw him from the inside, out, and it was made just how he liked it and suddenly he was crying so hard he could barely finish, gasping like a fish out of water for just a whisper of air, sore from the effort. He was strung out, a wreck, scarcely keeping it together, not keeping it together. And suddenly he was being pressed against Martin’s chest, one hand gently holding his head in place, the other running up and down his back as he fought himself for permission to breathe.

This wasn’t fair. This wasn’t supposed to happen. He hurt Martin.

And again, he made it all about him.

It was always about him.

“Let’s get these washed up, okay?”

Savlon and plasters applied, Martin settled them both on the couch, tugging Jon against him and pulling a blanket over the both of them.

“I’m so, so, s’s’sorry.” Martin sighed heavily, carding fingers through Jon’s hair when he tensed up at the sound.

“I know.”

“H’how can I--?”

“I’m sorry, too. I was so scared for that child.”

“I kn’know.” Jon pushed away so he could look at Martin. “I’ll do better. I won’t. I won’t go into the village.” Just please, please don't leave me here alone. Martin pressed a kiss against his forehead.

“You’re doing your best.” While falling so, so short.

“Do you.” Jon licked dry lips. “You hate--”

“I don’t hate you, darling.” Jon buried his face in Martin’s jumper. “I hate seeing you struggling because I can’t help you.”

“You do help.” Muffled by the soft yarn. “You’re the only thing that does help and I. I.”

“Made a mistake. And you hurt me. But, Jon? It doesn’t mean I’m leaving.” The relief was heady, overwhelming. “Next time, because there will be one, that’s just how this all works. Next time you need to listen when I tell you I need some time.” Jon nodded. “Good. Well, that’s a start then.”

“That’s it?”

“For now.” Martin hugged him tightly. Jon tentatively returned it. “We’re tired--don’t argue with me. And we have time to figure this out together, love.”

And Jon breathed.

[janekfan]

Acceptance

https://archiveofourown.org/works/26163367

“Jon’s hiding something.”

“Tim.” Martin was tired. And sad. And worried. Because he had the very same thought every time he caught a glimpse of the Archivist slipping between shadows in the stacks; furtive, haunted, hunted.

“You know I’m right.” He didn’t look up from the worn surface of his desk, tracing a stray mark with the pad of his finger, not even expending energy enough to pretend he had any interest in working. “He’s. He’s a monster, Martin.”

“Tim!”

“You know it, well as I do. This is all his fault.” His voice was made of raw edges, filled with grief and pain and sorrow. “Stay. Martin, promise me.” Eyes hollow in his scarred, handsome face, he looked up at Martin through dark lashes. “Promise me you’ll stay away from him.”

“You know I can’t do that.” Martin had to look away, the weight of Tim’s gaze smothering and awful and full of hurt and anger and barely simmering rage. “He’s our friend. Even if he’s. Forgotten it a little.” Tim went back to his aimless pattern making.

“You’re making a mistake.”

Martin made sure to knock and knock gently. The few times he’d gotten even a partially clear look at his face it had been lined in pain, lips pressed into a thin, controlled line. It was clear he was purposely avoiding his eyes.

“Tea, Jon?” He heard him shift, a weary scraping of his soles sliding on the dusty floor, the light from the tiny desk lamp barely illuminating the space around it, let alone the rest of the office.

“Ah, y’yes. Pl’please.” Shaking hands materialized out of the dim, gripping the mug and holding it like a lifeline, flinching when the hot liquid sloshed over his fingers. “Thank you, Martin.” Thin and thready, Jon sounded exhausted and knowing he slept poorly at even the best of times, must have been getting even less sleep since the Prentiss incident.

“Jon?” Martin smiled a bit when he heard the sounds of him sipping the tea, a sigh of some unidentifiable emotion but he wanted to believe there was warmth in it. “When’s the last time you went home?”

Jon had taken his mandatory time off.

He had.

Thirty days of leave.

But it did not stop him from exploring the tunnels beneath the archives, even though exploring was a generous term for it. Wandering was more apt a description, and he’d paid something of a price, as fate would have it, because his hip ached badly where the worms had burrowed so deep and no amount of stretching or physical therapy or pain medication seemed able to touch it. He winced inwardly at Martin’s open worry and trepidation. He’s not been kind to any of his assistants, certainly didn’t deserve this attention or care when he was barely able to look after himself. At the Institute he’s kept how much the pain is affecting him as hidden as possible, mostly by avoiding everyone which he knew made him look more suspicious. Tim already made it clear that he wanted nothing to do with him or his histrionics and no good would come from trying to gain sympathy for something that was his fault to begin with. He was already a nuisance forced upon them, been so from day one. But if he could pretend to be normal, just. Go back to that normal because right now the tightening in his chest, the embarrassment, the urge to hide away, was only making things worse.

He was making things worse.

He didn’t mention the aching loneliness or the fear. How he jumped at every shadow and woke from the screams of his coworkers he failed over and over again to protect in his nightmares. Or how he kept a CO2 canister by the bed just in case. Even if they were gone. Just in case. Jon didn’t talk about his nightly excursions in that twisting, winding, changing place because he would have to admit that despite how it hurt, he had to push himself to the point of breaking to get his overactive mind to quiet even the smallest amount. Grant him even the smallest respite.

So, no. He didn’t want Martin’s concern except that he very much did, felt like he was starving for someone to notice him, how much he hurt, how much he was struggling to keep his unraveling threads together.

“Jon?” Worry. And the sense of shame he felt at hiding how much he’s healed wrong or scarred too deep or how the phantom sensation of the worms kept him awake. And how could he tell him that he feared to sleep alone? That his flat was both too familiar and horribly alien all at once, full of shadows coiling, branching, twining, crawling, spiraling.

The safest thing to do for all of them was to push him away.

“I was home for nearly a month, Martin.” Dry. Sardonic. It was easy to act irritated and tired and bothered even when his heart was pounding a too-fast tattoo against his breastbone, surely leaving bruises behind. If Martin came any closer he would hear it.

Martin saw straight through his poor attempt at deflection, saw the same pain echoed just behind his eyes that he saw in Tim. This would either go well or he would never be able to show his face again but he needed to try, Jon deserved that much.

