#but the joy of going joNATHAN??? MR SIMS?? HELLO?

[drawfee-quot3s]

i cAn't figure out what this is. soo i've just decided that he's going to be melting

- julia

[localswordlesbian]

Something There That Wasn’t There Before

Read chapter 1 on ao3

The morning Martin wakes up and realizes his mother has wandered off, he knows he's in trouble. He just never expected this sort of trouble. Never expected a secluded castle beyond the woods, a friendly group of Archival Assistants trapped by an evil curse – a curse saying that if their boss, the reclusive Archivist Jonathan Sims doesn't have someone fall in love with him, he'll remain a monster subservient to the Beholding, and they'll all be trapped forever. Martin never bargained for curse-breaking, but he's never been a quitter.

When Martin woke up to find his mother gone, he knew he was in trouble.

He silently cursed himself as he ran through the house, shouting for her as he checked every room he could possibly think of, even creaking open the door to the attic despite knowing perfectly well his mother couldn’t climb those stairs if she tried.

Not that she ever did, of course. But that wasn’t relevant. What was relevant was that she was gone, and Martin hadn’t the slightest clue of where to find her.

He stopped in the kitchen, pushing his hands through his unruly hair, willing his racing heart to calm down. Just think, Martin. Where would she have gone?

Staring out the window as the town whisked by on their way to run their errands for a typical Saturday morning, Martin grabbed his coat and ran outside. Of course, you daft fool, he chastised himself. She must have just gotten hungry and gone to get bread. Nothing to worry about.

Walking through the town, dodging chickens and waving hello to familiar faces, Martin kept an eye out for the small, familiar form of his mother. Instead, he spotted a man taping a sign to an old, wooden building. Martin smiled as the man turned, waving a friendly hello.

“Blackwood!” the man shouted jovially, sauntering over from his previous perch by the door of the town’s old library. “In the mood for a new adventure? We got a couple donations from a library over in the city. Some Leitner fellow? Didn’t get a look at the books, but I thought you might want to be the first to check them out.”

Martin smiled his first real smile all day. “Thanks, Phil, but I’m in a bit of a hurry at the moment. Have you seen Mum today?”

Phil frowned thoughtfully, rubbing his scruffy beard, stark white against his dark skin. “I think I did, now that you mention ‘er. Saw her walking down the road, towards the bakery. Probably went to get bread? You need to keep a better eye on that woman, my boy. She won’t be able to remember the way home for much longer.”

Martin nodded. “I know. Slipped my mind this morning.”

Phil placed a friendly hand on Martin’s shoulder. “Don’t apologize, young man. These things happen.”

“Thanks. Sorry about the books – I’m sure I’ll be back soon to check them out.”

“No rush – they probably aren’t going anywhere. Now go fetch your mum before she falls into that darned well.”

Waving goodbye, Martin set off down the road toward the bakery. Some people gave Martin a friendly nod or a wave, some gave him a wide berth in the streets. Martin, for his part, mostly kept his eyes ahead of him, until he felt something ram into his legs and wrap around his middle, nearly causing him to take a tumble into the dust.

“Jack, you’ve got to be more careful,” Martin scolded the little boy who was now latched on to Martin’s waist. “I could’ve fallen!”

The little boy, Jack, only giggled in response. “Mr. Martin, did you hear that Mr. Phil got new books in the library? Could you read them to me? Please? Please please please pleasepleaseplease –“

“Yes, Jack, I promise I’ll read them to you,” Martin said with a smile, prying the boy’s small, calloused hands from behind his back. “How about tomorrow morning? I’m a little busy today, but I promise I’ll read to you tomorrow.”

Jack pouted, his freckled face puffing up in annoyance. “Promise?”

“I promise. I’ll be at the well at noon.”

Seeming satisfied, Jack poked Martin’s nose with his finger before sprinting off in the other direction. Martin smiled to himself as he stood and continued down the road – he loved reading to the kids in the town, teaching them the joys that words could bring to the world. They were all a little young for poetry, which was Martin’s personal guilty pleasure read, but he enjoyed reading them children’s books and fairy tales all the same.

Arriving at the bakery, Martin nudged past the line outside, earning him grunts of protest and annoyed glares as he made his way to the window.

“Get in line, boy!” the baker shouted as he sold a loaf to an old woman in a dark cardigan and skirt.

“Sorry, Charles, I was just wondering if you’d seen Mum today?” Martin wrung his hands nervously, the eyes of the annoyed patrons feeling as though they were burning holes in his back.

Charles, the baker, narrowed his eyes. “I did, I saw her head towards the far end of town, towards the woods.”

Martin’s stomach plummeted as he hurriedly thanked Charles and began to walk quickly, up the road once again, a walk that turned into a run as his heart thundered in his chest. Why was she leaving town? What could possibly be in the woods? Where was she intending on going?

