#it's dress like tim stoker day at the institute

[turtlemurmurs]

got bored, drew Elias in the first outfit I saw when I opened pinterest. patchwork absolutely slaughtered me, I hope you enjoy this :]

[fox-guardian]

I am asking about the stoker swap au

In short, it's an AU in which Danny survives his encounter with The Stranger and goes to work at the institute instead of Tim! Tim is still alive, Danny has NO formal qualifications to be working at the institute, and Tim is So Stressed because he lied on his applications. Danny takes on Tim's role in the institute, while Tim gets increasingly worried for his safety <3 That part does not get easier when he actually moves down to the archives <3

and now because i was thinkin real hard about it and got bored of just typing roughly the same synopsis over and over again, HAVE SOME DOODLES TOO <3 three things i've already written and one i Really Want To Write So Badly But It's So Far Away <3

[ID: Four drawings on a soft lavender background featuring Magnus Archives characters. The first is a drawing of Danny Stoker after falling down a ladder leading up to an attic. He is dressed in academic clothing and is on his back, with his lower body still partially on the ladder. One foot is on a rung and the other is sticking out in the air. He looks to be in pain and he has swirls for eyes and little bees are flying around his head. Next to him are Jon, also dressed academically and holding Danny's coat, and an old woman wearing a black dress and a shawl. She looks at Danny with concern and Jon is startled by Danny's fall, visibly jolted.

The second drawing shows Danny and Sasha, both dressed academically, sitting at her desk looking at a computer screen. Danny is slouching with a horrified expression, while Sasha smiles, looking chipper. The computer is labelled "the horrors".

The third drawing shows Danny and Elias sitting across from each other at Elias' desk. They are both wearing black suits with ties and both have slicked back hair. Elias is smiling politely at Danny with his hands folded on the table, and Danny is smiling confidently back at him with his hands folded in his lap. Over the drawing is multiple faded drawings of Danny in different forms of panic. One has him sweating and screaming "I'm Doomed" with his hands in his hair, another has him looking oddly calm and posed like a corpse with a bouquet of flowers over his chest saying "This is the day I die", and the last one has him bent in half, laying face down in a puddle of tears, clawing at the floor, with his feet out in front on either side of him. "Crying noises" is written above him.

The last drawing is of Tim and Elias. Tim is gripping Elias by the lapels, yelling in his face with a furious and challenging expression, while Elias is sweating nervously and holding his hands up defensively, looking confused and afraid. His glasses are broken and bent and one of his eyes is swollen half-shut. end ID]

~~~~

the first two drawings are from danny's first field work outings with jon and sasha respectively, the third is from his first interview with elias, and the last is a scene i haven't written yet that takes place directly after the prentiss incident, in which tim confronts elias for putting his employees (read: danny) in danger and then punching him in the face <3

i really wanted to draw tim super mad because i never draw those kinds of expressions and i think he deserves to punch elias in the face <3 i don't think he'd be Quite like that in the written scene itself but it was v fun to draw

[grahamfolgersdeliciousnotebooks]

One More First Kiss

There were a lot of instances, really, that could be considered their "first kiss."

For @jonmartinweek day 1 - First Kiss / Season 1

This is actually going to be a 7-chapter fic, with one chapter posted per day for every day of Jonmartin week! (except that jm week is actually 9 days this year, but oh well) Chapter one is a fluffy season 1 scene featuring a holiday party, a little too much to drink, and two contenders for the title of Jon & Martin's first kiss. Check it out on AO3 here, or read below:

The Institute’s yearly holiday party was miserable. 

The Institute’s yearly holiday party was always miserable, of course, but this year’s was worse than most, because this year – in addition to the lights being too bright and his dress-code-mandated tacky Christmas sweater being too itchy and the music being too loud and too festive and too repetitive (Jon swore to God, if he heard “Silver Bells” one more time, he wouldn’t be accountable for his actions) – the only coworkers he could stand were nowhere to be found.

It was their fault he’d even shown up in the first place. Tim had been pestering him for ages about his alleged inability to have fun, and Jon wanted to prove to him that he was at least occasionally capable of going to parties. His plan had been to arrive a little more than fashionably late, have one glass of mulled wine and a nibble of whatever looked good from the cheese plate while listening to Tim tell stories from his latest holiday and Sasha report what her dubiously-ethical snooping on their coworkers’ computers had revealed, and then slip out before he ever had to make small talk with strangers.

He’d already failed on that front. Unable to find Tim or Sasha, he’d somehow found himself dragged into conversation with Heather from HR and a man from payroll whose name he hadn’t caught. They were sharing the latest gossip about someone named Hannah and someone else named Jeremy, and while Jon was fairly certain he didn’t know either of those people, the possibility that he’d met both of them multiple times kept him from asking who they were. To prevent that or any other form of rudeness, he’d stuck mostly to nodding along while the other two spoke, and as such was less than fully engaged in the conversation.

When there was finally a lull in the small talk, Jon excused himself and went to search for the others.

A quick scan of the room produced no sign of Tim or Sasha. They were not by the drinks table, not on the dance floor, not in any of the little groups of chit-chatters that Jon could see. Half to get away from the migraine-inducing light and noise and half to avoid being sucked into any more small talk, Jon stepped into the hallway. He took a few steps towards the break room, thinking a glass of water and maybe a brief lie-down on the couch might help his headache, when he heard, from behind the closed breakroom door, the unmistakable sound of Tim Stoker whooping in delight.

Jon opened the door, and nine sets of eyes turned to him at once. Tim, Sasha, and Martin were sat on the break room floor with three of their old friends from Research whose names Jon knew – namely Amanda, Eric, and Salim – and three people from the library whose names he did not. They were all arranged in a circle, a bottle of wine at the center.

Tim’s face lit up. “Hey, you made it!” he said with a grin, waving Jon into the room. 

“Spin the bottle?” Jon muttered acidly as he closed the door behind him. “Really?”

“It’s a party!”

“A work party!” Jon countered. The sheer unprofessionalism on display was staggering.

“Oh, don’t be like that,” Tim said, patting the little scrap of empty space between himself and Martin. “Come on, we’ve got room for another player.”

Hm. Jon had come here to prove a point, but now he found the goalposts being moved without his input. Suddenly it wasn’t enough to simply attend the party – he was sure that showing up and not letting his hair down would be worse than not showing up at all, as far as Tim was concerned. And Jon had never been very good at backing down from a challenge – not even a challenge that his opponent hadn’t been aware they’d issued – so, against his better judgment, he took a seat in the circle. Tim shifted to give him more room, while Martin sat right where he was and stared at Jon like he’d just grown a second head.

“It’s your spin, Lee,” one member of the Library contingent said to another, and with that Jon was mercifully no longer the center of attention.

Thankfully, with a circle that large, the odds of it landing on Jon more than a few times weren’t particularly high, and for once, luck seemed to be on Jon’s side. He shared a quick, chaste peck with Amanda from research, and a significantly less-chaste kiss with Tim that was, little as Jon was likely to admit it, not un- enjoyable, and aside from that, he was mostly free to sit back and watch.

There seemed to be some sort of drama brewing within the Library crowd. Two of them – Lee and Yewonde – kept landing on each other, and it quickly became apparent that there was some sort of history there. The first kiss was an awkward, close-lipped affair that was over in the blink of an eye, and they both quite clearly avoided eye contact after it was over. The second and third were a little less brief but no less awkward, but by the fourth (fourth! Jon did not envy them their luck that evening) they’d each had enough to drink to abandon propriety and engage in an activity that could only be described as sucking face.

Jon knew Martin used to work in the library with them, so he leaned over and asked, “Are they…?” He whispered the question as quietly as he could, though he doubted they would notice if he didn’t. They seemed pretty thoroughly otherwise engaged.

“They both insist they aren’t,” Martin answered at the same volume. “But everyone’s pretty sure they hooked up last year’s holiday party. Yewonde’s boyfriend definitely thinks they did, but they’re kinda on-again-off-again, and I’m pretty sure they’re broken up right now.”

Jon was grateful for the context, but before he could express his thanks, Lee had peeled themself off of their colleague and was spinning the bottle again. 

It landed on Martin. It was safe to say that Lee approached this kiss with less enthusiasm than they had the last one, but less enthusiasm was not the same as no enthusiasm. Lee drunkenly misjudged the angle and left a clumsy, wet kiss to the bridge of Martin’s nose, and Martin received it with a good-natured grin. 

Jon was glad he still seemed to have a good relationship with his old coworkers. He sometimes struck Jon as a little isolated down in the Archives, the odd one out in a group who had otherwise all known each other for years. It was nice seeing him relax like this, among friends.

“Alright, my spin,” he announced, though everyone in the room had long caught on to the game’s rules.

The bottle swung in a wide, complete arc, then another, then one more before finally coming to a stop with the cap pointed squarely at Jon. Jon’s heart sank.

It wasn’t that Jon hated Martin. No one could be blamed for thinking that he did, given how he acted, but he didn’t. It was just that, well, it took Jon time to get comfortable with new people. He’d been quite looking forward to running a department that contained only himself, Tim, and Sasha – two people he had known long enough that they’d long made it out of the ‘acquaintances’ category and were well into the range of ‘friends’ – and when he’d learned that a stranger had been thrust into their midst without Jon’s input, Jon had handled it… poorly. He’d softened a bit on Martin in recent months, coming to view him less as an unwelcome intruder, but that didn’t mean he wanted to kiss him.

Martin was the worst-case-scenario in this game – not enough of a friend for the interaction to be comfortable, not enough of a stranger for the interaction to be meaningless. Jon would have to kiss Martin, and then he would have to come into work with him on Monday, and then again the next day, and the next, and that thought froze Jon in place.

Jon’s thoughts must have been written all over his face, because Martin’s face fell. The easygoing smile vanished in an instant, and he cringed.

“You don’t have to if you don’t want to,” Martin muttered softly, but Lee interjected.

“Yes he does!” They were slurring their words, just a bit. “It’s spin the bottle! The whole game falls apart if you just ignore–”

“Alright, alright!” Martin cut them off, shoulders creeping up to his rapidly reddening ears.

“Come on, Jon!” Tim chimed in, slapping Jon roughly on the back. “He doesn’t bite!”

And Jon knew he didn’t, but now everyone was looking at him, and making a fuss, and he couldn’t move under the scrutiny of so many eyes.

Martin leaned over and planted a quick kiss to his cheek. He had to stoop quite a bit to bring himself level with Jon’s cheek, and his hot breath stirred the loose strands of hair beside Jon’s jaw. 

Martin’s lips were warm and dry and a bit rough. Jon wasn’t sure why that mattered more than the feel of Tim’s or Amanda’s lips had, but it did. 

It must have been the surprise. That’s all.

“That counts, right?” Martin asked, and the group all conceded that it did.

Jon very much wanted to sit in quiet contemplation of the memory of Martin’s lips against his cheek for a while, but unfortunately it was his spin next.

It landed on Tim, and Tim raised a single eyebrow enticingly. Jon thought about invoking his newly-established right to kiss on the cheek instead of lips, but he thought doing that again so soon might cause Lee to accuse him of destroying the integrity of the game again, so he sighed and kissed him.

Tim was a good kisser – Jon had known that for a while – but somehow it was Martin that he couldn’t get out of his head.

The game went on. Tim landed on Eric, Eric landed on Lee, Lee landed on the woman from the library whose name Jon had forgotten, she landed on Salim, Salim landed on Martin, Martin landed on Sasha. 

Jon could still smell Martin. That was hardly surprising – they were sitting right next to each other – but when Martin had leaned over, the smell had completely overwhelmed Jon’s senses, and now he lost himself trying to place the scent. It was vaguely citrusy. Not lemon, though. Bergamot, perhaps?

Sasha spun, and the bottle came to rest in front of Jon. She planted a sloppy kiss to the corner of his mouth (the library group weren’t the only ones who’d been getting a bit clumsy the more they drank) with a loud, “Mwah!”

Jon’s spin next. He couldn’t exactly say he was surprised at where it landed.

Martin visibly sagged. “I-It’s sort of between me and Sasha…”

“No, it isn’t!”

“Shut up, Lee!”

It really wasn’t.

Jon took a breath, steeled his nerves. Grabbed Martin by the shoulders, pulled him close, and pressed their lips together.

For a moment Martin went rigid against him, lips stiff and inflexible as wood, but still as warm and chapped as he’d remembered. Then he melted, turning soft and pliable beneath Jon’s touch, sighing softly against his still-closed mouth.

It was definitely bergamot that Jon was smelling.

When Jon pulled away, Martin’s eyes were closed and his cheeks were pink, freckles disappearing against the rising color. His lips were still slightly parted, as though waiting for Jon to lean back in for another kiss. Jon took in the sight for just a moment before he cleared his throat.

“I think I might head home,” he told the group. “I have to get up early tomorrow.” That was a blatant lie, but Jon needed an excuse that wasn’t I’ve seen what happens when you land on the same person too many times, and I’d rather not end up snogging with Martin as aggressively as the two of you did.

“I was actually thinking of calling it a night, too,” Martin said. “My hips are killing me; I’m too old to sit on the floor this long.” He stood up, and as though to prove his point, his knees cracked audibly.

“You can’t leave, it’s your turn!” Tim protested.

Martin leaned down and gave the bottle a final spin. It landed on Sasha, and he stooped to give her a hurried kiss on the cheek.

“Bye, Sash.”

“Bye, Martin! See you Monday!”

Tim looked up and tilted his cheek to Martin in clear invitation. “One more for the road, Marto?”

“Fine,” Martin laughed, and complied.

Jon couldn’t quite meet Martin’s eye as they made their way out of the building together. He supposed he could have found some excuse to peel off, maybe say goodbye to Elias or Heather from HR – hell, even make one more stop at the drinks table – anything to avoid the coworker he’d just kissed. Instead, they wound their way through the party shoulder-to-shoulder, and the silence was more comfortable than it had any right to be.

Neither of them spoke until they’d stepped through the front doors. They lingered on the steps of the institute. The December air was dark and brisk and sobering, and Jon took a deep, full breath of it.

“I’m glad you came tonight,” Martin said. “I, uh. I didn’t think you would.”

“Yes, well, Tim’s reports of my reclusiveness are overblown, I can assure you. I do actually leave my office on occasion.”

Martin laughed. “Yeah, well, I’m glad.” He blinked, then huffed another, softer laugh. “I-I guess I said that already, b-but–”

“I’m glad, too,” Jon said.

Martin smiled. His lips were growing pinker by the second, in the chill night air. For a second, it seemed that he was leaning toward Jon, and Jon found himself leaning in as well.

“Well,” Martin said, and the moment, if there had been one, was broken. “G’night, Jon.”

“Good night, Martin.”

[goldenhawk-k]

I was tagged by @cyeayt for this!!

Rule: List the first lines of your last 10 published fics and see if there’s a pattern.

But Cyeat did its wips, so I'm also gonna do some of mine :3 esp since i've been CRAZYYYY busy w college and have published nothing since last year

I tag whoever feels like doing it!!! hype up ur things!!!!!!!!!

Published:

Introduction to Homecomings - Community, post canon, script format

ABED NADIR, an Arabic man in his early to mid 30’s with a walkie talkie clipped to his belt, is standing behind a camera operator. Off screen, two actors are going through a scene off screen. 

Tim Stoker's Daring Quest to Date All of his Coworkers - The Magnus Archives, AU, polyarchives

Tim Stoker calls himself a romantic. Those close to him have other words for it.

WIPs:

Bohemian Rhapsody - The Magnus Archives, JonMarTim, End!Tim, Tim centric, Tim can see ghosts, currently 42k words (official fic playlist)

“I know.” And then Tim Stoker ended.  --------- Tim didn’t know where he woke up, all he knew was that it was dark and he was scared. 

And Big and Small Again - The Magnus Archives, Post season 3, Tim lives by circumstance, becomes Peter's assistant instead of Martin

Going into The Unknowing, no one expected Tim to come out of it, least of all Tim himself. 

And Keep Me Company - The Magnus Archives, AU, Danny Lives, Lonely!Tim, JonTim

A man with stark white hair stands at the entrance of the alleyway. A thick coat of fog covers the ground, but she doesn’t notice. He’s beautiful, dark, tanned skin contrasting wonderfully against his hair. He approaches her, and, for just a moment, they were the only two people in the world.

Stop Singing Doombops! - The Magnus Archives, the ghost of Tim after the unknowing time travels to haunt 2016 Tim

On August 7, 2017, Tim Stoker dies a fiery, violent death hating everything, hating everyone, hating himself and his coworkers and the head of the cursed company he worked for, and, most prominently, he hated Jonathan Sims. However, in– January 7, 2016 Tim Stoker wakes up with a spring in his step, like most days.

Threats to America - Detroit: Become Human, RK1000, no androids, a rewrite of an old fic I wrote when I was 15

It is cold, and he cannot see.  A cloth is tied around his eyes. He’s dripping wet, and he can feel every place where the fabric of his clothes sticks to his frozen skin.

The Magnus Archives: An Office Comedy - The Magnus Archives, but as a sitcom, script format

INT. INSTITUTE HEAD’S OFFICE - DAY The office is everything you’d think of when you think of old money British academics. Polished oak, piles upon piles of books on bookshelves that both look worn down yet never read, an intimidating wooden desk with an antique lamp, and, to top it all off, ELIAS BOUCHARD, a white man in his early 60’s with greying hair and grey eyes, sat behind it. He’s dressed immaculately, in a formal outfit that’s just a tad too formal to be worn to work. He is the head of THE MAGNUS INSTITUTE. 