“How can I help?” As soft as he could make it, sitting down on a box crammed full of statements so Jon didn’t have to crane his neck, so he didn’t seem so intimidating. “I want to help.” He smiled, hands relaxed on his knees and watched as Jon turned his face up to meet him like a withered plant kept too long in the dark when it reencountered the sun, hungry and reaching. Undone by a few kind words, before his expression closed off. As if he remembered this was something he wasn’t supposed to have.

Point of no return.

“Would you. Would you consider coming home with me?” Jon inhaled a sharp, short breath. Held it. “Just for a night! Just so. I’d like to help if I can, somehow.” He chuckled, trying to ease the tension practically thrumming through the man’s bones like an audible hum of electricity. “I’m a decent cook?” Jon exhaled slowly. Want, exhausting and desperate, in the way his eyes glistened with unshed tears.

“Yes.” Bare more than a ragged fragment of a whisper and before he could rescind that delicate consent, Martin was rambling about how lovely it would be to have company. Just nonsense, in the hope that Jon wouldn’t realize what he’d done and change his mind. It was already far beyond quitting time and Martin said he’d return to collect him once he’d gotten his coat, allowing him a little space to gather his thoughts, securing a nod of assent before heading quickly off.

Jon was standing when he returned, thin jacket hardly enough to protect him from the damp chill outside, and Martin wrapped his own scarf around his neck, heart melting when his lashes fluttered in contentment as he buried his nose into the well worn yarn. Swaying and unsteady on his feet, his stiff posture would be night imperceptible if you weren’t watching for it. But Martin was always watching. Knew his injuries were bothering him and that, at this point, whatever pain he had was most likely permanent.

He wondered if he had a cane. It would certainly help.

Jon stopped short before he left his office and Martin worried he was changing his mind, watching him tilt his head like a bird, listening, breath even and slow and quiet.

“Has.” He wet his lips as the word caught in his throat. “Tim?” Ah, that was the hangup, then.

“Gone home long before us.” He felt for him, for that fear and worry of facing down his past mistakes. He’d made himself a convenient target with his suspicions of them and the anxiety blooming in him cut deep.

He stood as close to Martin without touching him as he could, blaming the number of other patrons riding the train at this hour though truthfully they were nowhere near them. He had no choice, that’s all. He could stand even if he wanted desperately to sit down and rest his aching leg, refusing to even glance at the empty priority seating so close to him and instead burying his face in Martin’s scarf, closing his eyes and breathing through the hot flash that often accompanied these spells, the almost feverish chills. When the train lurched to a stop he stumbled into Martin, who caught him with an inquiring look.

“Just tired.” He offered up what he hoped was a reassuring smile before leading the way through the doors, holding himself stiff in an attempt to keep the pain at bay.

Martin was a good cook.

“Since I was mainly existing on take away and cup noodles, it’s been nice to make my own meals again.” He said by way of explanation, dishing up a healthy portion for Jon who tried not to worry about finishing it, not having had much of an appetite lately. But it’s good, and warm, and Martin doesn’t say anything about what he had to leave behind, passing him a cup of tea prepared just the way he liked it.

It warmed him up from the inside out.

It made him want to cook for Martin sometime.

“Is there anything else I can get you?” Jon was on the couch with numerous blankets and pillows, dressed in Martin’s spare sleepwear, an oversized and soft tee that hung off his shoulder and drawstring pajama pants.

“This is perfect, Martin. Thank you.” He wished he could convey the true depth of it with just that, and as always, found himself sorely lacking but Martin just smiled bright, instructing him to wake him if he needed anything before bidding him good night. Surprisingly, Jon was already having trouble staying awake once he was settled into the cushions despite the overall ache. If he breathed slow and focused on the breath cycling through his body, into his blood, traveling along roadways mapped with veins and arteries and--

Agony.

Oh god, where was he? And why did it hurt?

All up his back and down his leg, his leg. Burning, blazing, blistering. Incandescent and stealing. Stealing.

Stealing.

Dark. Pitch black. Like the tunnels.

Be quiet, be quiet, be quiet or they'll hear you, see you, get you, take you and make you Not.

Winding, weaving, wandering. Lost, lost, lost.

The worms. Thoughts clicking into place when he managed to claw his way back to the surface of this roiling ocean of misery. Arm flailing to the side where he kept the canister but it wasn’t there. It wasn’t there and somebody must have taken it.

And his hip. Pulsing, throbbing, pounding through the whole of him and he had to be dying. Trapped in the tunnels and being eaten by worms.

He very nearly screams when something touches his arm, eyes flying open to realize that he can see. See. Shapes. Colors. Coalescing into Martin’s familiar face, worry splashed over it like his perfect freckles.

“Jon?” His voice is trembling, hand on his shoulder, gentle, a touchstone. “Jon, what’s wrong?” And stupid, stupid, stupid him clenches his teeth and grinds out a denial.

“N’nothing.” The fingers against his skin, his skin, Martin is touching his skin and he can’t focus. They tremble. Because he’s lying. Because Jon has always been and always will be a liar and all he wants to be is normal.

“Jon, is it.” His wide eyed stare flicks down and back to his. “Is it your leg?” How does he know. Of course he knows. Sometimes he thinks Martin knows him better than he’s ever known himself. That he might be the only person who ever has and he realizes he has a white knuckle grip on his thigh, trying to claw his way inside and rip out the hurting, as if it could ever be that simple. It’s spasming, twisted, he can’t stretch out the muscle and it’s so very painful and instinctively he knows it’s from the train and the walk, all longer than he was used to. And why does he keep doing this to himself?

He can’t slow his breathing, almost hyperventilating, chest heaving, eyes limned in tears and he thought he could pretend it didn’t hurt as much as it really did. That he was being dramatic and he didn’t want Martin to see how much of a wreck he is and regret inviting him into his home, sharing it with a nuisance, a burden, a bother.

“Jon.” There’s sorrow there. Pity. He’s pitying him and that’s the final straw that makes the tears fall hard and fast and Martin offers his hand and he grabs it like it’s his last connection to this physical realm because it hurts so badly he can’t barely breathe. “Can I help?” But there is no help. He’s beyond all and any and to let someone help him is to be vulnerable and Jon doesn’t like to be vulnerable, he can’t be.

