#and i had this lone happy martin so i will frame him

[mxwhore]

dont talk to me or my framed sketch of MK Blackwood ever again

[fleet-of-fiction]

Jake Kiszka // Female Narrator

Part Five

After a blinding light eradicates mankind, you're left in a desolate and empty world. A year of solitude eliminates all belief that anyone else was left behind. Until a chance encounter on the side of the road. Jake is injured and fighting for his life, but his presence brings a renewed sense of hope. Touch starved and lonely, you need him. And undoubtedly, he needs you too.

"It would be the last man on earth that would end up being mine..."

Explicit sexual content Sex (penetrative & oral) /Foreplay /Blood / Injury / Hunting. / Intense emotions / Death.

Day 469 ~ Jake

The house sat at the top of a steep incline, up a winding driveway that had begun to be reclaimed by nature. Cracks in the cement where little shrubs had started to grow and leaves that were never blown away. Neglected and abandoned.

It reminded me a little of Josh's house. With pristine edges and white walls, coveted by obscure works of art. Book shelves that were gathering dust and kitchen utensils left out on the surfaces as if the owners had just stepped out of the room.

Amelia seemed to know where she was going. "I found this place a couple of months after I moved into Grandma's cabin."

She led me down a narrow corridor, flanked by a bank of full length windows overlooking a sweeping back yard that was shrouded by trees. Photo's of the family who once lived there sitting on the wall opposite, happy faces forever immortalised for no one else to ever see.

"I hit every house within a 10 mile radius. Looking for supplies, anything that I could use. Food, toiletries. And I was about to leave when I noticed this..."

She stopped at the end of the corridor, leaning against a nondescript door. Her face sincere as she ran hands up my arms, coming to rest around my shoulders.

"We have to take whatever joy we can find in this world." She said, "And if we're lucky, we'll take back some of the joys we had before."

I'd known nothing but joy since I'd almost died. There wasn't a single moment I'd had with her that hadn't made me question whether I would take any of it back to have the world filled with every other person I'd ever loved again.

It was something I'd wrestled with. The notion that I could happily exist in a world I'd come to hate simply because she was in it with me. I was thinking about Josh again when she opened the door, simply because I'd been reminded of him. And the certainty within which I knew I wouldn't take any of it back, even if it meant having him back, drew a conflict within the likes of which I'd never known before.

But it was all for nothing. As I stepped into the room she'd been eager to show me, I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that I loved her enough to never want the old world back.

"Amelia..." I gasped. "What in the...fuck."

Mounted on an oak panelled wall were an array of vintage guitars. A brazilian board 1959 Gibson Les Paul. Shining in the last rays of the afternoon sun. I reached out and touched it, trembling as my fingers remembered what it felt like to know strings. A custom Fender strat in dark red with a black mottled pattern that looked like spilled paint if you looked too closely. A plain red stratocaster and an acoustic Martin dreadnought with a mahogany neck.

"I know that you said you didn't play anymore. Not without your brothers. But I think you should play again. For them. To them. And maybe somehow, I don't know how insane it might be, but maybe they'll hear you. Wherever they are..."

She was nervous. Biting her lip and wringing her hands in the sleeves of her sweater. Anticipating that I'd reject the sweetness of her idea, of this perfect gift.

"You brought me here because you knew that I would love it, didn't you?" I asked, although it wasn't really a question.

"Is that so bad?" She replied, opening her arms as if I would somehow be mad at her.

The room was decked out with framed vinyls. Some were so old I'd never seen them before. There were a few more guitars leaned up against the opposite wall and a beaten up drum kit in the window. It looked as if it had been played to death, with the cymbals hanging off and the kick drum looked as if one more pound on it would tear it right in half.

"It's not bad at all, why would you think that?" I pulled her into me, her little body slotting into my embrace like it had always meant to be there. "Just because I said I didn't play anymore doesn't mean I wouldn't love this."

She rested her head against my shoulder. Let me sway her back and forth a little. Everything was so eerily quiet. Up here the wind howled a little more than it did around the cabin. It sounded like ghosts were singing to us, begging me to pick up one of those fine old ladies.

"Maybe I'm selfish. Maybe I just wanted to hear you for myself." She looked up at me, resting her lips on my jawline.

"Plenty have paid for the privilege." I replied, "What will you pay me for a private show?"

She raised an eyebrow. "I saved your life. This is you paying me, sweet thing."

She laughed and buried her face into my neck, kissing me there and holding me tight around my waist. Familiar and wholesome. Like she hadn't tried to push me away at all in the beginning.

She was the most incredible woman I had ever known. Her fears were like shadows now, she had this uncanny ability to turn them into her most beloved passions. Once she had been afraid to love me. And now, the ways in which she loved me were making me feel unworthy of it.

"Sometimes I don't think you realise how much you saved me." I told her, casting my eye on the acoustic. "Not just from that car wreck. But from a life of misery."

Of course I would play for her. If not her, then nobody. She made herself comfortable on a shaggy looking bean bag, folding herself into it and resting her head against her curled fist as she regarded me. I pulled the mahogany acoustic down from the wall, not wanting to tend to wires and amps just yet.

I considered coming up with something on the fly, but it had been so long since I had tinkered with strings that my mind began to wander so far away I couldn't make them work. I strummed a little, hearing the notes play out and something weird happened. I thought I'd never feel this ever again, this visceral wave that washed over me to the point of almost growing hard as I felt the back of the guitar against my groin.

Her eyes widened. She wasn't prepared.

"How does it make you feel, to have an audience again?" She asked softly, seductively.

The strings needed tuning a little. I turned the keys at the top of the neck, plucking out chords until they sounded pitch perfect.

"Sexy." I replied, "I always felt sexy whenever I went out on stage. They made me feel sexy. Kinda the same way you are now. Knowing they want to fuck you every time you play for them."

I didn't realise how much I missed the adrenaline. The feral cries of a crowd. Their voices rising in unison. Lights and screaming and the feeling that I might ascend with their love. I'd been someone in my life before. I'd known what it felt like to open my eyes and know I was doing something I loved completely. I hadn't felt like this in what felt like a life time.

"This is who you are, Jake." She uttered, sliding her hand down the curve of her hips. "You can't run from who you are forever."

I felt as if I didn't deserve her. For all she had done for me, for how incredible she was. There was no crowd that could ever compare to the way I felt in that moment playing for her.

"I can't sing our songs like Josh could." I confessed, "I'd be a poor imitation. But I'll try."

I couldn't hold the same power with my voice that my brother could. The part of me that had promised never to play again still sat in the shadows whispering to me that it would never be the same. But louder than that was Amelia's face watching me strum out the first chords of a song that meant everything to me.

"What's it called?" She asked.

Day 469 ~ Amelia

I knew he would love it. I'd all but forgotten about the little music room at the back of the big house on the corner of the road that led into Lafayette. It had meant nothing to me the first time I'd ventured in there. There was nothing in there that was of any use to me.

But today, it was like seeing the sun peek out from a grey cloud. I'd gone from doing everything in my power to ensure that he was never necessary to me, to doing everything in my power just to see him smile.

"It's called Broken Bells." He replied, "Josh used to say that it was about seeing that when things sometimes feel broken most of the time they're just lessons sent to help us see that everything will be alright in the end. I really wish he could be here to see that he was so fucking right."

What would I have done if he hadn't felt the same? I could feel myself dying a little inside at the melancholy way he played. His face expressing his grief. He played so hauntingly beautifully, in a way I hadn't really been prepared for. He closed his eyes and didn't even need to look at the way his fingers moved across the strings. He knew them, and they responded to him so lovingly. Almost as if they were an entity all of their own, able to come when he called.

If he hadn't have loved me in return I'd have been driven mad by it. Every rational bone in my body broken if I'd been forced to live beside him unrequited. I began to understand how lucky and fortunate I was as he began to sing. That he and I were somehow fated. And it wasn't just a coincidence that he was driving past me that day. He was creation and I was necessity. He'd made music for a world that needed to hear it and I'd treated them when they were sick. And for some unfathomable reason, we'd been left behind to exist together in this empty world.

But empty didn't have to mean broken. There was nothing but love in the world again. Nothing but this painful song that made tears spill from my eyes as I watched him and listened. What if this song was the only one being played? And the only one being listened to? I had hope that if anyone else had been left behind that they had somehow managed to find each other and find love within it.

"That was...beautiful." I sobbed, laughing at myself for crying at it.

He put down the guitar and came to me. Launching himself into the bean bag, the scrunchy sound of tiny styrofoam balls moving around as he wiggled into the space beside me.

"It always got an emotional reaction whenever we played it." He sighed, trailing soft palms down the side of my face. "It felt like people resonated with our songs for all different kinds of reasons. But with Broken Bells it always felt we were all on the same page. All of us feeling the same thing at the same time."

How could I have ever doubted him? This beautiful man with his beautiful music?

"I was just thinking, while you were playing it, that I hoped that somewhere out there that other people were listening to songs for the first time. That they'd found each other and found love, even in a world seemingly broken." I countered, feeling the heat of that familiar rush when I knew he was about to make love to me.

"If they aren't, then we have to love for all of those who can't." He said, trailing kisses down my jaw line.

Sometimes it felt silly. The things we said to each other. Things in the dead of night. In the cold light of day. In the middle of the afternoon when he was at his most sleepy, when he would linger in the kitchen looking to score a bowl of stew or soup before curling up on the couch with a book before he would fall asleep.

Even now, I could feel him nuzzle in. Our bodies entwined on the bean bag lazily tracing his thumb over my nipple as he sucked the flesh on my neck into perfect little shapes of his mouth.

"So, you really do like it?" I checked, just wanting to hear him say it one more time.

"Oh, yeah." He yawned, "That Les Paul is coming home with us for sure. And maybe I'll come back for the Strat, too."

I was wearing the black yoga pants I saved for hiking. The ones that I wore to collect fire wood. To muck out the horses and clear out the chicken coop. I never felt particularly sexy in them, or desirable. It felt almost like we'd become accustomed to seeing each other in our most desolate states.

But when he slipped them down around the curve of my ass and hitched me around so I was facing away from him, I was glad that I'd worn them. The way he pressed his hard on into my back and continued to roll my nipple around between his fingers as he breathed harder into my ear was the blessing I'd needed to know that I'd done the right thing.

We were both tired from the hike. Our bodies crying out for rest. The afternoon sun began to slip away, making room for cloud and darkness. I was acutely aware that there was no power in this house. No electricity. No running water. No heat. It was in my mind to interrupt his ministrations with these facts, but as his hand slipped below, coming up into my entrance from behind, I lost all manner of speech.

"You gonna let me thank you properly?" He asked, slaking two fingers inside me slowly. "Be my good girl and let me show you how much I love you?"

I was in no mood to protest. I watched the light outside fade as he ran stripes up my slit and into my clit. Whispering obscenities and freeing himself one handedly as he played with me. Letting his cock rest between his stomach and the curve of my ass, leaking a little against our flesh.

"Can you feel it?" He breathed, "How much I love you?"

It was all I could feel. There was no house. No darkness. No eerie silence as the wind rushed through the trees. Howling like there was someone out there to hear it. Only Jakes breath, the bean bag as it shuffled beneath us, and the sound of my untamed scream as he penetrated me.

He didn't try to quieten me. Buffeting my wild moans with deep thrusts that came like chasms to break me in half. Each time he bottomed out, he savoured it. Taking the briefest of moments to feel me clenched around him before pulling back slowly. The need to fuck and the need to sleep battling it out for supremacy.

"Pretty fucking grateful, aren't you?" I replied, leaning my head back into his waiting mouth.

When he was like this, all in need and eager to satisfy any way that he could, I often thought back to how it had been that first time. On the ground in the mud, knees caked in it and the earth beating in time with us. And how in the time since, we'd leisurely made love on the kitchen floor some mornings. In the shower, just stroking each other to pass the time. Him, on top of me, in the bed we now shared. And me, arms around the trunk of a tree whilst he fucked me from behind out in the woods even though it was still a little cold out there.

"For this pussy? Always." He purred into my ear, like he was serenading me.

I knew that I'd never tire of it. The way he felt inside me. The way he fit so perfectly. I never felt so full, like something had been made just for me. He wasn't just rhythm and blues, he was equipped to make me quiver with the mere mention that he might take me right there and then.

I'd lament it later on. How all my lovers before him had been lacking. How I'd swiped left and right, attended blind dates and settled when I shouldn't have. For men that couldn't make me cum or men who couldn't text me back.

"Mmmmm..." I murmured softly, arching against his quickening pace. "It would be the last man on earth that would end up being mine..."

The gentle laughter that expelled from his mouth against the shell of my ear was like summer rain. Teasing my senses, touch taste and scent. His hair was sweat drenched at his temples, as it often was when he fucked me, and I could taste the salt of it in his kiss.

"She speaks so highly of me." He breathed, "Now let her know no other man will ever have her..."

He would claim me. Over and over again. Even when there was no other to counter his claim. I let his hand wrap around my throat, edging me to the distance it would take to push me over the edge of the world. Thrusting into me so hard my entire body shook. I knew the bean bag had ripped at some point, sending the tiny little white foam balls scattered across the room. But I didn't care.

I'd keep finding them in strange places for weeks afterwards. As he rolled me onto the floor and continued to pound me, vicious and unrelenting. He'd never silenced my mewling cries before, content to let them ring out into the ether.

But not this time. It was like his gratitude couldn't be satisfied until he could hear the one sound he desired. His body raged on top of mine, our clothes half on and half off. His sweaty palm came to rest over my open mouth. Muffling my cries to a dull humm. His eyes silently pleading with me to let them die. And to just listen...

"Hush." He encouraged, resting his mouth against the back of his hand as he continued.

There it was. Against the backdrop of the breeze outside. The sound of how wet I was. His cock hitting my satiated pussy. Moist flesh against moist flesh. The most inconceivable feeling washed over me. This man, the only man that ever was, wanted to silence my mouth only to better hear the sound of my pussy being fucked.

And the drop of his eyelids as he listened had me in another state of being. Half closed and fucked with desire for the way it slipped in and out, wet and completely his.

"Thankyou, my love." He whispered, before he allowed himself to cum.

I was never certain if it was for the music, or the way I let him fuck me. I didn't really care. I let my own orgasm rise moments later, the two of us breathless and spent on the gutted belly of that old bean bag.

Day 470 ~ Amelia

We hunkered down for the night. Choosing to make our way back at first light, gathering all the blankets we could find and sleeping on the couches that were, quite simply, more luxurious than any couch we could have gotten in the cabin.

Jake took the one opposite me, falling asleep first. His gentle snores lulling me into my own dreams. It felt like no time had passed at all before my eyes sprang open, the red of morning creeping in.

I rubbed my eyes and stretched. Taking a moment to recall where I was. This place was eerie, even in daylight. And I wished that there were something, anything...that would remind me that people had once lived here. The ticking of a clock, perhaps. Or the grass being cut outside. I could have laid there a little longer, still tired and drowsy, but I was eager to be gone.

I kicked off the blankets and expected Jake to be laying there, ever the one to wake up last, but my heart fell into my stomach at the sight of the empty couch. Blankets still left precisely where he had kicked them off.

"Jake?!" I called, expecting his voice to filter down the hall from the music room.

Silence.

"Jake?!" I called again, pulling on my pants and shoes as I made my way through the house.

I expected to find him gathering up all the instruments he wanted to take. Agonising over which ones to take now and which ones to come back for. But there was nothing but the aftermath of what we'd done. And all the guitars were accounted for.

"Jake, this isn't funny." I cried, checking behind the curtains like a child playing hide and seek. "Jake, I'm being serious now!!!"

Panic began to rise in my chest. My heart soaring, making me dizzy as I flew through the house. Room after room coming up empty.

"Jake!!!" I screamed, running now. "Jake please!!!"

Had I ever given myself permission to imagine this, I would have driven myself mad. That one day he would simply vanish, like everyone else had, and truly I would have walked to my death in that moment. I had no desire to live in a world void of the man I loved.

"JACOB!!!" My voice broke on his name as I fell out of the door and into the back yard. "PLEASE!!!!"

I fell to my knees on gravel. Crying. Racking sobs expelled from me as I took fists full of tiny pebbles that cut into my flesh as I squeezed. I felt as if I couldn't breathe. My chest was tight, all the horror of him disappearing coursing through my veins as tears spilled down my flushed cheeks.

"Jake, I can't do this...you have to come back..." I begged, broken and beyond redemption.

In a matter of moments I'd gone from waking up, to screaming on my knees. I'd have thought it a nightmare had I not already endured one. The reality of this feeling was one I knew. Only this time, intensified by a love that had known no bounds. I could live in an empty world before I'd ever known him.

Not anymore.

To be Continued...

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@caprisunsister @thewritingbeforesunrise @takenbythemadness @katuschka @its-interesting-van-kleep @lvnterninthenight @writingcold @jakekiszkasbuttsweat @edgingthedarkness @velveteencatch @lyndz2names @nina-23-45 @itsafullmoon @vikingisthenewsexy @char289

[dathen]

Honestly I attribute most of the "Jon is stupid" takes to the Just World Fallacy. People want to believe he's stupid or cruel or misguided, because if his decisions are ultimately obvious mistakes, they can rest assured they would not make the same choice and would be safe from the terror and pain he goes through. It runs counter to /literally everything else/ about the podcast and the stories we're shown but if he "deserves" it somehow, then all they have to do to be safe is not "deserve" it

This has been in my inbox for a bit but it's ALWAYS RELEVENT because it constantly keeps coming up.

This is SO TRUE THOUGH. It's a lot less prevalent post-160, but pre-160 it was common to see Elias's "you didn't know what you were choosing, but you DID choose this" unironically brought up as Wise Words to Live By in nearly every Jon analysis. Every torture, every violation, every heartbreak was "something Jon chose." Hell, I've even seen his Mr. Spider trauma at eight years old blamed on him, because "if he wasn't so picky he wouldn't have been given so many books."

After 160, when "Jon chose all of this" became "oh wait Jonah orchestrated this," the fandom takes turned on a dime to be about how stupid Jon was vs. how evil he was. Only a stupid person could be manipulated like that! (ignore how literally every other character has been manipulated, such as Basira being sent 'round the world over and over following Elias's orders) Only a stupid person couldn't protect his friends! (ignore how long he DID do everything to protect the others, how "Gertrude lost all her assistants" didn't repeat for him because he valued them so much, how several of them owe their lives and happiness to him) There's some weird unattainable gold standard of What Should Have Happened out there, and because the story doesn't go that way, Jon has to get the sole blame for it.

An especially aggravating instance was related to the Lonely mark. Martin chose not to kill Jonah, and was sent into the Lonely as bait, and Jon chose to follow and save him. Neither of them knew the stakes. Immediately after, Jon started getting saddled with fandom blame because "he should have known that he had been marked by every fear except the Lonely, and that something bad would happen if he saved Martin."  I don’t think that Martin chose to end the world, but his choice was part of the whole horrible manipulated domino effect, and...he just gets skipped over as a non-factor.  I've seen Jon get more blame than *Peter Lukas*, who allowed all this to happen by making the bet in the first place, and who could have just told Jon what Jonah was planning (but apparently he'd rather die instead), but....unironically gets framed as an "unsung hero" who tried to prevent the end of the world? MAKE IT MAKE SENSE

But it's easier to just say Jon brought it all on himself by not being smart enough or good enough, than to face the horror of a decent person doing as well as any of us could hope to, but still going through what he did.