[yellowocaballero]

Jon's Trapped in Temporal Time-Out: A TMA Time Travelling Tale

Sasha was tipping some whiskey from her secret flask into her tea when Tim poked his head into the breakroom and announced that he had found a corpse.

Sasha and Martin, hunched over their paltry lunches and pathetic lives situated upon a rickety metal breakroom table and equally rickety metal chairs, stared at him. 

“Like,” Sasha said finally, “a human one?”

Tim shrugged. “Humanoid? I didn’t want to poke it and see if it was fleshy, so I guess the jury’s out.”

Hm. Sasha put her flask away. The day was no longer boring, so it was unnecessary. 

The most relevant questions ought to be asked first. “Should we tell Jon?”

“He might throw a bitch fit about how corpses are unhygienic, so no?”

Martin drained his tea and stood up from the rickety metal chair, resigned. “I’ll get the broom.”

I kept on bitching about how much I dislike the beginning scenes of TMA time travelling AUs so my friend @lazuliquetzal​ (who wrote the best TMA time travelling fic in the fandom) told me to put my money where my mouth is. It’s nowhere near her level, but in my defense it’s probably even stupider than Reflection. 10K of stupid under the cut. 

Sasha was tipping some whiskey from her secret flask into her tea when Tim poked his head into the breakroom and announced that he had found a corpse.

Sasha and Martin, hunched over their paltry lunches and pathetic lives situated upon a rickety metal breakroom table and equally rickety metal chairs, stared at him. 

“Like,” Sasha said finally, “a human one?”

Tim shrugged. “Humanoid? I didn’t want to poke it and see if it was fleshy, so I guess the jury’s out.”

Hm. Sasha put her flask away. The day was no longer boring, so it was unnecessary. 

The most relevant questions ought to be asked first. “Should we tell Jon?”

“He might throw a bitch fit about how corpses are unhygienic, so no?”

Martin drained his tea and stood up from the rickety metal chair, resigned. “I’ll get the broom.”

****

There was, indeed, a corpse in the Archives.

More specifically, in the stacks. The worst place to die, or least be dumped. Sasha had to admit the logic of it: it was the darkest depths of the library that Martin had informed her was ‘somewhat creepy’ and ‘kind of ominous’ so ‘please stop sleeping there you’re going to give me a heart attack’. After Martin flipped on a few lights that were never flipped on (apparently Elias was a cheapskate, which explained the breakroom) they could all gawk at the corpse to their heart’s content. 

Very kindly and thoughtfully, Tim asked Martin if he wanted to stay out of the library and maybe to ‘tell someone’ or something. Both Sasha and Tim had mutually and silently agreed that Martin seemed the type to have a delicate constitution. Granted, he hadn’t seemed the type to win Magnus Anarchist every month by breaking into abandoned buildings with absolutely no shame, so maybe he was the kind that surprised you. 

But Martin had just looked a little unimpressed. “Do you seriously think this is my first corpse? I went to university.”

That somewhat intimidated Sasha, who abruptly worried that she had missed out on an essential university experience again. “Is that a typical university experience?”

Martin paused a beat. 

“Uh,” he said, “yeah, sure, of course. Hazing, you know.”

“Is that what hazing…?”

“Fraternities.”

Tim, from where he had been standing at the entrance to the stacks snapping on the sterile gloves he had liberated from the cleaning supply closet, looked delighted. “You were in a frat too, Martin? What kind of hardcore frat had corpse hazings? Was it the Sigma Gammas? My frat always thought they were way too crazy, but we were a business one -”

“You know what,” Martin said, “let’s just worry about the corpse.”

After Sasha tied her hair in a ponytail and Martin snapped on his own gloves, they awkwardly approached the aisle where Tim had been trying to find a reference book for Jon. Sasha was worried that they would have to hunt for it a little, or that there would be a bad jump scare, but when they found it she saw that it wasn’t subtle at all.

It was sprawled on the ground, face mashed into the cheap and somewhat gross carpet. Sasha approached it with absolutely no hesitation, which Tim and Martin gladly let her do, and squatted down to get a better look at the figure. 

She definitely needed to make a coroner’s report. She was the objective expert in coroner’s reports. 

 “Tim, can you run back and get one of Jon’s silly little tape recorders for my coroner’s report?”

“Did you just see that on the telly?” Tim asked skeptically. “Because if you did -”

“Oh, here one is. That’s really convenient!” Martin grabbed one off the shelf and pressed play, letting the tape roll. “Good idea, Sasha. We need proof to Jon that we were researching.”

Probably...not what Jon meant for them to be researching, but Sasha liked to believe that it was the intent that mattered. She pulled a pencil out of her pencil skirt pocket, poking the figure thoughtfully. “Report by Sasha James, Archival Assistant.” There, now it was work. “At 1:30pm today, Tim Stoker discovered a corpse in the Archives, thereby referred to as John Doe -”

“Do we have to call it John Doe?” Tim complained, standing next ot her and crossing his arms. “Then we have too many Johns, it’ll get confusing.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Sasha said dismissively. “Ours is Jon, this guy’s John. Completely different.”

“Sasha, I’m not sure that’s how words work.”

“What are you, an English major?”

“Yes! I was an editor for a living!”

“Sorry if I don’t listen to guys who were fired from book editing school -”

“Uh,” Martin said, “have we checked to see if he’s actually dead?”

Sasha and Tim fell silent. Sasha looked at Tim. Tim shook his head. 

“Seriously, mate?” Sasha asked, unimpressed. 

“I didn’t want to touch the corpse!” Tim cried. “So sue me! It’s not as if he’s moving!”

Pussy. Sasha gently reached out and pushed aside a little of the corpse’s very long and pretty curly hair. What was that, 3C? Jesus, that had to be work. Sasha was 3A and the amount of hair care products she owned was insane.

She waved her hand at the boys for silence and put her thumb against his pulse, concentrating hard. Martin quietly walked over and crouched down too, eyeing his chest. 

“I don’t feel a pulse,” Sasha said finally. 

“Also, uh, I’m not a doctor,” Martin said, “but he’s definitely not breathing.”

“I told you,” Tim said defensively. “You just look at the thing, and you go - yep, that’s a corpse!”

“Corpse appears to be an ethnically ambiguous adult man with very nice hair,” Sasha said loudly. Martin helpfully held out the recorder to catch her voice better. “Maybe 190cm. Incredibly skinny - potential cause of death. He’s dressed in...some very ratty clothing. Potentially homeless.”

“It definitely smells,” Tim said, pinching his nose. Sasha didn’t blame him - the clothing was an overlarge green hoodie, ratty and threadbare, and his jeans weren’t any better. His boots were worn and soft leather. “Maybe he’s a homeless guy who snuck in and died?”

“That’s so sad,” Martin said softly. “Also a little gross.”

“Have some respect for the dead, guys,” Sasha said, as she poked the dead guy with a pencil. “Tim, go flip him over.”

Tim held his hands up, stepping away. “I couldn’t possibly. Martin loves flipping people over.”

“This again?” Martin asked, frustrated. “This is just like when you made me handle the Rawlings case because you’re scared of the suburbs!”

“They have too many eyes, Martin!”

“I am surrounded by cowards,” Sasha noted for the recorder. Nothing for it, then. Sasha carefully straightened, wobbling on her heels, before solidly wiggling her hands underneath the corpse’s chest. He was cold - dead a while. 

It was surprisingly difficult to flip over a limp adult man. Sasha was strong, but the corpse’s flesh was weak, and he was all floppy. Eventually Tim got over himself long enough to help her, making a very disgusted face the entire time, and they were able to finally get a good look at the man’s face.

Abruptly, upon seeing it, they all quieted. 

There was something about seeing a man splayed out on the ground that was a little funny, if you worked for the Magnus Institute and had probably encountered a Leitener two years ago and lost all empathy. No more impediments in the search for science. But there was something very different about looking at a person, who had a nose and lips and a very ratty hoodie, and knowing that it was no longer a person. Just a lot of cloth and meat and blood and organs and nice hair that once was a person, back when things were easier and the world was a little less harsh.

But maybe Sasha was caught by sentimentality: after all, the corpse looked a little like Jon.

Judging from the stunned faces of her compatriots as they all bent around the figure, they all thought the same thing. Tim’s jaw was open, and Martin’s hand was covering his mouth in shock. 

“Man,” Tim said. “This sucks. And it’s really creepy.”

“He must have been really gorgeous,” Martin said. “That’s so sad.” 

Actually, Sasha tilted her head and took another look. He had sharp and severe features, elegant and striking. A large and thin, sharp nose, and equally sharp lips. His face was just as sharp and gaunt, as emancipated as the rest of him. He had strange scars trailing up his neck and curving around his jaw, but it just kind of accentuated the intense atmosphere. 

It was probably a pretty stupid thing to focus on, but in her defense it wasn’t really the face of a homeless guy. Well, maybe. Hot homeless people existed.

Sasha frowned. She’s only met one other person this hot. 

“Hey,” she said, “doesn’t he look like Jon?”

Both the men titled their heads. 

Finally, Tim said, “Nah, he’s hotter.”

“Agreed,” Sasha said. “I think the scars really do it.” 

“Uh, guys,” Martin said. 

Sasha grabbed her tape recorder out of Martin’s hands, resuming her coroner’s report. “Subject appears to be in his thirties. Weirdly attractive, but that’s probably not as important as we feel it is.” She looked down at his hands, carefully using her pencil to push up the sleeve. “What looks like an aged and badly healed burn scar on his right hand. Supports homeless guy evidence.”

“Knife scar over his throat,” Tim quietly observed. “Someone tried to kill this guy.”

“Guys,” Martin said. 

“Well, I guess this is the point where we worry about body disposal,” Sasha said, straightening. “I think Elias could handle this discreetly and professionally, but that might involve letting Jon know. And I don’t think any of us want that kind of stress in our lives.”

“So, are we not even pretending to want to call the cops, or…?”

“Listen to me!”

Both Tim and Sasha shut up, somewhat guiltily. Martin had straightened too, fists balled, looking firm and determined and resolute - everything that Martin wasn’t, really. Martin lived unsure of himself, never expressing his own feelings or ending every opinion with an “I don’t know, maybe, that’s just my thoughts, what do you think?”. 

So Tim and Sasha paid attention, and when Sasha nodded encouragingly at him he seemed to find further courage. Solemnly, with the air of a wise man by the side of the road, Martin said, “This guy isn’t hotter than Jon.”

Christ. Sasha takes it all back.

 Tim propped a hand on his hip supportively as Sasha rolled her eyes. “Look, mate,” Tim said, “I know that you think Jon’s the hottest person in existence, and maybe objectively he’s fine as hell, but once you know him for longer than three months he loses all attractiveness. It would be like being into the DMV clerk. The really pretentious cousin at all of your family reunions who tries to explain your own job to you. The dude in your English class who thinks he invented feminism.”

“That was you,” Sasha said. 

“I am the objective expert in Jon,” Martin said firmly, shutting down the dissent. “He’s, like, my muse, okay? And can I say, as I have spent so many long hours memorizing the curve of his jaw - that’s the same jaw.”

If Sasha had a retort to that, or if Tim wanted to judge Martin for his taste in men further, neither of them had a chance. There wasn't an opportunity to say anything more, because the corpse opened its eyes. 

Sasha’s first thought was this: wow, what green eyes. 

Sasha’s second thought was: the fuck?

His eyes didn’t focus on her, or snap anywhere. They drifted a little lazily, fixed on the right, but the man was undoubtedly aware. His fingers twitched, he tilted his head from left to right, and his left hand - doubtlessly the hand that still felt texture - clenched the thin and cheap rug. The man’s jaw slackened a little, as if in surprise. 

For their part, the Assistants frantically looked at each other, all conveying the exact same thought - you said he was dead!

Sasha froze to her spot, petrified. She could handle corpses, or coroner’s reports, or mysteries. Sasha was intelligent, unkind, firm, socially incompetent, and a Libra. She could handle the dead, but the living? Sasha had no idea what to do with alive people.

But Tim did. He hesitated two moments, reeling back in shock, before he abruptly composed himself. He crouched down to the guy, and modulated his voice to sound calming and firm. “Hey, don’t strain yourself. Are you alright? Do you hurt anywhere?”

The man turned his head in Tim's direction, hiding his expression from Sasha, but she saw Tim’s eyes widen. Martin, standing closer to his feet, wrung his hands - clearly torn on what to do, uncertain how to help. Martin always hated being uncertain how to help the most. Which was pretty unfortunate, because Martin always wanted to help, and Martin was always uncertain. 

“Can you speak?” Tim asked gently. “If you can’t speak, go ahead and knock on the floor for me, okay?”

“If we pack him into your car, we can say that we found him on the street,” Sasha piped up. As much as she distrusted NHS, and as much as the NHS refused to touch anybody who had ever stepped foot inside the Institute, they could hardly refuse somebody if they just lied their ass off about it. “They’ll have to treat him then, right?”

“We could make it so much worse if we move him,” Martin said quickly, just as strangely firm. “We need to take our chances with 999.”

“We don’t even know if he’s injured,” Sasha pointed out, somewhat optimistically. “Maybe this whole thing can just, like, not be a problem.”

Yeah, Sasha definitely preferred corpses. 

The man was opening and closing his mouth, before he coughed wetly. Sasha clinically noted that it was the first time she had seen his chest move. As Tim reached forward, murmuring gently, and helped the man sit up, she saw that his chest didn’t move at all.

“Alright, let’s try to get you up.” Tim helped the man shift so he was leaning against the bookcase - uncomfortable, but a better position if he started coughing up blood. “We should fetch you some water - Martin, I don’t think he has any injury like that, he just seems out of it. His eyes aren’t focusing on me at all.”

Strangely, the man scoffed at that. The sound made him cough again, but the derision was unmistakable.

The derision was extremely familiar. 

When Sasha looked at Martin his eyes were wide behind his glasses, and she knew that he had heard the same thing that she did. 

Finally, with a raspy and hoarse voice, the man said, “Well, isn’t this fucking fun.”

Everybody stared at him. His voice...different, definitely, with a less posh accent and strained vocal cords scratching his tones. But when Sasha glanced at Tim, she just knew that he was remembering when Jon had insisted on coming into work with a terrible cold and Martin had to bully him home. He had sounded eerily like…

“Is this your idea of a joke?” the man said. 

Tim, from where he was crouched next to the guy, turned his attention back to him. “I’m a funny guy, but last time I checked head injuries aren’t a joke.” He tracked his finger across the man’s eyes, frowning when they didn’t follow. “You definitely have a concussion, mate. If you can walk, we need to -”

“Lord, alright, I get it.” The man raised his burned hand and clumsily rubbed his eyes. “You’re mad at me, I’m sleeping on the couch, whatever. Is all of this really necessary?”

“Uh,” Tim said intelligently. “Mate, I’m not your boyfriend.”

The man waved his other hand in Tim’s direction as he pressed his fingers into his eyes in exhaustion. “I’m hardly speaking to you.” Tim’s jaw dropped in shock as the man angled his face upwards, the crown of his head jamming uncomfortably against the metal shelving. “In my defense, I was doing the best I could with the resources you gave me. It’s water under the bridge. I’ve forgotten about it already! So let’s just get back to our eldritch hellscape.”

Everybody stared at each other. 

“We should move this into the break room,” Martin said. “There’s tea there.”

“Oh, don’t be rude,” Jon said, “making Martin into a caricature of himself. You like Martin, you told me so.”

“Counterpoint,” Sasha said weakly, “the bullpen has Jon. And I really don’t want to explain this to Jon.”

“I don’t even know who this one is,” the man said. “What? Not going to tell me?”

“Okay, like, fucking rude, but whatever.”

“I don’t know who you’re talking to,” Tim said firmly, reaching out and putting a firm hand on the man’s arm. The man didn’t recoil or jerk away, just looking down in vague surprise. “But they aren’t here right now. You’re in the basement of the Magnus Institute, alright? I’m Tim Stoker, at your service, and these are my coworkers. I think you have a brain injury. If you can walk, we need to get you -”

“I can’t eat here,” the man said, but he made no effort to remove Tim’s arm. He moved his other hand, pressing it against Tim’s own, as if they were friends. “Cutting me off from my Knowledge -” it was capitalized, Sasha could hear it “ - chaining me to my desk, for - what? You’re not even answering me? Come on!” The man’s voice raised, and for the first time Sasha could hear something ragged in it. “Don’t give me the silent treatment!”

“Jon.”

It was Martin, standing at a distance from the man - from all of them. He was wringing his hands again, shoulders hunched and tense, but his expression was caught in that same mysterious firmness. 

The man didn't react. Not in surprise, not in shock, not in unrecognition. He just scowled a little, ignoring all of them. 

“Jon,” Martin said, louder. “This isn’t solving anything. Don’t be stubborn.”

“I’m not the one being stubborn, Martin,” Jon - Jon?! - muttered, folding his arms. Like an infant. Like, hypothetically, something Jon would do. “I just don’t think omniscient fear gods should be petty.”

Everybody looked at each other. 