But he hurts so badly and he wants to trust Martin, believe that he can make this awful reality even the tiniest bit better. And he wants him to know it.

So he nods. Almost hysterically because it feels like losing his mind and Martin’s hand in his is the only thing keeping him here.

“P’please.” A gasping whisper, begging. And Martin, beautiful, kind, patient Martin, cups his face and thumbs away his tears, palm so cool against his feverish skin.

“Okay, you are okay. I’m going to help.” Jon closes his eyes against a promise too good to be true. And when Martin removes his hands, his connection, he sobs and Martin soothes, digging his strong fingers into the rigid block of agony. “Hush, shh, I’ve got you, this will help, I promise.” Jon latches onto his words, tries to lose himself in them, clasping his own hands over his mouth to stifle his whining. When Martin straightens his leg it’s like a hot poker is jammed into his hip socket and he can’t help the low groan at the back of his throat. He’s never hurt like this, he’s sure. He’d have remembered. “Good, good. You’re doing so well, Jon. Breathe, shh, just like that.” Jon soaks up the praise like parched earth, and winds his fingers into the blankets at his side, as everything begins to relax, as Martin smooths warmth along the worst of the ache. Just an ache. Bearable now. Bearable. Just an ache and he sobs in relief. Martin disappears and reappears in the same moment, a bottle of paracetamol in his hand and a half glass of water. To appease, Jon takes a double dose even though they pale in comparison to the complete prescription of muscle relaxers minus one he had in his medicine cabinet at home and watched Martin keep his worry to himself.

“M’sorry. Martin.” He’s out of breath. Panting like he’d run a marathon and every part of him resonating with the aftermath of pushing himself too far. He studied Martin’s face. Waiting for derision or contempt or more pity to show itself. For him to say he needs to quit the job even though he’s quite sure he actually can’t.

“Nothing to be sorry for, Jon.” Calm and quiet and he passes him a cool flannel so he can wash his face and it is blissful. “I promise, nothing at all.” That can’t possibly be true. “I’m sorry I didn’t think about the walk.”

“It wasn’t that far.” Martin didn’t argue and Jon was grateful, refolding the cloth so he could press it against his eyes and let it absorb his tears of frustration and shame.

“I’ve got some dry clothes you can change into.” He heard Martin get up, calling from the other room. “The bed is big enough for two, if you don’t mind, I don’t.” Jon sat up, shaky, lightheaded, keeping his bad leg purposefully straight because he was afraid of what would happen if he bent it again. And Martin handed him another set of soft things, gathering up the spare bedclothes and spiriting them away while he changed. God he was dizzy. “Bed?” He blinked slowly, tired, certain he couldn’t stand on his own, and swallowed around the clot of emotion in his throat.

“Would y’you.” He looked down at his trembling hands, clasped them together in an attempt to stop them. “I don’t. C’can’t. Stand.” He could barely hear himself. Humiliation, hot and coursing through his blood. This was foolish. Couldn’t even--

“Of course.” Easy as that. As though it was that simple. And he supposed it was. When he let himself think about it. Martin took most of his weight, could’ve probably carried him outright, but as it was, just supported him as he hobbled forward, going so far as to lift his leg into the bed before flopping onto his side of the mattress and turning over to face him.

“I had. A. It was a nightmare.”

“The worms?”

“How did you know?” Martin shrugged.

“I have them too.” Jon chuffed a laugh in commiseration and saw Martin return it in a grin before letting himself fall back into the dark.

Martin watched as Jon slept deeply, breath even and slow and so peaceful in the early morning sunlight streaming in through the window. Lips slightly parted and fingers curled loosely against his throat, the lines of pain usually carving their jagged way down his face had smoothed out and his cheek was so humanly smushed into Martin’s extra pillow.

“Mmmorning.” The way he rubbed the sleep out of his eyes with the heel of an uncoordinated hand made his heart beat faster. And when his tired brown eyes rolled back beneath those dark fluttering lashes, black as ink, Martin remembered just how smitten he truly was. Deciding to let Jon get a few more moments of hardwon rest, he eased out of bed to go start breakfast, tucking the quilt over narrow shoulders.

Just when Martin was wondering if Jon might need some help maneuvering out of bed, quiet, uneven steps and the squeak of a chair moving across the floor drew his attention. A low, drawn out groan drifted from where his head was pillowed on folded arms and it seemed that one Jonathan Sims, was not a morning person. Still dressed in Martin’s oversized clothes, he could see the smooth skin of a shoulder blade when he placed his tea next to him, interpreting the grumbling as a garbled thank you. Two slices of toast with marmalade later and halfway through a second cup of strong tea, Jon seemed at least aware, sitting up and sipping on his mug.

“How’re you feeling?”

“Good. Pretty good.” He glanced shyly over the rim and back down again. “Thank you, Martin.” So soft, and Martin felt himself blush.

“You’re welcome, Jon.” Anytime. Always.

Jon was adjusting his collar and examining the purple bruises under his eyes in the hall mirror when Marin cleared his throat behind him.

“It was. Uh, my mum’s.” He held it out, worried he was overstepping in offering up a cane, not to mention one decorated in muted autumnal flowers. They were nearly the same height, in that Jon was a head shorter than Martin. For a full count he was stunned and Martin feared he’d made a grave miscalculation, pushed too hard, too soon. But Jon reached back, curling his fingers around the handle and taking a deep breath.

“Lovely pattern.” Martin grinned and Jon took an experimental step forward, steadier than he’d been since before Prentiss. “Shall we?”

[janekfan]

Famished

https://archiveofourown.org/works/26145478

This was ridiculous.

Perhaps the drink was making him more foolishly in love than usual because he couldn’t stop staring at him and when Jon looked back in turn, he tried to memorize every feature: the delicate flush high in his face, a lazy half-smile, the comfortably loose way he’d unspooled on the couch next to Martin, knee just a scant centimeter from his own.

He was beautiful like this.

“Martin.” Jon set his glass aside, knitting his brows in concern in the most adorable way. “Is everything alright?”

“Of course, Jon. I.” He looked away, cheeks hot, having been caught in his not so subtle gawking. “I was. You.” He laughed softly. “I was looking at you.” Jon’s face went bright red and he blinked furiously, ducking his head and peering up at Martin through long lashes briefly before darting away.