(also every time I make a post like this a dozen vagueposts pop up in the tag about how I'm "excusing everything Jon ever did" and "am allergic to nuance" and "am trying to pretend he's a perfect hero," so I am heading all those off with the should-be-obvious assertion that I'm not pretending Jon is perfect, but rather insisting that the suffering he went through is undeserved, and that the blame that fandom and the characters saddle him with is disproportionate and unfair)

[somuchbetterthanthat]

Post 200. CW for flesh(sortof), dark, lonely, beholding, web, desolation; lil implicit d/s, sort of; martin and jon being fucked up but trying to love each other all the same; 

Martin sits up with a gasp; his heart is racing, and he finds himself blinking frantically at the white, unfamiliar wall in front of him.

No.

Not unfamiliar.

“Martin?” mumbles a beloved, infuriating, sleepy voice behind him. 

A gentle hand creeps up under his shirt, fingers dancing on his lower back. Martin closes his eyes again, and tries to slow his breathing.

“I’m fine,” he mutters. 

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“I’m fine, it’s all fine.”

“...Right,” says Jon quietly.

Martin’s heart is heavy, and he immediately feels guilty. But he doesn’t look back. It’s too early to look back. Jon’s hand has too many fingers again this morning.

*

Martin stares at the white, blank wall in front of him. He wishes he could look at the window instead, but the sun hasn’t risen this morning; the day is black as night, except there’s not even a moon, or stars, or any sort of light -- but the wall is there, pristine white even now, and it’s so empty.

“We should decorate,” he says, eventually.

“Mmh?” Jon’s face is hidden against his hip. He hates it when it’s all black, the same way he hates it when they’re losing touch of who they are, or what anything is. 

“We’re gonna be here forever, aren’t we?” Martin asks. It’s not the first time. He can’t help reminding himself, sometimes. “So we should decorate.”

Slowly, Jon raises his head; there’s an incredulous and fond smile on his lips that make Martin’s insides twist as ever. “I’m not sure it’ll stick,” he says. “You know how this house is.”

“Yeah, well.” Martin hesitates. Licks his lips. Squares his shoulders. “It’s ours now, isn’t it? We live here. So. If we’re playing by its rules, maybe it should let us like; put, put a frame or something, y’know?”

Jon’s eyes are crinkling. “I suppose,” he says. “We could try.”

“Good.”

“Good.”

Martin tries to think of what they could decorate the wall with; his mind came up blank. Never mind, he tells himself, glaring at the shadow monster that’s trying to grow alongside the corner of the bedroom. Never mind. There’ll forever be a tomorrow, anyway.

*

Martin is staring at the wall of the bedroom; the faces in the picture frames smile at him, mouth and eyes faded. They never truly existed, did they? Or if they did, they were nothing but a reassuring lie. Outside, the fog is so dense it covers everything. Martin itches to get up and open the window. 

A denser shadow than the rest closes the curtains abruptly; there’s anger and fear in the gesture, and when Martin slowly turns to study it, the shadow slowly turns into Jon. 

They stare at each other. Jon hesitates. Opens his mouth. Closes it again. 

His eyes are a bottomless pit of loneliness, a perfect reflection of Martin’s. It does not matter that this is their bedroom. They’re not together, they’ve never fitted together, they’ll never be together ever again. Jon always meant to chose the world before Martin. It’s how it is.

It’s how it’ll always be.

He blinks. The man he loves is a grey shadow that seems to disappear in the walls. Martin lays back in bed, and lets himself fade as well.

*

Jon is staring at the wall of their bedroom. No. Martin is staring at it No. The wall is staring at them both. 

“Can’t you make it stop?” Martin asks, exasperated. “I just want to sleep.”

“Tough,” Jon mutters distractedly, which is even more infuriating.

“Jon.”

“What?”

“Just! Do something!” 

“I think we both agreed, multiples times, that whenever I try to do something it’s bad,” Jon snaps.

“So what, you’re never going to make choices ever again?” Martin asks, exasperated. “What a brilliant plan.”

“I don’t have any choice to make,” Jon says, waving at the eyes peaking at them through every single corner of the room, of the myriads of faces pressed against the windows, eagerly waiting for them to fight again. “All I have to do is to wait and to keep them here. With me. If you don’t like them, Martin, there’s always the baseme--”

“Don’t you dare--”

“What? If you hate it all so much, I can’t do anything about it, but you can --”

“Shut up! Why do you always do this?”

“Why do you always ask me to find solutions if you don’t like the ones I came up with?”

Oh, how they’re drinking it all in, outside; how happy they are; how flushed Jon is, because it is his day, isn’t it, he looks more healthy than ever, and on those days Martin feels so sick --

“Do you want me to go there?” he asks. 

Jon stares, baffled; his anger deflating immediately. “Of course not.” 

Of course not. Martin wears it like a cape. Of course not. “Come here,” he says, and opens his arms. Jon leans to melt into the embrace easily. They hold each other too tight, and their eyes are burning. Is this the story they’re condemned to have? They think, together. Are they only ever going to be this, sadness and recriminations and frustration and --

Jon’s nails dig into his back. “I love you,” he murmurs. “I love you.”

“I love you too,” Martin breathes. “I’m not leaving this house. It’s ours.”

*

There is a spider danging from the happy framed picture on the wall. Martin glares at it. 

“We’ll kill it,” Jon tells him. 

And so they will; they spoke it into existence. Martin decides it’s more important to focus on his husband that the small, helpless thing that’ll be crushed in a moment. Jon’s curls are full of cobwebs. Martin carefully starts to pick at them. Such fragile threads, that he easily captures and plays with --

He could push them under the bed, he supposes. Instead, he uses them to make the web necklace around Jon’s neck just a little bit more intricate. 

“Oh?” Jon hums. It’s careful, but not unhappy.

“I’m not going to choose forever,” Martin says quietly. “I don’t think I’m that good at it either, all things considered.”

“Better than me,” Jon breathes.

“But that’s the thing, isn’t it? You’ve barely ever got to decide anything at all. Not really.” 

“Martin --”

“You know it’s true. It’s just hard to accept, and that’s fair, I get it, okay? I can choose. Just for a little while. But not forever. I’m not doing it forever.”

There is so much tenderness and gratefulness in Jon’s eyes. Martin’s not sure he deserves such devotion, sometimes. But god, he wants to believe maybe he could grow to. Eventually.

“Okay,” Jon says. “Okay.”

“Lay back,” Martin orders gently. “I’m taking care of you now.”

*

The houseplant is ashes again; it’s the sort of day that’s so hot it makes Martin want to peel his skin off, except it’s not that kind of day day. Instead everything is dead and melting, and Martin still stubbornly reaches for Jon, who’s staring at the window, and the little girl who’s crying outside, her bright red hair falling into the grass one by one, creating little sparks that will soon make the world ablaze. 

“It’s the seventh time we’ve watched her burn,” Martin mutters.

“Eighth,” Jon corrects, because of course he does, before adding: “They’re not exactly imaginative.”

“Guess not.” Martin presses a kiss against his hair. “Why are you looking, though?”

“Just thinking.” Jon’s hand finds his, and squeezes it gently. “I don’t regret it, you know.”

Martin blinks. “Regret what?”

“The one choice I did make. I don’t regret it. If we’d waited, I would not have seen this; I wouldn’t not been able to save anything at all.”

“..Jon --”

“I want you to know,” Jon declares, firmer. “It’s important to me than you know. I don’t like that I trapped you into an eternity of -- of fear guardianship. But If we had gone with the original plan, if they’d managed to escape, ... I wouldn’t have been able to live with it, Martin. I wouldn’t have gotten better. There wouldn’t have been any fixing it. But here -- with you -- I... I think I can be happy. I want us to be happy.”

“Me too,” Martin says. “I want us to be happy too.”

“...Good,” Jon says.

“Good,” Martin repeats. And then, because he is tired of staring outside by the window, or at the wall, because Hill Top Road is much bigger than the bedroom they insist on spending so much time in, he tugs at Jon gently. “Come on,” he says. “I think I’d like some tea.”

“In this weather?” Jon asks, because he’s a brat, but when Martin rolls his eyes and pulls him away from the window, he follows with a warm smile.

[ashes-in-a-jar]

There Are Moments Like These That Keep Me on My Feet

Martin realises a terrible truth regarding Jon's relationship with this new world and has to make a decision on how to handle it.

Hurt and comfort in the Apocalypse and their consequences.

Rated: G

Word count: 2.3K

Tw: non sexual intimacy, memory loss, bad tea

Looking back after leaving Upton House, Martin finally understood. He'd had a feeling, he wasn't completely blind but he had hoped, hoped so badly that he was wrong. That all those times were just a fluke. That he was imagining things. But no, Jon really did forget. It was almost unnoticeable, small things really, but Jon forgot them all.

It started at Kinloss Barracks. Jon had just finished whatever it was the Eye made him talk about. When Martin looked up and uncovered his ears he saw Jon with the tape recorder clicking off, looking pale and rattled. As Jon breathed deeply Martin got up from where he was huddled and crouched next to him, gently cupping his cheek.

"Hey, you alright?"

Jon inhaled one more time. As he resumed breathing normally he turned his face into Martin's hand, lips softly moving against his palm.

"I'm okay Martin. It was just. Alot. Like my first statements at the institute. " He huffed in amused irony and Martin's heart clenched.

"Do you need something? Can I help?" Martin hated how useless he felt when Jon's emotions were at odds with his... Patron.

"It's alright Martin, I'm alright. Maybe just... Stay like this for a bit?" Jon mumbled, holding Martin's hand in place where he was framing Jon's face.

"Okay. I can do that." Martin huffed a small smile and brought the other hand up as well, bracketing both of Jon's sides, making a barrier between him and the sounds of violence outside their little hideaway.

It didn't take long for Martin to slowly begin rubbing Jon's temples and soon enough he was gently massaging his face, trying to draw out the tension set between the eyebrows and beneath the hairline and throughout the pronounced cheekbones.

Jon sighed contentedly and closed his eyes, letting out small sounds of approval every few moments.

When Martin was done, Jon opened his eyes languidly and smiled softly at Martin. "That felt good. Thank you, Martin. For everything."

"It's nothing, I'm here for you."

"I know." Jon took a moment to just look at Martin with that tender but piercing gaze Martin was still trying to get used to ever since they left the Lonely, then took Martin's hands in his and helped both of them up on their feet. "Let's go."

Later, after the village, after the many questions answered and unanswered, after Helen's headache-inducing laugh dissipated with a creak of a door, Jon made a sound akin to a groan-infused sigh. Martin glanced at him and saw he was rubbing the bridge of his nose, moving his hands to his temples. Martin took a step to face him. "Do you want me to do that again?" He asked, raising his arms as indication.

Jon's thick eyebrows creased in confusion "Do what again?"

"You know, in the war zone when you finished…" Martin saw a deepening confusion and decided to forgo the explanation, "Here." He brought his hands up to rub Jon's temples. Once again Jon sighed and once again he thanked Martin softly when it was time they moved on. He didn't mention Martin doing that again afterwards, or ask for it when Martin didn't offer. Which he did every now and then, suspicion growing as each time Jon reacted in novelty.

But that wasn't the only instance. Martin brought with him his poetry book in his pack. When they were able to talk about the carousel again without mentioning the... Smiting, Martin insisted on defending the good aspects of poetry which the Stranger mostly lacked, namely identity and awareness. Jon countered by asking Martin to prove it and recite poetry. "That's not fair, I can't remember them by heart that well."

"Martin, you have a poetry book here, why not just read out of it?"

"You, you want to hear my poetry?" Martin nearly tripped.

"I thought it was obvious by this point there is nothing I'd like more." Jon smiled at him.

Martin recoiled and stammered incoherently. Jon interrupted.

"Martin, stop. I know your poetry is good. I've seen some." Blatantly choosing to ignore his own wince at the circumstances in which he managed to peek at Martin's writing, he went on. "It really is quite good. It'd be a shame not to take the chance to perform a bit of your words. You'll find I make quite a compelling listener." Jon smiled lopsidedly and Martin snorted.

"Okay, okay fine. One poem. And I pick!"

"Fine." Jon shrugged.

Martin intentionally chose one of his more mundane works. About rain and windows of opportunity being washed away. It did hint a bit at the times where his feelings for Jon felt unanswered but it wasn't as... Glaring as others he had.

When he finished he looked up expectantly. He was not prepared for the intensely affectionate expression he saw, nor the tackle of a bear hug that followed.

"Jon! Watch out, we're walking!" He gasped, muffled by the shock of Jon's tangled hair in his face. They had to stop anyway, as Jon refused to let go, tightening his hold and nuzzling into Martin's neck.

"Thank you." He said quietly. "That was... That was more affecting than I thought it would be."

"Really? It's just some words on paper." Martin teased, petting the hair near his face, mainly to get strands of it out of his mouth.

"But they're your words, Martin. They are a, a window into you, how you think and who you are. I don't Look to see what you are thinking a-and the you in front of me is more than enough! Truly! But it's nice to hear a bit more. And it's nice to see that, that I'm there too. This made me really happy, Martin. Thank you."

"O-oh." Martin squeaked, not expecting the forthright reaction. He laughed nervously "Well in that case, we'll make it a, a tradition? Once in a while, if you ask nicely, I'll read you a poem- If you want." he added quickly, feeling a little presumptuous.

"You already know my feelings on the matter. Don't worry, I will ask you again, you can be certain of that." And with that he planted a kiss on the dazed Martin's cheek, readjusted his backpack and began walking again. Martin chuckled to himself and rushed to join him.

But the request never came again. And later, when Martin tentatively asked Jon if he wanted another recitation, Jon's face lit up and said, "So you're finally willing to share? I thought I'd never see the day."

Martin looked at him confused but said nothing and instead chose a different poem about bridges and connections which elicited a very similar reaction as the first.

The request never came again unless Martin offered. Each time he was too afraid to try the same poem lest his concerns would be confirmed. He didn't want to know.

There were other times as well. The time after the Lonely estate when Martin insisted on sitting with their meager supply of tea and talking about small nothings. The tea was nicer than he expected and Jon was practically jovial with giddy relief at Martin's rescue and choice to stay with him, laughing sonorously and uncharacteristically at Martin's silly jokes. Later, he did not recall what they laughed about, nor understood why the tea supply was depleted when Martin tried to remind him. Other jokes in general too. Martin would make Jon laugh and when referring back to the joke, Jon would simply stare at him blankly. Jon did not remember when Martin brushed and braided his ever more tangled hair, fiddling with the stands wondering aloud when he'd done that. Jon forgot when Martin took out his sewing kit and fixed a hole made by the fires of the Desolation, wondering why his shirt suddenly had stitches. Jon forgot compliments, short rests when they quietly held one another close, brief exchanges of reassurance.

Martin tried not to think about it, tried not to make the connection. Tried not to read into the words 'They just get whatever hurts them the most. Even me.' that Jon had said when they were traveling with Basira on her tragic quest. Tried not to remember the times Jon, and even Martin himself, commented about the nature of this place,

'This is not a world where you can trust comfort.'

'Levity off the cards.'

'Nice things, they tend not to stay nice out there.'

But they were there. And he had to face it at some point. Because after they've left the wonderful comfort of Salesa's home, Jon, feeling rejuvenated, said with a dreamy quality to his voice, "Pity. It’s going away. That peace, the safety, the memory of ignorance. It's gone. Like a dream."

"That’s… Yeah, I guess that makes sense." Martin replied, resigned. It was all coming together now and Martin could not avoid it any longer.

Jon couldn't remember. He was the 'Archive' and whatever that meant ensured Jon retained all the pain and fear this world had to offer and nothing else. Jon could not keep the memories of anything nice or happy that happened to him personally in this hellscape. Every good word, every caring touch, every wide smile, bark of laughter. It all faded right after it occurred. Maybe if it was small enough he could remember. But Martin's mothering? Martin's hugs? Martin's tea? Martin's poetry? None of it stayed. Only Martin could remember those moments and what was lost.

As they walked away from the green and the sky Martin fell slightly behind, trying to reign in his tears.

Of course he remembered. This place ensured that Martin would remember so the pain of loss would be ever more acute later. It was what this world was. The worst pain it could inflict on them.

It's not fair! They had just got together, they had just begun to open up, share their deepest facets with each other, enjoy the closeness. Was that all pointless? Were all of his efforts worth anything in the long run at all? Martin felt himself slowly descending into a sharp kind of despair that became heavier and heavier as he sunk deeper.

No! He forced himself upright and shook his head vigorously,letting the tears shake off his face.

No! It was worth it! Those moments are there and they exist, even if the memory is gone. They have value and a worth inherent to them as the Good moments that they are, apocalypse rules be damned!

He balled his hands into fists, silently challenging whichever dread power was listening. They cannot take those moments away! The hugs, the soft gazes, the pure happiness, even forgotten will remain and have their merit. Martin will make sure there are more of them, always more of them, to spite the Eye! To spite the Fears! To spite this place! Jon will get all of the love he deserves, memory or not. Martin will double, no, triple the care he will give Jon, make sure he is okay in the quiet moments, give him a reason to smile.

He will see the braided hair afterwards, feel the ache in his cheeks from a long laugh, feel the lingering warmth around his arms and back, the tingle on his lips. The remnants will give him the strength to stand against the powers that be and retain the hope they cultivated. And Martin will be there, every step of the way. Loving, caring, smiling. Because that's what they deserve. And Martin will fight for it to the end.

Later, after that dreadful hospital and another long stretch of time walking quietly, contemplating. Martin was sure Jon was still agonizing over his decision to help Breekon by relieving him of his suffering, so Martin called Jon to stop.

"What?" Jon asked, confused.

"I am making the executive decision to make a stop and rest. I have a little bit of tea left and I will read you some of my poetry while we're at it."

Jon's face lit up, though still retaining its confused quality. "Alright, if you insist. What brought this on?"

Martin already settled down and began setting up a small fire for the water. "We had a time so now we're taking a breather. The air here is slightly fresher than what it was back there."

"Alright." Jon smiled.

Martin put the small pot on the fire and looked up at Jon still standing over him "C'mere, " he opened his arms.

Chuckling lightly, Jon unslung his pack and sank into Martin's embrace. Martin in turn pulled him in tight and nuzzled the top of his hair.

"I know it wasn't easy back there but what you did, it was the right thing to do."

"How do you know?" Bitterness seeped into Jon's voice and Martin began stroking circles on his back. Jon shuffled even closer into Martin's jumper, burying his face in his chest.

"I just do. You couldn't leave him like that. A small act of mercy. To spite this place."

"If you say so." Jon mumbled into the fabric.

"I do. Now move over so I can get my book." Martin decided to read the sappiest, most Jon-related poem he had, cringe be damned.

"I don't want to." Jon grumbled and leaned in, eyes closed, breathing deeply.

"Okay, we can wait. There's no rush." Martin said fondly.

They stayed that way for a long while until the water boiled over and they drank what was left if that dreadful brew that dared call itself tea. They sat there in a comfort later forgotten, reclaiming depleted energy and regaining motivation. A moment that had infinite value, regardless of what the past held or the future entailed. A tangible instant that was completely theirs within the infinite universe, unending in the singular space and time which no one can ever take away.

[dickwheelie]

I asked for prompts for a jmart ficlet on the discord server, and @danistoker asked for a first kiss and @coulson-is-an-avenger asked for yearning. I borrowed the scenario from Alex’s freakin sweet non-canon headcanon that Jon and Martin rode up to the safehouse in a camper van and Martin kept stopping along the way to make it more of a holiday :)

__________

Jon stared across the dashboard at the driver’s side window, no longer caring if Martin glanced over and saw him.