“This needs tea,” Martin proclaimed finally, and everybody nodded in silent agreement.

Every nodded in agreement - even, strangely enough, Jonathan Sims himself. 

****

This plan had a few complexities. 

The first complexity was dealing with Jon - their Boss - himself. In an act of cunning psychological warfare, Martin had gone ahead of them and used his endless and infinite subtle acts of manipulation to guarantee that Jon wouldn’t interrupt them. This situation was already Quite A Bit, nobody wanted to babysit their boss. 

Who Sasha frequently felt as if she babysat a bit. Having the youngest person in the office be the very rigid and authoritarian boss was objectively a little funny. But you know what’s not funny? Transphobia. 

Eventually Martin came back and waved them forward, and Tim gently yet firmly dragged the man upwards and put a hand on his back. 

“Do you mind if I touch you?” Tim asked. He sounded resigned about it - barely expecting Jon to respond. “Let me know how you want me to guide you.”

“Oh, it’s whatever. If you’re going to play it this way.” Jon easily looped his arm through Tim’s, who didn’t bother to mask his shock. “Let’s just get this over with.”

Sasha went ahead of them, watching Tim walk Jon down the aisle - hah! - with his arm looped through his elbow and a hand on his back. It was exactly the kind of care and meticulousness that Sasha always saw in him when it came to others. He literally walked grannies across the street. It was horrendous. She got second-hand embarrassed whenever she saw it.

Tim was loudly, extremely, messily kind. He was a person who adopted lost causes, like young men too grumpy to make real friends and women who only knew academia and never people. Sasha told him that once he got his teeth into something he never let go. It would get him into trouble one day. Maybe it already had. 

Sure enough, when Sasha opened the library door for them and peeked her head into the hallway, she saw that Jon’s office door was very firmly shut and locked. Even more incriminatingly, she heard his cute little theater drama monologues starting. Tim had found Jon’s theater aspirations very adorable and he had tried recording them to put on his Snapchat and maybe get him discovered by an agent, but unfortunately the videos made Tim’s phone bleed. They had given Martin ten pounds to taste the blood. Man would do anything for ten pounds, but seeing as they all worked this job that probably applied to all them. 

A workplace made out of people who always picked ‘dare’ in truth or dare. It was kind of a miracle they were still alive. Sasha was a little uncertain how she had survived to thirty five, actually. 

Once Sasha gave the all clear, Tim was able to bring Jon (Neo-Jon? Nega-Jon? Dark Jon? Mean Jon? No, that was just Jon) into the bullpen. Softly narrating what he was doing, he pulled out a chair and lowered Jon into it. 

Homeless Jon hasn’t been blind for very long, Sasha noted clinically. Long enough that he seemed more mildly irritated by it than anything else, but instead of orienting himself or testing out where he was he just kind of slumped in his chair. 

“Jon - uh, the Boss is taken care of?” Tim asked Martin, who was rapidly bustling into the bullpen with four cups of tea that he seemed to be under the impression would help. Tim had sat Homeless Jon in Martin’s chair, which seemed to fluster Martin a bit. 

“Uh, yeah. Gave him a normal statement to get his guard down, then five of the - you know, weird - statements and said that he has to go through all of them today. He’ll be in there for an hour at least.” 

Sasha frowned. “After two he gets a headache and gets bitchy.”

“Three o’clock exactly,” Tim said solemnly.

“Oh, leave off,” Homeless Jon said, “it wasn’t that bad.”

Everybody double taked and looked at each other significantly - which was quickly becoming their predominant mode of communication in a ruthless act of ableism. But Martin just held out a cup of tea, faltering as he clearly stopped to wonder the easiest way to give it to him. 

“Can you hold out your hands, Jon? I have some tea for you. It’s hot, so be careful, okay?”

“If the tea’s spiders I’m going to take it out on Annabelle,” Weird Jon said, but he held out his hands anyway and let Martin put the mug in them. He sniffed it cautiously, checking for spiders, before taking a cautious sip. 

To Sasha and Tim, Martin said, “I know, he’s going to fall asleep after two. I mean, it might be because I drugged his tea a little -”

Weird Jon spat out his tea back into the mug. 

“ - so we shouldn’t be interrupted,” Martin said brightly, clapping his hands. “Now! I think it’s time for explanations, don’t you?” He turned his mighty gaze upon Thankfully Blind Jon, who was occupied carefully holding the tea away from himself. “Drink your tea, Jon.”

Jon drank his tea. His expression twisted. “It tastes just like his.”

Everybody looked at each other. Tim mouthed the word ‘time traveller’ very clearly. Both Sasha and Martin nodded. It was the obvious explanation. 

“An explanation now, please,” Martin said pleasantly. “If you’re a time traveller, you can tell us. This is a safe space.”

Jon-from-the-future’s expression harshened in creases. He hadn’t once relaxed, expression permanently tightened in annoyance and disgruntlement. It was ridiculously Jon. 

Definitely a time traveller. You didn’t work at the Magnus Institute without secretly spending your life deeply hoping you run into a time traveller. Every researcher upstairs secretly prayed to discover the majesty. Everyone in Artifact Storage eagerly gathered around mysterious clocks and dared each other to touch them. Sasha, Queen of Truth-or-Dare, was the undisputed expert in making other people touch weird clocks and recording their reactions.

“Fine,” Super Time Traveller Jon said. “I know this is what you want. Statement of a stupid punishment by the pettiest little color in the evil crayon box. Recorded by the Archivist, in situ. Statement begins.”

Wow, Jon still had his job in the future? That’s a surprise. 

Martin was mouthing the word ‘evil crayon box’ to himself, looking increasingly concerned. The forgotten tape recorder, clenched in Sasha’s fist without her even realizing it, clicked and whirred. 

Then the Archivist began to speak. 

***

In the hazy amber of a memory, there exists an office.

You can see it clearly in your mind’s Eye, even now. You could likely navigate all of it blindfolded - which you now see that your god has the intention to test. Every corner of it is known to you, in the most subtle and mundane of ways. There’s a dust bunny in that corner, never tidied. A mysterious stain on the far right ceiling. The faint smell of blood, just under the vents. The hot waft of tea; your hands wrapped around a mug. 

Through these lonely offices, ghosts roam. They cling to desks and chairs; lingering in favorite mugs or in forgotten hair ties. A metal file cabinet holding neat rows of clothing, blood-stained jackets abandoned. A whiteboard with stubborn flakes of dried marker, forgotten handwriting clinging to life. These imprints no longer evoke terror or grief or pain. They are as familiar as the bloodstains and tea. Even death, eventually, is familiar. After long enough in a nightmare, it becomes indistinguishable from reality. 

There is nothing unfamiliar in the Magnus Institute.

Nothing save these voices, emerging from nothing. Every one of your six million senses have been cut off - your hundred eyes reduced to none. You are cognizant only of two familiar voices, and one unfamiliar one. A firm hand, with calloused fingers from leafing through aged paper. A creaky desk chair - Martin’s, undoubtedly, always squeaking as he fidgeted in distraction. The air tastes the same as it used to back then, before the AC broke and no repairman would step inside to repair it. Daisy did, eventually. Three familiar voices, rendered unfamiliar by the harsh tides of wind and cruel plastic hands. 

You are afraid of very little, these days. In this world that you’ve built, there is nothing that can harm you. The twisted little puppet strung up in his tower has been long since been disposed of, and the awful and terrifying future has settled into a gentle present. The apocalypse grows tedious after a while, and the buffet of fears start tasting a little samey.

But if anything could frighten you, this would. If anything would petrify you, it would be Tim’s kind smile, which died a year before Tim did. If anything could freeze you to your chair, it would be the sight of Sasha with red-rimmed eyes asking why you never even noticed that she was gone. 

The sanctuary of memory corrupted. A mental place of safety infiltrated. A mind turned inside out, exposing its vulnerable flesh to the world. 

There is nothing else this could be but your own personal hell. 

Your loyal servant crouches on bended knee, giving this final prayer to you. He asks, humbly and with great reverence, one simple question:

Why couldn’t this have waited until after I got my milk?

***

The spell ruptured.

It was almost tangible, like a change in air pressure making your ears pop. Sasha blinked harshly, rubbing at her ears and trying to soothe strange ringing. Tim exhaled heavily and Martin screwed his eyes open and shut harshly, as if he was seeing spots. 

The only person unaffected was Weirdly Christian Jon, who was slumped in Martin’s chair with his arms folded over his chest. He was still looking at the ceiling - speaking to whoever he had been addressing this entire time. 

“Just one day,” Jon was saying. “Just one day! It was going to be a nice day! We had decided to take a day trip to the Flesh garden and have a picnic! My darling and beautiful husband was going to make us a cake! ‘Walk down to the Hell corner store’, my husband says. ‘Pick us up some Eldritch milk’, he says. ‘Why do I have to do it’, I says, ‘I’m in the middle of something’. ‘We need cake for bridge night with the girls and I’ll divorce you if you don’t do it’, he says. I didn’t even change out of my nightmare pyjamas! What did I ever do to you? How are you still upset about the eye thing?”

Sasha and the Assistants, still digesting the extremely disturbing monologue, let him talk. Sasha was caught up in how it felt exactly like Jon’s little drama monologues. Granted, he had obviously gotten a lot more practice - guy could go to Broadway - but the weird lilting and falling sing-songyness was just the same. And he only ever did that for the very weird ones. The ones that they were pretty certain were actually true. 

So that probably meant at one point in the future, if Jon was speaking about the Archives as if they had worked there for years. Probably during the apocalypse. Which was happening. Which Jon had...built? Like, as a personal thing, or in a metaphor for capitalism and the human race? Definitely the capitalism thing - Jon was prone to flights of filing-induced passion that sometimes accidentally resulted in a stapler flying and punching a hole through the wall, but she couldn’t even imagine him even purposefully punching someone, much less being the Antichrist. Unless it was one of those things that just happened to you, like a rare genetic defect. 

“Seriously. What was the alternative here? Endless horrorterrors, everybody screaming all the time? It was boring. You eat one Statement about somebody standing in line at a slaughterhouse conveyor belt and you’ve eaten them all. I didn’t do it because I didn’t like you, although for the record I don’t. But you have to admit that having Eldritch Lidls are much more practical than just having a bunch of people lying around screaming all the time. It’s not as if I don’t have other eyes, I hardly miss them. There’s no chocolate cakes in the swirling vortex of mankind’s worst nightmares!”

Okay. They had to find a way to engage with this guy. He was completely ignoring them, probably because he thought that they were mean ghosts. Sasha was only one of those things, and it was hurting her feelings. Judging from the expression on Tim’s face he was thinking the same thing. 

Or - wait, Sasha knew that eyebrow. That was the ‘please please please tell the apocalypse has zombies’ eyebrow. Great. 

But Martin was just looking thoughtful again. Sasha was pretty proud of him - it was probably very difficult for the poor man to remain coherent in the face of the crazy time-traveller who was definitely hotter than their already objectively unfairly hot boss. 

“Jon,” Martin said, cutting Jon’s tired rant about how eggs benedict were much better these days, “Uh, I have an idea? Maybe you can’t get out of the - nightmare by bargaining with it. Do you know how to normally escape these things?”

Jon angled his head down and frowned in Martin’s direction. So far Martin seemed to be the only person who could shut Jon up, which was a hilarious turnaround from normal life. Sasha hadn’t heard anything about Martin being a sad little ghost, but it was hard to believe that Martin was a survivor in the zombie apocalypse. 

“You go through the statement and you walk through it,” Jon said, in a very ‘duh’ kind of way. “Give the statement, highfive corpses, whatever.”

“Right, right.” Martin wrung his hands, biting at his lip. “So maybe it’s like that. Maybe instead of asking to be let out - you just have to walk through it. Like - like it’s a maze. Does that make sense? I’m not sure, it’s just an idea.”

Jon pinched the bridge of his nose, sighing. “Right as always, Martin.” Everybody’s jaw dropped, and Martin squeaked. “Fine, fine. Let’s...interact with the evil ghosts.” Jon gestured out with his arms, in a very ‘come at me bro’ gesture. “Go ahead and shoot. Hit me with how much you hate me and how disappointed you are that I never amounted to anything and started the apocalypse.”

Finally! Interrogation time! 

But before Sasha could finally find out if global warming had killed the world, Tim jumped in. “Are there zombies in the apocalypse?!” Tim cried, way too excited. “Is it like the Walking Dead? Or is it more Last of Us?”

Jon squinted in Tim’s direction. “Define zombie.”

“...hunger for human flesh, shambling, gross looking?” Tim rolled his eyes. “Don’t tell me you still haven’t seen any zombie movies.”

“I’m omniscient, I’ve seen every zombie movie,” Jon lied blatantly. “I just think that you’re - you know, stereotyping. Sometimes people are the undead and eat humans and they’re - they’re very normal people.”

“Yeah, Tim, be sensitive,” Sasha said gleefully. She put the tape recorder on Martin’s desk, deciding that she would definitely need a transcript of this interview later. Also maybe ask more questions about that omniscient thing, but she was sure Jon was just exaggerating. If you asked Jon today if he was the smartest person on Earth he’d probably say yes. Jon wasn’t even the smartest person in the room.

For good measure, she drew out her little notebook from her pencil skirt pocket, flipping through it looking for a clean page. “The Archives have never gotten a time traveller before. This is unprecedented in its history.” Well, she really didn’t know what Gertrude had gotten up to, but she dearly hoped it wasn’t this. “Do you have any warnings? Desperate messages from a ruined world, that kind of thing?”

“I’m not a time traveller,” Jon said flatly, “so no.”

Everybody stared at him in abject pity.

“Mate,” Tim said sympathetically, “it’s 2015. You’re a time traveller.”

“No, I’m in a pocket hell dimension in a period beyond time and space,” Jon corrected arrogantly. “Time travel doesn’t exist.”

“The apocalypse exists but time travel doesn’t exist?” Martin cried. “That’s so unfair! Like, give us something, you know?”

“Your life is very hard,” the extratemporal reject said. 

Typical Jon. A classic case of time travel and here he was denying it. Sasha crossed her arms, upset that they were wasting time debating temporal physics when they could be talking about zombies. She was a historian and had priorities. “Your denial ain’t cute, mate. You’re just wasting all of our time.” Jon opened his mouth, but Sasha steamrolled over him. “You want evidence, right? Do you need to, like, touch my face? Make sure that I’m not a sexy ghost?”

“That’s a stereotype that nobody actually does,” Jon said. 

“Insensitive as always, Sasha,” Martin condemned. 

“How else are we going to prove it to him?” Sasha said, somewhat defensively. “It’s not as if we have any evidence that we’re not sexy ghosts.”

With utmost care and incredible gentleness, Tim reached out an open hand and gently smooshed it into Jon’s face.

Jon slumped in his seat, arms folded, unimpressed. 

“No mortal who is not my darling husband has dared to touch me since I became the Antichrist,” Jon said.

“I don’t know,” Tim said, withdrawing his hand and looking at Sasha. “What’s more unbelievable: Jon as the Antichrist or Jon with a husband?”

“Jon’s gay?” Martin cried, face beet red. “Gay Jon? Gay Jon real?”

“So, like, how do you get the Antichrist gig?” Sasha asked as she silently passed Tim a fiver. Her queerdar had never been so wrong. “Is it like an adventurer quest you can do or would you call it more of a rare genetic disorder thing?”

“Definitely rare genetic disorder.”

“Then does that mean that our Jon also has the Antichrist gene?” Tim asked, alarmed. “You’d never think so just looking at him! It’s always the quiet ones.”

“No, this makes sense,” Martin said.

Tim stared at him. “So, is that, like, a negative for you, or a positive…?”

Martin’s silence was incriminating. 

“It’s a positive,” Jon said helpfully, startling everyone. They had conveniently forgotten not to talk about one very horny man’s very horny crush in front of sad grumpy time travelling crush. “He’s into it.”

“Wow, Jon,” Tim said, “what would your husband say?”

In a completely pointless show of sass, Jon rolled his eyes. “My useless husband is likely much more concerned with how I managed to get trapped in a nightmare dimension on my way back from the Hell corner store.” He waved a hand absently. “So, if we can hurry this up? Get started on the whole torturing me thing? Right now you’re just on track to annoying me to death.”

“We annoy you to death now!” Tim exclaimed, as Martin’s eyes boggled. “Isn’t that more proof for the time traveller theory?”

“It wasn’t annoying,” Jon said curtly. “I secretly enjoyed it. I always felt a little bad that I wasn’t included. Or wouldn’t let myself be included.”

That, abruptly, made everyone feel a little bad. Not guilty, seeing as Jon neither wanted nor deserved their affection, but just kind of bad. Future Jon didn’t seem any happier than regular Jon. Sasha liked to imagine that if she was trapped in an indeterminate period in time and space in a post-apoc hellscape, she’d at least be having fun.

Everybody looked at each other, equally a little uncomfortable. Tim was the one who finally took control of the situation, as the self-appointed Jon & Everyone Else mediator. He had taken up the mantle years ago and worse it with pride, and occasional exhaustion. 

“Look,” Tim said, as reasonably as possible. “Let’s just say, hypothetically, this was super cool and awesome time travel. Let’s also say maybe this was completely baller and you’re from a post apoc future where everyone wears leather.”

“That’s just Melanie.”

