#elias seeing martin for the first time in eight months: first i would like to remind you that you are a fa | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

theskywaslookingback · 3 years

Note

tma fic recs please ? 🤲🏽

Oooooo yes! I never get asks like this, thank you!

[my tumblr fic recs tag is here for browsing]

I had to put it under a cut because it got...entirely too long barely half an hour into making it, sorry.

Under 5k

means of cartharsis by orphan_account [G] [965]

“You’d think – you’d that at this point nightmares would be second nature for me, hm?” Martin says, forcing a smile even as he tugs the blanket tighter around his trembling shoulders.

It’s meant to be a bit funny. Instead of laughing, though, Jon frowns.

“No,” he says simply, and matter-of-factly wipes the moisture from Martin’s cheeks with a tissue like he’s a crying child.

A Proper Sleepover by Goodluckdetective (scorpiantales) [T] [1.4k]

In a different world, one where Elias is not waiting for them outside the Lonely, everyone has a chance to savor a moment of respite. As much as they can get these days. If only to talk about things that long need to be spoken.

“Basira says we should all sleep in the same room tonight,” Jon says without looking up. “Safer. So we can keep an eye out for intruders and also each other.”

“So we’re having a proper sleepover then?”

Jon scoffs. “Technically we’ve been having a proper one for months.”

where i go, when i go there by rainny_days [T] [1.7k]

Martin wants Jon to hold his hand. Martin doesn't want Jon to hold his hand.

It's complicated.

all the other ways by AptlyNamed [G] [2.2k]

Jon loses his first soul mark when he is eight years old.

a palace from ruin by bibliocratic [G] [2.2k]

"What're you sorry for?” Martin asks.

“I should have asked,” Jon says finally. “I'd never.... you were always so private about him, so I mean, at first I wasn't sure he was even yours, but then – when you, when you went with Peter, and I – he was so small, and I thought he was h-half-dead. S-so I picked him up and I carried him. And I'm sorry.”

interiors by doomcountry [T] [2.7k]

In the doorway, he fumbles with his keys. Their sound is loud in the silent stairwell. You don’t remember getting here.

searching for a light (for a right) by Kalgalen [T] [2.7k]

Some people make the mistake of assuming he's naive about sex, for the simple reason he hasn't dated in a while. Tim has called him a prude, at one point, and implied that he was somehow afraid of the intimacy required by the act; he wasn’t entirely wrong, but this definitely isn’t the reason for Jon's disinterest and general bafflement toward what most people seemed to consider as "what makes them human".

Jon simply hasn't found the right person. That is all it is: high standards, and a reticence to let people in.

(In which Jon finds out society is wrong about what a romantic relationship should be.)

how to plant a garden in rocky soil by treeprince [T] [2.9k]

Sometimes you just need a good pair of hands to work out all the kinks in your life.

Good thing Martin has two.

A Weather In The Flesh by cuttooth [G] [3k]

"There is a span of years where Jon doesn’t touch anyone other than the occasional hand shake. It’s not so bad. He’s never been someone who’s needed physical affection."

Jon has never been any good at making people want to stick around.

I'll bring the motion by callmearctus [T] [3.1k]

A long series of kidnappings and international flights leaves its own special mark on someone. Before the Unknowing, Jon is a mess.

Martin helps.

A Bread Made In Heaven by Againstme [G] [3.3k]

Martin moves over and watches how his boyfriend handles the dough. He's awkward with it, tentative and gentle, as if he's scared of hurting it somehow.

"Is this, uh, am I doing this right?" Jon asks, still slowly stretching out the dough and folding it onto itself.

"Well," he says shifting closer to Jon again, "you could be applying more pressure. Here, let me help you out, dear."

Martin moves fully behind Jon, and reaches around him, putting his hands on top of his boyfriend's. Jon inhales sharply, but doesn't say anything else, just lets Martin's hand rest on top of his.

Martin's hands are bigger, but not big enough to entirely envelop the other's hands, and Jon's hands are much, much warmer than his own are. To see what they're doing, Martin moves his head to look over Jon's shoulder. Though he can't see his boyfriend's face from this angle, he can see how it is slowly growing red at the edge of his vision. He decides not to tease him on it, instead content with letting a smile spread across his face and slowly guiding their joined hands in the proper motion.

Or, Martin teaches Jon how to make bread.

stumbling and spinning by lady_mab [G] [3.3k]

“Things happened,” Jon says demurely, trying to untangle Gerry’s fingers, but it only results in him getting pulled in so Gerry can kiss him properly. “It’s not all that bad.”

“I suppose not,” Gerry says with a sigh, sitting back upright. “You somehow managed to snag an incredible boyfriend out of it.”

It takes a solid few seconds before realization clicks in Martin’s brain. “You mean me?” [...]

“You have to admit, Jon has great tastes,” Gerry teases.

nothing sweeter than local honey by beeclaws [T] [3.4k]

So Tim is content, one arm leaned into the spray, waiting for the water to warm, enjoying the feeling of homecoming underneath the gentle fuzz of jetlag, when he hears gasping, panicked breaths coming from the other room.

Tim and Jon, in the aftermath, relearning how to be okay.

When Words are Inadequate by Mugatu [T] [3.8k]

Meals and the preparation of are, for want of a better word, informative. Fact gathering. A place where they can fill in the gaps of their knowledge of the other.

Jon cooks for Martin, and they learn more about each other.

go softly by doomcountry [T] [4k]

And there is nothing else besides this.

Imago by cuttooth [T] [4k]

“Jon?” he asks tentatively, tightening his grip around the poker as it slips against his sweaty palm. The antennae twitch, and suddenly Martin knows that it’s Jon, the knowledge sliding into his mind in a surge of desperate affection, the same profound love he felt that first time he truly saw Jon in the fog of the Lonely.

“Oh,” he whispers. “It really is you.”

Jon changes, but he’s still the same to Martin.

shoreline by bibliocratic [G] [4.1k]

“Martin," Tim says kindly, tipsily, only mildly slurring. "Dearest, dearest Martin. You're wankered, babe. Last train to Stockwell fucked off hours ago because it is now piss off o'clock in the morning, and there's a sofa with your exact name on it at my place. Thought you said you wanted some handsome fellow to take you back to his tonight?”

Or: The OG Archive crew go drinking, Martin comes out, and gets some well deserved TLC. In that order.

get your epitaph right by bibliocratic [G] [4.2k]

Martin's daemon has tried on the shape of dogs and lizards and snakes and horses, and even – once, when he was younger and Mum took him to the seaside, a fish.

Martin's never seen his soul in the dressing of a spider before.

i've known the warmth of your doorways by beeclaws [T] [4.2k]

'I’m always in pain, Jon wants to say, even as he dismisses the thought as melodramatic. Between his growing collection of old wounds and scar tissue, the supernatural hunger for statements that hasn’t been truly satiated in months, and the unpredictable aches and strains his body threw off day by day long before he ever set foot in the Institute, some level of pain and discomfort follows Jon wherever he goes now. He is used to being in pain. He’s not used to someone holding his hand as he suffers through it.'

Jon catalogs the comforts he receives, and wonders how long he will be allowed to keep them.

lay down your weary head by Zykaben [T] [4.6k]

Jon has been running himself ragged, searching for every scrap of information he can possibly find about the Unknowing. He's exhausted and sleep-deprived but he can't bring himself to take a break, not now.

Luckily, Tim and Martin are there to make sure that their boyfriend gets the care and rest he needs.

only the sweetest words remain by bluejayblueskies [T] [4.6k]

This isn't how things are supposed to go, right? Jon remembers those ratty paperbacks from the charity shops, dime-a-dozen romance novels with broken bindings and yellowing pages and words that spoke of love and passion and sexuality in prose that was more than a bit too mature for someone whose age hadn’t yet reached double digits. Stolen glances turn into dinner dates turn into passionate kisses turn into…

Well, he’d never actually read those parts of the books, because it had all seemed so deeply uncomfortable and gross. But he got the picture.

Or, Jonathan Sims, on being loved

5k-20k

and they keep not letting go by Marianne_Dashwood [G] [5k]

It’s an electric feeling, something strange and new and familiar all at once, even though he has been holding Martin’s hand for most of the day. His stomach swoops, like he is standing on the edge of the precipice of realisation and staring into the void of unknowing. But at the same time, he does know. In this instant of contact between them, the last few years of cups of tea and small smiles and momentary glances, of panic and fear and only feeling safe with Martin’s solid presence in the room, despite his paranoia, rush into him, and oh, oh oh.

ready to call this love by yewgrove [G] [5.6k]

How is Martin supposed to tell Jon that he panicked, stupidly, when the lovely old lady down the village asked him what they were doing in this part of the world? Got the shopping! Oh, by the way, we're married now! Whole village thinks we're on our honeymoon, hope you don't mind!

Prenons-nous la main by luftballons99 [T] [6k]

They still haven't talked about it, any of it, not even to pass the time on the long train ride to Scotland. Instead, Martin fell asleep in the seat next to him, pressed into his side from shoulder to knee, and Jon thought about love confessions and verb tense and how the two fit together when you think you're dying.

or: Good cows, mediocre poetry, and other crucial topics of discussion.

This Must Be The Place by cuttooth [T] [6k]

“You said – you said we were going home,” Martin says softly.

“I did,” says Jon, and is grateful that Martin doesn’t comment on him calling the Archives home. “I – I don’t really know where to go. I, uh, I don’t have a flat anymore, I don’t think. We could find a hotel?”

“Let’s go to my place,” says Martin. His hand squeezes Jon’s, more gently than before. Most importantly, Jon notes, he doesn’t let go.

Jon and Martin go home for a little while.

Small Things, Simple Acts by ZaliaChimera [T] [6.6k]

Even after leaving London, Jon and Martin are not free, not really. Maybe they never will be.

But for now they can be themselves, and maybe in the end, that's enough.

house by tomatoes [G] [9k]

Martin can take care of himself.

roses, roses, roses by acetheticallyy (judesstfrancis) [T] [9.3k]

Rose scented laundry detergent. Running into Jon in the breakroom. Running into Jon on his way back to his desk. Rose scented detergent. Running into Jon. Roses. Jon. Roses, roses, roses.

a deeply annoying child by ajkal2 [G] [9.6k]

Jon is hiding under the desk.

----

There's a child in the Archives, who shouldn't be there.

Inseparable by voiceless_terror [T] [10.3k]

“You can stay.” The voice interrupts his internal panic, and he looks over to find Jon studiously avoiding his gaze, staring hard at a neighboring bush. Martin wonders what caused his sudden change of heart. “But you have to sit on the other side. And don’t talk to me.”

Jonathan Sims and Martin Blackwood meet as children. Some things change, others do not.

i'm almost me again, you're almost you by gruhukens [G] [12k]

After a second Jon steps in towards him, close enough that Martin flinches, but all Jon does is put two fingers under his chin with his free hand and raise it until Martin can’t duck away. Jon has never touched him so casually before – at least, not until today, and it raises a lot of thoughts and feelings that Martin is trying very hard not to process.

Much like a lot of other things that have happened, he thinks. Not that it’s horrible or terrifying or numbing like everything else has been: it’s just another thing on the list of things he doesn’t have the capacity to deal with.

---

In the wake of the Lonely, there's a lot that Martin doesn't really want to think about.

hello my old heart by firebirdsuite [T] [15.8k]

Peter’s wrong, of course. When it’s all over, Martin does still want to tell Jon everything. It’s just—well, there’s a few things they need to work through first before they can get there.

Martin and Jon find each other again in Scotland.

Over 20k

The Kindness of Strangers by TheOestofOCs [M] [23k]

It was easier to treat Jon like a monster when he wasn’t shivering against his back, brokenly humming—wait, was that…

“Are you trying to do ‘Hey, Jude’?” Tim demanded.

Jon stopped, stiffening. “Mm hrmh mm mmh hm,” he said defensively.

“You really can’t hold a tune, can you, boss?”

It was just an ordinary walk to a restaurant. Tim had insisted that if they were going to talk, there would be no tape recorders or weird Archives ghosts listening in. A bit of fresh air wouldn’t kill him, Tim had said. What could go wrong?

By the time Jon spots the white delivery van, it’s much too late.

The Stranger kidnaps Jon. Tim comes along for the ride.

Misjudged by ShastaFirecracker [T] [36.5k]

Martin's been a longtime listener of What the Ghost, so when Georgie gives a shoutout to her flatmate's Twitch channel during a Q&A, he checks it out - only to discover that her flatmate is also his most terrifying coworker at his new job. The first time they crossed paths, Jon yelled at him for incompetence. But on the streams, Martin sees an entirely different person - someone fun and relaxed, engaging and unfairly attractive. Over time, Martin begins to find that Jon buried inside his dour, awkward coworker. He also learns to live with the fact that his crush is painfully one-sided... or is it?

if we make it through the night everyone is gonna hear us (Series) by skvadern [Ratings Vary] [42.4k]

In which Sasha survives the NotThem (with a little help from a certain Distortion) and she and Jon spend s2 working together to try and make sense of everything that's happening to them. It goes...interestingly

the garden of forking paths by bibliocratic [T] [49.7k]

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

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

Martin Blackwood wakes up somewhere else entirely.

it's only forever by lady_mab [T] [50.9k]

“The castle at the center of the labyrinth,” Jon breathes, recalling again the words from one of the past conversations with Martin. “He’s there.”

“Turn back, Jonathan,” the Goblin King says, and Jon is surprised to hear a slight edge of desperation in the tone. “Turn back before it’s too late.”

“I can’t,” Jon answers with the same tone. “You know that I can’t.”

The Goblin King’s grin is gone completely, and he regards Jon with a degree of pity before that melts into resignation.

Yesterday is Here by CirrusGrey [T] [53.3k]

"Who the hell are you?" Jon could feel his hands shaking. The man laughed, taking a step forward and raising a hand to point at him. "I'm you, from the future!" he said, then swayed, eyes going unfocused, and collapsed to the floor in a dead faint. -------- Post-season-four Jon and Martin time travel back to the season one Archives.

A Home For What Loves You by TheWrongShop [T] [151k]

It was completely fine that Jon was following up on this very normal, non-supernatural statement at midnight on a Friday. He was going to find nothing at all, and then he was going to go home and sleep for fourteen straight hours and feel absolutely no qualms about moving case #0150409 directly into the filing cabinet marked "discredited".

Or; Jon and Martin end up investigating Carlos Vittery's basement and finding the entity formerly known as Jane Prentiss together.

RATED E *MINORS DNI*

A Look And A Voice by cuttooth [E] [6.9k]

“Do you want to have sex with me?” Jon asks bluntly, and for a second Martin can’t breathe.

“It - it doesn’t matter what I - ” he begins valiantly, before Jon interrupts him.

“Because I want to have sex with you, and frankly it doesn’t matter if you think it’s for the wrong reasons. I’m an adult. I can make my own decisions. The only thing that matters is if you want to as well.”

Martin meets a guy in a bar and takes him home.

Warms The Coldest Night by cuttooth [E] [11k]

"Flame that warms the coldest night Bring to us the waxing Light, Be with us on Solstice Night." Gypsy - Bring Back The Light

There is mistletoe hanging in the doorway to the Archives when Jon gets in.

Curiosity by ShastaFirecracker [E] [11.6k]

“You know that conversation we had the other day about how one of the most important things for queer youth to learn is that it's okay to change their minds, because identity and self-discovery are always fluid?”

Behind him, Martin slipped oven mitts over his hands and pulled open the oven door. The scent of garlic and rosemary flooded the kitchen. “Yeah?” he said.

“I, um... I'd like to revisit the topic of sex.”

At the Interim (Series) by Rend_Herring [E] [41k]

A Measure Outside the Lines and The Residuum

triptych (Series) by Stacicity [E] [44.9k]

A collection of Jon/Tim/Martin fics

a steady hand, a delicate man by callmearctus [E] [52.8k]

Martin is the proprietor and manager of a very discrete and fairly exclusive brothel situated between Belgravia and Chelsea. Blackwood House excels at special requests and pleasing any client.

Except for Jon, who probably has never been pleased a day in his entire life.

Despite that, he still comes back. It eventually begs the question: how do you solve a problem like Jon Sims?

#statement ends #anonymous #fic recs #save #((this took me like two hours lmaooooo))

113 notes · View notes

ajkal2 · 3 years

Text

the essay: childhood trauma, responsibility, and tma. part 1: jon

in a tma fic i published like six months ago, i left an authors note that promised an essay on jon and tim’s trauma to anyone who asked. several people asked, and so here i am!

the fic is called a deeply annoying child. it’s about being a kid and seeing something horrible, and it’s about jon and tim’s rocky relationship.

this post isn’t actually about the fic. it’s a breakdown of jon’s mental state through s1-3. im going to make another post about tim, and then a final one linking it all back to the fic. i’ll chuck links to those on here when they’re posted!

but first, let’s talk about my boy, JON ‘JARCHIVIST’ SIMS.

(fair warning- this isn’t a fully backed up meta post, it’s my interpretation of canon. any thoughts/queries/additions welcome! my askbox is always open <3)

part o: a note on guilt

hey, you know what’s fucked up? an eight-year-old kid with survivors guilt.

as a child, jon watched someone he knew die, due to circumstances that, while they were not his fault, were set in motion by his actions. children (and often teens!) think in black-and-white. complex logic often just doesn’t occur to them. jon, at 8, looks at what happened, and says that’s my fault. i did that. jon didn’t like his bully, and wanted him to go away, and then he did. that instinctive reaction is something i think he never grows out of. when you already hate yourself, it’s easy to pile more fuel onto that flame. he doesn’t think about risk, not to him, because he deserves whatever happens. he let someone die. he doesn’t ever forgive himself for that.

part i: belief (precanon+s1)

now, i have a headcanon about why jon doesn’t believe statement givers, and imma lay it all out for you right here.

when jon was 8, and freshly traumatised, i think he tried to tell someone what happened. beneath all the layers, jon is compassionate, and tries to help people. now, picture this. a kid, one with a history of troubled behaviour and an atypical home life, goes up to someone (a police officer, his carer, a teacher) and tells them a giant spider ate someone. what’s that person, someone who is a rational adult, someone who doesn’t believe in silly things, going to say back? are they going to believe that kid?

no. no way. they’re going to tell that kid that they’re making up stories, that they had a nightmare, that they should stop making jokes about someone who actually disappeared, jon, you need to be more sensitive about these things.

now, that kind of dissonance- ‘this did happen, it was real’ and ‘everyone i talk to is telling me it’s not real’- is hard on adults. to a kid? devastating.

jon, because he’s jon, would have been desperately searching for a way to explain this, and i think the thing he grabs on to is evidence. if he had some evidence of what happened, if he could prove what happened, people would believe him.*

but he doesn’t have evidence. and he resents that, and he resents that so much that by the time he’s an adult he’s settled into a mindset towards the supernatural somewhat akin to ‘i didn’t get believed, but you think you should be believed? what’s so good about you? you think you’re better than me?** fuck you! i don’t believe you!’ this is also a way of keeping himself safe. if the monsters aren’t real, they can’t hurt him.

and then, through s1, that mindset is chipped at. the statement givers start being real people, who come into jon’s office and cry when he dismisses them, and that clearly makes him uncomfortable. martin gives his statement, and martin has evidence. jon knows martin, and knows that he’s a good person, so martin having evidence isn’t likely to be an attack at jon.

jane prentiss attacks the institute, and then suddenly jon’s shield of denial and anger is ripped away, because the monsters are real, and they can hurt him.

*would they? i don’t know. people can be very attached to believing that the world is good, and kids are misguided, and there are a hundred thousand ways to explain away a piece of evidence, as jon comes to know well.

** this ties into jon’s self hatred, as people saying they are better than him kicks him right in the Issues.

part ii: paranoia (s2)

after prentiss attacks, jon is left floundering. his old I Do Not See It mindset has been smashed to pieces, and underneath all the trauma he’s been brutally suppressing is bubbling up. jon has no real experience in judging threats, because for the last 20 years he’s been burying his head in the sand and yelling he can’t see any threats. so he overcompensates, and assumes everything is a threat. his experience re:not being believed tells him that everyone around him is stupid and wrong and the only person he can rely on is himself.

so he investigates. he��s convinced that his life is in imminent danger, that everyone around him is plotting to kill him. he doesn’t hold back, because you don’t hold back in a life-or-death scenario. he knows something is wrong. something is very wrong. he’s sure it’s a threat to him, a threat to his life. but he can’t put a finger on what it is.

this is when his friendship with tim breaks down. i’ll talk about tim in a minute.

jon spirals, and obsesses, and wrings answers out of the ether until it all falls together. he understands what is wrong, that it’s sasha that wants him dead. or, well, not sasha. he’s been winding up tighter and tighter all series, and he lets loose by striking out, acting for once instead of reacting. it is remarkably easy to buy an axe in central london, after all.

and then, well, that doesn’t go well.

part iii: desperation (s3)

after what jon did backfired so badly, he goes to georgie, because he has no other option. and he thinks, what went wrong? and the answer he comes up with is i didn’t know enough.* that’s why it all went wrong, because he didn’t know what he was dealing with. and so the solution is to find out more.

he’s starting to realise that he’s changing.** he wants to find out more about that as well, to control it.

so he goes and finds out more. or, tries to. he doesn’t have many leads.*** jon is not good at judging threat, and doesn’t know the danger he is putting himself in. he’s stubborn, and locked onto getting more knowledge like a dog and a bone.****

and then he does get more knowledge, but it’s the knowledge that the world is ending, and he’s the only one who can fix it.***** he can’t process his trauma. he doesn’t have time. the world is ending.

in late s3, jon is desperate. he’s overworking himself. he feels alone: daisy’s at his throat, elias is dangling information over his head, tim...

we’ll talk about tim later.

basira doesn’t trust him, georgie isn’t happy with him, melanie’s never liked him. he gets kidnapped for a month, and no one notices. the only person jon has firmly in his corner is martin.****** and he doesn’t have time to talk to martin, because he’s getting kidnapped, and jetting across the world chasing shadows, and desperately, desperately trying not to fuck everything up again.

and he doesn’t! they build a plan. it’s dangerous, sure, but jon doesn’t even know what that means anymore. his whole life is dangerous. jon going into the unknowing is cautiously, waveringly hopeful. maybe this time it won’t go wrong. this time they know what to do, they know what they’re dealing with.

and, the tragedy is, it doesn’t go wrong. they save the world. they send elias to prison. it all goes to plan. and tim is dead, and daisy is buried, and jon is lost in dreams.

*👁️ **👁️ ***👁️ ****👁️ ***** he’s not the only one, of course, there are a whole team of people working on stopping the Unknowing, but jon is the Archivist. he’s the heir to gertrude’s legacy.

****** this is where they fall in love, after all. which is a good thing, of course, but it adds an extra weight to every interaction they have, guessing and double-guessing how the other feels, until jon actually can’t talk to martin, not how he wants to, because he’s not sure if they’re there yet. (martin is there. jon doesn’t have time to be.)

see yall next time

i would like to cover s4 and s5, but this post is 1.5k already, and i’ve covered up to when the fic takes place! next time i will be ranting incoherently about timothy stoker, punctuated by bursts on uncontrollable sobbing. when that’s up, i’ll chuck a link here, and on the author notes of the fic i’m doing this for. see you then!

#tma #tma meta #jonathan sims #jon sims meta #character analysis #a deeply annoying child #the essay tag #god this is a mess but w/e posting it anyway

290 notes · View notes

edelwoodsouls · 3 years

Text

like real people do - ch.1 [fic]

It's nothing but screams of static and fire- And then Jon wakes up next to Georgie, in his Oxford dorm room. And then Martin wakes up alone in his flat. Shit.

[AKA Time Travel Fix-It]

Word Count: 3,595 | Also on Ao3 | Other Chapters: Not Yet

chapter one: sunrise

He's falling.

Through an endless age of darkness. Down, and down, the wind tearing past skin he no longer has, tugging at limbs he no longer feels. He is a shapeless form of web and tape and eyes, and yet he sees nothing, and hears nothing, and the world is nothing more than pain.

But he can feel a hand. Fingers digging into his skin, fingers he recognises, that he's held close for months, that he could recognise in darkness and fire and the end of everything.

He clings tightly to those fingers, to the feeling of them squeezing back, squeezing hard. Those fingers are alive.

As alive as anything can be, here.

They fall forever. Until time has no meaning and sense has no place, and he finds it so very hard to remember where he came from, where they're going, who they are.

And the sound begins to reform itself - because it's not that there is nothing to hear, but rather that there's far too much. A shrieking of static and reeling of tape, the echo of fire chewing hungrily at brick and sky.

Screams of countless voices, ending or in pain. Those have been an undercurrent to his every waking moment for months now, as constant as the beat of his heart in his chest used to be, before it stopped. But now they are everything, everywhere, and there is no sense of self to anchor to.

He is adrift in the suffering. He could exist here forever, in this waterfall of fear so pure it's painful, like cold air dragging across an exposed nerve. Electric. Alive.

And then, all of a sudden, the hand clutched in his vanishes. He panics, flailing out with his not-limbs, desperate to hold on to the one thing in this insanity that has some sort of meaning.

His fingers brush against nothing but tape, sharp and cold against his skin. He opens his mouth to call out, or to scream, and all he hears is static. He tries to cling to himself, and feels that self unravelling further.

And then, just when he thinks that he'll be lost to the chaos, when the fear rises so strong and bitter in his throat that he's sure he must be on fire-

Jon shoots up from the bed, panting.

He's drenched in sweat, his t-shirt clinging to him. The duvet is thick and stuffy against his skin, heavy against his body.

He has a body. He feels as if he's been nothing more than a thought, an idea, for years. All of a sudden, there is skin, and flesh, and fingers, and arms. There is a chest and a head and a heart-

His heart. Beating like a drum against his ribcage, pumping blood around his body, keeping him alive.

He's alive. His heart speeds up at the mere thought. He'd forgotten what his own heart felt like, what the relief of breathing was. Nothing more than a mechanical function, these past few months, he takes a moment to just... breathe. To let the oxygen flood his lungs and sink into his cells, as if blowing away cobwebs strung inside the unused passageways of this body.

He hasn't been alive, truly, since he first brushed against the End.

His chest feels tight with the weight of - everything. He feels the ache of his head, suddenly light and thankfully empty and closed. He feels the ghost of a knife between his ribs, cold steel sliding through flesh like butter, mixing his blood with the sticky, drying flakes of Elias'.

The loss of Martin's fingers, wrapped in his.

The pressure in his chest increases as he stares at his hands. Uncalloused, unburnt - there isn't a single pockmarked worm scar up his bare arms. His flesh is smooth, and clean, and- naked. It feels alien.

Something must be wrong. He's dead, or dreaming. He's in a dimension that's pure dream logic, or the fears have already begun their work and torn him away from the only thing that might stop him from joining them.

Maybe this is the centre of the eye. A final, peaceful vision to keep him occupied as his body spools into tape and his mind unwinds.

And Martin is... where?

He looks frantically around. The room is dim, but it's practically blinding bright to his eyes, adjusted as they are to the pitch of a collapsing world. He can make out clothes strewn over every surface and object. Books, left face down to keep them open, on the desk and the floor.

Something shifts beside him in the bed, and he jumps a mile high. Flinches away and rips the covers back, to reveal...

His newly restarted heart stutters.

"Jon?" Georgie's voice is soft and sleep-laden, and she rolls over in the bed to look up at him through a cloud of dark hair. "You okay?"

"I..." His throat fails him, closes up like a hand held fast against his skin, squeezing. He puts his own hands up to it, to feel it, to be certain his body is his - and finds it smooth. Unblemished by the scarring Daisy gave him.

He lets out a sob. Clings to his throat, as if he might be able to protect it, keep it safe.

He's never been safe, not once in his entire life.

Strong arms wrap around him from out of nowhere, and Jon flinches at the touch of skin on skin. But Georgie just curls tighter around him, pulls him close to her. Runs her fingers through his long hair, and its such a familiar gesture, such an old one, that for a moment he lets her do it. Sits in the quiet and the peace.

"Hey, hey," Georgie says quietly. "What's wrong?"

Jon tries to think of what words to say. To explain to her that she is nothing more than a figment of fear and dreaming. That any moment she will grow a hundred eyes or limbs, or melt away to wax, or grin in fractal patterns that ache his eyes to see.

It's the only explanation that makes sense. This is one of his few good memories, a final gift from the Eye before he disintegrates.

He is nothing more than a dream, too.

"Just a bad dream," he murmurs, unsure if he's reassuring himself or Georgie. He's longed for his world to end for a long time now, but he'd expected - half wanted - it to be crueler. Painful. He's been holding onto a vision of blood and fire. Of throwing his body in the path of something, saving someone, making all his wrongs right.

His decisions, finally given positive meaning.

He wasn't expecting the end to be this soft. Wasn't expecting it be the scent of Georgie's cheap laundry detergent, and a slow sunrise, and a warm embrace. The last few months - the last few years - have been a revolving door of ache and exhaustion.

This is nice.

Perhaps too nice.

It makes sense that the End would show him Georgie, though. That, at least, he understands. The girl who cannot fear. The woman who saw the End and, instead of flinching, managed to continue on.

Nothing to be afraid of, this vision says. You've done enough. You can rest.

Just let go.

But Jon has been afraid for too long to let it go just yet. He's been afraid, in one way or another, since he was eight years old. It's the electricity in his veins and the pump of his blood, the very thing that keeps him standing, keeps him going.

And he hasn't survived this long only to trust the first sign of kindness, or warmth.

"What's going on?" Jon whispers, expecting the question to disappear into the air like so many of his enquiries have before.

Georgie pulls away and looks him in the eye, still keeping her hands resting on his shoulders. He'd forgotten, how tactile Georgie used to be. How both of them, so starved of contact, had held each other constantly.

"What do you mean?" she asks, the softness beginning to bleed out of her voice. There's a hint of worry, so subtle he could almost believe it was genuine.

"Why am I here?"

Georgie's eyebrows knit into a frown. "Why wouldn't you be?" Her eyes search his face, the worry ebbing away faster now. "What did you dream about?"

He laughs, a bitter and broken sound. "Who says I'm not dreaming now?"

"You're starting to worry me, Jon."

"Am I? Can dreams feel worry?"

Georgie's frown resolves into a grim line of pursed lips. "What did you take? And how much?"

"I'm not high, Georgie," Jon scoffs. "You're just not real. A very convincing facsimile, I must admit, but I'm not an idiot."

She sighs, frustrated - already giving up on him. "Well, I'm going back to bed. Wake me up if you feel sick, or something. There's water on the bedside table."

And she burrows back under the blankets, faced away from him.

Jon frowns. This is not how dreams tend to behave. If this is a final act of kindness, it isn't very- kind. Surely the dream should continue to comfort him, or fade into something awful and twisting and logically insane.

He pokes Georgie experimentally, to see if she'll burst into a thousand worms or spiders or flies.

"What, Jon." She rolls back over, peering up at him from a blanket cocoon, unamused.

"You're..." he searches for words, "you're not going to..."

"To what, Jon?"

"Try to kill me? Burst into flames?"

"Why would I do any of that?" she asks, but her tone is edged with something sharp and wary, now.

"Because you're..." he shrugs helplessly. This is getting him nowhere. "Because that's what the fears do."

"The fears?"

A sudden thought strikes him. "The moment you die will feel exactly the same as this one."

Goergie flinches. No, that's too tame a word. She recoils, staggering out of the bed like Jon's just struck her with electricity. "What the fuck did you just say?"

"You told me that," he says, as his mind stumbles over itself to attempt to fit the pieces together. "Maybe a year ago, before everything went to hell. You told me about the End."