They’d been heading north towards Daisy’s safehouse all afternoon, and despite the fact that Martin was the only one between them who knew how to drive, Jon was the one feeling exhausted. It was a bit silly, really, considering the past twenty-four hours, but Martin was the one who had kept pulling over at scenic overlooks and famous landmarks and tugging Jon out of the car to take photos with him.

Jon was more than happy to oblige him, of course. Whatever he had done to snap Martin out of the Lonely, it had seemed to invigorate him, and Martin’s sheer enthusiasm and joy at being able to stop along the road and do silly, touristy things was infectious. Jon found himself laughing and smiling for pictures for the first time in . . . at least a few months. Possibly over a year, if he counted the coma.

Between stops, Martin had turned the radio in the van all the way up, singing along to golden oldies, most of which Jon knew well enough to join in, and top 40s hits that Jon was a bit embarrassed to admit he knew well enough to join in.

He knew, on some level, that Martin was doing this for both of their sakes; making up for lost time, trying to keep the clouds of the Lonely at bay. Still, Jon thought, hell if it wasn’t working. Even through the sleepiness that was threatening to overtake him as he stared fondly over at Martin, framed by the setting sun as he cut the wheel, Jon thought he might feel genuinely happy. Not lonely, at least. Not with Martin here.

He really was beautiful, Jon’s mind supplied. Warm, soft, solid, all at once. Love you, he thought, more purposefully, and the words were so easy. It was too soon, too much, for a car ride, but he felt that he could say them, when the moment was right.

Martin started talking, then, about something and nothing in particular, and Jon struggled to pay attention. He wanted to hear what Martin had to say about some billboard advertisement they’d passed, he really, truly did, there was nothing that would entertain Jon more--but everything was muted and soft, and Martin’s deep brown eyes glowed in the reddening sunlight, and the way he tapped a nonsense rhythm on the wheel with both index fingers made Jon want to embrace him again and not let him go this time.

Slowly, Jon realized that at some point Martin’s words had slowed to a stop, along with the van. Martin was staring over at him with an odd, slightly bemused expression.

“We’re here,” Martin said, and indeed they were, as Jon glanced blearily out the windshield to see the tiny cabin, which matched the pictures Basira had sent them.

“Ah,” Jon said, too warm and heavy to move. “So we are.”

Martin quirked a bit of a smile at him. Love you, Jon thought again. “Alright, Jon?”

“Mhm. Tired.”

“Yeah.” Martin sighed deeply, and switched off the engine. “We just have to get our bags in the door and then we can have a kip.”

“Can I kiss you.”

Martin froze, blinking at him. “Can--can you--” He cut himself off, fumbling with the keys, and Jon thought vaguely that perhaps there was a better way he could have broached the subject.

“I’m sorry,” Jon said, though his heart tripped nervously in his chest. “It’s alright if you don’t want to.”

“N-No,” Martin said, and Jon could see his cheeks darkening slightly in a blush, Love you, “it’s . . . I just wasn’t expecting . . . that.” Quickly, he added, “But I do want to.”

Feeling more awake now, Jon leaned up in his seat a bit. “It’s alright?” He could feel his own face heating up now.

“Yeah,” Martin said, flashing a small smile.

Jon leaned across the gear shift and kissed that smile. Or at least, he tried to, closing his eyes at the last moment and missing his mark by an inch or so, landing on the corner of Martin’s mouth instead. He pulled back, wanting to try again but wanting to see Martin’s reaction more.

Martin had closed his eyes as well, and now he slowly opened them, staring at Jon so fondly and handsomely that it almost didn’t seem fair. With a slow deliberateness, Martin leaned forward and kissed the corner of Jon’s mouth, in turn.

Love you. It was incredibly difficult to keep that one from spilling out.

Instead, Jon leaned forward again and made sure to catch Martin’s lips properly. Kissing Martin was much like Martin himself--warm, soft, solid. Lovely. They stayed like that for a long moment, Jon only pulling away when he’d run out of air, and then--

“Alright then,” Martin said, brightly, “kip time.”

Jon gaped for a moment as Martin unbuckled his seatbelt and opened the driver’s side door. “W--What about--”

“You’re asleep on your feet,” Martin said, a fond look still on his face. “We can always kiss more later when we’ve both slept.” But before he climbed out of the car, he leaned forward one last time to kiss Jon on the nose.

Once the door slammed shut and Martin was headed to the boot to grab their bags, Jon sat back and laughed. Into the empty van, with only a tinge of sarcasm, he said aloud, “Love you, too.”

[aimoosh-blog]

BERSERK: A MASTERSTROKE IN VIOLENCE

Berserk is a series that is both influential and overlooked. This might sound pretentious to fans of the gory medieval anime, but hear me out. Despite having a long-running manga which was originally released back in the ‘90's, after two anime series, a trilogy of movies and various video game adaptations, Berserk still remains somewhat niche and obscure.

The series is known for its gruesome imagery and I would strongly advise that if you've experienced abuse or are easily affected by violent and distressing material, that this series simply isn't for you. However, it's this cycle of violence that makes Berserk so compelling. 

Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery and the Soulsborne series doesn't shy away from this. Hidetaka Miyazaki has openly discussed how Berserk inspired games like Dark Souls and Bloodborne and you don't have to look far to find Berserk's influence spread throughout the Souls series.

But when you think of your favourite hefty sword-wielding himbo, I'm sure Guts isn't the first to spring to mind. Before we get into the debate of who wore it better, let's talk about Berserk's creator.

The most distinct and memorable aspect of Berserk is the apparent pleasure the series takes with relishing visceral imagery which is brought to life by Kentaro Miura. Berserk's first volume was released in 1990 when Miura was twenty-two years old. At this point in his life, Miura was already experienced within the industry after having written his first manga at the age of ten and eventually self-publishing in 1982.

With his experience and indisputable style, Miura's abhorrent rendition of the numerous satanic beasts and mythological creatures that populate the bloodthirsty world of Berserk, are both horrifying and captivating. The series manages to succeed in simultaneously being horrendously violent and strikingly beautiful. This parallel is prominent throughout the story and feeds the reader/viewer with a morbid curiosity.

The first and most obvious juxtaposition can be found in Guts' and Griffith's appearance. If you put Berserk in front of a newbie, they would most likely assume that the androgynous Griffith was the series’ main hero.

With his petite frame, feminine features, and charismatic charm, he certainly looks the part of a typical anime protagonist. Especially when set side by side with Guts who's hulking physique, stoic disposition, and hardened exterior is a stark contrast to the Hawk of Light. But scratch the surface and you'd find something entirely different.

Once you pull back the curtain and look beyond his angelic façade, you'd uncover Griffith's selfish, almost sociopathic personality which is accompanied with an unyielding ambition to stop at nothing until he achieves his dream. In contrast, Guts’ intimidating appearance and seemingly aloof attitude are a front concealing a lonely and tormented individual.

Shrouded by death, Guts was born from the corpse of his executed mother and eventually discovered by a group of mercenaries, who find the infant beneath a hanging tree covered in blood and entrails. The baby is presumed to be dead until he begins to cry, to which prostitute Shisu immediately rushes to comfort the child and is permitted to keep the newborn by leader Gambino. The baby is given the name Guts after the gory manner in which he was found. However, many members of the group are unsettled by Guts’ arrival and consider it a bad omen. 

Shisu had been deemed mad following her miscarriage and quickly became attached to Guts as a result. The pair seemed destined to meet but their happiness is tragically short-lived as three years later, Guts’ adoptive mother contracts the plague and dies while Guts watches over her. Unfortunately Shisu’s death only strengthens rumors about Guts’ reputation as a source of bad luck.

Guts promptly begins practicing swordsmanship and joins Gambino on the battlefield in an effort to gain approval. However, one night while Guts is sleeping in his tent, fellow sellsword Donovan, sneaks in and forces himself on the young boy. Guts later lures his abuser away and forces his sword down Donovan’s throat, killing him. No longer feeling safe, Guts begins to sleep clutching his sword.

Guts’ relationship with Gambino rapidly deteriorates following Shisu’s death. Gambino resents Guts for the subsequent loss of his leg and fixates on the misfortune that seems to have followed the boy. Gambino soon begins to verbally and physically abuse Guts, and consequently makes an attempt on Guts’ life. It’s in this moment that Gambino confesses that he had sold Guts to Donovan for the night. 

Horrified by this revelation, Guts is forced to kill his paternal figure in an act of self-defence and is hunted down by Gambino's men. After narrowly escaping with his life and defending himself against a pack of wolves, Guts eventually falls unconscious. The cycle begins again as he is discovered and enlisted by a separate mercenary group where he becomes a child soldier.

After surviving battlefield to battlefield, Guts eventually crosses paths with the Band of the Hawk. Impressed by his skills, leader Griffith, openly expresses that he is eager for Guts to join the Band of the Hawk. Guts agrees to this proposal but only if Griffith defeats him in a duel. Much to Guts’ disgust, he is defeated and begrudgingly joins the new group of mercenaries. But soon finds himself at home among his companions within the Band of the Hawk and is swiftly promoted to Captain of the Raiders.

It is clear that Guts is conflicted in the first arc of the story. After years of coping with isolation and abuse, he is torn between carving his own path or sticking with the Band of the Hawk. It's safe to say that whether you read the manga or watch the anime, the series doesn't sugar-coat the trauma Guts is forced to endure. But despite everything, Guts still carries on and it’s his mental fortitude that makes him such a sympathetic character.

But after forming strong friendships and concealing an unrequited love, it's Guts' decision to leave the Band of the Hawk and break free of Griffith's control that ultimately leads to The Band of the Hawk's downfall.

Amidst this complicated bromance you have Casca. A seasoned warrior who commands the respect of The Band of the Hawk and is Griffiths right hand – that is until Guts steals the spotlight. This setup may sound like a clichéd love triangle but Casca plays a crucial role in Berserk. Without her, Guts would've likely given up following the aftermath of the eclipse. She is the driving force in the story, feeding Guts' lust for revenge.

If you're considering checking out Berserk, I can highly recommend the manga as the best way to consume the series, as you are able to see Miura hone his craft over the years and create some truly remarkable panels. Another benefit is that with over 300 chapters, you'll have more than enough content to keep you occupied. But if that's not your style you have a few options to choose from.

The Golden Age Arc Film Trilogy concisely summaries the first narrative arc, if you want to get up to speed quickly. The larger budget in the subsequent movies allows for less 3D animation and more stunning hand-drawn sequences. However, if you have the time and patience for it, the 1997 adaptation spares no details and has an alluring nostalgic 90's aesthetic, if you can forgive it being a little rough around the edges.

Whichever version you decide to pick if you still can't get enough, I would advise saving the 2016 Berserk anime for last. Not only because it takes place after the first arc and follows the aftermath of the eclipse, but fans of the series have openly criticised this version's cheap animation style that fails to do justice to Miura’s concepts.

As previously mentioned, Berserk is unashamed in its cruelty and some might say the series renowned violence is needlessly excessive. Although this may seem off-putting, Berserk also has it's softer moments. It's in these more subdued scenes that you're drawn deeper into the fascinating narrative.

If asked how best to describe the series, I would say that it's the love child of Japanese horror artist, Junji Ito and fantasy author, George R. R. Martin. The medieval-fantasy setting allows for breath-taking architecture and scenery which often resembles Salvador Dali's surrealist paintings, but inhabited with monsters from Hieronymus Bosch's famous works such as The Harrowing of Hell. It's this contrast that makes Berserk so bewitching, in the thick of all the violence, gore, and carnage, you have a tragic story bursting with drama, rivalry, betrayal, lost love, and most importantly, revenge.

But if The Last of Us Part 2 taught us anything about seeking revenge, it is that it comes at a high price. However, the story remains largely unfinished with the current hiatus and recent chapter having been released as far back as 2019, it's uncertain when we'll see how this revenge story will play out. Nevertheless much like the A Song of Fire and Ice series, having no ending has its positives...

[therealandian]

I am a SUCKER for and henceforth would LOVE to see some JMart Kisses #22 Kisses in the rain :3

Ask, and ye shall receive :) Please enjoy some Scottish smooches (that I accidentally made sad even though I was planning on making it cute because dammit my jmart angst knows no limits).

CW: dissociation/unreality, depression, the Lonely, suicidal thoughts, Jon kissing Martin and then realizing he probably should've asked first (dubious consent? it definitely brings up concerns over consent)

Rain wasn’t uncommon in London, but that didn’t mean Martin had to like it. In fact, he rather tended to despise it. He hated being cold, he hated being wet, and he certainly hated both at the same time.

It wasn’t any better in Scotland.

He sighed, wishing one of them had thought to grab an umbrella when they’d fled up here. Sadly, despite Jon being essentially all-knowing, neither of them had had the foresight. And now it was a cold, rainy, misty day, and Martin still needed to go into the village to pick up a few things.

“I could go, if you’d prefer,” Jon said from the doorway.

Martin glanced behind him, trying to ignore the wayward raindrops that dripped through the porch overhang. “It’s not safe,” he replied. “I’ll be fine.”

Jon gave him a hard stare, then huffed. “I’m coming with you, then.”

Martin rolled his eyes. “Again, dangerous.”

“So is you being on your own.”

Okay, he had a point, there. Even having rejected the Lonely, he could still feel it tugging at him through the seeping cold. “Fine,” he groaned. “Just hurry up.”

Jon shot him a wide grin and fled back inside, leaving Martin behind for now.

It’d been...strange, waking up to Jon hovering over his shoulder, gently shaking him out of a nightmare he no longer remembered. It was strange for anyone to be there at all, really. He’d been alone for so long that even knowing Jon was going to be there—was going to stay there—was almost overwhelming.

The drive up had been different; he’d still been in shock, trying to shake off the silent tendrils of clinging Loneliness. Jon had been an anchor, taking hold of his hand anytime it got to be too much for him to handle.

He knew they should talk about that, too. He just...hadn’t known how to bring it up. He used to have a script written down, but that was left somewhere in his old flat, buried under everything else he’d tried so hard to forget after the Unknowing had killed everyone he cared about. He’d promised himself beforehand that he would approach Jon, assuming they all survived. They would talk, and maybe Jon would feel the same way, and maybe he wouldn’t. There’d been too much going on to safely do it sooner.

But then Jon had died, and any thoughts of...well, anything happening between them died with him. By the time he’d woken up, Martin was already too far into the Lonely to fully remember how he’d felt.

But those feelings...they’d all come rushing back when he Saw Jon. He wasn’t sure if Jon was fully aware of what Martin had Seen when he’d looked into his eyes, but...well, it was difficult to think about. After all, how could someone like Jon possibly love someone like him? Did Jon really think so lowly of himself that he thought Martin was the best he could do?

Then again, that...didn’t exactly explain the pure, unadulterated affection he had Seen.

And so what if Martin still loved him/loved him again? It was selfish to want Jon to himself, and he knew it. He knew it’d only hurt him, and Martin was pretty sure the man had already been through enough. He certainly didn’t need Martin to ruin their relationship, too.

And he would ruin it, somehow. He always managed to screw everything up. If he hadn’t hidden the fire extinguishers, the Not-Them wouldn’t have had the chance to kill Sasha. If he hadn’t left when Jon had told him and Tim to, Jon never would have been framed for Leitner’s murder.

If it weren’t for me, he wouldn’t have died.

His chest ached, and he stumbled out into the rain in the hopes that it would shock him back to reality. Instead, he just felt colder

It sank in, bone-deep. Even his tears were cold. Jon, Tim, Sasha—they shouldn’t have had to die. If Martin had just been better, been braver, been useful, they wouldn’t have.

Jon was better off without him. He knew that. But...he’d always been selfish—couldn’t bring himself to die if it meant leaving him completely on his own. But God, he knew he deserved to, for how terrible a person he was.

“Martin?”

He couldn’t even face him. Surely Jon Knew how awful he really was. And if he didn’t, Martin was sure the Eye would be happy to inform him.

He looked out over the misty highlands and wished he were dead.

A hand braced lightly on his upper arm. He barely felt it. “Martin.” Another hand settled on his cheek, turned his head until he was looking into Jon’s eyes. “Look at me,” Jon said.

He did. He looked into Jon’s deep gaze and found the same swirling depths of warmth and love that he had only a few days prior. He felt himself shaking, but it was distant. He felt a sob tear through his throat, but he felt so far away that he wasn’t sure if he’d just imagined it or not.

Distantly, he knew it was all just in his head, and the Lonely was taking advantage of his severe lack of self-esteem, but...he couldn’t force himself to care—honestly wasn’t sure why Jon cared.

“Martin,” Jon said, cupping his face. “I-I’m not going to look in your mind, but...am I right in thinking you’re dissociating right now?”

He felt himself nod.

“Okay...okay just- just focus on me, okay? You’re not alone in this.”

He tried to breathe. His chest felt tight. His eyes were clouded with tears and rain. He felt cold. He felt himself fading.

Jon’s face twitched, and Martin vaguely registered the fear in his eyes. He felt a heavy gaze fall upon him, locking him in place. Jon’s thumbs stroked his cheeks. He was biting his lip.

And then Jon was pulling him down, his lips brushing lightly over Martin’s. A question.

Martin sucked in a sharp breath, suddenly a great deal more aware. Jon was kissing him, here, now, in the rain, both of them sopping wet, while Martin is scrambling to remember what had set him off. He felt solid. He felt real.

He leaned into Jon, closing his eyes and focusing on the man now clinging to him, softly kissing him. The man he loved. The man who, for some reason, loved him back.

Jon pulled away sooner than he would’ve liked, giving him a sheepish look. “Sorry,” he said, trying to hide a smile, “I should’ve asked.”

“It’s fine,” Martin said quickly. A bit too quickly.

Jon frowned. “A-are you sure? You uh...you seem overwhelmed.”

Martin swallowed, trying to hide how badly his mouth was watering over wanting to kiss Jon again. “A-a bit, yeah. But...I mean, it worked, so…”

“Yes, but that doesn’t excuse the fact that you didn’t...that you didn’t consent to it of your own accord.”

“Jon,” Martin said, “I’ve wanted to kiss you for years. It’s fine.”

“Still…”

Martin rolled his eyes, then leaned in and kissed him again, letting his mouth do what it wanted. Jon made a surprised gasp, then practically melted into his arms, moaning into the kiss.

So maybe he was a bit selfish. Maybe Jon deserved better. But for whatever reason, he seemed to have chosen him in the end. He could work on being worthy later, after they were done snogging in the rain on the Scottish Highlands.

[voiceless-terror]

Okay but. Jon saying to Tim "I don't know where to go" when they're all estranged and sad and stuff and Jon's been mauled or something else we all enjoy putting him through. What a dynamic.

Hey there friend! This turned out a lot angstier than I planned, but I hope you like the torture. Just 2k of Jon and Tim season three feelings.

Tim’s pulling out of the Institute’s tiny car park when he sees him.

He heard that Jon had been gallivanting across America from Martin; that’s how he got most of his Jon-related news, lately. Wasn’t like he was going to ask the man himself. 

“He was kidnapped, Tim,” Martin furiously whispered to him after Jon’s bout with the Circus. “The least you can do is ask after him.”

“Looks fine to me,” he shrugged callously, turning his chair around as Jon walked into the room. He was walking and talking. That’s more than a lot of people can say.

Jon’s standing there, looking lost and small against the austere backdrop of the Institute. He doesn’t seem to be going anywhere, just staring straight ahead like a lost child. He looks...sick. Hurt. Hunched over, like someone just out of sight is going to hit him. Jon always looks that way, sure, but Tim needs him to be alive and functioning if they’re going to take on the Circus. And what the hell was he wearing? He’s decked out in some sort of baggy flannel button up and torn jeans, a giant green coat over the whole ensemble that makes him look like a vagrant. It angers Tim how tiny and stupid he looks in it. 