“Put it down as one person who wears leather in the future!” Tim cried, and Sasha obediently jotted it down.”But let’s just put all of this in a hypothetical situation where you aren’t...uh, in a bad dream? So would there, hypothetically, be a way to stop the apocalypse or something?”

Jesus christ. What a try-hard. 

Sasha crossed her arms, glaring at Tim. From next to her, Martin looked just as peeved. “Seriously, dude? Like we can just up and stop capitalism?”

“I don’t want responsibility for stopping the apocalypse,” Martin protested. “I can barely navigate the bus system. What if the Terminator comes after my mother or something?”

“You’ll be a bit better off, frankly,” Jon said. Martin nodded, conceding the point, before looking faintly disturbed. 

“But he said that he caused it,” Tim protested. “Maybe the power of friendship can fix this? I mean, the apocalypse is cool, but I feel like this is the part where we’re all badasses and we fight evil or something.” Tim’s eyes widened. “That’s what the Magnus Institute is for. To stop the apocalypse!”

“Every day I feel a slight sense of emptiness due to my internalized guilt about your death, but you are usually wrong about things,” Jon said flatly, which seemed to both perk Tim up and depress him slightly. “And no. There’s nothing you can do. There’s no one event that precipitated the apocalypse; no rules of engagement. You are puppets on strings, indulging in the fantasy of free will. Yes, Sasha, the apocalypse is capitalism.”

Everybody stood in slightly depressed silence over this. Sasha, personally, was a little relieved. She really didn’t have to deal with the whole ‘preventing the apocalypse’ thing. She’d rather spend the finals days of the world in hedonism, frankly. 

Really, the unique providence of the millennial was to live your entire life half-way convinced you were in the twilight years of the world. This hedonism and apathy was second nature. Or maybe the apathy was a Leitner - Sasha had lost track of that too. 

“Aw, man,” Martin said, summarizing the abstract and complex feelings deftly and succinctly. “This sucks.”

“Yeah, this blows,” Tim agreed. “So should I buy my muscle car now, or later, or what?”

Then Martin and Tim started arguing over fuel efficiency in the apocalypse, and Jon royally checked out of the conversation. Sasha imagined that he was internally having a bit of a Saving Private Ryan moment where flashbacks of bombshells exploded behind his eyelids or whatever the fuck. The important thing is that everyone was distracted, and Sasha could finally check up on their most important gambit of the day: making sure Jon wasn’t bothering them. 

Sasha listened carefully for the sounds of Jon’s little theater monologues, and caught only faint hints of sound. She slipped past everyone into the hallway and approached Jon’s office door, pressing her ear against the cheap wood. But she didn’t need to worry: he was still reciting away, oblivious to the actual interesting shit that was happening outside his door. Jon was a delicate plant, you couldn’t stress him out too much or he would die. Hopefully Martin’s drugged tea would kick in soon -

But Antichrist Jon’s head jerked towards her, directly behind him, and Sasha saw his unfocused green eyes fixate directly on her. No, not on her - on the door, or something beyond it. For just a second, his eyes flared a sharp and toxic green. 

“There you are,” Creepy Jon hissed. 

Well, sorry for leaving rooms without telling him, but she hadn’t thought that he even noticed, much less got resentful about it. But Weird Jon was standing up with no hesitation, and effortlessly swerved around Martin’s desk and stalked into the hallway. For the first time, his expression looked a little dangerous. It was bizarre and off putting, like seeing a ragged yet murderous two meter kitten. 

He reached out an arm and let it trail across the wall, stopping short when he felt it hit wood instead of plaster. Tim and Martin surged forward to stop him, yelling warnings, but Sasha quickly stepped back. She never impeded the timeless march of science and progress. Sasha had done far worse in Artifact Storage for knowledge. 

Jon brushed his hand down the door until it hit the doorknob and angrily twisted it, heaving the door open with unnecessary force. Tim and Martin spilled into the hallway as Angry Jon stalked inside, and Sasha eagerly hung in the door frame for a front row seat into the drama. 

“This is your fault,” Jon intoned dangerously, directly in the face of a deathly affronted Jon. 

In the spirit of the First Directive, Sasha heroically stretched out an arm and prevented Tim and Martin from spilling into the office. It was the right call. Jon stalked forward into the office, hair whipping in a nonexistent wind, expression obscured but undoubtedly thunderous, advancing on the terrified Archivist, as -

He tripped over a chair left carelessly in the center of the office, rocketing forward to land flatly on his face. 

Beside her, Martin went white as a sheet. “Oh no.”

Simultaneously, in complete and total unison, Jon and the Archivist yelled, “Martin!”

****

Jon and the Archivist sat across from each other, exuding waves of pure mutual hatred.

Tim had quickly helped the Archivist up, moving the chair forward and getting him situated there. The Archivist’s mood was not improved by any of this. Which was difficult enough to handle by itself, if manageable. Sasha knew how to manage grumpy time travelling blind Antichrists who had gotten lost on their way to the corner store.

She even knew how to handle their boss, who was extremely grumpy about being harassed by a random homeless person with nice hair. Jon hated statement givers at the best of times, much less seemingly homeless ex-corpses. Or, well, Sasha didn’t know if he was an ex-corpse, but he was certainly an animate one. 

They were both being so annoying about it Sasha was trying to determine if she should change their nicknames to something more derogatory. Thing 1 and Thing 2? Too long. 

Both of them were very grumpy about the fact that Martin had pushed aside the chair for guests in front of Jon’s desks when he deposited the drugged tea, accidentally moving it close to the center of the office. Jon had known this because he saw it happen. The Archivist had known this because he, apparently, knew Martin very well. 

Today had really been a bonding experience with Sasha, Martin, and Tim. Their skill at silent communication had reached borderline telepathy. They all looked at each other significantly as the Jons were caught in their mutual dyad of hatred, silently commiserating over the fact that their one goal had been spoiled by the greatest wildcard of all. Sasha privately liked to consider herself somewhat of a wildcard, but she was depressingly aware that the entire Archive team was composed of wildcards. Maybe that’s why half of them didn’t survive the apocalypse. 

It was a little unlikely that Jon was a survivor/instigator in the zombie apocalypse, actually. Dude definitely would have bit it if he wasn’t cheating with Antichrist powers. Now, if Sasha had Antichrist powers, this whole game would be looking very different -

“Boss, this is a statement giver,” Tim hinted desperately, hands clenched so hard on the back of the Archivist’s chair that his knuckles were turning white. “Remember what Elias said about statement givers? About how we can’t harass them?”

“I was in the middle of a recording and this man was unnecessarily confrontational,” Jon said crisply. Sasha caught her eye jumping frantically back and forth between the two, trying to reconcile them. Honestly, if it wasn’t for Martin’s horny surety, she wouldn’t have realized that they were the same person at all. The Archivist’s most defining attribute was his big and fluffy hair, and Jon was sadly lacking in the nice hair department. That fade and twists were the shackle around his ankle. So was the sweater vest, baggy tweed jacket, and ill-fitting.“He’s lucky I’m not throwing him out.”

Martin, who looked as if he was having his tenth gay crisis of the morning, didn’t seem to hold the same opinion, but he was king of bad taste anyway. 

“Remember what Elias said about harassing confused, blind statement givers? Remember that? Boss?”

Jon looked confused. “He didn’t specify the community of people with disabilities.”

“It was implied? Jon?”

“The optics would be terrible,” Sasha said, before snickering. Martin stomped on her foot. She stomped on his back, which definitely hurt a lot more. “Look, Jon, sorry about all of this. He was just - uh - really insistent that he talk to you -”

“I think if our visitor hassles Jon then maybe, objectively, you can say that Jon brought it on himself,” Martin said, in a daring show of anti-Jon sentiment.

This act of subtle rebellion was the first thing that broke the Archivist out of his cycle of hatred. He threw out a hand, bowling over Jon’s desktop cup of pens and sending them tumbling over the desk. Sasha saw him specifically orient his hand to do so. “Thank you, Martin! Your understanding of paraphysics is always immaculate.”

“Wow, really?”

“Stop complimenting my assistants,” Jon hissed, frantically diving to save his pens. “And stop - gesticulating over my desk! You did that on purpose!”

“Harassing the blind, Jon!”

“You don’t even need to tearfully blame me for how I ruined your life,” the Archivist said flatly. “You existing in my vicinity is torment enough.”

“That’s what I keep saying,” Sasha said, before pausing a beat. “I meant the first part, ha ha ha, obviously -”

“This man is a very normal statement giver who will be leaving any minute now,” Martin jumped in, “so there’s really no reason for us all to fight, when you think about it -”

“If you all don’t get out of my office, you are all fired -”

“You are listening.”

Everybody stopped talking at once, staring at the Archivist. He was still staring intently ahead, straight into his counterpart. Jon was hiding it, quite badly, but he was unsettled. He hadn’t even acknowledged that he and the man looked alike - the thought undoubtedly running through his brain and soundly dismissed - but it was clearly rattling him. But there was something else that was scaring him too - maybe the Archivist’s green eyes, so foreign from his own brown? His intense and furious expression, like cut glass? The particularly strange and heavy feeling in the air, prickling down the back of Sasha’s neck?

He hadn’t even stopped the recorder. 

“You are here,” the Archivist continued calmly. “You were listening in. Why you were listening in on him, and his regurgitated aftertaste of Statements, I do not know. I felt you, and I came to you. We cannot forsake each other. Do not hide yourself from me.”

The effect was immediate. 

The Archivist’s neck snapped forward, so harshly he cracked his head on Jon’s desk. Strangely enough, Jon screamed too, holding a hand to his temple as if he was suddenly pierced by a blinding headache. Tim immediately bent down to check on Archivist, making sure that he hadn’t hurt himself, as Martin bustled around the desk to check on Jon. Jon batted his hands away, scowling, so he was just fine. But the Archivist didn’t groan, or stir, or moan. He just lay there, still and limp, and when Tim shook him he didn’t even tense. 

The air was heavy, a tang of metal in her mouth like the crackle before a storm, and Sasha couldn’t fight a shiver. But she couldn’t take her eyes off Jon, either: the way he stared at the Archivist, hand on his forehead, eyes wide and growing wider. 

“Dad…?”

When the Archivist stirred, the spell was broken, and Jon’s mouth snapped shut so quickly it was as if he had never spoken at all. He turned his head and moaned, eyes opening uselessly. They were back to their usual toxic green, no flaring or flashing. 

“Mar’in? Where…”

“I’m here,” Martin said quickly, and ducked around the desk to grab the Archivist’s hand and squeeze. For just a second, Jon looked a little jealous. Sasha had the sense that Jon had never been mothered than anyone other than Martin and Tim, and the prospect confused and frightened him so much he reacted aggressively to it. “Everything alright? You hit your head.”

“How many eyes?” the Archivist asked weakly. 

“...physically, or functionally?”

But the Archivist just ran his burned hand over his smooth hand, kneading it and feeling the skin. “Still gone. Damn it.” He straightened, grimacing and spitting out a stray tendril of hair out of his mouth. “So it’s true…”

“So what’s true?” Tim asked urgently. “Do you finally believe us about the time travel thing? Because man, I have so many questions -”

He didn’t get the opportunity to say anything. The Archivist reached out a hand, fingers brushing against his shirt, and the Archivist’s hand abruptly clenched on the fabric. Tightly, roughly, the Archivist pulled him down and extended his other arm, and caught Tim in an awkward and lopsided hug. 

Tim carefully straightened him and returned the hug, gracing the Archivist with the patented Perfect Stoker Hug, and the Archivist buried his face in Tim’s shoulder. His chest didn’t heave, and his breath didn’t catch, but the element of desperation was pungent and unmistakable. 

“You were right,” Jon whispered. “We messed it all up.”

“Sure, yeah, totally!” Tim said, clapping the Archivist on the back in a masculine, yet sensitive way. “So, does this mean the zombie apocalypse is totally a-go, or…”

“Sasha,” the Archivist said, and Sasha chose to ignore her own personal distaste for hugs and being touched so she could step forward and hug him too. 

He clutched onto her just as tightly as he had Tim, which surprised her a little. Jon and Tim had probably been best friends in the future, and Sasha couldn’t imagine her and Jon ever truly being close. He respected her as a colleague, but that was probably because Sasha purposefully left her manuscripts around the office and aggressively used as many big words in front of him as possible. Jon had always been an obstacle to her - innocently stupid at best, malicious at worst. To think that he would grip her so tightly…

With meticulous care, the Archivist separated from her. His expression was crumpled, and for the first time Sasha saw something over than aggravation or impatience in Jon’s face. Relaxed and soft, he looked like a different man. No - he was a different man, it was just apparent. The change softened his sharp lines into something a little friendlier; his striking exterior melting into something pretty instead of imposing. 

Slowly, he raised his hand a little to tangle it in her hair. He frowned a little, gently tugging at it and feeling it spring back into place. “So it was curly…like mine…”

A lot of little hints snowballed into one strange and foreign realization. “Do you not remember me?”

“Dolls stole your identity,” the Archivist said apologetically. 

“Like credit card fraud, or -”

“Metaphysically.” He paused guiltily. “I mourned you as an abstract concept?”

“Like I’m every woman in Hollywood?” Sasha screeched, outraged. This was not trans rights. “Alright, royally fuck that. Feel my hair, mister. Full permission to touch it. Feel that? You call that abstract?” The Archivist shook his head, eyes wide, and Sasha gently moved his hand to rest on the top of her head. “Taller than you in eight cm heels, remember? You asked me how I walked in them, and I said -”

“ - Barbie’s Princess Charm School,” the Archivist said automatically, eyes widening. “I do remember.”

Martin clearly waited around to be tenderly embraced, and was disappointed. 

The Archivist stepped away from Sasha, expression creased in furious thought. “So it’s real. So far as anything’s real, I suppose. But I don’t understand how -” the Archivist’s eyes widened, and he snapped his fingers in realization. “The manhole!”

Everybody stared at him. 

“I’m sorry,” Jon said pleasantly, “what is going on -”

“I was walking down the street, and I remember hearing city work!” the Archivist said brightly. “They were doing their monthly ‘clearing the gators out of the sewer pipes’ maintenance! And the Beholding told me that there was an open manhole, and I said oh it’ll be fine, I’m a demigod on Earth, I don’t fall down manholes - and then -”

The door to Jon’s office dramatically crashed open, and everybody jumped straight in the air. Jon, whose office had seen two more incredibly theatrical entrances than usual today, immediately bristled and opened his mouth to earn them all another harassment complaint, before he abruptly shut his mouth. 

It was Elias, their miniature and unspeakably boring boss extraordinaire. He stood in the doorway, one hand clutching the doorframe, suit jacket askew and chest heaving. Had he ran down here?

“Is someone here?” the Archivist asked. 

“Uh, yeah,” Tim said, stepping forward cautiously. “It’s our boss, Mr. Bouchard. Elias, we’re taking a statement, can we help - ?”

“How did that get here?” Elias asked, voice strangely tense and coiled. “How did you - not even I could -”

“That makes sense!” Martin cried, thumping a fist on his open palm. “Elias wants to time travel just as much as everyone else in the Institute!”

“I’m sorry,” Jon said, pathetically behind, “time travel -”

“Did the time traveller sensor alarms in the basement go off?” Sasha asked, surprised. “I thought only Artifact Storage had those.”

“Uh, Mr. Statement Giver, are you okay?” Tim asked, but it was already too late.

The Archivist had turned to face Elias, expression unreadable. Sasha felt that crackle again, weighing down the air, and she saw the Archivist’s hair puff and frizz slightly with a green crackle. His neon green pupils shone again and spun, like an infernal wheel. 

“What’s wrong, Elias?” the Archivist mocked, as energy coursed through him. “Upset that Mama has a new favorite?”

And Sasha saw in that moment that the Archivist, who possessed the most inhuman green eyes she had ever seen, had eyes the same shade as Elias. 

“Oh, man,” Sasha said, “is Elias a time traveller too?”

“Only in the most mundane way. Can’t even get a little bit of special attention, Elias? Sad!” It was second-hand thrilling to watch someone mock their boss, living the dreams of everyone in the room. Even if it was a little weird how much Jon seemed to hate this guy - nobody hated Elias, just like nobody liked him, and nobody had any strong feelings at all besides unpromoted women.

 At the door, Elias’ expression was slack in - amazement? Was amazement the right word? He was staring at Jon as if...words didn’t even describe it. At least in any way that Sasha wanted to think about. 

“Mr. Bouchard, I swear I can explain,” Sasha, who could not explain, said hurriedly. “We found this corpse and we were going to tell you, but -”

But the Archivist cut her off, as if nothing was less important than explaining himself to Elias. “Did you want to know how to stop the apocalypse, Sasha?”

Sasha froze. Martin and Tim did too. Jon, who nobody had actually bothered to brief since he was kind of the fifth most important person in the room, dropped his pen. “Uh,” Sasha said, sweating. For the first time she understood the possible upsides of not knowing something. “I mean, if I have to, but you said that it was inevitable -”

“Oh, yes. But, just once every one or two centuries, a man comes along who fancies himself fate.” The Archivist raised a hand, eyes spinning and spinning, as Elias stood frozen in the doorframe. “I’ll be honest, Jonah. This isn’t to save the world. That’s so last year. I just really fucking hate you.” Something cracked in the air. “Ceaseless watcher, smite this -”

The door slammed shut. Sasha heard Elias lock it behind him. They all stood around as footsteps quickly echoed through the Archives, and another door slammed. Which was probably being locked too. 

