#also tim (the real one not stoker) (i will never get tired of making this joke) ilysm thanks for being my emotional support

[aru-art]

two-headed calf by laura gilpin

[voiceless-terror]

If it’s okay, how about “You always do that. You always warm me up.” and/or “You’ve got a fever. Of course I’m not going anywhere.” with jontim for the soft sentence prompts? your writing is some of my favourite of all time and your jontim especially is just *chefs kiss* mwah. Incredible.

Some soft JonTim for one of my favorite artists! Always happy to have another friend to spread the good word of this pairing, a particular favorite of mine. Hope you enjoy!

“Jon, you look wrecked.” 

“Don’t be ridiculous,” replied said wreck. “I’ve just got a cold, that’s all.”

Tim fixed him with an incredulous look. Jon stumbled through the doors of the library this morning looking for all the world like the equivalent of ‘hammered shit’ (Sasha’s words). Jon’s usual vibe was tired and harried on a good day, but this was pushing it. He only managed to get about half of his hair into a bun, the rest hanging limply around his face. He’d thrown a chunky cardigan over his clothes to hide that they were the same ones from yesterday. It did not work. Complete with red cheeks and bleary eyes, the man was not fit to be in a workplace.

Jon begged to differ. “I’m fine,” he said, burying a cough in his elbow. “I took medicine. Look.” With that, he dug a crushed box of liquid capsules out of his bag and threw it haphazardly in the direction of Tim, who caught it in startled hands.

“This is expired,” he replied after one look at the box. “It’s also not meant for daytime. When did you take this again?” Jon frowned uncomprehendingly as he attempted to parse out the words and Tim would’ve gathered him up in his arms right then if it wouldn’t embarrass him.

“Hmm.” The question should not be difficult. “‘Bout an hour ago, maybe?” Jon listed dangerously to the side, grabbing at his desk to keep steady and in the process knocking an overflowing cup of pencils to the ground. “Oops.” Jon was occasionally a man of few words, but ‘oops’ was not one of them. Tim immediately got to his feet, rushing over to steady him.

“‘Oops’ is right.” He gently managed to get Jon to his feet, leaning most of his body weight against Tim’s side. “You’re going home.” Jon just slumped further into his arms, barely managing a nod. His sudden compliance worried Tim; usually, Jon would put up way more of a fuss, getting snippy and slapping his hands away. This easy submission, while appreciated, made him more nervous than reassured.

“G’bye, Sasha,” Jon attempted a wave on the way out that looked more like a vague swatting of the air. “Tim’s takin’ me home.” She smiled indulgently, giving the two of them a wave in return.

“Take care of your man, Tim! And that’s an order.”

Tim would’ve saluted if he didn’t have an armful of Jon. “Aye aye, Captain.”

“Your man?” Jon mumbled as they made their way down the hallway, sinking further into his side. He said it as if the words were foreign, confusing. Tim couldn’t help his laughter. 

“Well, yeah.” He nodded in thanks to Rosie, who held the door open on the way out with a pitying look at Jon. The air outside was cold, bracing- Jon’s ridiculously chunky cardigan still wasn’t enough against the wind. “What kind of boyfriend would I be if I didn’t help you in your hour of need?” In a stroke of luck, he managed to snag a cab as soon as someone exited at the building next door. The less time outside, the better. “In you go!” He managed to gently extract Jon from his side and maneuver him into the back of the car. He rattled off his own address to the cabbie- if all Jon had at home was an expired packet of night-time medicine, he didn’t have much faith in the rest of his medical supplies.

He shut the car door and turned to find Jon staring at him in a sort of wide-eyed, loopy wonder. It would have been amusing if it wasn’t so concerning. “What is it?” he asked, running a comforting hand over his arm. “Are you okay?”

“We’re...boyfriends?” Shit. Tim realized they hadn’t used the term before and here he was, just casually slipping it out. It was not unlike him; Sasha always teased him at how easily he fell in love. But he was trying to take it slowly with Jon, do things right. Jon deserved that.

“I mean...yes?” It came out more nervously than he’d like, Jon was really doing him in with those giant, hopeful eyes. Damn him. He tried for familiar, easy ground. “I’ve been wining and dining you all around town. Do my forehead kisses mean nothing to you?” He put a hand to his chest, dramatic and exaggerated. “I’m wounded.”

“No!” Jon exclaimed, grabbing at the hand on Tim’s chest with an unexpected strength. “I like those. Please don’t stop.” His face was a blazing fever-red and filled with concern, not unlike when he was drunk and oblivious to teasing. “You won’t stop, w-will you?”

Tim’s heart melted without his permission. “Course not.” He took the small hand and squeezed it with his own. Jon sunk into a similarly sappy expression; he had no right being this adorable on expired cold medication. God, he loved him.

Shit.

Jon continued to talk, his brow furrowing in contemplation. “Iz’zat why you got me those Valentine’s chocolates?”

Shit.

“And the bear?”

Love? The big ol’ ‘L’ word? What if he’d sprung that on Jon like this, in the back of a cab when he wouldn’t remember it?

“And the balloon?”

How embarrassing for him. Truly.

“And the card?” Tim had forgotten Jon was still talking.

“Yes!” He choked out against Jon’s interrogation. “God, I didn’t realize how much of a sap I was.” Jon giggled in response, a high, happy sound incongruous with his usual sarcastic snorts.

“Yeah, you are.” He snuggled into Tim’s side; he could feel the heat radiating from the man, even through his jacket. “You gotta tell me these things. Else I won’t know.”

“Yeah, yeah. I’m sorry.” Jon was a literal man, Tim knew this. But he hadn’t exactly been subtle in his overtures.

“Boyfriends,” Jon sighed dreamily. “I like that.”

Hopefully he would remember this conversation.

__________

“This is not my flat.”

“Got it in one, Sherlock.”

He shuffled Jon through the door, depositing him as gently as possible on the couch and wrapping a fluffy blanket around his shoulders. He looked ridiculous, eyes at half-mast and a confused look on his face. “Gonna wait on the paracetamol, at least until the shit you’re on wears off.”

“Hnnh.” Jon leaned back on the couch, closing his eyes in contentment like a particularly lazy cat. “Kay.” Tim puttered about in the kitchen, getting a glass of water and wetting a rag; he should at least attempt to get the fever under control, Jon’s insistence on layers wasn’t helping. But he couldn’t say no to him, shaking and shivering as he was. Jon deserved a blanket burrito if he wanted one.

Tim pushed the glass of water into Jon’s hands, urging him to take a couple of sips before he set it back down. He plopped himself down on the couch, maneuvering Jon so that he was laying against his chest and placing the damp rag on his forehead, despite his protests. “We’re going to watch some crap telly and you’re going to take a nap. Sound good?” He should’ve probably gotten the remote before he laid down, but now that Jon was snuggled against his chest he was pretty much immovable.

“You’re not going back to work?” Jon asked the question as if Tim staying home was uncalled for and strange. He snorted in response. Typical Jon.

“You’ve got a fever. Of course I’m not going anywhere.”

Jon managed to lift his head a few precious centimeters, though he was straining with the effort. He looked as if he were going to say something very important, but he instead just collapsed back against his chest and buried his face in Tim’s jumper with a lazy purr of contentment. I can’t believe I’m dating a literal cat.

“God, you’re really burning up,” Tim rearranged the towel so it was back on his forehead, having fallen off during Jon’s attempt at conversation.

His next words were muffled against Tim’s chest. “You always do that. You always warm me up.” 

Tim almost audibly cooed at the sentiment before seeing an opportunity for a joke and taking it. Let it never be said that Tim Stoker missed an opening.

“Why Jon,” his voice took on an unbearable, teasing tone as his smile grew. “Are you saying I’m so hot I made you sick?” Jon groaned at the words, as expected.

“No.”

“How does that song go, again? You’re givin’ me fev-aah-”

“Shut up, Tim!” He let out a quiet chuckle, giving Jon a light squeeze in apology.

“Alright, alright. I’ll let you rest.” Jon sighed, curling up in his arms. They stayed like that for some time; Tim rubbing a gentle hand up and down his back. Just when he thought Jon had been lulled to sleep, he spoke up in a quiet tone.

“You...you actually have a nice voice.” The words were slurred and Tim tried not to take offense at the ‘actually’ addendum. “But maybe just a bit quieter. And just a hum. Thanks.”

He snickered. “Will do.”

“Love you.” Tim froze, his hand stilling in its movements. He doesn’t mean it, he told himself firmly. He’s just tired and loopy. He won’t remember this when he wakes up. Still, he responded and the intensity behind the words was surprising even to him.

“Love you, too.”

Jon slept and Tim ran his fingers through his hair, listening to his soft snores. In an hour or two, he’d make him soup and insist on a dose of real meds. And that night, when Jon was curled around him in bed, with clear eyes and a lucid voice he’d repeat the words he mumbled earlier. And he would mean them.

ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27977733

[bifrostarchivist]

tma fic recs

hi i’ve been been going through my bookmarks so here’s a list of some of my favorite tma fics! a lot of these are pretty angsty though so you should heed the trigger warnings!

jon-centric fics

Farewell Wanderlust by CombatBootsAndDreams

Jonathan Sims never had enough time. It was always slipping through his fingers like sand through an hourglass. He could see it passing but could do nothing as it took more and more things from him. So he learned to measure everything in actions instead of seconds.

Or: The many moments used to measure the life of one Jonathan Sims, The Archivist.

i love this one it hurts me real bad!

the bell tolls by softlyblue

Jon knows about death, and he knows about dying. He tries to plan around his own.

this one also really hurts me!

Touch Me, Even it Hurts by AuralQueer

People don't really touch Jonathan Sims unless they want to hurt him. That's mostly fine. Jon has never been a tactile person, and he doesn't need anyone but himself.

Except the world is falling down around him, and loneliness aches, and sometimes he'll take anything - even cruelty - just to feel human again.

*A story set between s1 and s4, looking at Jon's relationship with touch, friendship, and his own humanity.

i cried over this one a lot yesterday! it’s wonderful and so fucking sad

jonmartin fics

the garden of forking paths by bibliocratic

Whatever he had predicted might happen, Jon wasn't expecting to survive upon demolishing the Panopticon. He certainly wasn't expecting to be rescued.

Instead, he wakes up in an alternative universe where he's never been the Archivist, and Martin Blackwood doesn't exist.

Martin Blackwood wakes up somewhere else entirely.

i love this one a lot! made me really fucking emotional

The Power of Self-Respect by IceEckos12 & PitViperOfDoom

Jon's life has never been easy, but he's now in a place where he has friends, his job isn't wretched, and best of all, he's dating Martin Blackwood. Things are finally starting to turn around for him, so of course that's when he learns that he must defeat Martin's seven exes in order to stay with him.

There's something fishy about this whole thing, Jon is sure of it. But the only way to find out what is to throw down the gauntlet and fight for his love.

the scout pilgrim au i never knew i needed! i went into this expecting crack but now every time it gets updated it’s all i can think about for the rest of the day and it is very painful. it’s so good.

Desperate Measures by quantumducky

Helen offers to help, and Jon is just tired and miserable enough to accept. Turns out her idea of "helping" is to turn his brain into confused mush and then make that Martin's problem. Somehow, it all works out.

this one! fuck! i love it. made me so sad. but also. a happy ending! i miss helen.

See the Line, where the Sky meets to Sea by The_Floating_World

When Jon is a child he looks into the infinite abyss of space. The Vast looks back into him.

also has some jon/oliver! some found family! vast!jon my beloved...

jongerry fics

Til Death, Parted by Hecatetheviolet

“But, yes, if you all really must know, I married Gerard Keay in Las Vegas.” The total stillness at the table would have better suited a painting than a group of very confused archival assistants. A blob of ketchup falls from the chip frozen halfway to Melanie’s mouth.

“You… married a ghost,” says Melanie, eventually, in a stilted, leading tone.

“Mhm,” says Jon.

A ghost story is something that can be so matrimonial, actually. Too bad Jon and Gerry didn't find that out until the wedding.

I ADORE THIS FIC. U KNOW THAT ONE JONGERRY LAS VEGAS WEDDING SHITPOST? IT’S THAT BUT SO MUCH MORE. GOD IT’S SO FUCKING HEARTBREAKING BUT ALSO HAS LIKE THESE COMEDIC MOMENTS THAT ARE JUST SO FUCKING GOOD. THE WAY THE WRITER WRITES THE JONGERRY DYNAMIC IS JUST. FUCK. IT’S AMAZING.

eager eye and willing ear by graveExcitement

Gerry investigates a paranormal mirror and is pulled into another universe, one where Jon has just burned his page.

i just. love this one. 

jongerrymartin

Ghosts without Graves by Ostentenacity

“I’m already dead, after all.” Gerry smiles, a mirthless flash of teeth. “If I pop out of existence tomorrow, fine. If I stick around for a while, well—at least now I’ve got someone to talk to.” His tone of voice is still blasé, but his gaze falls heavily on Jon, as though asking, Right?

“Yes,” says Jon. “Yes, of course.”

---

When Jon wakes up from his coma, he finds that while Gerry may still be dead, he’s not exactly gone.

i love this one so much. made me happy. made me sad. it’s just wonderful. 

jontim fics

Between Sleeping and Waking by voiceless_terror

So they curl up in his bed, an arm slung across Jon’s waist, his back to Tim’s chest. There are no spiders here, not in this bed that smells of dryer sheets and detergent and Tim. He’s almost asleep when the arm around his waist tightens suddenly.

“My brother always said the pressure helped. When he had bad dreams.”

Jon has nightmares and Tim attempts to chase them away. In the process, they learn a few things about each other.

the comfort. the understanding. it’s just so nice.

enemy of my enemy by beeclaws

Jon comes back from his time with the Circus a little worse for wear. Tim has some feelings about that.

it hurts so bad. but. fuck. the tim & jon somewhat fixing their relationship fic that i just really needed.

Tear Out All Your Tenderness by With_the_Wolves

"He’s been doing such a good job of ignoring it, up until now, pretending he didn’t know how he survived the Unknowing. Pretending he didn’t hear the constant rhythm of hunt hunt kill kill rushing through his veins in time with his blood. He didn’t used to be able to smell fear.

In the aftermath of the Coffin, Tim decides that he's going to be there for Jon. But Jon's fear is intoxicating.

THIS FIC! THIS FIC! JESUS CHRIST IT’S SO FUCKING PAINFUL. JUST. HOLY SHIT.

jonmartim fics

beautiful and annihilating by advantagetexas

But reality was a lot harsher than dreams. He admitted that to himself now, as he gently moved a piece of hair from Jon’s unblinking eye. Daisy Tonner was dead. Sasha James was dead. Daniel Stoker was still dead, or disappeared, or whatever woe begotten fate had befallen him at the hands of that wretched circus.

And here was Tim. Alive. And forced to deal with the fallout.

this fic <3 i love it very much. it’s updates are the highlight of my day. really fucks with my emotions. it’s just great.

[eldritchteaparty]

Chapters: 16/22 Fandom: The Magnus Archives (Podcast) Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist Characters: Martin Blackwood, Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Tim Stoker (The Magnus Archives), Sasha James, Rosie Zampano, Oliver Banks, Original Elias Bouchard, Peter Lukas, Annabelle Cane, Melanie King, Georgie Barker, Alice "Daisy" Tonner, Basira Hussain Additional Tags: Post-Canon, Fix-It, Post-Canon Fix-It, Scars, Eventual Happy Ending, Fluff and Angst, I'll add characters and tags as they come up, Reference to injuries and blood, Character Death In Dream, Nudity (not sexual or graphic), Nightmares, Fighting

Summary: Following the events of MAG 200, Jon and Martin find themselves in a dimension very much like the one they came from--with second chances and more time.

