#fic in proress

[late-to-the-magnus-archives]

part three of the Vast!Jon AU that is taking over my life

Have some Martin.

Danny Stoker is part of this, now?

Yes, EVERYBODY HAS TO CRY. Shut up.

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

Martin’s frilly, pink apron is almost too saturated on camera, but he knows that’s how the viewers love it. He’s even added a pop of lip gloss today, a shade between the apron and the hearts it bears.

“Now, you’ll know it’s done in two ways,” he says, donning his thick oven mitts - wildly orange, but the hearts on them match his apron exactly. “First, the smell. You’ll recognize it after you’ve baked this recipe about six times. There’s nothing quite as good as these orange-cranberry muffins when they reach this stage, and if you’re in a place where you can smell it, it’s incredible. Fortunately, there’s a more reliable, less woo-woo way, too.” He waggles his eyebrows and gives a brilliant smile.

It’s his on-camera smile.

And his applying-for-jobs smile.

And his meeting-new-people smile.

It is sweet, and hopeful, and his eyes aren’t quite closed, and his chin is raised, and it comes across as open and kind and not quite vulnerable enough to invite hurt.

Sure, some people try, but they're trolls, and he just blocks them.

“Behold: your secret weapon!” And he brandishes a toothpick.

Tim laughs off-camera.

Danny mutters something like, “Yeah, they’ve never seen that before.”

“Yeah, well, maybe they haven’t,” says Martin, turning to them for the briefest moment before smiling back at his livestream. “The toothpick is your greatest weapon - well. After learning how to fold instead of stir, anyway. Look, this little guy can tell you if it’s ready, better than a thermometer, or knocking on it, or whatever else you've been told. Let me show you. Now, I know from the smell that the muffins aren’t ready, so I get to show you what it looks like when they’re not.”

He does.

The muffins need a few more minutes, and that is perfect, because he shows the camera how batter clings to the toothpick.

“Time for an awkward cut,” he says, and then there is an awkward cut.

Because there’s nothing to do until the damn muffins are done.

Fortunately, everybody loves the wait for it animation: a tiny version of him with anime eyes, huge, red curly hair, a chef’s hat, and his ubiquitous apron, prancing back and forth from the counter to the stove in an unending loop.

“You’re nearly there,” says Tim, who gets it, who understands why Martin is fucking distracted today.

No one who didn’t personally know Martin would know.

Anyone who does know him could clearly see he is a mess.

“I,” says Martin, and doesn’t finish his sentence.

Jon’s plane went down. That is all anyone knows. That is all anybody can tell him.

Neither tears nor manipulation will bring more info, and so Martin must wait.

He is not okay.

“Ready?” says Danny, keeping them - as always - on schedule. “Three, two….”

“Look at this!” says Martin a moment later, drawing a clean toothpick from the middle muffin. “Now, we’re talking. Oh… everyone, I wish you could smell this.” 

And he does one of his little moans.

Those moans are what made his channel.

Someone tried to make #BlackwoodMoan work for a while (like that movie with Samuel L. Jackson), but the fan base rose up and declared Martin too good, too pure to be associated in such a way.

#MartinMoan is the hashtag.

There are gifs.

It’s a high sound, sweet, freakily innocent, and it somehow brushes against every illicit desire any human has ever had for anything. He’s seen compilations of it, clipped together in a tapestry of embarrassment.

He doesn’t mind, exactly? 

He did make the sound on purpose. He knew it was effective because it actually got Jon flushed and stammering, and damn near nothing else did.

Martin had merely underestimated just how effective it would be out in the great, wide world.

“They’re perfect,” he says, and takes the time to show the camera the light golden muffins, speckled with red - a perfect batch of orange cranberry baked good from scratch. 

The stream ends with him opening one up, peeling the cap off with indescribable satisfaction, adding a tiny pat of butter, and indulging.

The eye-roll is a thing too, like a hungry shark, but that one doesn’t have a hashtag.

“Recipe in the description,” he mumbles, sounding like he’s been fucked within an inch of his life. “My team will answer any questions. You have got to make this. We’ve also included dairy and gluten free options. Bake well, my lovelies, and enjoy your life.”

Bake well, my lovelies, and enjoy your life. He’s ended every single video with that since day one.