They stood in silence, the Archivist having clearly heard the slams. He let his hand fall, but the energy didn’t cease crackling around him. He didn’t look resentful or disappointed - just thoughtful. 

“Everything in due time, I suppose. I guess it is pretty unfair to get to smite that man twice,” the Archivist said thoughtfully. “I’ll give someone else a turn.” His mouth twitched wryly. “You know, Sasha, there’s one other way to prevent the apocalypse.”

“Is it work?” Sasha asked tiredly. 

“You may kill the man who arranged the dominos,” the Archivist intoned, before hanging his head towards a petrified Jon. “Or you may kill the man who toppled them over.”

Sasha stared at Jon. Jon stared back, frozen like a deer in headlights.

Martin silently passed Sasha a penknife from Jon’s desk. 

“I’m very qualified for this job,” Jon protested weakly.

“Queen of feminism, I very much support you,” Tim said quickly, putting himself in between Sasha and Jon in a heroic display of stupidity, “but, maybe, killing your boss to take his job, is perhaps, maybe not that much of a great idea, just a thought?”

“The job’s being the Antichrist,” the Archivist pointed out, crossing his arms. 

“The direct action against sexism, xenophobia, and transphobia is very admirable,” Tim said, eyes held up as if he was placating a tiger, “but think of it this way - if you kill the Antichrist, then you become the Antichrist, like in - uh -”

“Pokemon,” Martin volunteered. 

Tim snapped his fingers. “Pokemon! So you shouldn’t -” He halted, turning back to Martin. “Pokemon? Seriously? That’s becoming champion -”

“A - alright, alright! Everybody stop!” Jon shakily stood up, brushing aside the empty tea mug right next to him. “That’s enough of all of this! I may not know what’s going on, or who this man is, or why he looks like me -”

“Hm,” Martin said, eyeing the empty tea mug. 

“ - why he looks like a homeless person, why he barged into my office and insulted me, why you are all defending this atrocious behavior, why you are calling it the work of time travel, which does not exist and you have no proof for it anyway -”

“Jon,” Martin said, watching Jon’s arm tremble, “maybe you should -”

“Shut up, Martin!”

“Don’t be rude to him!” the Archivist snapped. 

“You’ve been rude to him twice today!”

“I’m allowed to be rude to him! He’s even ruder to me! I’m the nice one!”

“ - and you were glowing in my office, which is just frankly rude,” Jon continued viciously, steamrolling over the Archivist. “You gave me a terrible headache, you hugged my assistants very inappropriately for the workplace, you made my boss walk in before trying to smite him, you encourage violence against my own person in revenge for a job that I definitely deserve -”

Both of Jon’s arms were shaking, and Tim’s eyebrows were slowly raising. “Boss, you should sit down, I think -”

“ - I want an explanation!” Jon yelled, slamming the desk. “And I’m not going to stop until you tell me what’s going on!”

Then Jon passed out. 

Everybody watched it happen. Everybody, save perhaps the Archivist, had noticed that it was about to happen: at first a tremor, then a shake, and then a final collapse. Like a marionette with his strings cut, Jon slumped over and crumpled solidly on the floor. 

Everybody stood in disaffected silence. Martin carefully stepped over and prodded Jon with his foot. “Out cold.” He shot a considering gaze at the empty tea mug. “Sorry, guys. Looks like I accidentally used the delayed action sedative.”

"It’s alright,” Tim said magnanimously. “At least that problem is solved now. Maybe we can convince him this was a bad dream when he wakes up.”

“If he insists it was real, we’ll just ask him for evidence and refuse to believe him without it,” Sasha suggested. 

“Isn’t that kinda gaslighting?” Martin asked. “Isn’t that, you know, a little morally dubious -”

“You did drug him,” Tim pointed out.

“I mean, hardly the first time?”

“Maybe Martin should be the Antichrist,” Sasha said thoughtfully.

The Archivist’s face was doing something extremely interesting, yet inscrutable.

“I really don’t want to be Antichrist, though,” Martin said apologetically. “Does it even pay?”

“Jon did say it was a job…” Sasha said, already considering herself in the role. “Do you guys think I’d be sexier as the Antichrist? Be honest.”

“Yes and completely,” Tim said immediately, before realizing that he said that too quickly. “I mean. I’d never objectify you. I respect women. But -”

“Oh, I see how it is,” Martin said, throwing up his hands. “When you think being the Antichrist is kind of hot it’s normal and M/F of you. But when I do it, then it’s ‘gross’ and ‘get that away from me’. Great double standards, guys.”

“It’s not the fact that it’s a guy,” Tim protested, “it’s the fact that it’s Jon -”

“Oh, when you think being the Antichrist is kind of hot then it’s normal and cis of you,” Sasha said heatedly, “but when Tim respects trans women, then it’s ‘gross’ and -”

“I respect all women,” Tim said, equally heatedly, “but I do want to acknowledge the systematic marginalization of trans women within the community, especially trans women of color like yourself -”

A hoarse wheeze echoed through the office.

Everyone froze, terrified by the haunted sound, but after a second Sasha realized it was the Archivist - Jon - who was laughing. 

They had never heard him laugh before. He was practically wheezing with it, bent over with his hands on his knees, with a strained cackle that fizzed with static around the corners. He was smiling broadly, his grin splitting his cheeks, for the first time that Sasha had ever seen. 

He straightened and threw his head back and laughed too, a greater belly-laugh that was so hysterical and fragile and free that it struck something strange and raw in Sasha’s heart. He rubbed his face with his hand, still laughing, and eventually broke into coughs. 

“I understand now,” Jon said, when he stopped coughing. “I thought that you had deposited me here in revenge. You had sensed that I was happy - that the green skies were beautiful, that your large eye seemed kind that day - and that you found it a waste of emotion. But that wasn’t true, was it? It must have been an accident. I’ve never been happier to hear these idiots arguing, and you’ve lost me like a toy behind a bookshelf. The strange stupidity of it! I’m enchanted.” He sombered a little, expression falling from hysterical glee into a soft and resigned happiness. He held up his hand, feeling the crackle of electricity run across his palms. “But you See me now. The foolish man brought you down upon us, and I intercepted your lightning bolt. His eyes, mundane and paltry, are closed, and you feel my consciousness in replacement of him. I can feel you already - my Eyes opening, the Reality that we built together calling me back. When your infinite grace re-aligns with every one of my atoms, forming the fabric of my world, I’ll snap back.”

Just like that?

Sasha had thought that there would be an...adventure, or quest, or something. At least a research binge. Some kind of heroic group effort. But the Archivist was a stretched rubber band, held tightly and out of position, and after long enough straining against its center it had to snap back. A telly flickering in and out, blaring the song of a dead channel. 

“Do we have time to group hug or something?” Tim offered weakly, undoubtedly thinking the same thing as she was. “Last goodbyes? Anything?”

“Howl’s Moving Castle moment?” Martin asked urgently. “I’ll find you in the future, right? We’re still together there, right?”

“Martin,” Jon said, strangely fond, “we were never apart.”

Martin turned a unique shade of red. 

But it was Sasha who Jon turned to, face angled to the sound of her voice. His expression was still distantly fond, but there was something strange in it too - a wry recognition, a subtle knowledge, a faint recollection of a joke that only he knew. 

“Sasha,” Jon said, “so long as you’re brave, and buy ten fire extinguishers and hide them around the office, things will be just fine. Buy twelve fire extinguishers, just to be safe. And don’t ever go inside Artifact Storage again. Not even for Alicia’s birthday party. If it’s a choice between worms and Artifact Storage then choose worms, the scars add a certain appeal. I cannot stress enough, not even if you lose your jacket in Artifact Storage -”

“Are you sure you don’t have anything to say to me?” Martin asked desperately, almost crying. Sasha, personally, wanted to circle back around to the worm thing. “Sad goodbyes? Waving a handkerchief? I thought you said I was alive? Don’t you have anything?”

Jon rolled his eyes. “Goodness, Martin, if you insist. There is something I’ve been meaning to tell you. In fact, I do believe it’s about time.” 

Martin’s mind clearly projected very loudly ‘I’ve been in love with you this entire time’ in blatant wish-fulfillment. Everybody held their breaths. 

Jon drew himself up to his full, imposing height, and sternly looked at all of them. “I’m tired of holding my tongue about this, Martin,” Jon said finally, and Martin qualified. “For the last time, I don’t load the dishwasher wrong. I load the dishwasher correctly. It’s you who’s always insisting that the cups go on the bottom. It’s a freakish way to live your life, and I’ll never forgive you for -”

Static blared in Sasha’s ears and overwrote her mind, and she screamed. The sensation was a pickaxe driven into her ears, an unforgivable rip and tear, and she heard her screams echoed in concert. 

Then the pain abated, and was gone. 

Sasha, Tim, and Martin were left standing in an empty office, accompanied only by the unconscious figure of their boss. There was nothing left of the Archivist, nor any suggestion that he had ever been here - just a drained mug, some scattered pens, and a lingering sense of malaise and confusion. 

Everybody looked at each other, feeling strangely and uniquely connected. It was hardly Sasha’s strangest Magnus Institute experience, but maybe it was the funnest. 

“Well,” Tim said finally, “at least one day this week wasn’t boring.”

“Yeah, I didn’t even have to get drunk today.” Sasha sighed. “We definitely have to gaslight Jon about this.”

Martin was already carefully lugging Jon onto his chair, arranging him so his arms were folded on the desk with his cheek resting on his forearm. “We’ll pretend it was just a weird dream.” He propped his hands on his hips, satisfied. “Hopefully this convinces him he needs more sleep.” Martin gasped in sudden realization. “Maybe he becomes the Antichrist because he needs more sleep! Guys, I have a great twenty step plan for saving the world.”

“Oh, come on, we said that was too much work.” Tim shrugged and opened the office door, holding it open and gesturing for them all to come out. “I think if we just friendship Jon to death, all of our problems will be solved.”

Martin just shrugged, following him out. They really did have paperwork that they needed to get back to. “Both are vital components. But...hey, it’s not weird to put the mugs on the bottom rack, is it? There’s not really that much of a difference, right?”

“Mate, you’re a fucking freak.” Tim looked backwards at Sasha, who was still standing in the office, dazed. “Sash, you coming? Let’s go day-drinking.”

“Yeah,” Sasha said, “in a sec.”

He shrugged and left the door propped open, and Sasha heard their bickering fade slowly as they walked down the hallway. 

But she couldn’t help staring at Jon sleeping at his desk, chest falling in and out, inhaling and exhaling slowly through his nose. His short, carefully maintained hair and meticulous fade. His baggy tweed and ill-fitting slacks. The subtle and shameful kind of earnestness, the desire mixed with fear mixed with hope mixed with genuine desire for a better future. He just wanted to be happy, to not be afraid anymore. He seemed weirdly human, when compared with his inhuman self. Or maybe it was the other way around. 

The tape recorder on Jon’s desk was still running. Sasha squinted at it, taking a second to listen to the staticy hiss. It was familiar, in the strangest possible way. It felt familiar -

Sasha reached out and grabbed the tape recorder, stuffing it in her pencil skirt pocket. “Just remember,” Sasha whispered, “I’d make a great candidate for Antichrist.”

She ran to go catch up with her coworkers, shutting the door behind them and leaving Jon sleeping contentedly in his office, head pillowed on his arms, dreaming strange and comforting dreams.

[jonspurpleskirt]

Sharing Comfort

A/N: This is for @archivalpride. Prompt was “Sharing Clothes” and “Pre-Canon” so I wrote a fluffy piece to celebrate the quiet moments of trust. 1.7k in word length. No warnings apply.

___

Jon did not make friends fast. Most people he found to be too intimidating, boring or exhausting and not many knew what to do with his sudden info dumps and sharp comments that shot out of his mouth seemingly at random.

He'd been alone in Research for a long while because of it and happily so. Things had changed when Tim had joined the Institute, though. Tim had come into the library and sat down opposite Jon with a thunder cloud hanging over his head and pain in his dark eyes. He'd been quiet and snappy in a fake cheerful way that screamed undealt trauma. At least to Jon, who seemed to be the only one to feel the vibes of "Leave me alone" and "I'm grieving" that Tim gave off in a constant stream.

Having Tim as his desk partner was an intense experience despite the way they only ever nodded to each other in greeting at first. But it was also intriguing. A mystery. Jon loved mysteries.

The instances he had ever willingly initiated a conversation with a stranger could be counted on one hand. Which marked the day he tapped Tims shoulder - after roughly two months of co-habiting - to tactfully ask him what he was groaning about as a very special day indeed. They steamrolled into friendship from there, both personalities clashing in the best ways possible.

Jon pulled Tim into nerve wracking research expeditions, Tim flirted them out of being arrested a few times, they went out for drinks and karaoke and movies and stayed late nights to crack nutty cases of supernatural bullshit together.

This went on for months. A nice, comfortable new routine. Jon wasn't alone anymore. And Tim broke out of whatever had pulled him down so much, becoming more cheerful and flirty by the day. Which didn't matter to Jon because Tim would always come to him the most, would always seek out to partner up with Jon and would defend his prickly personality to his dying breath.

And then Sasha joined them. She came from Artefact Storage, which made her a prime target for every curious researcher in a five mile radius. Tim and Jon included. Alright maybe they were the worst of the bunch.

Although Jon only thought of himself as a partner in crime in this one. He had been dragged along by Tim, after all. Sure in the end he had been the one to ask the most questions, but that wouldn't have been the case if he had just been left alone to be antisocial in front of his laptop.

Sasha and Tim, much to Jons chargin, hit it off within the first few seconds. And ever since then their cozy two-someness had turned into a group effort. With specially leverage put on the word "effort".

"Morning Jon!"

Jon let out a deep, rumbly hum, voice not up to the task of supporting words this late in the- He glanced at the little clock at the bottom of his screen. Ah... early in the morning.

With a laugh that was far too cheerful however you would describe the current hour, Sasha sat down next to him. She leaned in to look at what he was working. He leaned away to get her out of his personal bubble.

Her legs brushed his and the rustling drew his gaze downward. She wore a thick wool skirt, long enough not to go against the dress code. It was a somewhat dull navy blue and fell down in enticing waves around her crossed legs.

It looked very soft and comfortable. Jon itched to touch it. Instead he rubbed against the stiff fabric of his own cream coloured dress pants.

"Would you mind?" He snapped at her.

"No. You spelled 'aboriginal' wrong."

"Thank you for your insight. Don't you have anywhere else to be?"

"Don't you?" She shot back, light and quick as though they were just bantering and not fighting over the right to sit at this table.

Sasha huffed at his glare and slid a cup of something steaming over to him. "You keep staying so late that I can buy you a drink at the asscrack of dawn and be sure you're still here to consume it hot. I'm not usually one to judge anyone's sleep schedule. But I'm judging your sleep schedule."

"And yours is any better?" Jon muttered, taking the offering and peeking inside. Black tea with a bit of cream and hopefully enough sugar to rot his teeth out of his mouth. He needed both the coffein and the sweet energy source.

"I'm getting at least two more hours of sleep than you do on a daily basis, so I'm good."

"Tim would have both of our heads if he knew."

Sasha put her hand on the table and stretched out her pinky. "I swear secrecy if you do."

With a snort Jon linked their pinkies. "I'll hold you to that."

So... Maybe Sasha wasn't that bad. She was a little aggressive in her befriending techniques, Jon mused. At least he hoped the early morning chats and cups of tea and coffee were that and not an elaborate plan to get rid of him via slow poisoning. But she was about as curious as Tim and Jon and her skills with computers were very happily exploited by the both of them. So Jon eventually had to admit that she was actually a very nice addition to the group.

Not that he could have ever said no to their friendship. Tim and Sasha put together were a maelstorm of affection, sucking Jon in with a force he had no chance to defend against. And before he knew it they had successfully gotten him accostumed to friday nights at the pub and saturday mornings in their flats, smashed together on a couch or a bed or a mattress depending on who had had the misfortune of playing host that week.

Jon hadn't been this comfortable since Georgie. And that wasn't only the booze talking. It was one of those nights where they ended up leaving the pub early to lounge around Sashas massive sofa instead. Jons head was swimming within a blissful haze of tipsiness.

He was slouching over one end of the couch, head tilted just so that he could watch his two friends bicker. The words didn't really register, but the noise was nice and their expressions were funny.

Without his conscious saying so, his gaze slid down to Sashas leg area. She wore a very eye catching, fluttery red skirt this time around and the way the warm glow of the ceiling lamp was reflected in the material was mesmerizing.

"Oh Jonny boy, don't you know staring like that is rude?" Tim half-joked as he noticed.

Sasha slapped him on the shoulder. "Shush you there's like zero sexual longing in his gaze, Tim. You don't need to go all protective big brother on me. He just really likes my skirts."

"They look comfy." Jon muttered, sinking deeper into the couch.

"Awww. Jon. Jon my love. My friend. My buddy." Tim scooted over to him, nearly face planting on the floor in his eagerness to slide into Jons side. "Is this jealousy I hear?"

"No. Did you just degrade me from lover to lowest friendship tier?"

"Oh I beg to differ." Tim sang, ignoring the question and making Jon scowl harder.