Chapter summary:  Everyone heads to Elias’s house to continue discussing their situation. Jon and Martin talk with Elias.

Chapter 16 of my post-canon fix-it is out! Read at AO3 above or here below the cut.

Tumblr master post with links to previous chapters is here.

***

Martin took the front seat for the ride out to Elias’s house. He wasn’t sure if that was what Jon preferred, but it felt like it put less pressure on him to engage with Elias. He supposed he could have made some excuse to sit in the back seat with Jon, which is what he’d really wanted to do, but that would have made what was already a very awkward occasion even more awkward; after all, Elias was doing them a favor.

He wished he’d thought before to ask Jon how he actually felt about Elias. There was no guarantee Jon would have wanted to talk about it, but he should have offered him the chance. Martin could tell Jon wasn’t comfortable around Elias, but then again, neither was he. It wasn’t Elias, necessarily—it was more about the fact that when he looked at him, he couldn’t help but see Jonah Magnus, at least for a moment.

This brought up a bigger question that Martin had thought about but had no way to really ask Jon, and that was how much he operated on what Martin imagined most people did—memories, experience, reasoning things out—and how much he operated on knowing and feeling things most people couldn’t feel. During the apocalypse it had been almost exclusively the latter, based on how incapacitated Jon had been when separated from the Eye, but he knew Jon didn’t have nearly the abilities he’d had then.

On the other hand, there had been times recently when Jon had acted on Martin’s feelings without even realizing he’d been doing it; Martin suspected it had happened more times than he knew. Was it just with him that happened?

Only half conscious of it, he turned to check on Jon in the back seat.

He’d basically succeeded in putting the thought of their bond from the Lonely out of his mind since their first big argument here. Jon had just gotten so sick, and then—well, everything else, and he’d basically filed it away, undigested, a concept he didn’t quite know what to do with. Now, as Martin watched Jon stare distractedly out of the car window and into the night outside, the thought reinstated itself.

What did it mean, now that they appeared to be heading down the same path as before? Although he detested the whole idea, maybe he was somehow essential to Jon being able to start another apocalypse—or maybe, if Jon did end up starting one, Martin was essential to whatever his plans might be afterward. Could he use that somehow to—to help keep Jon safe?

As soon as the thought occurred to him, the guilt poured in from wherever it tucked itself away. Trying to protect Jon always felt so much like working against him, and he hated it, but he still hadn’t found another way. The guilt compounded with a familiar frustration bordering on anger—no, it was anger—as he reminded himself that even if he came up with something, even if he did manage to find some small foothold of power in this situation, it would almost certainly backfire. Everything—every plan, every measure of protection he or Jon had tried to take—always had.

He realized Jon had stopped staring into the darkness outside of the car and was now looking at him.

Martin took a breath to say something—he wasn’t sure what—when Elias spoke for the first time since they’d gotten in the car.

“Everything all right?”

“Um—yeah,” Martin said, turning back around in his seat. “Yeah, it’s just late, and I—I guess I’m tired. Sorry for not being more helpful.”

“Oh, I’m fine. I do this drive a lot.”

“Yeah, I—I guess you do.” Martin glanced back to see Jon had returned to looking in the direction of the window. “I mean, every day, right?” It was an incredibly stupid question, but Martin felt obligated to make some effort to keep the conversation going.

“Well—mostly. Every now and then I stay in the office overnight.” Elias turned and caught Martin’s eye, but the resulting discomfort seemed to be mutual, and he quickly returned his eyes to the road. “Or, I suppose, more often I just don’t come in in the first place. Sasha pretends to hate it, but I think we all know she’s happier when I just stay out of the way.”

Elias laughed at his own self-derogatory remark, and Martin tried to be polite with a quick hm. He hadn’t spent a lot of time around Elias here; he’d actually done his best to avoid him, simply because he was his boss, and Elias had seemed fine with that. It was the same way he’d tried to avoid Jon before—before he’d turned out to be Jon. Sasha had always been Sasha, she’d gone out of her way to make him comfortable, but—well, in any case, he didn’t think that laughing about Elias being a shit boss was the best way to forge a relationship. He had no idea how to interact with him under the best of circumstances, and therefore tonight was a lost cause. Thankfully, Elias seemed to arrive at the same conclusion, and let the conversation drop.

Martin turned to imagining the scenery that might be outside the car for the remainder of the ride.

He assumed they had arrived when Elias turned the car off the main road, and the surface beneath the car began to crunch. They drove a short way down this gravel lane before Elias stopped the car and pulled out his phone and opened an app.

“Looks like Allan gave up on me tonight,” he said. “Give it a minute… and… there.”

Several flood lights lit up the drive that curved around in front of an impressive country house; it was an impressive house to Martin, anyway. Elias hadn’t been joking when he’d said he had enough bedrooms to go around. His surprise must have shown on his face.

“The outside’s the best part,” Elias said, as he pulled the car around near the front door. “I really don’t even use most of it. It was a family place. No idea why I hang on to it, other than—well, it works.”

“Did you grow up out here?”

“Here?” Elias asked. “No—not really. We lived in town. We came here sometimes, I guess. Mostly my father rented this one out. I sold the London place as soon as he died, and meant to do the same with this one, but—well, it’s been twenty years—twenty-five, almost? Christ—and here we are.”

“Right,” Martin said, even though he had no frame of reference at all. His mother had died with nothing but what she’d kept with her in the care home. He supposed he was grateful for that; he’d barely found the fortitude to go through the couple of boxes they had returned to him. “Well—thanks again for having us all out here.”

“Oh—it’s, um—” Elias paused. “It’s the least I can do.”

“It’s not.” They turned to look at Jon.

“Sorry?”

“I’m just saying it’s—it’s not the least you can do. It’s rather far from it, actually.”

“Well—” Elias paused again. “Look, I’m feeling sort of—”

“They’re here.”

“What?”

Headlights flashed down the drive.

“Oh, the girls,” Martin said. “Guess they left around the same time we did.” Elias and Jon were already getting out of the car by the time he finished his sentence, clearly also not eager to have a real conversation for the moment.

“Park anywhere,” Elias told them as they pulled up. “You see where Allan’s parked, and we’re not expecting anyone else.”

“Tim,” Sasha said from the back seat. “He’ll be here. Well—in a day or two.”

“He’s been here before. He’ll figure it out.”

They managed to get everything out of the cars in one go, with Elias bringing Georgie’s bags, and Georgie carrying a padded crate that emitted an occasional small sound of distress. Georgie caught Martin looking toward the crate as they walked toward the house.

“He’s not fond of car rides, I’m afraid. Do you—like cats?”

“Oh, I just like animals,” Martin said, wondering why he was suddenly feeling shy. It was interesting, feeling something like a normal emotion in the middle of all this. He couldn’t decide if it was a waste of energy or a relief. “Never really had a pet, though.”

“Well, this is the Admiral. He’s pretty friendly, at least when he’s not in the car, so—”

“Oh yeah, Jon’s told me all about him.”

“Is that so?” Georgie asked, turning to look at Jon.

“I, uh—did get to know him a bit. Before. There, I mean.”

“Right,” Georgie said, shaking her head. “It’s going to take me a while longer to get used to this.”

“All right,” said Elias, as they walked through the front door. “I know it’s late, so if you all don’t mind I’ll save the tour for tomorrow. I was thinking it might be best if you all stayed on the first floor, but there are other rooms on the second floor. That’s where Allan’s room is. My bedroom’s down there”—he pointed to hallway on the right— “and I was thinking you all could stay here.” He led them down a hallway in the opposite direction.

“There are three rooms. Sasha, this one’s just got a double. It’s the smallest room, and you’d have to use the bath across the hall here—well, I mean, there are others, but that’s the closest. If it’s ok with you—”

“Oh, yeah,” Sasha looked both tired and appreciative. “Honestly, it’s much bigger than my room at home. It’s—it’s great. If you all don’t mind, I might head off? Try and get some sleep?”

“All yours. Oh—that door at the end of the hall, that’s a linen closet. If any of you need an extra blanket or towel or anything.”

“Thanks,” Sasha said. “For all of this. Goodnight.”

They headed just a little further down the hall as Sasha closed the door behind herself. “As for the other two rooms—Melanie and—Georgia—”

“Georgie.”

“Right, I’m—I’m sorry—Georgie—I was thinking if you didn’t mind sharing the hallway bath with Sasha, this room has a super king. Or the other one’s a king, but it does have an en-suite shower. And again, there are other rooms upstairs if—”

“I’m ok with this one,” Melanie said. “Georgie?”

“Sure. Unless you two—?” She looked toward Martin and Jon.

“Oh, I don’t—I don’t think we care?” He looked at Jon, who by now also seemed quite tired. Jon shook his head. “I mean, we’ve been sharing a double, and I guess before that we just slept on the ground somewhere, you know, when we could sleep, so…”

He trailed off as he realized everyone was looking at him with slightly wide eyes—even Melanie, who had been avoiding eye contact since they had arrived. He hadn’t meant to say quite that much.

“Well,” Georgie said quickly, releasing some of the tension, “if you’re really fine with it, honestly, the Admiral’s a snuggler, so… yeah. We wouldn’t mind the extra space.”

“Here, I’ll—” Elias picked up Georgie’s bags again from where he had temporarily set them on the hallway floor, and glanced at Jon and Martin. “Are you two all right? It’s just the last door down that way.”

“Thank you,” Jon said, surprising Martin.

“You’re welcome,” Elias said, before turning to help Melanie and Georgie get settled.

Like Sasha, their room was also much bigger than the one they shared at home. Not only did the king fit in it—it would not have in Jon’s flat, as the double just about took up all the room left after the dresser and the side tables—there was also an armchair to one side of the bed and a small writing desk in the corner. He remembered Elias commenting that his father used to rent the place out.

“Bit formal,” Martin commented as he set down Jon’s suitcase, which had been the heavier of their two bags. “Big, though.”

Jon nodded and handed Martin’s bag to him before sinking on to the end of the bed. Martin took a moment to sit next to him.

“You all right?”

“Yeah.”

“Tired? Want to go to bed?”

Jon nodded. They undressed; they knew which sides of the bed belonged to each of them without asking. Just as Martin was about to pull down the sheets, he realized the only switch to turn off the light was near the door. Jon was already in bed, so he got up to turn it off. He looked at Jon as he did; his eyes were already closed.

“Jon?”

“Hm?”

“Do you feel safe here?”

“Like I said before—we’re as safe here as anywhere.”

“Do you feel safe here? With Elias?”

“Oh. I—” Jon paused, opening his eyes. “I do.”

“Ok.” Although he felt like maybe there was more to it, one of Jon’s short answers was going to have to be good enough for tonight. Martin turned off the light and felt his way back to the bed. Once under the covers, he reached out to find Jon. He realized he was glad that the king wasn’t that much bigger than their double. He felt Jon turn toward him in the dark.

Outside, through the conduit of the hallway and the walls connecting their rooms, he heard Melanie’s raised voice, too muffled to understand. She continued for a few minutes, her words occasionally peppered by some also-muffled comment from Georgie, and then there was silence again. A small part of him found comfort in it, even if Melanie was agitated. It was familiar; it was something outside of himself and Jon that he knew and still felt he could trust for what it was.

“I wonder what she’s on about?” Martin asked, yawning.

He didn’t expect Jon to answer, so he was a little surprised that he did. “That’s her business. Or—hers and Georgie’s.”

“Oh. I didn’t mean—I wasn’t really asking. Just talking.” Jon’s comment had, however, reminded him of what had happened on their ride over in the car.

“Jon, can I ask you about something? I mean—if you need to sleep—”

“I’m fine.”

“In the car tonight—when you—looked at me. Did you know what I was thinking?”

“What you were thinking? No.”

“What I was feeling, then?”

“I’m—” Jon started to move away from him, but Martin reached out to touch his arm and he stopped. “I’m sorry.”

“Look, I—I’m sure you didn’t mean to. Just please, talk to me. You—you can’t help it, can you? Sometimes.”

Jon was quiet; Martin could hear him breathing, feel him struggle with the tension in his body. He gave him a minute. “I don’t like it,” he finally said.

“I know you don’t. Is it—just me? Or are you always feeling everyone’s feelings?”

“It’s just you. Of course, it’s just you. You know why.”

“I see.” He sat with that for a moment, letting it sink in as he alternated the pressure of his fingers against Jon’s arm. He knew he was fidgeting, but Jon didn’t seem to mind it. Maybe it was helping. “What did you feel tonight?”

“You were—you were feeling guilty. You always feel guilty, but this was… sharp. And you were angry. And—” Jon shifted under his hand, but didn’t pull away again. “And it all had something to do with me.”

“I wasn’t angry at you.”

“You don’t owe me an explanation.”

“And I’m not going to give you one, other than that. I just—I want you to know that.”

“You know—it’s all right if you are mad at me. I would understand.”

“I know. But I’m not.”

Martin let that settle for a moment before speaking again. “Jon is this—new? I mean, different this time?”

“Sort of,” Jon said. “During the apocalypse, I suppose I—gravitated that way. To your feelings. But everything—everyone—was so loud then. I knew you didn’t like it, and there was always something to drown it out.”

He stopped and cleared his throat. Martin waited.

“Now… Now it’s like when it gets quiet, and all at once you can hear your own heartbeat, feel your pulse radiating through your body. And then you try to stop hearing it, stop feeling it, and—”

“And you can’t,” Martin finished. Jon’s words were becoming painful, although he wasn’t sure for which one of them. “Yeah. All right.”

“I should have told you before.”

“I know why you didn’t. It’s—it’s ok.” Martin said. “I’m sure my feelings are no picnic for you either.”

Jon moved again, but this time it was toward Martin, into his chest. The covers slipped down from his shoulder as he did, and Martin reached for them, pulling them back up. Carefully, so he would not disturb them again, he slid his arm down around Jon’s waist.

They slept.

***

Martin was disoriented when he woke up. It took a moment to remember where he was; the darkness confused him. There were windows on two sides of this room, yet both were covered with heavy curtains instead of blinds, and very little light actually came in. He sensed it was still early, but he wasn’t sure how early until he checked his phone. He hadn’t slept especially late, which wasn’t surprising given how much sleep he’d forced on his body over the last couple of days—but Jon was gone.

Jon’s clothes from the previous day were neatly placed on his side of the bed, so he’d taken the time to get dressed. Martin took that as a sign that he didn’t need to worry. He stood up and stretched, then peeked out of the curtains of the closest window. He couldn’t even see another house from where they were; the lawn extended off into the distance, with the occasional tree adding some variety to the landscape. If they wanted to be away from other people, it looked like they had achieved their goal.

He left one of the curtains open for the little light it provided, and found the small bag with his razor and toothbrush before heading to the bathroom. They had been so tired that they hadn’t even looked at it the night before. It was spacious, with two sinks and a large shower with a hinged glass door. Jon had already been in that morning—either he had been exceptionally quiet or Martin had slept very hard, and he would have believed either. He was slightly amused at his compulsion to use the other sink, the one Jon had not used.

After he had finished up and gotten dressed, he cautiously opened the door and looked down the hallway. No one was there; it was quiet. He closed the door gently behind him and headed back in the direction of the foyer they had walked through when they had come into the house; he imagined he’d find some kind of main room nearby. He passed Georgie and Melanie’s room, and then Sasha’s room; both doors were still closed.