Adorable.

They spent a few more moments in easy quiet, listening to the fire burn down in the hearth, the crackling and popping providing punctuation to the unspoken conversation between them before Jon breached it.

“M’Martin?” There was something uneasy in his tone now, in the way he traced Perry’s scar on his palm. In his far-away eyes fixed on the flames licking their way over the logs.

“Jon?” And when that gaze turned upon him, ceaseless and unblinking and awash with damp fear, Martin felt his breath catch in his throat.

“Am I? Did I?” He swallowed, trembling, staring back into the conflagration. “Come back wrong?”

“What?” Martin’s pulse jumped, sped up, because what did he mean wrong? “What do you mean?" And he was so afraid of the answer. Things were good. Nice, even. Since they were currently not running for their lives but in fact experiencing a little downtime.

“Did you kn’know.” Horrified, Martin watched his bottom lip begin to quiver. Watched him bite it hard enough to leave marks to get it to stop before his tongue darted out to lick over the imprints of his teeth. He chuffed a laugh, a sad, awful little thing, and Martin could see his misty eyes glowing bright. “Kn’kn’know that Georgie wished I had died? R’rather than wake up?”

“What?” Rage, disbelief. And Jon flinched back, tears spilling over now with the sudden movement, like it was he who’d done something wrong and, no, no, no he hadn’t. This was all Martin’s fault because he knew Jon wouldn’t have told him this if he hadn’t (accidentally) gotten him drunk. If not for this moment, chances are he’d have kept it all to himself, locked up inside behind his intricate maze of walls. Martin was sick; he and Georgie became a little bit closer during the six months Jon was away. He knew her as kind, as someone who was there for Jon when he couldn’t be. Had hoped that while he was in the Lonely--

Jon still had someone on his side.

He knew little of the choice Jon had been given at the time. But he knew it was either come back. Or don't. And he was so, so grateful he’d chosen to come back to him.

“She’s right, isn’t she? I, I, I woke up. Twisted? I’m wrong, Martin.” The way he choked on the word made his heart ache. He’d drawn into himself again, the cozy sprawl from before tucked back inside like it never existed in the first place, limbs folded around the most sensitive parts of him and Martin felt at once like he was trying to soothe a wild and injured animal.

“No, no, Jon. Of course not.”

“But--” he sobbed.

“Georgie’s the one who’s wrong.”

“It hurt, Martin. To, to choose.” Now the tears came steady, slipping down his thin, scarred face, collecting on his chin until his quivering got the better of them. “Should I have died?” He was whispering, muttering, thinking out loud to himself and much too deep in his own head right now. “How could I have chosen wrong?”

“Choosing to live, to survive, is not wrong.”

“But.” The way he sounded, so. Defeated. As though he’d done the analysis and come up with enough evidence to fill a very large book. And Martin himself was probably in the footnotes.

“No, Jon. No.”

“I hurt people. You. Georgie. Melanie. Oh, god, Tim, Sasha.” He was spiraling, rocking back and forth minutely and to see him so undone broke something inside of Martin. It had taken Jon so long to let anyone close, to accept help, and when he was ready, when he needed it most, no one wanted anything to do with him.

“You didn’t trap them at the Institute.” But hadn’t Tim implied exactly that? Blamed Jon for all that went wrong and then some, as if he’d had any more information than the rest of them. And then died without granting him forgiveness? All this time--how heavy was that to carry?

“I don’t want to hurt people, Martin. I never wanted to hurt anyone.” His rambling was muffled behind both hands as they hid his face, syllables gasping and breathless, hyperventilating.

“I know.”

“I shouldn’t need this.”

“It’s alright.” Jon was constantly pale and exhausted, his hands already shook most of the time. He was starving without statements and refused to let Martin help him.

“Should I.” He lowered his hands, clasped them over his mouth and the stricken anguish in his face made tears sting the corners of Martin’s eyes. “I should let it take the rest of me.” Martin wished he hadn’t strained so hard to hear what sounded far too close to an epiphany for comfort.

“Jon.” Frantic, panting, his damp eyes searched his and Martin found himself shaking his head, because he knew what was coming next.

“Would you. Would you stay?” Mouth pressed into a line, gathering courage. “I w’wouldn’t ask, I, just.” When he closed his eyes he looked so vulnerable, so small, and Martin just wanted to wrap him up and take him away from here, to protect him from even himself. “It h’urts.” Whispered, a confession exhaled on a breath of hopeful air. “It’s been a long time so. So it--”

“Stop.” The change was like quicksilver; wretched mortification flooding into his expression at the thought that he’d miscalculated and he tried to backpedal.

“S’sorry.” Shame and embarrassment, like he’d done something dreadful by sharing even a fraction of what he kept bottled up inside.

“It makes me upset to hear you talk like this.”

“Of course.” He sounded so guilty. “I. I shouldn’t have. I apologize, Martin.” Immediately Jon’s face closed off and he was so good at it, at sliding the mask over his face so smoothly, Martin realized no one in his life ever wanted to hear. He hazarded a guess that Georgie hadn’t either.

“Jon. I didn’t mean. I want you to come to me when you feel like this. Always.”

“But.” He was hugging himself tightly, guarded. Exhausted. Cheeks tear-stained and eyes rimmed red, underscored with deep purple bruises.

“I want you. The thought of. Of watching you hurt like that. Hurt more.” He smiled sadly. “No, Jon. I need you.” Martin didn’t remind him that Elias had all the time in the world to choose another and who knew if that individual would try this hard to cling to their humanity. “And I’m so relieved you chose to come back.” Sobbing anew, Jon shuddered, his nerves most likely open and raw and exposed and Martin should have known better.

He really should have.

Jon yelped like a kicked dog when he laid a hand on his shoulder, toppling backwards over the arm of the couch with a scrambling thud in his attempt to get away from him and when Martin rounded the furniture Jon’s narrow chest heaving from the shock of it, heel of one hand pressed firmly to his forehead, the other curled up tight in the collar of his shirt.

“S’s’sorry, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Martin.” He whimpered, frustrated that he could barely speak, “I. Not.”