An arm got thrown over his shoulder and Jon was tugged into Tims side, relaxing into the tight hold against his will.

"You know if you didn't make it a sport to buy the most uncomfortable clothing ever, you wouldn't need to glare at Sashas fashion choices all the time. Making other people think things about your intensions."

"Fuck other people."

Jon waited until the surprised laughter of his two friends ebbed down to speak again. "I wanna be comfortable too..."

"Say no more. Sasha to the rescue."

Tim and Jon both whined as she hopped off and darted away into her bedroom. She hadn't been part of the cuddle pile, but her presence was still dearly missed. Thankfully not for long because a few minutes later she reappeared with a long, purple skirt.

"Here you go mister. Go on try it on."

Trading places with her Jon didn't hesitate to shug his trousers off and slip the skirt on. Tim wolf whistled behind him and Jon dutifully showed him a finger. The yelp he heard shortly after told him that Sasha must have taken more direct approach to disciplining Tim.

"Bad boy. I picked that colour for a reason."

Jon flushed at the reminder that Tim and Sasha knew. That they knew and accepted him and even went out of their way to make him comfortable.

"I may not be allowed to touch, but I can still appreciate beauty when I see it."

"Do you need glasses, Tim?" Jon couldn't help but ask while he settled back down.

It was his turn to be slapped on the shoulder. "Nu-uh! No self depricating jokes in my household!"

"Yes ma'am." He scooted over to Sashas side, marveling at the slide of the soft material against his legs. "Anyway. Touching yes. But no sex, only cuddles."

Sasha laughed in delight as she pulled him closer so he could stretch out, the two of them nearly shoving Tim off the couch.

"Wait, wait, wait Jon you're definitely not comfortable yet!"

"Hm?" He frowned at the renewed shifting, jeez everyone was being so squirmy today.

"Dress shirt? Really? Wait a sec."

Tim ended up finding a truly attrocious night shirt he had stored in one of Sashas cupboards. It was rainbow coloured, but at least it was made of a soft cotton and about a size too big on Jon.

"Awww Jon you're adorable!"

"Timothy Stoker don't you dare take a photo."

"Fine, fine. But I will remember this day forever."

It turned out that he didn't need to. The next time they were over at Sashas Jon asked to borrow their clothes again and the next time after, and the next time after that, too. It kind of escalated from there, clothes mixed together until it was hard to remember who owned what.

And that was perfect. Because the most comfortable clothes were always the ones that belonged to his friends.

[theskywaslookingback]

JonTim Week 2021

Protect + things you said when i was crying

The library of the Magnus Institute was an awe inspiring thing; a cavernous maw of knowledge and learning, seas of books - old and new, leather bound and paper backed, hundreds of thousands of well cared for tomes - perched almost precarious on dark wood shelves and lit by old wall sconces. Students and researchers both milled about, picking up books on history, or architecture, or something a bit less mundane. At the front was a large mahogany reception desk, and Tim smiled at the young woman sitting behind it.

He cleared his throat and the young woman looked up from her work, startled, before her face lit up in a toothy grin.

“Morning, Tim!”

“Good morning Holly, how was your weekend?”

Holly wrinkled her nose and gave a dismissive wave. “Fine, fine. Did you do anything fun?”

Tim had spent most of his weekend in bed, staring at the wall across from him and trying not to think of anything at all. He shrugged, “Bit of this, bit of that. Do you have anything for me?”

Holly nodded. It took her a moment to find a small stack of books, tucked off to the side with a little slip of paper that read “Tim Stoker :)” in a scrawling, chicken scratch of a font. “Martin put these aside for you on Friday before he left. I’m not sure what you’ve already looked at if you want to take a peek.”

Tim shook his head, “I’m sure it’s fine Holly, thank you.”

She nodded and handed that stack over. “If you don’t mind me asking, I’d love to know what research-”

“Thanks again, Holly,” Tim said brightly, tucking the stack against his chest without looking at it, “have a good day!”

Her confused “you too” fell on deaf ears as Tim turned and hurried back down the hall to the Research department.

There were very few people at their desks at half past eight on a Monday morning. Richard had the desk closest to the door and raised a coffee mug at him in greeting with a sleepy smile. Renee and Charles had appropriated the corner desk, Renee sitting cross legged on the old oak and making expansive gestures and talking quick and low while Charles leaned on the wall and grinned at them. Jonathan was already at the desk next to Tim’s, headphones in and typing away at his laptop with dark circles under his eyes like he’d spent the weekend sitting there - with Jon, that was entirely possible.

Tim sat his books down and let his messenger bag fall off his shoulder and into his seat. He took his time setting up his laptop and sorting through his books. At some point a couple more researchers trickled in through the door, wiping sleep and hangovers from their eyes. A soft susurrus of noise drifted through the room as people got settled, exchanging files and stories from the weekend.

Tim exchanged pleasantries with Simon, who had the desk to his left, and Sasha who’d recently transferred from artifact storage. He waved off Sasha’s pointed questions about the bags under his eyes and deflected with a good natured self-jab at staying out too late the night before. Sasha seemed unconvinced but left him be easily enough, leaving a stack of statements on the corner of his desk that she’d leafed through and wanted his help making a few calls about.

The noise of clacking keyboard keys and gentle conversation was usually comforting, but Tim had felt on edge for days and now it just grated. Maybe Jon had the right idea, with the headphones.

Eventually Tim closed his laptop and picked up the books he’d grabbed from the library. He leafed through them seemingly at random; one on the architecture of Robert Smirke, one of the history of the circus in the United Kingdom, one a biography on a man named Joseph Grimaldi. Tim hesitated on the biography, his fingers tracing over a picture of the man dressed for his famous clown act.

He tried not to look at that clown and think about Danny, because thinking about Danny brings about guilt and anger so whole and consuming that it threatens to swallow him.

He’d been so close to the edge for so long, it’s almost funny how quickly he breaks.

He doesn’t register the book falling from his hands. He doesn’t register the quiet falling across the room, the people turning to look at him. He can’t think about how numb his hands are, the way his breath catches and crashes out of him like an offbeat drum.

The question, when it inevitably comes, hurts just as much as Tim had been afraid it would.

“Are you alright?”

Tim barked out a mirthless laugh, half insane with rotten grief.

“Right,” The voice came again, flustered, “Of course not. Okay--”

A hand moved into his vision, catching his gaze and pulling it up until he was eye to eye with Jon.

Of course it was Jon.

It could only be Jon.

“Tim, do you want to leave?”

There was no way to answer that, not really.

It was easier to focus on Jon’s face, lined with worry. His body blocking Tim from the room’s prying eyes. His hand, still outstretched in askance. Jon watched him for a long moment before nodding, seemingly to himself. “Okay, up, come on.” He said, his hand hovering over Tim’s shoulder.

Tim rolled into the touch and Jon’s face crumpled into something unreadable before Jon was pulling him up and out, guiding him down hallways and through doors with a firm hand. They fell to a stop in a discarded room, the walls stacked high with unpacked boxes and old furniture. Jon guided him to sit in a mostly stable metal folding chair and crouched in front of him, digging in his bag. After a moment he pulled out a bottle of water and offered it up to Tim.

Any gratitude Tim might have felt was buried under a wall of numb sorrow, a ‘thank you’ crumbled and died in the back of his throat. He washed it down with some of the water and didn’t bother trying to put the cap back on with his fingers shaking so badly.

It was only when Jon offered up a packet of tissues that Tim realized he must have been crying.

Embarrassing, that. Probably. Once he could remember what feeling felt like.

Jon turned his face away while Tim scrubbed at his eyes, a play at privacy Tim could at least pretend to appreciate.

“Where are we?” Tim asked once he’d pulled himself into some semblance of normalcy.

“Ah,” Jon looked around the room before shrugging one shoulder awkwardly, “I’m not sure, really. I just...wanted to get you away.”

“Get me all by myself,” Tim said, almost a joke. He leaned into it, trying to land for humor but stumbling a bit on the dismount. “Can’t tell if you want to ravish me or kill me.”

Jon swatted at his knee, lighter than he normally would. Gracelessly, he tactfully avoided Tim’s attempt at a joke with an honesty Tim was still trying to get used to. “Neither. Neither I just...you’re my friend, I wanted to—“

“To?”

“Protect you, I suppose. I don’t like to see you hurting.”

“Yeah, well…” Tim trailed off, “too late.”

Jon’s hand was so warm where it rested against his knee, a light pressure that squeezed just a little to make Tim look down at him.

“I know.” Jon said simply, “I’m still here, though.”

Tim let his hand fall on top of Jon’s.

Eventually he’d need to pull himself together enough to get back to work, or to pack his things and take a sick day. He’d need to field off the questions and well meaning coworkers. He would need to figure out a way to look at that book without falling into pieces.

But for now it was enough to sit and remember how to breathe, with Jon at his side.

[voiceless-terror]

Smile and Nod (The Magnus Archives)

Whumptober 2020 Day Six: “Stop, please”

Fandom: The Magnus Archives

Characters: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims, Sasha James, Tim Stoker, Elias Bouchard, Original Character

CW: Harassment, Unwanted Advances

Summary: 

“He said to let go of him.” The voice startles them both and Jon turns to see Martin, a placid smile on his face. He is tall, so tall- was Martin always this tall?

Jon runs into trouble at the Institute’s annual donor party and has an unlikely rescuer. 

The Institute hosted a party for its most illustrious donors every spring. Jon had never been expected to go to it until his promotion to Head Archivist and even then he tried to get it out of it, to no avail.

“I’m afraid it’s part of your duties now as Head Archivist,” Elias had said. “We need to have a face for every department and I’m sure quite a few of our donors are anxious to meet Gertrude’s replacement. You understand, of course.” Jon nodded. “I trust you’ll be on your best behavior.” He hadn’t forgotten his promise to ‘be more lovely’ after the incident with Naomi Herne. 

“Yes, yes,” Jon sighed. He wasn’t looking forward to the event- sticking close to Elias’s side didn’t seem very appealing, but being left to the wolves was even worse. Elias seemed to notice his hesitation and paused, waiting for Jon to continue. Perhaps he didn’t have to go alone. It’s worth a try, isn’t it?

“W-Would it,” he began, cursing his stutter. “That is, I would like to- if you don’t mind, I think it would be valuable to have my assistants attend, as well?” He hated the uptick in his voice that made it sound more like a question. “I-I just think it would be a good experience for them to ah, meet the donors as well. Since they do a lot of the research.” Another reminder that he had no idea what he was doing; Elias hadn’t said anything about his methods in the Archives, so he only hoped that indicated a tacit agreement about the way things should be run. 

Jon watched several emotions flit across the man’s face, irritation and disappointment giving way to resignation. He tried to ignore the first two and focus on the last. “Alright,” Elias agreed with a sigh. “Please stress the formality of this event, particularly to Mr. Blackwood. You’ll be representing the Institute, and as such you will be expected to interact with our donors. See that you don’t use your assistants as a social crutch.” Damn. There goes his plan. At least I’ll have some support. 

So here he was, standing in the hallway with his assistants in an ill-fitting suit he last wore to the funeral of a distant cousin. It didn’t fit then, either. He hoped he didn’t look too much like a child in his father’s clothes, but the snickers from Tim and Sasha dashed any hope of that. They looked wonderful, of course, as they always did. Martin was in the same boat as Jon, fidgeting in a blazer and non-matching pants.

“Well boss, looks like it’s time to schmooze!” Tim clapped a hand on his shoulder and steered him through the door. Elias liked to have his parties in the main library- it was the most beautiful part of the Institute, aside from the entrance hall. The tables and desks that normally populated the center of the room had been cleared away to reveal a rather spacious area for guests to mingle and talk over the sound of a tasteful string quartet. The whole event was incredibly elegant and Jon felt like he very much did not belong.

“Ah, there he is!” He heard Elias call from the right-hand corner of the room, where he was surrounded by several well-to-do donors dressed to the nines. He gestured him over with a magnanimous hand and Jon instantly flushed. Tim squeezed his shoulder and pushed him in their general direction. “This is our new Head Archivist, Jonathan Sims. He’s been doing fine work thus far.”

After a moment Tim’s hand is replaced by Elias’s, firm and weighty on his shoulder. He’s exchanging pleasantries with people whose names he forgets almost instantly- their hands are cold and their voices distant, they talk over him as if he were a child they judged and found wanting. Elias’s hand did not move and he was anchored in place, even as they made no move to include him in their conversation.

He saw Martin give him a look of pity from the corner that he was currently occupying with Sasha and Tim. They had their hands full of hors d'oeuvres and drinks and Jon wished desperately for a glass of water, anything to keep his hands occupied. He turned to realize the  conversation had stopped and his companions were staring at him expectantly. “I’m sorry?” he hazarded, wondering if he’d been addressed.

“Our son George,” the woman over-enunciated, her tone condescending. Jon remembered vaguely that she had some connection to the Fairchilds, though her name wasn’t familiar. “-is over by the bar. I think you’ll find his company a bit more interesting, hm?” The group tittered and Jon felt shame rise in his throat as his boss’s hand tightened on his shoulder.

“Yes Jon, why don’t you introduce yourself?” Elias said genially enough, though Jon can tell he had disappointed him once again. Jon nodded, excusing himself to go to the corner to get a much-needed drink and to embarrass himself further. There was a man roughly his age fiddling around on his phone with a bored expression. He was tall and handsome but in the soft way of the rich, cruel and cherubic in equal measure. It unnerved Jon and he summoned up a smile that felt more like a grimace.

“G-George?” he asked, willing his voice to steady. The man looked up, expression unchanged as his eyes bored into Jon’s. “I’m Jonathan Sims, the new Head Archivist-”

“Parents send you over?” he smirked and Jon felt the tension in his shoulders ease just a bit. “Sorry you had to deal with them. This your first time at one of these? Median age here is usually around seventy five, give or take.” He laughed and Jon smiled, the man’s candor a bit charming even to him. 

“Y-Yes, I’m not really sure I should be here,” he admitted as George slid a drink into his hand. He took a grateful sip and closed his eyes at it’s smooth burn- this was expensive liquor and Jon was going to savor every last bit.

“That makes two of us,” the man nudged him with his elbow and Jon started to think the night might not be as bad as he thought. He glanced quickly over to the other side of the room- Tim winked and gave him a thumbs-up (which he ignored) and Martin’s face was carefully blank. Jon did not know what to make of that.

George, it seemed, was not all that bad. He listened patiently when Jon went off on a rant about book-binding, nodding and smiling at all the right parts. In return, Jon let him talk about finance for longer than was polite (and God was it boring). They’ve now had two drinks and Jon is feeling much, much looser. The smiles are genuine and unforced. He watches Elias nod in approval out of the corner of his eye and feels his chest warm with pride. Not a complete disappointment, am I?

But George is getting closer. It was fine when they were awkwardly perched on opposite ends of the bar and needed to hear one another, but this was getting too cozy for Jon’s tastes. He tries to take a casual step backwards but stumbles. George’s hand goes to his elbow to help steady him and stays there. 

“I-I think I need to-” he starts to mumble an excuse but the man is not having it.

“What do you say we get out of here?” He whispers, coming in closer. Jon’s nerves reach a fever-pitch but he does not want to show it, doesn’t want to make a scene so he keeps the smile pasted on his face. “My apartment’s not that far-”

“O-Oh, I’m f-fine, thanks,” he says, trying to dislodge the man’s arm but it is no use- he is much stronger than he looks and has at least half a foot on him. “I actually have plans-”

“With who?” George asks pityingly as Jon tries desperately to meet anyone’s eyes, even Elias’s. He tries to convey his plea without making it obvious to any other bystanders but his boss’s eyes slide right over him. He knows he saw, he knows-

“That’s why they sent you over, right?” George continues, his mouth dangerously close to Jon’s neck as he leans into whisper in his ear. “Pretty thing like you, get me to open the cheque book-”

“Good Lord no, let me go-” at this Jon scoffs, horrified as he tries to yank his arm away.

“Don’t make a scene,” the man says in a low and calming voice, though the leer on his face is clear to see. Jon feels terribly small. “You don’t want to disappoint the boss, do you?”

“Please,” he begs, all out of words. “Stop, please-”

“He said to let go of him.” The voice startles them both and Jon turns to see Martin, a placid smile on his face. He is tall, so tall- was Martin always this tall? 

“I’m sorry?” George replies with a sneer, his voice raising in both pitch and volume and Jon is sure if people weren’t looking before, they’re looking now. “I’ll thank you to stay out of this, we were just leaving-”

“No,” Martin replies in that preternaturally calm voice, still smiling. “You weren’t. Now let him go, and we can forget this all happened, hm?” He puts a hand on the arm that’s holding Jon and there’s real strength behind it. George tries to wrench his arm away but Martin’s got it in a solid grip and he barely manages a wiggle.

“Let go of me now, or I’ll-”

“You’ll what?” Martin sounds bored. It is mystifying and Jon can do nothing but gape at the man. “You don’t want a scene, do you? Not in front of the family. Not again. So smile, and walk away.” There is a moment where Jon thinks they will come to blows but it passes. George manages to turn his scowl into a neutral expression, saving some dignity though he throws one last glare Jon’s way. “Not even worth it,” he mutters as he walks away. Jon leans against the bar, releasing a breath he did not realize he’d been holding.