As he drew closer to the foyer, he heard low voices from a room to the other side of the hallway. They sounded conversational, comfortable even. He quickly realized one of them was Jon, and as he continued to walk toward them he recognized the other as Elias. He froze just as he reached the doorway, not sure if he should interrupt; before he could really catch any of the conversation, however, Jon spoke out to him.

“Martin? Is—is that you?”

Is that me, Martin thought, right—but even if they had been alone he wouldn’t have called him on it after their conversation the previous night.

“Um, yeah,” he said, stepping with embarrassment to the edge of the foyer where they could see him. “I wasn’t trying to—I just wasn’t sure if I should interrupt. I can head off, if—”

“Come on in,” Elias said, looking cheerier than Martin could recall seeing him recently. He and Jon were seated in a very proper pair of armchairs, with a small side table situated between them; Elias sipped coffee from a mug as Martin entered. “I was just telling Jon about my father, which is apparently the only thing I know how to talk about when someone is forced to spend more than five minutes with me.”

“Oh,” Martin said, not sure what else to say. The room had a high ceiling and was almost uncomfortably large; there was a fireplace that didn’t appear to get much use, more armchairs, and a sofa with a large rectangular coffee table in front of it. There were windows and a large set of decorative doors in the back of the room—presumably leading to the back lawn—but like the windows in the bedroom, they all let in much less light than Martin felt like they should.

“Coffee? Tea?” Elias asked.

“Um—I’d love some tea. I can get it though, if you tell me where the—kitchen is.”

“Back that way.” Elias pointed behind himself to another doorway Martin had failed to notice. “Through the breakfast room. I’ve got one of those machines that does the whole coffee-espresso-tea-blah blah-whatever thing. Well, really, it’s Allan’s, but he finally broke me down and I started using it. Help yourself.”

Martin looked at Jon, trying to discern whether he was all right. “Go on,” Jon said, gesturing back toward the kitchen with a nod of his head. He did seem ok, Martin thought. He seemed calm, anyway.

Martin headed back to grab some tea. He had trouble thinking of it as making tea—he had a dislike for these machines, they never really boiled the water properly—but it would more than make do this morning. He automatically set out two mugs from the selection on the counter, and only when he was in the middle of adding milk did he realize he hadn’t noticed whether Jon already had one. Fortunately, he did not, and he enthusiastically reached for the cup when Martin set it in front of him.

Martin sat on the sofa, the option closest to the armchairs, but he still felt separated from Jon and Elias. It was like the furniture was spread too far apart to make up for the vastness of the room, and hadn’t quite succeeded.

“Did you sleep ok?” It took a moment for him to realize Elias was talking to him.

“Oh—yeah. Yeah, I guess I did.” Martin rubbed the side of his neck. “I actually wasn’t sure what time it was when I woke up. The curtains keep it pretty dark in there.”

“Ugh.” He had just meant to imply that it was good for sleeping, but apparently it was a sore spot for Elias. “Worst thing about this place—it’s so dark. And it really didn’t have to be, you know?” He took another sip of his coffee. “Sometimes I think my father really preferred—oh, never mind. I’ve had enough of his ghost already this morning.”

Martin took a sip of his tea in the brief but uncomfortable silence that followed; he was saved from having to think of something to say when the front door closed loudly. He turned to look toward the foyer, but no one was there.

“Oh, that was just Allan,” Elias said. “He usually heads in about now.”

“Oh. Does he—know we’re all here?”

“He’ll figure it out.”

“What, you didn’t tell him?”

“Nah. He’ll ask if he cares. He’s always pretty wrapped up at work this time of year.”

“What—what does he do?” Martin asked.

“He’s a professor at the University here in Kent.”

“Oh. In Canterbury.”

“Yeah.” Elias, who had been holding his coffee cup quite comfortably between his hands until this point, set it down on the side table. “Actually, to be completely honest—I mean, he is very wrapped up, he just gets that way—but I wasn’t sure I wanted to involve him in all this. You don’t—you don’t happen to know if Allan was all right there? In the—other dimension?”

Martin opened his mouth before he knew what he was going to say, and then turned to Jon. It was clear neither of them had expected this question, and Martin felt both guilty and grateful when Jon took the responsibility for answering it.

“He—no. He was not all right. He died. A long time ago, before you did. Did you—want to know about it?”

Elias sighed. “I just—had this feeling, I guess. I don’t know. Will it help if I know? Help him, I mean?”

“I have no idea,” Jon said.

“Huh.” Elias leaned forward in his armchair and clasped his hands together, contemplating, and then turned to Martin. “Would you want to know, if you were me?”

Martin shook his head, holding up his hands in front of him. “Oh, if Jon doesn’t know if it will help, I definitely don’t. I—”

“I know. But what—what would you do?”

“I guess—” Martin looked at Jon, who shrugged. “I’m not saying it’s right, and honestly, I’m probably the worst person to ask, but—yeah, I’d want to know.”

“Ok,” Elias said, sitting back against the chair. “Tell me.”

“He was… consumed. By a—through—a Leitner.”

“A Leitner?” Elias was confused. “Like—Jurgen Leitner?”

“That’s what we called his books,” Martin explained. “The books from his collection.”

“The collection in the archives right now,” Elias asked.

“Yes.”

“And Allan was—consumed—by a book.”

“Well, they were different there—” Martin started to say, but he was cut off by a burst of laughter from Elias.

“Of course he was.” He continued to laugh, but his laughter became more strained. “That would be exactly how Allan would go in a world full of monsters.” He leaned forward, and the laughter came to a gradual stop as he rested his head in his hands, elbows supported by his knees.

“I’m—I’m sorry,” Martin said, knowing exactly how little it helped.

“No, no—it’s—it makes perfect sense. It just—does,” Elias said, before finally raising his head. “So, what do you think—I keep him away from the Leitner collection? That’s easy enough. He’s never been to the Institute in his life.”

Martin and Jon met each other’s eyes again.

“It’s never—it’s never simple,” Jon said slowly. “I don’t know if it means anything, but it was a long time ago. Certainly the entities had an interest in you there that they didn’t here—that they don’t. That can’t—that can’t be a bad thing. For you or Allan.”

“I’m sorry,” Elias said, sitting up again. He sighed, reached for his coffee, and resumed holding the mug with both hands. Martin realized it was the way a person holds a hot drink when trying to warm their fingers, even though there was no way it could be that hot anymore.

“No need to apologize,” Martin said. “It’s—it’s a lot.”

“Tell me—tell me about Jonah Magnus. And me. I want to hear it from you.”

Jon took a long sip of tea; Martin was glad he had made it for him. “You already know the basic story. What do you want to know about it?”

“Well, ok. Why me? Why did he choose me?”

“I suppose… I suppose you did have a certain profile. You had the right social status to run the Institute. Your—experience with Allan may have primed you in some way. And—” he stopped.

“What?”

“There was no one watching you. Well, no one who—”

“No one who cared.”

“No. No one who—who would—object too strongly if you changed. Slowly. Dedicated yourself to the Institute. Became Jonah.”

“I see.” Elias turned his cup in his hands.

“On the other hand—you weren’t the only one he could have chosen. Not at all. In a very real sense, you were just unlucky. In the wrong place.”

“Sure.” He continued to focus on his cup. “Was it—was it fast, at least? For me?”

Jon sighed. “No. No, it was—long. And slow. And—terrifying.”

Martin shuddered just a little at Jon’s words; he wondered if Jon hadn’t taken it a bit far, but Elias stayed perfectly calm.

“I see,” Elias said again. “Do you think—I know you said I was in the wrong place, but—is it possible that—maybe that’s not true? Maybe that was—my purpose?”

“Your—purpose?” Jon looked directly at Elias. “What—”

“I just think—I never understood why I went to the Institute in the first place. I mean—I kind of did, I thought I’d take a low-level research job, waste some time, do something that would have pissed off my father a bit—but I never really understood why. Not really. And I ended up doing everything he wanted anyway.”

“Well—I’m only guessing, but I think there must have been some sort of pull between the two dimensions, and maybe—”

“And maybe my real reason for existing was there, in that other dimension, to be—that. Some sort of useless, waiting husk that Jonah Magnus could crawl into and—”

“No,” Martin interrupted him. “That’s not—”

“But it makes sense. Just like Allan being eaten by a book. It would explain some things—why I couldn’t just walk away from all this. It would explain why I could never find anything else to go to. If that was why I exist, and it was finished years ago—”

“Jon, please—”

“No.” Jon’s face was pale, and there was an edge of controlled anger in his voice. “That’s not a thing. It is no one’s purpose to serve them. No one exists specifically to suffer and—”

They were interrupted by the sound of voices drifting through the foyer from the hallway; a moment later, the remaining houseguests appeared.

“Morning, everyone.” Sasha seemed very refreshed compared to the previous night; Melanie and Georgie, standing behind her and talking quietly to each other, seemed maybe slightly less refreshed. When no one responded, Sasha’s cheeriness faded slightly. “Is—is everything ok?”

Elias took a deep breath and sat up; smiling, he set his now-empty coffee cup down on the side table. “Everything’s fine. We’re fine.”

Georgie yawned, having missed the nuances of the exchange. “Well—we were wondering—had anyone thought about breakfast yet?”

“Yes and no,” Elias said, standing up. “I thought about the fact that I hadn’t thought about it until this morning. I have some stuff here if anyone’s starving, but we’re going to need to go out before too long. There are a few small places nearby, but I’m thinking we’re better off going to the Sainsbury’s in town and stocking up. I can—”

“Georgie and I can do that,” Melanie said. “You’re letting us stay here, we can at least pitch in and help out with food.”

In the end, Melanie, Georgie, and Sasha all ended up leaving for the store, with plans to bring back several days’ worth of food. After they left, Elias, façade crumpling, turned back toward Jon and Martin.

“I’m sorry for—that. Before they came in. It’s very easy for me to think too much.”

Martin waited to see if Jon would say something, but he seemed very lost in his own thoughts.

“It’s—it’s all right.” He was, again, very aware of how little these words helped.

“I hope you don’t mind if I take a moment.”

“No. Not at all.”

“Help yourself to—whatever. Anything.”

“All right. Um—thanks.”

Elias stuffed both hands into his pockets as he walked out of the room, back toward the direction of his bedroom. He left his empty coffee cup sitting on the side table next to Jon, who remained sullen and withdrawn. If Martin could have easily reached over to touch his arm, physically remind Jon of his presence without disrupting his thoughts too much, he would have, but the couch was too far away from the chair.

He was pretty sure Jon knew he was there, regardless.

He turned back to his cup of tea. It had gone quite cold by now, but he drank it anyway.

[that-one-girl-behind-you]

Illicio

As the new Archivist debates between life and death, the Eye ponders on what to offer him in order to avoid an encore of the unfortunate situation with his predecessor.

-----

Gerard Keay opens his eyes at what feels like fuck-ass in the morning, inside a room with far too little space and far too much dust.

I

The Eye thrives on knowledge, of course. On understanding. Not necessarily on moving the pieces across the board -that's the Spider's domain, though perhaps that's why they work so well together, one knowing exactly where pawn needs to be to strike the king, the other moving it forward with the slightest pull of a string- but on seeing all details, and predicting all outcomes.

More than anything else, the Eye feeds on Knowing its chosen, and how to lure them in until they not only can't find the way out, but until they don't want to.

When Jonah Magnus first sat on the Panopticon, the Eye rewarded him with life eternal. It offered Gertrude Robinson all the gifts it had to give, and watched in delight as she -for all that she refused the powers- fed it knowledge acquired specifically to annoy other Entities. When young Gerard Keay marked his body with its image, the Eye gave him the ability to See. Just enough to entice him, to bring him onto the path of the Beholding and let the Archivist use him.

Now the Pupil has chosen it a new Archivist, and as he debates between life and death the Eye ponders on what to offer him in order to avoid an encore of the unfortunate situation with his predecessor.

Gertrude Robinson clung to her humanity with the same cold ferocity she used to guide so many innocents to their death -and worse- like lambs to the Slaughter. She was aware the monsters feared her, relished in the fact. She only ever gave the irony of it a passing thought.

Jonathan on the contrary, is painfully human, even as he steadily moves towards his realization as an Avatar. The Eye knows what he yearns for the most is the people he's lost. The ones he thinks will keep him human.

He's going to be sad, when he wakes up and finds that two more are gone.

It's not outside the realm of possibility, to bring one of them back for him. Make it blatantly obvious that it was a gift from the Ceaseless Watcher, that more can be given if he surrenders himself over fully and willingly.

Entities bring people back from the dead all the time. Dying is after all, a requirement to become an Avatar in full. Terminus is patient, mostly because Avatars of all kinds usually end up feeding it with their victims. Their patrons get their fear, The End gets their lives.

Resurrecting people marked by other Entities, however? Not as simple.

Sasha James fed the Stranger when she died, so long ago and before she could form any meaningful connection to the Entity that would have been her patron. She survived for a while even in her state of not being, banging against the inside of mirrors to try and make her friends notice the reflection didn't quite match up to the impostor. It never worked.

Alice Tonner is not dead, and even if she were, the Hunt has her well within its grasp. The connection grows fainter each year-long day she stays in the coffin, but as she is now, she's not a possibility.

Timothy Stoker is promising. Though he was marked by the Stranger in his youth, though the Desolation turned its flaming gaze to him the moment he pressed the trigger with only destruction in his mind, Tim belonged to the Beholding for years.

They were also friends. Well before the Archives, before the Knowledge, before the pain. Nights out in which the awkwardness became comfortable merely because of its familiarity, jokes that struck too hard and apologies that were more heartfelt than they were good.

Jon requested Tim be moved to the Archives because he felt his presence would make the new space safe. Tim followed because his love for people has always manifested in a need to be there, regardless of if 'there' is the Old Opera House or a stuffy old basement with too many statements to sort through.

The Eye knows better of course. It always does.

Jon flinched away from Tim's every movement, feared his barbed words as much as he sought them out. Drank in the bitter poison of his hatred as though it might kill the monster inside him, as he tried to hold back his new instincts for fear of driving him further away. Jon and Tim loved each other once, and even in the last months of his life Jon still held on to the hope that if he regained Tim's affection it would mean he was human again.

A misguided notion, and a dangerous one at that.

The Eye needs someone who has loved monsters. Someone who will do so again.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Gerard Keay opens his eyes at what feels like fuck-ass in the morning, inside a room with far too little space and far too much dust.

Of course, the fact that he wakes up at all takes priority in his mind over his apparent taste in nap spots, since the last time -or what he expected to be the last time- he closed his eyes, his page on mum's bloody skin book was finally going to burn, after years of being forced to play spooky Wikipedia for a pair of nutcases.

His head spins when he sits up on the cot, and he has to bend forward and rest his elbows on his knees until the world. Stops. Moving.

Why the on Earth is he still here?! Hasn't he earned his rest? He helped save so many people, he-

"Coma! Great," comes a muffled voice, and the world stills so suddenly he almost misses the nausea.

Gerry very slowly lifts his head, but the dizziness doesn't come back. Before him is a heavy door with a small window made of thick glass, glowing softly against the darkness of the room in an insinuation of light somewhere beyond.

"Let's rearrange his office," the voice says again, just as Gerry climbs to his feet. He feels much more steady than he expected just from his wild excursion into sitting, as he follows the familiar voice towards the door. "Sleeping people don't need pens."

He leans down to look through the glass.

There, down a long corridor and much too far for Gerry to reasonably be able to listen to, is Jonathan Sims.