“It’s alright.” Martin breathed deeply, exaggerated, so Jon could hear it, relieved that he attempted to copy him. At this rate, he would pass out with how hard he was fighting. “It’s alright.” He knew Jon had experienced awful things; they all have, likely will continue to be stalked by this disaster. But it became so clear in this moment how Elias, Jonah, isolated Jon from the very start. “It’s alright.” Unbidden, the instances where he’d been threatened by the people who were supposed to be his friends swamped his memory. He’d been alone. Completely alone. All this time and if anything, Martin’s stretch in the Lonely made those signs shine brighter in others and Jon may as well have been a beacon. “I understand.”

“No. It’s not you. N’n’nikola.” He was calmer, had forced himself to be so; desperate to reassure Martin that it wasn’t his fault.

“You don’t have to tell me.” But Jon shook his head despite his reassurances.

“No, you. You d’d’deserve to know what. What you’re dealing with.” Oh, Jon, please don’t hate yourself. “She said it would hurt. A’a’and they kept. Kept. Touching me. And I couldn’t make them stop. I wanted them to stop. I really did, Martin.” He swiped almost angrily at the flood of new tears.

“I know, hush, of course you did. Of course.”

“I fought them. Every time. I, I tried.”

“I know.”

“I shouldn’t have been caught in the first place. I, I.”

“Shh…It’s not your fault, Jon.”

“And nobody. God, nobody. Eli--Jonah. No one knew.”

“I know; that wasn’t fair to you.” A month with his captors. And no one even noticed his absence. Or asked after him when he returned. Even after that awful joke he made to try and, and, and to process what had happened to him.

“I just want, want. I want, Martin.” Jon pushed himself into the upholstery and Martin knew if he could have torn his way into the fabric and hid, he would have. His short nails were leaving crescent moons in his arms. “Everything hurts, it’s, it’s too much. My head, my, my skin. I just. Want.”

“Okay, Jon. Okay. It’s okay.” Even though it was the farthest thing from the truth, but Martin wanted to try something before Jon fell even farther away from him, perhaps to a place where he wouldn’t be able to reach. “Jon? Can I touch you?” Over folded limbs, his eyes kept flickering to and from Martin. “I think it would help.” He kept his voice even and low and kind. “May I?”

“Please.” Slowly, so Jon could see each movement, Martin reached for the same shoulder as before, laying his palm over it firmly, and when Jon closed his eyes, more tears spilled down his face. He took a shaky breath, and then another, stronger this time, and Martin let him get used to the weight and the warmth.

Jon was overwhelmed. Stiff and trembling, lashes dark and damp like freshly spilled ink on his cheeks.

“I won’t do anything you don’t want me to.” Soft, gentle. “You’re in control, Jon. Tell me to stop and I will listen. I promise.”

“Stop?” He flinched, waiting for pain, or laughter, or mocking, derisive words, eyes still tightly closed. “P’please.” Martin wasn’t insulted by his test, removing his palm and offering him what he hoped was an easy smile, not blind to how Jon’s gaze now flicked between his hand and his face. If that was it for now, so be it. Martin wouldn’t rush him while they had this time together and kept his posture loose and unassuming, ready to wait forever if that’s what he needed.

Those sharp brown eyes were fixed on his hand and Martin knew he would never ask for what he wanted.

“Again?”

“Please.” Hushed, and this time he relaxed, just a bit.

“Could I hold you?”

“Please?” Even softer than before and Martin met him halfway as Jon all but collapsed into his lap, burying his face in his stomach and curling around him.

“Breathe, you need to breathe, Jon.” Gently, he levered him further into his arms. “I’ve got you.” Squeeze and release. Martin held him tight, held him together until he could again do it for himself, I’m here. I’m here. I’m here. And he felt when it became easier for Jon to force air into his body past the lead bands around his lungs Martin was all too familiar with from experience.

Jon couldn’t seem to get close enough, as though the small morsels of affection and comfort from the past few days made him crave it somehow more and he was clinging now, breath hitching with each pass of Martin’s palm over his shoulder blades, the knobs of his spine, each rung in the ladder that was his rib cage and lingering at the gap where two had been torn out of him for another. Always for another. His beautiful Jon; used so poorly by so many. Running fingers through his hair, he murmured sweet nonsense into his ear, tucking his still damp face into his neck and smiling at the deep peacefulness of his sigh, how each trembling muscle relaxed, how he settled against him like he was made to fit just there.

“Jon?” The accompanying touch, the backs of his fingers against his cheek, was as gentle as his inquiry. He was blinking slow, up at Martin’s face, eyes adorably crossed and bleary with his long fingers tangled up in his jumper.

“M’so tired.” He nuzzled the soft yarn, lashes fluttering closed, and Martin could feel it in the way his weight became heavier, how he melted completely, all the fear, all the panic oozed out of him until only Jon was left.

“Bed?”

“Mm.” The sleepiest, tiniest nod, and his love for him swelled in his chest.

“Alright, darling.”

“M’sorry.”

“Shh, shh.” Martin cupped his face, ran his thumb over the bone of his cheek. “None of that now, no need to be sorry.” Slowly, he lifted Jon up with him as he stood, catching him up under his knees when they threatened to buckle. “I’ve got you.” Jon had yet to unwind his fingers from where they held on so tightly and he pulled Martin down with him into the blankets.

“Martin.” Lightly, he brushed his lips against a scar left from the Corruption, listened to the little gasp Jon made, and kissed another. Softly, sweetly.

“Is this okay?”

“Yes.” His eyes glowed faintly in the dark, a whisper of green when Martin looked at him just right that matched his pleading susurration. Another scar. And another, there were so many, on his lined face, down the dark column of his throat. The mark left from Daisy elicited a sharp intake, tensing, and Martin soothed him with another press to his forehead. He caressed each scar, determined to replace each awful memory, each awful touch with something better, something that spoke of care, and fondness, promises of love.

“Call’d me, ‘darling.’” He sounded drugged, tongue loose and tripping up, syllables slurring with exhaustion and the chartreuse glimmering now hidden behind closed lids. Martin lifted his palm from where it had fallen away, lingering longest where Jon could feel it the least.

“Of course I did.”