Martin sprinted beyond the buildings, adrenaline pumping through his veins as his legs carried him beyond the town and out into the woods. After what felt like an eternity and a second at the same time, Martin slowed, wheezing to catch his breath, as he beheld the looming, foggy forest before him.

Shit.

Martin was oh so hopelessly lost.

After hours of trudging through the woods, twigs breaking under his heavy footfalls as he shouted for his mum until his voice was hoarse and his throat felt like it was splintering, Martin was beginning to lose hope of ever finding his mum or returning to town. He didn’t even know which way the town was anymore, with the looming figures of the trees seeming to make the paths shift right before his eyes. As he stopped in a clearing, his feet aching and his throat begging for water, Martin surveyed what was before him.

Fog seemed to stretch as far as the eye could see in all directions. Behind Martin was a steep cliff that he couldn’t hope to scale if he tried, to his left was trees and fog, same as behind him. To his right, he noticed, was a winding trail that led downwards, leading off to who-knew-where.

Breathing a sigh of defeat, Martin made his way down that path, hoping beyond all hope to either find his mother, the path back to town, or somewhere he could take shelter for the night. The creeping darkness paired with the fog meant he could hardly see in front of him, and the night chill was piercing through his coat and jumper. He shivered as he walked, trying not to let his mind spiral with thoughts of what could have happened to his mum, focusing instead on how his teeth chattered and his feet hurt and his shoulders ached from slumping in on himself in an attempt to stay warm. At the bottom of the path, before him stood tall iron gates, gates which had swung open, seeming to mockingly invite Martin inside.

Had Martin been in his right of mind, he would have immediately turned around and walked away. Though he couldn’t see through the fog, he knew there could be nothing good on the other side of the wicked looking gates.

But Martin was not in his right of mind – he was cold, he was in pain, and he was panicking. So, without a moment’s hesitation, Martin marched through the gates and emerged in what appeared to be a beautiful garden.

For a moment, Martin was awestruck, and he could feel lines from a poem he might write tickling the back of his mind. The stone path he walked on was made up of hundreds of pieces of what appeared to be ceramics and broken glass, forming a twisting pattern that looking at nearly made Martin dizzy. In the middle of the path was a tree, growing along a gnarled trunk and sprouting the most beautiful white, black, and red roses he’d ever seen. All across the property grew different types of flowers: rosebushes and peonies and lilies and lilacs guided Martin towards the massive structure looming before him: a massive gothic castle, dark in comparison to the beauty of the garden, with colossal wooden doors, dark bricks piling higher than Martin could see even when he tilted his head, with spires reaching for the sky and a massive clock: it read that it was half past midnight.

Shaking off a shiver that wasn't quite from the chill of night, Martin marched forward and pushed at the doors. They gave with surprisingly little resistance, and Martin walked into the castle foyer.

He wasn’t entirely sure what he’d expected – for the place to be abandoned, perhaps. Certainly not for the blood-red carpet underfoot to feel soft and to cushion Martin’s footfalls, nor for the dark wood of the interior to look as polished as it did. The foyer was brightly illuminated by a massive chandelier hanging above a grand staircase, which first went upwards before splitting off into left and right. There appeared to be old paintings on the walls, and cabinets lined one side of the front hall.

Beside the door was an ancient-looking wooden coat hanger, so Martin shucked off his coat and hung it up, standing by the door in his favourite yellow wooly jumper and jeans. He walked in slowly, wondering who could possibly be living here.

“Hello?” he called, then cringed as his voice echoed back at him in the vast, empty space. “Mum? Hello? Is anyone here?”

He got no reply, so he dared enter further. To one side he saw an archway that led to a room decorated with an intricate carpet and a comfy-looking sofa, with a roaring fireplace in front of it. The heat hit Martin’s face as he walked towards it, then paused as he noticed a second staircase behind the grand one.

This one was much smaller, leading downwards into what appeared to be a dimly-lit circular stone staircase. The spookiness of it sent shivers down Martin’s spine, and as he debated which direction to go first, he heard the sound of something moving.

“Wouldn’t do that if I were you,” a voice behind him drawled, and Martin yelped as he turned and saw a man standing in front of the couch, the fire behind him accenting his silhouette. As the man approached, Martin could make out more features: pale skin with sunken-in eyes, a lanky figure with long, poorly-dyed black hair and eyeliner accenting his gray eyes. Silver piercings glinted from his eyebrow, nose, and ears, and his nails were painted black that matched his outfit. “You looking for your mum? I heard you shouting.” The man smirked, placing his weight on one foot and crossing his arms in front of him. He seemed friendly, though, if a little intimidating.