Goergie's voice is shaky when it comes. "I've never told anyone about that," she spits. Jon can see her inching towards the desk, the stack of dirty plates which is a staple to any university dorm room, and - more importantly - one of the knives among the pile.

"You did- or, you will- oh god, I think-"

It doesn't make any sense. It doesn't make any sense. When he'd promised Martin that maybe, possibly , there was a chance they'd both live- it wasn't exactly a lie, but he'd been pretty damn certain it wasn't true. Maybe for Martin, maybe he'd wake up in some other world to face the fears alone.

But Jon shouldn't have made it, too. Not with the knife buried in his ribs, not with fourteen fears pouring themselves down his throat and tearing him apart from the inside. He's been a dead man for months, and this should've been the closing chapter. A peaceful oblivion.

And maybe he should've felt bad for lying to Martin, for deciding to abandon him. But Martin would get to live on, maybe even prevent the fears from gaining a foothold in their new dimension. Maybe he could be that positive entity Jon always wished for, of love and hope and a hundred other silly things.

This, though. This is not a new dimension. This isn't possible, in any sense of the word - and Jon's had to expand that definition countless times in recent years.

But here he is, in a body that still needs a heartbeat and breath. Here's Georgie, hair loose around her head in an afro, instead of the tight cornrows she favoured later. Here they are, in their university apartment, before their relationship began to tear at the seams.

Georgie's hands close around the knife, and Jon flinches despite himself, a phantom pain in his side.

"Wait, Georgie," he holds his hands up in surrender, slipping out from the bed. "I need you to hear me out. I'm not- this is going to sound crazy, but I need you to listen. I think-" he takes a breath, "-I've travelled in time."

The words hang in the air, strung among the dust motes beginning to catch in the morning sun filtering through the curtains.

"Explain," Goergie says slowly, tapping the knife against her bare arm, apparently oblivious to the dregs of hot sauce or ketchup still stuck to the blade.

"I- wait, you're not going to tell me I'm crazy?"

"You just told me not to."

Jon blinks. He's so used to being dismissed, he's forgotten how pragmatic Georgie is. How she used to humour his long rambling with a soft smile and patience.

How he slowly, but surely, lost that privilege.

"Okay. Hang on, what year is it?"

"2008. March."

That makes sense. The university dorm - third year, when he and Georgie had pooled their resources and lived together, despite all advice to the contrary.

He takes a slow, steadying breath. "Before I woke up here, I was in 2018. Well, probably 2019, but it's not as if time made much sense anymore, and we weren't really counting the days- I mean, there weren't really days, because the sun wasn't exactly-"

"Jon," Geogie cuts him off with a raised eyebrow, and a vague wave of the knife in her hand.

"Right. Okay, so: monsters are real. You know that much, you've met them. And you told me about it, because I was on the run from them. Have been for all my life, I suppose."

He never really escaped Mr Spider, did he? He was never supposed to knock on the door, only witness it, as he would come to witness countless horrors.

"And then the world ended," Jon continues. He can fill in any gaps later, perhaps - they aren't the most important thing right now. "And you and I, and... some other people, we turned the world back. Or we were supposed to. I have to hope that you survived."

"And you?" Georgie asks. She's still clinging to the knife, but her hands are down by her side, unvigilant. If there's anyone who'd believe his stories, surely it would be Georgie. "How'd you end up here? Assuming you're telling the truth."

"We were making a portal to another dimension, to throw the monsters through."

Georgie lets out a sharp bark of a laugh, which cuts out quickly when she sees Jon's expression. "Oh. You're being serious?"

"Deadly, unfortunately. Things went... wrong. Martin and I... we ended up going through the portal too."

His hand flutters to his side, imagining blood slick on his fingers.

"So you've brought monsters with you," Georgie says. "Where are they then?"

"I don't... I don't know," he shrugs helpelessly. "I wasn't really expecting to survive the trip, if I'm being honest. I definitely wasn't expecting to wake up-" he waves his hands around their flat, "here."

He watches the emotions flitter across Georgie's face, as she attempts to settle on how she feels.

Something brushes against Jon's ankle, and he flinches back, expecting for a moment to see tendrils of darkness, or spider web. Instead he sees a small bundle of orange fuzz rubbing agaist him.

He bends down and scoops the Admiral up in his arms. He's barely more than a kitten, tiny and vibrating as he purrs and buries himself close to Jon's chest.

Something like calm, and certainty, settles inside Jon.

Georgie sighs loudly, watching the interaction with half-concealed fondness. She casts the knife aside on the desk with a clatter, opens a drawer and digs out a half empty bottle of shitty Tesco vodka.

"Tell me everything," she says, taking a swig and handing him the bottle.

"It's not even nine am."

"It's five pm somewhere," Georgie rolls her eyes and throws herself back onto the bed. "And I have a feeling we're going to need it."

[linebreak]

Martin wakes far more softly. A steady fade into being, like the sunrise beginning to wash across his floor. He blinks for a moment, trying to remember why the feeling of a mattress beneath him feels so wrong, why his body feels out of sorts with itself.

His memory cascades in too fast, in a flashing halo of green eyes and the scream of tape unravelling, and the weight of a blade in his hands. He rolls over to the side of the bed and is unceremoniously sick onto the floorboards.

He sits there, head held in shaking hands, for what could be hours, but is likely just seconds. Brings his hands in front of his eyes, expecting to see them slick with blood, or whatever fluid doesn't run through Jon's veins these days.

But there's nothing there.

He glances behind him, and is barely surprised to see no one lying beside him.

His feet remember the route to the bathroom, even if his mind hasn't caught up with his location, and he stumbles there quickly. Spins the tap open and scrubs at his fingers until the skin is raw and red and aching beneath the scalding water.

He still feels Jon's blood on him. Still smells smoke and flames.

Eventually, he looks in the mirror.

He hasn't seen his reflection in months, or however long it's been since the world ended, but he's certain he wasn't this clean. Certainly hadn't shaved in a while, for one, though it's hardly his clean-shaven face that makes him doubletake.

His hair is ginger. Martin runs a careful hand through his curls, testing them to be sure. They don't fall away in his hands, or turn into worms or psychedelic spirals; he feels the tug of his fingers catching and pulling at his scalp.

There isn't a single strand of white. He'd almost gotten used to the pale, bleached colour the Lonely had cast upon him, before the end of the world, but-

He isn't crying. He isn't. It's just hair.

His fingers grip the sink so hard he's sure something will break.

Logic. Calm. That’s what he needs right now. Obviously something has gone wrong, if he and Jon have been separated. Finding him is the first priority.

He refuses to consider the alternative.

But where has he ended up? He’d half expected to be scattered to the wind of a thousand dimensions, divided into tiny fragments of consciousness.

But this appears to be a singular universe. A reality of ideals, perhaps? Where Martin has his hair back, has a body that doesn’t yet ache or go hazy at the edges when he panics.

Except Jon isn’t here, so that can’t be true.

Martin emerges from the bathroom, still a little shaky, but with resolve, and it’s only now that he realises where he is. It’s been a long time since he was here, thank god - this apartment was hardly a good part of his life.

Freshly moved to London. Scrambling to find any sort of job that would take him, ultimately having them slip through his fingers. The walls are too close and the ceiling too low, the paint crumbling and the damp stains getting ever wider. It’s cold, with exorbitant heating bills and no double glazing, and now it makes a little more sense to him why he was wearing three jumpers in bed.

He was in this apartment when he applied to the Magnus Institute.

For a moment he stands in the doorway, frozen, as the realisation begins to connect dots in his head with absurd leaps of logic. It doesn’t make any sense at all for him to have ended up here, and yet- he can’t really deny the evidence of his own eyes.

So its 2009. 2008, at the earliest. The past.

Maybe this is an alternate world. Maybe the fears have no foothold here, and he has a chance to try again.

Would that be a good thing? Can he honestly say he enjoyed the life he had before the Institute? He hates Jonah Magnus with everything he has, hates what he and his colleagues were put through in those years.

But they were hardly worse than the endless grey of his earlier years. The Loneliness that lapped at his ankles long before he knew the name Magnus and that, if he’s honest, would have consumed him if the Eye hadn’t set its sights on him first.

And without the Archives, he never would’ve had Jon.

The world seems dangerously small and cold to Martin. The walls are leaning in to press against him, to put pressure on his lungs. If he thinks about this too quickly, too long, he might shatter into pieces and never move again.

He grips the doorway to steady himself, takes a deep and slow breath.

He needs to stay calm. He can panic later, when Jon is in his arms again, when they've figured out what's going on, when they march into Elias' office ten years too early and sink the knife where it truly belongs.

Maybe then he won't feel Jon's blood on his hands anymore.

Everything in time. Martin smiles through gritted teeth, as if to convince himself he's decided. Everything is fine, until proven otherwise.

He throws open the curtains to a fresh, sunlit morning, no eye in the sky or bruise-like clouds bearing down on him, and gets to work.

#the magnus archives #jonathan sims #martin blackwood #jonmartin #tma spoilers #fanfic #own work #morgan writes

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haberdashing · 3 years

Text

What A Tangled Web We Weave (19/?)

TMA AU diverging from canon at the end of episode 92. Jon is forced into an arranged marriage by Elias; Martin does what he can to help.

on AO3

Martin took a few tentative steps towards the group of people still remaining in the church; Jon did the same, though he didn’t have quite the same look of trepidation that Martin was sure graced his own face at the moment.

Martin didn’t know what to say, didn’t know where to start explaining everything and making amends, but soon enough, the decision was made for him.

“Can I finally mention the giant spider in the room now?”

Martin could feel the blood drain from his face as Tim spoke, though it wasn’t as though he were giving away any big secret there anymore.

“Yeah, Tim, go right ahead.” Martin paused, thought about his wording a bit, realized that Tim hadn’t seemed to struggle with that reference the same way he had before. “I- I think you could anyway, actually? I mean, I said not to tell people, right, but it’s not telling them if they already know...”

Tim seemed less than impressed with Martin’s reasoning, though he still pressed ahead without hesitation.

“Martin has been a spider monster this whole time, and he made sure I couldn’t tell any of you.”

“Wait, what?”

“What do you mean, ‘this whole time’?”

“You did what?” Jon’s voice was soft, but it cut worse than Tim’s just the same, and Martin could feel the weight of Jon’s gaze upon him as he worked out how to respond.

“Okay, you’re not wrong, but... first off, it’s been like two weeks, that’s not that long in the greater scheme of things, is it? And, and secondly, I didn’t mean to do that to you. I told you that already, Tim. You know that.”

“Do I?” Tim’s gaze was filled with fire now. “Do I know that? Or- maybe you’re going to make sure I think that’s true, make sure I trust you, despite everything, despite myself-”

“I- I wouldn’t do that.” Martin’s voice sounded weak even to his own ears, and he tried to sound more confident as he added, “I won’t.”

“Could you do that?” Melanie’s expression had a certain sharpness to it, like a knife that hadn’t yet determined its next target. “Change our minds about something by just... saying the word?”

“...maybe? I don’t know. It’s not like I’ve tried it.”

“Why don’t you ask Annabelle Cane?” Jon’s voice sounded calmer than the others, but his gaze didn’t waver as he stared down Martin.

“I only met her this morning, and it’s not like she gave me some, some sort of user manual for my spooky spider powers or anything- she’s been less helpful than Elias so far, and you know that’s saying something-”

“And here I honestly thought you two were dancing around each other because Tim liked you. God, that wasn’t even that good of a lie, was it, but I didn’t know what else could be going on...”

“You thought I liked him?”

Melanie shrugged nonchalantly. “That’s what Martin claimed when I asked why you two were being so weird.”

Tim didn’t respond in words, but the way he wrinkled his nose said enough. (Martin tried to tell himself that it was just the prospect of being with an eldritch monster that disgusted Tim, that he’d be equally put off by anybody else with eight eyes who could make people stop moving just by telling them to, but Martin wasn’t so sure.)

“I was planning on telling you before the time came.” Martin tried to sound more confident than he felt. He’d meant to explain sooner, but... but he hadn’t, and whatever excuses he had were just that. “I had a plan, even, I just- didn’t think it would happen this fast.”

“Why did things get moved up, anyway?” Jon’s tone of voice was casual enough, but Martin could feel the question digging into him all the same, the words spilling out before he could second-guess them.

“I don’t actually know. Annabelle said something vague about circumstances changing, and I knew better than to press her further about it. She didn’t tell me until this morning, either. Said she thought I’d do something ‘unwise’ if she gave me more of a warning.”

A brief pause, a breath for air, and then Martin spoke of his own accord. “I don’t suppose Elias explained any more, then, either?”

Jon shook his head. “All I got was a phone call, and he only covered the what, not the why.”

A phone call. Annabelle Cane had been hovering over Martin’s bed before he woke up, and Jon got to be informed by a phone call. It almost made Martin want to laugh, if only because his other instinctive reactions would be even more situationally appropriate.

“Look, unless you guys are going to do more here than just stand around and talk, I’m out.” Tim’s voice was sharp, biting, snapping Martin back to the reality of the situation. (Were those teeth, in that stained glass window up there?) “Not like there’s much to celebrate either, and if it’s pity you’re after, you’ll need to find someone else.”

Martin shook his head silently; he wasn’t sure what he wanted from Tim now, exactly, but it certainly wasn’t pity, especially for a situation that he knew had been largely of his making, consequences of his own choices.

(As much as anything could be called a proper choice when the Web was involved, anyway. Perhaps they’d been planning all this for months, years, decades, longer than he could have possibly imagined. That wasn’t enough to absolve him, though, he knew that much.)

“Nobody’s asking you to stay.” Jon said.

“Yeah, that’s about what I expected.”

Before Martin could ask what exactly Tim meant by that statement, he was gone, fled out the front door faster than Martin had realized he could move.

“I think I’m out too.” Melanie’s voice wasn’t quite as sharp as before, but there was still an edge to it somewhere. The knife had been dulled, that was all. “I’m sure we can discuss... whatever this is later, back at the Institute. This place gives me the creeps.”

Martin nodded as Melanie stalked out, though he did idly wonder if there was more to her escape than her distaste for the odd little church they were in, if she held much the same feelings about Martin’s transformation as Tim and just wasn’t as willing to say as much.

The woman Martin didn’t know spoke up only once Melanie was in arm’s reach of the door. “Melanie, wait-”

“I said I’m out.”

And the door closed behind her.

Then the only ones left were Jon and Martin, Basira who Martin barely knew, and the woman Martin didn’t know at all.

“So.” Basira’s voice was calm as always. “I would give my congratulations if I thought any were in order.”

Martin let out a shaky laugh, and Jon let out a soft snort as he said, “No, I don’t think that’ll be necessary.”

“Condolences, maybe?” the stranger said. “Though that’s not quite right either, I don’t think you can find a greeting card for this one...”

Martin smiled at the thought, and Jon broke out into a laugh, short but genuine-sounding.

“The arranged marriage part you might be able to find greeting cards for somewhere.” Jon mused out loud. “But I think the supernatural bit is beyond even Hallmark’s capacity.”

The woman let out a snort not unlike Jon’s own.

“I don’t think we’ve met, have we?” Martin knew he hadn’t met the woman before, but he figured better to hedge his bets and err on the side of politeness just the same. “I’m Martin Blackwood, one of Jon’s assistants... though, er, I suppose you know that much now...”

“Georgie Barker. I’m Jon’s...” Georgie looked over at Jon for a moment before finishing her sentence. “...friend. Jon’s mentioned your name before, it’s good to put a face to it.”

“And it’s nice to meet you, Georgie.” Martin extended his hand, and Georgie joined him in a handshake without hesitation; her hand was big, cool, soft but with a firm grip. “Wait, not- Georgie Barker of What The Ghost?”

“The one and only. Always nice to meet a fan.” Her smile looked a little too wide to be genuine, but Martin supposed it was still better than the alternative.

“Didn’t you get mentioned in a statement once? I think Tim had to call you, was it?”

That wide smile shrank slightly. “Yeah, Melanie’s. We’ve got some mutual friends, one of them ended up weirder than I knew, that’s all there is to that.”

“Are we going to keep making small talk, or do you want to talk about something actually important?” Basira’s voice held only a hint of irritation to it, but that was enough to make her true feelings clear.

“If you’re looking for permission to leave, well, go-” No. Too close to a command. “...you know where the door is.”

“I’m rather enjoying the small talk myself.” Martin looked at Jon, surprised, saw Jon’s nonchalant shrug. “It’s a nice chance of pace, after... everything.”

“Right, well, see you in the office then.”

As the door closed behind Basira, Martin realized that he didn’t actually know how to get to his own home from here when he made his own exit, didn’t even know where “here” was... and his wallet and Oyster card were definitely back in his flat, not in the pockets of this perfectly-tailored suit...

“...I, er, might need help getting back. When the time comes. Annabelle drove me here, but she didn’t exactly set me up for the return trip...”

“I can help you out with that, since we’ll be going together anyway. No reason to overcomplicate things.”

Martin blinked a few times at that. “You’ll be, what, walking me home? Jon, I hardly think that’s necessary-”

“Walking you home and staying there, yes.”

“You don’t need to-”

“I don’t have a place of my own, Martin.” There was a bit of a sigh in Jon’s voice. “I haven’t for... a while, now. Ever since Leitner...”

“Oh yeah.” Martin felt like an idiot now. How had he forgotten about the murder charge that had kept Jon away from the Institute, away from him, only weeks prior?

“I’ve been relying on...” Jon’s eyes flicked over to Georgie for a moment. “...friends for a place to live. But if, if you’re willing to take me in, at least for now... well, it would certainly help spread out the burden, at least.”

“Right. Yeah, not a problem.” Except that his place was a mess and had always been too small and there were probably still cobwebs all over his ceiling, Christ, why couldn’t Annabelle have warned him about any of this... “Not that, that you’re a burden, and I don’t want to pressure you or anything...”

Another glance over to Georgie. “I think it’s probably for the best.”

“Alright, well... if you’re ready, then, feel free to lead the way.”

Jon held the door open for both Martin and Georgie, and crossing that threshold back into the hustle and bustle of London seemed like a dividing line of sorts.

That had all happened, and now here he was, back in the real world, ready to take the Tube home with a multitude of people who didn’t know the slightest bit about the supernatural, would never know that among their number would be a spider monster and an Archivist who knew too much.

God, Martin was married. He was going home with his husband.

He really wished the thought cheered him up more, but all it did was make him feel sick to his stomach as he waited for the other shoe to drop.

#tma #tma au #tma fic #tma fanfic #the magnus archives #the magnus archives fic #the magnus archives fanfic #the magnus archives au #jonmartin #jmart #the dinghy #web martin #personal #my writing

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pensivetense · 4 years

Text

A List Of (Mostly TMA) Fic Recs Sorted By Vibe

Not an exhaustive list by any means, just a few favourites that caught my fancy. I shortened many of the summaries for space.

I’m going to pin this here and update it as I go.

Also, I’m pensivetense on ao3

MELANCHOLY VIBES

for when you want to feel comfortably muted

(sad but not utterly bleak endings here)

Hope, Etc. (Dickenson, et al.) by yellow_caballero

Jonathan Sims, six months after the Unknowing, wakes to find himself without a daemon - without humanity, without a soul. It’s a cursed half-life, but existence as a shell without a heart isn’t so bad: between solving the mystery of a persistent illusion cast over his friends and some light pseudo-cannibalism, a life as a monster is better than no life at all. At least, it would be, if it wasn’t for the fucking Owl.

A freaking. Amazing. Daemon au. Ties the lore of Dust with TMA lore very satisfyingly, but is mostly about Jon navigating what it means to be human, or, in the absence of that, a person, and doesn’t require prior knowledge of His Dark Materials. Cannot recommend highly enough.

after one long season of waiting by nuinuijiaojiao

Annabelle is not used to having nice things. or, Annabelle heads to Upton House, muses a little, and gets some well-deserved rest

I love survivalist Annabelle and also the concept of the Web as kind of a horrible Patron, actually.

i love you. I want us both to eat well. by SmallishWormMasterOfTheUniverse

At the safehouse with Martin, Jon decides it's time to quit statements once and for all. The Eye disagrees. Martin just needs Jon to be okay. It's quite possible that nobody is going to get what they want.

Scottish Safehouse Era, Jon and Martin coping with their respective Entities... really, really good.

the friend by doomcountry

He always greets a new spider when he meets it. It’s instinct, born in childhood, the same way he instinctively counts magpies, or flicks salt over his left shoulder. A little harmless superstition. A bit of politesse.

A great Martin character study with eldritch spider horror included. The imagery regularly haunts me (in a good way).

autumn’s rare gift by bee_bro

Annually, the two meet, renewing the binding ritual where it had all started. The procedure simple: a waltz.

Singlehandedly made me ship Gertrude/Agnes so there’s that. It’s so bittersweet and bee_bro’s writing is, as always, incredibly poetic. (I’d recommend everything they write, actually.)

smile, you’re trending by Goodluckdetective

During an encounter with another Avatar of the Eye, Jon faces his past, Martin takes a turn at playing Kill Bill and Basira has a second look at the monster she’s determined to see. For three people associated with the Eye, they could all use some perspective.

Features an original Eye Avatar character who’s a YouTube personality; she is infuriating and inspired and genuinely frightening and I cannot say enough good things.

Humility by The_Lionheart

have you no idea that you're in deep?/i've dreamt about you nearly every night this week,/how many secrets can you keep?

An OC centric story but don’t let that put you off, it’s amazing. Very heavily focused around Jonah Magnus and the other Avatars as they change through the years. Also, I’d die for the OC.

oh, for one sweet second without the eye series by faedemon

Beholding does not like in the way humans do, but it likes its Archivist all the same.

I’m just so fond of the way this is done stylistically. I have a great weakness for dialogue only/dialogue heavy writing, not to mention all of the wonderful character beats and interplay of humanity/inhumanity for Jon and Melanie.

Rewind by WhyNotFly

It takes eight days of forced confinement for Jon to start hallucinating. [...] It’s Martin, though, that his exhausted brain conjures, because of course it’s Martin. After all this time, of course it’s Martin.

Jon willingly allows himself to be confined rather than hunting for statements, and examines his relationship with Martin.

for a firmament series by supaslim

There is beauty in destruction. There is art in becoming. In which Jon becomes the Archive, and the Archive becomes Jon.

Part two posted this morning and uhhh. Good. Also if you’re here for weird eldritch body horror (I am), this one’s for you.

ONES THAT JUST HURT

for when you want to feel sad

(somewhat bleaker endings here/everyone is NOT okay)

Feste by yellow_caballero

If asked, Martin would say that he became the shadow director of the Magnus Institute by accident. But nobody ever asked, and nobody ever cared, and it was in this way that Martin stopped lying to himself. Or: break free, Martin. All you have to lose are your chains. And your sanity.

Oh, this one totally didn’t go the way I expected it to. A study in isolation. Could go into the category above, as the ending is not bleak, but the tone of the whole is somewhat more depressing than most there.

Ghosts of Love by RavenXavier

Nothing made Martin more grounded in the world than yearning for Jonathan Sims.

Lonely!Martin that really captures a sort of visceral ache. Hurts me and yet I keep rereading.

i do desire (we may be better strangers) by godbewithyouihavedone

For ages, it only knew how to worship, taking human bodies and living off the fear of those who remembered. It never knew love until it became Jonathan Sims. Now it must fight against every instinct to save Martin Blackwood. Archivist Sasha, Not!Jon/Martin, and the worst kind of Fake Dating AU.

Oh, this one just made me sad. The poor not!them, which is something I never thought I’d say.

Apple Of Your Eye by fakeCRfan

In which the Eye is fond of Martin. Perhaps a little too fond for comfort.

Somehow manages to be both sweet and horrifying—the characterisation of the Eye is incredible. ‘The Eye loves Martin’ is a scenario that’s so utterly doomed to failure and yet the writing is packed with so much pathos that I just want them all to be happy. A fantastic use of themes of agency and choice, and the single best use of Beholding as a source of horror I’ve read.

The Last Press by copperbadge

Jon Sims is awake, and has begun preparations for the Rite of the Watcher's Crown. Peter Lukas, who woke him, would be content to rule at his side. Martin is very upset about all of this, and the Lukases aren't thrilled with it either.

I really can’t say anything without spoiling the end and it’s so good. An alternate take on the Watcher’s Crown. Not a pairing that I ever thought would work for me, but this made it work.

watch the blood evaporate by 75hearts

It starts, like so many things in Jon’s life have started, with a nagging itch of curiosity. Jonathan Sims uses his healing abilities throughout s4. Read the tags.

Dear God please read the tags. But this is some high quality pain if it’s for you.

the lighthouse series by low_fi

Peter Lukas is a lighthouse keeper. One evening, he gets a call from a cryptic overseer tasked with monitoring his work.

This is such a vivid and yet subtle story—from the setting to the emotions portrayed, it creeps up on you slowly. The ending was like the gentlest possible gut-punch. The sequel just completed, and yeah, just as wonderful. This one is very much LonelyEyes but I listed it here because it is just exquisitely painful.

SATISFYINGLY HOPEFUL VIBES

for when you want to feel cozy

Clutching Daffodils by Gemi

Martin has always liked the idea of love at first sight. It’s such a romantic idea, the whole thing of it. Seeing someone and instantly feeling that strange, twisting feeling deep inside that every single media likes to obsess over. Of knowing you are in love within the day, petals falling from your mouth and warmth filling your chest as love burrows deep, vines twisting through your lungs. He always liked the idea of it. And then Jonathan Sims starts working at the Magnus Institute.

Somehow manages to be lighter and fluffier than most hanahaki fare, despite the setting. I’ve reread this one a lot.

the least he could do by Prim_the_Amazing

Martin should in fact not pick this man, specifically because of how attracted he is to him. It would be the responsible thing to do. Except he’s already following him. And he’s hungry.

Fluffy vampire au which everyone’s probably already read, but was too good not to mention.

rather interesting by bee_bro

Jonah Magnus realizes that, for some reason, when he comes in contact with weed, Elias Bouchard's consciousness will come into his life banging pots and pans.

Oh boy. So these are all favourite fics but this one is a favourite amongst favourites. The way Jonah is characterised (i.e. incredibly sensitive to scrutiny) is my favourite depiction of him, and the slow-burn between him and Elias is far sweeter than it has any right to be. Also, it’s hilarious.

The Magnus Records series by ErinsWorks

In a world parallel to that of the Archives and the Institute, a supernatural sanctuary stands against a cruel and uncaring world: A world of bureaucracy and tyranny, of murder and carnage, of loneliness and surveillence, of plague and death. But in this world of fear and misery, 14 entities born of the hopes of the world have emerged. And one of them has made their home here, at The Magnus Sanctuary. Perhaps, the employees within may lead happier lives than their counterparts did in the Archives.

This is just so goddamn pure. The author writes a really imaginative, fleshed-out alternate world and alternate Entities with engaging, well-written short statements. All of the character voices are absolutely on point, and it’s overall absurdly hopeful without ever feeling overly saccharine. I love this series so much, you guys, you don’t even know. I want to print it out and paste it on my wall. I love it.

HARD APOCALYPSE

for when you want to feel dark and angsty (and eldritch)

Most of these are shorts/oneshots because it’s just that kind of genre, y’know?

Ashes to Ashes by marrowbones

A conversation at the end of the world.

Oliver Banks is one of those minor characters that I am overly attached to. Love him here.

Employee Benefits by equals_eleven_thirds

The Magnus Institute offered some normal employee benefits: a pension plan, holidays, travel subsidies, free lunch on the last Friday of each month. Rosie makes it work.

This manages to hit that perfect sweet spot of satisfying and hilarious. Rosie gets to torment Elias, as she well deserves.

a rose by any other name by Duck_Life

Part of Jon blooms in Jared Hopworth’s garden.

This one was sad and honestly too gentle to really belong in this category, but I love it.

Eye to Eye by Dribbledscribbles

In which Jonah Magnus attempts a post-apocalyptic pep talk.

Unreliable narrator at its finest, and the implications are suitably horrific.

commensalis by doomcountry

The tower is endlessly, impossibly tall, but Jon’s work is taller.

If you’re here for the eldritch imagery, then this has some of the best.

SOFT APOCALYPSE

for when you want to feel gently triumphant

apocalypse how series by sunshine_states

Humanity adjusts. The Entities have Regrets.

Some nice vignettes set in a kinder apocalypse.

ceylon series by Sciosa

The one in which Jonathan Sims decides that no, actually, he isn't going to let the world just end.

I include this only for the sake on completeness, as everyone has no doubt already read it.

rituals by doomcountry

Martin is the first person to knock on the Archivist's door since it arrived, fully, into its little waiting temple. The Archivist saw him coming from down the hall, but decides to feign interest when the knob turns, and Martin—still a little bit smaller, a little more translucent than before—stands uncertainly just outside the room.

This one’s a little less focused on the world at large and more on JonMartin specifically.

we raise it up by savrenim

Jonathan Sims reads a book and saves the world; although maybe the real salvation is the friends he makes along the way; (although perhaps the world itself and the darkness that exists behind it isn't quite as out to get everyone as it seems).

More ‘soft revolution’ than ‘soft apocalypse’, but has the same vibe. A time travel fix-it. Incomplete but worth it if this is a mood that appeals to you.

Scarred Ground by DictionaryWrites

“You see," Elias said softly, "people always have this idea that only living things can be scarred - and they're right, of course. But a building is a living thing, Martin. And the ground can be scarred, too." "I don't have any scars," Martin said. "Yes, you do," Elias said. "You just need the right light to see them.”

Falls somewhere between ‘Apocalypse’ and ‘Soft Apocalyse’ but I’m putting it here because I feel like it. Also technically a LonelyEyes fic. I found it hard to follow at first but it’s worth sticking with; things will eventually begin to make sense and come together.

LONELYEYES

for when you want to feel lonelyeyes

marrying anguish with one last wish by procrastinatingbookworm

In which Elias isn't Orpheus, and Peter isn't Eurydice, but Elias brings Peter home anyway.

Lives in my head rent free forever. My favourite lonelyeyes fic.

ouroboros by Wildehack

“You know,” Jonah says, a muscle in his calf quivering agreeably where it’s slung over Mordechai’s shoulder, “it’s really quite--fortunate--that I don’t care for you at all.”

Oh, this one hurts in the best possible way. The endless cycle of their relationship, the way it comes full-circle... yeah, good. Actually, no, this one might be my favourite. It’s a tie.

Breaking all the Rules by Thedupshadove

Elias proposes a somewhat...unusual wager.

Soft lonelyeyes? In my recs? It’s more likely than you think. Short, sweet, and... sweet.

Threefold by Sprinkledeath

Peter Lukas breaks three rules.

I’m just a slut for mythology allusions I guess.

Luck Be A Lady Tonight by prodigy

In 2014, Elias Bouchard takes a rare trip outside of his comfort zone. Peter Lukas wastes a bunch of money. You'd be surprised how many things can go wrong for two beings of cosmic power.

I love the sense of the history of them you get while reading this.

love is just a word (the idea seems absurd) by kaneklutz

"Something's wrong. It's stopped hurting" An avatar of the Lonely and an avatar of the Beholding walk into a bar relationship. It was bound to blow up in their faces.

Short, sweet, painful. Excellent exploration of their priorities.

Victor by penguistifical

elias tries something with his powers that he hasn't attempted before

The one where Elias tries to raise the dead. Not incredibly LonelyEyes centric but that’s still the pairing.

Simon Says by penguistifical

“Peter asked me to drop by and have a word with you, and, so, here I am.” Simon chuckles at Elias’s disbelieving stare. “Well, he asked in his own way. He’s not a complicated man, you know. He either comes from your arms looking like a stroked cat that’s been given a dish of cream or looking like he’s been in that toy boat of his out in an unexpected storm. He was far angrier than normal, so I daresay you weren’t cream today.”