Since before Tim and Danny joined him.

Since before he had the courage to tell anyone he was doing this, even Jon.

As always, he means every word.

This time, however, when the camera light blinks off, he bursts into tears.

#

“He’s got to be okay,” says Tim, who knows Jon, thinks he’s funny, and appreciates how much Martin loves him. “We haven’t gotten a list of deaths, or anything, and they have to release that, as far as I know.”

“They do have to,” says Danny, who barely knows Jon, and doesn’t really like him, but certainly wants Martin to be happy.

“Only to next of kin,” Martin points out, and sniffles.

Tim and Danny both pause.

“He doesn’t have you listed?” says Tim.

“I’m his friend. We’re not anything. Of course he doesn’t,” Martin snaps, and feels bad for it immediately after.

Tim and Danny give one another that look.

“Right,” says Tim. “Not anything.”

Martin rubs his face.

Danny gives Martin a side-hug - too strong, like a mountain man, but well meant. “He’s going to be okay. Have faith.”

“The plane went down.” Martin’s voice is… cold. Almost mechanical. A tone he’d never use with anyone who didn’t know him well. “It hit a gods-damned mountain. What am I supposed to have faith in?”

“Love?” says Tim.

“Actually, yeah. Love,” says Danny.

Martin gives them a look.

They look back. Two brothers, good friends, who’ve been part of his show and part of his life and helped him navigate the mess with his mother and helped him work out his feelings for his childhood friend and now want to help him work through potential grief.

Or his potential… faith, maybe?

Martin can’t seem to fall either way - acceptance of Jon’s death, or hope for his survival. He’s left at a lurching, ugly crossroad with no name, the sign worn beyond legibility.

He sniffles.

“Gonna be late,” says Tim.

“Yeah,” Martin sighs, because somehow after everything, he still has to go to work.

Patreon helps. The baking show definitely makes things easier. But it’s not enough to support his mother. Full-time care facilities aren’t cheap.

Martin tries to smile. “Good thing I’m in the kitchen, right? Don’t think I’d do so well facing customers today.”

“You would, though,” says Tim, and pats him on the shoulder. “Never seen anybody fake it as well as you.”

“Gee, thanks?” Martin says, dry.

Tim ruffles his hair. “Come on. Let’s get the lead out, or… I dunno, something punny.”

Danny never tries to pun. He also has no sense of timing. “I’ve been thinking of taking another job,” he says out of nowhere.

“What, now?” says Tim with fond exasperation.

Martin latches onto the subject change like a leech as he hangs up his apron. “What? I thought you were getting promoted.”

“Yeah, but kayaks just aren’t doing it for me anymore,” Danny says, and ignores when Martin rolls his eyes, reaches into his wallet, and hands Tim a fiver. “I’ve been thinking a lot about supernatural stuff lately, you know? All the things we can’t explain, but every culture and every society has them, all the way through history. And you know, the chances of that are pretty slim, because it’s not like there were fax machines in the stone age, and - ”

“So what’s her name?” says Tim.

Danny looks constipated. “What do you mean, what’s her name?”

“It’s always some date who gets you into a new interest. Come on, Danny, it’s been like that since secondary.”

Danny shrugs. “Caught me. How about I let her explain? We can do dinner tonight.”

“I don’t…” Martin starts.

They both look at him.

“You are not backing out,” says Tim.

“I’m supposed to see my mum,” Martin mutters.

“And it’ll be done in about fifteen minutes when she can’t stand you anymore and throws you out,” says Danny, who really has never had Tim’s charm.

Tim smacks him.

“Hey!”

“No, he’s right,” says Martin. “I’ll come.”

“Good. You’d better, or I’m taking some of this one’s leftover mountaineering gear and hogtying you to the back of my bike,” says Tim.

That image actually gets Martin laughing, which he didn’t think he could do today.

The brothers leave first.

Martin’s flat is tiny. Uncomfortable. Distinctly not sound-proofed. He has one window, room for his lovely kitchen setup, and three folding chairs or a Murphy bed, but not at the same time.

Somehow, when the Stokers are there, it never feels crowded.

It doesn’t with Jon, either, but that’s different.

All kinds of different.