Against his better judgment, he finds himself pulling over and opening the window, tamping down the concern with annoyance. “What are you still doing here?” he says in his gruffest voice, hoping to spur him into action. Even watching him skitter down the street would be easier than this.

Jon startles, jumping in place with a wince. “O-Oh, hi Tim.” The happiness on his face is at odds with the rest of him. Tim has noticed the way Jon’s eyes light up whenever he so much as glances at him, desperate for any attention or reconciliation he can get. “How are you?” Tim rolls his eyes.

“What,” he repeats, as if talking to someone particularly slow. “Are you doing here?” Jon shuffles his feet and looks down at the pavement. He’s sweaty and twitching, like a junkie looking for his next fix. Probably another spooky side effect of whatever the fuck is going on with him.

“I-I, well- you know I’ve been away,” he begins, ever evasive and stuttering. “I was staying with, with a friend-” Tim didn’t know he had any of those. “-but I don’t think she’d appreciate me showing up like this-” An embarrassed glance down at his clothes and a self-deprecating laugh. “And I’m pretty sure I’ve been evicted, so- to be honest, I don’t know where to go.” He says the last bit with such sadness and open vulnerability that Tim’s not sure whether to hug him or hit him.

His mouth quickly decides for him. “Get in the car.” Why am I doing this? He’s unlocking the door and pushing it open, gesturing roughly.

“W-What?” Jon stumbles a bit as he steps forward, his body eager to follow Tim’s instructions but his mind still hesitant. “I don’t- really, Tim, you don’t need to-”

“What are you going to do, sleep on the street?” You look like you already did, he doesn’t say. “Get in the car. Just stop...standing there.”

Jon quickly but gingerly gets in the car, probably afraid Tim’s going to change his mind. He still might. But Tim pulls away from the institute and onto the road, already on his way. “Thank you,” Jon murmurs. He doesn’t respond, just watches as his arms curl around his torso in a protective manner. Now that he’s closer, he can see the man’s face is flushed, likely with fever. But there’s something odd about the way he carries himself, like he’s about to keel over even while sitting.

“What’s wrong with you?” he asks, his voice blunt and sharp. “You look like shit. America didn’t treat you well, then?”

Jon chuckles humorlessly. “More like Daisy,” he says. Tim remembers Martin complaining about the way she had marched him back to the Archives “too roughly,” as if Jon were a piece of fine china that should be handled with care. “There was an incident with er, some stairs. But I’m really just not feeling well, I’m afraid. Probably caught something on the flight.”

“Hang on- did she push you down a stairwell? What the fuck, Jon?” His outrage surprises him and he slams on the brakes too quickly at the next light, jostling Jon in his seat. “Isn’t she supposed to be, I don’t know, babysitting you? For Elias?”

“It was just the last few, and I was kind of dragging my feet-” Jon tries to school his face into calmness, but it’s clear the mention of the woman makes him anxious. “Elias doesn’t really care about that- as long as I get the job done.”

“Stop- why are you defending her?” His hands grip the steering wheel with a painful force as he bites out the words. “Stand up for yourself, for Christ’s sake. You just let everything happen now. You’re not even trying.” There’s years of pain behind the words that Tim can’t hide and he watches as Jon shrinks in on himself, curling further into the passenger seat.

“I’m trying,” Tim hears him whisper. “I am.”

They don’t speak for the rest of the drive.

__________

He doesn’t take the lift up to his apartment as it’s only on the second floor; he swallows down the guilt as Jon struggles. There’s only so much sympathy he can spare. Jon trails behind him as they enter the flat- its dark, and messier than Tim likes to keep it. He hasn’t been one for tidiness these days.

“Sit,” he points at a chair by the kitchen table as he throws his bag on the floor. “I have leftover Pad Thai. That’ll have to do.”

“Oh I’m fine, thank you,” Jon shifts in his chair, uncomfortable. Probably in pain. Tim will give him some paracetamol with his food. 

“You’re sick,” Tim’s getting tired of pointing this out. “Hurt. You need to eat something. It’ll make you feel better.”

“I already had a statement-”

“The hell’s that supposed to mean?” Tim yells as he slams his hand down on the counter. He’s sick of these strange conversations. Jon will do anything that fucker Bouchard wants him to do, but now he’s being contrary? “Just eat the fucking food, Jon.”

“Okay,” Jon capitulates at the angry tone, eyes looking down at the table. Good and quiet. Tim can work with that. 

It only takes a few minutes to heat up the food. When it’s done he slams a bowl in front of Jon along with three pills. Jon had always taken a bit more than the usual dosage; Tim used to fight him over it. He doesn’t anymore. Jon swallows them sans water and pokes at the food with his chopsticks. He’s not going to let Jon up from the table until he eats at least some of the food- he thinks Jon subconsciously knows this.

But Jon isn’t interested in eating right now. Jon wants to talk. Tim can see it in every line of his shaking frame, the buzzing urge to ask a question, to dig. Tim knows what happens when Jon asks questions and he freezes, clenching his jaw in preparation.

As expected, Jon begins to speak. “I’m- I’m worried about you, Tim.” Dear God. “Martin says-”

“Oh, what’s Martin got to say about me, Jon?” He clenches his hands into fists and narrows his eyes at the man across the table. “Go on, then. I’m waiting.”

“He’s worried too!” There’s a bit of fight in Jon’s eyes, his words are sharp and biting. It’s strangely comforting. “He says you’re getting reckless, that- that you’re willing to do ‘whatever it takes’ to stop the Circus and I-”

“I am,” Tim confirms. He’s never made a show of hiding it. “And I thought you would be too.”

This time it’s Jon that slams his hands on the table- it’s a mistake, Tim can see his body shaking and straining with the pain. “Goddamnit Tim, I’m not going to watch you die!”

The temperature drops and Tim finds his breath catching in his throat. He’s thought about dying. He thinks he’s made his peace with it. Go out in a flaming inferno, taking whoever’s in his way down with him. Jon looks devastated at the idea. He doesn’t know why. He thought they were past this.

“Sasha died,” he says, relishing Jon’s flinch. “My brother died. Sometimes, Jon, people die.” His own eyes are stinging but he doesn’t want to give Jon the pleasure of seeing him break. “And there’s nothing we can do about it.”

Jon's body wilts at this, slumping further into his chair in a way that must have been painful. But his eyes burn with a strange, manic fire and his hand reaches across the table, grabs Tim’s own and squeezes with a force he didn’t think Jon was capable of. 

“Don’t,” Tim whispers- but he doesn’t pull his hand away, just averts his eyes because he can’t stand to see this broken, shaking mess of a man trying to comfort him. 

“I’m so sorry, Tim-” and that’s when he rips his hand away from Jon’s. Apologies were never his forte.

“Don’t be sorry,” he snarls, standing from the table and pushing his chair back with a bang. “Just promise me that when the time comes, you’ll get out of the way and let me do what needs to be done.” His chest heaves with an emotion he’s never been able to put into words- it’s more than grief. It’s fear and pain and uncertainty and emptiness all rolled into one and spilling at the seams. “Please.”

Jon just stares- his face is ashen and there are so many words he wants to say, Tim can feel it.

Instead, he says nothing.

__________

Jon is curled up in Tim’s bed. He tried to refuse it multiple times, but Tim wouldn’t hear of it, practically shoving a pair of pajamas into his hands as he studiously avoided Jon’s eyes.

“The sheets are clean,” he said, the words flat and monotone. “You always liked it when the sheets were clean.”

He did. He remembers a time not so long ago when Tim would laugh as he buried his face in the pillow, relaxed and smiling. “Like a cat!” he teased.

Jon always slept easy in Tim’s bed but tonight rest evades him and it’s not just the pain or the fever. It’s lonely, cold and empty in here. He wonders if Tim is already asleep on the couch.

He’s not. Jon’s standing in the doorway and watching the tenseness in his posture, arms curled into his chest and eyes clenched shut. Tim was always an open sleeper, legs and arms akimbo as he sprawled across whatever surface he laid claim to. He also snores, though he denies it whenever Jon brings it up. 

Despite knowing the rest is feigned, he jumps in shock when one arm reaches out in a beckoning gesture. Is he-?

“Don’t think about it,” Tim says in a clipped tone but his arm’s still out and Jon hurries across the floor, hoping this isn’t some sort of fever dream. But Tim settles him against his chest, warm and real and Jon chokes with everything he wants to say and never said, wants to ask him about Sasha and Danny and-

“Stop thinking,” Tim interrupts his musings again, his arm tightening around Jon. “This means nothing. Just go to sleep.”

“Okay,” he whispers hoarsely back, burrowing his head in Tim’s chest. This means nothing. Go to sleep. He listens to Tim’s heartbeat, slow and steady and thrumming with life.

He wonders how long it will stay that way. 

ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27389947

[rosy-cheekx]

Make A Wish

Book passage:  Elfriede Jelinek, The Piano Teacher

Me? Posting an unprompted fic? 2021 is starting off wild!

AO3 Link here

Summary: Martin knows just how to celebrate Jon’s 35th birthday. It’s soft and beautiful and speaks of a bright future. 

Martin doesn’t know how to shop for Jon. He’s the kind of guy who doesn’t really want trinkets or the little gifts Martin would think to buy for a significant other. (If he does want them, at least, he doesn’t say it.) Things he needs, like clothes, he buys himself, doesn’t wait for an occasion. Overall, Martin would not describe Jon as materialistic.

Books are the exception. Books are always the exception for Jon. While Jon is not materialistic, he is usually sentimental. He keeps things for as long as he can, letting them wear and wear til they’re no longer usable, like his shoes. Especially pictures. Jon never throws away pictures. (Martin knows why and snaps as many Polaroids as he can of his partner, himself, their friends, even their cat, hanging them around the house in tiny frames as reminders.) But his books are in and out of the shelves like they run a bookshop of their own. Martin has heard the stories of his partner’s reading habits as a youth, knows that Jon’s reading habits are challenging, to say the least. Before they’d moved in together, though, he hadn’t realized that every time he was at Jon’s the bookshelves were almost entirely unique to the last visit. New titles, rarely the same authors, with no seeming organization to the assemblance. Martin knows this now, knows that once a fortnight Jon packs up all the books he’s read and takes them to their local charity shop. It’s his little ritual, and the bug-eyed look of confusion Martin had received when he had asked him about it the first time was priceless.

“I just--don’t need them anymore?” He says, like it’s a question. “I’m not going to read them again.”

“Really?” Martin raised his eyebrows in surprise. “I took you to be a bit of a hoarder when it comes to books, if the statements in your office were any indication. And it’s our flat, so they’re our books. What if I want to read them?”

“Please.” Jon scoffs. “That’s entirely different. I don’t enjoy­- well. They’re work, these are not.”

Still, after this, Jon includes Martin in his ritual, giving him synopses from books he thinks Martin might enjoy and adding the Blackwood-Approved books to the other bookshelf. Martin is quite proud of his bookshelf, identical in structure to Jon’s but entirely more organized: books ordered by genre, then by author, with figurines, photos, and plants acting as weights and decor. Jon’s deviates between sparse and overflowing, books stacked however they will fit, with no rhyme or reason to their order.

Martin doesn’t know how to shop for Jon, but he’s learned quickly that Jon isn’t a Things person. Jon is an Experiences person. The moments he treasures are the ones where he and Martin are happy to be in each other’s presence and experiencing new things together. Ice skating, picnics, hiking, cinemas, all the quintessential cheesy dates, the ones he would’ve guessed, way back when, before he knew the real Jon, this Jon, he would have snubbed his nose at.

Jon’s birthday is coming up. He’s turning 35 and is all too self-conscious about the fact. Martin ribs him a little; he’s older by seven months, after all, “you’re making me feel old, Jon!” Their ritual has become to call off work and spend a day together on Jon’s birthday. No gifts, no fanfare, just a day doing an activity Martin has planned. It’s perfect usually, Jon’s delighted smile and bright eyes when he thanks Martin with a kiss is all the satisfaction he needs. But this is 35, it needs to be special. It needs to be perfect.

---

Martin blinks awake to the steady, calming drum of rain on their bedroom window. He pats out blindly for his glasses, haphazardly set on his bedside table, and pushes them on his face, before rolling back onto his side and tucking an arm around Jon’s waist and nuzzling into his neck. “Happy birthday, love,” he murmurs, carding his other hand through Jon’s tangled curls. He smiles softly as he watches his partner; Jon always grumbles that he looks so much older than he is, but when he’s sleeping, Martin swears he looks timeless, a specimen of perfect beauty against the crisp black sheets. Jon shifts in his arms, turning to face him, and squints blearily at Martin. Jon, for all his sleepless nights back at the archives, is not a morning person.

“Hm-mar’in?” he mumbles, irises stained forever green. He clears his throat and scrubs at his eyes. God, he looks just like a cat. “G’mornin’,” he says, a little more comprehensible, voice rough-hewn from sleep.

“Morning, love.” Martin kisses his forehead, between his eyebrows. “Happy birthday,” His nose, cold from a chilly autumn night. “Ready for a good day?” His lips now, soft and warm. Jon sighs underneath him, presses himself into the kiss, slots himself into the Jon-shaped space in Martin’s arms.

When Martin shifts away to sit up, Jon audibly whines, grabbing at Martin’s hand to pull him back. “You’re so warm, don’t go,” he pleads. Martin chuckles and squeezes his hand.

“It’s half nine. You want breakfast, don’t you? We have an agenda to follow, don’t forget.” But Jon shakes his head and tugs again.

“Birthday Ruling,” he cites solemnly, stretching as he says it. (Again, like a cat, the way he arches his back. Is that on purpose? Martin is pretty sure he’s seen Reggie—Her Regency—do the exact same thing.) “By royal decree, you have to stay here until I’m awake enough to help you with breakfast.”

“Well,” Martin chuckles, shaking his head to himself and tucking himself around Jon’s thin form. “I can’t refuse a royal decree, now, can I?”

Breakfast becomes brunch, and once the pair are awake tea, cut fruit, and omelets are prepared and eaten on the couch. Jon being left-handed and Martin right, they sit on their perspective sides so they can hold hands and not inhibit the other from eating.

“So,” Jon prompts, eyeing Martin from his peripheral as he watches him wash dishes. “What are your secret plans? Am I allowed to know yet?”

“Hmm.” Martin considers his question, running a plate through his hands as he dried it, solemn contemplation on his face. “No.”

“Mar-tiiin,” Martin is almost worn down by that plea, a sound he doesn’t think anyone else who has ever met Jonathan Sims could fathom coming from him. A bloom of warmth in his chest; a reminder he will never feel lonely again.

“But I think you’ll figure it out,” he compromises, grinning to himself. His plan had come to him in a sudden realization at work and Martin did think it was some of his best work yet. “Here’s your hint: you may want to bring a canvas.”

Jon’s face is a measured calm. “We’re going shopping?” Martin just shrugs, winking.

-

They take a cab and the rain pounds down on the roof, the repetitive noise a balm against the cold and wet.  Martin really got lucky today; the sound of rain is one of Jon’s favorites. He sighs inwardly as Jon rests his curls, slightly damp from their wait for the cab, on his shoulder and closes his eyes, basking in the warmth of his boyfriend and the pleasant drumming.

Jon’s eyes opened when he felt the cab pull to a stop, and he took their surroundings in with the quick analytical eye of an ex-Archivist. Martin felt his cheeks growing warm with excitement as they stepped out of the cab and paid. The building before them, like most Scottish buildings, was made of uneven stone. There was a little garden, mostly rocks with some shrubbery dotted between, and the pathway, also stone, though a flatter smoother variety, led to the door, which read The Watermill in blue and white lettering. “Martin?” Jon threaded his fingers through Martin’s, eyes wide.

“It’s a bookshop, Jon. It’s got reading nooks, and a café, and I swear I’ll buy you any books you want. We can stay as long as we like. We can read as much as we want.”

Three short squeezes to Martin’s hand. Oh. He was starting to ramble. He returns the answering four. “Martin, love, it sounds perfect. But it’s raining.” Right. A drop of rain rolls down Martin’s nose, and he shivers.  “Let’s get inside.”

Martin is glad he brought a tote, a canvas bag with the name of Jon’s university emblazoned on the sides. He follows Jon through every aisle as Jon analyzes every book like their dogs in show. He scans the titles, covers and authors with precision, sometimes returning them with delicate hands, sometimes reading descriptions or thumbing through the pages, before deciding their worth and either reshelving it or handing it to Martin. Martin is distinctly reminded of being an Archival Assistant, helping Jon prioritize case files, except the expression on Jon’s face isn’t furrowed and grim, it’s near-rapturous awe as he selects and examines the books. There is no evident consistency to the books Jon picks, ranging from YA fiction to historical documentation to travel books of places he knew they’d probably never visit, though he always takes Martin’s suggested reads, nodding dutifully and running his hand down the spine before placing it in the ever-weighing bag on Martin’s arm.

They spend nearly an hour and a half roaming shelves before Jon is satisfied with this first load. Martin is grateful. His shoulder is starting to hurt from the nearly full canvas he’s hoisted on his shoulder. Martin leads his partner to a small corner, something that can only be described as a nook. There’s a small, well-worn sofa, a table with coasters, and a coffee table in front of the sofa. The whole space is cast in warm orange-yellow light, courtesy of the standing lamps, and Martin can imagine this is a great place to curl up and fall asleep.

Curl up they do, Martin sitting with a few books of his own beside him and Jon leaning against Jon’s side, sprawling over the majority of the couch. Martin tucks an arm over Jon’s chest, feeling the slow rise and fall of the space where collarbone meets rib, and they read. They read in silence for most of the morning, Jon flipping through his books at a truly astounding pace (Jon thinks its left over from his Archival Spooky Powers, Martin thinks he’s just a nerd), pausing occasionally to read Martin a line he finds interesting. It’s a yellow paperback now, something about psychopathy, and he begins to read out an interview the author had with a man who claims he should not have been diagnosed as a psychopath.

“D’you think Jonah was a psychopath?” Jon asks, brow furrowed as he reads the qualifying characteristics. “He had the ‘grandiose sense of self-worth’ and ‘cunning/manipulation’ down pat.”

Martin hums, glancing over Jon’s shoulder to read the rest of the Psychopath Test. “Lack of remorse,” he points. “Lack of empathy for sure. Someone with empathy doesn’t implant visions of their dead father into the head of their employee. Speaking of, we should have Melanie and Georgie over soon.” Jon nods against his chest. “I’d call him charming, too, actually,” nudging Jon gently. “Especially with new employees. Remember how he—”

“Called me into his office nonstop and ‘checked in?’ Yeah, I remember.” Jon sighed and smoothed the page down. “Can you call it ‘a parasitic lifestyle’ when your employees are bound under your servitude for eternity or until they die?” Jon scoffs. “I don’t think the DSM is ready for Smirke’s Fourteen.”

“Maybe not. Maybe the sixth edition will be.” Martin presses a kiss to the top of Jon’s head and turns back to his own book.

-

“Hungry?” Martin asks, nudging Jon as his stomach gurgles for the third time in as many minutes. Jon jumps a little, likely having forgotten Martin was there.

“Erm-I mean, a little.” Even after being together for so long, Jon still hesitates to let Martin buy him food. (“Martin, I have money. You don’t- you don’t have to-” but whatever offending muffin or cone of chips would be pressed into his hand and he would thank Martin, sheepish, and take a bite.)