I mean personally I’d just go ahead and rec all of penguistifical’s LonelyEyes fics but this is a standout for me.

AROMANTIC AND ASPEC MOODS

for when you want to feel Seen

The Aro Archives series by WhyNotFly

These are all just really really good. From Aro!Peter to two different aro-spec versions of the Scottish Safehouse to a long and beautiful aro hanahaki fic, this series is uniformly wonderful. The two Scottish Safehouse ones (Torn Edges and Murky Water) are my comfort fics.

and now all fear gives way by j_quadrifons

Before he can think it through, he murmurs, "Is that what it feels like? Being in love?" Martin's hand stills in his hair and Jon's stomach drops.

This one just. Wow yeah this is how it be. Another absolute comfort fic of mine.

Sweet As Roses by Prim_the_Amazing

Jon takes Martin by the shoulders, leans up on the tips of his toes, and kisses him.

I’m going to be honest—I didn’t know where to put this one. But it ended up here because the real standout of this fic for me is the portrayal of Sasha, and especially her portrayal as an aro character. So I’m putting it here. Mind the content warnings with this one!

HUMOUR

for when you want to feel delight

The Torment of Sebastian Skinner by Urbenmyth

After the Eye's victory, the statement givers are trapped in their horror stories, living them over and over again. Naturally, this works out better for some then for others.

Premise? Delightful. Execution? Fantastic. I read this one to cheer myself up when I’m sad.

Unlucky by VolxdoSioda

Jon’s dice betray him

Short, sweet DnD au, and the reason I cannot get DM!Elias out of my head now.

Voracious by beetl

A bird hits the window. Jon experiences The Flesh's thrall.

“Dead Dove: Do Not Eat” but make it literal.

The Stupid Endings by Urbenmyth

There are a lot of very deeply thought out and creative AUs on this site. These aren't among them. These ones are how the story could have ended, if Jonny Sims was a dumbass.

These are just uniformly hilarious, I cannot recommend them highly enough.

PODCAST CROSSOVERS

for when you want to make one of those “if I had a nickel for every time...” posts

The Sabbatical by morelikeassassin

Nicholas Waters is in need of an all-knowing eldritch entity beyond the confines of human imagining to help with his latest ritual. He'll have to settle for Jonathan Sims, who happens to have nothing better to do.

Crossover with Archive 81 (s3, specifically). Both fun and bittersweet.

The City And Its Sorrows by cuttooth

“What makes you think your friend is in Eskew?” David asks. He feels he can risk the scrutiny of the city that far. “I read that this is a place people end up when they get lost,” says the man. “This is a place people end up,” David agrees./The Archivist comes to Eskew.

Contemplative piece, and I love the way it presents David’s relationship with Eskew, the way he finds it horrible and hates it and yet belongs to it, is almost proud in the way he shows to to Jon. Great little vignette of two people oppressed by eldritch powers, intersecting.

Hiatus by bibliocratic

My name is Jonathan Sims, and I am in Eskew. (Jon gets lost in a Spiral city. It is not as easy as escaping.)

This one is far more focused on Jon than David, and is honestly more Eskew-weird than Spiral-weird. In the best way. Told in Eskew episode style, and is very good.

Sweet Music by Shella688

Eskew has a music to it, if you know how to listen. The percussion beat of thousands of footsteps, the melody in the squealing of the trains overhead. Today, the music of Eskew comes in the form of nine musicians, playing outside my office. My name is David Ward, and I am in Eskew.

Not TMA, but since a lot of Mechs fans go here—this one’s a Mechs/Eskew crossover. Short and simple, mostly David Ward centric, just a little well-written one shot I had to mention because I enjoyed it but it doesn’t have much traffic. Nice portrayal of the Mechs from an outsider’s perspective, and how genuinely strange and frightening they’d come across (especially if you’re already being haunted by and eldritch city). If you like Eskew-style storytelling, check it out!

NOT TMA

...but good enough that I physically cannot make a recs list without including them. Here!

#tma #the magnus archives #fic recs #long post #i'm not kidding you guys it's long #so be warned before you click read more #pinned on my blog

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schmokschmok · 3 years

Text

witches are real, and you think this is just a funny fic title

Fandom: The Magnus Archives

Relationship: Martin K. Blackwood x Tim Stoker

Characters: Martin K. Blackwood, Tim Stoker, Sasha James, Danny Stoker

Wordcount: 12,166

Freeform:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence

No Fear Entities

Supernatural Elements

Witch & HOH Tim Stoker

Danny Stoker Lives

Halloween

Tim Stoker Deserves Nice Things And I’m Giving Them To Him

Summary:

Martin fakes his way into the Magnus Institute, a research and archiving facility for magical and supernatural (or as Elias Bouchard likes to call it paranormal) encounters. He expects the people working for the institute to be kind of weird but Tim Stoker takes his commitment for a spooky aesthetic to a whole new level.

Read on AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27070366

The thing is: Martin knows what to do with crooked smiles and superficial, flattering words. He knows how to smile politely and stumble through a thank you when someone compliments the jumper he’s wearing, not knowing that he made it himself. He knows how to accept an absentminded nod as gratitude for the tea he’s making every day for the whole archival staff. He knows how to get through a wide array of flirty remarks that concern his appearance, dignity mostly intact. He knows how to smile through a detachedly welcoming nod of a co-worker for years that answers his greeting by name.

The thing he can’t handle, under any circumstances, however, is kindness. Never been good at it, not even as a kid.

He knows his mother had been kind when he had been a child, had brushed and braided his hair every single night and told him fairy tales and stories, she had stayed up with him after nightmares and during thunder storms, had told him she loved him even when he was angry with her. And she hadn’t expected him to love her back, is the thing, hadn’t wanted him to brush her hair or hold her hand or meet every of her stories with one of his own. Maybe that’s why he gives back now, loves her even if she doesn’t love him back, brushes and braids her hair even if she doesn’t want to look at him, tells her stories of his work and the friends he doesn’t have but fabricates just to maybe ease her mind. (And if she doesn’t want him coming back, then he will stop. Kindness, sometimes, is about the things you’re willing to give up for the ones that you love. – On some days she calls him cruel for coming back and coming back and coming back, but she doesn’t tell him to leave, doesn’t tell him to stay away. So, he returns like a record broken, jumping on the same syllable until she stops the needle digging into him.)

His father had been kind, too, he thinks. Had to be to be loved by a woman like his mother once had been. Martin doesn’t remember anymore.

Mostly, the kindness directed his way is about bargaining favours and weighing the things he does against sweet spoken words. Which is alright, he thinks, because giving his last shirt for a sincere thank you has been his modus operandi since his father left. He wants to give and give and if that leaves him curled up on his bed on a Wednesday evening at eight o’clock then it’s just because he’s not strong enough to carry the weight of his own thoughts.

It starts like this: Martin takes up work in the institute with no real credentials to support his curriculum vitae or his claim of knowledge about anything, really, but he’s tired of working minimal wage, of cooking mediocre food late at night for his mother who wants to move out desperately to stop being all on her own in their empty flat, of working three shifts in a row in two different jobs and still struggling to meet ends. Martin’s tired of burning on a borrowed flame, shovelling hollow coals on a dying candle.

So, he’s faking CVs, so many that he loses count of them. He sends them to every job listing he finds, twisting and tweaking the details, staying up late at night on his battered laptop that takes almost five minutes to boot. He shows up to as many interviews as he can manage but he never gets called back in. Until Elias Bouchard phones him on a cloudy day and tells him that he can start working in the library, if he’s able to move to London in the next month that is. He accepts, of course he does. His mother would never forgive him declining the only job offer that would get them to pay their bills on time and pave the way to a nice nursing home where his mother doesn’t have to be alone anymore.

Martin moves to London. His mother doesn’t.

He starts working in the Magnus Library which is a capital L kind of library as he gets told on his very first day. It’s a joke, he thinks, a library science master’s joke that he doesn’t get but laughs about anyway. (It’s a Magnus Institute’s joke, but Martin doesn’t know that yet. His hands are full juggling the Dewey Decimal and his customer service smile while looking at the impatient faces of half of the faculty members trying to loan basic material books he hasn’t ever heard the titles of.)

It’s not a secret that he’s incompetent, Martin thinks, they all know it, and no one says anything to his face which is probably meant as kindness but feels like cruelty. Because Martin isn’t daft, Martin isn’t incapable of learning, Martin isn’t unwilling to put every last ounce of himself into being better. But nobody seems to think that he’s important enough to be corrected. They see his misfiled loaning records and his misplaced books, and they say it’s not a problem, don’t worry and they take care of it without offering to teach him any better. And Martin, well, Martin is too embarrassed to ask them how to handle it in the future. He will figure it out, he thinks, in time.

(He’s right, but he doesn’t know that yet. It takes almost a year for him to memorise the layout of the library with its seemingly everchanging bookshelves and corridors. It takes almost one and a half for him to get to know every Library staff member and their preferred way to drink tea. It takes almost two years for him to remember the faces of the faculty members that don’t visit the library regularly. It takes almost three years for him to know that it’s Research and Archives and Library and Artefacts but human resources and accounting and information technology. It’s around the same time that he feels like maybe he’s part of the team now; the same time that his co-workers stop looking at him like he’s a bumbling fool without any skills; the same time that he stops calling his mother every three days or so even though she hasn’t picked up in a long time.)

The very first week that he works in the library is filled with many apologies, too many to keep record, a much and much of awkward apologeticness. A few conversations are held, he gets to know Rosie „the heart of the institute” Martinez and Lydia „from HR” Yılmaz. They are good people and talking to them makes the muscles in his back relax just the tiniest bit, although the panic never stops flaring up in his stomach that, somehow, they will know that he’s a fraud.

It’s the first day of his second week and he feels slightly more prepared because he used every minute of the weekend to pull up every article ever written about the institute and its library. He tried reading published papers, too, but without the institute’s access they’re securely locked behind a paywall he can’t get through without a credit card and loads and loads of money to spare. He snacked on canned peaches while reading about filing systems, but in the end he’s none the wiser.

So, he comes in an hour early and unlocks the front entrance of the institute with his key card. It’s eerily quiet in the dark lobby and hallways leading into the back of the building. The noisiness of the street and the embankment gets swallowed by the thick walls and the closing door behind him and the only thing he can hear is the tapping of his own shoes on the marble floor. It’s a mixture of unsettling and peaceful, but he’s not sure which takes precedence in his sleep addled mind. The unfamiliarity of the cream-coloured walls and the polished, almost black floor makes every shadow move in a way Martin can’t comprehend and he turns to look at them a few times only to realise they’re potted plants or laminated notes hung up next to different door frames. He passes a few glowing exit signs and the door to the stairwell that leads up to the second floor.

When he approaches the entrance to the library, a weight gets lifted from his stomach at the prospect of a light switch he can use to chase out the darkness that slowly gets more unnerving than comforting. Spinning the key card in his hand to keep busy and hold his anxiety at bay, he rounds the last corner and stops dead in his tracks. Because sitting right in front of the door is a person only illuminated by the harsh, cold light of their phone. Right the second Martin loses hold of his key card and it meets the floor with an echoing plasticky sound, their eyes snap up and fixate on Martin.

“Oh, lovely, you’re here,” they say, standing up from their hunched-up position without even touching the floor with their hands. (Martin takes a moment to envy that movement because every time he thinks about sitting down on the floor he has to either make sure something’s in close proximity to help him lift himself up or the ground’s not too dirty, so he doesn’t have to wash his hands right the second he stands upright again.) “I was starting to get worried I’d have to wait another hour for someone to open up.”

“Uh–,” is everything Martin gets out before the stranger picks up his key card and hands it over to him. They smile at him, slightly deranged but without a doubt handsome in a way that makes Martin’s breath catch in his chest. While Martin reaches out carefully to grab the offered card, they say: “Sorry for dropping in unexpectedly and unannounced but Veronica will have my arse if I don’t hand in this follow up today.”

Silence falls over them when Martin doesn’t react in any way and just continues staring at the stranger who keeps staring at him as if Martin should know who Veronica is and how important it is for them to do their follow up. (As if Martin should know what a follow up even is.)

“Tim,” the stranger provides when Martin doesn’t show the slightest inclination to do anything other than, well, stare at them. “I’m working upstairs in Research in Veronica’s team.” They wait for an agonising moment for Martin to return the introduction – which he fails to do, still trying to process that he’s really in an actual conversation with another human being before seven a.m.

“As lovely as it is standing here with you, …” Tim continues, allowing Martin once again to submit his name. Which he fails to do, again, because his mouth feels so dry he’s afraid if he opens it now there won’t come out anything else than a pathetic cough. Tim doesn’t seem too stressed about it. „I really need to go in there,” Tim gestures over their shoulder to the library, “and cross-reference a few things and brush up a few of my foot-notes before it’s time to clock in again. Veronica is really adamant about this follow up laying on her desk at eight thirty sharp.” The manila folder in Tim’s hand gets lifted for emphasis and apparently that’s all Martin needed to get it together and finally move. Without him intending to do so, his lips form a customer service smile that’s been ingrained into his very being from years upon years of working in ice cream shops and pizza restaurants and a movie theatre that’s long gone now.

“Yeah, uh, yeah no problem!”

He steps around Tim and presses his key card against the sensor underneath the door handle. After the soft opening click of the lock, he steps aside to let Tim enter the room behind him and he searches for the light switch with his outstretched arm because he’s pretty sure that one has to be on the wall to his left.

“Thank you, really, you’re doing me a favour, mate,” Tim says and legitimately bows with the biggest grin before he’s off into the depth of the library, swallowed by a shelf Martin could swear hadn’t stood there on Friday when he left.

Finally, he lets go of the door and gets closer to the wall to search with both hands for the switch, until the little finger of his right hand bumps against the hard plastic shell of a set of light switches.

“Gonna be bright for a second,” he warns loudly, unsure if Tim’s even able to hear him or not. Then, after a few seconds, he presses the switch and the lights above his head sputter and blink to life with the solid snugness of old halogen lamps.

His eyes take a moment to adjust to the brightness, then he treads over to the counter, rounds it and closes his eyes for just a heartbeat or two. He’s got this. Tim wandering somewhere, hidden behind shelfs, is not going to change the fact that Martin’s got this. His brain, heart and stomach just need to be convinced, that’s okay, he can handle a wee bit anxiety and nervousness.

Without further ado, he pins his name tag to his monochrome button-down (because that’s what adults wear at work) and starts to open the various drawers underneath the counter to catalogue the innards.

There's probably a system, stapler and pen and pencils in one drawer, neatly arranged in a compartment next to sticky notes and paper squares in bright colours and an uncountable amount of paper clips. In the drawer underneath, he finds envelopes, more paper in various shapes and forms and sizes. Another drawer reveals the minute book in which Martin should document Tim’s presence. (Probably? He’s not entirely sure if the minute book is for every research assistant or students only.) Right next to the minute book, Martin can see the keys for every terminal in the library, and a few personal items of his co-workers which should not be in there as far as Martin’s been informed. The last two drawers contain RFID tags, barcodes and printed ID cards. The space reserved for lost and found is surprisingly empty. (Martin thinks he remembers Janette taking everything back into the small storage room in the back on Friday afternoon.)

It takes almost fifteen minutes for him to open and close every drawer (multiple times) and he's still not sure if he memorised the most important things. It's quarter past seven, however, and he couldn’t find a single position plan, which is why Martin steps around the counter and starts to make his way through the maze that is this library. Clipboard and pencil in hand, he outlines the approximate layout of the outer walls and tries to draw in the shelfs he passes, marking them with things like Local History A—V and Ghosts (general) J—Z, scribbling down letters and numbers of the signatures that seem important to him. (He's got a run down last week but the library uses the most arbitrary synthesis of Dewey Decimal and an intern system that the first library staff must have implemented before trying to shove the Dewey Decimal into the small space left.)

Martin's good at making maps, if he's allowed to say so. He can read a map, he can draw a map. (It wouldn't hold up against a professional map but his always worked fine enough.) So, he feels righteous indignation when someone steps into his space, throws a glance on his makeshift map and says: “This isn't accurate, sorry.”

Martin furrows his brow, but the customer service smile is on his lips again before he’s able to will it away.

“Why wouldn't it be?” Martin asks even though he doesn't want to know what Tim has to say. “I mean, yeah, you couldn't do an accurate projection, but it's not meant to be. It's about the order of the shelfs, the signatures.”

“As much as I hate to disappoint you,” Tim says and lets his finger hover half a centimetre above Martin's map, “but the ghost section is three shelfs down to the right next to Russian literature. I walked past it a few seconds ago.”

“Well, the only reason this map says ghost is because I walked past the ghost section,” Martin retorts (and feels very brave about it). The desire to snatch the map away from Tim's finger and hold it close to his chest so that Tim can't spare another look is strong but Martin also knows it's childish and he shouldn't indulge in such impulses.

“Well, Martin,” Tim must have seen Martin's name tag, which is nice because Tim says his name with an exasperated fondness that Martin shouldn't have earned yet and it spares Martin from the mortifying ordeal of introducing himself after his fauxpas this morning, “I don't know if nobody told you but this Library is like the rest of the institute: A big pile of magical bullshit.”

Tim grins and the skin next to their eyes crinkle with mischief as if they're sharing an inside joke with Martin, as if Martin should understand. (And like every other time someone implies or references something Martin doesn't understand or jokes about something Martin doesn't know, he gets this violent urge to scream into the knowingly smiling face in front of him. But he chokes it down, more or less successfully.) And he smiles.

“Don't beat yourself up,” Tim continues, unaware of the wee bit of hatred Martin feels in this very second, “a map won't help but soon enough you'll get the hang of it.” Tim winks. “When I first started using the Library, I swear to you, every single shelf I walked up to was sporting the cryptid selection. Every single one. I stood between two shelfs and it didn't matter in which direction I turned, there it was: The cryptid section.” Tim's eyes don't leave Martin's face for a second, which is kind of unnerving but at the same time strangely reassuring. As if Tim's more than just aware who they're talking to. “This Library is more a Feeling than an organised space.”

Tim laughs again and Martin tries to join in, but it gets caught in his throat. Tim's flittering fingers and Tim's sing-songed “spooky!” only elevate the closed up feeling in Martin's chest and the knuckles on his hand that still holds onto his clipboard turn white in their effort to not drop it.

A quick glance to the watch on Martin's wrist puts a stop to Tim's easy posture and they say: “Fuck, I should really get going. Veronica's still waiting.” Then Tim hesitates and smiles at Martin again. “It was nice to make acquaintance with you, Martin. This won't be the last you'll see of me, but if you every think about going for a drink after work, hit me up. Sam or Rosie should have given you access to the institute's instant messaging system. I think you would get along well with Sasha — she's also in Research — and me.”

Tim shoots Martin a finger gun (which is incidentally the most obnoxious thing Martin has ever had to witness) and strides past Martin towards the library's exit.

And then he's gone like the first soft layer of frost in November after the first rays of sun.

It's quarter to eight and there's not much time until one of his colleagues will try to open up the library, but Martin uses the remaining time to lean against a shelf and stare at the ticking clock on the wall above the counter, trying to will his heart into a slower rhythm not dictated by anxiety or the sudden realisation that Tim had been close and Tim had been beautiful.

And like everything else in Martin's life: He fails.

This could have been the end and Martin's been sure that it would be. When the clock above the counter strikes twelve however and Martin gets ready to leave the library to go down to the in-house cafeteria, the door to the library gets shoved open and Tim stumbles in, closely followed by a no less beautiful stranger who Martin assumes could be Sasha.

“Martin!” Tim exclaims right before they're fist crashes into their chest right above their heart. “Thank the Lord, you're still here!”

The-stranger-who-could-be-Sasha-but-might-not-be rolls their eyes but smiles, before shoving Tim out of their way.

“Ignore him,” they say and turn a smile on Martin, he can't help but answer with one of his own. “He can be a bit …” They make a circle shaped gesture with their rolling wrist in clear search of the right word. So, Martin tries to jump in: “Dramatic?”

“Yes,” maybe!Sasha says at the same time Tim declares: „Oh, please, I have flair that's something entirely else.“

“You're a theatre kid,” maybe!Sasha says, ignoring the dismissive hand Tim waves into their face.

“Martin, you should ignore her,” Tim presses on before maybe!Sasha gets a chance to say anything else. “When I got back to my desk, I realised we never exchanged surnames which are crucial for the instant messenger.” Martin nods, slightly dazed and not at all sure if he understands the importance of Tim’s surname. “So, Tim Stoker.” He bows outlandishly.

“And Sasha James,” maybe-or-rather-definitely-Sasha jumps in, curtsying with the same kind of derisiveness. “Glad to be of service.” She rests her elbow on Tim’s shoulder and leans forward, just the tiniest bit, but it makes Martin feel strangely included. “You want to get lunch with us?”

The smile spreading across Martin’s face feels real, digging into his cheeks and showing dimples he kind of forgot he had. He casts a look at the clock above his head and says: “Yeah, sounds lovely.”

The thing is: Martin is a dreamer, day and night and dusk ‘til dusk ‘til dawn. He likes to think about all the possibilities he will never ever take, the wonderous things he wishes to happen but knows will always remain a fantasy.

When he was a child, he used to dream about his father coming back and apologising to his mother and explaining that it was all just a big misunderstanding, innit, he never would have left willingly, especially not without further notice. Martin would dream up every reasoning in existence, if his father would have come back Martin would have already heard his excuse. He’d just have to wait and find out which one was true.

When he was a teenager, he used to dream about mending the relationship with his mother, of sharing a smile with her instead of directing it at her disapproving or distant face. And he dreamt of a boy without a face but with calloused hands and experienced lips that would come and sweep him off his feet – literally at first, and figuratively when he hit that growth spurt in tenth class.

When he became an adult, he started dreaming about working nine to five and a two-day weekend. He dreamt about working in a café or restaurant and earning enough to sustain his mother and himself. He dreamt that one day he would open up his own place, a small restaurant or a flower shop or a shop selling something with turquoise. And he dreamt that he would meet a man, a nice and good man who would make everything just the tiniest bit more bearable; who Martin would like to be around and who would like to be around Martin. A man not merely tolerating him but seeking his presence.

Martin is a dreamer, but he’s not delusional. Or at least not anymore. The older Martin grew the simpler his dreams became. Now that his income is secure, he dreams about the domesticity of a social network and a warm body next to him when he tries to fall asleep. (And it’s the first time his dreams seem to be within his grasp. As if he can reach for them and cup them in the hollow of his hands. He just has to believe.)

It goes like this: Martin slowly grows desperate because the Magnus library doesn’t make any sense at all. One day Local Myths is on the shelf next to the counter, the next the shelf is empty, and the one after that Martin sees Vampires and Werewolves neatly arrayed on it. It doesn’t make sense, and frankly it makes Martin angry. This is a library for crying out loud, and Martin’s a librarian who can’t even fetch a monograph without getting lost. (Or is he a library assistant? Is Yvonne the only librarian? Everyone in this institute always seems to be an assistant, maybe Elias Bouchard is the only person with an actual degree in here.)

“Is something bugging you?”

A voice comes out of nowhere, causing Martin’s head to snap towards the frowning face of Tim Stoker. It’s been three weeks since their first getting acquainted, and Tim and Sasha drop by at irregular intervals to chit-chat for a bit. At this point, it’s something Martin has come to accept and look forward to but not necessarily expect to happen. Usually, they tell him about their research (it’s creepy and Martin never ever wants to enter artefacts, thank you very much) or their co-workers (including one Jon who Martin is yet to meet but who’s apparently really close with both Sasha and Tim) or the things they did on the weekend (they’re both incredibly busy all the time). But it’s not like they’re self-centered by any means, they ask about him, too. On a normal day, he hates this part of the conversation because he can’t really tell them nice stories about meeting friends and going out of town to kayak or whatever because he spends his time with his mother or home alone with knitting needles either documentaries or heteronormative romcoms queued up. And, let’s be honest, that’s not a compelling story to tell.

Today however Martin’s almost glad someone’s asking him about his mood because he does have an answer: “You were right! My map isn’t accurate. And I don’t get why!”

The startled look on Tim’s face makes Martin realise that he’s a bit loud and his tone is maybe a little aggressive. He ducks his head, heat spreading over his face, and continues in a more dignified manner: “It’s really not that bad. I’m just trying to shelve the returned books. But I can’t find the shelfmarks. It’s a little frustrating, is all.”

He tries to smile through his outburst, but he feels bad almost immediately. It’s not Tim’s responsibility or amicable duty to listen to Martin’s displeased rant, and they don’t know each other well enough for Martin to burden him with unimportant stuff like this. (The thought that Tim seems to be genuinely interested in what Martin has to say and that Tim complains all the time about uncooperative clerks and impossible to keep deadlines which likely means that he would be alright with Martin complaining a teeny-tiny bit crosses Martin’s mind but he tries not to dwell on it. He wouldn’t forgive himself if he would be mistaken.)

“You’ve been here for, what,” Tim says, his index finger tapping against his chin, a questioning look on his face, “like, a month?” Martin nods. “It’s absolutely normal to get confused. Like I told you: This Library is more a Feeling than an organised space. You can’t go about it with logic.” At this, he shrugs dismissively. “After that Cryptid incident, I literally brought my pendulum to work just to locate the sections I was looking for. And guess what, the Library didn’t care. It sent me running around the shelves nonetheless.”

Martin can’t help himself, his face scrunches up in a grimace. He should have anticipated weird antics when he first started working here, the Magnus Institute is a research and archiving facility for magical and supernatural (or as Elias Bouchard calls it paranormal) encounters. But Tim had seemed like a normal guy.

Quickly, he schools his expression into a more neutral one, before he says: “No offence, really, I hope I’m not intruding but using a pendulum seems kind of, well, esoteric?” The moment the words leave his mouth, he feels awful. Who raised Martin to be this impolite? Certainly not his mother. So he tries to backtrack: “I– I mean, I don’t want to impose or, uh, ascribe something to you or, or invalidate you.”

“It’s okay,” Tim interrupts him with a smile. He doesn’t seem mad. “I’m a witch, so everything I do is kinda esoteric. Can’t hold that against you.”

The wolfishness of Tim’s grin makes Martin think that this is an inside joke, too. Or, oh no, maybe it’s Tim’s religion and Martin’s a real jackass about it. Is witch a religious term? He has heard about wicca and druidism, but he has no idea if they call themselves witches. He doesn’t want to disrespect Tim or his belief system, but he also wants to know. Is it disrespectful to ask Tim about his religion? Martin wouldn’t do it if they didn’t know each other, but their friends (somewhat, kind of) and asking as a friend is more considerate than intrusive, right? (Or is he just rationalising and justifying his own curiosity, while masking it as attentiveness? Is Martin overthinking this?)

“So,” Martin starts and it’s an out of body experience where he sees himself driving against a wall without the chance to stop himself, “does that mean you’re wiccan?” He bites his tongue, waiting for Tim to tell him he’s an insensitive twat.

“Oh, no. I’m agnostic,” Tim replies, still wearing the same expression of content and reassurance.

For a moment, they’re both quiet. Tim leans against the counter, his elbows on the surface and his face almost in Martin’s space. It could be unpleasant, but he rather likes Tim’s complete disregard of personal space. (In part because he has seen Tim interact with Rosie who dislikes physical touch to a stark extreme in a respectful way, always keeping his distance. He knows if he ever were uncomfortable Tim would back off. And that’s reassuring in its own way.)

“Give yourself some time,” Tim says eventually. “Let the Library get to know you.”

“You talk about the library as if it were conscious.” It’s a statement, not a question.

“Yeah,” Tim chuckles. “Yeah, I do.” He sighs and straightens his back. “It’s not, though, so don’t worry.” The way Tim says it, though, makes Martin think that this is not the whole truth. That there is something Tim’s not telling him. But it’s not Martin’s place to inquire further, he thinks. There’s definitely a plausible explanation for all this, Tim just likes to pull his pigtails.

“Shouldn’t you be out today?” Martin asks to change the topic and feels incredibly rude at the same time. “Not that I’m not happy to see you, but it’s still quarter an hour to lunch.”

“Came back earlier than expected and thought I could mob you ‘til twelve and kidnap you for a lunch date,” Tim replies so nonchalantly, warmth spreads across Martin’s face and he attempts to swallow down the laugh that wants to escape – but he fails. (He has never been mobbed, and even though Tim doesn’t think of this as a date date, Martin wants to indulge in that thought. At least for a moment.)

“I think,” he says slowly, and a little bit mischievously, “I could take my break early today.”

The thing is: Even though Martin thought Sasha and Tim would grow bored of him sooner or later, they don’t. They stop at his desk when they use the library for their research, they pick him up sometimes for lunch or ask him to meet them outside if they’re doing field work. Martin gets roped into pub nights and trivia quizzes, Sasha takes him to her pottery class and Tim invites him to a poetry slam where his brother performs. (This is remarkable because of two things: First and foremost, because Martin has never been invited to meet family members of anyone except for the parents of a few classmates when he stayed for lunch. And secondly, because Tim and Danny are as close as brothers can be, and it feels like a seal of approval – or as if Tim needed Danny to approve of Martin before he could spend more time with him. Martin’s not sure which way round it is.)

It goes like this: Despite the cool September night air, Martin is way too warm in his thick knitted jumper. He runs hot, always has been, but today is not the day he wants to be soaked in sweat just by existing. (Truth be told, he never really wants to be this warm, but there are at least times where he doesn’t mind as much. Meeting Danny Stoker for the first time is not one of those times. But he’s also pretty sure that he can’t take off his jumper because he’s been too hot for too long at this point. Tonight’s going to be fun and he just needs to power through.)

Martin tries not to shift his weight from one foot to the other too often, instead he’s focusing on the way the soles of his shoes line up with the asphalt of the pavement and ground him. He counts his breaths, his hands burrowed deep inside the pockets of his trousers. He can absolutely do this, he has known Tim for a few weeks now and he doesn’t think Tim would introduce Danny and him if he’d think they wouldn’t get along. (This may be more of wishful thinking though.)

A small part of him wishes, Sasha would come too, to ease the tension in his shoulders and uncoil the knots in his stomach. But she's with her family, celebrating the birthday of one of her cousins, and the text she sent him a few hours ago sits in their chat, mourning her absence and telling him to enjoy Danny's performance, it will likely be one of a kind.

Right when he seriously starts contemplating to go home again and fake a stomach bug, Tim rounds the corner with a man just a few years younger than him who looks like a referenceless, free-hand drawing of Tim. Which isn't a bad thing, by any means, just noticeable in how alike they look, just different enough to not be mistaken for each other.

When Tim's gaze falls upon Martin, his face splits into a wide grin and he waves enthusiastically, almost smacking Danny in his face in the process. This causes Danny to look directly at him, too, and his eyebrows shoot up while grinning almost half as wide as Tim. (If there had been any kind of doubt about them being brothers, now there weren’t.) Danny turns his head slightly and nudges Tim with his elbow. When Tim turns to look at him, Danny says something to him, moving his hands in unison, that makes Tim stop grinning for a second and start furrowing his brow. It doesn't last long, only three or four steps, then he looks at Martin again and his face softens. (Martin desperately wants to know what Danny said because people looking at Martin and whispering usually means something bad. And if Danny already wants to make fun of him, then Martin needs to go. Immediately.)

“You came!”

While Martin was still weighing his options, measuring staying, but anxiously against going, but anxiously, Tim and Danny have come into earshot. And Tim sounds pleasantly surprised as if he had been unsure if Martin would come.