Martin locks up, sighs heavily. Somehow, he has to get his brain in gear to handle four-star sous-chef work tonight, and he’s really not sure he can do it. Antoine can be such an ass, even on the best of days, and he always seems to know -

“Excuse me,” comes a voice.

Martin yips and drips his satchel.

“Sorry about that,” says the man, sounding not remotely sorry. Sounding, in fact, deeply amused. “You are Martin Blackwood, aren’t you? Little different without all the getup,” he says, absolutely cheerfully.

He’s some sort of sea captain?

Outside his flat, which is scary as fuck. “Hi?” says Martin, attempting to pick up his bag without taking his eyes off the guy. “Um. Can I help you?”

“Actually, I can help you,” says the man.

Maybe a fan?

Maybe a sicko.

Martin is very still. “Right,” he says, noncommittal.

The man laughs.

It’s… it’s a really good laugh. The voice is good all around, honestly; so is the expression, and body language. This man isn’t aggressive; taller than Martin (which is unusual), he keeps his hands in his pockets, leaning slightly away, as though determined not to violate his space. “I can tell I’ve spooked you, which isn’t what I was trying to do.” 

Martin can see no reason to be unnerved by this man.

Martin cannot escape the feeling that he should be, though. “Then why’d you track down where I live?” he says.

“I didn’t. I saw you by accident.” The man points. “Heading over there, to the Tube. But it works out, because I actually do want to talk to you.”

“Right,” says Martin.

The sea captain smiles. “Nice and cautious. Good! Let’s not drag this out, eh? You won’t have heard of me because I like it that way, but what I do is help out independent talent. People like you, in other words. Here.” He holds out a business card.

There’s a QR code on it.

Martin takes it, carefully avoiding contact. “Right,” he says.

“That’ll tell you all about it,” says the man. “I won’t scare you any longer - really am sorry about that.” He’s absolutely not sorry, and it shows.

Martin is damned good at reading people. It’s how he’s survived. The fact that he can’t get a bead on this guy is scaring him even more than the sudden appearance. “Sure.”

“Have a good day, Martin,” says the man. “I look forward to your email.” And off he walks.

Martin looks at the card. It says, Lukas Entertainment. That’s all.

It’s thick cardstock. Raised lettering. Definitely expensive. 

Martin looks back up, but the man is gone.

Martin’s gut says there is no way he made it to the Tube that quickly.

Martin’s head says he’s being absurd, and just misjudged how long he stared at the card.So that was freaky, he thinks to himself, and is already texting Tim about it before he gets to work.

[arthurflecksgirl]

Hi sweety❤️ Can I have a fic where Arthur helps x reader who's having a panick attack? him calming her down, cuddling her... thank you so much 😘

My dear friend. Thank you sooooo much for your request. I really really hope you like the result.

Summary: You`re greateful for how far you and Arthur had come in your relationship, how much progress he made to experience true happiness. But then you discover one of his journal entries. Is he still in the same dark place he was before? Just the thought of him suffering is giving you a panic attack. But Arthur is right there with you...

The dim light from the tv screen was the only light that filled the living room. Murray Franklin was talking to a well known comedian. You watched Arthur resting on the couch. He was falling asleep during the live show, even though he was looking forward to this episode all day, he was so tired, his eyes got heavy when Ellis Draine and his Jazz Orchestra started playing already.

"One day" you thought watching him breathe in and out like it was the easierest thing to do when you suffered from waht he had been through. One day he will be sitting on Murrays couch and telling his own jokes. And his idol will be proud of him like a father. Because he deserved it. He deserved the world.

Arthur seemed at peace with himself sleeping. That was new. Which made you proud of how far you two have come in your relationship. He was getting better.You felt it every morning waking up, receiving your good morning kiss from his coffee stained lips and cigarette tasting breath. He was making baby steps but looking at it now, over a year later it was a total different world he was living in. The one you created together. Ever since you met him you wanted to cure him. To support and comfort him through everyday life. To help him out of his mindset which was all that he had known since he was little.