“I–yeah,” Martin stammered. “She wandered off this morning? She’s, ah, not exactly in the rightest of minds, so, yeah. Have you seen her?” A hint of hope creeped into his voice.

The man shook his head. “Probably would’ve heard from the boss if she was in the house. Though, the boss can’t see into the basement – Michael and Helen make sure of that.” At Martin’s confused look, the man waved a hand dismissively. “It’s a long story, one that won’t be relevant once you get your mum and get out of here.”

“I–right,” Martin fidgeted with his jumper. He felt like a tele tubby next to this man, and curse Martin’s face for turning red, and he tried to convince himself that it was from the fire and not because he was anxiously facing a sort of cute guy who had just told him he needed to go into a creepy basement to retrieve his mum. “Didn’t you say not to go down there, though?”

The man shrugged. “I hate it down there. You’ll definitely get lost. But if Michael and Helen like you, they should let you go once you’ve found your mum.”

Martin nodded dumbly and tried to muster as much courage as he could, releasing his jumper and willing his hands to be still. “Uh, thanks?”

The man nodded. “No problem. Don’t die.” With that, he walked back towards the couch, vaulted his slim body over it, and settled down. No wonder Martin hadn’t noticed him before – he blended right in.

Taking a deep breath, Martin turned towards the staircase, and before he could talk himself out of it he started the descent.

The staircase was dimly lit by what looked like oil lamps, and Martin felt cramped in the narrow passageway. He felt humidity hanging thick in the air, and soon his ginger curls were plastered to his forehead and his shirt under his jumper was soaked through with sweat. Just as Martin questioned whether the stairs would ever end, his feet hit solid ground and a hallway stretched before him. A hallway lined with cells.

Martin stared at the sight before him, at the ancient looking dungeon that Martin didn’t want to think about why was there. As he stepped forward, he noticed that every cell he passed was empty, which gave him a small amount of relief. Whatever this was, it hadn’t been used in a long time. As he walked, he thought back to the man upstairs’ words.

The boss can’t see into the basement. If Michael and Helen like you, they should let you go once you’ve found your mum. Don’t die.

Who was the boss? How could they see everything in a castle this big? Who were Michael and Helen? Martin picked up his pace, thoroughly spooked and wishing he were back home.

Eventually, he turned around, and nearly stumbled from shock. Behind him was a wall, where there certainly hadn’t been one before. Panic rising in his throat, Martin turned back around and saw with a start that there were now several branching hallways when before it had been a straight path ahead of him. His heart pounding and breath quickening, Martin grabbed the moist wall, wincing at the gross texture but forcing himself to hold on and ground himself. Now is not the time to panic.

Once the panic had become manageable, Martin looked up and saw with a start that there was a figure ahead of him. Familiar dark hair piled on top of the person’s head, and they were dressed in a nightgown and coat.

“Mum?” he called, and the familiar face of his mother looked up at him. As he walked over, her frown deepened into a scowl.

“Where have you been all day?” she demanded.

Martin winced. “I’m sorry. I was looking for you. You went really far, Mum.”

Martin’s mum glowered at him. “Useless. Just like your father.” Martin suppressed a wince, not wanting to let on how wounded he felt at her words. He’d gotten lost and tore his feet up for her, and all she could do was insult him.

Bitterness rose in his throat, and he crushed it down. She’s ill. Let her be. he chided himself. “Come on, Mum. Let’s get you home.”

“Yes, let’s,” drawled a voice that was not his mother’s from behind him. Martin’s shout echoed off the walls, and he heard his mother shush him sharply as he turned and saw a figure leaning on the wall. Behind him, the passage was as it was the first time Martin had looked at it – straight ahead toward the stairs. “I have no problem with letting her go. A nasty piece of work you’ve got there, boy.”

Martin sputtered as he beheld the man – his long, curling blond hair fell past his hips, acting as a cape for his lithe frame. He was dressed in a suit of colours so bright and patterns so disorienting it gave Martin a headache just looking at it. But what was most notable about the man, aside from his high-pitched drawling voice, was his fingers – long and spindly, as though there were several extra joints extending them to inhuman lengths. The man leaned one shoulder against the wall, his long fingers dangling at his sides. “I don’t-“

“What do you think, Helen?” the man addressed someone over Martin’s head – despite how tall Martin was, this man was significantly taller. Craning his neck, he saw another figure similar to the first one: a woman this time, with dark curling hair that stood straight up before falling to her waist, a spiralling colourful dress, a manic grin, and the same long fingers as the man. “The woman gets on my nerves, but the boy is quite cute.”

The woman, Helen, gave Martin a slow once-over. Martin felt like his skin was crawling, as though the woman was trying to see into his soul. “He is. Wonder if he’d be the boss’ type.”