They come to a halt in front of Martin and Tim pulls Martin in for a quick hug, which isn't a surprise per se but still unexpected. Subsequently, he turns towards Danny and introduces them. (He says this is my friend Martin, I told you about him. He says friend, not co-worker. Which, yes. They're friends but it's still new and nice and positively overwhelming to hear him say it out loud.)

“Hey,” Danny says, his smile unwavering. He's either a good actor or doesn't hate Martin on sight; at this point, Martin gladly takes both over open hostility. "Tim told me so much about you. I'm really pleased to make your acquaintance." He pauses to make room for Martin returning the sentiment. (Which he does, thank you very much, just because he's a useless gay around beautiful men and can't handle surprise small talk at arse o'clock, doesn't mean he can't hold a conversation.) “I gotta be honest with you, mate, I need your help tonight. This is my first slam and Tim’s a shit critic. I need some real feedback.”

A reassuring smile takes over Martin's features because, of course, Danny is nervous. Martin would be, too, he supposes. The thing Danny had said had probably nothing to do with Martin per se and everything with meeting someone for the first time at his first performance. (And maybe his only if Sasha is right.) However, before he can retort in any way, Tim jumps in: “Danny, bro, Martin is probably the last person you should ask to tell you how awful your skid is. You didn't practice it once and he’s a nice guy.”

“Well,” Danny replies, mischief in his eyes and a mocking tilt in his voice, “I'm just gonna wing it.”

“You're lucky, you're a Stoker.”

“You're just jealous because you didn't inherit that gen,” Danny shoots back before turning to Martin and stage-whispering: “Everyone always thinks that Tim is naturally gifted and everything comes to him easily. But in reality, he has to learn things and work for them. Embarrassing, right?”

Getting roped into friendly, brotherly banter. That's good! That's involvement in a good and workmanlike manner! And, actually, way out of Martin's comfort zone right now. (Is this a test? Is Danny teasing Tim in front of Martin to see if Martin jumps in and practically stabs Tim right in the back? Or does he want Martin to disagree with him and stand in solidarity with Tim? Or is Martin’s brain just overreacting like, well, always?)

“You’re embarrassing him,” Tim accuses Danny, before shoving at him and laughing. It’s obvious he doesn’t mind Danny teasing him or Martin, because it’s good natured. (Or at least Martin wants it to be. He desperately wants it to be.)

“No, I’m honest with him,” Danny retorts, before shoving Tim back which causes him to almost crash into Martin. “Someone needs to take you down a peg or two. Once in a while at least.” He grins and it’s more on the boyish side.

“I think Sasha’s doing a good job keeping Tim in check,” Martin interjects bravely. With every second in their presence, the fists in his pockets lose a speck of tension and Martin can feel his nails easing out of the heel of his hand. He feels weird being the only one neither knowing nor using sign language while talking but he’s thankful that they’re including him, talking loud enough for him to hear. (It’s a whole new side of Tim Martin has never seen before, it’s nice. Very nice, actually.)

“I love Sasha,” Danny sighs wistfully, batting his eyes. Before Tim slings his arm around Danny’s neck and pulls him in, he says: “We’ve been through this, Sasha’s way out of your league.” (And probably aro, Martin thinks, if the small pride flag pin Martin spotted on Sasha’s satchel bag is any indication.)

“Yeah,” Danny says. “True.” Then his eyes fall on the clock inside the display window of a chemist on the other side of the street. “We should head in.”

They make their way into the pub, through a small crowd consisting mostly of people in their twenties and thirties, milling and chatting in wait for the poetry slam to begin. Danny makes a beeline for a bar table, even though multiple tables with chairs and benches are empty. Martin wants to point out that he doesn’t think standing for multiple hours is something he wants to do, but right when he decides that he can at least try, Tim grabs Danny’s arm and steers him toward a round table with four chairs at the back of the room.

“You won’t make me stand through your performance,” Tim proclaims loudly, then he sits down and pats the seat of the chair next to his. Demonstratively, Danny sits down on Tim’s other side – closest to the stage – and Martin rounds the table to sit next to Tim. While Tim and Danny shrug off their coats, Martin once again regrets his choice of clothing. (Maybe a beer or two into the evening will ease his nerves enough to pull off his jumper. Now he takes a deep breath and focuses on the soft chattering of the crowd.)

Underneath their coats, matching shirts come to light. An Aegean blue with white lettering, a loopy script proclaiming bestoked with the tiny caricature of a witch with a pointy hat on a broomstick. Below that, Martin recognises small print that reads: Witches are real, and you think this is just a funny t-shirt slogan. He chuckles.

Tim makes a questioning hmm-sound and Martin points at their shirts, saying: “It’s funny.”

“Yeah,” Danny replies, exchanging looks with Tim. “Sasha made them for us.”

“Why witches?” Martin asks. Opposed to standing outside having to face both of them, sitting next to Tim puts Martin at ease. (It feels more organic sitting alongside Tim. Most of the time when they head out together, they sit on one bench with Sasha on the other side of the table. This is almost the same, Martin tries to reason, Danny is just another Sasha. A person Tim loves and wants him to like, too. No big deal.) “Isn’t Bram Stoker known for Dracula?”

“Yeah, he is,” Danny says with a shrug and Tim adds: “Our name’s Stoker and we’re witches. It’s pretty niche but most people think it’s funny.”

Martin tilts his head in confusion, he opens his mouth through an irritated smile. Before he can actually speak though, someone on the makeshift stage steps up to the microphone and welcomes the crowd to the pub’s bi-monthly poetry slam.

“First up: Gerry with their poem osedax!”

The crowd claps and their conversation is completely forgotten. They listen to Gerry describing a life under water and a life dependent on death. It’s a bit early for spooky Halloween vibes but Martin thinks it’s probably a metaphor for Gerry’s life that’s beyond Martin to understand. (He loves poetry, writes his own in his spare time, but he’s not big on interpreting poems outside of his own limited world view. He likes reading poetry, imagining the lives inspiring the words, and applying them to his own situation. Seeing someone putting their innards on display for dozens of strangers to see, is something entirely different. It feels like trespassing, somehow, trespassing into the soul of another human being. Martin decides that he hates it here.)

Gerry concludes their poem with ragged breathing and closed eyes. For a moment, the pub is silent. Then applause rings out and Tim leans toward Martin and whispers loudly: “Gerry is the one who put the bee into Danny’s bonnet that performing here would be a good idea.”

Danny shushes Tim, swatting at him without looking. Absentmindedly, he says: “It is a good idea, though.”

Martin doesn’t say anything, while watching Gerry retreat from the stage and head back to a group at the long side of the room. They congratulate Gerry, and Martin thinks (for just one measly second) how it would feel to perform one of his own poems. One about his mother or the alienation he felt his whole life. But he’s not a word magician like Gerry, he doesn’t have plausible deniability for the things he talks about. His poetry is descriptive and more of an endeavour to capture a feeling than an analogy in form of a convoluted metaphor.

Next up is someone talking about a hamster. Martin senses a theme.

Tim and Danny stare intensely at the stage, absorbing each and every word being said. And Martin’s torn between getting up and buying drinks, and waiting quietly until the poem is over. He’s unsure about the custom. If it would be impolite to talk during the performance.

In the end, however, it doesn’t matter. They end their poem and thank the audience before they leave the stage. Martin leans into Tim’s space (a bit like Tim would do with him in this situation), his shoulder lining up with Tim’s and when Tim turns around he whispers: “I’m gonna get drinks. Can I get you something?”

“We can just get a pitcher,” Tim whispers back, before checking in with Danny: “You’re not up next, right?” Danny shakes his head and Martin gets up to get them a pitcher and three glasses. (He takes the opportunity to breathe in and out a few times. He thought they would talk more. That Danny and he would have to interact more. But, apparently, Tim and Danny are really into poetry slam and don’t want to disrespect the artists. Which is, well, nice. Considerate. And, yes, he shouldn’t be surprised about that.)

Martin orders a pitcher and pays right up, then he tries to balance the three glasses and the pitcher through the crowd back to their table. He puts everything down and almost misses the staff member announcing Danny’s performance. Lost Johns’ Cave.

With a spring in his step, Danny stands up, makes his way to the stage and takes his place behind the microphone. A small smile on his lips, he clears his throat and starts speaking: “So, John was lost and so was I.”

He pauses.

“It’s a fact and everybody knows that John got lost in this cave. It’s a deep cave, a dark cave, a cave that swallowed us up like a ravenous, soft-teethed beast. It starts with a slope, grainy and wet, and there’s only one way, so it’s impossible to get lost, even though John did.”

He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath.

“John was lost and so was I. I don’t know where he went, and I didn’t come to look, but one moment Kadir and Aylin where there and the next they were not. I didn’t reach the chockstone, I didn’t reach the climb. Three hundred and seventy-five feet and I was lost as John in his cave.”

He shifts his weight from one foot to the other. While he spoke, Martin’s sure he could recognise the spelling of John, but Danny doesn’t spell Kadir or Aylin or at least Martin’s not able to spot it.

“John was lost and so was I. Seconds after minutes after hours after years, no climb in sight, just the steady flow of the stream and my hitching breath. It should stop sometime, I thought, it should give way down to his cave and I will not be a John. Because John was lost and I won’t be.”

He pauses again, a heartbeat or two longer than before.

“John was lost and so was I. No measuring of my position with a pendulum, no signal for my phone, no chance to be heard through the thick walls of the cave. The rush of the stream died down albeit the map depicting the stream and the slope correspondent.”

The air of the pub is filled with suspense and eerily quiet for a crowd as large as this one.

“John was lost and so was I. Limestone encased me and silence took over.”

Danny stops speaking, one and a half minutes gone. If Martin’s right, Danny has three minutes and fifteen seconds left. Every other contestant spoke for about five minutes, so Danny has plenty of time left. But he doesn’t say a thing. Seconds tick by and Martin gets squeamish in his seat. He glances towards Tim, but Tim seems unwound and relaxed. As if it were to be expected of Danny to pull something like this.

Danny remains silent, and Martin uses the tense atmosphere and the quiet audience to take an unnoticed look at Tim and Danny. They really do look alike. They share the same thick, expressive eyebrows, same dark brown hair and eyes, the same sharp jawlines. But Tim is soft around the edges, he doesn’t look as muscular as he is, his tummy rolling underneath his Aegean blue shirt. Up close like this, Martin can see the hearing aid Tim is wearing, and the moles that scatter across the slope of his neck. Especially the two moles that rest approximately half a centimetre wide of his tragus.

So preoccupied with Tim’s, well, beauty, Martin almost misses Danny moving on stage. He extends his right fist, before he opens it, while dropping it a few centimetres. At the same time, he mouths something that could be the word drop but Martin’s not sure because he can’t read lips. Then Danny spreads the fingers of his left hand, holding it flat and vertically aligned in a hundred-twenty-degree angle to his upper body. His right hand is spread in the same way and he moves it towards his left hand. When the pads of his fingers connect to the palm of his left hand, he lets his hand bounce back. The movements of his right hand two sides of an equilateral triangle. Again, he mouths something and if Martin would have to guess he’d say it was echo.

By minute three, Danny has been silent for one and a half minutes and has been through two repeats of the two words. (In all honesty, Martin is surprised that the crowd still watches Danny. That they hang onto his lips like a drop of water at the rim of a cup.)

Then he starts speaking again: “John was lost and so was I. I entered his cave and I got off the right path, I fell into darkness and somehow I came back. I’m not one of the Johns, I’m a Joey deep down. Because John was lost but I am found.”

A smile tugs at Danny’s lips, then, after a moment, he bows outlandishly (in an unbelievably tim-ish way) and says: “Thank you.” Then he leaves the stage in a beeline towards their table, while the audience starts to clap hesitantly.

When Danny sits down at their table again, Tim and he exchange a few quiet sentences. (In most circumstances this would make Martin’s anxiety spike up again, but to his own surprise it doesn’t. It’s just nice to see Tim interacting with his brother. Martin doesn’t have to be included to feel like he’s part of this.)

Martin takes a sip from his drink and throws a glance at the stage. After Danny there are still four people left. The performances are about existential fatigue, about childhood fears and dreams, and (in one memorable instant) about an imaginary soap opera the poetry slammer claims to watch in their head.

When the poetry slam is finally over, Danny grins at Martin and asks: “So, comments or questions?”

“Impromptu interpretation is not my strong suit,” Martin tries to escape the discussion of Danny’s depression? Outing? He’s not lying, he can’t interpret something like this in a few minutes. Especially not while looking right into Danny’s face. “I’m not sure what the cave is a metaphor for.” His tone is apologetic, but Danny laughs startled and says: “It’s not a metaphor. I literally got lost in a cave.”

“Oh,” Martin blurts out. “Well, then … I’m not an expert by any means. But I think it was pretty good, very compelling.” His ears are burning and the coldness of his drink seeps into the palms of his hands, contrasting the warmness in every fibre of his body.

Danny grins and says: “I like him.”

“Yeah, I do, too,” Tim affirms. His smile, however, is more delicate than Danny’s. (And Martin doesn’t want to think about the possibility that Tim likes him, too. Likes likes him. He’s still trying to wrap his head around the fact that he didn’t only acquire a job three months ago but friends, too. It shouldn’t matter that Tim is nice to him, because Tim is nice to everyone. Martin isn’t special.)

The thing is: Tim is so very nice. Nice in a way no one has ever been nice to Martin. He’s nice unconditionally, doesn’t wink suggestively at Martin when he hands him a cup of tea exactly the way Martin likes, doesn’t expect Martin to do anything in turn when he lays his hand on Martin’s shoulder in a silent display of support or affection, doesn’t want him to say thank you and how much do I owe you whenever he brings lunch in that he cooked himself, enough to share it with Martin and Sasha and even Jon, if he would ever want to. Tim’s nice and considerate and most people don’t seem to see it. They take Tim’s jokes and pop-culture references as a demonstration of his whole personality, take in the beauty of his face and simmer it down to the essence of his existence.

Tim is beautiful and he is funny, Martin’s the last to argue with that. But Tim is more, Tim is beyond, Tim is the soft are you alright when Martin must step out for a second after a reprimand from an assistant, Tim is the curious no, I want to know what you think about it, Tim is the reassuring you’ve got this and the understanding and if you don’t, I’m still here. Tim is every post-it note on Martin’s desk that says delighted to see you here and you look nice today and take time for yourself.

Tim is so very nice without even trying that Martin can’t help himself but fall in love with him. Embarrassing, right?

It ends like this: Martin doesn’t argue with Tim about his insistence that he’s a witch, because: Who’s Martin to deny Tim anything at all. Yes, he would like to know more about Tim as a person and about the things he does on weekends and, yes, getting cryptic answers like hanging out with the coven is a bit frustrating, but Martin also must confess that he admires Tim dedication.

It’s almost Halloween and since the start of October, Tim has been wearing a pointy hat to work. Which is kind of ridiculous but endearing at the same time because Sasha assures Martin that Danny does it too and that they do it every year in October. (It’s not one of his finer moments, it’s true, but he couldn’t help himself asking Sasha is this is some kind of meme. A Stoker inside gag that everyone is in on, but Sasha just smiles at him and says: “Oh, Martin, love, no. It’s not a meme.”)

When Martin asks him about the hat, Tim tilts his head in mild confusion and replies: “I’m a witch, Martin. Witches wear pointy hats.”

And Martin who’s got enough practice now dealing with Tim’s antics, retorts: “No, I mean, yes, I know, I mean: You didn’t wear it in the summer, why?”

“Usually, I wear my hat to rituals and stuff because channelling energy is way easier with a hat. But in October my coven wears it to let the spirits and the fair folk know they shouldn’t fuck around with us,” Tim explains. And Martin looks him dead into his eyes and says: “Makes sense.”

Three days before Halloween (or Mischief Night as Tim likes to call it), Tim drops off a bottle of essential oil at Martin’s desk. Before Martin can ask about it, Tim says: “I brought you essential oils for your headache.”

“Because,” Martin starts and stops hesitantly, wondering when he mentioned his headaches in front of Tim, without coming up with an answer, “you’re a witch.”

Tim nods, adding however: “But, you know, essential oils don’t need magic to work.”

“Makes sense,” Martin says, for the simple reason that he doesn’t know what else to say. This is getting ridiculous, but he doesn’t want to be the buzzkill. He wants to be Tim’s friend (or date, despite the whole witch-thing) and friends are supportive of each other! Friends don’t judge you for your oddities.

Tim changes the topic: “Do you have anything planned for Mischief Night?” Martin shakes his head. “Then I would like to formally invite you to celebrate Mischief Night with me.”

“Wouldn’t a formal invite require an invitation card?” Martin asks back, propping his chin up on his hand, a curious tilt in his voice.

“I’ll get to that,” Tim replies, while he suppresses a smile that threatens to take over his face. “So, it’s a date?”

Martin closes his eyes, short enough to be mistaken with a blink, and says: “Yeah, it’s a date.” The aching in his chest makes him wish Tim would be a little less nice and a little more without ambiguity. Even though he wants it to be a romantic date, this is just a friendly outing with a guy claiming to be a witch.

Fortunately, Mischief Night (or Halloween as everyone else seems to call it) is a Saturday, which means that Tim can pick Martin up at his flat in Stockwell. Neither Tim nor Martin own a car, but Tim borrowed Danny’s well-loved VW Beetle and it’s only about thirty-seven kilometres until they reach Bocketts Farm.

Martin’s glad the midday fog has eased up, and the sun warms the skin on his forearms, since he rolled up the sleeves of his jumper. Tim is right beside him, his pointy hat decorated with probably fake cobwebs.

“I’m a bit disappointed you didn’t pick me up on your broomstick,” Martin says when they walk through the entrance of the farm. Despite the slight fear that Tim will take offence and abandon him on this farm, he feels comfortable enough to make a joke like this. He thinks he knows Tim well enough to know that Tim would tell him if he were overstepping any boundaries.

Tim’s answer is a little more defensive than Martin anticipated: “Flying is hard, okay. Usually, I ride shotgun.”

Martin gapes, for lack of a better word, and almost walks into a fencepost if it weren’t for Tim pulling him aside. Instead of letting go of Martin’s arm, Tim threads his own through and links them in the most casual way Martin has ever seen. This is nice. (Tim is nice.)

“What do you want to do first?” Tim inquires when Martin doesn’t say anything else. “I personally am inclined to start with apple-bobbing.” He points to a small group of people around a water filled barrel. Martin makes a noncommittal sound, shrugging his shoulders at the same time, and Tim steers him softly towards the event.

“Supposedly, the barrel symbolises the cauldron of rebirth,” Tim says while they walk the remaining distance. Martin casts a look in his direction. He’s a bit preoccupied with the thought that Tim wants him to stick his head into ice cold water to fish for an apple with his teeth, so he only says: “Makes sense.” Even though he’s not sure in what way rebirth is connected to divining the first letter of your future spouse’s name.

When they come to a halt in front of the barrel, it doesn’t take long until they have their turn. Tim yields to Martin and he sighs before he steps up the barrel, takes a deep breath and dives in. The water is freezing, tiny pinpricks on Martin’s skin, and it’s really, really hard to actually get his teeth on an apple because every time he touches on, it submerges and sideslips. (It’s frustrating. Like shelving books in the Magnus library is frustrating. He knows he got it right but in reality he doesn’t.)

It takes forever or at least it feels like forever, his face in cold water and his fingers in Tim’s hand. (Wait, when did Tim grab his hand? Did he grab Tim’s hand? Oh, he must have sometime between their arrival at the barrel and his endeavour to bob for an apple.) But then he catches a small one between his teeth and gets out of the water as fast as possible. Tim lets out a loud whistle and his free hand pats Martin’s shoulder in congratulation. Whereas Martin’s free hand gets rid of the water in his face and pulls the apple out of his mouth.

“This is terrible,” he says through a chuckle because he can’t be mad with the sun shining into his face like it’s late summer and not autumn. “It’s your turn.”

Martin has to let go of Tim’s hand because a member of staff hands a knife to him and he starts peeling the apple in one unbroken strip.

Apparently, Tim’s either more practiced in apple-bobbing or he’s really a witch and helped himself along with magic, because it takes him not nearly as long as Martin to catch an apple. He waits for Martin to finish peeling his apple and relieves Martin of the knife.

“You have to throw it over your left shoulder,” Tim explains earnestly. “It’s the side of the heart. It won’t work otherwise.”

“Makes sense,” Martin says, and it kind of does. Still he waits for Tim to finish peeling his own apple. Then they hand back the knife and stand side by side, throwing the peel on the count of three over their left shoulders.

“It looks like a T,” Tim says, when he catches sight of Martin’s apple peel, tapping the tip of his index finger against his chin.

Martin laughs, he's not entirely sure why but he can't stop himself. He replies: “It looks like a C, all of them look like Cs. And if they don’t, then they look like Os.” He points at Tim’s apple peel. “Look, yours looks like a C, too.”

“It’s just a tad short,” Tim retorts. “See, it started to form a small M but only came around to curve into a small N.” He laughs, too. “The apples have spoken, Martin. We’re destined for each other.”

“Well,” Martin says and he can’t shake the soft warmth that curls underneath his solar plexus, “if the apples say that, it must be right.”

They spend a good few hours on the farm, carving pumpkins and turnips, wandering through the maze and passing by goats and sheep and pigs, before they get to a bon fire Tim wants to sit down at to warm up a bit. The afternoon had been warm, but now that the sun has set cold creeps into their clothes and Tim complains about his between-season jacket. Martin who’s still warm despite the cold breeze gently extends his hand for Tim to hold.

For a few moments they fall quiet, only listening to the cracking of the fire.

But it doesn’t take long for Tim to reach into his pockets to fish for something and bring four conkers to light. He presents them to Martin and says: “Do you want to?” And Martin nods, only in part because Tim could ask anything of him and Martin would gladly do it.

They place their conkers in the flames respectively and when Martin’s first one cracks, Tim questions: “Did you name them?”

Martin shakes his head. Only a moment passes by, then:

“Did you name them?” Martin asks, and he doesn't look at Tim. His eyes are transfixed on the two conkers resting side by side. The left is already cracked. Tim doesn't look at Martin either, but he answers nevertheless: “I named both of them Martin. Didn't want to take the risk.”

And this, precisely, is the instant, Martin realises this could indeed be a date. A date date. A rendezvous Tim has asked him on, waiting for Martin to make a clear step towards him or not.

“Is this a date?” Martin blurts out, finally looking at Tim who ducks his head and blushes. He doesn’t want to sound incredulously, but the sheer ridiculousness of the situation sends his head spinning. A laugh bubbles out of his chest before he can stop it. “Tim, is this a date?”

“Well,” Tim starts and has the audacity to sound something akin to shy, “I thought it was a date. It was implied, I thought I explicitly said it was a date.” His gaze falls onto their joined hands. “I thought you knew we were dating.” Then he pales. “Oh, this is really awkward. I’m sorry.”

Tim attempts to let go of Martin’s hand, but Martin holds onto him.

“No, no, no, it’s okay,” Martin says, the laugh still on his tongue. His chest feels lighter than ever and he can’t keep the bright smile off his face. “I wanted this to be a date, honestly. I just didn’t think it could actually be one.”

“Oh, that’s,” Tim clears his throat, finally looking back at Martin’s face, “that’s good. Nice. Toit.”

“Does this have deeper cultural meaning, too?” Martin asks after sitting between stacks of hay on top of a wagon. He’s not sure if he’s a tiny bit sarcastic or if he finally accepted Tim’s commitment for his aesthetic.

“No,” Tim replies, while he sits down cross-legged next to Martin. “I just think hayrides are neat.”

“I’ve never been on a hayride before,” Martin says, before he moves closer to Tim, so that his thigh slots underneath Tim’s knee. “It’s kind of romantic.”

“Is it?” Tim teases, leaning into Martin’s space with ease. “I didn’t notice.” Then he pauses for a second, his eyes flicking down to Martin’s lips. “As soon as the tractor starts it won’t be anymore, so if you want to use the magic of hayride romanticism to kiss me, you should do it now.”

Martin moves in closer, too, now he can feel Tim’s breath on his skin. He says: “So, hayrides are magical.” But Tim doesn’t answer him. Instead he closes the remaining distance between them and kisses Martin. (And maybe, only maybe, hayrides are magic.)

Their kiss only lasts for a few seconds before the engine of the tractor starts and the hayride begins. (They’re extremely lucky or magic is involved because they’re alone. The only other option is that hayrides are typically for children and their parents and it’s too late for them to participate. At this point, Martin doesn’t care. He’s surrounded by hay and Tim kissed him.)

Martin laughs breathlessly when they break apart because he catches sight of Tim almost losing his pointy hat due to the jolt of the wagon and says: “You’re right. Romance is dead.”

“My greatest virtue and my greatest curse is always being right,” Tim replies, readjusting the hat on his head. “I’m kind of glad tomorrow is the last day and I can take this thing off afterwards.”

For a second, Martin contemplates saying that Tim doesn’t have to wear it now. That if his aesthetic gets in the way of his everyday life, it’s alright to break out. But he doesn’t. Because this is nice, and he won’t tell Tim what to do. If Tim wants to wear a pointy hat, Tim gets to wear a pointy hat.

In search of changing the topic, Martin looks around the wagon and his gaze falls onto a small lantern at the back of the wagon. It’s supposed to be lit so that crossing folks can see the wagon; like the backlights of a bicycle or car. The lid isn’t fully shut, though, and the steady breeze of the moving wagon has extinguished the flame.

Martin pats his pockets from the outside, before he turns to Tim: “Do you have a lighter?”

Unfortunately, Tim shakes his head. More unfortunately, he says: “Doesn’t matter.” Then he leans forward, opening the lid fully and reaching into the lantern. The tip of his finger connects with the wick of the candle and by the time he pulls it back, the wick ignites and a small flame flickers to life.

Martin, once again, gapes. This is magic, Tim is a witch, Tim is a witch, o my fucking god.

“What?” Tim asks as he sits back down next to Martin.

“You’re a witch,” Martin says, and to his own surprise without the exact amount of disbelief he feels. “This is magic and you’re a witch.”

Tim smiles through his irritation and ripostes: “Martin, dear, I told you I’m a witch.”

“Yeah,” Martin responds and maybe he sounds as hysterical as he is, but this is ridiculous, “I didn’t think you were serious.”

“What did you think I meant every time I told you I was out with my coven?” Tim inquires bewildered, and everything about his demeanour suggests that he’s going to burst into laughter at any given moment.

“Honest?” Martin doesn’t wait for Tim to answer. “With all the essential oils I kinda thought it was a MLM.”

Tim furrows his eyebrows, the laughter dying on his tongue. They stare at each other and Tim says slowly: “My coven is not a group of Marxists who Love Marketing.” He stops dead in his tracks. “Men Loving Marketing?” Tim screws up his eyes. “I don’t know if you’re insinuating that I love men, that I’m a comrade or part of a pyramid scheme.” Before Martin can interject something, Tim says: “I’m working for the Magnus Institute, so where’s the lie?”

He pauses, then he says: “Witches are real, and you thought this is just a funny multilevel marketing meme.”

This breaks something lose in Martin and he honest to God starts giggling: “You’re terrible. Do you know that?”

“I’m doing my best,” Tim retorts, laughing as well.

After their laughter dies away, Martin says: “Is this why you said the institute is one pile of magical bullshit?” He thinks better of it. “Is this why you said the library isn’t conscious? Is it a witch who’s rearranging the shelves?”

It takes a moment for Tim to answer: “No, it’s a ghost.”

“A ghost is rearranging the shelves,” Martin repeats. “Okay, alright, sure. A ghost. Is there something else I should know about?”

“I don’t think so. His name is Jürgen, he died in the tunnels underneath the Institute and thinks it’s really funny to fuck with us.” Tim grabs Martin’s hand again. “You can talk to him and tell him to fuck off, though. Sometimes it works.”

Martin makes a noncommittal sound and lays his head on Tim’s shoulder even though their shoulders line up and it’s incredibly uncomfortable. This is weird and this is nice and they will have to talk about this, but their ride is almost over and Martin wants to bask for a few precious minutes in Tim’s silent company before they have to get off and head back.

Tim draws nonsensical shapes on the back of Martin’s hand with his thumb, and Martin feels content and warm and perhaps a little bewitched.

Before the ride ends, Martin asks: “Do you have any plans for tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow,” Tim says hesitantly, “we’re going to celebrate All Hallow’s Day. My coven’s going to light a fire to ward off evil spirits and ghosts. The ashes of All Hallow’s fire keep calamity at bay and we use it for augury.” He sounds apologetic. “But I could come by afterwards.”

And it’s the first time, Martin doesn’t hesitate or feels that his words are tinged with an exasperated confusion when he says: “Makes sense.” So he adds after a moment: “That would be lovely.”

#the magnus archives #martim #martin k. blackwood #tim stoker #tim stoker x martin blackwood #alternate universe #witch tim stoker #schmok writes #fanfiction #hhhh martim rights

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ollieofthebeholder · 3 years

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leaves too high to touch (roots too strong to fall): a TMA fanfic

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Chapter 20: Jon Prime

Jon had been worried, before they had come back in time, about how well he would adjust to being in the past, pre-Apocalypse. He wasn’t sure if he’d be able to handle the lessened level of terror, or the need to eat and sleep completely again, or being, essentially, less than he’d been, or for that matter the urge to storm the Institute and throttle Jonah Magnus in his office. He’d fretted about a lot of things.

As it turned out, none of them were things he needed to fret about.

His body reacclimated to human needs quickly enough, and it actually felt kind of good to feel the rumble of hunger or the drag of exhaustion again. It was definitely good to get back to cooking, which he’d sorely missed doing even if it felt odd to be cooking for more than himself and Martin. Martin had been right about his statement fueling Jon for a while, and his younger counterpart had taken to bringing home any real statements he came across; it was enough. And with Martin there, he didn’t feel less.

As for storming the Institute, that urge had been surprisingly easy to resist. Tim had managed to convince them to stay at his house longer by asking them to keep an eye on Past Martin while he healed. His excuse had been that Jon knew what Past Martin was going through and Martin knew what his past self was like, so they could keep him from doing anything stupid. Jon guessed there was more to it than that, but he didn’t want to pry into anyone’s minds, so he just let it go and agreed. It seemed simpler.

Martin had adapted well, too. Granted, he’d still been human—as far as Jon knew—before they came back, and he’d had two weeks to adjust to being blind before they were reunited, but he’d picked up on the cane Tim bought him fairly quickly. He didn’t seem to need it around the house, though, and when Jon questioned him about that, Martin said that he had a pretty good sense of direction when the world makes sense, Jon. And, honestly, Jon couldn’t argue with that. Tim spent a Sunday afternoon reorganizing his cupboards, then showed Martin where everything was so he could feel more independent in the kitchen while Jon watched from the doorway with a grin.

Past Martin got stronger by the day. At first, he mostly slept, which was fine with Jon, since it meant he could spend time with Martin and not feel guilty. He’d accidentally fallen asleep with his head on Martin’s lap one afternoon and woken to soft laughter, which is how he found out that Past Martin and Past Jon had apparently discussed things and Sasha was the only member of what Tim insisted on referring to as Team Archives who didn’t know they were together. After that, they’d dropped the pretense and just been themselves. It had been a huge relief to Jon. It had also been a relief—and a surprise—that Tim didn’t tease them mercilessly, but when he mentioned that to Martin, Martin just laughed and shook his head.

They’d all fallen into an easy domesticity. It was honestly the most surreal thing Jon had experienced in probably his entire life. Sasha and Past Jon were still staying with Tim—Jon had no idea what argument Tim had used on them, but it seemed to be working—and Jon delighted in watching the three of them, together with Past Martin, draw closer together into a cohesive unit that would be harder for Jonah to manipulate. Often, he would come out of the spare room from recording a statement, tape recorder in hand, to find them sharing stories or playing games and laughing. Some nights he joined in on the games, too, but mostly he just sat back with Martin and watched, grinning.