That explains the sense of familiarity coming from the voice. But... it makes no sense. Jon promised to burn his page, and Gerry-

Gerry actually believed him when he did.

He seemed so different from Gertrude, eyes looking at him like a person instead of a tool, even when he had most decidedly stopped being the former and moved firmly down the scale to the latter. Had Jon broken his promise? Had he kept-

But no, this doesn't feel at all like waking up from his page. He feels… real. Human enough to be sick, to be sore and tired and-

"Melanie!" a burst of energy pumps through his veins -he's got veins?- when Jon speaks again, but when Gerry looks up he's not sitting at his desk anymore. "It's very good to uh- Melanie? Are you- WHOA!"

His hand tightens around the doorknob almost out of its own volition, and he sends the door flying open.

"Melanie, it's- it's me!" Jon's voice has a slight hint of fear in it. Of desperation.

Gerry takes a step down the corridor, and he stops for a second. His muscles tense and relax and he can feel his weight on his bones, smell the dust and the scent of old paper. He'd forgotten the human body could feel so many things. It's so stupid that he never stopped to notice when he was alive.

"No! I- I'm back!" A new set of words floats down the corridor, pouring into Gerry like warm water over a strained limb.

Oh right. The Archivist.

He runs then, flying towards the door as fast as his limbs can carry him. He arrives into Jon's office first, a small room with a desk that's much too neat for anyone to have used it recently, but he barely has enough time to take it all in before Jon's voice pulls at him again, towards the open door.

"What?! No I just- I didn't meant to-"

"How did you make it out then hm?!" Now that he's close enough, Gerry can finally hear the person Jon's arguing with. They sound like a woman, angry and dangerous and-

Much smaller than he'd expected, when he finally peeks through the door. The slight, bony woman exudes an air of violence -there's something wrong with her, Gerry can See it but not place just what it is- as she squares up to a very fidgety Jon, with a hand firmly stuck down her jacket pocket.

"What?" Jon asks. The single, nervous word is almost hypnotic, and a sneaking suspicion is beginning to form in Gerry's mind.

"Tim's dead. Even Daisy's dead, so why are you just fine?" The woman, Melanie, since Jon called her that a moment ago, asks.

"W- no! I've been in the hospital for six mon-"

"Something has been in the hospital for six months, something with your face!" Melanie pulls her hand out of her pocket and yeah, that's a knife. "I warned Basira to not let you back in here, but she! Doesn't! Listen!"

Everything happens at once then. Melanie takes a step forward -she's not wielding the knife as much as she's holding it, Gerry notices, like one would a stress ball-, Jon takes a step back and right over a piece of broken porcelain on the floor, and Gerry takes one out the door. It's like a very weird, surprisingly organized ballet.

"I wouldn't stab him if I were you" Gerry says right as he walks out. Both their gazes hone in on him, one much heavier than the other. "I don't think it'll do much good anyways"

"Who the hell are you?" Melanie turns the knife to him -definitely wielding it now- at the same time Jon lets out a strangled sound.

"Gerry?" Jon asks, eyeing him up and down with a frown. "I'm- That's not- I burned your page!"

"See, that's what I wanted to hear. That and some answers, but instead I have to keep you from getting stabbed as soon as I wake up." Gerry shrugs.

"Don't move" Melanie snarls at him, before turning to Jon. "Who is he?"

"That's Gerard Keay," Jon says as quickly as if he'd been compelled, his eagerness to be found trustworthy almost painful to witness. "he was- is... He worked with Gertrude. And he should be dead."

"Twice over," Gerry confirms with a nod. "apparently I just can't get any rest around you Archivists. That room at the end of the corridor needs a dusting, by the way."

Jon merely gapes at him for a moment. "I- This doesn't make any sen-"

"I'm calling Basira," Melanie cuts into his words, a mobile already lodged between her shoulder and ear.

"I thought you said she never listened," Jon mutters, and Gerry snorts.

"It's me. Get down to his office, now," and she hangs up, before pinning Gerry with a glare again. "Get in."

And really, Gerry's genetically predisposed to rear back against literally any order he's given, but something about Melanie tells him the knife isn't for show. If he's really alive, refusing to go into a perfectly normal room he was in just a minute ago feels like a very bad hill to die on.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Yeah, I've heard some of the ones he shows up on," Basira nods. She's leaning against the closed door of Jon's office and he has no doubt no one will be getting in or out while she's there. "The Hunters had him didn't they? Back in America."

"Not my favorite time, I'll admit," Gerry says, and Jon looks over at him, still somewhat refusing to believe he's real.

He looks... Solid. It sounds like a dumb trait to remark on, but it's the one thing Jon can't get out of his head. The last time he saw him, Gerry was a spectre.A memory of a memory, not even the real him, an echo of pain bound to the pages of the book. Now he's sitting on top of Jon's desk, directly on top of a now very crumpled statement and all Jon can focus on is on how he can crumple paper, cast a shadow, push his paperweight around. His skin folds and stretches as he moves, and the eyes marked over every joint give the appearance of blinking every time he flexes his fingers.

"-n? Jon!" Basira's urgent tone pulls at him, and he looks away from Gerry's hands to find her staring at him with a raised eyebrow.

"Uh... What?" Jon asks. Did he miss part of the conversation?

"You tell me," Basira rolls her eyes. "I was asking you how is he alive, if you burned his page before the Unknowing?"

"Well, how would I-" know?, he means to add. But of course now something is pressing against his mind, like the beginnings of a headache only it feels like a thousand people whispering in his ear at the same time. "Urgh..." Jon frowns, pressing his thumb to his temple uselessly. Pressure doesn't work too well against these sort of migraines, he's found.

"Jon?" Basira takes a step forward, and Melanie's hand immediately shoots forward to pull on her arm.

"Don't touch him," she warns. Jon has little to no doubt the knife is back in her hand, and that she's waiting for him to sprout an extra eye so she can stab it. It would serve him right.

"I'm-" Jon grunts "just a moment, it's-" he stops talking then. It's distracting, and he needs to block-

"Ride it," says Gerry. Jon parts his eyelids -he has no idea when he closed them- and finds he's still sitting on his desk, leaning his elbows on his knees. He's intertwined his fingers, and the way his knuckles align with each other makes it so there's a line of eyes staring back at Jon.

"I- what?"

"You're Knowing something aren't you?" Gerry asks casually. "Gertrude had some of those too. Don't push back, just... Ride it out."

"I'm not going to just let it come, that's- I don't want this!" Jon doesn't know if he's trying to convince himself, or Basira and Melanie but the pressure just keeps getting heavier and heavier-

"You're just going to hurt yourself, you're going to pass out, and when you wake up you will Know," Gerry rolls his eyes. He certainly seems as snarky as when he was a book ghost. "Come on, let Daddy Eye tell you."

Jon darts a desperate look at Basira, tries to ignore how Melanie looks like she's a wrong movement away from launching at him with the knife.

He's... grateful for a moment, that Tim isn't here. That Martin isn't. He wouldn't want them to see him like this.

Basira sighs. "Just... Do it. I guess it works in our favor this time," she says, and it's all the permission Jon needs to just let go.

He closes his eyes again, and when he finally stops pushing against the Eye the knowledge gets implanted in his head almost gently, like it's rewarding him for giving in. It makes him feel nauseated.

"T- The Watcher resurrected you." Jon doesn't say 'for me', because it would sound just as disgusting as it felt when the thought was dropped into his mind "It... I think it's a show of power. To... To make me-"

"To convince you to stay a good little monster?" Melanie hisses "Do what you're told, and you get people back? Whether they want it or not. Sounds right up your alley, if you ask me. You can just keep getting people killed, and we'll keep-"

"Melanie," Basira cuts into her rant with a single word. Jon looks at her gratefully, but her sharp, dark eyes are looking at him more in suspicion than sympathy. "Is she right? Can the Eye bring others back?"

And just like that, Jon is abruptly reminded that he wasn't the only one to lose someone in the Unknowing.

"I... Don't know? Maybe?" He runs a hand through his hair in an old nervous tic that was much more convenient before he went into a coma and had no time for haircuts. "If I- if I serve it well... Maybe it will-"

"No," Basira's lips are a tense line, her eyes averted from Jon's "Forget it, I- we don't want to give it what it wants."

"... No. Of course not," Jon nods, though he Knows at that moment, very acutely, that Basira is not saying what she truly feels about the possibility they're being offered. "so... what should we do with Gerry?"

"It's going to sound crazy, but may I suggest you ask Gerry?" says the man himself. He looks... very unimpressed. But it's ok. Jon is starting to get used to that look aimed at him. "Maybe he has an opinion about being the Ceaseless Voyeur's toy."

"No offense, but I'm still debating on whether or not to kill you." Melanie crosses her arms. "If the Eye wants you alive, I'm pretty sure we don't."

"Well, I'm pretty sure I don't care." Gerry slides off the desk and turns his head side to side to crack his neck. "Gertrude, the Eye, the Hunters, you. I think I'm going to do my own thing. For a change."

He makes it as far as the door because Basira of course hasn't moved, and she's showing no inclination of doing so.

"I'm not letting you out," she says simply.

Gerry thrusts his hands in his pockets, looking down at Basira. Jon doesn't remember him being so tall, but then again he supposed it's hard to really estimate a ghost's height.

"Are you going to kill me?" He asks.

Jon holds his breath. Melanie still has her knife, inching back and around Gerry silently as if waiting for Basira to give her a signal. Gerry's eyes don't follow her, but he has to know, right?

"... No" says Basira after what feels like an eternity. Jon knows she doesn't kill innocents, that she prefers not to kill at all if there's another way -that's Daisy's M.O., Basira has never heard the blood sing in her veins- but he still worried.

"Great. Is there any other reason to keep me here then?" Gerry asks again. His voice sounds pleasant and conversational, like it did when teased Jon about not knowing anything about Gertrude's plans.

He finds himself thinking this might just be how Gerry is, all wrapped up in humor and snark to keep out the rest of it.

"You're alive, and you shouldn't be." Basira still hasn't moved from the door, but she gives her head a slight shake. Jon sees Melanie pocket the knife with a huff.

"I'm gonna take a wild guess and say I'm not the only one in that category." Gerry takes a step sideways to pivot on his heel, and Jon flinches a little when both of them look at him. "Start stabbing, I'll go after Jon."

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------

They let him go after that, of course.

Gerry wanders the London streets for about a week afterwards, trying to figure out a plan of action while ignoring the fact that he doesn't feel the need for sleep, drink or food. He manages to find two of his old emergency stashes, one in a park, the other at the air vents behind a public library so at least he's got some money and two sets of credible fake ID's.

At some point he considers leaving the city. He ought to be able to find a job out by the countryside, and finally be out of this for good. If he doesn't go out looking for trouble, none should follow him. If some does, he knows enough to make it regret the decision.

The normal, boring life Gerry always wanted.

Instead he falls back on old habits, because it's the only thing he knows how to do.

He watches people, sitting on park benches and standing at bus stops. Most of the time they're perfectly normal, just people going about their lives and giving the big, scary looking man a passing look and a wide berth.

Sometimes they aren't.

When Gerry Sees marked people, he follows them from a distance until they're alone, and then he approaches. Some are easier to help than others, and he's both pleased and unnerved that the Eye didn't just give him his Sight back, but made it stronger too. It's much faster to just go up to a man and tell him to think of his daughter waiting at home, instead of trying to convince him he's no threat, or at least not compared to whatever it is he's going to fall into soon.

He also Sees an Avatar out hunting, once.

She's wearing heavy clothes and a facemask, that bulges and squirms disturbingly as she stalks down a group of schoolgirls. Gerry sees a wasp crawl out from under it and into her nostril.

The girls stop in front of a store window to chatter excitedly about what the mannequin -which is thankfully just a mannequin- is wearing, and Gerry hurries his step to reach them before the Hive does.

"Hey," he says, stopping a meter or so away from them, because it won't do to scare them into running. The girls look up at him, already on edge and one of them clenching something inside her raincoat's pocket. Good. Smart girls. Still, he raises his hands to show them he means no harm. "Some freak's been following you. Go into the store for a bit and call someone to pick you up. I'll scare him off"

It takes them a moment to comply with his request, and Gerry applauds their instincts but really wishes they'd hurry because the Hive is coming closer, lurking behind a bus stop only a short distance away. Eventually though, one of them nods and takes one of her friend's hands to pull her into the shop. The rest follow.

"It's very rude to interrupt other people before a meal." The woman's voice is accompanied by a loud buzz and more squirming when Gerry approaches her. Her eyes are bloodshot and littered with yellow dots he suspects are eggs when she lifts her sunglasses to look at him.

"My mum didn't raise me too well," Gerry shrugs. "Go away, before I kill you."

"Are you with the Hunt?" the woman asks. A wasp crawls out of her ear. Gerry arches an eyebrow, but he decides not to draw attention to the literal dozens of eyes across his body. Corruption Avatars, at least Hives, never seem to actually be all there; maybe their parasites eat the key parts of their brains?

"I've got what it takes," he says instead of confirming anything. It's dangerous to align yourself with an Entity, even just in word. A larva begins to squirm out her tear duct, and God, Gerry hates Hives. "Last warning. Go away." He bats away the ear wasp that's trying to land on him.

"Hm... selfish," she mutters, before turning to walk away with her lone wasp following.

Gerry stays at the bus stop until he sees a car stop and the schoolgirls climb into it, darting suspicious looks all around.

He starts feeling the strain by the beginning of the second week.

It's subtle at first, a little exhaustion like he'd been standing in the sun for too long with too warm clothes. With his stylistic choices, it's a feeling he knows well.

Then one night he catches sight of a man sitting alone in his car by the piers, and he tries to See if he's having a normal middle age crisis or staring out into either the Lonely or the Vast, and it hits him.

His legs feel weak, and for all that he feels his breathing quicken Gerry's acutely aware he can't feel his heartbeat doing the same. The dizziness from his first day comes back, and black begins to creep along the edges of his vision.

When he wakes up the next day, the man's car is there, but he's not.

Gerry struggles to his feet, the nausea just this side of tolerable, and moves closer. The car's windows are clouded over from the inside with a heavy fog that has no business being inside a vehicle, much less under fairly strong sunlight.

He sighs, disappointed. This is one he could've saved.

He doesn't try to See again, but sometimes he can't help it, and every time he finds a mark on a passerby he feels weaker and weaker, until an idea pops up in his mind.

He's running out of battery.

It's a jarring thought, but he supposes it makes sense. While he doesn't think the Eye brought him back as a full on Avatar, he's been using Beholding traits to help people. He hasn't been feeding -regular or monster food-, but he doesn't feel the need to either. There's no telling what the Watcher wants.

It doesn't seem to want to tell him either, so Gerry just... keeps walking.

If worst comes to worst, he'll die. It's not that bad, and presumably this time it will be for good, as there's no skin book or Archivist in sight. Besides, he's helped some more people since coming back, so at least he did some good.

After two more days of aimless walking, Gerry leans back against an alley wall, and lets himself slide down to the ground. His legs can't carry him anymore. Maybe this is what a wind up toy feels like?

He rests his forehead against a bent knee, his arms falling down limp by his sides. Maybe he won't die. Maybe his body will just... Shut down, and Gerry will be trapped inside it just like he was in the book. Maybe they'll find him tomorrow, think he overdosed, and bury him.

He certainly never expected to end up feeding Too-Close-I-Cannot-Breathe.

"Yes, I do," says a voice, and Gerry's head whips up almost on its own. "I'm- My name's Jon. Jonathan Sims. I moved in a few weeks ago, but I'm at work a lot."