Martin laid awake long after Jon slipped under, stroking his hair, watching him sleep, slack and undone, and hoping the dreams he walked through were at least somewhat kind to both Beholder and Beholden.

[janekfan]

Commitment

https://archiveofourown.org/works/26181859

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

He was, quite frankly. Knackered.

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

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

“Evening, Tim.”

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

Well, that was over now.

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

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

“Night, Tim.”

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

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

“Thank you, Tim.”

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

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

“Clearly.” Dry.

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

“Tch.”

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

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

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

mm artin, jut chdcking in hkw fj you ffele?

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

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

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

“Yeah, yeah, I’m listening.” Sort of.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Tim?”

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

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

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

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

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

“Fifteen.” And disconnected the line.

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

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

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

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

Oh dear.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Don’t. I think. Think m’not well.”

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

“Tim?”

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

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

“S’alright, Jon.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You dunno the half of it, Marto.”

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

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

“Tired.”

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

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

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

He had it just as bad.

[janekfan]

Through and Through

https://archiveofourown.org/works/26109502

Treating injury prompt for TMAHCweek!

“No, I,” Jon inhaled, shaky, “I think it’s here. I, I. I can feel it, like a. Hole in my mind.” Basira looked skeptical and Jon couldn’t blame her. Who would just leave something like the Dark Star unattended and alone? What were they missing?

“They just left it here.”

“I. Maybe.” He chuffed, running a hand through his prematurely greying hair. “Kinda wish Daisy was here.” The silence was heavy, oppressive, but the steps ceased. “Basira?” He could picture her eyes, shrewd in the dim. Watching.

“Yeah?” She began again.

“Sorry.” He breathed in again, deep and unsteady. “I know this isn’t--behind you!”

“Down!” She spun around, firing at the shadowy figure now standing between them, and numerous things happened at once. The muzzle flash momentarily blinded him and an incandescent burst of white hot agony lit up his side like a Christmas tree. There was a grunt of pain, his, Jon thought, a second, echoed by someone else and the glass bulb in one torch shattered, throwing them into even more darkness. He gripped his side reflexively where it hurt most and his hand came away bloody.

He’d been hit.

Likely by Basira which meant she was going to be very cross with him for failing to heed her instructions quick enough.

“Don’t move!” For a confused second, he thought she was shouting at him and he very gladly wished to follow that advice considering it hurt to even breathe, but he then realized it was for whoever was writhing on the floor, spitting at them.

“Oh, charming.” He murmured, still feeling around in the dark at his waist. The bullet seemed to have passed through him completely, hitting only the fleshiest part of him, but the blood was hot and thick and copious on his skin, soaking down his pant leg and spreading the burning sensation further, as if it was following its path. He pressed harder, balling up the hem of his jumper in an attempt to stem the hemorrhaging just enough to get through the compelling of another human being by force, the subsequent statement, the destruction of the Sun and really it was beautiful, such that he almost didn’t want to destroy it, and afterwards he felt entirely drained, like the power had been siphoned right out of him and into that deep and infinite void.

Without the adrenaline of the last few minutes, the bullet wound in his side was screaming for attention, the material clenched in his hand now sodden and heavy. Shouldn’t it be slowing by now? He was so focused on tamping down the miserable agony that Helen’s sudden appearance made him yelp. It was terrifying to say the least, that she was now offering them a way home when she’d trapped Manuela in her tunnels mere moments ago.

“Go find your Basira. Then let’s get you both home.” Home. That would be a relief. Trust Basira to key in on the glistening sheet painting nigh half of him, illuminating the frankly alarming amount of red.

“What happened?” To her credit, she sounded horrified, and Jon’s legs, with his impeccably perfect timing, chose that moment to fold like a house of cards. “Jon!”

“‘M. M’okay.”

“You’re bleeding, Archivist.”

“Thank you, Helen.” Through grit teeth, and the warmth was seeping out of his body and pooling at the back of him, underneath, exchanging places with the freezing cold stone beneath him. “I don’t. Uh. Think I, I.”

“You can still hurt, idiot.” And oh, it hurt. It did, it really did. “Hold still.” She lifted the layers and somehow the pain crescendoed to a new height and he writhed under her clinical touch, biting his tongue so he didn’t scream. “Hold still!”

“You don’t have to, to hit me, Basira.”

“You’re holding still now, Archivist.” Her face, there and not, shifting and still, appeared above him and made him so dizzy, he had to close his eyes against it.

“Thank you. H’Helen.” The sound of cloth tearing rang in his ears and he spasmed when Basira’s fingers packed the matching set of holes with it before heaving him forward and tying off a bandage around his waist. The dark swirled around him, making him nauseous, while a yellow door appeared in the corner of his see sawing vision.

“You’re going to need stitches.”

“C’can. Can you…” He bit off a pained groan, unable to finish the sentence he was attempting, when Basira lifted him back to his feet.

“Are you asking me to sew you up back at the Institute?” Kindly, Helen held the door open for them as they staggered through, amusement gleaming in her spiraling stare. At least one of them was having a good time.

“Y’yes?” He was pretty sure he couldn’t die from this. Maybe. But he did feel incredibly terrible.

“Ridiculous.” Basira muttered, absently thanking the Distortion for granting them safe passage through her numerous twisting corridors. They didn’t have to turn back to know her door was gone, nor did they have time to because Jon was already collapsing into a chair, all feeling gone from his legs, bitterly cold and trembling like the snow of Norway followed him all the way here.

“Basira? Jon?” Daisy limped around the corner, supporting herself on the wall, “I smelled blood--what happened?” She was checking his vitals, hands almost burning against his skin, the distance having been crossed in the span of one slow blink.

“Through and through.”

“D’Daisy.”

“Jon?” With him and Basira still on rocky terms, her concern, her careful touch, was a welcome thing. “I’m calling 999.”

“No, no, I. I’m.” His tongue sluggish, a beat or more behind what he was thinking.

“If you say you’re fine--Yes. We need an ambulance.” She rattled off the address and let the call drop. “I will make personally sure you aren’t.” Throwing his arm over her shoulder, she motioned to Basira to do the same, levering him up slowly out of the chair. He felt the blood drain from his face, clinging to consciousness with his fingernails. Maybe. Maybe Daisy was right?