“A-Are you alright, Jon?” Martin has a hand on his elbow but it’s okay now because it’s Martin and it feels right. His face has that same look he gets when he asks Jon whether he wants a cup of tea, or how he’s feeling or if he’s eaten that day. Worried, gentle.

“W-What was that?” is all Jon manages to get out, his voice in an embarrassingly high-pitch. Tim and Sasha are now making their way over with schooled expressions, though Jon can see the worry in their eyes. “Did you know that man? I-I mean, what the hell?” Jon realizes he’s sputtering and tries to get a handle on his swirling emotions. “N-Not that I’m not grateful, but good lord. ‘Not again?’”

Martin laughs, suddenly bashful. “I just guessed with that one, honestly. He looks like the type that’s thrown a fit or two, doesn’t he?” Tim and Sasha reach them and Martin is himself again, hunched over like he’s taking up too much space. This is the Martin that tiptoes around the archives, that’s always smiling and chattering about his day. Jon has never contemplated the man in much detail, but he is finding it hard to reconcile this new side of him. It’s not necessarily unwelcome. 

“Alright there, boss?” Tim inquires, good-natured but anxious. “Was going to come over, pretend to be your boyfriend and all but Martin said that would be ‘demeaning’ or whatever.” Tim rolls his eyes at this.

“I don’t know, Martin seemed to diffuse the situation pretty well,” Sasha eyes him curiously. “What did you say?”

“N-Nothing, really-”

“He asked him to leave,” Jon says, finding his voice and unable to take his eyes off Martin. “And he left.”

“Damn, okay,” Tim gives an appreciative whistle before knocking back the rest of his drink. “Working that Mart-o magic, I guess. This party blows, let’s hit the bars. Night’s still young!”

Sasha cheers and Martin looks at him questioningly- he surprises himself by nodding in agreement. “Yeah, let’s go.” He studiously ignores Elias breaking off from his group of sycophants and heading their way. He watches as Martin straightens himself minutely, blocking Jon with his body as Tim ushers them out the door before they can get stopped by the man. Jon knows he will get a tongue-lashing out of this but he doesn’t care right now. He feels small in Martin’s shadow but it is a safe small, like a blanket wrapped around him on a chilly night.

“Are you sure you’re alright?” Martin asks as Tim and Sasha chatter ahead of them, arguing over their destination. “We don’t have to go out if you don’t want to. I can take you home.”

I can take you home.

“I’m fine,” he says though he knows the situation hasn’t quite set in yet. “I’d rather not be alone, I-I think.” Martin nods and gives him a smile. It is almost charming, and Jon returns it. He doesn’t really want another drink but he needs a distraction, any distraction.

The night is cold and Martin is close, big and safe and warm. And if Jon leans into his side when they finally agree on a bar, that’s nobody’s business but his own.

ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26856373

[grimmseye]

Left Reel Clockwise

(Read on Ao3)

Fandom: The Magnus Archives

Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims, Tim Stoker & Jonathan Sims, Sasha James & Jonathan Sims

Characters: Jonathan Sims, Martin Blackwood, Tim Stoker, Sasha James

Warnings/Tags: Episode 200 spoilers, Time-travel, Fix-it, Apocalypse-typical PTSD

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

The first moments of existence after death were spent in a muddled haze. Awareness came languid to his mind, filling in the knowledge of a cool and smooth surface beneath his cheek, the weight of his arms, the tickle of a long lock of hair teasing his nose. 

He couldn’t say exactly how memory flooded back, but later would register it rather like a sudden fall, as though rain fell in a single, uniform sheet rather than droplets from the sky. In a heartbeat he went from half-asleep to surging to his feet as he remembered. He crashed into a sturdy weight that tossed itself away from him then toppled to the ground, barely processing the noise over the scream of static and blood in his ears. 

“Martin?” He called out, with a sudden flare of hope. Then Jon’s breath gusted from his chest. There was no Martin, no shock of white hair atop a bespectacled face. He reached out on instinct to the Eye, demanding its knowledge — and got only a faint buzz in response.

Tamping down panic, Jon forced himself to take in the room. There was a desk. A toppled-over hair. A window, letting slits of muddled afternoon light in through the blinds. 

It was his old office. The knowledge floated through his mind, though he couldn’t process it. Tape recorders were stacked on the desk, those that had been used marked with post-it notes. A thin stack of papers was beside another. 

He staggered to it, the need to understand overriding anything else. Atop it was a paper he’d seen far too many times: the form they gave to every client before they gave their statement. Name, date, subject, all filled out by hand in black ink. This one was written by Jason North. 

He repeated the name, and the oddest part was that he didn’t instantaneously know who that was. A second later he remembered: the man had been a victim of the Desolation. Had lost all but his child to the Lightless Flame. He had first recorded that statement even before Jane Prentiss’ attack. 

A wave of dizziness made him stumble, and he steadied himself on the desk. He stared at his hands, and found them strangely smooth. No twisted, long-healed burn. No pockmark scars of infestation. There was the silvery line from a neighbor’s dog, which had caught his middle finger in its eagerness to take a treat. Another, on the side of the thumb. A kitchen knife had slipped. 

2016. The last time he had looked like this was 2016. 

“Martin!” The shout rose unbidden from his chest, sudden panic seizing him. He reached to the Eye again, realizing with a twist of his stomach that the connection was there, but distant. It was a lingering thread, gossamer thin, that passed from his grip heedless of his call. 

At once Jon was just a pinprick in a wider, crueler universe, the suffocating sense of helplessness washing over him. It left Jon bracing his weight against the desk, unable to even walk through the door to see what lay beyond it. Was this an alternate dimension, exactly the same except save for minute twists in the detail? Or just a feverish dream, the last screaming throes of his dying mind? 

He started to paw at his own chest. His innards felt strange, like something had been stuffed beneath his skin that hadn’t been there before. He shoved one hand beneath his shirt, and there he felt it: a scar. Thick, and short, one he didn’t recognize. It was about the right length to match the base of a knife, the one he himself had used to cut the first Pupil out of this life. The one Martin in turn had slid into his heart. 

The door opened. 

Jon froze. 

Tim peeked around the door, wearing the lightest of frowns. It deepened in clear concern as he took stock of the room, and then Jon himself. “Whoa there, Boss,” he said, stepping inside and moving towards Jon. “Did you trip?” 

He was halfway to Jon before he regained use of his legs. He skittered away from Tim until his shoulder hit a wall, making him buckle and nearly collapse. Tim gave a call of concern, but halted in his tracks when Jon braced an defensively arm in front of himself. He had no weapon, but his heart was pounding, muscles coiled tight. He looked like a cornered animal, hunched against the wall with teeth half-bared and fingers curled like claws. 

“Do not —” Jon choked out, unable to tear his eyes away from Tim, looking for the one detail that would prove this was fake. Black skin, darker hair that sat close-cropped atop his head. The clothes were right, passable to the dress-code with as much flair as he was allowed. Looking at him, Jon wanted to believe it, he wanted for all the world to let this be true. But he couldn’t. 

“Do not come near me,” he spat. 

He hated the look on that thing’s face, twisting Tim’s expression into something alarmed, worried both for himself and for Jon. Yes, that was it. He was in a nightmare. The Eye hadn’t liked him trying to sever its hold on the world, and had trapped him in his own personal hellscape. 

But the thought didn’t fit right in his brain. The Eye simply wasn’t that intelligent. The one sense it lacked was foresight. He knew, with cold clarity, that his paranoia was wrong. 

And then he knew that this was Tim.

He gasped, breath strangled. It felt like his skull was constricting down on his brain. Pressure thrummed behind his eyes, a migraine threatening at the edges. “Tim,” he wheezed. It came out as half a sob. “Oh, god. Oh god, Tim.” Jon covered his mouth, trying to still his breathing. 

“Hey, hey.” It was softer than Jon had heard Tim’s voice in years. Not since Sasha —

“Sasha!” Energy flooded his limbs, and he straightened up, wild-eyed. “Is she here?” 

Tim blinked at him. “Y-yeah, but, look —”

Jon brushed passed him, throwing the door open. The sight of the archive was almost nostalgic, and he drank it in as greedily as Beholding. “Where is she?” He asked. 

“Um —” Tim came to hover at his shoulder. “At her… desk? Boss, are you feeling alright?” 

Jon didn’t answer. Muscle memory carried him there, hurried strides to the place where the Not-Sasha once sat, all long hair and round glasses and thin smiles. 

The woman sitting there instead was a stranger. She was small, dark-skinned and curly-haired. Her curls had been pulled back out of her face in a ponytail that sat nearly atop her head, and bobbed whenever she moved. 

Jon couldn’t stop the uncertainty in his voice when he called for her. Her name felt foreign on his tongue, but she paused and looked up with a smile. It dropped when she met his gaze, and flickered to Tim behind him. 

She rose. “Jon,” she started. His breath caught. Her voice was light and soft-toned, and he felt his shoulders begin to slump as she said, “what’s wrong? You look like you’ve seen… well…” A wry smile curled on her lips. 

He memorized her face. Every detail, the smattering of freckles, her brown eyes so dark they were nearly black, the pinprick at her lip where she had once had it pierced. He struggled to blink back tears.

“Sasha, I… I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” The words poured out before he could stop them. She didn’t understand, it was written on her face. And he knew he wasn’t anywhere he hadn’t been before. Maybe he’d really jumped back in time. Maybe this was something parallel, and he’d simply fallen into the stream. But whatever this was, these were his people. This was his Tim, and his Sasha, and they were still in danger. 

But they were alive. 

“You deserved better than what you got,” Jon told her, emphatic. “And I can’t change what happened, but — maybe I can fix it. Maybe I can…” He spiraled. Possibility was stretching out before him. If this wasn’t a nightmare, if it was a second chance… 

“Jon, is this about the position?” Sasha asked, surprised. “I mean… sure, I was a bit, well, bitter over it at first, but… I mean it’s hardly your fault if Elias is like that.” 

And just like that, his soaring hopes came back down. 

He’d forgotten about Elias. What churned in his belly now was some mixture of nausea and crippling hatred. Stabbing him to death the one time hadn’t been enough to satisfy him. Hearing him beg for his miserable life hadn’t been enough. If he was here again, if he was breathing again… and if he knew what Jon knew… 

“I’m… calling out sick for the day,” Jon announced. “Do whatever you want, just... “ he trailed off, shook his head, and stumbled out. Neither of them stopped him. 

His feet carried him up the stairs. The sight of people, just normal people walking through the corridors of the archive had tears stinging in his eyes. There were cordial smiles and shadows under eyes, simple office displeasure the worst in the faces he saw. It was peaceful. It was wonderful. 

He pushed the doors open, taking a dozen paces out into the courtyard that sat behind the institute before he slowed to a halt. Jon tipped his face up, eyes closed, and let the sun pour on his skin. It was warm, and perfect, and vital. The tears were trickling down his cheeks as he stood there, swaying back and forth on unsteady feet. 

It was only the sound of footsteps that shook him from his reverie. He wiped his eyes, ducked his head, and hurried along his way. 

Until he heard Martin call, “Jon?” 

He spun around. Relief and adoration burst in his chest in equal measure as he looked to Martin, feeling like at long last the missing piece of him had slid into place and he could breathe again. When he saw him, though, that piece crumbled away.

His hair was black. Not that pure white bleached into him by the Lonely’s touch, but a soft, healthy black, neatly trimmed. Beneath it were freckles on a pale and sun-dappled face, square glasses framing his gaze. He couldn’t see a single scar. 

And he was giving Jon a look that made his heart ache. Wary. Uncertain. Afraid.

He didn’t remember. This was his Martin, but there was no recollection in his face. 

“Everything alright?” Martin asked, with such trepidation it would seem mocking if Jon didn’t know it was well deserved. 

Voice strangled, Jon could only turn around and flee. 

[bluejayblueskies]

tma tim stoker :)

send me a character!

First impression

s1: i like this man! he's very fun and funny and bonus points to him for spraying the shit out of those worms

s2, s3: who is this man and why is he being mean to jon :(

Impression now

timothy stoker my absolute beloved <3 <3 <3 <3 <3

i had to step back and really look at tim's motivations to enjoy him as a character, especially since i've had my Loving Jon goggles on since episode one, but my relisten was really enlightening re: why tim does what he does, what he's dealing with, and why jon is in the wrong at certain points in their relationship. now, i love him with my whole heart and i mourn his loss every day </3

Favorite moment

the exchange between him and jon where he thinks that basira and jon are dating! (jon's 'off the record' scene.) there are so many things i enjoy about it--the way you can practically hear the finger guns, the Ace Confusion from jon, the way tim goes from 'oh?' to "oh" in like a second--but i especially enjoy tim's 'are you in trouble?'

this exchange happens after martin finds out that jon is watching tim's house. it's reasonable to assume that martin told tim about this, or that tim at least noticed that jon was being very suspicious of him. tim still asks if jon is in trouble and jokes around with him when he finds out he's not. it's a very lighthearted exchange and to me, it highlights how much tim didn't want his relationship with jon to disintegrate in season two. i always ;____; whenever i listen to it.

Idea for a story

i have written so much about this man, from pre-canon to tim!lives aus. i have an end!tim au that i really really need to finish (suu my beloved ;__;), and beyond that, i think just some more danny&tim fics? i love their dynamic (as little canon evidence as there is for it) and some sort of au where danny is alive but tim still works for the institute would be interesting!

Unpopular opinion

tim was unreasonably mean to jon in season three. i have a whole long post i could write about this to back it up but i'll boil it down to this: tim was absolutely in the right to be angry at jon for the stalking and jon's actions during season two as a whole. he was not in the right to be angry about jon for being stuck at the institute, for being eaten by worms, for sasha, for anything elias did, for being gone/kidnapped, for becoming a 'monster,' etc.. i know that a lot of tim's anger in season three was covering hurt and fear, and i'm not trying to paint tim in a negative light or say that he should have forgiven jon instantly, but i don't think the way that he treated jon in season three was 100% called for or justified.

Favorite relationship

jontim 🥺🥺🥺💛💛💛

Favorite headcanon

asexual sex-favorable tim! other than just liking to write all the tma characters as some form of aspec, i really like sex-favorable tim because exploring a facet of asexuality that i'm not very familiar with with a character that i adore is something that i enjoy greatly!

(also fond of my tim-wears-patterned-dress-shirts-to-work headcanon. the man is in slacks and a button-up but the button-up has little avocados on it and elias can't say anything because it is, technically, within dress code.)

[rosy-cheekx]

Heat Without Warmth, Light Without Sight

This fic is for the @tma-valentines-exchange and was written for @barnabasbennett (pretty sure, at least!) AO3 link is in the source! Based on the prompt: rewrite episode 159 to feature Tim and Archivist!Sasha.

I’ve been waiting SO LONG to post this! I hope you like reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it.

Chapter One: Embers

The archives are quiet. So quiet. Sasha can hear the tick of the clock on her desk and the hum of the radiator she had brought in so many months ago, back when her biggest concern was how cold her Archivist office was. Before the idea of heat reminded her of Tim in oh-so-many painful ways.

The Unknowing had been…bad. Daisy had been imprisoned in The Choke, Sasha left unconscious and Basira forever changed. She had seen it, she told Sasha later, the way Tim had stood amidst the rubble of plastic mannequins and brick and mortar, unscathed as smoke billowed into the sky, silhouetted in greys and blacks. It was terrifying, she said, in a completely different way than the Unknowing had been. Basira described Tim as unstoppable in that moment, a train bulleting towards destruction and revenge, a rage in his eyes that only intensified when he saw the unconscious form of Sasha James, bruised and lying in the rubble.

In Sasha’s six-month coma, she had missed a lot. Martin had explained things to her; a sad compassion in his eyes as he stirred sugar into tea. Tim had fallen to the Desolation, The Cult of The Lightless Flame calling him home after they had heard about his sudden resilience to heat and flame. It made sense. Tim had experienced so much loss and destruction in his life, losing Danny and Jon (and, temporarily, Sasha) due to the machinations of The Stranger. His connection to the Desolation had probably been growing when none of them, not even Tim, had noticed. Sasha tried reaching out to him; Tim was still employed by the Magnus Institute after all, but he was sullen at his desk, the air around him smelling faintly of burnt hair and the iced coffees he used to love now simmering slightly in his mug. Sasha didn’t think he could’ve been any more withdrawn than he had been in the ramp up to stopping the Stranger. But here he was, prickly and cold and altogether uninterested in Sasha’s attempts to reconnect with him.

Sasha unfolds the letter, singed at the corners. She must have just missed him. Again. Her heart pounds in her chest as she reads the words, written the slanted, neat print she knew so well.

Sasha,

If nothing else, I will miss you. But that loss is essential, Jude says, to feeding the spark that binds us all. They think Agnes Montague’s spark passed to me when I decided my loss of life was more important than the survival of The Stranger and their ritual. Something about total commitment to pain, self-destruction, etc. There is some satisfaction in knowing how unhappy they are about it, especially Jude. I think she really wanted to be special. You’d hate her. Maybe it’s cliché, but I don’t think I’m coming back from this. It all began, and it all must end. Who knows? Maybe I’ll finally be able to quit.

I    You are truly unforgettable, boss,

Tim.