Each and every word Jon says feels like a small bolt to his nerves, and Gerry remembers the suspicion he had that day at the Archives.

Amazing.

"Yes it's- very nice to meet you too Doris. I should be going in now," says Jon, and Gerry's got enough strength to get to his feet again and look across the street.

The alley he collapsed in is in front of a small residential building, and he can just see the back of a messy haired head disappear behind a door as an older woman in a bright yellow cardigan begins to walk away.

Gerry hurries across the street -who knows how long this burst of energy will last- but slows down before reaching the woman.

"Excuse me?" He asks, trying for once to make himself look smaller and not threatening. Doris still eyes him warily, and he doesn't get any closer. "Did you come out of that building? My friend Jon lives there, but he's not picking up his phone. Do you know which one's his buzzer?"

That does the trick. Doris' mistrust evaporates like mist under the sun and she gives Gerry s perfectly pleasant smile.

"Oh yes! The new tenant, I just met him," she says, clearly very pleased with herself. "He's in 4A, and he just came back home, you're lucky!"

"Yep. That's me. Perfect timing." Gerry smiles back, though he feels his eyelid twitch a little. "Thank you miss, have a nice day."

"Oh, you have a lovely one too! Tell your friend to eat something though, he's awfully skinny!" Doris pats Gerry's shoulder before going on her merry way.

Gerry chuckles a little under his breath, imagining Gertrude in Doris' flashy cardigan, wishing him a lovely day.

Then, he goes back to the building, and jams his finger on the button labeled 4A.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Jon closes the door to his flat behind him, and immediately collapses face down on the living room sofa. It's comfortable enough, but whoever the previous owner was left it smelling strongly of essential oils and Jon has to turn his face to the side to avoid choking on the scent of lavender.

He'd rented the place fully furnished, because he doesn't have the time nor the taste to actually fill up a place he's only been using to sleep. Or to lay in bed looking at the ceiling until it's light out again. Whatever.

It's been... hell.

Jon's not one to look at a gift horse in the mouth, and he's very aware that waking up from the coma was his choice in a pretty literal way.

Still, nothing's going as it should.

Melanie has stopped attacking him on sight, but she still pulls out the knife if he gets too close to her. Basira says to just leave her alone, but that's difficult to do when one is quite literally sharing an office with her.

Then there's Basira herself. She spends all her time reading either books from the library or old statements she finds lying around, and she loses herself so completely in them she doesn't even seem to notice people around her when she does. Jon's tried talking to her about it, but she insists she's fine, and doesn't feel any different.

Jon also knows she's been seeing Elias at jail, but whenever he's gone to do the same he's been turned away without an explanation. It's not like he wants to talk to Elias, but the man could at least do him the courtesy of answering some questions.

And Martin.

He saw him today, and Jon's willing to bet it's part of the reason he feels so drained. Martin looks... well.

He's not pale or haggard, hasn't lost any weight or started sporting any prominent eye bags like the ones Jon sees in the mirror every day. He keeps busy, rarely going down to the Archives anymore.

Always going through some file with a slight frown on his face, and all Jon can think of when he sees him is that Martin didn't use to frown so much. His face is too soft and too open for the gesture, and Jon doesn't like it. He remembers the slight nervousness, the uncertainty in his eyes and the curve of his lips when he opened the door to Jon's office with a steaming cup of tea, and he can't help telling himself that this too is his fault.

Martin is dealing with Lukas on his own to keep the rest of them safe, because Jon can't do it.

Back when they were... friends, Tim used to say Jon didn't know what middle points were. Either he didn't care about something, or he went all in, no holds barrelled. He'd joked that had been what scared his ex-girlfriend away, and then apologized when Jon had gone too quiet too quick.

The joke came back when they moved down to the Archives. "First you didn't even want to check out the place, now we can't get you out, boss. It's ridiculous," he'd said. Jon had rolled his eyes at him, because of course he wanted to keep working as much as he could, Robinson's 'system' was absolute chaos, and they were no closer to fixing it months after starting.

"Now you care all of a sudden huh?" Tim had said that last night before the Unknowing. Jon had looked at him and had the thought that he couldn't remember the last time he saw him smile. "First we're all murderers out to get you, now you 'can't lose me too'. Typical Jon."

It's the last time Jon remembers hearing the joke, when it wasn't one anymore.

He's forced to concede the words some measure of truth, because he's been awake for two and a half weeks and all he can think of is Martin and the others, and how to protect-

BZZZZZZZZZZZZZ

Jon blinks.

He... doesn't remember giving anyone at the Institute his new address. They're not going out -can't go out- anyways, so it's unlikely to be them.

He guesses Helen could bring them in if she wanted, but the Distortion doesn't need any buzzers when it could open a door directly into Jon's living room.

So probably someone who wants to kill him.

BZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ

They... don't seem to be giving up.

He should probably find a way to go out before they break in. Only he's in a fourth story flat, so that really only leaves the fire escape.

One way or the other, he has to do something before one of his neighbors goes to check. At least he can't die so easily now.

BZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ

Jon sighs, before pushing and pulling and finally getting off the sofa and over to the panel by the door.

He presses the button to speak to whoever it is downstairs.

"Hello?" he asks. Has he always sounded this tired?

"It's me. Let me in," says a grainy voice through the intercom, and Jon feels his eyebrows climb up his forehead.

After he walked out of his office a week or so ago, he never thought he'd be hearing of Gerry Keay again.

The voice at the back of his head -it's not really a voice so much as a tight bundle of Knowledge that sometimes feeds Jon with thoughts and instincts that aren't his own- wants him to open the door.

Gerry was a gift for him, and there can be more if he plays along. Tim could be back. Daisy even. Sasha. It makes no sense to refuse what the Watcher has gotten for him, he deserves it, for stopping the Unknowing, for saving the world.

Martin's slight frown flashes in his mind, and Jon's finger freezes on its way towards the button to open the door.

This would be giving in, wouldn't it?

And all Martin is doing, all he's going through will be for nothing if- Okay, Jon's not so egotistical as to actually think Martin is placing himself in danger just for his sake, but... But if he's fighting, if he hasn't given in, then Jon can't either. Jon can't-

BZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ

Jon groans, and pushes the button. Martin will have to forgive him.

Gerry looks a right mess when John opens the door to the flat. His hair falls in lifeless strings by the sides of his sunken in cheeks, his clothes hanging off his frame like-

"Have you been eating?" Jon asks. The compulsion leaves a metallic aftertaste in his mouth, and Gerry gives him an unimpressed look.

"No. I've had snacks and stuff, but I don't get hungry anymore. Don't sleep much either." He shakes his head a little. "You don't need to compel me for that. Besides, I'm not the one who just woke up from a coma. Let me tell you, it shows."

Jon feels his face heat up lightly. It's not that he's purposefully not taking care of himself. It's just… he only really feels well when at the Archives, at least in a physical sense.

"Well, at least I've got an excuse," Jon crosses his arms over his chest. "So you don't need food or sleep anymore?"

Gerry only deigns to give him a shrug before going to sit on his sofa, leaving Jon standing there like an idiot in front of an open door.

"Do you?" Gerry asks from the sofa as Jon closes the door. "Your sofa smells like an old lady."

Jon shifts a little on his feet. Gerry's sitting on the center of the couch, knees spread wide and arms thrown over the backrest, leaving absolutely no space for Jon to sit. There used to be an armchair, but the landlord took it out before Jon moved in with some commentary about getting it reupholstered -Jon Knows he actually just took it back to his house, because it's very comfortable and he's wanted it for a while- and never brought it back.

After a moment, Jon sits on the coffee table, and when he looks back up he finds Gerry's staring straight at him, unblinking and with a raised eyebrow.

"What?" Jon frowns, flinching back a little as Gerry leans forward, shifting to rest his elbows on his knees.

"What else did it tell you? Gerry asks. "About me?"

"N- nothing!" Jon purses his lips shut and by some miracle manages to not avert his gaze.

"Jon, I admire your dedication to lying badly, but I have a feeling you're literally killing me right now." Gerry leans even further forward, now well and truly into Jon's space. The many metallic bits and pieces in his face catch the light coming from above in a very interesting way, and Jon chooses to focus on that instead of- Gerry's hand wraps around Jon's jaw, tilting his face up. "Focus."

"That's very unnecessary..." Jon pushes out through squished cheeks and lips.

It's... been a while since anyone's touched him. Even more since he's been touched without harmful intent.

He'd almost forgotten it was a possibility.

"I need to know, Jon. Please tell me the truth." Gerry's eyes are very intense this up close, and Jon has a second to think that maybe he finds the eye contact so unnerving because no one looks at him directly anymore, too scared of what he could see if they give him the chance. These eyes don't look scared. They look tired and pained, a perfect middle between green and blue that Jon doesn't think he's seen before. "Why did the Watcher bring me here?"

And he lets go of him slowly, softly. Like Jon is a wild animal he needs to keep from bolting.

He considers lying -badly, it seems- for about a moment. But the man before him has never done him that disservice, not even when Jon held his entire existence in the palm of his hand, and could've denied him his rest.

"It was... the Eye brought you back for me," Jon says after a moment that he wishes could've been longer. He feels disgusted even as the words leave his mouth, another confession to another slight against another person that deserves so much more than the life they're trapped in. "Some sort of- a present. Melanie wasn't too off the mark. It meant to entice me into serving."

Gerry makes a low, contemplative noise, and Jon looks up to find him worrying at the ring that wraps around his bottom lip.

It does not escape his attention, how not surprised he looks.

"You already knew?" Jon asks, frowning. Why isn't he more... upset? Tim would definitely have tried to deck him by now.

Gerry stops biting at his lip and lifts a broad shoulder in a lazy shrug. "I had the suspicion, but I settled on it when I realized your voice gives me strength," he says. "And not in like the nice inspirational way, I think I was about to die again when you started talking to Doris."

Jon blinks.

"My- when I what?"

"It's polite to remember the names of your neighbors, Jon" Gerry rolls his eyes, still much too calm for the kinds of truths he's revealing. "She's got a great cardigan. Would suit you actually, if you wore bright colors. You rock the octogenarian look alread-"

"Gerry that was just now! You should've- that's why you look so bad!" And now that he knows about it, he can see the effect of his words on Gerry. His skin looks less clammy, his eyes brighter, his cheeks less sunken and Jon feels disgusted. The Eye brought back a man who fought for a sliver of freedom his entire life, and it bound him to Jon in the absolute worst way. "Why- how come you're so... So okay with this?"

"How can you not be?" Gerry arches an eyebrow at him. "I literally cannot go away from you for too long, and you get a free sucker you can throw at the monsters."

"That's not what I want at all!" Jon exclaims, almost tripping over his words in his haste to get them out. "I didn't ask for- you can't possibly believe I would want-" Jon's voice grows weaker with every word, until he's left gesturing meekly at the space between the two of them.

Gerry's gaze on him feels almost searing, the weight of his judgement bearing down on Jon as the silence stretches by. Jon thinks of apologizing. This one in particular wasn't his fault, but hadn't Melanie said so? Everything happens because of him, every death and every wound a means to get him where the Beholding wants him.

He's just opened his mouth, when Gerry snorts and lets out a bark of laughter.

"Oh man, you should see your face," he says after the initial burst, and Jon's head whips up mouth agape to find him looking down at him in amusement. "Nah, I know it's not your fault. These things... they work in their own ways. You gotta roll with the punches, then find a way to punch back harder."

"I-" Jon stops talking so abruptly he nearly bites his tongue off, when a heavy hand lands on his head and messes his hair; like it needs any help.

It occurs to him that he never expected Gerry to be this... tactile. Maybe because he never expected to see him in a way that would allow contact, or because of the whole goth, aloof persona.

"Wipe that look off your face, come on," Gerry says once he stops assaulting him, and he drops down on his back, swinging his legs over the sofa's armrest like he owns the damned place. "You're making me feel like I killed your puppy. Do you have a statement lying around? I could still use a pick-me-up."

Jon stays there for a second, watching him in shock. Another thing he didn't expect Gerry to be was optimistic. Kind. It's weird to remember that under the cynicism, the snark and the eyeliner is the man that saw a young woman marked by the Lonely, and put his life on hold to try and give her the tools to survive.

"Uh- Ok. Yes, I have one." He gets up from the coffee table to find his briefcase, wherever he left it. "Are you sure this is alright?"

"It's not. But you've got to know by now it could always be worse." Gerry shifts on the sofa, burrowing more comfortably on the loose stuffing and letting out puffs of lavender.

"That's... not reassuring." Jon comes back with the statement on hand, and hears the click of a tape recorder switching on somewhere in the room. Gerry's now taking the entire sofa for real, so he sits back on the coffee table after a moment's hesitation.

"Didn't think so. Do you do the voices too? Gertrude said it was an Archivist thing, but I always thought she was just dramatic." Gerry crosses his arms under his nape, and Jon is quite lucky his eyes are closed like he's about to hear a bedtime story, because otherwise he'd see his face flushing again. Maybe taking AmDram classes is part of the requirements to be an Archivist. "Give me the spook, Jon."

Jon rolls his eyes, before clearing his throat. Gerry does look a bit healthier, and he knows from experience how replenishing a statement can be. If this can make things a bit better... then it's worth it.

"Statement of Pamela Moreno, regarding a visit to her childhood home...."

[eldritchteaparty]

Chapters: 6/20 Fandom: The Magnus Archives (Podcast) Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist Characters: Martin Blackwood, Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Tim Stoker (The Magnus Archives), Sasha James, Rosie Zampano, Oliver Banks, Original Elias Bouchard, Peter Lukas Additional Tags: Post-Canon, Fix-It, Post-Canon Fix-It, Scars, Eventual Happy Ending, Fluff and Angst, I'll add characters and tags as they come up, Reference to injuries and blood, Character Death In Dream, Nudity (not sexual or graphic), Nightmares, Fighting

Summary: Following the events of MAG 200, Jon and Martin find themselves in a dimension very much like the one they came from--with second chances and more time.

Chapter Summary: Martin considers the repercussions of their argument, and he gets "his" stuff back from storage.

New chapter of my post-canon fix-it!

Read on AO3 above or read here.

Tumblr master post with all chapters is here.

***

The only word Martin could think of to describe the way he felt that morning was hangover. He woke up even earlier than usual and extricated himself from beneath Jon, who was entirely oblivious to the outside world. At least they had managed to communicate something, although it wasn’t the way he would have preferred to do it. At least they had made up, although he knew the actual fallout likely remained to be seen; arguments like that always seemed to twist their way back around.

Some of what Jon had told him was disturbing. He wished he knew what had come from Jon on that last day, and what had come from something that wasn’t Jon. Martin still couldn’t picture him willingly destroying the world. The idea that everything might have been different, that he might have been able to save Jon from that decision if he had just woken up that night, was hard to process. On the other hand, now that they were here, he had a new appreciation for Jon’s insistence on not letting the fears out. It was bad enough that they were responsible for the end of just two people in one dimension. The damage wasn’t just theoretical, and of course Jon had likely understood the possibilities in a way Martin couldn’t have before.

If he was being very, very honest, though, the thing that hurt the most was what Jon would have been willing to do to him. Before, it had felt like abandonment; Jon had been willing to leave him. It was that simple, and that selfish. It wasn’t that he didn’t rationally understand how it could be reasonable, or even an act of strength, if Jon really thought it was what he’d needed to do. It was that he himself could not have been that reasonable or strong about it. He didn’t believe he could have made a decision that would have led to them being apart, and like he’d told Jon—it had hurt that Jon could.