There were arguments. Of course there were arguments. They were all human beings with their own personalities and quirks. Nothing was going to be perfect harmony. Thankfully, they were usually made up fairly quickly. It felt like home, in a way, something Jon hadn’t experienced in he didn’t know how long. He knew it couldn’t last, but he was determined to enjoy it while he could.

Several weeks passed like that. Jon could see the signs that Past Martin was getting restless and impatient to be back at work—he listened hungrily to the team’s tales of what they’d been up to, ventured tentative suggestions on avenues of research or possible connections they might have missed—but he was, ultimately, a far better patient than Jon had been. Not that that was difficult.

As Past Martin’s recovery progressed, the three of them began taking walks in the afternoon, Jon letting the two Martins go ahead of him and following just behind. Partly it was that there really wasn’t room for them to walk three abreast, but mostly it was him giving them the opportunity to see what they were capable of on their own while he watched their backs, literally. At first they were slow circuits of a single block, and then Past Martin needed to sit down for quite a while, but within a couple of weeks he was walking easily and seemed almost back to normal. The scars healed better than they had for Jon, partly because Martin’s skin was fairer than Jon’s but mostly because Past Martin was better about both following doctor’s orders and not picking at the healing wounds. Tim’s had healed about the same, Jon remembered, a thought which still sent a lance of melancholy through him. And finally, the day came when he returned triumphantly from a check-up with the news that he’d been cleared to return to work that Monday.

“We’ll be glad to have you back,” Past Jon said sincerely, actually smiling in a way Jon couldn’t remember smiling until the too-brief time he and Martin had had in Scotland. “It’s all kind of…I won’t lie, it’s odd to sit around and keep working like nothing has changed. Like we don’t know what’s going on. But we’ve managed. There’s a lot more than can be easily done with three, though.”

“I’ll do whatever you need,” Past Martin promised. “God, it’ll feel good to get back into things.”

“Kind of surprised you didn’t try to get us to let you come back earlier, actually,” Tim teased him. “Don’t think none of us saw you chomping at the bit.”

Past Martin gestured to Jon and Martin. “They wouldn’t let me bring it up.”

“How long did you wait before going back?” Past Jon asked.

Jon grimaced. “A month. I should have stayed out longer, to be honest, and I ended up needing substantial physical therapy. But I was already obsessing over who killed Gertrude Robinson, and I didn’t handle being alone with my thoughts very well. Tim was out longer.”

“How long?” Tim asked curiously.

“Eight weeks, give or take.”

“So we can be away from the Institute? I thought you said…” Tim trailed off.

Jon paused, knife suspended over the cutting board. “I—I never thought of that. God, how did I not think of that? Our Tim seemed fine when he first came back, and he never said anything, but…”

“You can be away from the Institute, just not for good,” Martin said. “When you’re out…convalescing, that’s one thing. Even if you’re on an extended vacation, that should be okay. It’s if you try to leave, if you just up and walk away with the idea that you won’t be back, that you’ll have problems. As long as you really intend to come back at some point, it’s fine.”

Jon turned around and stared at Martin. “How long have you known that?”

“Since Elias told us we were trapped there?”

“My God, that was…” Jon rubbed his temple with his free hand. “Why didn’t you say anything? And please don’t say ‘it never really came up.’”

Martin actually smiled at that. “Honestly, Jon, I assumed you knew. I mean, you were away for ages, and I know Basira kept going off on…excursions. She might not have been gone long, but I just…I thought you’d figured it out. Especially when nothing really happened to us in Scotland.”

Jon hadn’t thought about that, either. But yes, at the time they had meant to go back to the Institute eventually, hadn’t they? Or maybe the Eye had let them go because it knew what Jonah was plotting. Either way, Martin was right, he really ought to have figured that out sooner.

He sighed, turning back to his meal prep. “I can, as we have established, be a bit oblivious at times.”

Sasha gave an overly-dramatic gasp. “You? Never.”

“Oh, shut up,” Past Jon grumbled.

Tim snickered. “Hey, does that mean you two have to come back to the Institute, too?”

“That’s…more complicated.” Jon scraped the contents of the cutting board into the pot. “I’m bound closely enough to the Eye that I’m not…dependent on the Institute, I don’t think? As long as I’m taking statements, feeding the Eye, I’m fine. I believe. And Martin is cut off from the Eye entirely. But it’s a rather moot point, as we intend to move into the tunnels beneath the Institute anyway.”

“You can’t seriously be planning to do that,” Tim protested. “Come on, they can’t be comfortable—”

“They aren’t. But that’s not the point, Tim.” Jon sighed and reached for the spices he’d selected. “We are putting you in very real danger by being here. Besides, we’re not in a position to assist like we would be if we were closer to the Institute. I don’t particularly like them, but it’s the best option for everyone.”

Tim reached past Jon to get plates out of the cupboard, his expression mulish. Jon braced himself for whatever arguments Tim might throw his way and resolutely shut his mind against prying for it, but before he could say anything, Past Martin came up and put a hand on Tim’s shoulder.

“You can’t fix everything, Tim,” he said quietly. “And I know that’s rich, coming from me, but…we have to trust them. It’s not like we won’t ever see them again if they’re not living under your roof.”

Tim’s shoulders slumped. Jon caught his eye and offered him a smile. “It’s certainly no reflection on you, Tim. It’s just…we need to do this. I desperately need you to trust us.”

“I can give you that.” Tim managed a smile in reply, then turned to set the table. “You’re not planning to move in tonight, though, right?”

Jon was about to answer, then froze as a rumble of thunder sounded from outside. It was low and gentle, but the sound sent a shudder of horror running down his spine that he couldn’t explain. He had to stand, perfectly still, until the sound stopped.

“No,” he said as soon as he felt able. “Not tonight.”

He went back to what he was doing, or tried to, but there was obviously a storm building, and the next peal of thunder brought his breath up short. The spoon slipped out of his hand and into the pot.

“Are you okay?” Sasha’s voice seemed to be coming from a long way away.

“Fine,” Jon lied automatically. Really, this was ridiculous. There was no reason for this. Thunderstorms had never bothered him before; why were they suddenly an issue now? He retrieved the spoon and returned to cooking.

The others shifted the discussion to the logistics of smuggling Jon and Martin into the Institute and the tunnels beneath them without being spotted. Since Martin was already explaining about the other entrances, Jon didn’t feel the need to jump in. They would still need to figure out which entrance to use, or find one in the first place, and how to get there surreptitiously, but at least there were options beyond “hope to avoid the cameras mounted around the Institute when sneaking into the Archives and subsequently into the tunnels”. That would be the fastest way to tip Jonah off that something was going on.

Another roll of thunder sounded from almost directly overhead—not a sharp crack, but a long, rumbling bass growl. Jon felt it to his core, and he gasped, leaning over to catch himself against the counter. Suddenly he was in the spare room in the cabin in Scotland, the words being torn from his throat against his will: I…OPEN…THE DOOR!

“Whoa!” someone shouted.

“Shit, that’s—how is he—” someone else stammered.

“Get his hand off the burner!”

“Jon! Jon, it’s okay, I’m here, I’m here.”

Something brushed against him, and he jerked away, but then a hand wrapped around his arm and tugged him away from the counter, and then someone was wrapping an arm around his shoulders and pulling him close. There was a confused babble of voices around him, but Jon couldn’t focus on it, couldn’t focus on anything but the thunder and the static filling his mind and the fact that for some reason his hand hurt, why did his hand hurt…

“Jon,” the voice said again in his ear, and it was Martin’s voice, he sounded upset, he sounded scared, and Jon couldn’t let him be scared but didn’t know how to fix it, so he looked up desperately and saw Martin’s face close to his. “Come on, let’s go in the other room, it’s okay. Come on, I’ve got you. It’s okay. It’s okay.”

Jon couldn’t speak, could barely breathe. He just let Martin lead him out of the room they were in and into another, keeping his eyes fixed on Martin the whole time, and then they were sitting on something and Martin pulled Jon into his arms, onto his lap, and wrapped him up securely. One hand came up to cup the back of his head, the other rubbed his back in slow, soothing circles.

“I’m here, Jon,” Martin murmured, his voice low and gentle despite crackling with emotion. “You’re here. We’re both here and we’re safe. We’re in London. The world isn’t ending, Jon. You didn’t end the world. It’s okay. It’s okay.”

How, the small part of Jon that wasn’t numb with terror thought, did Martin always seem to know the right thing to say? It was a ridiculous thought, of course; Martin didn’t always know the right thing to say, any more than Jon did, and they’d had more than a few arguments over one of them saying the wrong thing at the wrong time. But when it was a situation like this, when Jon panicked or got lost in his own head or was hurting, Martin always seemed to come up with the right words. Jon fisted his hands into Martin’s shirt and buried his face in his chest, focusing on the heartbeat that always soothed him when things got too bad. One of his hands, in a distant way, hurt, but he didn’t let go. He couldn’t.

Of course the world wasn’t ending. It couldn’t be. How could the world end with Martin there? That was just ridiculous. If the world ended, he’d be all alone.

“You’re not alone, Jon,” Martin said, and shit, had he said that out loud? “I’m here. I will always be here. I won’t ever leave you. I promise. I’m here. I’m here.”

“You’re here,” Jon whispered. The words felt raw in his throat, but it felt good to say them. He whispered them again and again, and Martin whispered them back to him. They passed the words back and forth, you’re here, I’m here, you’re here, and slowly, slowly, Jon felt the terror recede.

The storm didn’t lessen. If anything, it got worse, but oddly, that helped, too. The sharper the thunder got, the calmer Jon grew. A mighty thunderclap rattled the windows, and the power went out, making someone yelp from the other room, but Jon was able to take his first full breath. He slowly eased his grip on Martin’s shirt and sagged against him with a heavy sigh.

“Better?” Martin asked, rubbing his back.

“A little.” Jon tilted his head back and rested his chin on Martin’s chest, looking up at him. There was only the barest amount of light in the room, but it was enough to see the outline of his boyfriend’s face by. “Thank you.”

“Of course.” Martin pressed a light kiss to Jon’s forehead. “How’s your hand?”

“Hmm?” Jon became aware that his hand still hurt a lot. He eased it away from Martin and stared at it. It was red, almost raw, and he could see a couple of blisters on the palm that had miraculously remained intact, despite the grip he’d had on Martin’s shirt. “Oh. I—did I put it on the stove?”

“Apparently. Let me see.”

Jon managed a smile. He turned his hand over, palm up, and laid it in Martin’s. Martin hovered his thumb just over the top of Jon’s palm. “It’s still warm. Hold on, let me go find out what Tim’s got in that medicine cabinet of his.”

“Plenty,” a voice said from the doorway. Jon started, then relaxed when he realized it was his own voice, and that was still weird to hear. He looked up to see Past Jon coming in, a torch in one hand and a small handful of supplies in the other. “I was going to just leave it on the table for you, but…”

“Thank you,” Jon said sincerely. He didn’t leave the comfort of Martin’s embrace, though. The panic had left him a bit shaky and he wasn’t sure he could really sit up on his own, but more than that, he honestly didn’t give a damn if it made him look weak to lean on Martin. That was part of what love was, right?

Past Jon set the things in his hands on the table, then lined them up. “Cool compress, lotion, gauze, bandages. Paracetamol on the end if you need it for the pain. I—do you need a spare hand?”

“We’ve got it, but thank you,” Martin said. He picked up the compress, then pressed it gently to Jon’s hand. It was obvious he’d done this before, in some capacity.

Past Jon nodded and straightened, then hesitated before leaving the room. Awkwardly, he asked, “Can I…are you sure you’re okay? That looked a lot like, well, a panic attack.”

“It was,” Jon said softly. He hesitated, looking up into Martin’s eyes. Even though he knew Martin wasn’t really looking back at him per se, that he couldn’t actually see him, he could feel his attention, and they’d learned in the last few weeks that they knew each other well enough that they could still communicate wordlessly, to an extent. Turning back to his past self, he explained, “It was—the last thunderstorm I remember came up while I was reading…Jonah’s monologue.”

Past Jon flinched. “Ah. Well, I’ll, erm…I’ll leave you to that, then.” He gestured at the supplies and retreated back to the kitchen.

Jon and Martin sat in silence for a long moment. Martin kept applying pressure to the compress on Jon’s hand, his other hand securely supporting it, keeping it elevated. At last, Jon said, “I—I never asked if it was actually storming. That day. If it was…real thunder I heard or if it was just…the impending end of the world.”

“It was. I was on my way back. At first I thought I’d grab an umbrella, but then I thought…I thought I’d just stay downstairs until you finished your statement, then bring you a cup of tea or something. And then…” Martin trailed off and shook his head.

Jon bit his lip. “At least you made it back before…the Door Opened.”

“No, Jon,” Martin said softly. “I didn’t. I was still a good five minutes’ walk from the safe house when it happened.” He tried to laugh. “Ordinarily, anyway. I ran, as soon as I realized…I don’t know that I realized what exactly was going on, but I knew it was bad, and I knew that it was probably coming after you.”

“My God, Martin.” Horror ran through Jon’s body, and he reached out with his free hand to grip Martin’s shirt again.

“Hey, careful, I need room to work.”

“You were outside when—you c-could have been killed. God, I could have lost you and—”

“But you didn’t,” Martin reminded him. He leaned forward and rested his forehead against Jon’s for a moment. “I’m here, Jon. You’re here. We’re both here. We survived the end of the world. We made it. Together.”

Jon took a deep, steadying breath. “Maybe one day it won’t be so hard to remember that.”

“Well, I’ll always be here to remind you.” Martin straightened up and lifted the compress, then checked the heat of his palm and set the compress aside.

Jon glanced at the next item on the table and grimaced. “Of course the next step is lotion.”

“Do you want to do it yourself?” Martin asked. “You’ve got to keep things from drying out, but…I understand if someone else rubbing it in might be a bit much.”

At least that was something Jon had known he had an issue with before. Just not something he’d thought he would ever have to think about. He started to say yes, then shook his head, despite knowing Martin couldn’t see him. “No. No, will—will you do it? Please? I trust you.”

Martin’s face softened. They both knew what Jon was asking for. “Of course, Jon.”

He poured a little bit of the lotion into Jon’s hand. Jon tried hard not to flinch at the feel of it pooling into his cupped palm. Martin replaced the cap and set the bottle back on the table, nearly missing it, then took Jon’s hand and began gently massaging the lotion into it. Jon focused on Martin’s face and tried to regulate his breathing.

“Tell me something,” Martin requested abruptly.

Jon cocked his head, slightly off-balance. “What?”

“Anything. Your favorite play, your earliest childhood memory, your most embarrassing uni story. Anything.”

“O-oh, okay,” Jon said, surprised. He tried to think for a moment. “Ah—I’ve always been fond of The Duchess of Padua.”

Martin smiled encouragingly. “Yeah? I don’t know that one. Tell me about it.”

Jon launched into an explanation of the plot. The more into it he got, the more wildly he gesticulated with the hand Martin wasn’t attending to. Martin listened to Jon ramble the way he always did, with a smile and a look of genuine interest as Jon went on about a topic he knew nothing about and honestly didn’t care all that much about. He’d even told Jon, simultaneously not long ago and an eternity ago, that he’d always hated the theater, yet here he was letting Jon describe in technical detail the plot of a play he’d had no good reason to fall in love with.

“—staged very often, or studied for that matter, but I always thought it was fascinating,” he concluded with a sigh. “I actually rose a bit in a professor’s esteem because I used that one as the basis for our term paper on one of Wilde’s works rather than The Importance of Being Ernest or The Picture of Dorian Gray.”

“Yeah, I know how that goes. Best grade I ever got in school was on a paper I wrote on The Ballad of Reading Gaol.” Martin set something on the coffee table. “How’s that?”

“I—” Jon looked down at his hand. The lights were still out, but his eyes had adjusted, and he could see the stark white bandage looped neatly around his hand, securing the gauze without being too tight. “Oh. You’re done.” He gave his boyfriend a slightly accusing look. “You were distracting me.”

“You were panicking,” Martin told him. He wrapped both arms around Jon again. “I really was listening, though. I love listening to you talk about something you know a lot about. Or even something you’re just pretending you know a lot about.”

“Hey,” Jon protested, but without any real heat. He tucked his head into the crook of Martin’s neck and sighed, curling into him. “Thank you. For taking care of me. For knowing me so well. For being here.”

“Where else would I be?” Martin kissed the crown of his head. “I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

How many times had they passed those words back and forth, Jon wondered? He could probably Know the exact number, with a little effort, but it didn’t matter, because it wasn’t enough. Not nearly enough. They could say it with every breath they had left from now until the end of time, and it still wouldn’t be enough. Jon had made a vow, kneeling in the remains of what had once been his boss’s office and pressing futilely against the gaping wounds in Martin’s chest, that he would never leave an opportunity to say them unsaid. They didn’t need to say it for each other to know, but it was important to Jon that they did. And while Martin never said as much, Jon knew it reassured him to hear confirmation every once in a while.

They sat in silence for a while, Jon letting Martin’s presence and the secure feel of his embrace soothe away the last of his lingering terror, or at least his lingering immediate terror. The fear would never go away completely. He’d grown to accept that. But at least now it was just the usual hum of background terror that was his everyday life, rather than the sharp, immediate panic of a flashback. Here with Martin, he was as safe as he ever could be.

At last, he sighed. “We should probably go back into the other room before the others eat everything.”

“I’m sure they saved us some,” Martin said. “But sure. You’ll have to get up first.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re sitting on my lap, Jon.”

“Oh. Right. I knew that.” Jon managed to get to his feet. Martin chuckled as he stood, too.

Tim had lit several candles and was apparently mid-debate with Sasha over whether or not he should add another one to the mix. Past Jon rolled his eyes in Jon and Martin’s direction when they came in. “Please make them shut up.”

“Impossible, I’m afraid. They’re both breathing,” Jon said dryly. Tim snorted and Sasha stuck her tongue out at him. “It smells good in here. Have you been baking?”

“Electric oven. Jon barely finished cooking dinner before the power went out. It’s the candles,” Tim admitted. “One of the kids in the neighborhood keeps selling them to raise money for school trips and the like, and I’m apparently one of his best customers.”

“Well, if you add any more, the smell might be overpowering. Or you might set off your smoke detector.”

“Point. Okay, then, sit down and eat. We saved you a couple plates.”

Jon didn’t have to look at Martin to see the I-told-you-so look on his face.

As they ate, Sasha slid a piece of paper towards him, covered in neat, still-unfamiliar handwriting that Jon presumed to be hers. “Can you think of anything on here we missed?”

The lighting wasn’t really adequate to read the paper clearly, and Jon was tired, despite Martin’s presence and support; the panic attack had drained him a bit more than he’d expected. He was going to need something stronger than a couple of old statements to recover, but he had no idea how to go out and get it. It all combined to make him forget himself a little. He reached out with the Eye rather than his own eyes to skim the paper. Sleeping mats, camp stoved, tinned food (ANYTHING but peaches)…

“What’s all this?” he asked, picking it up to see a bit better.

“Supplies,” Past Jon said brusquely. “You didn’t think we’d make you stay in those tunnels without some way of being comfortable, did you?”

Actually, Jon hadn’t thought about it. He picked up the list and studied it more closely, with his actual vision this time. It seemed like a fairly comprehensive list. There were a few things on it that he recognized as bearing his boyfriend’s hallmark, unexpected items that nevertheless might, in certain circumstances, make a huge difference. He angled the paper towards Martin. “Anything you have to add?”

Martin raised an eyebrow. “Unless that’s written in Braille, I don’t think I’m going to be of much use there.”

“Oh. Right.” Jon was thankful that the combination of his complexion and the low light in the room would probably hide his blush from anyone whose eyes still functioned.

Tim looked back and forth between the two Martins. “Wait, you know Braille?”

Past Martin ducked his head, looking mortified. Martin, however, simply nodded slowly. “Mum had one of those pill keepers, you know the ones. I taught myself Braille so I could know which pills to get ready for her without turning on the light before she was ready to be awake.”

The look on both Tim and Past Jon’s faces made Jon slightly glad, and also slightly disappointed, that Martin’s mother was dead. Then he remembered that she’d died while he was in his coma, so she was currently still alive in a nursing home in Devon refusing her son’s visits but accepting, even demanding, his money, and it was very difficult for him to swallow his own anger and uncharitable thoughts. He wasn’t a monster and couldn’t act like one, no matter how good his motives seemed.

Instead, he covered the moment by reading the list aloud to Martin. Martin listened and nodded and smiled when Jon hit the last item on the list. “I don’t think you need to worry about a tape recorder, honestly. They turn up on their own.”

“So I’ve noticed,” Tim said dryly. “But you said the tunnels blocked stuff at times. I figured, just in case…”

“Might be a comfort,” Past Martin suggested softly. It was the first thing he’d said since Jon and Martin had come into the kitchen.

“The tunnels don’t stop the recorders,” Jon said. “But…thank you. It’s thoughtful of you.”

Sasha nodded and took the list. “We’ll get everything together tomorrow, then, and you can find another entrance to the tunnels.”

“Will you be able to find the Archives?” Tim asked. “Through those tunnels, I mean? They’re a mess, honestly.”

“We’ll manage.” Jon actually wasn’t a hundred percent sure how easy it would be. He’d had a map made at one point, but that was after Leitner had manipulated things for him, and the tunnels were shielded from the Eye, somehow. He’d be lucky not to have to live with the ever-present…fuzziness he’d dealt with when they’d been staying with Georgie and Melanie and their inadvertent cult. But they really and truly didn’t have a choice.

“I suppose if we have to, we could put a—a beacon or something at the foot of the stairs under the trapdoor,” Past Jon said uncertainly.

Tim grinned. It looked slightly diabolical in the flickering candlelight. “Ooh, or one of those electronic gizmos they use in hunting to attract prey.”

“I’m very sure random deer calls would have the opposite effect than luring us to where you want us to go,” Martin said with a smirk. “Have you ever heard those things? They’re terrifying.”

The conversation devolved into a slightly silly discussion of the weirdest animal cries they’d ever heard, and Jon was able to breathe and eat his dinner without too much trouble.

That night, though, curled into bed with Martin, he said quietly, “What if it’s a bad idea? What if being down there…what if I fall apart again? What if it’s like at Salesa’s, but worse?”

“It won’t be,” Martin said. The confidence and assurance in his voice was almost a physical force.

“How can you know that, though?”

Martin ran a hand through Jon’s hair, gently untangling a knot that had probably got there during his panic attack in the living room. “Did you know that if you lose sight in one eye, you only lose something like twenty percent of your overall vision but all of your depth perception?”

“No?” Jon could have known that, if he’d wanted to, obviously, but it wasn’t something he’d ever consciously set out to learn. He also didn’t see how it was relevant.

“I mean, you can sort of train yourself to compensate for the depth perception, but yeah, twenty percent of your vision. Mostly peripheral. It makes it harder to see people coming from that side of things.” Martin’s fingers caught in another knot. “The Beholder really had two eyes overlooking the Apocalypse, Jon. Jonah and you. He saw from the heights and you saw from ground level. He oversaw, and you…experienced. I’d even go so far as to say you were the dominant eye, so to speak. Of course you were weak when you were cut off from it. It’s like a phantom pain. That won’t be an issue now. The Eye isn’t as…strong. You said yourself, you’re still…you, just not quite as…all-powerful?”

“Hopefully I’ve still got enough power to do what needs to be done,” Jon sighed, but Martin’s words were a comfort.

After a pause, Martin added, “And you have me.”

“And I have you,” Jon agreed. “And we can probably get fairly close to the Archives. All right, I know I’m probably worrying unnecessarily. It’s just…” He trailed off, tracing his fingers over the three puckered holes clustered just above Martin’s heart. Jonah had known what he was doing, far too well. “I can’t lose you again, Martin. I can’t. And I’ll never forgive myself if it happens because I wasn’t strong enough.”

Martin covered Jon’s hand with his own. “It won’t. You’re strong enough, Jon. I trust you. And you know I’ll be right there with you the whole time.”

“I know.” Jon snuggled into Martin’s chest, then leaned up to kiss him. “You know I can’t do this without you.”

“I wouldn’t want to see you try.”

Jon yawned and adjusted the covers over the both of them. Martin rolled onto his side and buried his face in Jon’s hair, and Jon sighed with almost-forgotten contentment as he drifted off to sleep, Martin’s heartbeat thudding steadily in his ear.

#ollie writes fanfic #leaves too high to touch (roots too strong to fall)#the magnus archives #tma #jonmartin #ptsd cw #panic attacks #I think we all agree that Jon has issues with lotion #but it occurs to me he probably has thunderstorm issues too

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somuchbetterthanthat · 5 years

Text

Look at me unable to shut up about soulmates. Like, literally. This is so long it should probably be on ao3 but also? i started on tumblr so you’ll get all the typos, sorry not sorry.

Jonah appears on Jon’s throat when he is eight years old; he probably wouldn’t have noticed, if his grandmother hadn’t raised his chin and frowned in a quiet, pensive way and asked: “Is that why you’ve been so agitated, Jonathan? Have you met him?”

Jon has no idea what she’s talking about until he’s staring at the elegant, old-fashioned name on his skin in a mirror. He thinks of Mr Spider, and a cold, terrified chill runs down his spine. Can monsters have a first name? Is this a promise or a threat? Is it even linked at all?

His body shakes badly, and in an unusual display of affection for both of them, his grandma pats his hair and sits him up her lap.

“There there,” she says, and her voice is gentle. “No need to fuss, Jon. Whoever Jonah is, he’ll be good to you. Soulmates always are.”

Georgie appears barely two months after they’ve met; he wakes up one morning and it’s right there, on his hipbone. Maybe it was here before. Jon doesn’t spend a lot of time inspecting his body.

The next time he sees her, Georgie’s grin is wide and warm and she hugs him just a bit tighter than she usually does. “Oh,” he says, and she laughs and says “Oh, indeed. Guess we’re stuck together, eh?”

Jon’s heart is hammering in his chest. He hugs Georgie a bit tighter, too, feeling overwhelmed and quite stupid. “What a bother,” he says dryly, and it means the world that Georgie just laughs harder and doesn’t let go.

He’ll be good to you. Soulmates always are, had said his grandmother. Jon barely thinks of Jonah, these days. But now he’s got Georgie, and he thinks he definitely wants to be good to her.

Well. He tries, at least.

He’s pretty sure he does.

When she says, “please Jon” tired and angry, he realizes that, maybe, being good to Georgie means stepping out of her life for good, and does just that, telling himself it doesn’t feel like losing a part of himself.

“Did you know,” Elias Bouchard says slowly, at the end of Jon’s job interview, “that the Institute was founded by Jonah Magnus?”

Jon feels a speck of irritation cross his mind; of course he’s known. He read everything he could about the Institute before applying here. Anybody googling the Magnus Institute would know, it’s one of the first line of its wikipedia page.

“Yes, of course I do,” he says, and it comes out rude and disdainful; he winces, but Elias Bouchard only looks amused.

“I didn’t mean to offend,” he says with the shadow of a smile. “I think that you’re going to fit just fine in our Institute, Jon. May I call you Jon?”

“I, er -- yes,” Jon blinks, startled. His past interviews have never left him with the impression that it should be so easy. “Does that mean --”

“The job is yours, if you want it,” Elias nods. “I can have your contract ready for next week.”

“Ah, uh -- good,” Jon says dumbly. “I mean -- Thank you, Mr Bouchard --”

“Oh, please,” Elias waves his hand; “Do call me Elias. Everybody does.”

“Right,” says Jon. “Elias.”

(It feels -- odd in his mouth. Elias’ smile stays bland and polite, but his eyes fall on Jon’s throat, just for a second, before moving back up; they look piercing and hungry and pleased, and Jon leaves as fast as he can, his skin itching.)

Jonah Magnus being his soulmate becomes an office joke the moment his colleagues spot the name on his throat. It’s hilarious, you see, because Jonathan Sims never seems to leave the Magnus Institute, married to his work and to the place. Jon rolls his eyes and lets people talk. As far as teasing go, this one is mild enough not to be too bothersome and, besides, it’s not like he’s actually ever met his Jonah. (Not like he really wants to, when he thinks of what happened with Georgie.)

(And if, sometimes, he grows curious and look up as much as he can from the elusive Jonah Magnus, well.) (It’s not like anybody can see him do so.)

“So, are we going to talk about it or --” Tim says, staring quite obviously at the name on Jon’s wrist.

Jon hates the way his cheeks flush. “I’m sure there are plenty of Gerard out there, Tim,” he says primly. “Besides, I don’t think chatting about soulmates is any way relevant to a good work environment --”

“I mean, it is sort of work related if your soulmate is Gerard Keay from the statements,” Sasha points out, and Jon stares at her like she’s thoroughly betrayed him as Tim laughs.

She gives him a sheepish grin but still high-fives Tim when he holds his hand up. Jon scoffs.

“We don’t have to talk about it if Jon doesn’t want to,” Martin snaps behind him.

His tone is unusually biting and Jon is taken aback for a moment. He really didn’t think Martin of all people would defend him on this particular subject. The man is probably the sort of sappy and romantic person that thinks finding his soulmates means a happy ending. Jon, of course, knows better. Still.

“Right,” he says. “Thank you, Martin.”

Sasha and Tim exchange a glance; now they’re looking properly chastised. Jon brush his fingers against Gerard’s name, and pretends he isn’t just a bit hopeful that this is Gerard Keay, and that somehow, it means he’s not as dead as his research has led him to believe.

“Jon,” says Martin in a rush when they scramble up to move far away from the wall which is starting to break right in front of their eyes. “There’s -- there’s something I think I should definitely tell you, I think, before --”

He doesn’t have time to finish his sentence. In the midst of everything else, Jon quite forgets it too.

It takes him three weeks of forced bedrest to realize there is a new name just above his heart; he stares at it for a very long time in the mirror, unable to think of what to do about the familiar, terrible handwriting of Martin Blackwood scribbled on his chest.

Jon is still laughing, stupidely relieved, when Martin says: “Also you’re my soulmate. And I know I’m not yours, but I mean, since you want honesty --”

Jon’s laughter dies in a cough. Martin stares at him with wide eyes like he can’t believe he’s just said that, cheeks flushed bright red and chin stubbornly up, and Jon opens his mouth, closes it back, and then he says “oh.”

“Yeah, so, I’ll just. Be. Going back to work, now,” Martin mutters. “Unless you want to, to accuse me of anything else or --”

“Martin,” says Jon, a bit helplessly.

It would be so easy, to say, you’re my soulmate too. But he watches Martin’s tense posture, the way he’s looking at everything but Jon, and he remembers Georgie. The words die in his mouth, and Martin says, voice too high: “it’s alright, Jon.” and flees the room before Jon can figure out what to do.

Jon tells himself it’s best not to tell Martin. Martin deserves someone who can be good to him, and that’s certainly not Jon, especially not -- now.

Martin thinks that it’s alright to bully Jon into going for lunch now that Jon knows about the whole soulmate thing.

Jon keeps agreeing, and Martin keeps smiling, and sometimes, Jon’s almost able to forget how hellish everything else in his life has become.

He calls Martin first. He calls Martin first as he flees, and Martin doesn’t answer.

Fair enough, he thinks, a bit hysterically. Jon messed up everything the second he didn’t tell him, anyway, and, and just because they’re soulmates --

“Hey,” he says numbly to Georgie when she opens the door.

Georgie stares at him for a long time. “Jesus Christ, Jon.”

His hip itches. Jon makes a joke he doesn’t recall afterwards. Georgie lets him in, and hugs him tightly. It feels like coming home.