“Woah!” Martin exclaimed indignantly. “I am not just a piece of meat, I’ll have you know! I don’t know what your boss is running here, but I’m not interested!”

The woman – Helen – chuckled. “Ooh, a feisty one. I like him, Michael.”

So these two were Michael and Helen. “Look, I just came to get my mum and head home. I’d appreciate if you let me do that.”

Michael clucked his tongue. “Shame. Though I suppose we aren’t in the business of taking prisoners, so alright. You can go.” With a click of his tongue, a door appeared to Martin’s left. The door was warped, yellow, and did not look trustful at all. “Go ahead, it’ll take you home.”

“How did you–“

“You should stay behind.”

Martin stared as his mother cut off his question of how Michael knew where he and his mother lived to gape at her. “I–what?”

His mother glared at him. “I’d really forgotten how dense you are, boy. Stay here. I can return home without you. I think I’ll be better off.”

Martin found he could barely form a single word. “Wh–I–Who will take care of you?”

His mother sniffed and made her way for the door. “I’ll find someone. Do not follow me. Perhaps you’ll mope less here.” And with that, his mother stepped through the door and was gone.

[smallmediumproblems]

The first sign that Jon’s plan was working was the sunlight. It was thin, cloudy, London sunlight, but it was the second-most beautiful thing he’d seen in his entire life. He let it wash over him along with the sounds of the city. The passing cars and babble of tourists and, god, just the sound of people being happy. The second sign was that he had no idea what day it was. He reached for the information from something beyond himself, but it was like trying to flex wings that he didn’t have. He was blissfully alone in his head. The Eye was gone. As he glanced down at himself, he found that the rest of the fear had gone with it. The scar on his hand rested stubbornly on the surface of his skin and went no deeper. The rest were the same.

The third sign was that he was able to hail a cab from Hilltop Road to Millbank. He didn’t think he could handle being underground just yet, and it gave him an excuse to have a conversation. Any conversation. Yes, he did live in London. From Kilbride, is that so? He’d spent his honeymoon up North (sort of), lovely place. Spectacular cows. He was here on business, actually, since he supposed he didn’t work where he was going anymore. Damned glad to be free of the place. Why, yes, Jon thought so too- a job was really all about the people. The people had always been good.

The Magnus Institute was as squat and imposing as he remembered it. Perhaps it was Jon’s imagination, but it looked smaller than when he’d last seen it. The shadows clung a little closer, shying away from his flimsy sunlight. He could almost hear Tim and Sasha arguing inside, could picture the way they smiled and laughed at each other. Martin would be…

No. No, he couldn’t think about that, that was a sacrifice he had already decided to make. It’s not like Martin would know, anyway.

“Sir?” Rosie’s voice stopped him from heading straight down to the Archives. He pulled to a halt, taking a second to bask in the normalcy of it. “Can I help you?”

“Err, yes,” he stammered, “Hello. I’m- I’m here to see the Archivist?”

“He’s got a visitor right now, but...” Rosie informed him. She glanced down towards the stairwell, and returned her attention to Jon with a sympathetic half-smile. “You’re here for a statement? Why don’t you wait downstairs. I’m sure he’ll be happy to see you.”

It had been too much to hope that Gertrude was still alive. Apparently, it had been too much to hope for Sasha to be her successor, either. Tim, maybe? He’d been marked by the Stranger, something Elias would surely have noticed and took advantage of. He thanked Rosie, and as he made his way downstairs, a very different argument than what he’d been expecting drifted up through the walls.

“...got time for this. I don’t know how to make that any more clear. I don’t care.”

“That’s just what I love about our conversations.”

The doors were closed. All except for his own at the end of the hall. Tentatively, Jon knocked on Tim’s office door. No answer. Then Sasha. Then Martin. Nothing. Even the break room was silent.

“Look, even if I didn’t think you were a waste of my time, I’m already spoken for. What you’re talking about just isn’t possible. Not after what happened.”

“Can you really know that?”

Jon rounded the corner to see Martin sitting at his desk, just in time to hear him let out a laugh that was far too sharp and far too dark.

“Knowing’s what I do,” said Martin Blackwood, the Archivist. “That, and babysitting, since you’re still-”

Martin’s eyes lit up very abruptly, and he leaned around Peter Lukas to look at Jon. “Jonathan! Come in, we were just finishing up.”

There was a moment of vertigo as Jon realized that Martin didn’t actually recognize him. He just Knew him. He felt an uncomfortable pressure at the back of his neck, as though something had grabbed hold of him to keep him from struggling.

Martin’s attention flickered briefly back to Peter, the stark annoyance returning to his voice. “Leave. I’d tell you to come back later, but honestly, don’t.”