People kept telling you that it was impossible to heal wounds like his. To heal someone that experienced his kind of trauma. That all he needed was proffessional help. But you knew that they missed out at something. Just because he needed his meds didnt mean that love wasnt the key for his cure.  You knew that there were some scars hidden inside of him, buried so deep that it would take years to get through and be able to work on that. But you also knew that being  loved was the only thing in this world that could ease Arthurs pain and make him the man he always wanted to be. He was destined to be.

And every single day  spent together was proof that he was making progress. His smile became more and more genuine. His laughing fits didnt happen as often anymore and if so they wouldnt last that long because you would hold him and help him breathe until it was over. He also told you about his journal entries and how they changed. His therapist was also seeing the changes. He was talking about how much more poetry and beautiful thoughts filled the pages.

You gently stroke his hair. Watching him sleep always felt pretty intimate to you. He was so vulnerable and unaware of his beauty. But you knew that even in his sleep he was aware of another thing- your love. Thats why he was even able to get some sleep.

You took another close look at his face. You could never get enough of him. It was risky to give him a kiss on his closed eyelids. Arthur had a very light sleep and could wake up any second but there was no way to fight the urge to do so. His eyelid fluttered under the soft touch of your bottom lip, but he didnt wake. You let your index finger travel over his dark eyebrows. They were shaped so perfectly, matching his piercing eyes and the slight circles underneath them. His body was still stressed out from work. His fragile body which was trying so hard not to break down while starving.

His stomach problems caused by his meds was another thing you had to work through. You looked at the bowl on the table. he almost finished his soup today, which was a good sign. You smiled, got up from your knees and walked to his desk to get the empty cups of coffee from the morning. It was time to make the dishes.

But the moment you grabbed the cups his journal distracted you. It was opened. You wondered about his last entries, the ones he wanted to show you because he wrote some new poems lately.

It took you a moment to think about if it was even okay to have a look at the opened page but it was already too late. One sententence was marked, the letters thicker than the rest of the written words. It caught your eye without a warning. And when you read it, your heart stopped for a second.

"I just hope my death makes more cents than my life"

Why?

Why the hell would he write something cruel like that?

The letters started to blurr through your tears. One tear was falling upon the page. Right on the word HOPE.

Shit. Now he would notice that you came near this page. You nerveausly grabbed a handkerchief and pressed it on the spot where the tear was soaking through the page. It was too late, making it look even worse.

You started to cry , throwing the handkerchief on the floor.

Why?

Yo thought he was getting better. There was so much proof.

Did he felt like his life was worthless?

Didnt make any sense?

Was he feeling like all of this wasnt making sense?

You thought you helped him.

Was it al in your mind? His proress? Him becoming a happier version of himself? Was it all a lie you told yourself?

The possibility of Arthurstill being the same tortured soul as when you met him simply broke your heart.

Why was a beautiful and gentle soul like him suffering so much? How cruel can the world be to him?

Was he still wishing he was dead? Was he still lying in bed at night, fantasizing about ending his own life?  Would he ever hurt himself again? Risking to being locked up at Arkham, so there was no chance to share a bed together? Just visits with him being handcuffed on the other side of the table? Was there still a chance he was that unhappy inside?

Tears fell like rain.

The pain inside your heart grew with every thought that crossed your mind. If life was still torture to him, why wouldnt he talk about this to you? Didnt he trusted you enough? Was he embarrassed about how he felt? Or was it simply because he didnt wanted you to get worried about his condition?

It was all too much.

You started to feel like your throath was getting tighter. Like the walls were closing in. Everything inside of you screamed. There was this nameless fear inside of your guts. Possesing you, hurting you. It was getting harder and harder to breathe.

Dizzyness overcame you with all its power. Cold sweat. All of the sudden the happiness you felt while watching him sleep was being sucked out of your body. And now all you knew was fear.  Liek it was the only emotion left in the world. Pure, naked fear in its rawest form.

A panic attack.

You had experienced this before but never this intense.

You sat down on the chair, trying not to look at the opened journal again.  It hurt so much. All of it did. Your body. Your heart. Mostly your heart. And your head. Both heavy from tears and the thought of Arthur being suicidal.

Your breathing got heavier as you started to sobb.

And then you heard Arthurs footsteps. His naked feet on the floor. You woke him up. He was finally resting and you woke him. This made you feel even worse.