“Chai latte? Something sweet?” Martin asks, nudging Jon out of his side and feeling the cold spot left in his wake. “Its your birthday, come on.” Jon sighs and relents, and Martin swear he can hear him roll his eyes as he walks away.

Martin orders two chais and a few cupcakes (chocolate for Jon, carrot cake for him) from the café in the front of the bookshop and joins an ever-growing queue of patrons waiting to get their own warm treats. The rain must have driven people in in droves. Never mind it, though, their corner feels empty enough. He thinks he sees a spider on the back of a woman’s shirt in front of him, and flinches before realizing, oh, it’s just a bit of string. He takes a slight step back anyways. He didn’t used to do that.

“Order for Martin?” An American voice, uni student probably. He thanks her and makes a point to drop a few quid in the tip jar, seeing it frustratingly empty for such a busy café.  

Martin takes a small porcelain plate in each hand, a mug and pastry balanced on each, and makes his way carefully back to the sofa where he had left Jon. Only, he couldn’t see his curly hair, tied up in his half-bun, over the back of the sofa. Did he go to the loo?

It’s when Martin steps over to the side of the couch to set the plates down that he bursts into laughter. Jon is sprawled in a way that seems completely unconducive to reading: his knees are hooked over the sofa, so his socked feet (shoes neatly deposited next to his hips) are on the cushion itself. His torso is stretched on the warm, well-swept wood floor and his head (and his book) are tucked under the coffee table; arms locked over his head so he can read on his back. It looks ridiculous, he cannot fathom what possessed Jon to sit like this and not on his back on the couch.

Jon hears his laughter and arcs his neck, trying to see Martin’s face. “It was…comfortable?” he tries helplessly, giggling awkwardly. “Oh, piss off,” he sighed, inelegantly worming his way out from under the seat.

“Come on, old man.” Martin grins, handing him the cupcake he’d bought for him, with a single purple candle pressed into it. “Make a wish!”

“It’s not even lit,” Jon protested, cheeks flushing.

“Want me to sing instead? I can.” Martin took a deep breath. “Happy Bir-”

“N-no! Martin, no!” Jon pressed a hand over his mouth, though he was giggling madly at Martin’s wild expression. “I’ll blow it out. Just hush.” He took a deep breath, closed his eyes for a moment, and then let out a breath in a sigh. His eyes were soft, smile to match. “I…I don’t have anything to wish for.”

Martin’s turn to blush. “Just-just shut up and eat your cake,” he mumbled, hiding his smile in a sip of his tea.

-

Maybe its how at-peace he feels, maybe it’s his ADHD (its definitely the ADHD), but Martin has no idea how long he’s been reading. He’s brought out of his reverie, his copy of In Cold Blood almost finished (he’s read it before, but god he loves this book so much), by a low noise he can’t pick out at first. It’s quiet, soothing, its right next to him.

Oh. Oh. It’s Jon. This one, a real compulsion left over from his time as an Archivist, Jon is reading aloud to himself, his voice the sonorous, resonant tone of a man performing for himself. Martin puts his book down carefully, trying not to alert Jon to his awareness, and listens, letting the words wash over him. Jon’s voice has always been able to capture Martin’s attention, even before the Eldritch Spooky Magic that eventually attached itself to it.

“Klemmer stands there, gazing at her.   “Erika doesn’t want a silence to develop, so she utters a platitude. Art is platitudinous for Erika because she lives off art. How much easier it is for the artist, says the woman, to hurl feelings or passions out of himself. When an artist resorts to dramatic devices, which you so greatly esteem, Klemmer, he is simply utilizing bogus methods while neglecting authentic ones. She talks to prevent the eruption of silence. I, as a teacher, favor undramatic art – Schumann, for instance. Drama is always easier! Feelings and passions are always merely a substitute, a surrogate for spirituality. The teacher yearns for an earthquake, for a roaring, raging tempest to pounce upon her. That wild Klemmer is so angry that he almost drills his head into the wall. The clarinet class next door, which he, the owner of a second instrument, has been frequenting twice a week, would certainly be astonished if Klemmer’s angry head suddenly emerged from the wall, next to Beethoven’s death mask. Oh, that Erika, that Erika. She doesn’t sense that he is actually talking about her, and naturally about himself as well! He is connecting Erika and himself in a sensual context, ejecting the spirit, that enemy of the senses, that primal foe of the flesh. She thinks he is referring to Schubert, but he really means himself, just as he always means himself whenever he speaks.   “He suddenly ventures to adopt a familiar tone with Erika; using a formal tone, she advises him to remain objective! Her mouth puckers, willy-nilly, into a wrinkly rosette; she cannot control it. She controls what the mouth says, but she cannot control the way it presents itself to the outside world. She gets goosebumps all over.”

Martin closes his eyes against the words, a shiver running down his spine, starting at the top of his skull. It’s a feeling he gets so rarely now, the feeling of being so absolutely content in the presence of another person that any fog he may have is physically expunged from him. Not that there is any, but it’s a safeguard; a reminder to himself that he is not Lonely anymore and will never be lonely again. It can’t get him, not here, not with Jon sprawled, almost in his lap, reading and sipping tea and letting the only thing they worry about be whether they fed the cat this morning (Jon did, of course, Reggie is not one to let them forget her morning meal).

“Martin?” Jon’s voice cuts through his quiet contemplation. “You alright?” He’s tilting his head back, almost upside down to look at Martin’s face. “I felt you shudder.” Of course, even deep in his trance of this story he had felt Martin shift.

“Of course, sweetheart,” he smiles reassuringly, carding the hair off Jon’s forehead. “I’m not feeling lonely, not even a little bit.” He used to do it a lot in the safehouse, and fog would roll off him in droves. Jon would hold him through it all. “I think it just happens now like part of an immune system, just checking in when I’m feeling emotional.”

“Emotional?” Jon looks a little relieved, but not entirely. He sits up, glancing down at his page number (Martin could never figure out how Jon did that, remembered his page number instead of using a bookmark) and cups Martin’s face gently, searching it. “What’s wrong?”

“Absolutely nothing, Jon, I promise. That was why I was emotional,” he admits, feeling a little sheepish. “It’s just good to feel happy. It feels good to be with you, to be at peace, to not worry about what is going to happen tomorrow and whether we’re going to die.”

Martin blushes, feeling heat spread through his face. It feels good to say it out loud. “Happy birthday, Jon. I love you.”

-

They leave with bags full of books, smiles on their faces and the moon casting a faint light on their backs. Martin falls asleep in the cab on the way home, his head lilting onto Jon’s shoulder. When Jon wakes him up, leading his sleepy partner up the stairs, 

Jon thinks 35 maybe won’t be so bad, after all.

[localswordlesbian]

look at you (strawberry blond)

Jon suddenly brings up the idea of returning to the Scottish Safehouse, years after the events that first happen there. That house holds a lot of memories, and perhaps this will be a sort of second chance...

(also known as my dumb ass keeps forgetting to post my fics to tumblr so i’m gonna spam them)

read it on ao3 or below the cut

“We should go back to Scotland.”

Martin turned his gaze from his book to look at Jon, whose head was resting in his lap. “What?”

Jon kept his eyes on his own book which he was holding out in front of him. “I was just thinking about it,” he mused. “It’s been a while since we were there, and I figured now that everything is over, perhaps we’ll have a nicer time this time around. We may even see more good cows,” he added with a wry smile.

Martin chuckled, running his fingers through Jon’s hair, twirling one of the light pink strands around one finger. “Should’ve known you only wanted to go for the cows,” he teased, and Jon laughed. “Seriously, though, what brought this on?”

Jon didn’t answer for a moment, as if contemplating the same question. “I suppose I was thinking… well, Daisy’s safehouse was the first time we were, ah, together? Together and not on the run, though that didn’t last long,” he added bitterly, and Martin’s heart ached. “I suppose I’d like to go back, perhaps give it another go, when we actually do have all the time in the world.”

Martin considered this. He had loved Scotland, and the quaint little cottage that Daisy had used as a safehouse, where he and Jon had lain low after Jon had helped Martin escape from the clutches of the Lonely. He remembered the little village nearby fondly, with the cobblestone paths and small shops – he especially remembered the little tea shop run by an old lady who had always given him a little extra tea on top of whatever he bought. Grimly, he wondered whether she was still alive.

“Martin?”

Martin looked at Jon, who had closed his book and was looking up at him, a strand of his hair still curled around Martin’s finger. “You know what?” he said. “Let’s do it.”

The sounds of the train rattling along the tracks kept Martin awake as he stared out the window – raindrops ran down the glass, and Martin found him unable to tear his eyes as he watched two stream downwards. He was reminded of being a child, watching two raindrops race down the window of the school bus as he was on his way to school on the rainy mornings that were essential to the London experience.

Some stray warmth was beginning to seep into his fingers where he was clutching them around a piping hot cup of tea, still steaming enough to fog up his glasses if he tried to take a sip. He tore his gaze from the window to stare, amazed at the sensation and how it seemed to hesitate, his hands not quite warm and certainly not hot, but almost as though a ghost of something comforting lingering just over his skin.

He knew the tea was hot enough to burn him if he wasn’t careful, yet only the barest hint of warmth seemed to reach him. Still, it was progress. His fingers had been like ice since he and Jon had left London, as if some part of him desperately wanted to keep some part of the Lonely close to him even as he sped as far away from it as he possibly could.

He turned his gaze back out the window, holding onto the feeling of warmth long after the tea had gone cold. He didn’t even bother to drink it.

“It’s weird, coming here by car.”

Jon turned to look back at Martin as they walked up the small hill to Daisy’s cottage. “Yes, I suppose it is,” he mused. “Though it doesn’t seem to have changed much.”

He was right – the cottage was the same as it had been the last time they’d seen it, its red bricks as sturdy as ever despite being abandoned for a couple of years. As they walked inside, Martin could see that the interior hadn’t changed either – same shabby furniture, long-unused fireplace, cramped kitchen, and wooden shelves cluttered with more cobwebs than books.

Jon went to place his bag in the bedroom, but Martin stood in the living room for a long moment, letting himself take it all in. The cottage may not have changed, but there was something much heavier than dust hanging in the air, and Martin felt the familiar feeling of a painful nostalgia settle over him. The memories were almost tangible, and they hurt.

It had been almost a week, and Martin wasn’t entirely sure what he was supposed to be doing.

He knew they were in Daisy’s safehouse to lay low, to hide from the consequences of freeing Martin from the Lonely. He knew Elias – Jonah – was searching for them, likely knew exactly where they were, and London was no longer safe for them.

He also knew he and Jon were… something. He wasn’t entirely sure what to call them – were they boyfriends? Martin almost laughed at that. Somehow, the gravity of what they’d been through to get to this point made that question, that label, seem almost ridiculous. He’d nearly become a meal for the literal manifestation of loneliness, and now he had run away to Scotland with the man he’d been in love with for years and he was wondering whether they were boyfriends.

He was standing in the kitchen, preparing two mugs of tea, the same way he’d been doing for the past few years. It had become such a force of habit that sometimes, after work, he’d caught himself accidentally making double the tea he needed. The memory brought a slight smile to his face as he poured the boiling water into the mugs and watched the steam curl up and vanish into the air.

He heard footsteps behind him and turned in time to see Jon come out of the bedroom, his nose buried in a book. Martin felt a flutter in his chest, and he smiled as Jon looked up and met his eyes. “Tea?”

Jon nodded, and Martin handed him one of the mugs before turning to finish his up. He hardly registered when Jon moved to get past him, muttering “Excuse me,” as he maneuvered into the small space, until he felt Jon’s hand on his back.

Martin felt all of his muscles seize up as he flinched, hard. His hip hit the counter as a gasp escaped him at that contact, and although Jon moved his hand away immediately Martin could feel the phantom weight of it clinging, as though branded into him.

The memory of touch, of casual touch, was so foreign to him now and he could hardly remember the last time someone had touched him of their own volition – had it been Tim, slinging his arm over Martin’s shoulders on their way out of the Institute for their weekly Friday night drinks? Or perhaps Sasha, touching her hand to his as he handed her a mug of tea, gently squeezing his fingers in thanks? Maybe even Melanie, placing a hand on his shoulder when he’d learned the news of Jon’s fate after the Unknowing?

And then there was, of course, the Lonely, and even the months leading up to it. His work for Peter Lukas had involved distancing himself from everyone he’d known, making human connection a foreign concept in his own mind, forcing him to convince himself he liked it alone, that he didn’t crave the easy interaction most people could have with others, if only so that he could retain his sanity. That long without any sort of human contact – it was bound to damage a person.

Martin, it seemed, was no exception.

“Martin?” he heard Jon ask faintly, his ears ringing and his entire body shaking. “Martin, are you okay?”

He slowly turned his head to where Jon was standing, in front of him but not touching him, his hands in front of him as though he wanted to reach out but was afraid to. Jon’s eyes were sad, and Martin hated seeing Jon sad. “I’m fine.” His voice sounded far away, even to his own ears.

“No, you’re not,” Jon insisted. “I–I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that, I should have asked.”

“It’s not your fault.” Feeling was coming back to Martin’s body, and he felt his shaking subside. He felt – off. He didn’t know how to describe this feeling of detachment that, although fading, left the feeling of Jon’s hand and an emptiness in his chest.

“Martin,” Jon’s voice was soft as he said his name, and when Martin looked at him he saw a man with worry and compassion and love in his eyes, and he knew he wanted to be cared for the way he’d been caring for others for so many years. He looked down at Jon’s hands, unsure of how to form words.

Turns out, he didn’t need to. Jon lifted his arms, and at Martin’s nod, wrapped him into a hug, and Martin let himself weep.

“What are you thinking about?”

Martin was shaken out of his thoughts by Jon, who returned from the bedroom wearing a jumper that looked oddly familiar. “Just about the last time we were here,” Martin confessed. “Also, isn’t that my jumper?”

It definitely was – it hung loosely off of Jon’s thin frame, the sleeves ending well past the tips of his fingers. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Jon huffed. He walked over to where Martin was standing and slowly put his arms around Martin’s middle, giving him plenty of time to move away.

Martin didn’t move away, simply embraced Jon back. “You know,” he began. “For once, I’m really actually starting to see the progress I’ve made.” Jon hummed into his shoulder, and Martin continued. “Before, I couldn’t see it as clearly. It was hard to recognize where I started from, what with being in a completely new place in my life and how long it took to get there. But here, where it literally all began – god, I can still remember the first time you touched me, when you put your hand on my shoulder when I made you tea.”

“You nearly leapt out of your skin,” Jon said, his voice quiet.

“Yeah. It was terrifying, experiencing, I don’t know, actual human contact after months – maybe years, even, completely isolated. And now… now here we are.”

“Here we are indeed.” They were silent for a moment. “I’m proud of you, and I’m happy with the progress we’ve made.”

“Me too, Jon. Me too.”

The nearby town was really more of a village, Martin thought. After spending his entire life between the busy streets of London, this felt like something straight out of a cartoon, and although he knew it was typical of big city tourists, he couldn’t help but find it charming.

He’d gone into town alone today, already having explored the area with Jon a few days prior and wanting to visit a couple of the shops on his own.

The clouds hung a moisture in the sky that made the air around him feel thick, and Martin couldn’t help but shiver at how familiar it felt, and not because it was always raining in London. He decided to focus instead on what he could see – the weeds poking out from between the cobblestones under his feet, and people; lots of people, making their way into bakeries and grocery stores as well as little shops and stopping at stalls along the side of the street. Seeing all this life, this vibrant environment made as it was by the people made Martin smile a bit, and he finally drew a deep breath and kept walking.

Finally, he saw the shop he was looking for, an unassuming spot near the market with flower baskets hanging from the edge of the roof. Smiling, Martin made his way inside and was greeted with the familiar scent of mixed tea leaves and old wood.

An elderly woman sat in a chair by one of the walls displaying several different types of tea, and she looked up at the sound of the bell above the door being rung. She smiled at him and stood. “How can I help you?”

Martin walked over to her, examining the stock on the shelves. “I was just hoping to buy some tea,” he explained. “Is there anything you’d recommend?”

The old woman pondered this, seeming to look him up and down in a way that made Martin feel a little jumpy, like he was a specimen being studied under a microscope. The woman hobbled over to the shelf and lifted her cane to knock a bag of tea off the shelf.

“Oh!” Martin exclaimed. “Let me get that.” He reached up and grabbed the bag she was poking, a bag of Black Cherry tea. “Thank you.”

The old woman held her hand out for the bag, and Martin passed it to her. He watched as she rustled around under the counter, cursing under her breath as she pulled out a jar of what seemed to contain the same type of tea as was in the bag. She opened the bag and began scooping more in before closing it once it was filled to the brim. Then, she told him the price.

He paid for it and took the bag, bewildered as to why she’d added more. “Thank you,” he said, almost hesitantly.

The old woman smiled at him. “For that man of yours,” she explained. “You two came in here a few days ago.”

Martin was surprised that she’d remembered, and the words “man of yours” caused a blush to creep up his cheeks. “Ah, yeah, um… yeah,” he said lamely, and the woman smiled. “Thank you,” he repeated.

“Enjoy,” was all she said before returning to her chair, and Martin walked out of the shop.

“Oh my god!” Martin exclaimed, a laugh escaping him. “They’re still here!”

Jon chuckled as Martin took off running up the hill, the wind from the sea stinging his face as he approached the fence, behind which stood several fluffy highland cows.

The pair had walked through town that morning, remembering their time spent there years ago. Martin had asked that they stop by the tea shop, and was unsurprised to find out that the old lady had since passed away, leaving the shop to her son. Despite knowing it was likely, Martin was saddened by the news. All in all, the town had remained as it had always been, quaint and buzzing with life.

Jon made his way up the hill, where Martin was already reaching out to pet one of the cows, a dark brown creature with fur covering its eyes. It let out a deep moo as Martin wrapped his arms around its neck, burying his face in its fur.

“I really don’t think that’s sanitary,” Jon commented.

“Shut up, Jon.”

Jon chuckled before walking over, reaching out to pet the cow as well. The creature seemed delighted to be receiving all of this sudden attention, standing still while two random humans petted and hugged it. “This really does bring me back to the good parts of last time.”

Martin nodded in agreement. “It wasn’t all bad,” he mused. “Even when it was mostly bad.”

Jon laughed dryly. “Yes. I only wish it could have lasted longer.”

“Jon.”

“I know it wasn’t my fault.” Jon was deliberately keeping his eyes trained on the cow, his fingers buried in its fur. “I know that. I just – I do still wonder, sometimes. I feel that perhaps I didn’t take enough advantage of the time we did have. Even at the Institute… I feel like such a fool, sometimes. It was all right in front of me, and I didn’t see it. And when I did see it, you were… gone.”

Martin watched him, sadness filling his heart and making his chest feel heavy. “I know. It’s a bit funny, actually. Thinking about it now. We could have had an incredible office romance, but instead we got trapped in our hell of a workplace by not one but two evil eldritch bosses. What a drag.”

Jon snorted. “Yes, I suppose you’re right.”

Martin placed his hand over Jon’s, right on top of the cow’s head. The cow, for its part, didn’t seem to care that a deeply personal moment was going on – it still loved the attention. Martin could hardly blame it. “We have time now,” he said simply. “I know it’s… it’s easy to look back and see all the pieces you missed on the way to where you are now. But now we don’t need to worry about any of that, so let’s enjoy it, yeah? Not often you get a second chance.”

Jon smiled up at him. “You’re right.”

The day the world ended, Martin had been looking for the cows.