“Same time tomorrow, then,” said Peter. He nodded cheerfully at Jon on his way out, and Martin rounded the desk to greet him.

“Here for a statement?” Martin asked eagerly. “Please, sit down, I’ll get you some tea.”

Jon nodded and collapsed faintly into the guest chair. Martin had apparently moved the entire tea station into his office, and opened a storage cabinet in the corner to reveal an electric kettle next to a mismatched selection of boxes and loose paper packets. Without so much as a look backwards, he began making a cup exactly the way Jon liked it, as well as one for himself. He even used Jon's favorite cat mug. Jon wondered if Martin Knew he liked it specifically because it was the one Martin always used to bring him.

“Sorry you had to see that,” Martin said idly. “Office politics, you know. Doesn’t even work here, and he thinks he can waltz right in and give me more stuff to do.”

“I can imagine,” said Jon. “Isn’t there anyone else to help you?”

Martin laughed again, that light little chirp that he reserved for when something was wrong and he didn’t want to talk about it. “Just me. I’ve got some assistants, somewhere, but they’re kept nice and busy.”

He turned to face Jon as he spoke, and the effect was perhaps less reassuring than he’d intended. For the first time in years, Jon was reminded that Martin's demeanor was the only thing stopping him from being intimidating as well as just very big. He looked older than he should have been. Jon had never seen him loom before, but he was proving to be quite good at it. There was a scar across his left jaw, two parallel lines that could have been from claws. His smile was, inexplicably, the same as ever, which almost made the whole picture worse. It was still more beautiful than the sunlight outside. His eyes went startlingly glassy for a moment, and he looked surprised at something.

“Wow. You’ve got quite a story, haven’t you?” he commented.

“I’m much more interested in yours,” said Jon. Martin sighed.

“Of course you are,” he said. “What is it this time... You know, I can't get a clear look at you, that's funny. Are you from the Spiral? You don’t reeeeally strike me as the spidery type.”

“No, I’m- I’m human,” said Jon. “I’m not here for the Archivist, Martin. I came to find you.”

Martin’s smile withered away into an almost childish dissatisfaction. He didn't tense up, or seem particularly more ready to deal with any impending danger. It was with an uneasy sinking feeling that Jon understood this was because his guard had been raised the whole time. Jon had been a threat from the moment he walked in the door. Martin was just sure he could deal with whatever that threat was.

“Cool," he said tersely, "Love it when strangers know who I am. Let's start from the top. Who exactly are you?"

"I'm Jon. Jonathan Sims," Jon answered, his whole being laid out precisely by the question. He could not help but feel a little thrill of joy at not being anything else. "I suppose I’m not anybody. I’m from a different world, one that I, ah… Kind of mucked up. I came here because I thought it would be better off without me."

Martin frowned.

He smiled.

He laughed, and it was as cold and terrible as before.

"Alright," he said. "That’s, um. Total nonsense. First things first-"

Martin turned to retrieve the tea and slid Jon's cup across the table to him. He even gave him a coaster.

"We're going to play a game," Martin said pleasantly. "Here's how it goes: I'm going to pop your head open like an advent calendar, and if I don't like what I find, I get to eat all the little chocolates inside. Now might be a good time to leave if that doesn't sound like a fun game to you."

"And abandon my tea?" Jon said, aghast. Martin lifted his cup, and they clinked glasses. From the look in Martin's eyes, they might as well have been crossing swords.

"Alright then!" said Martin. "Let's have that statement, Mr Jonathan Sims who isn’t anybody. The very first one. About how you worked here."

And with that, the whole world fell away, an excruciating practice in focus and captivity. Jon had expected it to feel like being in a spotlight. Perhaps like performing to a massive, leering audience. This was more personal. This was an exam that he'd spent his whole life studying for and not absorbed a single piece of worthwhile information towards. An essay prompt that he was brimming with words to answer, but could never have enough time to do it justice.

"Well, I was the Archivist," he started, taking a sip of his tea. "I was good at it. Not at first, of course. I wasn't a good anything, at first. I had some assistants who tolerated me. There was Sasha. And Tim. And you. I managed to ruin everything almost immediately, for everyone. I let Sasha die. Didn't even notice when it happened. Then, I brought Tim with me on a dangerous mission, knowing he would die too, which he did. I made your life hell, and the moment things started to change for the better, I left you.

"All while I was ruining people's lives, I continued to be a good Archivist. And an Archivist is only good for one thing. I brought ruin to everything around me one final time. An irrevocable ruin. So deep and terrible that reality shifted in the image of my abject failure. Then, when I could no longer stand to live in that world, I left you one last time. I removed myself - and my failure - from reality. And now, I'm here."