“Is there anything else?” Elias asks.

Jon stares at him for a very long time. “Are you still lying to me?” he asks; now that he knows what to look for, it’s like he can feel the power tingling in his throat. Elias’ eyes flutter and his mouth curls into a slow, intensely pleased smile.

“Lying can have very many different meanings,” he tells Jon. “There are, indeed, a great deal of things I don’t intend to tell you until you figure them out. I don’t personnally consider it lying, though you might.”

“I --”

“Go clean yourself up, Jon,” Elias continues. He sounds almost gentle, and Jon wants to rip his throat out. “We can discuss more about what will need to be done once you’re feeling a little bit less -- shaken up.”

“Fuck you,” says Jon.

Elias’ lips twitch again.

Nikola caresses Jon’s hip; Jon’s wrist; Jon’s heart; she cooes at each name, teases Jon with every single one of them. She lets her thumb lingers on Jonah the longest.

“Isn’t it quaint,” she laughs. “Do you think he’s listening?”

Jon makes a noise; she laughs harder. “Of course I’m sure he’d like to watch, but he can’t, can he? Oh, but we’ll find a way to talk to him, won’t we?”

Jon doesn’t know when the tape recorder appears; he merely knows he feels faintly relieved when Nikola grabs it and stops touching him, winking at him conspirationally instead. “Elias?” she preens into the recorder. “Can I call you Elias?”

“You’re mine, too,” Jon blurts out awkwardly.

Martin slowly blinks. “... What?” he asks..

He sounds like he’s been punched right into the stomach, high and breathless, but he’s still holding Jon to dear life, and Jon hides his face deeper into his shoulder, breathing in deeply, and he says, his voice hoarse: “You’re my soulmate too.”

“Oh.” Martin’s voice is small. “Oh. I mean did you -- is that -- where -- I --”

“I’m very bad at being a soulmate,” Jon cuts him off. He’s aware he’s gripping Martin’s too tight. “And I think I’m turning into something dangerous, and there are people out there who wants to kill me, and I need you safe -- Nikola saw -- she saw your name, and I don’t want her to --”

“You’ve -- got my name,” Martin merely says.

“I -- yes, I’ve had for a -- it doesn’t matter, I’m saying you’re in danger --”

“You’ve got my name,” Martin repeats.

It’s definitely giddy, now. Jon refuses to be endeared. “Martin -”

“No, no, I get it, danger and all -- but I mean, I mean, it’s been years Jon, literal years --”

Jon never asked Martin about it before; he doesn’t get to ask much more right then. Martin takes a step back, and he’s grinning wide and stupid, and Jon feels his own treacherous lips curl up in answer. It’s not exactly a surprise, when Martin bends down and presses his mouth against his. It’s a terrible idea, an absolutely horrendeous, awful idea, of course, but not a surprise. Jon lets himself be kissed and closes his eyes all the same.

So Gerard is dead.

He’s no less impressive, and Jon feels awkward and eager and flushed.

“Oh no, I’m er - Jonathan Sims? I’m with the Magnus Institute --”

Gerard stiffens. “Jonathan?” he repeats.

Jon’s mouth runs dry. He carefully raises his left hand, and the name written on it. “Hi,” he says.

Gerard looked at it for a long time, and then he huffs a laugh. “God, figure.”

His ghostly fingers meet Jon’s, cool and so light Jon barely feels them. On his right wrist, Jon’s name is written in his terrible, rushed handwritting. Jon’s heart skips a bit.

“Figure,” he agrees, and they both smile dryly at each other.

“Be careful,” says Georgie on the phone, soft and tired.

“Please, don’t die,” Martin murmurs against his lips, terrified and hopeful all at once.

“Thank you, Jon,” had merely said Gerry, when Jon had agreed to burn his page.

Elias stares right into his eyes, and his hand smooths over Jon’s collar; his thumb lingers on Jon’s neck, and Jon feels -- something.

“Good luck,” he tells him.

“Do you have a back-up plan if I die?” Jon can’t help but ask.

“You’ve been quite successful so far,” Elias tells him. “I’m sure you’ll be just as efficient tomorrow.”

“I’m glad one of us is feeling confident,” Jon mutters sarcastically.

“Always, Jon,” Elias smiles, and Jon thoroughly wished it didn’t appease him as much as it does.

Jon dies.

Jon comes back.

Jon’s alone.

It’s fitting, of course; Jon’s always been alone, apart for a few years, thanks to Georgie mostly, and he exhausted her into leaving, eventually -- not only once but twice, which has to be a rare enough feat to be mentionned. Nobody likes to speak about unhealhty soulmates, but Jon’s aware that it’s exactly what he is.

Four soulmates, and one of them is dead, the second knows better than to stay, the third is -- the third is so deep into danger than Jon has no idea if any of his words will ever bring him back, and the last never had the decency to show up.

Jon can’t think of Gerry, or Georgie, or, god, Martin;

So he stares at his throat, and looks over Jonah’s name. His oldest soulmate. He idly thinks that maybe they were all right, the ones who spent years joking about Jon being bounded to the Institute, to a man dead for centuries, the one who’d started it all, the one who was probably as much a monster as Jon has become --

Can monsters have first names?

Jon does. He caresses Jonah’s name and thinks there’s something familiar in the pretentious and graceful way the ‘J’ is written. It’s right there, he muses. At the edge of his mind. The mysterious Jonah --

“Jon?” calls Daisy from behind him.

“Mmmh?”

“You okay? Basira said -- I mean, you’re getting pretty intense here.”

“Oh,” he says, letting his hand fall at his side again. “Sorry, I -- sorry.”

Daisy looks at him up and down. She looks as tired as he feels. “C’mon,” she says. “I’ve found board games we haven’t played yet.”

Jon looks at Georgie and Melanie from afar. He’d never realized, before, what it truly meant to be envious. Jealous. He turns away with damp eyes.

“Look, I know we can’t talk,” Jon manages to say. “But something’s real wrong and I just wanted to make sure --”

Martin sighs. He feels so distant Jon’s heart is growing cold just looking at him. “I’m fine, Jon; I’m handling it. Just - trust me, alright?”

“You know I do,” Jon says numbly.

Martin’s kiss on his cheek is icy. “Thank you,” he whispers. And then, with a little itch breath he adds: “I love you.”

He’s gone before Jon gets a chance to say “me too.”

Jon stares at his throat every day, now. He feels restless and ravenous, pulled by something bigger than him, and he knows, deep in his bones, that he won’t be able to resist its call. He’s never been able to.

“You’re losing it, Jon,” Basira says quietly. Dangerously.

“So are you,” Jon says. He doesn’t need to look at her to see her tense. He is still staring at his throat. “We need to go see Elias.”

“No, we’re not. He’s well proven by now he’s utterly useless --”

“I’m sorry,” says Jon calmly. “I didn’t say it right. I’m going to see Elias, and I don’t bloody care what you or him think about it.”

Elias smiles, when he sees him; of course he does. The prison suit doesn’t hide his throat like his pressed collars and ties used to, and Jon reads his own name on his skin without any surprise at all.

“Jonah,” he breathes out, and Elias’ smiles gets brigther, his thoughts melting gently into Jon’s.

“Hello, Jon,” he says fondly. “Is it time?”

Jon has no idea what he’s talking about.

(Jon knows exactly what he’s talking about)

Yes, he thinks.

Marvellous, Jonah thinks back. We’re going to be so good to each other, Jon. Just wait and see.

#this is so long holy shit. i literally just spent my afternoon writing this. apparently.#the magnus archives #well so much for cleaning or doing anything productive i guess. i'm gonna have to go meet with my friends soon too #i hope you guys like this because i feel exhausted from long writing #it's probably shit but yeah it's done now #tma stories

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bubonickitten · 4 years

Text

TMA fic: Who’s There?

Sooo, I wrote a follow-up to this fic.

Cross-posted to AO3 here.

Summary: Jon has a panic attack after Elias shows him exactly what happened behind the door after Mr. Spider took its victim. Martin helps him calm down, and Jon tells him the story of his first Leitner.

[CW for unreality, dissociation/drdp, panic attacks, tactile hallucinations, descriptions of spiders/arachnophobia, blood/injury, self-harm mentions (accidental in the context of a panic attack).]

By the time Jon shuts the door to Elias’ office, he can barely stand.

Trembling, he leans – nearly falls – back against the wall and squeezes his eyes shut. He's trying to untangle the dueling instincts to flee and freeze when his knees buckle and he slides down the wall to the floor. He’s breathing in gulps, shallow and quick, and when a long exhale dissolves into a shuddering sob, he Knows that Elias hears it and that he smiles, and Jon hates himself for it.

Elias.

A new wave of panic crashes over Jon when he realizes that the only thing between them is an unlocked door. The thought is enough to force him to stand, steadying himself against the wall with one hand as he makes his way down the hall on wobbly legs.

It’s easy, he tells himself: one shaky step at a time, no need to overthink it, just keep moving –

He’s nearly to the door at the end of the hall when it happens. Something in his mind fractures and he is a stranger to himself, a bemused observer floating somewhere else, somewhere outside himself –

…depersonalization: an altered state in which one feels unreal, as if one’s thoughts and emotions do not belong to oneself; often accompanied by a feeling of detachment from one’s own body and a dreamlike perception of the world around …

The Beholding pummels him with the information, an intrusive thought somehow made worse by Jon's awareness of its supernatural origin. Jon usually finds it comforting to have a word to describe his experiences, but it's no consolation now when he did not ask for it, did not ask for any of this. The way knowledge forces its way into his head these days, seeps into his mind unsolicited before he even notices what’s happening – he hates the invasiveness of it, the sense of violation it brings. Facts and figures bleed into the edges of his mind like so many worms pouring in through the crack under the door and burrowing into him and –

…he is a marionette with gossamer wire wrapped twice, thrice, a dozen times around his wrists and…

– Elias’ words wriggle in his mind like worms through flesh, writhing like a fly caught in a web, and just like that –

…the spider silk winds its way through the crack in the door, sticky and writhing; slowly and deliberately it twines itself around his arms, his knees, his neck, and he is pulled inexorably…

– and his head is full of cobwebs and all at once he is the struggling fly and the too-curious child and the hapless victim and the human prey –

…you opened the book, you stood on the threshold, you just as good as opened the door…

– and he is the hungry spider and the monster behind the door and the inhuman predator in the dark just watching, watching, watching –

…we both know that the Archivist in you can’t leave a question unasked or unanswered…

– as something Watches him back.

Jon is barely conscious of where he is until he's crossing the threshold to his office, smacking his shoulder on the doorframe on the way. The impact snaps him back to the present with a jolt, like a puppet jerked backward by its strings, and all at once he is aware of the staring. His assistants’ eyes bore into him as he passes them by; he feels their judgment and mistrust and anger and fear trailing behind him like the wispy threads of a broken web –

He shuts the door behind him.

But there is no escaping the watching.

The Not!Them watched him for months, delighting as he spiraled into paranoia and sabotaged his relationships. Elias knew all along, was always watching, is probably watching right now. And whatever patron Jon now serves – it never stops watching, does it? Watching him, watching through his eyes, watching through doors and walls and floors -

Is it still paranoia if you actually are being watched?

Jon is an insect under a microscope and a dispassionate Eye pries him open, considers the component parts, catalogs and categorizes, files him away and never once deigns to share its verdict: whether his classification is Jonathan Sims or Archivist, and what criteria should be used to measure personhood.

He is a thing behind a door, unsorted and undetermined, and he cannot breathe –

Knock-knock.

He opens bleary eyes and does not immediately recognize where he is.

Knock-knock.

“Jon?”

There is someone at the door, he thinks absently, but everything is muted, thick, cloying, and the thought disintegrates in the fog.

Knock-knock-knock.

Someone is at the door, but the sound is distorted, as if he’s listening to it from underwater.

“Can I come in?”

His thoughts are molasses-slow as he takes inventory his surroundings: He’s under a desk. His desk. (He thinks it’s his desk.) He’s huddled under a desk like a child playing hide-and-seek and, oh, there’s someone at the door.

Knock-knock-knock-knock –

“Jon, please open the door.”

He reaches up to rub his face and stops short, because there is something wrong with his hands. They're coated in something adhesive and coppery-smelling and when he clenches his fists and feels the skin stick, all he can think about is spider silk, tacky and clinging to his hands, his arms, his neck, his face –

KNOCK-KNOCK-KNOCK-KNOCK-

There is someone hammering on the door.

He is breathing too loudly. The thing behind the door will hear him.

KNOCK-KNOCK-KNOCK-KNOCK-KNOCK-KNOCK-KNOCK-KNOCK-KNOCK-KNOCK-

He clamps his hands over his ears, mindless of the mess. The thing behind the door cannot hear him.

Silence.

Then:

“Jon, I’m coming in.”

As the door creaks open, Jon jumps at the sound, smacking his head on the underside of the desk. His eyes fly open and all at once he is present.

“Jon? Are you okay?”

Martin's voice, tentative and concerned.

As the footsteps draw nearer, Jon hugs his knees tighter to him, shrinking as far under the desk as he can. It’s childish, he knows: there are only so many places to hide in here. He knows when Martin spots him because he can feel those eyes burning into him and –

“Jon? What – Christ, Jon, are you bleeding?”

Jon looks up then, pupils blown wide. Even the low light stings, and he squints against it.

“Your hands are – is this your blood? Jon, let me see –”

Martin leans down to get a closer look and all at once Jon remembers his hands, covered in cobweb. He frantically rubs his palms on his clothes, digs his fingernails into his skin to claw away the layers; his heart is thundering in his ears, pulsating in time with his thoughts: get it off get it off get it off getitoffgetitoffgetitoffgetitoff -

“Jon, stop it! You’re hurting yourself!”

And so he is: one of his fingernails catches the skin on the back of his good hand and now it’s bleeding freely. Jon stops scratching, recognizes the blood for what it is now. He begins flapping his hands uselessly, flailing, overwhelmed; he feels the tears coming again –

“Jon! Jon, listen to me. You’re – you’re hyperventilating, just… look at me.”

It takes a moment, but he does. His hands still.

“I want you to breathe with me, okay? Just – watch me, okay?”

Jon watches. He does not blink.

“Okay, copy me. Four seconds in, hold seven seconds, eight seconds out, okay?”

Jon breathes, mesmerized as he watches the steady rise and fall of Martin's chest.

“That’s it. You’re doing great.”

Jon isn’t sure how much time passes, but eventually his breathing evens out and the palpitations start to recede.

“Okay. Okay.” Martin sighs; Jon can hear the relief in it, almost feels it vicariously. “Listen, Jon, stay right here –”

Jon’s eyes go wide again and his lips move in wordless protest.

“I’ll come right back, I promise, I just – I want to get a damp cloth, clean off some of the blood, okay?” Jon hesitates, but gives a curt nod. “Okay. I’ll be right back. Just… keep breathing, okay?”

Martin stands and moves away slowly, quietly, like one might around a wounded animal. Once he’s out of sight, Jon hears him pick up his pace.

Martin leaves the door open.

Jon isn’t sure how to feel about that.

He focuses on breathing.

As soon as Martin enters the break room, three pairs of eyes fix on him.

“Well?” Basira begins, schooling her expression into careful neutrality. “What was –”

“Just a panic attack,” Martin replies, walking briskly to the sink. “Don’t worry about it.”

“Wasn’t planning on it,” Tim says, feet on the table and tipping his chair back until the front two legs are dangerously high up off the floor.

“Martin,” Basira asks, “is that blood?”

“Yeah. Your friend slit his throat, if you hadn’t noticed.” Martin hadn't intended it to come out as biting. In fact, he didn't even register how angry he was until the words had already left his mouth.

In all the commotion, Martin hadn’t really had time to let it sink in, but now that he's seen the damage up close, he feels properly horrified. He thinks of how proud Daisy had sounded in Elias’ office when she admitted that she had slit Jon’s throat. He remembers how she interrogated him when Jon was missing, how she didn’t care about what happened to Sasha, how she had already decided that Jon was guilty, how she seemed to be enjoying herself. He realizes now that all along her plan was to hunt Jon down, to murder him, to leave his body in the woods where no one would ever find him, to -

To let him become another goddamn mystery.

A quiet fury coils tight in Martin's chest, heated and itching to claw its way out.

“I thought it had stopped bleeding,” says Basira. She doesn’t sound cold, exactly – just tactful, cautious. It’s a de-escalation voice, Martin realizes. The caretaker and mediator in him recognizes it - he makes frequent use of it himself - but in this moment it just makes him bristle.

“Yeah, well, he opened it back up,” Martin mutters, turning on the faucet and holding one hand under the stream, waiting for the water to run warm. “It’s fine. There’s just – there’s a lot of blood.”

“Can’t he deal with that himself?” Leaning against the wall nearby, Melanie rolls her eyes in disgust. “He’s a grown man. You don’t need to coddle him.”

“Lay off, alright? He’s scared –”

“He’s scared – Martin, we’re all scared,” Tim snaps, rocking forward in his chair. The front two legs slam back into the floor with a loud crack. “He’s the one who went and –”

“I know, alright, I know – and you’re right to be angry.” Martin would be lying if he said he wasn’t still hurt over Jon’s behavior toward him in the previous months, but he’s had this discussion with Tim so many times now, and he's tired of talking in circles. “I’m still not just going to leave him like that –”

“Why not? If he wants to wallow in his office, let him,” Tim says viciously. “It’s all he’s good for these days anyway.”

“That’s not fair,” Martin says, tight and defensive but trying so, so hard to keep his voice even.

“None of this is fair,” Basira chimes back in.

“No. No, it’s not.” Martin sighs as he pulls a large bowl out of the cabinet and sets it in the sink to fill. “But fighting each other isn’t solving anything.”

“More to the point,” Basira says, still composed and so deliberately impartial, “we all saw what he can do. We need to talk about that at some point.”

"Is he really all that different from Elias at this point?" Melanie makes it sound more like a statement than a question.

“He’s nothing like Elias." There is no hesitation when Martin speaks.

Melanie lets out a derisive laugh.

And Martin’s anger finally boils over.

“You know, it’s not Jon's fault you’re here, Melanie!”

Martin rarely loses his temper. He hates conflict, hates the inevitable second-guessing and guilt that always settle over him after the moment has passed, hates how his size and height can make his anger look so much more threatening than he feels. Whenever he senses tension building, he puts all of his energy into modulating his voice, regulating his emotions, mollifying and pacifying until the storm passes, even if it means swallowing his own hurt in the process.

Right this moment, though, he doesn’t have the mind for appeasement. He’s angry with Elias. He’s furious with Daisy. He hates being in the Archives with the ever-present feeling of being watched. And he’s frustrated with Jon for – for always being in danger, for turning up every day with fresh hurts and new scars. Martin knows he’s not being fair – Jon can be reckless, and careless, and self-destructive, and his obsessiveness eclipses his sense of self-preservation to an unhealthy degree, but it still isn’t his fault that so many things want to hunt down the Archivist. It’s just – Martin worries, and Jon gives him a lot to worry about.

When he feels Melanie’s glare on his back, senses her gearing up to tear into him, he slams the faucet off and whirls around to face her.

“You chose to come here the first time, and you chose to keep coming back, and – and you were just as curious as he is, just as fascinated, just as obsessed, just as – as reckless." He breathes a short laugh. "God, you two are so similar sometimes, you know that? You chose to go chasing monsters knowing full well you were putting yourself in danger, and – and hell, Jon wasn’t even here when you took the job!”

Martin is shaking. He takes a deep breath, counts to ten, tries to rein in his outburst.

“I don’t care,” Melanie spits, her voice low and dangerous and laced with venom. “He’s toxic. This whole place is toxic and he’s so wrapped up in it he may as well be part of it.”

“We’re all part of it."

“Whatever.” Melanie throws her hands up and stalks towards the exit. “Go fuss over him and have him berate you for caring.” Pausing at the threshold, she adds, scathing, “Seems that’s all you ever do.”

With that, she storms off, leaving a heavy, electric silence in her wake.

“She… didn’t mean that last bit,” says Basira after a moment. “She’s just – she's not herself lately.”

“Yeah,” Tim says, all sarcasm and resentment. “Welcome to the Archives.”

Martin says nothing. He grabs the overfull bowl of water, snatches a dish towel from the counter, and heads for the exit, water sloshing out of the bowl and onto the floor on his way out.

Jon hears footsteps coming back down the hall – Martin’s, he thinks distantly; isn’t it strange how you unconsciously learn to distinguish a person’s footsteps when you spend enough time around them? – followed by the soft click of the door as Martin closes it behind him. He walks around the desk and kneels down, slow and soft and careful, as if any quick movement would shatter Jon’s uneasy calm.

“Sorry for the wait,” Martin says with a forced smile. He tries to keep his tone light, but Jon can sense the strain underneath.

Jon had heard the shouting echoing down the corridor, had been faintly surprised when he heard Martin raise his voice, however brief. He couldn’t make out everything that was said, but he had a general idea. He didn't have to Know; it wasn’t that hard to guess.

Martin places a bowl of water on the floor, dips a dish towel into it, and looks at Jon expectantly. “Is it alright if I –?”

Jon nods once, slowly. Martin starts with his hands, wiping away the congealed blood coating his skin. It’s odd, Jon thinks, how absorbed he is in the task. Martin pays attention to the smallest, strangest details; scrubs at the blood-encrusted cuticles and scrapes away the stains under the tips of Jon's fingernails, frequently dipping the towel in the water and wringing out the mess.

There’s a little crease between his eyebrows, Jon notices, the familiar one that he gets when he’s deep in concentration. Jon plays back all the times he’s seen it: Martin standing in the break room, carefully measuring sugar before stirring it into his tea. Martin judging a trajectory as he aims to throw a crumpled ball of paper into the bin across the office. Martin making handwritten notations when working on his assigned statements; whenever he made a connection, one corner of his mouth would quirk up and his writing would become more feverish. Martin writing poetry. And Jon could always tell when Martin was composing poetry at his desk rather than doing his job: he worried his lower lip between his teeth, and he always leaned closer to the page.

With a distant sense of wonder, Jon notes that he… never really made a conscious decision to memorize those details. He ponders vaguely whether it’s something he Knows, or if he’s simply been paying attention all along without even realizing.

“You doing alright there, Jon?”

Jon inclines his head and closes his eyes. It’s – surreal, how safe he feels just then. He lets himself drift, loses himself in the sensation of a soft touch.

When Martin turns his attention to Jon's burned hand, healing but still stiff and sore, he braces himself for the searing pain, but it doesn't come. That feels wrong, somehow, and - and, God, what does that say about him? When was the last time anyone touched him with kindness? He didn't realize until just now the extent to which the boundary between physical contact and intentional bodily harm has eroded for him lately; how automatic his associations between touch and fear and pain have become.

When Martin pulls away - How much time has passed? - Jon's eyelids flutter open groggily.

“Will you be okay if I clean your neck?”

Jon lifts his head to expose his neck and sits up straighter and -

He immediately hits his head on the underside of his desk again. That seems to animate him. He huffs irritably and glowers up at it as if it’s the desk’s fault for being in the same place it always is.

Martin snorts at that, then winces. “Sorry, sorry. Didn’t mean to laugh –”

Then Jon's mouth twitches in a tentative smile, and Martin relaxes.

“Are you alright to come out from under there now? It’ll make this easier.”

Jon says nothing, just scoots out from the little hollow under his desk. He still presses himself up against the side, still feels safer the more compact he makes himself, but he's unfurling, slowly but surely.

“Okay, tip your head back for me. That’s it – just, hold still.” Martin pauses, considers Jon’s nonverbal state. “Tap me if you need me to back off, alright?”

Closing his eyes, Jon lets himself drift again, allowing Martin to dab at his neck with the damp cloth. How is he so gentle? Jon isn’t relaxed, exactly, but he can’t remember the last time he felt safe enough to let down his guard like this. It was only hours ago that he had experienced firsthand how simple it would be for someone to take a knife to his throat and press; he should be much more hesitant to expose it like this, to have someone touch it when it’s still raw and stinging, and yet… somehow, this is fine. Good, even.

Jon’s hair has gotten long - When was the last time he had a haircut? - and some of it clings to his neck, matted with drying blood. As Martin peels the strands away from the skin, Jon shivers.

Martin draws back immediately. “Did I hurt you?”

“Mm.” Jon’s lips move mutely for a few moments before he manages, “No.” It comes out as a hoarse whisper and he clears his throat. “Ticklish.” Still raspy, but better than before.

“There you are.” Even though Jon's eyes are closed, he knows - Knows? No, just knows - that Martin is smiling. He can hear it in his voice, can almost feel it radiating off him. Martin adopts a deliberately bland tone when next he speaks. "You... really did a number on yourself."

“Accident,” Jon croaks out. Opens his eyes, clears his throat, tries again. “There were – they were in my throat, and I – I needed to – I wanted them out.”

It’s still fuzzy, but he vaguely remembers scratching at his throat, trying to chase away the sickening feeling of hundreds of tiny legs skittering down his throat and into his lungs and –

That little crease is between Martin’s eyebrows again. “What was -"

“It was – nothing, stupid, imagined, just – felt them crawling and I couldn’t –”

“Worms?” Martin guesses.

“No, no. Too many legs.” An involuntary shudder rips through him; for a moment he can feel feather-light legs scuttling across his skin again; he flexes his good hand, chasing the tactile distraction, nails biting little crescent shapes into his palm. “It – just, too many legs. And – and cobwebs, blocking my – couldn’t breathe –” Growing agitated, his hands start fluttering again.

“Okay,” Martin soothes. “Okay. Stay with me. You’re safe. Take some breaths for me.”

“Mm.” Jon breathes, ragged at first, but evening out after a minute.

“Good.” Martin leans back in and continues dabbing lightly around the wound on Jon’s neck. "Keep breathing, just like that."

Several minutes later, Martin pulls away and drops the towel in the bowl. The water is stained a muddy red, now, and Martin frowns at the sight. God, he wishes Jon was better at keeping his blood in his body.

There are still some watery, diluted traces of blood on Jon's neck and hands, but at least he's not caked in the stuff anymore. Looking at the inflamed gash on his neck, Martin feels that little flicker of rage again, and tries not to let it show on his face.

“I have to change out the water before I do more. It might be easier to do the rest in front of the sink, though. And we should really bandage your neck and - and your burn. You, uh, probably want to change, too – you’ve got blood... well, everywhere. I assume you still have some spare clothes in the storage room?”

Jon is looking down now, picking at a ragged cuticle on his burned hand. Martin assumes that means he’s not ready to move quite yet.

“Do… do you want to talk about what happened?”

“No,” Jon whispers, but he has a peculiar look on his face, like he’s working up to something. Martin recognizes it – a sort of faraway look, like he’s gone into his own head for a moment to commune with his own thoughts. It always puts Martin in mind of a wait cursor or a blinking ellipsis.

It isn’t uncommon for Jon to trail off and walk away mid-conversation. When they first started working together, Martin assumed it was that he said something wrong, or that it was just one more way for Jon to snub him. But more often than not, a few hours would go by and Jon would pick up the conversation right where it left off, as if it had never stopped. Jon is buffering, Martin thought to himself with a smile when he first realized what was happening. It was almost endearing, the idea of Jon taking something - something Martin said, no less - so deeply into consideration that he spent hours thinking on it before composing a response.

On the other hand, Jon was equally as likely to dismiss something outright without even entertaining the possibility of a discussion. The contrast could be jarring, and even after all this time, Martin still hasn’t quite discerned any pattern that will let him predict which version of Jon he’s dealing with at any given time.

Either way, Martin is good at sitting with silence. And this silence is heavy, but not uncomfortable.

“I don’t,” Jon continues eventually, frowning slightly. “But… but I think I should?”

“Okay?” Surprise slips into Martin’s voice before he can tamp it down, but if Jon notices, he doesn’t comment on it.

“Apparently Elias can – can put knowledge in someone’s head? Or – mine at least, I don’t know if it has something to do with what I am, or if he can do it to anyone, but he…” Clearly searching for the right words, Jon opens and closes his mouth a few times. “I mean, I was already on the verge of a breakdown, wasn’t I?” His voice breaks and he covers it with a bitter smile. “I suppose I – I just needed one more little push.”

Martin resists the urge to point out that having the threat of imminent death hanging over your head every waking moment is more than a little push.

“He showed me – I saw – it… he made me Know, and I had to watch, and I felt how it –”

“Stay with me, Jon.”

Martin rests his palm on Jon’s unburned hand, then pulls back immediately, instinctively feeling as if he had crossed a line.

But Jon chases his hand and grasps it tightly. He doesn't make eye contact. “Is this okay?”

“I – sure, I mean – yes, of course,” Martin sputters. He feels his face heat and hopes Jon is still too foggy to notice how flushed he must be.

“Mm.” Jon shakes his head and laughs nervously. “I… this is harder than I thought.”

“Would... would it help to frame it as a statement?”

Jon seems to consider that for a long moment before shaking his head. “No. No, I don’t think so. I already gave a statement about this matter, and it feels... wrong, in some way, for me to offer the same statement a second time.”

Martin doesn’t really get it, but he takes Jon’s word for it.

“What if I… if I asked a direct question, would that help? I mean, I can’t compel you, obviously, but –”

“Okay.”

“What?”

Martin has never known Jon to be this receptive to his input. Jon just shrugs, not meeting Martin’s eyes.

“Ask me.”

“O...kay. Right. Um, so, what did Elias say to you?”

After a moment's pause, Jon begins to speak.

“He… he Knew something that I never told anyone before.” He starts slow, but seems to gain confidence after a few words. “The thing that first pushed me toward the supernatural, that started me on the path to – well, to all of this. Odd, to think that just… opening a book could lead me here.” His voice drops to a near-whisper. “I was only eight.”

“A book?” Martin frowns. “You don’t mean –”

Jon smiles, but it’s a fragile, humorless thing. “My first Leitner.” He takes a deep breath and speaks through the exhale. “A Guest for Mr. Spider.”

“Oh,” Martin whispers as the pieces fall into place.

“Yeah. I knew it was – wrong, somehow, but I just… I had to know, so I opened it, and I… I read.” Jon swallows hard and leans forward, curling in on himself somewhat. “I started walking. I didn’t know where the book was taking me, and I couldn’t stop reading, couldn’t even blink.” A pause as he maps out his next words. “There was… an older kid in my neighborhood. He wasn’t very keen on me. I was an annoying child, easily bored, always trying to show off how much I thought I knew. Never really was good at people.” He huffs a short, self-deprecating laugh. “Guess that hasn’t changed. Anyway, he – he was in the wrong place at the wrong time, or – or maybe I was, but he decided to knock the book from my hands and it… broke the hold it had on me.” Jon gives a little half-shrug, and his voice drops to a low murmur. “He didn’t mean to, but he saved my life.”

Jon’s thumb rubs absentminded little circles on Martin’s hand, and Martin feels his heart skip a beat. Focus.

“Anyway, he – he picked up the book, and he opened it, and then he was reading. And he started walking. I didn’t know what to do, so I followed him.” Martin notices frantic, rapid little movements behind Jon's shut eyelids. “And then he was standing in front of a door, and he knocked, and it opened, and the – the thing behind the door pulled him in. I never saw him again.” Jon falls quiet for a long moment, his jaw tensing and unclenching. When he finally opens his eyes, they’re brimming with tears. “I don’t even remember his name. He died in my place, and I don’t – he deserves to be remembered, but I can’t –”

Martin gives Jon’s hand what he hopes is a reassuring little squeeze.