He could still remember the moment it all changed, as though someone had flipped a switch and launched Martin into a realm of nightmares – in a way, that was exactly what had happened. Martin’s first thought once he came to his senses was Jon. Racing back to the house, his heart pounding at the thought that Jon might be dead, that he might be gone, that Martin might return and find him–

Years after the world ended, Martin stood in that tiny kitchen, preparing two mugs of Black Cherry tea while Jon washed the dishes from their dinner, humming a song Martin recognized but couldn’t remember the name of. When Jon needed to get past Martin, he placed a hand on his shoulder, and Martin would turn and smile at him. They’d share a quick kiss as they went about their chores, and once they were done they would sip their tea, put a record to play on Daisy’s beat up old record player, and enjoy each other’s company.

Martin could still feel the phantom hand on his back. He wondered if he’d ever feel like a person again .

Martin stood as an upbeat song played, holding his hand out to Jon, who accepted the invitation with a laugh that filled the room with lightness and joy and love. They danced until they were too tired to dance, collapsing onto the couch in fits of laughter, holding each other and not letting go.

He knew his days here were numbered. He knew they didn’t have forever.

He knew they’d have to return soon, go back to London and back to work and back to the life they’d spent so long building for themselves. But they could enjoy themselves here in Scotland just a little longer.

He wished he could ask Jon how he was feeling. He wished he could remember how to interact, how to have a relationship with someone he cared about. He wished he could reach out, tell Jon how he felt. Ask him if he felt the same way. He knew he couldn’t. He didn’t know if he ever would.

That night, they were laying in their bed, about to go to sleep. Jon’s head was nestled on Martin’s chest, rising and falling with each of Martin’s breaths. Just as he was about to drift off, he heard Jon speak. “Martin?”

“Hm?”

Jon paused for a moment. “Thank you.”

Martin craned his neck to look at his boyfriend. “What for?”

Jon shrugged, causing his shoulder to poke Martin’s. “I don’t know. All of it.”

Martin smiled. “You’re welcome, then. And thank you; you know, for all of it.”

“I love you.”

“I love you too. Goodnight.”

“Goodnight.”

They drifted off, safe in each other’s arms, knowing with full certainty that whatever the night brought, whatever horrors might resurface in the realm of dreams, that morning would come and they would be able to savour it for many more mornings to come.

[p1nkwitch]

Ok, i did not forget tmastuck is still alive, i just had lots of other ideas, but.

Here we go again. 3 conversations.

@nonbinaryeye

SINNAMONROLL started pestering BEATINGHEART

SR: How long Jonah?

BH: As long as it takes to reach the new session, then I can just leave if my presence is so annoying to you.

SR: Not what I mean and you know it. They are both looking for you. There are just so many times I can lie to their faces. So many times Kitty kat has to lie to her humans, she is sad Jonah.

BH: Do not put our child into this.

SR:...

BH:Ughhhh stupid cat brain.

SR: Still its actually bothering them.

BH: Oh and what should I do, let them find me? How do you think that would end? Hm? I basically took away their powers Barnabas, I let the institute- my institute get destroyed. There is no coming back from that.

BH: Then there is the whole other thing about not actually being anything that a copy!! What do I do with that?

SR: Look, I'm a copy too! I'm not the Barnabas Bennet that was, but I have his memories still. So what? I like this new life. This new chance!! You can have that too Jonah.

BH: We could…

SR: Oh Jonah we both know that it wouldn't work, we already tried and it fell apart. Its not me that you want anymore and I'm… more happy with just being friends this time around. It was stupid of us to even try again, i knew it, but i was just… lonely, heh. Neither is what the other wants. Not anymore.

BH: Maybe if we work on it! I could... try to change.

SR: No, no you won't, and honestly ? I don't want you to. Mistakes happen, otherwise we wouldn't keep falling into each other.

BH: Not all of it was a mistake, it couldn't have been!

SR: … Maybe, maybe not before, I will admit that, but you want more than I can give. That's not bad, it just means I'm not the one you should be getting it from. We worked before, but you have more memories of a life without me and you aren't the same person I loved then.

BH: If i'm not that, and i'm not Jonah, then who the hell am i?

SR: Well, that is really up to you I suppose. To figure it out. I… will keep them away still for a little bit more. But Jonah, I can't keep doing this forever. We are barely halfway through on the trip.

BH: So? Have you seen them, i- they are in love. God why would- i dont even know what else to say.

SR: Try, speak with them, figure out something. You are clever. I need to go, I'm supposed to play cards with Martin. Its funny, he reminds me of Jonathan…

BH: Im sorry.

SR: I know, but its not enough.

SR: Talk to you later ok?

BH: Sure.

SINNAMONROLL ceased pestering BEATINGHEART

BH: …

BEATINGHEART started pestering SPOOKYARCHIVE

BH: How are you holding on?

SA: … Not sure. Its weird.

BH: Breakups are always messy affairs.

SA: You would know wouldn't you?

BH: Rude, do you want me to leave Jon? Because I can. I'm fairly sure i'm the only one you are even talking with at this point.

SA: Not true, I speak with Daisy.

BH: Aha, how does that go for you?

SA: … Its ok, she tries to cheer me up and its… nice, but sometimes she insists on me to stop moping and well.

BH: Tiresome?

SA: Yes, so much. The other just don't want me near, and its- i dont even have my powers anymore, i thought- well i assumed that perhaps like this it would be better, but its like someone cut off something from me.

SA: Georgie tries, but if I mention anything regarding my powers she becomes upset. Melanie is… herself, that bridge got burned a long time ago. Basira.

BH: Ah the detective, she is… impassive i have come to understand.

SA: Yes, and it's confusing, because sometimes we can get along but others I just seem like the enemy. I'm starting to realize that perhaps it was always like that.

BH: Mm, how does that make you feel regarding what happened with Martin.

SA: I- god i was so stupid, i thought we could just be better now that i was cut off, that we could be together but it became obvious that we had two different views of things and it was always grating, I could overlook it, but Martin did not. And it- its not a break up just some time to think.

BH: Jon.

SA: Hahahaha, it's actually funny i think, that's exactly what Georgie told me before breaking up with me.

BH: I do not think its funny Jon.

SA: Well what else am I supposed to take from it???

SA: That I'm terrible at keeping things? That the people around me dont care?

BH: Purrhaps, you confuse coworkers with friends, Jon. Have… Do you have a good frame of reference? To know what is normal or not? I'm trying my best to not sound pushy since you established that does not help you. So think of this as your homework of sorts.

BH: Try and think of behaviour that points to them being friends or coworkers. Hell just go with trauma victims if it makes you feel any better, take that. Make a list and tell me the results.

BH: As for Martin, as you said I don't have the track record to help. Asking Elias… well he has Peter. So maybe that is more helpfur to you. But I doubt it. Listen, divorce your feelings on the matter and think objectively.

BH: Imagine…. imagine someone else, literally anyone you know and try to put them in your place. Would you accept them to be treated like that? Do you think its normal?

SA: I… don't, I really don't. God i'm a mess.

BH: You are something of a mess, but the blame is not on you completely. That others see you as an easy target for their own insecurities doesn't make you the one to blame. Now, you did make mistakes from what we talked about, and we addressed that and their consequences on your relationships before, like with Tim. But, clearly there are also things they are not dealing with either and they use you as a scapegoat.

SA: Don't try to put them against me.

BH: Oh Jon, the sad thing is, I don't have to.

SA: I… will try to speak with Martin again later.

BH: Ok. Good luck, do try to do what I asked you, ok?

SA: Yes… yes, sure. Thank you Jonah.

BH: You are welcome.

SA: … Will you speak with them?

BH: I can't. Goodbye.

BEATINGHEART ceased pestering SPOOKYARCHIVE

WEBDESIGNER started pestering BEATINGHEART

WD: ::::)

BH: What do you want Annabelle?

WD: Can a friend not say hello?

BH: Considering we are not friends and you weren't supposed to make it here, I hardly doubt it.

WD: Oh buuu you sad, sad man.

WD: Anyways, I saw those two moving around trying to find you, very sad. Peter was looking grumpy. Elias was very annoyed. Do you want a picture?

BH: Why are you bothering me with this??

WD: … Its… the first time in years that I don't have the web controlling my actions. I always liked to play matchmaker, before my change.

WD: Its refreshing to be able to say what I mean without pain or speaking in riddles. The trip gets boring otherwise. I have been pestering Martin, but he is stubborn. Plus poor sad Jon.

BH: Leave him alone please, he is already messed up enough as it stands and im playing therapist for free. No need to add more trauma.

WD: That you caused him, or the other you caused him. Its perhaps a very interesting thing that he chose the version of you that did not harm him to be his confidant don't you think? There is something there to be said, even psychoanalyzed.

BH: Annabelle the point.

WD: Right pictures.

WD: sent (picture)

BH:... Annabelle, they are just making out??!!? How did you-??

WD: I have secrets. Have some more.

WD: ATTACHED (PICTURES1,2,3,4)

WD:??? Are you ok? Its been 20 minutes??

WD: Did I kill you? They didn't even get to lose more than the shirts calm down, I was sure you got into more freaky stuff in your years.

BH: How??

WD: Do you want me to get more?

BH: No!!

WD: Are you sure? Trip is long… maybe you need something to keep you… mmm interested?

BH: I will leave.

WD: Sure, sure. Offer always stands. Anyways. I will just say, because i'm fully capable of it now. They very much want you in there too. Its very weird, but considering the things i have seen and done for the web its the least concerning thing.

WD: So stop hiding and go get your throupe you coward.

BH: ANNABELLE!!

WD: ;;;;)

WEBDESIGNER ceased pestering BEATINGHEART

[bookish-bi-mormon]

The People You Think You Love Don’t Exist

Written for @asexual-jarchivist for @tma-valentines-exchange 

Read on Ao3

Fandom: The Magnus Archives

Characters: Jonathan Sims and Martin Blackwood

Tags: Argument, Emotional Hurt/Comfort,  Angst, Fluff, (mostly fluff), Scottish Safehouse, Post Lonely,