Now, though, he realized Jon had never seen it that way. Jon had sincerely believed that becoming the pupil of the Eye would not have changed him. He had believed he wasn’t sacrificing himself, that they could have still been together. He’d said that. Martin had almost forgotten, because he’d been trying so hard to tell Jon that Melanie and Georgie and Basira had been on their way to blow up the gas main, but now the words came back to him: We can be together, here. Until it’s over. And then—when that had failed—Jon had tried to send him away, but Martin understood now that even that hadn’t been a separation. Not for Jon, the way he was then. Jon would have kept Martin living in that world, whatever the cost, while he tortured himself driving it to its end.

Of course, it was also possible that the Eye had such a hold on Jon at that time that none of those thoughts had really been his—but if that was the case, there was no way Martin was going to allow him to do anything that would help him reconnect to it. He wouldn’t help Jon lose himself again. Whatever he wanted to do here, there had to be another way.

He had no idea how to approach any of this, and he certainly didn’t want to confront Jon with it when he woke up, so he decided to focus on something else instead—like his neck. It hurt. He supposed that made sense, given how he must have slept. After an unsuccessful attempt to stretch it out, he moved on to pick up the papers that were still on the floor. It hadn’t felt right to pick them up while Jon was gone; he’d wanted the reminder of why Jon wasn’t there, so maybe he wouldn’t let things get so heated the next time. He’d told himself he’d pick them up later, but then he’d fallen asleep and Jon had come home and it just hadn’t happened.

By the time he needed to wake Jon, Martin had decided that, for now, he was going to continue to do whatever Jon would allow to support his efforts. He didn’t imagine there was any chance Jon would slow down of his own accord, and at least that way he could make sure he was ok. The worst-case scenario would be if Jon started keeping secrets.

Jon was tired that morning. Martin could tell Jon had the same emotional hangover that he did, but it seemed like more than that. He occasionally stopped to stare distractedly into nothing. He took so long in the shower that Martin had to check on him twice, and ended up finding things to do in the bedroom until Jon was done. He was worried when Jon slipped his arm through his on their walk to work. That wasn’t a normal thing; Jon seemed to be relying on him to keep walking. Martin asked if he was ok, and Jon nodded absently in a way that wasn’t particularly comforting.

The fact was that he seemed to be getting worse, not better.

***

They were somehow only a little bit late, not that anyone was paying attention. Martin had to enter some updates in their online system, so he spent the morning at his desk. Tim was back from his investigation and Sasha was in her office, and despite his worries about Jon it was almost a nice morning with the four of them together. That concerned him; it meant he was getting too comfortable.

As he worked, checking records and following up on notes he’d made the previous week, he discovered another reason for concern. He realized for the first time that some memories of this world had blurred into others, his real memories, with no specific moment of revelation. He very clearly recalled several weeks spent tracking down some files that had been returned to the main library instead of the archives, and he didn’t realize until he was shaking his head over the enormous waste of time that it had only happened here.

Although it was an unimportant memory, it brought up a lot of questions. They still didn’t know exactly what had happened to the Jon and Martin from this world, and clearly they were connected somehow. What if Martin stopped being able to tell the difference between memories from the two worlds? Or worse, what if memories from this world were replacing memories of the one they came from? What if that was why it was so easy to feel occasional moments of contentment—because he was actually forgetting what had happened?

He automatically began to run through his memories, just to see, going backward from the moment they had arrived here. The tower, the panopticon, Annabelle Cane; his slowly expanding terror as Jon had grown more and more drawn to it all. The fear domains, all of them, but especially the corpse roots and the apartment fires and the domain that belonged to him—where people suffered without even the comfort that another living being knew or cared for their existence.

The cabin in Scotland, where everything had gone irretrievably wrong. How had it happened? He had left Jon alone, for one thing. Maybe he should have stayed, but he couldn’t have known. Jon had been trying not to know things, which should have been right. Avoid using evil powers. It still seemed like it should have been right. That was the worst part, wasn’t it? Every wrong decision looked like the right one. It had been so much worse for Jon, of course. If Peter Lukas had been able to see into him like Jonah Magnus could—if he had not pushed it just a bit too far—Martin could have very easily been the one to set off an apocalypse. Instead, he was thrown into the Lonely, unwittingly sealing Jon’s fate in the process. He wondered if he had—

An upsettingly familiar voice broke through his thoughts. Martin was so deeply distracted that at first, he thought he had manufactured it himself, out of his memories. When he looked up, though, he was met with the site of not only Peter Lukas, but also Elias Bouchard, and it took him a second to remember where he was. He started to stand up, but somehow had lost track of his physical surroundings, and managed to get tangled up in his chair. He ended up on the ground.

He could feel the entire room focus in on him, but he couldn’t look away from the two men in front of him. Peter was almost exactly as he remembered him, while Elias could not have been more different—it was hard to believe he was the same person. Of course, in most ways, he wasn’t. Peter chuckled uncomfortably while Martin continued to stare, and turned to the man standing next to him. “It seems we’ve disturbed your assistant.”

“Martin.” His name, spoken nearby, finally brought him out of his stupor. He looked up expecting to find Jon, but found Tim instead.

“Martin,” he said again, “are you all right?”

“Yeah.” He looked around. Sasha had come to the door of her office to see what was going on; Jon had gotten up too.

“I keep saying we need to replace that chair.” Tim laughed nervously and reached to help Martin to his feet. It felt like it took forever to stand up.

“Yeah. Yeah, that chair, it’s, um…” Martin’s words were swallowed up by silence as he turned his eyes to the floor.

“Looks like we’re ok here, then.” Elias clapped his hands and turned back to Peter. “Shall we continue?”

Peter took one last discomfiting look at Martin before they continued into Sasha’s office. She gave Martin a concerned glance as she ushered Elias and Peter in, and pursed her lips as he shook his head. She closed the door behind them.

“Martin, are you—” Jon started to ask.

“I’m fine.” He really was more embarrassed than anything, and set about righting his chair so he could retreat back into his data entry as quickly as possible. “I—I’m sorry.”

Jon started to say something else, but was interrupted as Elias came back into the room, setting Sasha’s door against the jamb. “Everything all right?”

“Yep.” Tim patted Martin on the back, just hard enough to startle him again. “Everything is perfectly fine.”

Elias nodded, looking curiously from Tim to Martin to Jon. “Well, in any case, I want to apologize. I meant to come by last week to see how the two of you were doing, but, well… as you all know, I hate this place and avoid being here whenever possible.” He spoke the last part under his breath and grinned, the sarcastic sort of grin that doesn’t reach the eyes. It was a look Martin could not recall ever seeing on Elias’s face before in his life, but somehow it fit. “Still, I should have checked in. I’ll catch up with you soon. And Martin—get a new chair? That’s embarrassing.”

And with that, he disappeared back into Sasha’s office.

“Well,” Tim said as he leaned back against Martin’s desk. “I’ve seen some reactions to Peter Lukas, but I think that is my new favorite.”

“Sorry.” Martin could feel how red his face was.

“Martin, are you—are you really ok?” He looked over to see intense concern on Jon’s face, and he knew Jon wasn’t asking about his fall.

“Yeah,” he replied, as reassuringly as he could. “I—I really am.”

Jon didn’t seem convinced, but Tim got Martin’s attention again. “Let’s get lunch. You need a break.”

“Oh, I—I would, but I brought mine today.” He gestured toward the paper sack on the corner of his desk. “I have to leave a bit early, so I thought I’d work through lunch.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah, I have to go pay some fees and pick up some stuff my old apartment building put in storage.”

“How are you getting there?”

“I was going to take the tube out,” Martin replied, realizing he hadn’t thought it through entirely. “I guess I hadn’t planned for getting back, but it’s just going to be some clothes and stuff for now… I can get a cab if it’s too much.”

“I’ll drive you,” Tim announced.

“Oh, no, thanks. I appreciate it, but—”

“It’s really not a problem.”

Martin considered; having a car really would be a lot more convenient. He didn’t know how much stuff was in storage, and he definitely didn’t know how it had been stored. Maybe it wasn’t even packed. “Are you sure you don’t mind?”

“Not at all. Besides, I want to talk with you.” Seeing the look on Martin’s face, he added, “No more questions. Mostly, I want to apologize properly for last week.”

“Well… yeah, ok. If you really don’t mind.”

“Nope. See you after lunch.” Tim headed for the door.

“Thanks,” Martin called after him.

As soon as Tim was gone, Martin turned back to Jon.

“You said you didn’t need help.” It was a statement, not an accusation, but Martin felt like he had to defend himself.

“I don’t! You heard him—he was really insistent. And he does have a car.”

“I can still go,” Jon said.

“It’s not a big thing.”

Jon bit his lip.

“Jon, you’re not feeling great, and I know how important it is to you to—to do your work. It’s fine.”

“You’re important, too.” Again, this was merely a statement, and again, it provoked too strong a reaction from Martin. This one, though, he tried to cover up.

“Yeah, well—I know that. You don’t have to prove it. And… if you’re not busy, or sleeping, you can help me put stuff away when I get home. Deal?”

Jon sighed, but agreed. “Deal,” he said, before turning back to his desk.

***

Martin ended up being very thankful for Tim’s help, and especially for his car. After they stopped by the rental office and he paid his fees, the storage lot was farther than he had imagined. Additionally, while most of his things were in bags, they were heavy contractor bags and there didn’t seem to be any logic as to what had gone where—if he’d come on his own, he would have had to spend a lot of time dumping things out and rearranging all of it to make it manageable. It would have been a pain, even if he had ended up calling a cab. As it was, though, Tim was able to help him with the heavier bags, and he didn’t have to sort everything out on the spot, so they finished with plenty of time.

“Let me get you a drink on the way back,” Tim offered, as he closed the boot on the final bag. “I still owe you an apology.”

“Tim, you just did me a huge favor. You don’t need to—”

“That was helping a friend. Apologies are measured in drinks.”

Martin considered. He did want to go. “Do you mind if I check on Jon?” he asked.

“Go right ahead,” Tim said. “I’ll wait in the car.”

Martin pulled out his phone, and thought about texting, but decided to call. Jon should be home, and that meant there was a good chance he was asleep. The phone did ring a bit long before he picked up.

“Everything all right?” Jon asked, and Martin thought he did sound like he may have just been roused from a nap.

“Yeah. I was actually just calling to ask you that.”

“Well, I’m home.”

“Good. Um… We got done a bit early, and Tim was asking if I wanted to grab a drink. Would you mind if I did?”

“Not at all.”

“Are you sure? Did you eat yet?” Martin asked. He kept his voice low so Tim wouldn’t overhear, although he didn’t exactly know why.

“Not yet.”

“I left one of those frozen meals on top in the freezer for you. Will you eat it?”

“Oh. Yes, of course. Thank you.”

Martin cringed at what he was about to say, but did it anyway. “Would you make it now?”

There was a pause. “Martin, are you serious?”

“Yes? I mean, you don’t have to, but I’d feel better if—”

“Fine.” Jon sighed, and Martin heard the sound of the freezer door opening a few moments later. “I’m doing it. Stop fretting and go have a drink.”

“Ok.” He was relieved. “Jon—thanks.”

“Go.” The call ended, and Martin couldn’t help but smile.

“OK, we’re good,” Martin told Tim as he climbed into the passenger seat. “Sure you won’t let me get it, though?”

“One hundred percent,” Tim answered. “How’s Jon?”

Martin debated whether he should give the polite answer or the real one, and went with something in between. “He’s… ok? To be honest, I’m a little worried about him.”

“Me too.” Tim started the car. “He wasn’t looking good last week when I was around.”

“Yeah?” Martin asked.

“He just seems tired,” Tim continued. “I mean, he’s always tired, ever since I’ve known him, but this is different. Tired and… distracted, I guess. Not like him.”

Martin nodded in agreement. “I’ve been trying to get him to take it easy, but—”

“He doesn’t care much for that, does he?”

“No. No, he does not.” Martin snorted, and Tim gave him a little grin as they headed out.

Soon they were sitting together at a table with a couple of beers in front of them.

“So,” Tim began, “I am officially apologizing for how I acted last week. I was a dick.”

Martin sighed. “No, you weren’t. You were worried, and Jon and I haven’t exactly been easy to—well, easy to anything.”

“Forgive me anyway?”

“If you insist,” Martin replied. “I forgive you, I guess.”

“Thanks. Cheers,” Tim said, holding up his glass. Martin obliged with a clink, and took a polite sip while Tim gulped down about half of what was in his glass.

“And for the record, I still don’t believe that you’re telling us everything, but—well, I imagine you have your reasons. I got to thinking over the weekend,” Tim said, after he had wiped his mouth off with his arm. “Sasha asked me not to say too much, but you know I was looking into some police records last week.”

Martin nodded. “Yeah, did something turn up?”

“Sasha was right. There was more. More than people had come to talk to us about.”

“For instance?”

Well… for instance, there was a kidnapping case about a month back. It turned out to be related to this cult that’s apparently been around forever, but never really done anything before. Not anything worth anyone’s time, anyway. I won’t get into details, I promised Sasha, but some of the officers thought they saw some things that… just shouldn’t have been possible. Not one or two officers, like a lot of them. And they lost some people.”

Martin wanted to ask questions, confirm his suspicions, but after what had happened with Oliver Banks, he didn’t want to push it again. “That’s horrible.”

“And here’s the real kicker.” Tim stopped to take another big drink. “There have been enough of these incidents that they’ve started asking the officers to sign a form saying they won’t talk about it. There’s been sort of an upset over it, actually. It’s all got lots of them pretty nervous, but no one is willing to make any outside statements, either. Not officially.”

Martin nodded again. This was really bad, but if it was happening, it was better that he know. He would tell Jon too, of course.

“Well, anyway, the point was I got to thinking—I know you and Jon disappeared around the same time all of this started. I’m not sure what to make of any of it, but whatever is going on… whatever you went through or feel like you went through, I understand why you might not want to talk about it.”

Martin knew he should say again that couldn’t remember, that he was sure it was nothing like that, it was probably completely unrelated—but he couldn’t. For one thing, it was a terrible lie. Everything Tim had witnessed—the way they had disappeared, the time they were gone, the way they had shown up again—it all fit together. For another thing, he knew he’d already said too much the last time they were out, and if he kept trying to lie he’d just look like an ass. Mostly, though, Martin hated lying to friends, and he couldn’t pretend anymore that this Tim didn’t feel like a friend.

So instead, he just nodded again, and took another sip of his beer.

“Well, if you need anything, I’m here.” Tim finished the remainder of his glass. “Speaking of which—where are we bringing your stuff?”

“Oh.” Martin realized he and Jon had never actually explained their living situation, and he felt the color rise into his face. “Jon’s flat?”

“I figured as much.” Tim leaned toward him. “So is that a long-term situation, or—?”

Martin didn’t know how to answer that, because he realized he didn’t know the answer. When they’d first gotten here, of course, they had just needed somewhere to go, and Jon had clearly wanted him there. Since then, he’d been so worried about Jon that he hadn’t questioned whether or not he should stay; it had just felt obvious that Jon needed him there. He had never actually asked him though, had he?

“I—I don’t know,” he stammered. “I guess we hadn’t talked about it.”

“Oh, god, relax,” Tim groaned. “If Jon didn’t want you there, you’d know. Subtlety is not his strength.”

“Sure.” Tim was basically right, of course. Still, they had been operating in survival mode for so long that maybe Jon hadn’t even realized not living together was an option. Mostly, though, it just wasn’t how people were supposed to move in together. They weren’t supposed to do it because they were scared.