“I – I never knew what really happened to him, you know? The door closed, and I just… left him to his fate, what was supposed to be my fate. I couldn’t stop thinking about what happened after the door closed. I was certain he must have died – hoped he was dead, because the alternative was...” Jon shudders miserably. “I obsessed over it, how he died, how long it took, whether it hurt, whether he was afraid, and – well, you can guess what a child’s imagination can do with that. Though I rather think my imagination now is just as overactive as it was back then. Certainly still obsessive enough.

“There’s something uniquely torturous about the not knowing, about the way the brain can flesh out a scene with mere scraps. I used to think that – that if I knew what happened behind the door, it would be better, because at least I would know, and I wouldn’t have to see a million variations in my nightmares. I could just – just have the one nightmare, and acclimate to it.

"But I was wrong. Elias – he showed me – showed me what happened, and made me feel it and it – I…” His voice gets very soft, and he glances at Martin with haunted eyes. “You know how spiders feed, Martin.”

“Oh, Jon.” Martin can hear his voice crack. “I’m so sorry, I – I knew you didn’t like spiders but I didn’t realize – God, all the times I’ve prattled on about them –”

“No, I – it’s fine, you couldn’t have known.” Jon waves him off. “In fact, I actually used to seek out information on them when I was a child. I thought if I learned everything I could about them, examined them through a – a detached, academic lens, I could get over the fear. But apparently a phobia doesn’t care about – about ecological niches, or the wonders of evolution, or…” He trails off and a shadow passes over his face. “I suppose I’ve always assumed that I could solve a problem if I just learned everything there is to know about it. Spent years making myself miserable obsessing over spiders and nothing changed.” His laugh is brittle. “Knowledge at any cost."

Another heavy silence falls. Judging from Jon's expression, there's more; he treats conversations like impossibly complex puzzles sometimes, picking his way through words to find one that will slot just so into a sentence. Martin wonders how Jon would react if he ever told him that that's what writing poetry is like.

"The thing is, though," Jon continues after a minute, "I think it’s only right, for me to know what happened to him in the end? Because why should I be spared from the knowledge when it’s my fault he –”

Jon’s breath hitches; he struggles to compose himself before continuing.

“But beyond that, it just feels right for me to know. Like I’m owed every scrap of knowledge that comes my way, as if I have every right to consume and possess these stories. And I hate it, Martin,” he says with sudden, surprising ferocity. “I hate it because I’m just this – this uncaring watcher drinking it all in, and there’s a sick, detached fascination that comes with it, and I don’t know if that’s me or whatever master the Institute serves – that I serve, now, or… I hope it’s not just me, but even if it isn’t, I – I still feel it, it still feels right. But it’s not. I know it’s not,” he says, breathing in erratic, shaky gasps.

“When I read a statement, it’s like I’m there, experiencing it right along with them, but the fear is also – muffled? Like the fear is being filtered through the words – through my voice, before it reaches me. And hovering in the background there’s this alien thing – part of me, but not me – gorging itself on a story that doesn’t belong to it, doesn’t belong to me, doesn’t belong to anyone except the one who actually lived it. It just… worms its way into my mind, forces me to feel its pleasure at their fear. At my fear.”

He shakes his head, his voice thick as he chokes back tears. “God, I’m sorry. I’m treating you like a therapist.”

“It’s alright, Jon.”

“No, it’s really not.” Jon sighs. “I tried counseling once in uni, you know. Georgie suggested it. Quit after a few sessions, though. Not good at opening up, I suppose.” He shrugs. “And – and now? I mean, what am I supposed to tell them? That - that closed doors make me uneasy because I almost met a monster when I was eight, and let it take someone else in my stead? About the flesh hive, how some days I still feel the worms burrowing into me and it’s everything I can do not to – to grab a corkscrew and start digging for them?” He laughs, a little hysterically. “That any time I look at my own hand, I can still smell the flesh melting? That a man dropped me into the sky and let me fall, and then he was shot in front of me by a rogue cop who made me dig his grave? That she tried to shove a knife through my voice box for good measure? That I’m becoming a monster, no different than that thing behind the door, and I can’t stop it, and it’s my own fault for asking too many goddamn questions?”

He’s not even crying anymore, Martin notices. There’s something… hollow about his voice. Resigned. Tired. Martin’s heart aches with it, and he grips Jon’s hand more tightly.

“Jon, listen to me. You’re not – you’re not a monster.” Jon scoffs. “I’m serious. Look at you. I mean, no offense but – you’re a mess. Right now all I see is a frightened, exhausted human covered in his own blood, putting way more thought into what it means to be human than most humans do, and – and when’s the last time you even slept?”

“I don’t know,” Jon murmurs. He loosens his grip on Martin's hand and pulls away, scrubs at his eyes to wipe away the residual wetness there. “That’s not high on my list of priorities right now.”

And just like that, Jonathan Sims throws a wall back up between them. Martin recognizes the slightly stiff quality his voice takes on, and knows that he won’t get anything more out of Jon today.

But then -

“Thank you, Martin.” Jon’s voice is quiet, but somehow loud in its impact.

“Oh! Don’t worry about it, it’s – it’s no big deal –”

“It was to me.”

“No, that’s not what I – I didn’t mean that it’s not a big deal, I just –” Martin puffs out a breath of air, feeling flustered. “What I mean is, I’m glad that you – that you trusted me to help.”

“I trust you.” There’s a finality to it. It’s similar to the terse this-conversation-is-over tone that Martin is so familiar with, but somehow… gentler. Warmer. “Present tense.”

“Oh.” Martin’s voice is very, very small.

“I just…" He heaves a sigh. "Thank you. For being here. For being patient with me. I know I’m not – I’m not exactly pleasant to be around. I don’t make it easy to be near me. And I treated you, and Tim, like enemies when I - when you - when all of us needed allies.” He looks up and meets Martin’s eyes. “I'm sorry. But - I’m trying to be better. So, thank you. It… means a lot.”

He can’t stand to see Jon hurting, but some small, guilty part of him is still glad that Jon trusted him, opened up to him, accepted help – Martin’s help – for once.

Martin smiles. He intends it to be reassuring, but he’s pretty sure it comes off as a little delirious instead. “Any time.”

When Jon tries to stand, he accepts Martin's outstretched hand without another word.

#tma #the magnus archives #jonmartin #jonathan sims #martin blackwood #tma fic #long post #tma spoilers #(up to mag 92)#spiders cw #self harm mention cw

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statementends · 5 years

Text

Characters: Jon and Helen

Pairings: Gen, past Melanie/Helen and Jon/Martin hinted at.

Rating: G

Warnings: Jon and Helen being monsters, but not much actual monstering happening in the fic

Summary: Jon puts his hand on the doorknob. Helen gets a roommate. It's simple. Jon could use simple right now.

AO3: Link

He puts his hand on the handle of the door. The door that has been a permanent fixture in the Archives since he had woken up.

He remembers Michael. The Distortion. A promise for a kind death. At least in comparison to the Stranger.

It didn’t feel like very long ago, and yet so much had happened. So much had changed. Would Michael be able to devour him now? Probably not.

Jon opened the door. Helen is there, her odd broken smile greeting him.

“It is polite to knock,” She pointed out.

He shuddered. Wondered if somehow she knew. She didn’t.

“Sorry,” He apologised. His senses buzzed. A twisting maze that couldn’t--shouldn’t be known laid out before his feet.

“Why are you here Archivist?” Helen asked.

“Jon.”

“Hm?”

“I don’t call you the Distortion, do I?”

“Names,” Helen shrugged. “Are they important to you still?”

“What if I called you Michael?”

Helen frowned. “I don’t think I’d like that. Very well, Jon. What can I do for you? You only visit when you’re sad.” She rolled her eyes at him. “Are you sad, Jon?”

“I’m tired,” He answered.

“Yes, you’re that an awful lot too.”

“Not--well, yes physically but… I’m tired of being everyone’s pawn. Elias, Annabelle Cane, Peter Lukas, even Martin--” He cut himself off. It hurt to say. Like a self inflicted wound. “I. I’m... hungry.”

Helen’s head twisted at an odd angle in curiosity. “Are you?”

“Yes. Very. Do you… want to go out to … dinner? Uh. As colleagues … I mean.” Jon stuttered. Maybe he should feel bad using such harmless metaphors for the pain they were about to inflict on living breathing people. He didn’t.

Helen’s smile could shatter glass, but that wasn’t unusual.

The need was easy to keep up with like this. It reminded him of his childhood. The endless books. The need for a brand new story that was nothing like the last. The Spiral was never the same thing twice. Helen hunted in new and mind dizzying ways. People wandered her corridors. Shattered from sleep deprivation. From unsolvable riddles. From shapes that shouldn’t exist and patterns that weren’t patterns. Colourful fractals, and madness.

It was beautiful. He could appreciate it now.

He didn’t lose his empathy. He felt the terror of every single person she lured through her threshold. Lived through it endlessly and he couldn’t get enough. Sometimes they would have other stories to share, still fresh to their maze. Helen liked hunting for Statement Givers. The ones that had already been marked. When she found Martin’s first victim she had been particularly pleased.

“Like home, Archivist.”

He wished he could be more surprised. That even Martin Blackwood could be twisted and corrupted. He just felt sad, recognizing his… friend in an unrecognizable story.

“Do you miss them Archivist?” Helen asked. She listened sometimes, especially when she was pleased with her catch of the day.

Jon watched the man run in the opposite direction. Running from the monsters.

“Yes,” He admitted. “They didn’t really like me much though. I… I don’t know. It never mattered before, being liked. I guess it was because I really did care about them, but they hated me, for what I did to them. So this is better. I’m freeing them. No more need to worry about the monster. He’s gone away. Proving everyone right. Never should have trusted him.”

“They never did trust you.” Helen pointed out.

“Oh. Right.”

“I trust you.” She offered.

“You’re the embodiment of lies.”

Her laughter hurt his ears.

“I trust you too.” He added.

She laughed louder.

They would go out. Do people things. Get ice cream by a pier somewhere in Canada. Helen would dance in Russia. Jon would get lost in a library in Iran. They would have chips in London. See a movie. They didn’t go to London too often anymore. They were looking for him after all. Elias Knew as soon as they left the corridors. The Archives were searching for him, everyone in their own way.

If it was because they wanted to see him he wondered if he’d go back, but really it was because of usefulness or fear. Emotions he didn’t want to deal with anymore. Couldn’t they just be pleased he was away and wouldn’t be enacting the ritual anytime soon--even when he burned with curiosity wondering about it. Wondering if he could…

He was dipping his feet in the ocean. Helen was beside him fishing with nothing but some string tied to a stick. She had caught eight fish already and thrown all of them back.

“Is there--” he stopped. Started again. “I was wondering if there’s anyone you missed.” Jon said making it a statement instead of a question.

Helen splashed her feet in the water.

“I never asked. I … probably should have.”

“No one that matters now, Jon.” She answered. “Not to who I am. In the archives… I liked Melanie. She was fun… until she wasn’t.”

Jon didn’t press, the question buzzing unpleasantly on his tongue.

Helen smiled, knowing what he wondered. “When you fixed her leg, she started … putting her mind in order. Seeing me for what I am. I took it a lot better than you did. Helen never had time for people that didn’t accept her. Her father didn’t believe in Lesbians. She didn’t believe in her father. I have fonder feelings towards Melanie though, despite her feelings towards me… us.”

Helen stood. Stretched out letting the impromptu fishing pole fall to one side. “Shall we go home, Jon?”

When had a hellscape of endless nonsensical corridors become home he wondered. When it had become his shelter he supposed.

“Yes,” He stood, shaking the water off his feet. “Let’s go home.”

Sometimes he remembered just how old the Distortion was. Helen was it’s primary… personality? Host? A part of it… is it, but also not sometimes. It was probably best not to think about it too much. Sometimes she would talk about old victims during ancient times that she had never lived in. Sometimes she laughed with Michael’s laugh and spoke with Michael’s speech patterns, and called him Archivist.

She was interesting and there was always more to Know.

He wondered if she… the part of her that was the Distortion was as fascinated with him as he was of it. They were opposite ends of the spectrum. Knowing and Lies. Curiosity and deceit. But they fed each other. Jon trying to solve tangled puzzles. Helen trying to confound an all knowing mind. A healthy challenge. A comfortable balance.

It was October. There wasn’t much of 2018 left. He wondered if he’d make it.

“What are we, Jon?”

“What do you mean?”

“Our relationship status.”

Jon blinked. He went and looked over her shoulders. On his phone he had lost three months ago she was slowly updating her profile on Facebook. He could see the edges of her newest posts had fractals, cat memes, and something about it being wine o’clock.

“Ah… well… we’re friends.” He admitted.

Helen nodded. Dutifully added him. He had forgotten he even had a profile. Sasha maybe had set it up… or Tim? Such an unimportant thing… he wished he remembered. The picture of him looked strangely young although it was only taken four years ago. Less gray. A serious look, but not so tired. He wasn’t tired much anymore though. Now that he was… taking care of himself.

She set their relationship to “It’s complicated.”

Jon laughed.

#tma #the magnus archives #the archivist #helen richardson #the distortion #jon&helen #fanfiction

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suttttton · 3 years

Note

groundhog day?! 👀👀👀 i love time loops alsdghkagsdh blease

Groundhog Day is about our dear Elias getting stuck in a time loop between the day before the Unknowing (when he’s briefing everyone) and (more or less) the apocalypse. It starts after he dies in the original apocalypse, so he initially thinks it’s his second chance to create an apocalypse where That Doesn’t Happen. Then when he gets sent back again soon after the second apocalypse starts he thinks maybe the Eye wants Jon to fully embrace Beholding?? Then when that still doesn’t work he’s like??? Okay maybe the Eye cares about the rest of these people for some reason and I need to get them all to become full-fledged avatars??? And that goes on for. A while. Just Elias trying every way he can think of to start the apocalypse and continually failing.

Eventually, his desire for power dissolves beneath the weight of his desire to not be caught in this time loop anymore. He decides that the way to break the time loop is to simply not start the apocalypse. Easy. He abandons everyone at the Institute without a word of explanation and goes into “retirement”. And then eight months later Jon just??? Appears in his basement??? In real bad shape, covered in spiderwebs, desperately needing a statement. So Elias finds one for him, and wouldn’t you know it?? The Webpocalypse starts.

Luckily, the time loop resets again. Now Elias knows that he can’t just leave Jon to his own devices, he needs to steer him away from getting marked. But the thing is. Why would late s3 Jon ever, in a million years, listen to Elias’ advice? So Jon just keeps throwing himself in front of danger and Elias has to keep running after him, having the worst time trying to stop the apocalypse and completely regretting all of his previous choices. It’s great.

Also slowly, slowly, slowly, Elias falls deeply and inescapably in love with Jon. This fic has a lot of really fun, borderline crack scenes (and a lot of really terrible scenes where Elias brutally murders people we like), but I’m really, seriously hoping that i can pull off this complicated one-sided romance thing. What do you do when the person you love is a living testament to your sins? (Answer: You give up everything for them)

This answer is already really long but I’m going to put an excerpt under the cut anyway because I just wrote this scene a few nights ago, and I like it. It’s from one of the final loops, in which Martin gets stuck in the Coffin, and Elias goes in after him to keep Jon safe from the Buried mark. When they get back, Elias hands Martin off to Jon and immediately leaves in order to avoid admitting to Jon and himself that he is doing Really Bad, actually:

Elias drives himself home.

He unlocks his front door.

He stares at the mirror in the entryway for a long time, thinking.

He decides that cleaning up should be his first priority.

He realizes with a bit of manic humor that, although this is his second time in the Buried, it’s his first time washing the dirt off. But it doesn’t matter. He’s seen it so many times by now. He knows, more or less, what to expect from the process.

His entire body aches, but he refuses to fill his tub with that black sludge. Instead of sinking into a warm bath, he stands, letting the water rush over him, turned up as hot as he can stand it. He doesn’t look to see what splatters against the shower floor.

He scrubs at his skin, hard, but the washrag comes away black. There’s no perceivable difference to the level of dirt on his skin. He keeps scrubbing, to no avail.

Eventually, he starts to feel light-headed. Passing out in the shower sounds like a bad idea, so he shuts the water off. Pats himself dry with a towel he’s sure is now ruined. He goes to the kitchen, pours himself a glass of water. Between sips, he holds it to his forehead, enjoying the coolness. He wonders if he’s feverish, or if it’s just the leftover heat from the shower.

He drains the glass, then pours another and takes it with him to the guest bathroom. He starts to fill the tub with hot water, knowing now that his legs won’t support him for long enough to get the dirt fully cleaned off.

He steps in and, as expected, the water turns black almost immediately. He drains the tub, fills it again. And again.

In past, watching Jon do this so many times, it’s taken as many as 15 tries to get the water to finally clear.

Elias passes 15 and keeps going. Twenty. Thirty. He’s absolutely exhausted, and the water is still utterly black, opaque. A nightmare.

Elias swallows, wonders if this is a problem specific to this loop. He checks in on Martin and Jon, expecting to see them dealing with the same mess. But they’re already tucked into what looks like a very soft bed, curled around each other. Martin is clean. Safe. Loved.

Something hot and thick curls into Elias’ throat, and he swallows, trying to clear it. It doesn’t make sense. Why would the Buried release Martin, but not him?

This is all so pointless.

The thought takes him by surprise, the kind of depressive candor that he doesn’t normally allow himself.

Honestly, though, what does he think is going to happen? Okay, he saved Jon from getting marked by the Buried, at the cost of himself. The Web will just find another way to mark him. Same with the Slaughter. All he’s done is buy Jon a temporary reprieve.

The world will end. The loop will repeat. He can’t stop it.

He’s so tired.

A sob forces it way from his throat, much as he tries to suppress it. He tries to keep a lid on his composure. He can’t fall apart, he doesn’t want to fall apart.

But it’s like falling, like gravity. Now that he’s started, he can’t stop.

He tucks his head into his elbow, leaned against the side of the tub, and for the first time in longer than he can remember, Elias cries. There’s simply nothing else he can do.

Then something grabs him, beneath the black sludge he’s sat in. A hand that isn’t a hand, curling around his ankle.

Elias jerks away, out of the tub, filthy water sloshing onto the floor around him. His heart is hammering in his chest, painfully loud. He presses both hands to his mouth, biting back a scream, trying to smother the panicked hissing of his breaths.

After a few moments of nothing happening, nothing crawling out of the tub after him, Elias stands. His hands shake as he towels himself off, and he can’t bring himself to turn his back on the tub. He backs out of the room, makes his way back to the kitchen.

He pours himself another glass of water, makes himself a sandwich that he can barely force himself to eat. The adrenaline subsides, eventually, replaced by nausea and a hopeless kind of exhaustion. He drags himself to his bedroom, collapses on his bed. His blankets will all need to be replaced, and that’s such a trivial concern it almost makes him laugh.

He sleeps. The nightmares shouldn’t be able to touch him, but they do anyway.

#is elias in-character? i don't know #this is a man who told jon he looked like swiss cheese as far as i'm concerned anything goes with elias #asks #inklingofadream #elias time loop fic

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backofthebookshelf · 5 years

Text

this was supposed to be a dumb headcanon post and it just. kept. growing. But.

I found this book while weeding last month (cut for spiders)

and my first thought was, well, Martin buys a copy has a copy lying around for situations like this, and shoves it in his bag the day after he carefully escorts a spider out of Jon's office before Jon can squish it with extreme prejudice. Jon catches him coming back in, wants to know what Martin's been doing, and when he explains Jon rolls his eyes and tells him he honestly shouldn't bother, Jon is perfectly capable of squishing spiders on his own, and Martin launches into a special interest gush lecture about spiders' vital role in the local ecosystem, and Jon explains that that's fine, sure, but they have all those legs which is clearly unacceptable, and Martin is legitimately annoyed at Jon for, like, possibly the first time ever

So he brings the book in fully intending to give it to Jon with a reminder about ecosystems and insects (there are all kinds of paper-eating things that spiders can help keep down, those little silver worms they keep finding for one) but when he gets in there's Elias in Jon's office, and of course Jon's always in a terrible mood after talking to his boss, so Martin leaves the book in his bag, no point in asking Jon to get annoyed with him. And then he's going out to do some followup, and then Jon's taking a statement from someone who didn't want to just sit down and write it out, and then it's been an entire week and Martin still has this damn spider book in his bag and it's driving him crazy so he just...leaves it on Jon's desk one morning. He fully intended to say something about it, but he forgot.

Of course now Jon comes in to find this adorable ball of eyes monster spider face staring at him first thing in the morning, and he does not shriek, thank you very much, that was a perfectly reasonable exclamation of surprise on looking down at his desk and finding something that is very much not supposed to be there. Of course there's no question where it came from, even without the "Martin K. Blackwood" scrawled in rather childish handwriting on the inside of the cover (Martin's had this book for a while). All right then. If that's how it's going to be, Jon knows how to deal with passive-aggression.

(Jonathan Sims has not yet conceded defeat in the two-year standing conflict with Bertrand Collins, his first desk-neighbor in Research at the Magnus Institute. The other researchers called it a prank war, but it was a battle to the death. Jon hasn't seen Bertie since his promotion to Head Archivist, but that doesn't mean it's over, just that the time scale has changed.)

It could have gone horribly wrong. He could have gone for a generic retaliation, something that Martin would not have understood but would have hurt him terribly, like flatly refusing all of Martin's offers of tea (but he's gotten very used to a cuppa in the afternoon, and it turns out Martin is very good at tea). But no, Jon is not terribly good at subtlety, and he opts for a spider-related broadside. The next spider he smashes with a case file, he leaves the file on Martin's desk, with a note to see about ordering some replacement file folders. The smear on the manila folder still has eight distinct legs. It's almost artistic.

Martin is livid. He complains at Tim about it all day. Tim is thrilled; they've been working together a whole four months and he's already sick to death of Martin defending every single thing their obnoxiously uptight boss does. (Also, honestly, who develops a crush on Jonathan Sims when Tim Stoker is right there? It's a hit to his pride, definitely.) Sasha tries to be sympathetic and noncommittal - she's not a huge spider fan, honestly, and she would not have had a great reaction to finding that picture on her desk unexpectedly, no matter how adorable Martin thinks it is - but it turns out that Martin when he's angry is viciously hilarious. She's filing away insults to use on the next guy who hits on her when she's out trying to pick up girls.

It's Tim who suggests striking back; no matter how upset he is, Martin would never have considered actually intentionally trying to annoy his boss, even if his boss wasn't Jonathan Sims. But he is still pissed off - it's one thing to be annoyed at Martin, it's another thing to take it out on a helpless creature - so he goes along with Tim's suggestion to start sneaking realistic plastic spiders into the file boxes.

The skirmish (you couldn't call this one a war; Martin just doesn't have that level of vindictiveness, no matter how much Tim goads him on) goes on for six months, but is fairly well disrupted by Jane Prentiss. Martin can't bring himself to keep at it once he's living in the Archives. It feels like cheating (and besides, Jon just...invited him to stay in the Archives. Martin never expected to be believed, never mind for Jon to actually try to help him). Martin declares an official truce when he sees Jon trap a spider under a used tea mug and toss it resignedly out the window. Jon mutters something about having one less thing to be paranoid about.

(Every once in a while, while going through an obscure corner of the Archives, Jon finds another of those plastic spiders. They still make him jump, dammit. He had quite a stash of them in his desk drawer, but while he was in the hospital, someone cleared them out. He hopes it was Martin.)

#the magnus archives #jonathan sims #martin blackwood #this doesn't really qualify as a fic #but i fully believe this or something similar happened #look at me trying my best not to make it sad at the end!#don't think i managed but i tried!

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soveryanon · 5 years

Text

Some thoughts about MAG121! (... it ended up getting long, rambling and screaming ahead.)

- “Antonio” had been one of my hypotheses for the first episode (same as season2!Jon: try to consider all the possible options, increase statistical chance to be right about one of them), since he had popped up a few times through allusions when crystal shops were involved:

(MAG011, “Antonio Blake”) These dreams have been a regular part of my sleeping for about eight years now. Even as life improved and I found a new job and place to live – believe it or not I now work selling crystals and tarot cards in a “magic” shop – they continued to crop up a few times each month.

(MAG032, Jane Prentiss) I had a job. I sold crystals. […] I remember, before I found the nest, someone new came. His name was Oliver, and he would look at me so strangely. Not with lust or affection or contempt, but with sadness. Such a deep sadness. And once with fear.

(MAG042, Jennifer Ling) […] I saw someone staring at me from the doorway of a small shop. The sign above didn’t have an obvious name, simply reading “Crystals. Books. Tarot”. He was tall, black and careworn, deep lines of worry etched into an otherwise handsome face.

… but I had pictured a visit paid to the Archives, not… apparently-already-turned-Avatar!Oliver visiting Jon at the hospital and basically encouraging him in this path, SHHHHHHHIT. (Handsome black queer Death Prophet introducing himself officially, and Tim isn’t around anymore for this, I feel cheated (like Death). I… had been wondering if Tim hadn’t met the guy off-screen towards the end of season 3, since he sounded unsettlingly convinced that he wouldn’t come back… And now, I kinda hope that it really didn’t happen – it would probably have make him lose faith in (in)humanity even further. Oliver would have told him to “rest in pieces”, uh.)

- … I’m also so, so mad, because, yes, I had spotted him in MAG032 and MAG042; but I had totally overlooked the fact that he had lied/concealed some information back when he’d given his statement (March 14th 2015) and it’s so, so obvious in retrospect, gdi!!! He totally got me with the seemingly pure good boy utterly honest façade, and nop, he’s just super good at casually lying/dissimulating while pretending to be charmingly deadpan honest, which he did again with Georgie by introducing himself as “Antonio” without missing a beat (lol) (don’t misunderstand, I’m love him, his voice was effing amazing, and also WOW WHAT A LITTLE SHIT).

(MAG011, “Antonio Blake”) I tell you this because I feel you have a right to know the sort of timescales that we’re dealing with here. I haven’t had much of a chance to experiment or see anything more specific, I’m afraid. There are so many people who die in London, and I know so few of them.

^he only gave the two examples of his ex-colleague’s (a “John” =D) and of his father’s deaths, but he worked in Jane Prentiss’s shop before she gave her statement in February 2014; he had already seen her, seen her condition (and it looked… really fucked up) and yet didn’t mention it at all in his statement, and… it should have ticked me off, damnit!! Same with MAG042 (statement given November 3rd 2013):

(MAG042, Jennifer Ling) When he saw me looking at him, he began to walk up to me, still with that intense look. I took a couple of steps back, and asked if I could help him. He shook his head as if unsure what to say, then asked me what I was listening to. A chill ran over me as I realised he was staring at my ears. I said I wasn’t listening to anything, as I wasn’t wearing headphones, and asked him what he wanted. He shook his head again, and mumbled something about protecting my hearing. He turned away then, and started walking back into the shop.

He thought that Jennifer was wearing earphones!! Because there were roots in her ears!! He couldn't see her ears!! Because he was seeing it live, not remembering it from his dreams!! Gdi!!! I’m still so mad I hadn’t realized, it was just right there!!

(MAG011, “Antonio Blake”) Or maybe they just couldn’t be seen, fighting off death for so long that when it came at last its icy tendrils covered every inch of them.

That “icy”: he knew that they were cold because he had already touched them!!! Damnit!!

- … there is some ambiguity about the number of statements he gave (I definitely heard the plural in the second sentence?):

(MAG121) OLIVER: I gave the old woman a statement, so, maybe I owe you one as well. […] So. My name is Oliver Banks. In my other statements, I used the name “Antonio Blake”, but I don’t really think either name has much meaning for me anymore.

So, mmmm, is there another one laying around, or did Gertrude take a live statement from him after his written one?

- efhrefdjknefd about the fact that the One Person Sent To Talk To Jon would be calling him “Jon” (“Hum… Hello, Jon. Do you… mind, if I call you Jon? I, I mean. You don’t actually know me, it’s just… well. “Archivist”, it’s so… formal, isn’t it?”), while, until now, other avatars had called him “Archivist” without batting an eye:

(MAG039) PRENTISS: Archivist. (MAG047) MICHAEL: There has never been a door there, Archivist, your mind plays tricks on you. (MAG089) JUDE: No more questions, Archivist! (MAG091) MIKE: Archivist. Take my mercy and leave. (MAG097) NIKOLA: Question time is over, little Archivist. (MAG100) HELEN: Time is hard, Archivist. It’s difficult to follow without a proper mind, especially here.

(Nikola also used “Jon” sometimes, but it had mostly been “Archivist”, and hey, ~the Stranger is not known for its consistency~) -> Dat sweet-talking and trying to get in Jon’s good graces by calling him by his name, while he usually goes into squint&snarl mode as soon as he’s called “Archivist”. Oliver’s obsession with finally being able to have a good night (he wanted a “dreamless sleep”, recalled his “desperation to finally have a good night’s sleep”, “to have one good night’s sleep”) must also have hit a bit close to home, uh.

- Martin begging for Jon to wake up and help them, finally accepting a deal that sounded shady to protect the others since Jon is still unresponsive => Jon: *stays undead* Handsome black mlm passing by to tell his story, right after Valentine’s day => Jon: *HEAVY BREATHING.*

- In all seriousness, I wonder how Oliver’s statement expressed itself in Jon’s mind: were they suddenly on the boat, breaking the cycle of Jon’s dreams? Did Jon indeed feel a “fear”, since Oliver is already an avatar? (Julia&Trevor hadn’t really sounded afraid when he quickly saw them in their dream, in MAG120.) Interestingly, it looks like Oliver could see Jon’s dreams, or at least knew their content, inside of his own dreams?

(MAG121) OLIVER: […] And I do kind of know you? Haven’t had much choice, really. Dreams are like that, y’know: no matter how lucid you think they are, there is always that part that just drags you along. Guess I don’t need to tell you that, at least… not right now. […] I s’pose there’s only so long you can dream about someone and not at least try to find them. […] I don't talk to many people these days. Putting my thoughts outside myself, it's gets a bit… hm… clumsy. […] ‘wish there was a better way, but… Touching someone’s mind, it’s not… as simple as that, is it? Doesn’t always make things clearer, y’know? Still. I gave the old woman a statement, so, maybe I owe you one as well. That’s how it works, right? Give you a terror. Give you a dream. ‘t’s not like I don’t have ‘em to spare. Mm. Let me tell you about how I tried to escape.

It’s… curious, given that he used to dream of people themselves (how do the tendrils interact with Jon’s… state?); but it looks like in Jon’s case, he could access Jon’s dreams, since he knew what Jon has been experiencing. Is he currently able to communicate with people through dreams? (Either something he developed since his 2015 statement, either yet something else he didn't bother to mention at the time?) (I do wonder how Jon’s choice manifested in his dream, too! Was it to face the Eye, since Elias had narrated that Jon… was basically trying to escape its gaze/pretending that it wasn’t there by focusing on other people, though he couldn’t not watch them anyway? I had been wondering if his clue for leaving would have to do with the “DIG” ad, since it came from Martin’s statement, static included; or from Helen’s door, since… “He does not know what is behind it anymore, and he is deathly afraid of finding out. The Archivist turns away.” (MAG120) sounded like Jon fleeing, and also the least Beholding-like thing he did in the cycle of dreams.)

- I’m laughing SO HARD about how Oliver had quite clearly been sent by The Web:

(MAG121) OLIVER: [SIGH] I wish I could tell you why I came here. I wish I knew why I came here. I s’pose there’s only so long you can dream about someone and not at least try to find them. […] Then again, maybe I’ve just wasted my breath. But I don’t think so. Honestly, hum, I'm still not exactly sure why I’m here. But… you know better than anyone how the spiders can get into your head. Easier to just do what she asked!