There was a heavy creak as Martin leaned back against his tea cabinet. He had looked calm, almost comfortable until that moment, and Jon remembered the way that statements tended to bottle up your emotions until they were finished if you weren't careful. Martin’s face had gone pale. At what in particular, Jon couldn't begin to guess. He could feel very keenly what Martin had seen - the litany of horrors that Jon had committed against the world, culminating in one final terror that never ceased and had no bounds. He couldn’t know what it meant to Martin, though. There was a haze growing around his memories of the apocalypse, like a nightmare his body was trying to wash away.

"You came back," Martin finished for him.

"I suppose I did," said Jon. "Martin, what happened to everyone?"

"Gone," Martin said faintly. He removed himself from the cabinet and came forward to lean on his chair instead. "They're all… dead, Jon, why did… it's just me. It's been me for so long."

That couldn’t be right. Jon was the reason they died, they should have been just fine without him.

"What about Melanie? Daisy, or Basira?" he insisted, "Or Helen, is Helen still here?"

"Helen’s gone," said Martin, "Died in the accident with Sasha. Michael left after that, too. I wasn’t supposed to be the Archivist, you know? Everyone knew that. Sasha’s the one who took over for Gertrude. After Tim got replaced by that… thing, she just… She didn't come back from the circus. I think she knew better. When Elias offered me the job, I thought- I couldn't stop thinking, if I say no, if he gets someone else, am I going to have to watch them die, too?"

"Martin, I'm so sorry," was all Jon could think to say. "I thought I could save them. If I'd just left well enough alone, if I hadn't been there, I thought that would be enough. This was my fault, all of it was meant to go away without me. I was just trying to fix what I’d done."

“And what did you do to me, huh?” asked Martin. “You said you killed everyone else.”

“I don’t want to-”

“Tell me what you did,” asked the Archivist.

“I loved you,” said Jon.

Again, he was unraveled for examination. It spared him the messy process of having to examine his feelings, but it meant that Martin was forced to go through it instead. Martin took a deep breath in and out, as though struggling to press back some reaction. Whatever he’d been through in Jon’s absence, it let him keep his expressions startlingly neutral.

“And what do you mean to do now?” he pressed.

“I suppose I’ll still love you,” said Jon. “And hope that that’s enough.”

Martin got very quiet. He started to say something, and stopped short. Thought of something better to say, then decided against that one as well. Jon momentarily wished that he could get inside his head one last time.

“What else do you do?” he finally asked.

“Mostly, I make extremely reckless decisions,” Jon admitted.

Martin considered this.

“I can work with that,” he decided, “You’re kind of from the future, right?”

“That’s not-”

“What can you tell me about the Fears?” Martin cut him off. There was a gleam in his eye that Jon recognized as the first inkling of a plan. It made Jon’s heart melt.

“Um, right. So, you’ve got Smirke’s fourteen, that’s obvious.”

“Obviously.”

“Did you talk to Leitner?”

Martin rolled his eyes. “Ugh. I haven’t seen him since he cleared out that Hunter last year. He still won’t come out of the tunnels, he’s convinced Elias is going to lop his head off.”

“He’s alive?” Jon exclaimed.

“I mean, I guess,” said Martin, not sounding too worried. “Seemed like he had things sorted.”

“He wasn’t far off the mark about Elias,” Jon said nervously.

“Yeeeah, I wouldn’t worry about that,” said Martin. “I keep him locked in a storage closet.”

This was so far outside the realm of Jon’s imagination that he actually took a moment to picture it. It was a pleasant moment.

“...and that works?” he asked.

“Sort of,” Martin shrugged. “I throw him an evil artifact once and a while to keep him busy. Took him ages to get out of that haunted coffin thing.”

“God, you’re amazing,” Jon muttered under his breath, “Err, what about Gerry?”

“How d’you think I got this?” said Martin, tracing a knuckle over the claw mark that tugged at his smug little half-smile.

Jon got the distinct feeling that they were competing at something. More importantly, Martin seemed to be winning. The tea was abandoned, pouring the last of its warmth uselessly into the air. There was a tension between them that Jon hadn’t felt since the first time they’d met. The rules for that interaction were impersonal, neutral and only tenuously agreed-upon, full of boundaries that needed pushing and limits to test. Technically speaking, they were meeting for the first time again, which meant that the same rules applied here. That memory forced a realization into Jon’s head with all the grace and delicacy of a burning freight train.

Martin wasn’t trying to beat him at anything. He was trying to impress him.

“C’mon, future guy,” said Martin, with an impatience that was clearly feigned. “Give me something useful.”

“You never mentioned what happened to Melanie,” Jon shot back.

“Melanie King,” Martin mulled over, “She came in with a statement, then she dragged Sasha off to India looking for ghosts. Sasha came back with a bullet hole in her back. Melanie joined a podcast.”