Martin took a much longer sip of his beer, and was grateful when Tim changed the subject.

***

Miraculously, Jon was awake when they got back. He offered to help carry the bags upstairs from the car, but Tim and Martin both insisted he should let them take care of it, and he did seem relieved once he realized how heavy they were. Martin thanked Tim profusely for the help—it really would have taken a lot longer without him—and Tim said again he was happy to do it, and that he was looking forward to getting drinks with both of them sometime soon, when Jon was up for it.

“What did he mean, when I’m up for it?” Jon asked, after he was gone.

“Jon, everyone can tell you’re…” Martin considered what word to use. “Tired.”

“Is it really that bad?”

Martin wanted to ask Jon if that was a joke. Instead, he went with, “Yeah. It is.”

“I didn’t realize.” Jon was nervous. “Do you think Tim suspects anything?”

He decided not to mention that Tim very definitely did; it would only add stress, and that was not what Jon needed right now. He took a different route.

“Tim’s concerned, that’s all. You’re his friend and he’s worried.”

“Am I?”

“Yes. You are. I know there are a lot of complicating factors, and no, he’s not our Tim”—Martin stumbled a little over those words— “but in the simplest terms, he is Tim, and he is our friend.”

Jon sighed. “I’m not sure how friendly he would feel toward me if he knew what I’ve done.”

“What you—” Martin started to protest, but he reconsidered. He’d had enough arguing last night, and as obvious as his own responsibility for everything seemed to him, he doubted Jon would agree. “Never mind. How are you doing?”

“I’m all right,” Jon answered. “Good enough to help you sort through some of this.”

“Oh, Jon, I was just talking, you don’t have to—”

“I want to.” Then, with a slight smile, he added, “I certainly can’t let Tim take all the credit.”

“Right.” Martin shook his head, but also ended up smiling. “So, I’ll warn you—there’s not been a lot of organization. I maybe had to grab a little more than I actually intended.”

Ultimately, they dumped most of it onto the sitting room floor and began to sort everything into piles. Clothes Martin needed, things that could go to the office, some things they could use in the kitchen, stuff to go back to storage. As they sorted, Martin told Jon what he’d learned from Tim, which he suspected was related to the People’s Church of the Divine Host. He also told him about the police officers who had recently been sectioned. Jon nodded in concern while he spoke, but didn’t say much.

Before long, they had sorted out most of the obvious things. Martin was left going through a few boxes that had come along, containing mostly papers and legal documents and breakables and other things that couldn’t easily be thrown into bags.

“Want me to put some clothes away while you’re going through that?” Jon asked.

Martin cleared his throat. “Actually, it kind of came up when I was talking to Tim, and um—well, I realized we never talked about how long I would be staying here.”

“What do you mean, how long?” Jon seemed completely confused.

“Well, I kind of just… moved in. And we never talked about it.”

“What?” Jon asked again.

“You know, normally people talk about this. Moving in together.” Martin shifted uncomfortably in his spot on the floor.

“What did you want to talk about?” Jon asked.

“I mean, this is your place. I know I lost mine, or he lost his, or whatever, and this made sense when we got here, but—”

“Do you not want to be here?”

“What? No, I do, of course I do, but I just assumed it was what you wanted, too.”

“Because it is what I wanted.”

“I just hadn’t asked, that’s all.” Admittedly, Martin was relieved, but it still didn’t feel quite right. “I mean, we kind of had to be together before, and we have more time now to think about things, and I want this to really be a choice going forward because I do want to—well, I know I’m already on your nerves with the—”

“Stop. Listen to me,” Jon said. “I want you here. As long as you want to be here. I choose this.”

“Ok.” Martin stopped trying to explain himself, even though he wasn’t sure Jon really understood. He wasn’t trying to convince Jon he should move out, after all. He just wanted a sense of normalcy, to stop feeling like they were hurtling toward some inevitable doom. He didn’t want every moment to count; he wanted a future. He wasn’t sure how to put that into words, though.

“Can I help pay rent, at least?”

Jon got to his feet and grabbed a stack of shirts that were closest to him. “I really don’t care. At this point, money seems so… mundane.”

“Definitely in the shaving and eating category,” Martin agreed. “Still…”

“If it makes you comfortable, yes, of course.” Jon headed toward the bedroom, and Martin turned his attention back to the boxes in front of him.

He made it most of the way through with no trouble. Most of the things in the boxes could go back into storage; a few things, like his birth certificate, he would keep. And then he found a copy of his mother’s death certificate. He didn’t even have to look at the date to know; he remembered. It had happened here on the exact same day it had happened for him. Everything about it had been the same, actually. Not just when she passed, but all of it; everything about his relationship with her had been exactly the same. He didn’t understand why he felt so much disappointment.

“Martin?” Jon touched his shoulder. “What’s that?”

“Hm?” Martin glanced back and up at Jon.

“It’s just—you’ve been looking at it for five minutes. You haven’t moved.”

“Oh. It’s, um—well, look.” It was easier than saying it. He held it up until Jon recognized it.

“Ah.” Jon set down the clothes in his hand and sat down next to Martin.

“I guess—” Martin sighed. “I guess it was all just so—maybe I’d hoped that they had something to do with it, you know? But they didn’t. They weren’t here then. It was just how she was. And maybe it was how I was, too. Maybe I—”

“No.” Jon leaned against him, and gently rested his hand on the back of his shoulder. “You did nothing wrong.”

“Do you know what Elias showed me? Or Jonah, I guess? While you were—”

“I heard the tape, yes.”

“It was true, wasn’t it? She hated me.”

“She—she was ill, Martin. She loved you when she was well.” Martin nodded, and Jon leaned in even closer. “But just because she loved you doesn’t mean she was a good mother.”

“No. She wasn’t, actually.” Martin closed his eyes, and tried to just appreciate Jon’s presence, his warmth. “She was awful.”

Jon nodded.

“You know, I’ve never told anyone that.” Martin already felt ashamed. “Well, anyone except me.”

“Oh—right.” Jon knew what he meant.

“But it wasn’t her fault.”

“Does it matter if it was?”

“Yes. It does.” Martin tried to ignore the tear that squeezed its way out through his eyelids, because trying to stop them only ever seemed to bring more of them. “Jon—was the other part true too? Do I really look like my—like him?”

Jon hesitated, but eventually answered. “Yes. But that doesn’t mean you’re anything like him.”

“Do you know what he was like?”

“Yes. It was an accident, but I—” Jon paused. “I thought I needed to know what Elias could do, and, well… I couldn’t control it that well then. I saw more than I meant to. Is there anything you want to know?”

Martin felt another hot tear slide down his face, and tried to ignore that one too. “Am I like him?”

“No,” Jon said quietly. “Not at all.”

“Then I don’t need to know anything else.”  A third tear fell, and a fourth, and he couldn’t ignore it anymore. He raised his arm to wipe his face, but Jon stopped him.

“Sorry. It’s been a long day,” Martin mumbled. “I’m—”

“No.” Jon turned Martin’s head toward him, and wiped his cheek with his thumb. “Don’t apologize.”

“Oh, come on. I’ve seen you cry once, and it was because—”

Jon kissed him.

“Jon—”

“Hush.” Jon crawled over Martin to straddle his lap, and kissed him again. Everything that had been swimming around in Martin��s head—their argument, Peter, his mother—it fell away, and all that was left was Jon. He let himself really breathe for the first time that day, resting his face against Jon’s shirt as they held each other.

“I love you,” Jon told him, when Martin looked at him.

“I love you too.” He turned his face up so Jon could kiss him again.

They stayed there until Jon’s hand gradually dropped from Martin’s face to his neck, and eventually down his arm, and Martin realized he was falling asleep.

“You awake?”

Jon didn’t answer him, and Martin didn’t particularly want to let go—so he picked him up, shifting Jon’s arms to his shoulders and then wrapping his own arms around Jon’s waist. He’d never done it before, but it was surprisingly easy; Jon was disturbingly light. Jon woke up enough to have a moment of panic when Martin stood up, and tightened his grip on Martin’s neck, but quickly relaxed and let himself be carried him to the bedroom.

“You all right?” Martin asked after he set him down on the bed.

“Mm.” Jon turned to lie on his side, and Martin brushed back the hair that had come loose.

“Jon, I’m really worried about you.”

“I’ll be ok,” Jon replied, catching Martin’s hand as he closed his eyes again. “I have you.”

[eldritchteaparty]

Chapters: 11/20 Fandom: The Magnus Archives (Podcast) Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist Characters: Martin Blackwood, Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Tim Stoker (The Magnus Archives), Sasha James, Rosie Zampano, Oliver Banks, Original Elias Bouchard, Peter Lukas, Annabelle Cane, Melanie King, Georgie Barker Additional Tags: Post-Canon, Fix-It, Post-Canon Fix-It, Scars, Eventual Happy Ending, Fluff and Angst, I'll add characters and tags as they come up, Reference to injuries and blood, Character Death In Dream, Nudity (not sexual or graphic), Nightmares, Fighting

Summary: Following the events of MAG 200, Jon and Martin find themselves in a dimension very much like the one they came from--with second chances and more time.

Chapter summary: A little more time goes by; Martin wants to talk to the other archive staff about the entities, and Jon suggests a dinner date where they are joined by an uninvited guest.

Chapter 11 of my post-canon fix-it is up! Read at AO3 above or read here below.

Tumblr master post with links to previous chapters is here.

***

Martin tried not to push Jon too much over the next week. He hadn’t realized quite how hard dinner would be for him, so he tried his best just to be supportive and not ask for anything else right away. It was continuing to weigh on him more heavily that they were going to have to explain some things to the rest of the archival staff soon, but he could give Jon a little more time.

He was surprised, though, when Jon asked him if it was ok to go into the office on Saturday after they woke up.

“Why? I mean, ok, but—why?”

“I’m behind,” Jon said. “I didn’t want Melanie to start looking into the statements yet, so I kept her busy with other things—but then I didn’t get to—”

“You’re not going to be able to keep her away from them forever.”

“Exactly.” Jon curled his legs up beneath the sheets, and Martin could see he was worried.

“That makes sense, I suppose.” Martin found his way over to Jon under the covers, so he could reach out a hand to touch his side; Jon pulled himself closer to rest his head on Martin’s shoulder. “Are you sure you’re ok, though?”

“I’m… good enough.”

“Can I help? Want me to go with you?”

“No.” Jon shook his head. “I’ll only be a few hours. I’ll be back by lunch.”

Jon was true to his word, and even brought lunch home for them. He napped a bit in the afternoon, but it wasn’t the same as when he couldn’t stay awake—it was a normal kind of tired, and the nap was the kind of thing Martin felt like people were supposed to do on a Saturday afternoon.

The next week, Jon resumed working with Melanie; he began to stay late in the evenings or work at his desk after coming home, but he ate and got in bed when Martin did, and Martin didn’t see that he had much room for complaint. Not much changed with respect to Jon’s relationship to the others in the office; although Martin had hoped he might join them for lunch on Wednesday, Jon stayed in the office, again to catch up on a few things. Martin accepted it. Things would be different after they worked out what they would say to the other archive staff, and they could all talk more openly. Maybe then Jon would even find it easier to socialize with them; maybe he would finally let some of his burden go.

At lunch, Melanie was feeling more comfortable with her role, and Martin knew Jon had given her some statements to read. However, she was also already frustrated with her lack of progress, which thankfully didn’t seem to have anything to do with Jon. She didn’t seem to be focused on him much at all, actually, which was maybe the best possibility for the moment.

“It’s just—they’re all so lacking in detail, it’s hard to follow up with anything. And if I try to get back in touch with the person who made the statement, I either can’t get ahold of them, or they don’t want to talk anymore.”

Martin remembered feeling that way too, when he had been investigating statements for Jon. And then you get lucky with one, and you get trapped in your apartment by a walking parasite infestation for two weeks. He shivered, but no one noticed; they were all listening to Melanie.

“You know—I never had that kind of trouble with Ghost Hunt? I mean, sometimes it was hard to stop people from talking. Everyone wants to talk about their famous ghost siting. Even if they didn’t actually have one and had to make it up.” She sighed.

“What do you think of the statements, though?” Sasha asked. “I told Jon I had to stop reading them after a while. They were giving me the creeps. Do you think they’re… legitimate? Real?”

“I don’t even know what real means. And it’s hard to know, just reading instead of talking to someone, but there are a few that—well, it seems that the people who wrote them really believed them, at least. Some of the details they add… Did you read the one from the man who claimed he killed the exact same spider over and over again? I can’t seem to get ahold of him, and I am not a psychologist, but apparently he was planning on moving because of it, and unless he way outright lying that just—”

“Wait,” Martin interrupted. “You said—spider, right?”

He must have had a look on his face. “You’re afraid of spiders now?” Tim asked. “I could have sworn you were the one defending them in the office when—”

“Let’s just say I’ve lost my fondness for them.”

“Oh, sorry,” Melanie said. “Didn’t mean to—”

“No, it’s fine. I was just wondering—how long ago was that one?”

“Last week, I think?”

“Like—he came in last week?”

“I think so, yeah.”

“Does Jon know about it?”

“I assume so. He was the one who gave it to me.”

Martin nodded, and wondered why Jon hadn’t said anything to him. It had to be a sign that the Web was getting at least a bit stronger. Was that why Jon had started working more again?

“Need to talk?” Tim asked.

“No, Tim,” Martin answered, “I don’t need to talk.”

Tim shrugged.

***

Martin waited two more days, until Friday, to say anything to Jon. He waited until after the others had all left the office.

“Working late again tonight?”

“Actually, I don’t think so.”

“Really?” Martin was surprised. “That wild goose chase this afternoon took it out of you, huh?” Jon and Melanie had attempted to track down a few of the statement-givers that afternoon by knocking on doors, and Melanie had gone on at length about her disappointment in their lack of success when they got back.

“I’m not sure you actually want to catch the geese when—”

“Fair enough.” Martin sat on the edge of Jon’s desk. “Jon, why didn’t you tell me about the—the spider statement? Last week?”

“Carlos Vittery.” Jon, who had stood to organize his desk, sat down again. “I take it Melanie mentioned it?”

“Yeah.”

“I don’t know.” Jon stared down at the desk in front of him. “I really don’t know. I wanted to.”

“When did he come in?”

“Last Thursday. When I was showing Melanie around the archives. And by the time I saw it on Friday, it was too late.”

“What do you mean, too late?”

“He was already dead.”

Martin’s breath caught. He had forgotten that detail, that Carlos Vittery had died not long after giving the statement—but now he remembered. He had choked to death. He didn’t remember that it had happened that quickly, but there was no reason to think Jon was wrong.

“Oh, Jon. I’m sorry.”

Jon shrugged. “I have no reason to think I could have stopped it. If I had known, what could I have done? Told him? That would only have added to his fear. Suggested he stay with a friend? Invited him back to our flat? I can’t imagine any of that would have changed things either, not really.”

Martin realized Jon must have run through a thousand scenarios in his head, and he had chosen to go through it alone. His heart hurt.

“Jon—”

“It’s fine.”

“It’s not. Jon, we have to tell them.” He leaned down to kiss Jon, who hesitated for a moment, but then allowed himself to kiss Martin back. “You can’t keep doing this by yourself.”

“It’s not fair to involve them.”

“They are involved, Jon.”

“You don’t understand.”

“Then help me understand.” He kissed Jon again. “Talk to me.”

Jon drew back. “Is that really what you want?”

“Yes.”