He came awake in the back of the ambulance, not remembering when he’d closed his eyes, and felt someone squeeze his cold, cold fingers. Everything was closed off, the doors in his mind slammed shut and barred closed, numb, his connection to the Eye muddy and sluggish and his inability to Know so suddenly was frightening despite hating all it meant.

“Relax.” There was something on his face but his limbs were weighted down with rocks and he couldn’t move for the straps over his chest and legs. “Jon, look here.” Another hand, this time on his cheek and though his vision kept slipping in and out, he could recognize Daisy’s face, made sharp and angular from six months in the Choke. “You’re confused because you’ve lost a lot of blood, but I’m here.” A noise made him jump but she held him fast. “Just look at me. You’re alright.” He was tired. Daisy was here. He was safe.

“Whaz…” he didn’t know what was happening and words weren’t cooperating, even though he was sure Daisy had just explained it. Would she be angry that he couldn’t remember? It was so cold why was he so cold?

“Hush. Gonna get you fixed right up, Jon.” When their hands were separated he made a noise between a moan and a sob, the bit of warmth and connection torn away from him and he couldn’t remember, couldn’t remember what was happening. What was happening? He couldn’t breathe.

Couldn’t see.

Hear.

Think.

Could just ache.

“Said it was almost like a coma.” Voices. Quiet and familiar.

“So he wouldn’t have died, died then.” Who wouldn’t have?

“Shh. He’s coming ‘round.” His eyes were open but the room was dimly lit and he couldn’t make out who was there with him. “Jon?”

“D’Daisy?” Terrible. He sounded terrible and was so grateful for the ice chips she offered him to soothe his dry throat. The Eye cheerfully informed him that he’d had something of a “close one” and he believed it. He felt weak and slow, mind sluggish to parce new information and it kept getting snagged on Martin.

Where was Martin?

He missed Martin.

Was Martin safe?

“Jon?” Shaking his head in a vain attempt to clear it, he glanced at the wires and lines with their dripping bags of fluids and drugs before lifting his eyes to Daisy’s face. “You alright? Faded out for a minute there.” He wished he could fade out again because now that he was becoming more aware, the throbbing in his side was demanding his attention loudly and painfully. “Does it hurt?”

“Mmf.” Exasperation he might also classify as fond, crossed her features. She pressed a button into his hand, depressing his thumb for him, flooding his arm with a strange sensation and he pushed the chemical formula for morphine out of the way.

“Better?” Nodding, he began to feel disconnected and somewhat distant, as though the drugs were numbing everything and he was okay with that. It would be nice to rest for just a moment. Maybe he would even stay out of their dreams. That would be nice too.

“Never…” Jon could barely control his mouth. “Been shot before…” A lot of other things, but never anything so mundane as a bullet. It took a lot to hold back the sudden and powerful urge to start giggling.

“Let’s not make it a habit.” Basira’s blurry shape appeared over Daisy’s shoulder, arms folded and expression tight. “You need to listen to me on these excursions.” Jon could hear the guilt threading its way through each word. She hadn’t meant to shoot him, of course she hadn’t. He should have been quicker, he’d been in the wrong place at the wrong time. “This is all hard enough as it is without you getting in the way of my bullets.”

“Mhm.” There was a glow to everything now, as though haloed in bright white light and his lashes were painted with lead, each blink revealing a brand new still slide, like the hospital room was some bizarre mockery of a home movie. The pain was there in an abstract sort of way but the exhaustion was winning out, the Beholding drawing on what he had left in an attempt to speed up the healing of his injuries.

He’d have to ask Basira for a statement when he got back.

[janekfan]

Worth(less)

https://archiveofourown.org/works/26089822

Day one! Self Worth! For TMAHCWeek :)

“Then leave, Jon.”

They had this conversation far too often; every time Jon made another mistake, and each time he felt worse. He didn’t know he had even had the capacity to keep feeling worse and was surprised every time.

“When you’ve been cleared, put in your notice. Simple as that.” But it wasn’t. It really wasn’t. And he couldn’t make her see, because she didn’t need to, because she knew him best out of anyone else. Had always known him and how broken he’d been from the start.

How worthless.

“Georgie, I, I can’t.” Not without possibly, actually. Maybe? Dying. He was already, already! After so little time, feeling the lack.

“You say you want to stop being this thing, this monster, but I don’t see you doing anything proactive about your situation.” Jon could feel how his face fell, couldn’t even hide it with everything so close to the surface, and when the tears prickled in the corners of his eyes, he looked at the floor so she wouldn’t see. She wanted him to be better than this. She was helping him, looking out for him. “I’m sorry, Jon. I don’t.”

The way she said it, like she really wasn’t sorry, except sorry to know him, so matter of fact, pragmatic. Like she knew the answers that would put an end to this mess but refused to share them. Like he was too stupid to figure this all out. And wasn’t that the crux of it?

He was.

He couldn’t. If he. If he was just different. Or, or, or better. Maybe. Maybe he really did want all this to happen? Is that what--did he?

They knew each other too well. That was part of the problem and when Jon felt trapped in the corner he knew exactly which buttons to push to make Georgie lash out at him and that wasn’t fair to her no matter how good it felt to be in control of something directly affecting him. He just didn’t expect it to hurt so much or ring so true.

But he’d always been a slow learner.

“You’re an addict, Jon. And just like an addict, you make excuses for why you can’t stop.” Her arms were crossed and where she stood tall, Jon shrank away, hands clenching reflexively, hard enough to leave crescent shaped indentations in his skin. “I will not be your enabler.”

She wanted what was best for him, that’s all. She always had.

“Georgie, I.” Hadn’t the choice been taken from him? He hadn’t meant for this to happen.

“Have too? You know what you sound like.” He wouldn’t cry. He didn’t deserve to cry when he’d ruined so much for so many.

“You’re. You’re right. Of course.” Each word burned like salt pouring into an open wound and he hugged himself tightly, just to keep his disparate pieces together, “I’ll do better.”