(The fact that he tried to rationalize actions that he had not chosen is quite reminiscent of the effects Trevor had described in MAG056: “The weirdest sensation began to flow through me; I wanted to leave. […] This was just a sudden awareness of my own desire. I’d been sober for three years at that point, but I felt like I desperately wanted to get high, and I knew that the best place to get some was out in the night. Looking back, I think it might have been my own mind rationalizing the way I felt my will being tugged out of the room, but it was still very powerful.”) … and that’s the thing that made Jon tip over. He had been holding on for six months, prisoner in his dreams and under the big eyeball’s stare, and the thing that apparently made him ~choose~… was the message that The Web sent him. That’s so rude towards Beholding, Jon =D

- Also it’s the *screams* confirmation that… Jon probably never really escaped Mr. Spider back when he was a kid. At the very least, the spiders have plans for him, and it’s apparently in their interest to have Jon functioning, whether it stems from a Web-Beholding alliance or from the Web having its own plan and trying to hijack the chessboard. As far as the tense relationship between The Web and free will is concerned, I remembered something Elias had said a while back:

(MAG092) ELIAS: […] And your will is still your own, mostly.

………… that “mostly”………..…………… Elias, what do you know about this…….. (I’m still unable to pinpoint, for a lot of things regarding Elias, if the answer is “he knows a lot” or “he barely knows anything and only manages to stay in control because he’s a very pretty/lucky complete buffoon”.) (In the same exchange, there was that moment of “Feels like all I’ve managed to do is… not die.” “And believe me, that is a remarkably rare skill.” and that also does take another dimension now fedhbjnefd.)

- Relatedly: if Jon indeed gave himself up to Beholding… well… Gods. Gooooooods. I am not ready for elated!Elias since uwu!! Jon chose this path himself!! uwu. We already had a glimpse of it in MAG102 (“No, Jon, this is good! It’s a promising development!”) but I think nobody is ready for Elias being elated over something Jon-related again. (… Except for Ben, probably.) Will Elias make arrangements to send a Congratulations postcard and/or flowers to Jon from his cell. Will Jon still be Jon enough to dump them in the trash.

- Important logistic question: did Jon receive his salary during his coma, and what happened to his shiny new flat? According to Georgie, he hadn’t been paid during his, erm, escapade from the police&the Institute at the beginning of season 3 (for a bit more than two months) (though it could have been Jon avoiding to use his bank account altogether in order to not get tracked down):

(MAG099) ARCHIVIST: Look, G– Georgie, I need to move out. GEORGIE: Umm… yeah. I thought you were looking for a place. Y’know, now, now you’ve got a salary again.

(Elias, you could have at least compensated him for the weeks he spent on the run since he worked even more than usual if his sleep schedule is any indication, you’re a terrible boss in more than one aspect.) So, yeah. Does Jon still have his new flat, or will he have to find a new one again (or go back to Georgie’s, or… keep definitive residence in the Archives).

- Same question as I’d asked myself during the trailer: is the clock in Jon’s hospital room specifically the clock from Elias’s office, and did Elias arrange for this? Since we first heard it, I’ve been wondering if it had… something behind it (aside from informing the listeners that scenes were taking place in Elias’s office). Bones, or something else entirely. It’s super ominous on its own, the regular sound being half a constant reminder that things are advancing their natural course, and half a feeling of mechanicalness and of things being trapped in an cyclical system! But I do wonder if that clock had a function in-universe, too, since… it’s very noticeable. At the very least, Oliver’s words resonated strongly with it

(MAG121) OLIVER: Time is like that, isn’t it? Just keeps going. No matter what happens, it just carries on. And it strips everything away from you in the end; the good, and the bad alike, until there is nothing left of either. “This too shall pass”, “All good things come to an end”. “Memento mori”.

and it was a beautiful (and terrible) atmosphere.

- It’s possible that Georgie and Martin have met off-screen!!

(MAG121) OLIVER: Uh… uh, I’m a friend. Of Jon’s. GEORGIE: Are you now. OLIVER: Y– y– yes. GEORGIE: Right. Just… haven’t you seen visiting before.

Well, that depends if Martin has been visiting often but… Georgie sure is keeping a close watch on Jon. I wonder if Jon will still be in a state to feel guilty about it, since… ~before~ the coma, he didn’t want for her to get involved further and in the end, she did.

- I love that she’s also picky about the friends Jon should be surrounding himself with, but she quite clearly understood that Oliver was bad news (“Sorry about that. But you really don’t need friends like th–”). What was the reason she chased Oliver at the end? Because the tape recorder was running and it usually didn’t react when she was there? Because there was something weird already with Jon’s body? Or did Oliver leave something in the room for Jon, a gift from The Web? (… or could it be specifically the zippo again, returning to Jon? We don’t know if Martin had used it in MAG118, but it could have been, since it could burn statements…)

- I’ll forever be laughing at the fact that Jonathan fucking Sims dated someone who would later be a supernatural podcaster who says “spooktacular”, but at the same time, I Would Die For Georgie Barker:

(MAG121) OLIVER: I’m Antonio. GEORGIE: Sure. OLIVER: Do you mind, uh… giving us a minute? GEORGIE: No, I think you’re done here. OLIVER: Oh. Uh, right. H… have I upset you, miss? GEORGIE: No, you just remind me of someone. OLIVER: Ah, I’m sorry. Were they– GEORGIE: Evil. Yes. OLIVER: … Oookay then. I, I just, guess I should just go. GEORGIE: I guess you should.

This was the first time we've heard Georgie interact with someone else than Jon, and… Georgie!!! GEORGIE!!!!!!! I’m guessing that “someone” was referring to the events in the dissection class, since that was an agent of The End too… and now I’m worried for her, since woops, they’re related to the same shade of fear, and the idea that Georgie is getting involved in that, or at least with people deeper in it than she is… is worrisome.)

- Well. I’m assuming that Oliver chose to serve The End, it sounds pretty clear to me? He wouldn’t be punning that much about it if it wasn’t the case (do you get more powerful when you pun about your patron all the time. *eyes Elias*). I’m not sure about the rest of his situation, though, since… I saw a few other people mention it, and same, Point Nemo sounded like a Lonely and Vast territory – different powers fighting to get the upper hand influence-wise, like at Hill Top Road? The shades bleeding into each other in the spectrum of colours-that-hate-me? I had wondered, with MAG011 alone, whether “Antonio” was actually under The End’s or Beholding’s influence – the latter because… there were, and there still is in MAG121, a lot of references about him witnessing without being able to help and slowly coming to terms with that fact, his being mostly a passive observer overall, unable to do anything about it, and the idea that, when given a choice, he wanted to see, even when it wouldn’t do him any good:

(MAG011, “Antonio Blake”) Eventually my wandered drifting led me back to the Barclays building. Something inside me wanted to go inside, to see what it was like in this rhythmic, fleshy dreamscape. […] I was aware that I had two choices: to follow the light to wherever it might lead or to turn and retreat into the waking world. I decided to follow the path of that scarlet glow […].

(MAG121) OLIVER: I don’t know why I did it. I knew it was a stupid thing to do, walking past my own home in a dream, but I just… Maybe I wanted it this way.

By contrast, his ascension made him take an active part, with him purposely leading people to their deaths… So I don’t know if this was The End all along, or Oliver switching from another power to The End, à la Mike Crew? Also, we don’t know if he’s gay or bi/pan (he’s a mlm at the very least, since he mentioned his ex-boyfriend Graham) but: it would add another dimension to the fact that he referred to The End as a He while The Web (or its avatar) gets a She =D (My Patron Is More Appealing To Me.)

- ……………….. okay, so this statement seems to confirm that Avatars tend to have a death experience or something close to it in order to… become. It’s unclear if Jane Prentiss had clinically died when she was treated, but as for others:

(MAG089) JUDE PERRY: […] It became clear that, where once I had destroyed to fuel my life, I now lived for the pain that I caused. […] I doused myself in kerosene and set it alight. […] As the heat warped my bones and bubbled my flesh, all I heard was the loving exaltation of my god.

(MAG089) MIKE CREW: […] In the end I threw myself into the arms of that vast emptiness, and I bound my tormentor to the book.

(MAG109) ARCHIVIST: Last I heard, you were dying of lung cancer. TREVOR: I was. ARCHIVIST: And now? TREVOR: I’m not. [CHUCKLES]

(MAG121) OLIVER: […] I could feel all their eyes lock to me, panicked, hoping for some sort of explanation. I almost tried to give them one, but I barely got the first word out before the falling satellite debris hit the ship at two hundred miles an hour, killing us instantly.

Mike jumped from a tower pursued by a Lichtenberg figure; Jude immolated herself; Trevor was dying from lung cancer (and Martin thought that people had mentioned he had died after the first part of his statement); Oliver explicitly states that he died (and yet is still present in some way, and corporeal enough to need to open and close the door). That. Sounds. Really. Really. Bad. For. Jon. Given that, for all of them, it was presented as a turning point – the thing that made them tip over into another sort of existence. Interestingly, Jon got… many of his powers before this stage (compulsion, the ability to Know things he had never learned as highlighted by Elias in MAG102 and later Tim in MAG114, the languages-thing, the ability to… See?, unravelling one’s story, as he did in MAG119, and the nightmares-sharing as we learned in MAG120), but Trevor had the ability to feel the vampires his entire life, and Jude set someone on fire before completing her transformation.

I’M DEVASTATED BECAUSE THIS IS WHAT JON WAS AFRAID OF, ESPECIALLY AFTER TALKING WITH OTHER AVATARS, GDI!!! The prospect of becoming a monster and of losing himself like the others… shook him quite badly at the time.

(MAG092) ARCHIVIST: So it’s… it’s back to breadcrumbs, and statements, and risking my life talking to things that barely remember how to be human anymore? [...] Am I… Elias, am I still human? ELIAS: Jon, what does human even mean? I mean, really? You still bleed, you can still die. And your will is still your own, mostly. That’s more than can be said for a lot of the “real’ humans out there. … You’re worried about ending up like that thing, lurking in the dirt under the streets of Alexandria? Don’t be. Just do what you need to, and you’ll be fine. Understood?

(MAG093) ARCHIVIST: You’ve seen monsters? GEORGIE: Not the time, Jon. ARCHIVIST: Right, it’s… it’s just I think I’m turning into one. GEORGIE: Really? That’s… not great. […] ARCHIVIST: But [Avatars] end up getting these abilities, and they lose a lot of their self. Sometimes all of it. GEORGIE: And you think… that’s what’s happening to you? ARCHIVIST: Yes. Yes. The Institute serves one of these beings. A–At least, Elias, who runs the place, does. Since accepting the Archivist job, I–I’ve been… different.

(MAG114) TIM: So, why don’t you “Archivist” me, then? Just pull it straight out. ARCHIVIST: Because I don’t want to! I am not your enemy, Tim. TIM: [DISMISSIVELY] Like that matters! These things aren’t human. It’s… instinct. You can’t not. ARCHIVIST: [SOFTLY] I’m still me, Tim. [TIM HUFFS] I’m still… me.

(MAG115) HELEN: We’re both changing, Archivist. I had hoped, that together– ARCHIVIST: [FURIOUS] Get out. HELEN: Archivist… ARCHIVIST: Get. Out.

… And at the same time, Oliver’s statement just highlighted how… far Jon was from the state the other Avatars were in just before they turned into their current beings? Jude Perry was depressed, isolated, straying away from her girlfriend (projecting Agnes on her instead) and decided to start killing pretty easily. Mike Crew had lost his parents and was apparently quite solitary, and discovered along the way that he didn’t mind killing (MAG089: “My experiments weren’t entirely pointless, though, they did have a truth to me. I learned that I was more than capable of killing, if it brought me closer to what I needed.”) Oliver didn’t sound like he had anyone who could have mattered to him (we knew he’d lost his father in MAG011, but he didn’t mention any other family member or friend in MAG121) and… decided, at the end, to kill everyone on board. Their transformations were all preceded by them losing touch with their previous surroundings, to replace it by their dedication to their god? (Iirc, one of the Q&A had even explicitly referred to the relationship between the Hive and Jane Prentiss as a clear case of toxic/abusive love.)

But Jon… Jon had precisely being going in the opposite direction in season 3: where it wouldn’t only be about him, but about the others, and about trusting them, even artificially. That was the decision he had made.

(MAG0117) ARCHIVIST: […] Still, it does sometimes make it hard to… fully trust them, I– … [SIGHS] You– you know what, no. I’m… I’m done with that. No more paranoia. It’s almost got me killed more than once, and… Georgie was right. If I am… slipping, then I need people I can trust. And I… I don’t think that can happen naturally for me an–anymore, so… I’m making a decision. I trust them. All of them. E– except Elias, obviously, that’s not– I mean… I’ve listened to the tapes. I’ve listened to the tape, I– I know what they talk about behind my back, how much they’ve… suffered… because of… this place… because of me. God. Poor Melanie. […] I do worry about Martin and Melanie, leaving them behind, but… I– I suppose that’s- part of trusting someone, isn’t it? Letting them help how they can.

(MAG0118) TIM: You thought you brought me in as a distraction, right? ARCHIVIST: What?! TIM: Let me do it! Go in, maybe you can get some of them– ARCHIVIST: Tim, contrary to what you think, I did not bring you here to indulge your death wish! […] I knew none of us might be coming back, and I’m not gonna let anyone get killed for nothing! […] I am not losing you as well!!

I’m a big sap when it comes to the Power Of Friendship (feed it to meee!!), and I’m also aware that it might nnnnot go down super-well in a horror podcast where Bad Things Happen, but part of me still… hopes, very deeply, that it mattered in Jon’s apparent decision to not die-die (which meant, if we judge by others’ stories, to give himself up, be it to Beholding or to another one). … Two counter-arguments, though: Jon spent six months in his loop of nightmares, which… could have been enough to break him quite a bit, and to reduce him to a state in which his decisions at the end of season 3 don’t matter much to him (or what’s left of him) anymore. There is also the feeling that Avatars tend to… look down? on their past selves and feelings, as if they now knew some deeper truth that invalidates their past thinking, and a bit like they're… rewriting their own story in order to conclude that what they became was the logical achievement of who they were?

(MAG032, Jane Prentiss) Perhaps I’ve always heard it. Perhaps the itch has always been the real me, and it was the happy, smiling Jane who called herself a witch and drank wine in the park when it was sunny. Maybe it was her who was the maddened illusion that hides the sick squirming reality of what I am. Of what we all are, when you strip away the pretense that there is more to a person than a warm, wet habitat for the billion crawling things that need a home. That love us in their way.

(MAG089) JUDE PERRY: I know now they were simply guiding me upon the path to my true epiphany. All this time I was serving my god, but only for my own glory. But with each new gift, each renewal of the fire, I saw how lifeless and hollow it was, how grey and ashen my existence had become. It became clear that, where once I had destroyed to fuel my life, I now lived for the pain that I caused. And for Agnes. My sweet, hopeless Agnes. And so I ended it.

(MAG091) MIKE CREW: I know it was the first storm, the first real storm, I had seen for almost ten years, but nothing else remains in my mind. There are echoes of resignation, I think, almost desperation. That can’t be right, though. What reason would I have had not to jump? Not to become as I am now. Perhaps I just didn’t know the true joy of vertigo. It doesn’t matter.

(MAG121) OLIVER: […] That was it with the old woman too. That was different, though. Way I figure it? She stuck her nose in just about everywhere it wasn’t wanted and stirred up hornets. ‘Till all the precautions in the world couldn’t stop Death from finally catching her. If I’d’ve known more back then, I’m… not sure I would’ve bothered trying to warn her. Still… you live and learn, don’t you? […] And the worst part is that somewhere, in me, I… I liked it. Underneath all that awful fear, it felt like… home.

(Oliver had also mentioned that the tendrils had felt “almost affectionate” at first. We… really got to witness his degradation: he had initially tried to stop what was supposed to happen (with his father), he switched to warning (Jennifer from MAG042, Gertrude in MAG011), and then, was just witnessing (the “Thomas” whose identity he stole in MAG121) until… he brought around ten people to the spot where they were supposed to die, actively ensuring that they would all meet their planned ends. On the one hand, he became his current self in just two years since his first statement; on the other end, he had already concealed a lot of things in that statement from two years ago and was already deeper in that he had claimed, but overall, that… doesn’t bode well for Jon’s evolution, yeah.)

Of course, it’s only natural to come up with different conclusions at the time you’re experiencing something and in hindsight (knowing where they led to in the end, the mistakes you were making, the consequences your actions would bear), but it. still. sounds A LOT like a kind of brainwashing…? And we don’t know yet what Jon’s state of mind was when he “chose” in MAG121, though we do know that he was, personality-wise, The Best/Worst Possible Person to get into Beholding stuff, yeah, because he… had had the craving for novelty since he was a kid and the tendency to pursue knowledge at all costs (MAG093, Georgie: “That does at least explain why he picked you. […] If your job is asking questions, I mean. You were always the one who pushed too far, and asked smart-arse, awkward questions. I always was surprised you never got punched.”) Except for Mike, who switched, the Fears tend to choose people who will fit in with them and… that’s… bad…

- So overall: no idea if we’ll perceive drastic changes in Jon right away, or if it will be a slow slippery slope. I’m… worried for the hospital staff, though; Jon seems to have understood the correlations between live-statements and his dreams by the end of season 3 (MAG113: “I’m not too concerned, to be honest, my dreams are, uh… well, let’s just say I don’t think they’re going be letting anyone else in any time soon.”); we know from Basira and Daisy that it’s not only Jon, that it also affects the statement-givers unless they’re Archival Assistants and/or directly working for the Institute (MAG112: “Are you sleeping?” “Yeah. … Do you still have the dreams?” “Um, no, not really. Not since we joined up here, I don’t think. You?” “Yeah.”) and… there is a clear line between being harmful without knowing, and being harmful despite knowing (but not caring and/or prioritizing one’s own gain). So I’m afraid that Jon might extort a statement or two as soon as he wakes up, if he’s hungering for them and/or wants to get better, after having been deprived of them for so long.

I mean, I’m totally expecting Jon to go bad – and I’m not quite ready for it right now, but then, it’s not like I can’t expect my feelings to get repeatedly crushed by a lead pipe in this series, I know what I signed for, I’m in for the ride, I’ll Take It Anyway >:3 But I’m a bit more concerned about the idea of following Jon as he knowingly hurts people and doesn't care… without anyone there to remind us that hey! This is bad, actually?, and without… anything about the people Jon is making suffer. It’s not only about Jon: it’s about them, becoming victims through their live-statements, apparently being haunted by them in their dreams through Jon? (The series has been great, though, at making us feel like all these Characters Of The Day are people, with their own lives and stories, so I trust that there will be… something about the fact that this is happening to them! Also, I don’t know if Georgie has been suspecting something regarding the dreams, but if characters managed to piece things together, then, I doubt that Georgie would allow Jon to run wild? Mmmartin might, maybe a bit, but not Georgie. She might not outright kill him if she sees he’s gone bad, but she would scream at him until he puts effort into fighting it as best he can.)

- Also overall: a… lot of things will depend on Jon’s state of mind, and what he's understood from Oliver’s story. I have trouble finding a “lesson” in it, honestly? What are we supposed to take away from his experience?

(MAG121) OLIVER: At that moment, a sudden calm came over me. I understood it all. I could follow the lines of the huge veins that encased the ship down into the water, leading off to a point almost a mile from the South-East. There. That was it. That was our fate. Where we would always be. Because I was going to take us there. Running was pointless. To try and to escape from my task would only serve to fulfil another. I finally understood what I needed to do. […] I don’t know where I got the gun, but once Captain Macabee was dead, the others were very keen to sail wherever I wanted.

That you can’t escape these things? That the longer you try to run, the more innocent people will get harmed because of you? That the only way for Jon to leave the dreams would be to give in (and give himself over), confirming that there is no other solution? (Oliver told Jon that he had ~to make a choice~ but… technically, Jon can’t die in this state. How could have he chosen that option? Was he waiting for someone to mercy-kill him…?) What were Jon’s options exactly, and what did he choose? We didn’t hear about the notebook that he had found in Gertrude’s hangar in MAG113 (“Names, locations, dates. I’ll, I’ll check properly later. Doesn’t look like it’s to do with the Unknowing, I don’t think.”) and it sounded valuable enough for Jon to plan to take a deeper look at it … so as usual, Jon Is Probably Ahead Of Us, and what he does and chooses to do with it will get explained later. Notes on preventing The Watcher’s Crown? On the “new emergence” mentioned by Adelard? (But if Jon indeed gave himself to The Beholding… is it possible to do it if he’s still planning on wrecking its ceremony? That’s not really giving yourself up if you don’t want it or are planning to work against it?) (So as usual: what happened, aaaaarrrrrg)

- So far, we had been hearing all the statements recorded by the Archival staff, so… has that changed, and we didn’t hear the ones being recorded by Melanie-Basira-Martin while Jon was in his coma? Or did they stop recording them? Or did the tape recorders refuse to work because Jon was away? … Or will Jon listen to them to catch up on the time he missed, and we will discover them with him – and how things apparently got progressively worse for the assistants?

- … I had been wondering about Jon’s use of the tape recorder. He used it for statements starting season 1 and, starting with the climax and all through season 2, as a way to convey his discoveries to a hypothetical successor in case something bad happened to him. In season 3, the tape recorder started to apparently turn itself on, pretty often to record quite mundane conversations, whether Jon was there or not, and in a few cases there is some ambiguity over whether or not he had actually been turning it on when he had it on him (with or without realizing it), but… there were also moments in which it was explicit that Jon wanted conversations and talks to be on tape. It culminated with the testaments in MAG117:

(MAG098) MARTIN: […] Have you seen [Jon] since…? TIM: [GRUNTS] Kind of. We tried to talk, but he, he reached for that– Ah, he, he wanted to turn on his recorder. I freaked out a bit, and I said some stuff: if he wanted to talk, no tapes, I just, I just hate that thing.

(MAG102) [CLICK] ARCHIVIST: You’re sure you don’t mind? MARTIN: No, no, no, it’s fine, I’ve… I’ve kind of stopped noticing if I’m honest. They just sort of… turn themselves on these days.

(MAG115) ARCHIVIST: […] There is nothing you want to say to me. TIM: Nothing with that thing here, no. ARCHIVIST: [SOFTLY] Interesting. […] TIM: Why are you so set on having it running? ARCHIVIST: I… Look, if you want my honest opinion– TIM: I don’t.

(MAG117) ARCHIVIST: I, I wanted to get some thoughts down before, er…everything. We all should, actually, I… I’ll maybe mention it to them.

……………. I’m wondering if… this wasn’t actually... all about Jon fearing that yes, he would (have to) turn into an avatar for real at some point, and it would probably fuck with his mind a bit (highlighting parts of him that were already there, but also rewiring him to serve his god’s objectives rather than what felt right to him) – and so, using the recordings in an attempt to… keep traces of who Jonathan Sims used to be, what his actual trains of thoughts were, the actual choices he made. Jon was very conscious that something else would come afterwards: Gerry had told him about The Watcher’s Crown, and Jon… sounded like he had picked up that stopping The Unknowing wasn’t an end in itself but also a way for Elias to get him closer to something:

(MAG117) ARCHIVIST: […] Elias seems pretty insistent I go along. Part of me thinks it’s just so that we can see if whatever this… preparation he’s been trying to do on me works. And you know what? That same… petty little part of me… rather hopes it doesn’t; that all this time, all his… cryptic nudges and “learn to fly by falling” attitude ends up being a complete waste of time. Just to show him.

I do hope that his “I’m making a decision. I trust them. All of them.” will matter in the long run, but I’m also crying in advance that it won’t and that will be the tragedy ;___; (I’m also not ready to say goodbye to Jonathan “I’d rather doom the world rather than prove something I despise right” Sims, please keep some of that stuff in you, Jon.)

- worriedaboutmartin.jpg since… we still have no idea what happened/what’s happening… and he’s the only one left of the original assistants. Sasha got killed. Tim sacrificed himself to get his revenge, and his words from the season 2 finale are resonating more strongly than ever right now:

(MAG080) MARTIN: Sorry? Sorry, what? How can you not care!? TIM: Because this is us now. Worms. Monsters. Corridors. They’ll keep happening until one of them kills us and we’ve just got to deal with it.

I’m… really hoping that we will get some mourning around Tim – maybe not right now, but at some point, like it happened with Sasha. Sasha had been an open wound since Jon learned about her death, despite the fact that they didn’t remember her; Martin and Tim had expressed their feelings in covered-up, indirect or delayed ways, but there were still… bits that hinted that it was gnawing at them a lot more than they were saying:

(MAG082) MARTIN: Maybe they said something about Sasha, y’know? TIM: She’s dead, Martin. Come on! Even you’re not that blind. He got her too. MARTIN: Don’t you say that. Don’t you dare say that!

(MAG086) TIM: The first Sasha. What… What was she like? […] … Who am I even sad for…? MELANIE: I… I’m, I’m sorry… I don’t, er… TIM: Um… I’m, I’m going to lie down…

(MAG114) TIM: You know how long that thing pretended to be Sasha? ARCHIVIST: Oh god… TIM: And I had no idea? I knew Sasha for years, we… I don’t know Martin as well as I knew her.

(MAG117) MARTIN: Hey, hey, I mean what’s normal, right? Is living in an old document storage normal? Is losing a friend and not even noticing normal?

(MAG118) MARTIN: [DRY LAUGHTER] Dignity? Alright, yeah; like the dignity of being trapped in your flat by worms, or sleeping in the Archives, clutching a corkscrew! Or– or fetching drinks for the thing that murdered your friend without you even noticing…! Laughing at all their little jokes, then being left to wander impossible corridors for weeks!

… and just the mention of Sasha was enough to make Jon snap in two different season finales:

(MAG079) NOT!SASHA: […] And it will hurt. Oh, yes, it will hurt. It hurt Sasha. ARCHIVIST: Shut up! NOT!SASHA: [CLOSE AND DISTORTED] There you are.

(MAG0119) ARCHIVIST: Who are you?! NIKOLA: Who am I? Tim, of course! Who else would I be! ARCHIVIST: You’re not– you’re not… Tim. NIKOLA: Oh, you caught me~ I’m… Sasha! ARCHIVIST: Shut up! NIKOLA: No~! Really, it’s me! Sasha– whatever her name was! Back from the dead, just like you wanted~! ARCHIVIST: Get away from me, or, or I swear I’ll… I’ll…

It’s been a series where characters tend to take even more shape after their death, or at least… where the characters who died (or their secrets) tend to still have an influence, or to be present in other characters’ minds. Tim probably got the best ending he could have wished for in the circumstances and in the overall universe, but it was also a stupid death, intertwined with his desire to not come back and his conviction that the others had only taken him along as a distraction for the Stranger’s minions (which… didn’t sound like it was the case at all, at least in Jon’s mind: he had to accept Tim’s desire to come along in order to regain some of Tim’s trust). It was a sad death. It has the potential to hurt A Lot – and who will mourn for him, or at least highlight that what happened was plain unfair? Basira was wary of him and will have the Daisy issue in mind; Melanie didn’t hold Tim super-dearly in her heart, since he'd been an ass to her for the few times they spoke. Tim made a point of staying away from them, since he couldn’t trust them. There are only Martin and Jon to really remember Tim; it would feel… very cold and gritty? to just pass over his death as something that happened and to barely mention it, so I’m assuming that we’ll get something at some point.

The only glimmer of pain about Tim’s death that we have got was when Elias sweet-stabbed Martin about it in MAG120 (“Hello, inspector. Martin. I’m… sorry to hear about Tim.” “Don’t.”), and Martin might not currently be around if he was heading off to somewhere dangerous in the trailer, and it’s been six months already for him, so… I don’t know! I hope that we’ll get some mourning. Jon waking up and realizing only then that Tim died when the others have already had the time to process the information in the last six months, could have the potential to be Absolutely Awful, but the whole series is a competition between Potentially Awful Things to happen (ie: will Jon still be able to care or to feel the Hurt, in his new state). At the very least, Sasha was an open wound until the end of season 3, so I don’t really see Tim’s death getting brushed off like that – it’s a series that make you care about things, a series in which wrong things are constantly highlighted and denounced. It doesn’t mean that the horror doesn’t happen, but it always has effects on people. (Also, hi! Jon’s feeble and fragile “Tim…?” was the last word he said before the explosion happened! Before Tim’s “I don't forgive you. But thank you for this.” which Jon most probably heard! I’m fine, it’s just rain falling indoors right on my cheeks!)

… This might also be why Martin accepted to do something dangerous, after checking that “they [would] be safe”. Because Basira had put her finger where it hurt, when she told him that he couldn’t just wait and hope (MAG110: “Look, Martin. I know you care. I know you do. But caring isn’t enough. You can’t just stand next to someone with a cup of tea and hope everything’s gonna be alright.”), and Martin had decided to act on it at the end of season 3 (MAG117: “Anyway. I guess I’m just sick of sitting on my hands, drinking tea and hoping everyone’s okay. This way I finally get to do something. It’s gonna hurt, but… I’m ready. And I want to.”), though… even his plan, in the end, had most of its victories sucked out of it (yes, Elias was sent to jail, but he still has blackmail material for the officers and had already made arrangements to get Peter to manage in the interim while he was gone; and Melanie resents Martin for robbing her of Elias’s murder, if Elias’s comment is any indication; and Tim died; and Daisy went into the coffin and is probably mostly gone; and Jon is unresponsive… and will only be able to come back by sinking deeper into his inhumanity). It could make sense, for Martin, to start trying to take more risks, since he… is the only one of the original assistants to have survived this far, and hasn’t even ever been physically hurt until now (though what Elias did will probably have long-lasting effects).

At the same time!! I’m!! Glad!! That the trailer was Martin apparently asking and begging for Jon’s help, but… not for Jon to wake up in itself. It sounded like the threat looming around was unrelated to Jon’s current state? And Martin did ask about the others’ safety before agreeing, which means… that he’s not doing everything for Jon and Jon only, or to protect Jon. The others factored in.

(It’s not something I believe to have happened, but the date worries me a bit further since hey! Peter Lukas had shown Interest in Martin (MAG120: “And don’t look so down! I know, change can be scary, but eventually it happens just the same. I think we’re going to great things, Martin. Great. Things.”) and Jon has been in that state from August to February, with Martin’s visit taking place at some point before he started breathing again. That time frame… would fit with the Tundra being in the UK area, if its route is annual:

(MAG033) ARCHIVIST: […] Sean Kelly disappeared from the port of Felixstowe in October 2010, and his body washed up on the coast of Morocco in April 2011, six months later. According to the coroner, it had only been in the water for five days.

Or maybe Martin still has six months to live from now on? I mean, Sasha and Tim both died around the end-of-July/beginning-of-August. Summer’s gonna get fun in the Archives.)

(ALSO WORRIED ABOUT MELANIE AND BASIRA, OF COURSE, since Martin’s “Basira’s keeping things taking over, and Melanie is… well, Melanie is Melanie…!” from the trailer isn’t announcing good news and it’s been six months, Melanie had been doing worse and worse in just a few weeks when we left her in season 3; and Basira… just lost… her own anchor… and Daisy seemed to have snapped for real – not dead, but We've Lost Her, since Jon can’t reach her dreams anymore. I think we might be switching to them in MAG122? Will ~see~ in a few hours /o/)

- … the only glimmer of hope for a Good Thing is that if (if.) Elias is still in prison, it will mean that he has spent six months in jail. I don’t know if it’s worth everything else but. Still. Possibly One (1) Good Thing.

#tl:dr *strangled noise and waits for mag122 tonight*#i'd take the comfort blanket but then. 'the blanket never did anything.' :|#the magnus archives #tma spoilers #mag121 #*eXCITED*#tma season 4 #long post; pondering&rambling&screaming&scratching at the table etc. etc.#the magnus archives spoilers/#long post/#tma liveblog

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