"Oh my god Y/N, darling. What happened?" He noticed your tears and heavy breathing.

"Dont worry....Arhur....please....just go back to sleep okay? You need your sleep.  You`ve been working hard today...."

Arthur checked your pulse "Oh shit, your heart is racing. Did you took any medication? "

"No..."

"Did something else happen?" He checked your forehead, noticed your shaking hands. "Looks like you`re having a panic attack. I know the symptoms very well. I had so many in the past when I woke up from nightmares."

You nodded. Still sobbing like a baby. Arthur gave you one of his handkerchiefes and started to stroke your hair "Oh darling, I kow this feels terrible. But it will pass. Just try to breathe. Breathe with me okay. Remember when you helped me breathe during my laughing fits? I will do the same with you now okay?"

"Okay"

Arthur lifted you up and carried you to the couch.

"Is that okay? Is it comfortable?" you nodded. He was so caring it broke your heart. He cared so much about you, while inside he was suffering from so much pain.

He positioned himself behind you, resting both of his hands on your tummy and told you to breathe in and out like he did. Until you felt your breath becoming one with his. Just as calm and deep.

"Good" he whispered, his gentle fingers under your shirt. He knew that skin on skin contact helped calming you down.

"You`re doing great" his voice was everything you needed to hear.

"Oh Arthur....I feel like I cant breathe...."

"Shhhhhhtt.....baby I know. I know how it feels. Your body is telling you lies. You can breathe. Just do it with me."

"You felt Arthurs chest lifting up and down, his warm breath in your neck. He was everything to you. You needed him to be happy.

Arthur placed thoughtful kisses all over your neck. As soft as a butterflies wings. You tried to concentrate on the details. His long , dark eyelashes crossing the spot behind your ears. The tip of his nose tickeling you. His muffled "I love you`s".

"I`m sorry I woke you up"

"Dont be!"

"There was this sudden fear coming over me. It was like....I thought I was dying."

"I´m right here with you Y/N. Nothing bad is going to happen to you, I promise!"

You nodded. Knowing he was right. Nothing could harm you with Arthurs arms around you. You just wished it was the same the other way around. Wasnt it the same?

His journal said it wasnt.  His written words hitting you like a knife.

"Do you know what triggered this?" He asked you, while his hand was caressing your chest.

Should you tell him? He would notice the wet spot on his journal page anyway.

"Arthur I am so scared to tell you this but...I was ...oh god....I was looking at your opened diary  page. It was lying on teh table when I was getting the coffee cups and there was this sentence that caught my eyes......" you started to sobb uncontrolable.

"What page?" he asked "Please dont cry. Ohhhhhh please ...." he pulled you closer to his chest so his heartbeat was pressed against you.

"You wrote....."I just hope my death makes more cents than my life...." Arthur. This hit me so hard. I didnt knew you still felt like this. I dont know.....what to say....I`m just.......oh Arthur....." you pressed yourself against him as if your life depended on it. Arthurs white shirt was now soaked with tears.

"Ohhh nooo darling. That was my old journal. My therapist wanted to bring it back to her to proof how much progress I made since I met you!"

You loosened your embrace to look him in the eyes "W-What?"

"Yeah" he shrugged "I just marked the darkest pages to see how far we have come and stopped at this one before going to sleep."

The weight of the world was falling off your shoulders "Really?"

"Yes.....oh  Y/N I am so sorry you had to go through these emotions just because I was so stupid to leave my old journal lying on the table. "

"You are not stupid Arthur!"

"Well this time I was"

"It was my fault....I shouldnt have looked at the page in the first place".

The air was finally coming back. Your body was starting to relax again.

Arthur held you close in his arms "That was the old me. And yes sometimes I´m still having dark thoughts but its just.....echoes from the past. Its not part of our reality anymore. Its just ghosts. They`re not real. Just trying to tell me lies. So I am not listening to them . I´m listening to you. To your words of love and comfort. I`m save with you. And you are save with me. Remember?"

"I remember Arthur. I love you so much!"

"I love you more"

"Thats impossible" you smiled, kissing his upper lip.

Arthur rested his head in the crook of your neck whispering "If I`ve learned one thing from being loved, its this: Nothing`s impossible - with you in my arms".

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