“Thank god,” Jon breathed a sigh of relief.

“Um, no?” said Martin, eyes wide. “Sasha got shot.”

“No, but- But Melanie’s fine,” Jon explained. “Honestly, I’ll take what I can get, at this point.”

Martin smirked. “Keep going.”

“Daisy and Basira.”

“They are a pair of law officers,” Martin said contemplatively, drawing the information from thin air. Jon noticed that he tilted his head up slightly whenever he Beheld something, craning his neck to get a better look. He wondered if he’d had any sort of tells like that. Martin could probably tell him. “One of whom just got probation for murdering someone. Again. Is that supposed to mean something?”

“I suppose not,” said Jon, “And you know about the rituals?”

“No, Jon, I don’t know about the rituals I’ve lost most of my friends to trying to stop in the past year,” said Martin.

“Do you know they don’t work?”

This gave Martin pause.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” he asked suspiciously.

“I mean, they don’t work,” Jon repeated. “The rituals are doomed to fail. It’s impossible to bring any one fear into the world on its own.”

���Which means that… I haven’t lost everyone trying to stop the end of the world.” Martin’s voice had started to shake. “I’ve lost everyone for… absolutely nothing.”

“There’s something else,” Jon said sharply. This was a crisis that did need dealing with, but not here or now. “One of them does work, one that you’re in a uniquely good position to stop. Your own.”

Martin pulled out the meaning of this remarkably quickly. That, or he just pulled the answer from Jon’s head. “The Archivist is a ritual,” he proposed.

“Exactly,” said Jon. “Your role is to collect the fears. All of them. They can’t be brought in one at a time, but all at once is a different matter.”

“So, no Archivist, no ritual?” Martin said quietly.

“No!” Jon cried, “That’s what I tried to do. Didn’t exactly work out. I think there’s always an Archivist. All we can do is postpone it. Gertrude did the best she could, but she didn’t tell anyone who could have carried on for her.”

“And then she died,” said Martin.

“Yes, but she also lived,” said Jon. “Right now, I think that’s the best possible thing you can do.”

“Let’s- Let me just unpack this, so you know how insane this sounds,” said Martin. “This guy I’ve never met before - who apparently loves me literally more than sunlight, don’t think I didn’t catch that - waltzes in and tells me that the solution to all my problems is just living my best life.”

Jon smiled, finally breaking the tension to take a sip of tea. “In all fairness, the sun does rather pale in comparison to you.”

Martin laughed again. This time it had just a hint of the warmth that Jon longed to see in him.

“Well. You promised you’d find me when you came back,” said Martin. “How’s that working out for you?”

Jon nearly choked on his drink. He had in fact been trying not to think about the last time he’d seen the other Martin - his Martin, who stood through the end of the world with him. He’d been trying to think of everything except the last words they’d said to each other, the last time they’d touched, the last time they would see each other again.

“You remember?” he spluttered.

“I know,” Martin corrected him, although he seemed unsure himself. “That’s different from remembering. It didn’t happen to me. It happened to someone else, who was me, who… And, and I don’t… I mean, I could. Couldn’t I?”

“Martin, I can’t read minds anymore,” Jon reminded him.

“I don’t love you,” Martin insisted. This seemed to distress him more than anything he’d pulled from Jon’s mind. “Not like he did. I don’t know how. You came all this way, and I’ve got no idea how to be the person you came looking for.”

“I know,” Jon said warmly. “I didn’t come here expecting you to. I came back to keep my promise. And I came back to help however I could.”

Martin nodded. “D’you think we could start with that whole ‘living’ thing?”

“I can’t say I’m the best at it,” said Jon, “But for you, I’ll try.”

[fataldrum]

Ficlet: gotta catch ‘em all (Pokėmon AU)

Fandom: The Magnus Archives

Pairing: Jonathan Sims/Martin Blackwood

Summary: Martin's unusually clever spider Pokėmon catch the eye of the Magnus Institute, which "acquires" unusual subjects for study. Jon is sent to investigate.

Based on a prompt by @cuttoothed

Jon wasn’t proud of his job, but Dr. Robinson paid him well enough, and she was a harsh but fair employer. She decided which Pokėmon they would “acquire” for study, and Jon, well, acquired them. Most of the Pokėmon didn’t seem to mind as long as they were fed and treated well. Jon knew all too well how difficult it was to find a legitimate job as a Pokėmon behavioral researcher. The Magnus Institute had been his last resort.

Usually Gertrude made her requests by email, but occasionally she delivered them in person, as she did one day over tea.

“I’ve been hearing some interesting rumors, Jon,” she said.