They stared at each other. Several times Martin got the feeling Jon was about to say something, that he was just on the verge of opening up—but he didn’t, and the moment passed. Martin sighed.

“Let’s go home.”

Jon nodded, standing up again—but then his face brightened slightly as something appeared to occur to him. “No. Let’s go get some food.”

“Jon, we just went shopping, we don’t—”

“No, not shopping, I meant—let’s go out.” He took Martin’s hand in a way that would have been comical, except that it was so serious. “On a date.”

Martin didn’t know how to answer that. It was not what he had expected Jon to say. “Um—”

Jon looked at him expectantly for a moment. “You do know what a date is, right?”

Jon’s sarcasm snapped Martin out of his trance. “How would you know? Maybe I don’t.”

“Exactly,” Jon squeezed his hand. “We never got to. Just—say yes.”

“Fine. Yes.” Martin shook his head, but couldn’t help smiling. “You know, we’ve gotten lunch together loads of times. Like, there and here. I mean, not since we—but—”

“That doesn’t count. They weren’t dates—not real ones, maybe they should have been, but I was—” Jon cut himself off. “You deserve a real date.”

“I deserve—?” Martin sighed. “Never mind. Where are we going, then?”

“I don’t know. Where do you want to go?”

“Jon—you can’t ask me on a date, and then make me responsible for it.”

“Fine. What sort of food do you like?”

“This is ridiculous. You know what I eat—”

“But I mean, that we don’t usually get. That I don’t know you like. What about—what about sushi?”

Martin shrugged. “Sushi’s fine.”

“Do you like it, though?”

“All right, I don’t actually know. I’ve only had it a couple of times.”

“Really?”

“It’s expensive!” Martin defended himself. “Flat full of canned peaches here, remember? Always brought my lunch?”

“Yes, well—this is on me.”

“Is—is that a joke?”

Jon shrugged, and Martin caught a hint of that actual smile that had become much too rare.

“Very impressive.” Martin didn’t know why this date idea was suddenly so important to Jon, but it clearly was—and he would go along with anything that brought Jon this close to being happy. “Don’t think I’ll go home with you just because you’re paying for dinner, though.”

“Of course not,” Jon answered. “You’ll go home with me because I’m so charming. Come on.”

***

Martin did really like sushi, it turned out. They got some kind of chef’s special that came in a serving tray that looked like a boat. It had several different kinds of rolls—the only kind of sushi Martin had had before—and nigiri, and then some raw fish. Martin avoided the latter for most of the evening without realizing it, until Jon noticed he hadn’t tried it and insisted.

“It’s sashimi. Technically it’s not sushi,” Jon told him as he picked out a few pieces to put on Martin’s plate.

“What’s the difference?”

“Well, technically, sushi refers to the rice. A lot of westerners just assume it means the fish.”

“Huh.” Martin picked up one of the pieces in his chopsticks. “What’s this one?”

“That’s salmon.”

“All right, here goes.” He popped the whole piece in his mouth; Jon had already explained to him that was the only acceptable way to eat sushi—and Martin assumed that applied to sashimi as well. “Wow. That’s amazing. Kind of just—melts.”

“Right?” Jon went to put another piece of salmon on Martin’s plate, but he moved it out of the way.

“No—I’ve got like, five other pieces you gave me. You eat that.”

“I’ve had plenty. And we can order more.”

“We’re not ordering more. This was like—sixty-five pounds. You know I was joking about impressing me, right?”

“It doesn’t really matter, does it?” Jon gave up and ate the other piece of salmon himself. “It’s just money.”

“Yeah, I know. But we still need it. We have to pay for that flat I’m going back to with you.” Martin moving his plate back in front of him. He pointed to a different piece, a white fish. “What’s this one?”

“I think that one’s—fluke, maybe?”

That was delicious too. “Is any of this not amazing?”

“Not really.” Jon helped himself to one last piece of nigiri that was sitting alone on the tray.

“Which one was that again? That sauce—I remember it was kind of sweet.”

“Eel,” Jon said. “Unagi—that’s freshwater eel. Anago is saltwater eel.”

“Oh, of course. Wouldn’t want to confuse my eels.” Martin set down his chopsticks to pour himself another tiny cup of sake. He’d never had that before tonight either, but it agreed with him. Secretly, he was enjoying Jon’s sushi explanations; it was the first time since they’d been here that he’d seen him focus so intensely on something that didn’t involve fears or statements or his own guilt. “More?”

Jon eyed the carafe warily, but then scooted his cup toward Martin. “Well—maybe just one more.”

“There you go.”

Jon took a small sip, and looked at Martin reproachfully as he drank his like a shot.

“Yeah—I know,” Martin said, as he set the cup back down on the table. “But I’ve done pretty well tonight with fingers and chopsticks and taking one bite and not using the soy sauce, and you know what? Not sorry.”

“All right then.” Jon finished the rest of his cup in one swallow as well, and Martin let himself laugh.

“Didn’t imagine you were one to give in to peer pressure.”

“Depends on the peer, I suppose.” Jon reached over and touched Martin’s arm.

“Jon—this is great, but—what’s going on? Why? Why right now?”

“I told you. You deserve a real date.”

“Ok, and that—why is it me that deserves it? Why don’t you? Or—us? Why don’t we—”

Suddenly Jon was kissing him, and even though Martin wasn’t necessarily a big fan of kissing in public, he badly wanted to kiss him back. They were in a quiet back corner of the restaurant anyway—it wasn’t like it would attract a lot of attention. He leaned in, closing his eyes, listening and feeling for Jon’s breathing as he did. It was nice just to be able to kiss Jon, and not to feel rushed or scared or like they were trying to fix something that was wrong, and he wasn’t sure he’d ever get used to it. He kind of hoped he wouldn’t, actually. He hoped he would never stop trying to anticipate the way Jon would move his head when he pressed against him a certain way, that he wouldn’t ever get too accustomed to the scratchiness of Jon’s beard on his face, that—

Martin realized that Jon had stopped kissing him, although he hadn’t exactly pulled away; he felt the invisible weight of someone standing by the table, who he assumed was the server. That’s awkward. He could tell by the way Jon sighed that he was even less happy about it.

“I’m sorry, do you—”

Then he realized that something was very wrong.

“Didn’t mean to interrupt. I just saw you out enjoying yourselves and wanted to say hello.”

Martin knew that voice too well. He turned, speechless, as Annabelle Cane sat down at one of the empty chairs at their table.

She smiled at him, and turned to face Jon. “Did you get my little gift last week?”

“I assume you’re referring to Carlos Vittery.” Jon was calmer than Martin would have expected; somehow, he was able to meet her eyes. Martin wasn’t, so he looked at Jon.

“Good,” she said. “Just wanted to send you a little thank you for—finding one of my favorite books in that archive of yours.”

Martin felt his hand tighten around the dinner knife from the silverware set that lay unused on the table; he hadn’t realized he’d reached for it. Annabelle laughed softly, then sighed.

“Oh, Martin—I didn’t think you were the sort to play with knives. Especially not after the little show you two put on for me when you came to visit.”

His hand uncurled; he set his palm flat against the table.

“Hill Top Road, you mean,” Jon said. “You were there.”

“Of course. I so appreciate that you came by. I’m sorry I wasn’t in better shape for receiving guests.”

Martin continued to keep his eyes on Jon, and concentrated on breathing; it was getting harder as the moments were passing, and almost as if he’d received some invisible cue, Jon turned to Martin.

“Let’s go.”

It hadn’t occurred to Martin that leaving was an option, and when Jon told him they could go a wave of relief crashed over him. Of course, Annabelle wouldn’t want to cause a scene in a public restaurant, any more than they did.

“I came here to tell you something. Don’t you want to hear it?”

“No.” Jon shook his head and stood up, and Martin did the same. “I really don’t.”

They began to walk toward the front of the restaurant, but Annabelle stayed seated at the table.

“Archivist—if you—”

Martin turned swiftly, struggling to keep down the anger in his voice. “Don’t call him that.”

“What?” Annabelle looked at him with a mixture of surprise and curiosity.

“He’s not the Archivist.” Martin didn’t know why it was so important to him, but it was. “There is no Archivist here. That’s done.”

A smile slowly spread across Annabelle’s face as her eyes shifted back to Jon, standing behind him. “You haven’t told him.”

“Annabelle, what are you on about? He—” A cold sort of understanding started at the top of Martin’s head and swiftly made its way down his neck, his spine, to his feet and toes. He turned to look at Jon again. “Jon, what is she talking about?”

Jon stood frozen. “I—I’m sorry.”

Martin couldn’t say anything, but he didn’t know what he would say if he could.

“I—I tried to tell you. Once I realized it—I did try.”

Warm feeling started to come back to Martin now, but not the pleasant kind. It emanated from his gut and spread outward, a nauseating mix of anger and sadness and even loneliness. It spread up into his throat, and in the moment before he spoke he wasn���t sure if he would vomit or form words. In any case, he didn’t choose what came out.

“Well, you should have tried harder.”

Jon opened his mouth, but a moment passed before he spoke. “Please come home. Come home with me. I’ll tell you everything.”

Annabelle spoke from behind them. “Or you could come back and talk with me.” He wanted to tell her to shut up, to piss off, but he already knew he wouldn’t.

“Go home, Jon,” he said instead.

“Martin, please don’t.”

“I—I need to stay. I’m sorry.”

He turned and walked the few steps back to his seat, and let the dead weight of his body sink into it. Jon followed him, sitting down in his seat as well.

“Jon—go home. You don’t need to stay for this.”

Jon shook his head, reaching for Martin’s hand which he had balled up into a fist on the table. He was too ashamed to pull it away.

“Oh, come on.” Annabelle smiled as if they were old friends who had just happened to run into each other. “There’s no need for all this drama. I just want to talk.”

“You knew,” Martin said. “You knew what would happen, in the tower. You knew what we would do.”

“I only gave you information—proper information, at that. I couldn’t possibly have known what you would do. I just knew what you might do. And you could have figured that out for yourselves with a simple conversation.”

Jon’s grip faltered, but Martin was starting to get over his initial shock, and he strengthened his hold on Jon.

“It wasn’t enough, to get the entities out. You wanted Jon out with them. Did you know this would happen?”

Annabelle shrugged. “Honestly, I don’t know what you have to complain about. You two were quite lucky with your—situation here.”

“What does that mean?”

“Oh, you know—you simply merged with your counterparts. I had to take care of mine a different way.”

“You killed her,” Jon said quietly.

Annabelle looked at him coldly. “It’s not like I enjoyed it, but I certainly couldn’t have two of us running around. And you can stop your fumbling, Archivist, you know it’s all spiders in here.” She patted the scarf she wore loosely wrapped around her head. “And not to be too rude, but you are a long way from what you were.”

“Wait. What do you mean we merged with them?” Martin asked.

“I would have thought you’d figured that out already.” Annabelle sighed. “You—the two of you—are each both versions of yourselves. You were so similar that you couldn’t both be here, in the same space, so you just—became one person.”

“Then why—why am I me?” Martin pressed. “I mean, why do I feel like—”

“Well,” Annabelle said, “consider. If you—Martin—had all the memories and experiences of the Martin from this world, who had never been touched by the Great Fears, never fallen into the Lonely, never lived through an apocalypse—and had all the memories and experiences of the Martin from that world who had—who would you be?”

Jon exhaled through his teeth.

“Sure. Ok,” Martin continued. “But then what about you? Why didn’t you merge with the other Annabelle Cane?”

“We were not at all the same. The Annabelle Cane that lived here never came to be in the other world. I was her, once—and then we destroyed her. I was born from her, but I’m not her.”

Martin took a deep breath. “What about Jon?”

Jon’s grip on his hand tensed.

“What do you mean?”

“What about Jon? He’s obviously been—affected by the Eye. Shouldn’t he be—like you?”

Shouldn’t he be a monster?

“Why should he be like me? We’re all different, just like the Fears themselves. The Mother of Puppets birthed me from a girl who shared my name, but she’s gone now. The Distortion—calling itself Michael and then Helen, a parasitoid of the Spiral that eventually wears out its host and needs another. And then there were those like Simon Fairchild or Peter Lukas, still primarily human but with immense gifts from their Patrons. I used to think the Archivist was like them.”

“And now you don’t?” Jon asked.

“No, I don’t.” Annabelle shook her head. “The simple fact that you’re here means you’re more than that. The fact that you are also the Jonathan Sims from this world means you are human. You would have had to be when you came here. Simply put—you are both. And I don’t mean half of each, I mean both.”

“How?” Martin asked.

“I don’t know.” Annabelle shrugged again; he could tell she was starting to tire of answering his questions. “How are any of us? It makes sense, though. The Great Eye simply consumes. It doesn’t comprehend. It can’t; it’s not capable. But the Archivist—that’s the missing piece, the humanity that it needs to truly know and understand fear and terror. So the Eye preserves his humanity. And the other part—who knows. Perhaps it’s a result of the Watcher’s Crown, being marked by all the fears, starting the apocalypse and the power required to do it—or maybe from when he became the Pupil of the Eye—or maybe it always was.”

Martin steeled himself one more time. “Could Jon—could he have—could he have rejected it? Here, I mean. Not been both.”

Jon answered him before Annabelle could. “It doesn’t matter, Martin. I didn’t want to reject it.”

“I just need to know.”

“Hmm.” Annabelle looked thoughtful. “That’s hard to say. Clearly, both are part of him now. I’m sure he could live without the part of him that comes from the Watcher. Of course, Martin, you could live without your arm, your tongue, your eyes—learn to live well, even. Could you reject them?”

Martin was quiet.

“Well then—I’ll say what I came here to say. Your earlier implication that the Archivist being here is… advantageous to the Web is, of course, true. He still has all the potential to call the Fears down and then release them to other dimensions, leaving this world free of them.”

“I won’t,” Jon said. “I’ll never let them out again.” Something about the resolve in Jon’s voice was chilling. It reminded him of his fight with Jon outside of Jonah’s office in the tower, and the way Jon had explained his decision to become the Pupil of the Eye. Now it was Martin’s turn to waiver and Jon’s turn to tighten his grip.

“And I imagined you might feel that way, knowing what you know now. So here’s what I have to say—you can be done, if you want. If you choose to leave it alone.”

“What do you mean, I can be done?”

“Let’s just say there are other ways for the Mother’s—apotheosis to be realized. She no longer needs you. She doesn’t need me, I’m afraid. We’re artifacts of her plan now, if we choose. Although it is disappointing to come so close and end up here… I’m tired, and time means nothing to her, really. What is another hundred years? Another thousand years? We’ve learned so much. We’ve rattled the doors, and when the Fears do ultimately leave this dimension—which they will—they’ll be free.”

“Why would you come to tell me this?”

“To call a truce. If you let me live out my life, I will let you live out yours. Both of you. Don’t seek me out, don’t go looking for trouble, and there will be no lighters, no tape recorders, no phone calls—I won’t even send anymore gifts.”

“This is what you came here to say?”

“Yes.” Annabelle nodded. “And while I feel this is quite generous of us, I’d prefer you don’t give me your answer now. It will be clear enough what you decide. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m feeling rather fatigued—please accept my apologies for disrupting your evening.”

Martin felt sick as he watched her walk away, but he refused to look at Jon. He didn’t know what he could say, but he couldn’t think of anything he would want Jon to say, either. There just weren’t words. He sat for a long time, staring into the distance but not really seeing, feeling the pressure of Jon’s hand in his and not knowing what it meant. Nothing meant what he thought it had, really.

He felt lost.