Happy Valentines Day Tony!! I love you so much 💜💜

~~~~~~~~

Jon was tired. And he was frustrated with himself for being tired. He and Martin had been in Daisy’s safehouse for a few days, and he had had plenty of time to rest and relax. It was the first time in a long time that he’d consistently gotten a good night’s sleep. Yet he was exhausted.

            Martin poked his head out of the kitchen, a grin across his face. Jon wanted to be happy to see that grin. It really was a beautiful grin. But he knew it meant Martin was about to ask him something and he didn’t want to get up from his spot on the couch.

            “Hey Jon?” Martin said, in an endearingly genuine voice, “Would you want to come help me finish dinner? I’m almost done, just a few extra steps.”

            And, because Jonathan Sims was finally accepting how in love he was, he agreed to follow Martin into the kitchen, despite the protests from his mind and body as he left the comfortable sofa and made his way around the corner.

             They worked in silence for a while. Martin kept glancing at Jon like he wanted to say something, but he wasn’t saying anything, and it was starting to grate on Jon’s already strained nerves. His good will was beginning to leave him and his legs hurt for no discernable reason and really his mind just kept telling him to get in bed.

            But instead he was placing the tray of asparagus in the oven and trying to match Martin’s chipper attitude. Although that seemed to be wearing thin itself.

            It was odd, the kinds of things you thought about when you were in the same room as someone but not talking to them. Unbidden, a memory made its way to the front of Jon’s mind, like an unwanted acquaintance approaching him on an unusually foggy day: how much did they really know each other, he and Martin? Peter Lukas had said that they didn’t, and as much as Jon had tried to forget that – had tried to forget most everything that had happened that day – it was a thought that demanded attention.

            He glanced at Martin, as he was collecting a couple of plates from the cupboard, and wondered at how few conversations they had really had in all the time they had known each other. Did he even know Martin’s middle name? Not that that detail really mattered but … Martin had been known to lie. To be fair so had Jon himself.

Despite himself, Jon felt the memory of Peter Lukas’s voice push its way to the front of his mind. The people you think you love don’t exist. Not really. And that’s a very lonely place to be.

            “What is it?” Martin asked, and Jon shook his head a bit, reorienting himself.

            “What?”

            “Nothing you just – you looked like you had something to say,” Martin placed the plates and utensils on the small table as he spoke, his eyes on Jon. They were earnest eyes. Kind.

            Worried.

            “It's nothing,” Jon said, turning away as if to check on something and then realizing he had nothing to check. “No, my mind just went … somewhere else. Sorry.”

            Martin nodded silently, like he understood something, “My mind goes there too, sometimes,” he said in a small voice.

            “Where?” Jon asked, looking at Martin, and he was sorry that he sounded more annoyed than he’d meant to.

            Martin smiled a sadly, “The Lonely.” He paused, then said softly, “I’m sorry,” looking at the ground, “It’s my fault we ended up there in the first place.”

            Jon breathed. He knew what he was supposed to say in this situation. He was supposed to say it wasn’t a problem, that he’d have gone to the Lonely – or somewhere ten times worse – a thousand times over to save Martin because he loved him and that’s what love was, wasn’t it? But he was so tired. He dropped into one of the chairs with a small nod instead of responding. He tried to think of something he knew about Martin that didn’t have to do with being tormented by monsters. When was the last time they’d had a conversation about something normal?

            No, that was unfair. They had had plenty of light conversations as they traveled here. Jon just really needed to get some sleep.

            “I think I’m going to lie down,” he found himself saying aloud.

            Martin looked a bit taken aback, “But dinner is almost –”

            “I know.” Jon said, rather abruptly, standing and starting to make his way across the room. “I’m sorry I’m … not hungry.”

            Martin took a deep breath, evidently upset, although he tried to hide it. “Right. Okay. I’ll just eat on my own.” He wasn’t trying to be passive-aggressive, but it still made Jon feel the need to apologize.

            “Sorry,” he said again, “I’ve just been … I’ve been having a bit of a rough time.”

            “What and you think I haven’t?”

            “No, I never said that,” Jon responded quickly, turning back to face him “why are you –”

            “Sorry,” Martin said, and Jon was acutely aware of how often that word had been used in the last few minutes, “I just – are you angry with me about something, Jon?”

…

            Jon hadn’t thought he was angry – confused or doubtful, maybe – but a few moments later he’d dug into the hurt he’d been feeling since he’d woken up in the hospital, and it certainly looked a lot like anger. Months of worrying about Martin from a distance and watching him choose to drift further and further away – maybe it wasn’t rational, but emotions rarely are, and Jon had been hurting for a long time.

            “That’s not fair,” Martin said indignantly in response to Jon’s latest assertion. They were both standing in the middle of the kitchen now, agitation keeping Jon on his feet despite the tiredness he’d been feeling all day.

“Well, I’m sorry” Jon said, this time using that word as more of a weapon than an apology, his voice louder than he meant it to be, “I just … I wish we could’ve faced these last few months together, but instead you left me to deal with all of it on my own.”

            Martin scoffed and Jon looked up, surprised at the derision on his face. “Oh, you were alone?” Martin retorted.

            “No, I – you know what I mean.”

            “No Jon, tell me. What do you mean?”

            Jon sighed, he knew that he shouldn’t say what was about to come out of his mouth, “I wasn’t completely alone, but that’s because for once I wasn’t the one pushing everyone away.”

            Martin made an indignant noise, “I was trying to keep you safe!” he said, “to keep you away from their plans for once!”

           “But you didn’t have to do that!” Jon retorted, “I don’t need you to protect me!”

            Martin was silent for a moment, the hurt evident in his eyes. And Jon was suddenly acutely aware of the circular scars that peppered his skin, the perpetually wrinkled scarring on his burned hand, and the months that for him held no memory other than fearful dreams. Maybe he did need someone to protect him.

            “Jon,” Martin said after a deep breath, “you were … gone. You were gone and Tim was dead, and I was alone.”

            Jon opened his mouth as if to say something but stopped himself.

             “The lonely, it’s not – I wasn’t just there for a small amount of time,” Martin said, “It’s not even just these past months. I have always been … alone.”

            And on that word the tears started running down his cheeks. Slowly at first but they picked up speed as he fought to keep his breathing under control. “Even … back when we first started working in the Archives, you all were such good friends and I just … I tried so hard. But I’ve never been the person people see. I’ve always faded into the background. The lonely just … let me do it on command,” he said with a bitter laugh through his tears.

            “Martin,” Jon said, guilt filling him as he reached a comforting hand out, but Martin waved it away.

            “No, no, it’s fine I’m just …” he took a shuddering breath, “for once, I could use that. For once I thought, ‘I can be alone, on purpose and I can help people that way. Maybe even save the world.’ But it doesn’t matter anymore. Turns out that was just another stupid idea.”

            Jon took a few steps toward him, closing the distance but not reaching for him this time, “Martin, I’m so sorry,” he said, “I – I was hurt that you pushed me away but I shouldn’t have brought it up like this. I – “

            “It’s alright Jon, don’t –” Martin took a deep breath, obviously trying to reorganize his thoughts, stop himself from saying something stupid. “I’m just … I think sometimes that maybe nobody actually needs me, y’know? Like, all I do is make tea, write bad poetry, and fuck everything up.”

            Jon looked at Martin, despite his large frame, in that moment he looked small. Jon thought back on everything that had happened to them, on all the times he’d thought he could do things alone, and all the times Martin had been there for him. “I’m sorry that you feel that way,” he said, and for some reason in this moment he felt the right thing to do was increase the distance between them, give Martin some space, “and yes, we’ve both made our share of bad decisions recently. But,” he sank into one of the kitchen chairs, keeping his eyes on Martin, “I need you to know that’s not true – I do need you. I mean … that’s kind of what I’ve been trying to say, I think.”

            Martin turned his eyes to meet Jon’s.

            “I missed you,” Jon admitted, “and I kept my distance because I trusted you, but it still hurt, although I don’t blame you for any of the decisions you made,” and as he said it he realized it was true. “I guess I’m just … scared?”

            “Scared of what?” Martin sat as well, his legs brushing against Jon’s. He was still wiping tears from his eyes, but he seemed to be regaining composure, his earnest face focused on Jon.

             “I’ve changed.” Jon said matter-of-factly, looking forward at the lines in the wood of the table, “I’m not … human. What if … what if I’m not who you thought I was? You think you know me but – ”

            “Oh Jon,” Martin said, reaching his arm around Jon’s shoulder. Jon initially stiffened at the unexpected touch, but then welcomed the opportunity to melt into Martin’s warmth, “I’m sorry I hurt you,” he said first, and Jon nodded to show he accepted the apology, “and yeah, we are not the people we were when we first started working in the archives, anyone could tell you that,” Jon scoffed at the understatement, “maybe there is a lot we still don’t know about each other but … I mean we haven’t been boyfriends very long. We’ve got time to learn.”

            Boyfriends. Jon smiled. He did like the sound of that every time he heard it.

            “And I know enough now to say this,” Martin gently cupped Jon’s face in one of his hands, smiling slightly as their eyes met, “I love you Jonathan Sims, and no amount of spooky Avatar weirdness is going to change that.”

            Jon smiled in response; much – though not all – of the tension he had been feeling drifted away as he leaned up to gently kiss Martin.

            “I love you too, Martin,” he said quietly.

            After a moment, Martin pulled back, sniffing the air. Jon smelled it too, something burning.

            Simultaneously, they turned to look at the counters. The chicken was set on top of the stove and had long since grown cold. There was smoke rising from inside the oven and Jon realized with a start that he had never set a timer for the asparagus he’d placed inside.

            Jon wasn’t entirely sure why, but he started to laugh as Martin rushed to open the oven; snatching a potholder and waving smoke away, he pulled out a tray of charred black sticks that were far beyond edible. Martin looked from Jon to the devastated tray and back, the dismay on his face transitioning into reluctant amusement before he was laughing alongside Jon, his face breaking into one of the most wonderful smiles Jon had ever seen.

[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.

[365days365movies]

February 27, 2021: Love Actually (2003) (Part 1)

We gotta start this Recap.

Just trust me here, this one’s gonna be a lot. Why? Because this is Love Actually.

And I really want to talk about it, I REALLY do, but...this is not only a long movie, but an anthology, so it’s gonna be...complicated. But, I will say one thing. If you’ve been reading this since January, then you’ll know that this blog was inspired by the book Shit, Actually by Lindy West, a collection of hilarious movie essays that I love. And, yeah, this film is its namesake. So, although I want to go more into it, we gotta get started. Sorry for the rush, but...TRUST ME.

SPOILERS AHEAD!!!

Recap (1/2)

An airport! We see families and other loved ones reunited at Heathrow, as narration begins, telling us that love is everywhere. After name-dropping 9/11...TWO YEARS after it had happened (too soon, David), he states that “love actually is all around.”

Got it. So, as the 2003 film All Around begins, singer Billy Mack (Bill Nighy) is trying to sing a Christmas-themed version of “Love Is All Around,” which is pretty goddamn bad. His recording manager Joe (Gregor Fisher) agrees. Jamie (Colin Firth) tells his sick girlfriend (Sienna Guillory) that he loves her, and he takes off for something that he can’t attend.

Daniel (Liam Neeson), a fresh widower, calls his friend Karen (Emma Thompson) a mom bidding her daughter a good day as she heads to school. Jack (Martin Freeman) and Judy (Joanna Page) are...air humping on a set? I need to know more. Peter (Chiwetel Ejiofor) and Juliet (Kiera Knightley) are getting married in a church, with their friend Mark (Andrew Lincoln) as the best man. And FINALLY, David (Hugh Grant) has just been elected as the new Prime Minister, where he meets Natalie (Martine McCutcheon), a member of the household staff.

...Well, that is a lot. Goddamn. So, this is an anthology movie, huh? I’ll try to cover this as smoothly as I can.

Peter and Juliet say their vows, and as they walk out, they are surprised by a rendition of the Beatles’ “All You Need Is Love”, organized by Mark. At the wedding is Jamie, whose brother is at his apartment when he returns home early. He’s there to fuck his girlfriend. Oh. Shit. Well, sorry, Jamie. 

Also at the wedding is Colin (Kris Marshall), a waiter and messenger who’s been trying to woo British women, but is constantly failing. When talking to his friend Tony (Abdul Sallis), he insists that he’s going to the USA, where the women will appreciate his accent. Tony tells him to simply accept that he’s a “lonely, ugly asshole”. Colin, in response, calls himself a God of sex on the wrong continent. A pair, these two.

Tony is a production assistant, working on the film that Jack and Judy are in. They’re apparently professional stand-ins, actors who substitute actors in film set-up, in order to figure out lighting and cinematography. Neat! Well, normally. Here, they’re standing in for a sex scene, and they ask Judy to go topless, to see how best to frame the shot. And it gets...increasingly awkward. And it’s pretty goddamn funny.

Meanwhile, a funeral. Oof, tone whiplash right there. It’s a funeral for Daniel’s wife Joanna, and she leaves behind him and her son, Sam (Thomas Sangster AKA fuckin’ Joffrey, but I won’t hold that against him). Back at the wedding, Mark stares on longingly at the dancing Peter and Juliet. A woman asks if he’s in love with Mark, and he replies no.

At an office building, another guest at the wedding, Sarah (Laura Linney), is a worker at a graphic design company run by Harry (...awww, Alan Rickman). His secretary Mia (Heike Makatsch) brings her in to Harry’s office, where he tells her that he and everyone else in the office knows that she’s in love with fellow worker Karl (Rodrigo Santoro), and that he should get it over with an ask him out. He walks by her, and she doesn’t say anything, while also recieving a call...from someone she refers to as “babe”. Well, I feel a little infidelity coming on.

On Mia’s radio, Billy Mack’s shitty Christmas song is playing, and a radio host agrees as Bill’s brought on for an interview. Bill shares the sentiment in what must be the most depressing radio interview I’ve ever heard. In that interview with Mikey (Marcus Brigstocke), he basically completely sabotages his own record, and probably his entire career. This interview is followed with news about the Prime Minister.

David, new PM, has been bonding more with Natalie, and the two definitely appear to like each other. He also comes up in conversation between Judy and Jack, as their stand-in sex scene has progressed to basically just straight-up sex, which feels...I feel like this doesn’t fucking happen with stand-ins in movies...right? Like, come on, that’s a LOT of breached privacy, and I feel like it’s not that realistic. Anyway, the two use the opportunity to make small talk, and Jack tells Judy that he appreciates having someone to talk to. She agrees, and it’s cute in an extremely awkward way!

Production assistant Tony is heading home, and is getting a ride from Colin, who announces that he’s bought a ticket for a trip to the beautiful land of Wisconsin, where he will certainly meet some hot, hot babes. Tony does not agree.

Back at Harry’s office, he and Mia plan the company Christmas party. Mia unsubtly notes that she kinda has the hots for him, and he’s not saying no. Meanwhile, Daniel and Karen are talking about the fact that his stepson Sam seems to be having a lot of trouble, understandably, and Daniel’s not doing much better. 

Karen does her best to help him through it, and Daniel does his best to help the troubled Samuel. But he can’t coax much out of Samuel to figure out what’s wrong. Samuel finally opens up, but tells Daniel that he’s in love. Daniel’s surprised, but he insists that he’s in love, with a young woman named Sansa Stark, but he must find a way to ensure her loyalty, if ONLY HER NOBLE FATHER WASN’T IN THE...right, sorry, Game of Thrones.

OK, anyway, Sam’s in love, and in complete agony about it. Daniel tries to coach Sam through his feelings, and is genuinely being a supportive-as-hell stepdad. Also in love and in agony is Sarah, staring at Karl from afar one night as the office closes down. And then, also in agony is Jamie, fresh off of his breakup with his cheating girlfriend. He’s in a GORGEOUS AS FUCK house in the French countryside, and sits down to write.

Back in London, David tries to get to know Natalie a bit better, and they...I mean, they’re 100% gonna get together by the end. We’re just working through the romantic folderol right now. Natalie leaves, and David asks a portrait of Margaret Thatcher is she had that problem, calling her a, uh...a “saucy minx.” Well, OK.

Billy Mack is on a television show, continuing his press tour and reminding us once again that he used to be addicted to heroin. Joe is not happy. Mark, an artist, calls Peter, and is put on the line with Juliet. Peter asks him to “be nice,” but when he they talk to each other, he’s rather short when she asks for some of his footage from the wedding.

Back at Harry’s, Mia is laying it on fuckin’ THIIIIIICK, Jesus, while Sarah ends up pining once more for Karl. At his college in the French countryside, a new housekeeper, Aurélia ( Lúcia Moniz), has been hired to take care of his place. However, there’s a serious language barrier between the two, as she’s Portuguese, and he’s too talkative, goddamn. It’s awkward. It’s a little awkward.

David’s got a meeting with the President of the United States (Billy Bob Thornton), who IMMEDIATELY notes Natalie’s attractiveness. Political tensions are also rough between the two and their administrations. The two have a private meeting later, and David leaves the room for a moment. However, when he goes back in, he sees Natalie kissing the President! Whaaaaaaaat? That’s a...fucking terrible idea, Mr. President, what the FUCK? HAVE YOU HEARD OF BILL CLINTON

The next day, at a press conference, David gives into his rage about the affair, and he acts more assertive towards the President, noting that he won’t bow to the President’s bullying. Wow. International crisis time because of a fuckin’ girl! Who’s the saucy minx, now, Thatcher? WHO’S THE SAUCY MINX NOW

Right afterwards, he gets a call from his sister: Karen. Huh. She notes her frustrations with his actions, but he’s too busy and hangs up. She states her frustrations to her husband: Harry. DOUBLE HUH. After everything, though, David retires for the night. The radio station plays a song for him, and David responds by dancing around 10 Downing Street. And it’s hilarious. And I love it?

At Jamie’s cottage, he and Aurélia start to bond regardless of their language barrier, and their conversations seem to gel with each other, despite them not understanding that themselves. It’s actually...kind of cute. I dunno, I kind of like it. I think it’s sweet. Overly saccharine, yeah, but sweet as the two fall in love. Yeah, I’m a fuckin’ sap, what can I say?

Juliet visits Mark, who’s once again acting fairly cold towards her. She confronts him about it, and notes that she wants to genuinely become friends with him. Mark seems to agree with this, but still notes that he has no video of the wedding. And yet, she finds it, only to discover that Mark doesn’t hate her. Actually, he likes her. Actually...he loves her. And, uh...fuck, yeah, he LOOOOOOOOVES her. And she figures that out once she realizes that the video of the wedding doesn’t feature Peter in it AT ALL.

Y’know, I’m really worried that this is becoming an infidelity situation, but I have to admit...Mark’s a good man, and a great friend to Peter. He knows that he loves Juliet, but he keeps his distance for the sake of his friend. And that is...actually amazingly honorable. Damn. You’re a good man, Mark.

At 10 Downing Street, David asks his assistant Annie (Nina Sosanya) to put Natalie in another position, as her presence is distracting him. And that is...responsible. That’s pretty damn responsible. OK, I can dig it. She’s soon replaced, and you can see that David is saddened by that.

His sister’s best friend's stepson, Sam, has just gotten bad news. His crush, Joanna (oh, yeah, his crush has the same name as his deceased mother, forgot to mention THAT little tidbit), is going back to the USA. After discovering that she’s American, Daniel decides to cheer him up by watching Titanic together. AND AGAIN. This relationship is adorable, and I love Daniel’s hardcore good dad energy.

Jamie and Aurélia need to bid each other goodbye, as Jamie is headed back to England. However, as they part, Aurélia kisses him goodbye, which seems to break him a little. Meanwhile, Billy Mack has shot a video for his terrible song, which inspires Sam to perform in a school concert to get Joanna to fall in lover with him and get her to stay. But he doesn’t play an instrument, and chooses to learn the drums, to Daniel’s dismay.

At Harry’s company Christmas party, Mia is hitting HARDCORE on Harry, which Karen notices. She’s speaking to Sarah, and encourages her to dance with Karl, while to two stand in front of Mark’s photographs, and...

TOO MUCH. IT’S TOO GODDAMN MUCH

I...I gotta take a break, and we’re at the halfway point anyway. See you in Part 2.

[that-one-girl-behind-you]

Illicio 10/?

Part 9

Bit of a content warning for the first section because Martin's Lonely thoughts are starting to feel a little like suicidal ideation, just in case.

"What part of 'don't antagonize Martin' translated into 'go and lie to his landlady to break into his house' to you?" Jon asks that evening. The bus is nearly empty, and Gerry's arm is a comforting weight across his shoulders, a nice contrast against the hard plastic seat.

"I knew he'd tattle," Gerry rolls his eyes. "Go figure, pull a guy out of the Lonely with a nice cup of tea and some good conversation, and the first thing he does is go tell on you with his crush. 

Martin bundles himself a little tighter in his coat, as he waits for the kettle to boil. The worst thing about the Lonely is definitely the bone-deep chill that follows wherever you go, no matter how many layers you wear, or how high you crank up the heater. The cold is inside you, and Martin is starting to run out of ways to chase it out.

The kitchenette attached to Peter's office is smaller than the one at the Archives' break room, but also much better equipped; it has a high end coffeemaker and all sorts of coffee and tea sorted in delicately crafted tins. Martin has the thought that he would've been excited to try them all before, but now he just cracks the tin open and pulls out a bag at random. This is just... something else he's supposed to do, like eating, like breathing. It doesn't matter that they don't bring any satisfaction, because nothing really does anymore, when he's like this.

He goes to pour the hot water into a single mug, and drops the bag inside, watching it sink and bob with a curious sense of detachment. It smells like nothing, and it tastes like nothing when he takes a sip. His hands barely even register the warmth of the cup, and Martin places it back at the countertop. He'd expected it would make him feel something, but there goes that hope.

The only spark of emotion comes when he finally listens to the prickle of unease in his chest, and goes to close the small room's exit where it connects with Peter's office. Standing alone behind two locked doors, he almost feels at ease. Nobody can find him here- or they wouldn't, if anyone was looking for him of course. Jon hasn't come to him since the last time they met before the coffin, and Gerard seems to have a supernatural sense to know when Martin just finished an Extinction statement to come pester it out of him.

It's a bit pathetic, that Jon's- that Gerard is the only one who seeks him out, and even then it's only out of necessity. The Lonely likes it, and it likes even more that Martin doesn't feel any special way about it.

Outside, someone walks past the door to Peter's office, and Martin's stomach clenches. The room around him loses a little more color. Maybe… maybe he'll go home early today. Peter won't care; he would probably encourage it, now that Martin thinks about it. Just... it'll be easier there. More quiet. Calmer.

Martin leans his head back, and the room around him begins to dissolve.

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

"Feels good, doesn't it?" Gerry asks with a smile, and Melanie nods, entranced.

"We should find another," she declares. The Flesh book -aptly titled just 'Guts'- burns nicely in a metallic garbage bin between the two of them.

"I knew there was a reason I liked you." Gerry snorts. "I've been hearing some rumours about the Desolation. Some weird fires around the city; might be worth taking a look at."

Melanie squirts some more lighter fluid onto the book, delighting when the fire roars and flares up.

"How is it different?" she asks, the question popping suddenly into her mind.

"Sorry?" Gerry arches an eyebrow.

"I know the Desolation is destruction, and Slaughter is violence." It's odd, to talk so freely about the entity that would've claimed her soul; like mentioning someone you knew in passing, one of those who were impossibly important once, but now are just a memory you're not sure how you feel about. "But I wanted to destroy too, when I was- you know."

"I know." Gerry lets out a careful huff, running a hand through his hair. "They tend to bleed into each other, some more than others. Some care about the end result only, like the Desolation, some care about the process, like the Slaughter or the Hunt. Smirke had a good idea with the list, but sometimes I think he oversimplified."

"So what's your take on it?"

"Colors," Gerry shrugs, then adds with a small smile, "if colors hated you."

Melanie has no idea what that's supposed to mean, but his tone makes it fairly clear that it's got something to do with Jon, and she rolls her eyes. Ridiculous, but apparently something she'll have to get used to, considering the sneak peeks she's gotten through the Institute's windows in the past week.

"How's Georgie?" Gerry asks after a moment, once the flames have started dying down. "You've been going out more lately, right?"