Jon was bereft, grief stricken. The aching, empty pit devouring him from the inside like a disease was so overwhelming he couldn’t breathe, not without feeling like his ribs would shatter apart and expose who he really was. There were so many things she didn’t understand. Couldn't understand. And he can’t fault her for that. Of course the easiest thing would be to leave. Except it’s not easy at all. Even if he weren’t attached to the Institute itself, without statements he suspected he would be too sick to go far. Even now he felt a constant niggling hunger below everything else.

But he was trying.

He really was and it. It, it didn’t seem to matter. Regardless of which choice he made, it was wrong and he was at fault for the outcome. Who, who decided to make him the center of all things? It was already so heavy. He couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t hold it on his own and there was no other option but to hold it. There was so much pressure to do the right thing and Jon couldn’t tell you what that was if held at, well, gunpoint would be awfully mundane. But it was up to him.

Somehow.

And he just kept getting hurt and was trying his best, he was, he was, and it wasn’t good enough. He wasn’t good enough. Because he was a coward, constantly scared. And exhausted. And aching from top to toes. Things, people, kept hurting him and he didn’t know who to trust and it was so taxing when everyone he’d come into contact with suffered horribly and he just.

Just.

Just didn’t know how to deal with that. He couldn’t separate himself from it because it was all around him and he was drowning. Head shoved under the water until it flooded down his throat and the only thing left to breathe was the filth and rot he left in his wake. It rushed in his veins and flowed through his blood and burned, and burned, and burned until he was consumed by it and forgot what it was to be Jon and needed someone to confirm he was still human lest he disappear entirely.

And everytime he tried to reach out.

He tried. He tried to reach out.

Like he had with Georgie this evening--

And she’d been so upset with him.

Maybe he was blowing it all out of proportion. Making mountains out of molehills. Exaggerating because, honestly, he wasn’t quite sure how to feel anymore. Like he couldn’t trust himself to know.

But he needed help. And, as Georgie kept reminding him, he had help and refused to use it and after all the trouble he’d caused already--It was his bed. He had to lie in it. Trapped in a cage of his own fabrication. Beholden to a shattered promise he didn’t remember making.

He missed.

He missed Martin.

Soft, lovely Martin who. Who. Knew.

For now though, all was quiet, Georgie in her room and Jon in his, folded into a small ball on the bed around a pillow and pressing it close, a pressure bandage to keep everything inside from pouring out because if it started to he wouldn’t be able to stop it again. But for now, both of them were taking some time apart. He knew she worried, and he couldn’t do right by her.

He couldn’t do right by anyone.

She was a reminder of why he could never be loved. Couldn’t even be liked; too selfish. And now he was covered in awful, ugly scars marking him as a monster on the outside for all to see and claiming him as one of their own.

When the tears finally, finally came, hot and fast and uncomfortable on his skin, he felt so ashamed because he had no reason to cry, nothing other than feeling sorry for himself. Biting down hard on his knuckle to keep himself from getting too loud, from disturbing Georgie, he tasted the tang of blood and felt calmer for it. He wouldn’t want her to think he was manipulating her anymore than she already did because all he did was take and take and take.

Shameful. He had to be quiet. Be quiet. Don’t let her hear.

He was fine. He was fine. He was fine.

Because he was safe here, he was safe, he was safe, as safe as he could be, and nothing was wrong and everything was wrong and no matter how hard he bit into his fingers it wouldn’t stop. He wanted and the scope of it was so broad he didn’t even know for what, but it was big whatever it was. Too big, but it had to be to fill in the hole carved out in him somewhere behind his heart. The pillow was soaked, he was disgusting and foolish and guilty, his head aching so much he almost wished the fear would swallow him up and leave him numb.

In through the nose. Out through the mouth.

But he was sobbing in earnest now. Still quiet. Always quiet. Just be quiet.

Dizzy. Light headed.

He couldn’t take in a full breath of air. It wasn’t enough. It hadn’t been enough in so, so long. Chest tight, ribs a steel cage, unyielding. Suffocating.

Suffocating.

The Admiral nudged his sore hand, tiny paws poised delicately on his knee, and he traded the pillow for Georgie’s cat, nuzzling his damp face into the soft fur of his neck, focusing on nothing but the purr resonating from his little chest and stopping the hitching in his own.

He was being crushed into less than nothing. Stripped of everything.

And he just desperately wanted to be enough.

He just desperately wanted to be.

[blushingwithafever]

TMAHC week day 1: Self worth issues || pretend || shaky hands

So I’ve decided to participate in the TMAHC week a day late but that’s fine

Jon can’t tell what’s worse— the amount of work that he still has to finish or the sleep deprivation that the stress of it is causing him. At first it hadn’t felt like more than a mild inconvenience, he’s used to pulling long hours, but that was days ago and he’s not so sure of that now.

Need more tea, his foggy mind supplies him as he stares blankly over the statement in front of him. He can’t focus on the words long enough to absorb any of the information. He knew that if he wanted to finish this stack of statements he’s going to need another cup of strong black tea.

He gets up from his chair, back protesting from sitting in the same position for so long, and moves to grab for his mug. His hands shake with the small exertion as he braces himself against a wave of dizziness, but that doesn’t stop him from shuffling his way out of the archives and towards the break room. 

It’s a quick and relatively painless experience going in and out of the break room, he didn’t feel like lingering longer than he needed to. A bone deep ache made his exhaustion feel heavy in his limbs just by waiting for the kettle. He wanted to sit at the table for a moment but decides against it as he probably wouldn’t be able to get up afterwards.

And the last thing he wants is to be caught nodding off in the middle of the break room.

Maybe if he pretends that he’s fine— the exhaustion and slight headache he’s starting to feel would all go away. It seems like it’s a solid plan, lying to himself long enough to make it truth.

The whistle of the kettle startles him from his thoughts enough to cause his eyes to fly open. When had they closed? He doesn’t quite remember that.

He tries to keep his hands steady while pouring the hot water into his mug but he can’t seem to manage it without spilling at least half on the counter. A sigh of frustration forces itself past his lips as he finishes preparing his tea.

His hands continue to shake with small tremors as he stumbles slowly back to his office. The tea is hot enough to burn is tongue slightly but it’s better than having it full enough to slosh out and burn his hand.

Now then... which one was he working on again?

God he needs a nap. It’ll have to wait until he’s finished with this statement at least though.

“Statement begin,” he starts in a wearily dull tone.