“What sort of rumors?” he asked. Hopefully no more gossip about Tim’s love life. He wasn’t prepared for a repeat of the Nurse Joy incident.

“There is a trainer in Tundra City whose Pokėmon are displaying signs of above-average intelligence. Making decisions for themselves. Winning matches despite being smaller and weaker than their opponents.”

“Interesting,” was all Jon said. Inwardly, his mind was racing with possible explanations, each more tantalizing than the last. A genetic mutation? Nutrients? Or perhaps some sort of trickery? He very much wanted to know.

“I’d like you to follow Mr. Blackwood and secure at least one of his Pokėmon for study.”

“Of course, Dr. Robinson.” He bent to collect her empty teacup and saucer, placing it on the silver serving tray.

“The dossier is on your desk. And Jon?” she said, stopping him.

“Yes?”

“Prepare for trouble.”

He smiled. “Of course, Dr. Robinson.”

Martin Blackwood was possibly the dullest man Jon had ever met. Or, well, not met. Stalking was probably a better word. Stalking for professional purposes. Professional stalking.

So far he knew Martin was an awkward, soft-spoken man who lived with his mother in a dreary little flat. He wore ghastly, eye-searing jumpers and seemed to spend most of his time at home. The reason for this became apparent when he saw Martin escorting his mother to a doctor’s appointment: she was painfully thin and usually needed help walking the few steps to the car. He was patient and solicitous with her, but she did her best not to look directly at him. Jon filed that bit of knowledge away for later consideration.

When Martin wasn’t at home with his mother, he worked at the local library, where he was cheerful but fairly inept. Jon witnessed him misfiling several books while chatting with patrons, and on one memorable occasion, watched him trip and topple over an entire shelf of paperbacks, laughing awkwardly as a co-worker helped him up.

Other than that, it was mostly lonely trips to the grocery store. He was friendly enough at work, but he didn’t seem to socialize much. Jon never saw him with one of his Pokėmon in public, and he was beginning to think he had the wrong man when he saw Martin stumble upon a spinarak being chased by a flock of spearows.

“Go away! Shoo!” Martin shouted, flapping his arms at the spearows. He was a rather tall man, and while the spearows cawed at him, none were willing to approach.

“Are you alright, sweetheart?” Martin asked the creature.

Jon watched him kneel to address the spinarak, carefully inspecting it for wounds. His stomach churned as Martin ran his hands along each chitinous joint, cooing and telling the creature what a darling it was. The final straw was when he kissed the top of its head, making it chitter happily, and Jon whimpered.

Martin’s head whipped around, the spinarak momentarily forgotten.

“You’re the man who’s been following me,” he said softly.

“No, I’m not,” Jon blurted out.

“You’re not very convincing," Martin said, smiling. His eyes crinkled at the corners. "But if you need something, all you have to do is ask.”

“Why spiders?” Jon asked impulsively.

“Because people are afraid of them,” Martin said, stroking the spinarak’s head. “It’s not even their fault, but people hate them. I know what that’s like.”

“Why are yours so clever? What do you do?”

Martin’s face shone with pride. “So you’ve heard of my darlings? You can meet them, if you like.”

Jon very much did not like, but he did have a job to do, after all, even if it was an appalling one, and he still wanted to know.

Martin turned to the spinarak again. “D’you want to come home with me, little guy? I’ve got just enough space for a friend like you.”

The spinarak chittered eagerly, and Martin collected it into a red and white pokėball.

The Blackwoods’ apartment seemed perfectly normal at first glance: a frilly sitting room, a cramped kitchen, and two small bedrooms.

“Mum’s not feeling well today,” Martin said, glancing at one of the closed doors, “but they tend to stay in my room.”

Then Martin released the spinarak and opened a portal into Jon’s worst nightmares.

Martin’s bedroom was crawling with spider Pokėmon: an ariados, a galvantula, and another, larger spinarak. They all chittered as Martin approached, scurrying up to greet him like dogs. Jon retreated instinctively, clutching the door frame.

“Hello, lovelies,” Martin greeted. “Did you miss me?”

Martin’s face lit up as he petted each one, allowing them to crawl over his body. Jon gripped the door frame so hard the wood creaked.

“Are you ready for story time?” Martin asked, sitting down on the bed. The creatures gathered around him. One even crawled to the bookshelf, carrying a small volume in its fangs and depositing it in Martin’s lap in exchange for scritches.

Looking around, Jon noticed more details. The room was covered in brightly covered posters, littered with toys and puzzles seemingly designed for spider limbs. Martin had all but constructed a spider kindergarten.

“Good lord,” he murmured.

There wasn’t anything special about the creatures: it was the disarmingly innocent man before him, reading to them as if they were his children.

“How would you like a job?” Jon asked.