"Yes. I'm-" Melanie feels her body tense, and takes a deep breath, until it relaxes again. This- she can tell Gerry this. It's not a big deal. They're- they might be friends, now. "She takes me to therapy. I've been feeling- I added an extra day. I feel like it's working."

Gerry gives her a quick look and a quicker smile, before focusing on the remnants of the burning book again. "That's good. I tried therapy once, but it turns out there is just no way to work 'my mother accidentally framed me for her gruesome murder and then came back to life and continued to stalk me until I handed her over to an old woman to be destroyed' into a credible lie. Not that you would know the difference, of course," he adds with a wink over his shoulder.

"I'll have you know my therapist doesn't suspect a thing, so I'm clearly not as bad of a liar as you think." Melanie rolls her eyes, smiling. There's a certain giddiness to her chest, a kind of light-heartedness she'd almost forgotten.

"Mmmm nah, you're very bad." Gerry reaches a hand towards her, and she passes him the bottle of lighter fluid. He squirts the rest of it in the trash can, unflinching when the flames roar up again, before he turns back to look at Melanie. "But I'm glad it's helping. I'm guessing the after-session dates with your girlfriend are nothing to scoff at either, are they?"

"They help," Melanie's smile turns a little smug. It may be sappy, but she's allowed a bit of happiness, thank you very much.

"I can imagine," Gerry rests his closed fist against her shoulder and gives her a little shove. Melanie kicks at his boot, rolling her eyes.

This is... comfortable. Life is far from perfect, and the number of things that make Melanie happy are still in the single digits but this- this might be one of them.

"Actually, I wanted to ask you something..." Melanie starts after the fire has died down again and the relaxed silence has stretched for a few minutes, making her voice as casual as possible. "Remember when you told us that you fed on Jon's voice? Recharging a battery, kind of?"

"I... do?" Gerry looks down at her with an arched eyebrow.

"Okay. And remember that other time you told me there was nothing going on with Jon, but you let me believe that so I didn't find out you were leeching on him to survive?"

"Ah." Gerry averts his eyes, and the line of his shoulders stiffens. Melanie frowns, puzzled; it's been a while since she's had any friends to joke with, but this is most definitely not the mood she was trying to set up. "I didn't want any trouble, Melanie. You and Basira were very on board with killing me that first day because you thought I wasn't human, and I was just- well, I knew if you got actual confirmation of that, then-"

"Oh- oh no, that's not what I'm talking about," Melanie shakes her head, rolling her eyes. "I get why you did that. You were right, too, I would've killed you," she shrugs.

Gerry turns to look at her again, amused and confused in equal measure. "Okay? So what's this about then?"

"I just wanted to ask," Melanie struggles a little to keep her face blank now that she's put them back on track. "Do you also feed on holding hands with Jon, or is that just so he doesn't get lost into another entity when you're on your way from the bus stop?"

Gerry freezes when her words register in his mind, his face a carefully blank mask whose only emotion lies in the slight panic brewing behind his eyes.

"I-"

"Yes?" Melanie lifts her eyebrows, nodding along with pursed lips. The flush starting to darken his cheekbones is fascinating to watch, a much deeper hue than would correspond to his skin tone, probably on account of the ink that runs through his veins.

"Have you been- listen, we have- the fires." Gerry turns abruptly to start walking away from the smoldering can, and Melanie smirks. "We should look into it, could be a new avatar."

"Mhm. Alright. Just a little question I had, don't let it keep you up at night." Melanie follows, not even angry that she has to trot to keep up with him.

"I won't."

"Good, good."

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

"You're far too early. Nothing to find today?" Jon looks up when the door to his office is pushed open, a smile already on his lips. Gerry shrugs, taking his jacket off. Jon's gaze trails over the burn-smooth skin of Gerry's arms, the tattooed eyes at his elbows seeming to almost look at him when Gerry's muscles contract and stretch as he moves to hang the jacket by Jon's coat.

"Hello there?" Gerry asks, and Jon's eyes snap up his face. He's got an amused smile and a raised eyebrow, and Jon whips his burning face back down to his statement. "Melanie's busy today, so I did some recon by myself, but there's nothing tangible asides from Rayner's freaks."

"This is- yes, alright." He's not terribly worried about the Church of the Divine Host, he thinks, his fist clenching tightly around the pen he's using to make annotations on the statement; they cannot come into his Archives, because they won't risk being Seen. It still irks him that they dare come this close to the Institute, like a taunt to-

"What are you working on?" Gerry's long, black hair curtains down by the side of Jon's face, and all thoughts of Seeing the Darkness into oblivion evaporate from his mind.

"I just- I'm going over old statements," Jon clears his throat. "I'm trying to find anything that feels like the Extinction."

"I see... Found anything yet?" Gerry leans closer to look at the paper on the desk, and Jon freezes at the warmth at his back.

"I don't-" this is where Jon admits he hasn't been able to focus for the past three hours, isn't it? "Martin left early yesterday. And he didn't come to work today."

"Ah," Gerry sighs, before retreating to go sit across the desk. His eyes are soft and sympathetic, because it's just Jon's luck to be surrounded by good, caring people that he doesn't deserve. "How did you-"

"I just Knew it. I think- I think it was too much today." Jon averts his gaze again; Gerry's gentle concern is too much to deal with, what with everything that's been tumbling around in his head. "Which is why I'm looking into this, but the Watcher doesn't seem to be too interested in the new competitor." Jon scowls down at his desk. No helpful tidbits from the Eye either when picking out statements to revisit, or when going over things he already knew.

"Hey." Gerry slides a warm, heavy hand on top of Jon's, and Jon, because he's a selfish coward, doesn't move away. "You're doing what you can. We all are, Martin too."

Jon nods slowly, after a moment. Martin is- Martin knows what he's doing. He's far from stupid or weak, Jon knows that now. Even though he's still human, Martin moves through this world of fears with a sense of cunning and determination that Jon couldn't even begin to emulate, despite being a key player himself.

"I must admit, I... it's nice that you have changed your mind about him." Gerry hasn't told him what brought on the change, but Jon finds that he doesn't care. It's just one less thing to be worried about.

Gerry shrugs, giving his hand a squeeze. "Turns out we have a few things in common."

"You do." Jon nods; that much has been clear to him for a while. A fatal flaw that bears his name and his face.

Gerry's gaze is heavy on him, far from the usual playfulness in their interactions, and Jon feels his heartbeat start racing.

"Jon, we-"

"Jon?" the door opens again, and Daisy pokes her head through. "Oh. Sorry."

"No, it's- do you need anything, Daisy?" Jon asks, extricating his hand from Gerry's in the softest movement he can manage.

"I can come back later," Daisy shrugs.

"Actually, let's trade." Gerry pushes off his chair, and onto his feet. "You stay here. I'll see you when it's time to go home." He doesn't seek Jon's eyes when he says this, moving instead to grab his jacket and shove his arms through the sleeves.

"Careful," Jon mutters quietly.

Gerry stops at the door, his shoulders dropping in what might be a sigh, and he turns to look at him over his shoulder, his eyes softening just the slightest amount. "...Yeah. Yeah, you too."

And he's gone.

Daisy comes in once the sound of Gerry's boots stomping against the Institute's polished floors fades from earshot. "That was very dramatic."

Jon crosses his arms over his chest. "No, it wasn't."

Daisy rolls her eyes. "You're making this too big of a deal, just like the monster thing."

"I- excuse me?" Jon's face goes slack in disbelief, but Daisy merely leans a hip against his desk, looking down at him with her arms crossed over her chest.

"Poor, poor Jon, with these two men who lo-"

"Daisy! We don't- there's no-" Jon sputters, as it becomes increasingly clear he doesn't have anything to say, and just wanted to stop her from finishing the thought. "What did you need?"

Daisy shrugs. "Basira went to see Elias, and Melanie's out too."

"I see..." Jon sighs; the only reasons he's able to brave being alone are both the fact that recording statements keeps the walls from closing in, and the terrifying knowledge that Gerry would stay in the office just to keep him company if he asked. "Well I- it's good that you came. I need your opinion on something."

As soon as it becomes clear that she's wanted here, Daisy's entire body relaxes; Jon smiles to himself as she goes to take the seat Gerry left. Daisy deserves some kindness, she's just... another victim. He's the only one who chose this.

"Sure, what is it?"

"Did yo- have you seen Martin lately?" Jon reaches into a desk drawer for a tape recorder that wasn't there a minute ago. This one, he Knows, will contain Martin's recording on the Extinction.

"Not really. Where is he?" Daisy frowns.

Jon's eyes fall to the recorder in his hand. He doesn't know if he feels guiltier for Knowing about Martin, or for not going to him after what he found out.

"Taking a break from all of this, hopefully."

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

"-tin Blackwood? Yes, he lives here. We haven't seen him in a few weeks, though." The woman's eyes narrow in suspicion. "Did he die?"

Gerry snorts. God forbid landlords have any tact. He thinks back at one of the many things he learned about Martin while trying to Know the address to his flat.

"No, he's fine. But he had to go out of town for a while, because his mother passed away." He closes his eyes for a moment, trying to look solemn. "I'm going to go stay with him for a few days, but he wanted me to pick up his phone and some other things for him."

"I see... and who are you again?" The woman asks; the mistrust is a fair response, honestly, considering what Gerry's here to do.

"Well, you know..." he gives her a little smile and a non-committal gesture, pointing at himself and an imaginary Martin by his side. Whatever, it worked with Melanie and Basira, it'll fool a random landlady.

"Ah. Huh." The woman runs her eyes over him, evaluating him under the light of the new revelation; Gerry probably -hopefully- doesn't look anything like a self deprecating mop that specializes in giving off mixed signals and avoiding necessary conversations, but this woman clearly doesn't know Martin enough to know his tastes, because she just shrugs. "Then don't you have a key already?"

"Oh yes, I have one,' Gerry hurries to say. "He just wanted me to tell you that he's, you know, coming back and-" and here he crosses a leg over the other, bringing a knee up against the desk with enough force that the landlady's mug topples over the edge and spills its contents on her lap. "Oh shit, I'm sorry! Did you-"

"I'm alright," the woman says through gritted teeth, her skirt dripping lukewarm coffee on the carpeted floor when she climbs to her feet.

"I'm really sorry," Gerry apologizes again, but the woman is already heading towards the door without sparing him a glance. Good.

He Knows she keeps the spare keys in the bottom left drawer of the desk, and it only takes him a couple seconds lto find the one labeled with the number to Martin's flat, before unhooking it from the ring and pushing the drawer closed again.

By the time the woman comes back, patting at her damp lap with a towel, Gerry's already sitting back on his chair, sporting his best apprehensive look. "Did you need anything else?" she snaps.

"No, I'm just-"

"Sorry, yes. Thank you, could you leave?" the landlady's lips are pursed into a tense line. "I need to change."

"Yes! Sorry, I'll just-" he hops to his feet, crossing the office hurriedly. "Sorry!" Gerry apologises again before she closes the office door in his face, and he smiles. That's one less thing to worry about.

Martin's door opens easily enough with the key, and fog spills out like some sort of cheap haunted house trick. Not great, Gerry decides. The interior is freezing cold, and he bundles a bit tighter in his jacket, before closing the door behind him. There's a picture of a woman on a small table by the door, right behind the key bowl, and Gerry remembers the tape he listened to, with Elias' cruel, mocking voice and Martin's pained, choked back sobs.

It's a little selfish, but it's nice to know that Gerry's not the only one who can't bring himself to get rid of the memory of a mother who never loved him.

"Martin?" he calls out, bundling himself tighter in his clothes. "Are you-"

"What are you doing in my flat?!" Martin says by his side, where Gerry's pretty sure he wasn't a second ago. "How did you get in here?"

"It was open," Gerry shrugs. Martin looks... gray. His eyes, his hair, even his skin seems desaturated, blending in against the muted hues of his lightless flat.

"No it wasn't." Martin says firmly, and a bit of green starts seeping back into his eyes. Gerry lets out a relieved exhale. He's not too far gone, yet. "In fact, I made sure it was locked, because I've been being stalked lately."

"That sounds terrible," Gerry says, and because it seems like Martin is gaining more and more color the more exasperated he grows, he walks past him into what turns out to be the kitchen. "Want me to beat them up for you? I'll do it, just point me at 'em. Do you have coffee here? I'm not much for tea."

"I don't- why are you here?!" Martin sputters angrily, closing the cupboard doors Gerry purposefully leaves open as he moves down the room. "I'm not exactly going to record Extinction statements at home!"

"Well, I'm not here for that." Gerry gives him another look. He looks mostly solid now, enough that it might be a good time to let him know. "Jon was worried about you, so I came to check how you were."

"...Oh." Martin's flustered face goes slack at the news, and Gerry snorts. These two are the freaking same. "I- does he know?"

"That you're trying to save the world?" Gerry arches an eyebrow. "Or that you're doing it for him?" that has Martin's face regaining the color it was lacking.

"Both, I guess," Martin mutters, bringing a hand to rub at his arm nervously. "...I think I do have coffee, but it's- I don't drink it, I just had it for when Sasha- for when friends came over. I don't know if it's any good."

"I've probably had worse." Gerry knows what it's like to be alone. He's been that way for most of his life, but it's... he chose to live like that, it was never a burden for him. Here, as Martin talks of friends ripped from him by a world that feeds on despair, he feels a pang of sadness for this man who clearly didn't. "I have an hour before I have to go get Jon."

"Alright," Martin lets out a noise between a sigh and a groa, before he finally moves towards the cupboards again, and starts pulling out mugs and tins and spoons. "But you have to tell me how you got in."

"I'll let you guess," Gerry smirks as he sits at the breakfast table.

"How is he?" comes Martin's voice amidst the clinking of metal and porcelain. There's a careful quality to it, like he thinks he's not allowed to ask, and Gerry sighs.

"He's alright. Very defensive when we talk about his rib-related choices."

The sound of a mug dropped on the countertop, and Martin spins around. "Excuse me, his what?"

Gerry arches an eyebrow. "I hadn't told you? Could've sworn I mentioned it when we spoke about the marks." He wipes a hand under his nose, but it comes away ink-free. Edging around the topic is okay then, good to know.

"I don't- you didn't mention any ribs," Martin's voice is this close to a groan, Gerry notes with a smile. "What did he do now?"

"You better finish making that tea, you're going to need it."

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

The door to the cell slams shut, and Elias rolls his eyes. Frankly... he'd known Peter wasn't in the best of moods, but this is childish.

"I'm afraid you're going to have to either calm down or leave."

"How are you doing it?" Peter lands heavily on the chair across the table, blue eyes stormy with badly concealed rage and a muscle twitching on his jaw. Elias tries, he really does, but he can't hold back a snort. "Elias!"

"I'm sorry, sorry," Elias chuckles. "It's just amusing, really, that you seem to think I have the power to stop your puppeteering from in here. You mistake me for the Web's own, Peter."

He gives him the smile he knows Peter despises, just the slightest curve to his lips, and a single arched eyebrow.

"Don't play coy with me, Elias. Martin was progressing incredibly well, and all of a sudden he's stuck? Don't pretend you had nothing to do with it."

"Oh, but I didn't!" Elias reaches over to pull out the scotch bottle and the two tumblers, and Peter's hand closes around his wrist with bruising strength. "I'm afraid I did warn you the Watcher wouldn't let its own go so easily."

"How?" Peter's eyes narrow as his grip tightens even more. "I will not ask again, Elias."

Elias laughs, amused. Peter is awfully easy to rile up- if you know how to play him, and Elias has had decades to learn.

"Tell me something Peter... what do you know of Gertrude's last ill-fated assistant?"

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

There's a person standing across the street from the Institute. They're wearing dark clothes, and over their chest rests a pendant fashioned to look like a closed eye. It's a ridiculous notion, to come to the tower of the Ceaseless Watcher, and believe their god will protect them here.

Jon comes to a stop before the Institute's doors, the taste of Markus Burnett's encounter with the End still fresh in his mind, and considers crossing the street towards them. It would certainly send a message to the rest of-

"Jon?" the voice is puzzled and soft, and it feels like a curtain is lifted from Jon's mind, as he sees the person scurry away; he turns to find Martin looking down at him in concern. "Are you alright? Oh- your... your eyes."

"Ah- yes I just- it's-" Jon gestures vaguely towards the spot where his would-be victim was just standing.

"Oh. That's- that's not good, is it?" Martin frowns. "It's probably good you didn't-"

"I wasn't going to. Or- I hope I wasn't," Jon scowls as well. He definitely wanted to. He can still feel Martin's eyes on him, but for all that he's fantasized about this encounter, he can't think of anything to say. "You look better."

"I guess." Martin's frown melts into a mask of dry resignation. "Gerard broke into my flat two days ago. He won't tell me how he did it."

Of course, the Eye chooses that moment to let him Know exactly how Gerry got a key to Martin's flat, and Jon feels his face grow warm. It's a bit of a whiplash mood, to go from preparing to Behold a person to thinking about- yes, okay.

"I- yes. He does that," Jon clears his throat, "keep him away from your sofa."

"I'll keep that in mind. Just-" Martin gives a nervous look around, and Jon frowns.

"He's not around." Jon says, the static rising in his ears as he Sees both what Martin wants, and the answer to it. It still feels odd to use his powers willingly, but he'll do it for Martin anytime. "He's on his way back from meeting Elias."

"Oh- okay?" Martin blinks. "Thanks. I- he can't do that, Jon."

"Peter-?"

"Gerard." Martin's face grows pained, serious. "Peter is- he's happy I'm going along with his plan. If Gerard keeps trying to meddle in... I made a deal, and I have to keep it. Please tell him to leave me alone."

"Martin, you don't have to-"

"But I am," Martin sighs. "You said you'd respect that."

And he does, he really does respect the sacrifice Martin is making, but- but watching him hurt himself is just too much. This is the first time Martin has looked like himself in months, and Jon is suddenly confronted with just how much he's missed him.

"I'll talk to him." Jon says, before anything else can get out. "I'm- I'm sorry, Martin."

Martin nods wordlessly, before turning back to walk into the Institute. Jon watches him go, a million things he should've said running across his mind now that they're utterly, completely useless.

I dreamt of you in the Buried. Thank you for the tapes. You don't have to be strong all the time, please let me help you. I miss you so much it scares me, but it's a kind of fear I want to feel, the kind of fear I'd dedicate my life to.

None of it matters, because by the time Jon walks in after him, all that's left of Martin are a couple wisps of fog.

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

"What part of 'don't antagonize Martin' translated into 'go and lie to his landlady to break into his house' to you?" Jon asks that evening. The bus is nearly empty, and Gerry's arm is a comforting weight across his shoulders, a nice contrast against the hard plastic seat.

"I knew he'd tattle," Gerry rolls his eyes. "Go figure, pull a guy out of the Lonely with a nice cup of tea and some good conversation, and the first thing he does is go tell on you with his crush. You didn't tell him I had the key, did you? I don't want him to change the locks."

"I did not." Jon rolls his eyes. "But you can't- Gerry, I promised I'd leave him alone."

"And you did. Very respectful of his boundaries."

"And you should do so too. We're- we agreed we'd investigate about the Extinction so he didn't have to do everything on his own, not that we'd intrude on his plan."

"It's not a great plan, if you ask me."

"I didn't ask." Jon slaps lightly at Gerry's thigh with the back of his hand. "Listen, I trust Martin-"

"And I trust him too, sure. But I'm not going to- I can't just leave it alone, Jon." Gerry turns to look at him, and Jon -as he often does- finds himself distracted by the lights of the street outside gleaming off the metallic rings and beads on his face. "I'm not going to let them win. Not if I can help it, especially with someone they seem as hell-bent on getting as Martin."

Jon sighs. Of course he won't; Gerry's far too stubborn, far too-

"Just- Martin knows what he's doing."

"And I know what I'm doing too." Gerry shrugs, his shoulders set and his brow furrowed. "I'm not- I can't exactly stop him from aligning with the Lonely if that's what he wants. I'm just slowing it down. Getting us more time."

"And what happens when Peter Lukas finds out you're breaking into his flat to sit him down for tea?"

"Well, he doesn't have to find out," Gerry says, smirking. The gesture leaves the ring on his lower lip just the slightest bit off-center, Jon realizes. He runs his tongue over his own bottom lip, that feels too dry all of a sudde. "As far as anyone knows, it was just a very considerate man looking out for his partner."

"You can't possibly believe that was anywhere close to a good lie," Jon hisses, trying his best to ignore the fact that he doesn't know if he's annoyed or just embarrassed by the ruse.

"It's not unbelievable. Anyone could be my boyfriend," Gerry shrugs. "Martin could have good taste."

"I very much think he doesn't." Jon grumbles.

"I think he does, actually," Gerry's arm gives his shoulders a squeeze that has Jon's face burning, "besides, the position is open."

Jon coughs. "This is our stop," he says, ignoring the way Gerry rolls his eyes before climbing to his feet.

The conversation is pretty much over after that, but Jon finds -as he usually does, lately- that he has to let go of Gerry's hand to pull the keys out of his pocket.

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

"Did you do your exercises today?"

Daisy exhales slowly, her hands on her stomach and her gaze nailed to the ceiling. The cot she shares with Basira feels small at the best of times, but now under her too-heavy stare, it's like laying on a coffin, waiting for the lid to be slammed down again.

"They won't work."

"What?" Basira doesn't come closer, doesn't sit by the edge of the cot, and Daisy feels more and more like a disgusting, wasted carcass of her old self.

"The exercises. I- it's not going to work." The truth of her words weighs on her, the call of her blood begging her to follow, to lose herself again. "The only way I'm going to get better is if I hunt again, and I don't- I'm not doing that."

In the long silence that follows, Daisy darts a quick look at Basira. She's standing by the door, her white-knuckled hand shaking around the crumpled edge of a bag of Daisy's favorite takeout.

"There has to be another way," she says in the end. "What are we supposed to do, just wait for you to die?"

"I don't know. Why don't you ask Elias?" Daisy shrugs. There's a dark pang of delight in her stomach when Basira stiffens, and she sighs. Not exactly a chase, but the Hunt will feed wherever it can. "I'm sorry."

"Do you think I haven't?" Basira's voice is tense and hurt. "Do you think I haven't spent every waking moment since you came out trying to find a way to make you-"

"Back to how I was?" Daisy says quietly, and the way it's enough to stop Basira's rising tirade really says a lot.

"That is not what I want," Basira forces through gritted teeth.

"But it's what you need, isn't it?" After a moment's hesitation, Daisy pushes up into a sitting position, and turns to face Basira. "You were there when I needed you, and now I can't do that for you."

"This is not- I don't keep a tally, Daisy." Basira finally takes a firm step forward and then another and another, until she's standing so close Daisy could reach her if she stretched her arm. She doesn't. "I don't have- I'm just trying to keep everyone from dying, or-"

Basira's voice breaks, and Daisy flinches, eyes wide. In their years working together, she can count on one hand the times she's seen her lose control.

"You were gone," she snaps, "you were dead, I mourned you. I had to- there was no one else. Everyone was dead, Melanie was more and more unstable, and Martin was doing his secretive bullshit. What was I supposed to do? I was the only one. If I gave up, then it was like letting Elias win, and I was not going to let that happen."

"Basira-"

"Of course I wanted you back. As soon as that lying worm told me there might be a way to pull you out, I-"

"I heard your voice in the Buried."

Basira freezes. She looks- Daisy has been her partner for years, and the thing with her is, Basira always knows what to do. Even when she doesn't, she knows what should be done next. Never a second guess or a moment of doubt, or anything less than cold, hard certainty. Now Basira looks lost, and Daisy can only wonder what that means for her, who's always depended on Basira's solidity to ground herself.

"I'm- I want to be here for you. I want to help, Basira, but I can't- I don't want to go back to the Hunt. Or rather, I want it too much, and I know I won't-" Daisy groans. She's never been good with words, one would think spending an eternity with the Archivist would've helped, but apparently it's too much to wish for. "I just want to be myself, for however long I can. I'm- sorry it's not what you-"

Basira crashes against her, and Daisy feels her breath leave her all at once, as they topple over onto the cot, the crumpled falafel bag landing on the floor to be forgotten.

"I'll figure something out," Basira's breath is hot against her shoulder. Daisy can smell her coconut shampoo through her headscarf, and it's all she can do to hold her tighter, because they live in a world in which these moments are fleeting and fragile, and all the more precious for it. "For this. For you."

Daisy nods furiously, her eyes shut tight and her blood singing an entirely different song.

"Basira," she says, the only word she knows, the only word that matters.

Basira nods like she understands, and Daisy can't bring herself to care about anything else.