Sasha had seen so many of the people she loved fall to the fears of this world in which they find themselves trapped. The loss of Jon had come first, when the thing that Was Certainly Not Jon had stolen him away under their noses. This discovery had come with the loss of the heart of their office: Martin. Realizing he had been in love with a lie had broken something in him, and while Sasha did her best to show him compassion, she couldn’t imagine going through it all in his place. The nature of Gertrude’s death had shocked her; Sasha had known her, had seen such a strong woman she had been. To see (or rather hear) her death reduced to a few cowardly gunshots felt…inadequate. Daisy had become softer after surviving the Buried, kinder to Sasha, but there the Hunt was still there, deep in her. Basira and Melanie were fine, but evasive, suspicious, too eager to wield a knife. And now?

Sasha had no friends, no one she could truly trust, no one left besides Tim. She hadn’t stopped trying to care for him, to make herself available, but she refused to keep her heart open for someone so clearly eager to move away from it all, even if that was motivated by a cult of fire and destruction and pain. But that love she had for Timothy Stoker was still there, the idiot who took her out for drinks and dressed up as her once for April Fool’s and had them all over for Guy Fawkes Day (should she had guessed it then, his eyes illuminated by the pyre, drinking in the light and heat of the flames?) and insisted he cook for everyone whenever he got the chance.

Eyes sweeping over the letter over and over, she read the words, trying to hear each of them in his voice, feeling something in her gut twist as she read her name is his handwriting, in his voice, over and over. Tim had said it so many ways: with mirth, frustration, exhaustion, and warmth. There was still so much left to say. There were so many more ways for him to say her name, and Sasha wanted to hear them all.

This letter? This would not be the last time he said her name. Sasha James, the Archivist, would make damn sure of that.

-

Sasha is hurrying through the Institute when she almost collides with Elias Bouchard. His hair is unkempt, shaggy from his time in prison, but he is dressed immaculately, black dress shirt rolled to his elbows and a tie that seemed to shimmer yellow-green when it catches the light.

“You-Elias, what the hell?” Sasha takes an involuntary step back, hand ghosting to the letter opener she had instinctively tucked into her waistband.

“Save the effort, Archivist. I’m only here to help, after all. My sources say Tim has left?”

“Sources?” Sasha spits the word, fingers resting against the mottled blue handle of the blade. “Please. There’s no need to hide what you are anymore, Elias.”

“Hmm, very well.” His fingers drum patiently on his jaw, one elbow elegantly balanced on the opposite wrist. He looks too calm, too relaxed for the anxiety and anger thrumming its way through Sasha’s chest. “So, you don’t want to know where he’s gone?” Fuck. Elias’s eyebrow arches expectantly, eyes staring past her as he focused on what she could now recognize as what she called the Knowledge.

“Elias Bouchard, t̶̡̟̲͓̩̜̣͕͇̟̱͉̹̽̋̑̑̅̊͒́̔̂͠ͅe̶̝͍̜̲̘̙̤̰͒͗��̞l̴͑̿̎̎��̛͕̜̟̟̰͛͌̽̆͆̓̋̾l̴̟̤͚͉͔̼̄̈́̆̌̏̇͝ ̷͖̙̠͕̜̮̬̟̝̰̫͍̆ṁ̶̨̗̮͍̖͍͖̱̟̍̽͜͝e̴̗̩͒̈́͛̊̽́̿ ̷̧̨̡̦̻̙͎̬̪̞͕͙͖̓͂͂͂͂̊̔̊̕̚͜w̴͈̖̦̒̾̀̽͑̓̑̎̂̇͗̂͒ḩ̸̩̺͎̤̳̰̘̱̣̍ę̵̫͚̖́̇͜r̷̢̘͍̣͚̠͚̫̦̭͌ͅͅͅẻ̵͓͖̆̀̒ ̵͇͕̱̬̻̖͔̲͇͇͊̓͊́̽̍̋̓̈́̎̿̆̕͘͝h̷̨̡̧̨̻̝̲̱̬̻͙̻͋́͒̈͆͛͛̒͂̉̈́̎͜e̴̡̪͓̘̳͇͙̪̠̳͈͔̳͕͗̓̉̎ ̵̢̡̟͍̬͖͔͎̹͇̞͗̓́́i̶̲̬̰͙̖̘̮̠̘̜̙̗̍̈́̀̌̔͌̊͋́̍͌̑̚͝s̶̞̱̥͚̽̔̏͠͝.”

Her voice echoes with persuasion, the smooth words rolling off her tongue before she could consider it. Elias sighs, seeming almost tired with her. “He’s in the Desolation.” Elias sighs, seeming almost tired with her. “Honestly, Sasha, I would have told you without you needing to ask like that.”

She tunes him out, her own Knowing searching for Tim and landing her only with a burning inside her skull. She hisses her pain through her teeth and focuses back on Elias, who seems almost amused.

God, what a bastard. “Ȟ̶̡̱͈̖̱̱̱̤̮̖̳̬̆̿͐͛̾́͗͠͝͝ͅͅo̷̡͎̙̓͗̋̂͊̏̏̅̚͘͝ẅ̶̢̨̧̝̖͚̦̱̟̹̼͕͌͌͌̋̒̆͑̈́̓͛͠ ̶̱̩̜̖̫̼̰̐d̴̢͈͍̗̱̀̉̽͋o̷̢̡̫͈̼̺̹̩̥͕͕͘̕ ̵̢̭̦͍̬͖̪̹͍̬̝͝I̶͕̥̱̤̽̿̃̃̂͐̔͒̒̇̆͗̚̕ ̴̛̞̜̘̥͓̙̗̫̰̙̼̝̀͗͋̊́̕ḡ̴͈͈̗̜̦̇͐̏̿̾̅́̆̎̂̊̕͠e̷̡̡̲̘̞̟̤̗͓̺̱̣̘͐̆̈́̔̎̃͋́ṯ̶̨̺̜̪̺̼̼̟̽̽̍̾̊́͊́̒̕͘ ̵̢͔̟͈̘͚̫̩̭͑̃͘ͅt̸̪̊͛̽̀͒h̴̘̫̖̤̜͕̻̺̯̼̦̟͔̋̍̋̈̌̃͐̈́̍̋e̶̢̛͚͉͕͓̪̖̘͖͇͇̫̲͉̐̀̈́̋̄̃̆̽̃̍͊̓ͅr̵̨͍͖̜͕͈̱̤̤̭͈̳̯̜͈̆͒̾̎̓̓̀̐̈̀̂̉̕͠e̴̦̱̺͓̝͕̥͔̮̓͐͛̚?̸̛̝̞̦͈̦̿͐͌̂̌̆͂̆̔̋͗͒̊”

“Honestly, Sasha, you’re wearing yourself out. Timothy and Jude just left. They were in the library; I’m sure you can follow them. Let your mind follow theirs. Find the right string, if the Mother will pardon my analogy, and pull it. I’m sure they left the door open for you.” He winks, as if enjoying a private joke, and turns on a polished leather shoe, striding towards the Archives with purpose.

Sasha redirects her course and hurries to the library. Is this a trap? Almost definitely. But honestly, she doesn’t care. Rosie, head of the institute while Elias had been “previously occupied," had been the last to leave the Institute, Sasha Knew as she ran, clocking out at 18:02. The librarians and assistants were gone. It was just her. Well, she and Elias, certainly. She was already a pawn in this fourteen-way game of chess; she may as well take down some bishops if this was going to be her end. She has never met Jude Perry, but Tim was right about one thing: she certainly already hated her.

-

In the library, Sasha halts in the doorway, taking in the scene in front of her. The heat is excruciating on her cheeks as she sees a blazed trail of singed books, paper, and manuscripts. The burning in her face and soul is caused not by any fire, but by the sheer anger that someone dared mar her memories of this library, where she had met so many of the people she loves. Loved. No, loves, she decided with certainty. Jon is gone, the true memory of him lost to everything but the errant polaroid, Martin is all but gone, a shell of the warm man they had known, and Tim is just out of reach. But despite all this, maybe in sheer spite of everything they’ve been through, Sasha still present-tense loves each of them.

It is that love, she thinks, that guides her now, more so than the omniscient Eye that paves her way to the Desolation, the scar on reality widening and opening for her before it swallows her whole, the library crumbling into ash around her.

One way or another, she was going to end this.

[jaysworlds]

T4TMA Day Five - Community

“How’s it going, Miss. James?”

Sasha carefully avoids looking up, pretending to focus on her paperwork. “Something the matter, Mr. Stoker?”

Tim laughs, pushing the stack of papers (extra work from Jon; punishment for something that had been entirely Tim’s fault) to the side so he can sit down. “I was just thinking…”

“Funny that, me too.”

“Oh? Care to share?”

“Yes, actually. I was thinking that whatever you’re planning is a terrible idea.”

“I have great ideas.” Sasha finally looks up, fixing him with a glare that she hopes is suitably withering. “I’m still dealing with the fallout from your last ‘great idea.’”

“Alright, alright, I can admit that one was flawed.” He runs a hand through his hair, seemingly unbothered by her best glare. Maybe she should work on that.

Maybe she should work on making him fear her a little more, though she has a suspicion that any attempt would probably start a prank war, and she is not looking to get fired any time soon.

“But this new one is great!”

Sasha groans. “I don’t suppose you could just leave me alone? I haven’t forgiven you yet.”

“You haven’t forgiven me? Me, your best pal?”

“Yes. You.”

Tim sighs, dramatic and long-suffering. “What cruelty. Do you want to hear my idea or not?”

Sasha groans again, smacking her head into her paperwork. She can’t admit she’s interested, though her curiosity is going to be the death of her one day.

“Fine.”

“Perfect!”

“So? Hit me.”

“Archival pride trip!”

Sasha sits up, staring at him. “Are you actually serious?”

“Yeah! London Pride is in a couple of weeks, and it would be a great bonding experience, don’t you think?”

“I think you’re mad if you think Jon will agree to that.”

Tim flaps his hand around. “I see no reason why he wouldn’t. It’s a bonding experience!”

“You said.”

“God, you’re boring. Wouldn’t it be fun, though? Just you, me, Jon, and Martin. Maybe they’d even kiss!”

Sasha snorts. “Tim, you’re living in a fantasy world.”

“Maybe we’d kiss.” He waggles his eyebrows at her, and she can’t quite supress a smile.

“How about this,” she says, because she can’t deny she’d like to watch Tim get shot out of the sky by Jon telling him going to pride would be ‘unprofessional’ or something. “If Jon says yes to us going to pride then I’ll kiss you there, alright?”

Tim grins and throws his arms around her shoulders, nearly knocking them both onto the ground. “I knew you had it in you. I’m going to get that kiss, mark my words.”

Sasha laughs and shoves him off. “I don’t think so.”

Someone clears their throat from behind them and Sasha freezes. It’s Jon, she knows it’s Jon, and if he gives her more paperwork she is going to murder Timothy Stoker.

“Hey, boss!” Tim says, standing up and brushing himself down. Sasha turns around in her chair to watch.

“You’re not on a break, Tim,” Jon says, giving him a disapproving look. Theirs is even worse than Sasha’s, and unsurprisingly Tim does not cower. “Please stop harassing Sasha. I’m sure you both have enough work to be getting on with.”

“Sure,” Tim says, wandering over and slinging an arm around their shoulders. Sasha cringes a little, but surprisingly enough Jon doesn’t shove him off. Just sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose.

“What is it?”

“I’ve had a wonderful idea for a group bonding exercise,” he says, steering Jon towards their office. “I’d love to talk to you about it.”

“You have five minutes,” Jon says, and then the door to his office bangs shut.

Sasha snorts. There’s no way in hell that Jon is going to agree to this.

“Hi, Sasha.”

“Hi, Martin,” Sasha says, leaning back against her desk and grinning at him. “You’re never going to guess what Tim’s trying to arrange.”

“Oh dear,” Martin says, brow furrowing. “Is it a prank war? I’m really not any good at pranks, you know. I would put salt in people’s tea, but that just seems really predictable, you know?”

Sasha laughs. “Oh, god no. I don’t think he’d announce that, just start … filling Jon’s office with plastic spiders or something. No, it’s not that.”

“Bar crawl?”

“Nope.”

“Some sort of competition?”

“Nope. I told you, you’ll never guess.”

“Fine. Tell me.”

“Archival pride trip.”

Martin laughs, almost nervously. “Jon’s never going to agree to that. Right?”

“I hope not. I’ll have to kiss Tim if he does.”

“Oh, really?” Martin frowns, getting a look in his eye that Sasha doesn’t completely like.

“Yes. What’s that look for?”

Martin gives her a little smile that she really doesn’t like. “Oh, nothing. Is Tim talking to them now?”

“Yes,” Sasha says, narrowing her eyes. “Martin Blackwood, what are you planning?”

“Nothing!” Martin says, and he’s such a bad liar. “I’m just going to, um, take Jon their cup of tea, alright?”

“Don’t encourage Tim,” Sasha says warningly, as Martin starts backing towards the office. “I mean it! You’ll make an enemy for life!”

Martin just laughs and disappears into Jon’s office.

God, why had she told him about her crush on Tim? He’s going to use that knowledge against her, she knows it.

She growls to herself and turns back to her paperwork. Might as well get something done, right?

“Sasha!” Tim announces, almost five minutes later, and she can tell by his tone of voice that he’s won. Somehow. “You’ll never guess what we, as an archive, are going to do next week.”

She groans and turns around slowly, not wanting to see the smug grin on his face. “Oh, I couldn’t guess. Please, enlighten me.”

“Our wonderful boss has decided that it will be a fantastic bonding experience if we all go to pride.”

Sasha shakes her head, turning to give Martin, just emerging from Jon’s office, her withering glare. Unlike Tim he actually shrinks a little, giving her a smile that might be apologetic, from a certain angle.

“Did you encourage him?” she growls, and Martin laughs nervously.

“I just suggested it, that’s all.”

“You are the worst,” she tells him. “I’m never trusting you again.”

Tim laughs, triumphant. “He’s my partner in crime!”

“He’s going to be your partner in suffering for this.”

“Oh, stop it. We all know you want to kiss me so bad it makes you look stupid.”

“The thought makes me feel violently ill.”

“Shame, because these lips are going to be on yours in two weeks’ time.”

Sasha turns to glare at Martin again, only to find that he’s already disappeared. Probably wise, really. Maybe she should instigate a prank war.

Tim actually brings flags into the archive over the next two weeks, and the worst part is that Jon actually lets him hang them up. She’s considering going into his office and demanding to know who’s stolen him and replaced him with a boss who actually lets Tim carry out his dumb ideas.

She has to admit it’s kind of nice, though, having the flags around. Tim has bought himself and Jon bi flags, Martin several little rainbow pins, and an enormous trans flag for all four of them that he’s somehow managed to tape to the ceiling. There’s even an ace flag on Jon’s door, and she’s considering letting him bring her a pan flag. Considering.

(She lets him, in the end. It’s not like she doesn’t have one at home, but it’s her home flag, and having one on her desk is nice, actually.)

She still doesn’t understand how he convinced Jon to let him do this, but she has a suspicion that he bribed them, though what with she isn’t sure. Maybe the flags are the bribe.

The morning of pride is … exciting, actually. Jon’s given them all the whole day off work (she thinks he must have bribed Elias. Maybe with whatever Tim bribed him with) and they’re planning to meet at Trafalgar Square. Maybe she goes a little overboard with getting dressed, but what’s the point of pride if you’re not going overboard?

Tim has gone even more overboard than she has, to be honest. He’s painted his whole face blue, purple and pink like he’s going to a gay football game, and he’s wearing a trans flag as a cape, complete with a he/him broach. It’s kind of cool, really. Not that she’d tell him that.

Martin has, predictably, gone pretty simple, just a few badges on his shirt (which reads ‘come to the gay side, we have rainbows.’ Sasha’s certain Tim bought it for him) and a little paper flag.

Jon, to her surprise, isn’t quite as straight-laced (ha) as they usually are. They’re wearing a skirt which wouldn’t meet the institute dress code and honest-to-god fishnet stockings.

“Looking good, boss!” Tim calls, when they arrive, and they give him a small, almost embarrassed smile.

“Thank you, Tim,” they say. “You too.”

Martin is, predictably, staring, and Sasha elbows him gently. As cross as she is that this is at least partially his fault she doesn’t want him to embarrass himself.

It’s a good day, actually. A really good day. Tim has brought a polaroid camera, and he insists on documenting everything. Martin has to keep the photos safe, as the only person who’s brought bag, but Tim doesn’t seem to mind.

“Right!” he says, after a few hours, and hands the camera off to Martin. “One of you owes me a kiss.”

Sasha rolls her eyes and walks over to him, perhaps a little more eagerly than normal. “I’ll try not to be sick.”

“Like you haven’t been looking forward to this for the past two weeks.”

“Talking to yourself?”

Tim laughs, pulling her closer. “Shut up and kiss me.”

And she does. He’s a good kisser, actually, and it’s nice. It’s really nice.

“See?” he says, when he pulls away. “That wasn’t so bad.”

She rolls her eyes and kisses him on the cheek. “There. That’s all you get.”

“What do I have to do to get a date as well?”

She huffs, glancing over at Martin. He grins and waves a fresh photo at her.

“I’ll think about it,” she says, finally. “Come on, let’s go.”

“That’s not a no,” Tim says, gleefully.

“Come on,” Jon says, rolling his eyes, though Sasha imagines it’s rather fond. “We can’t stand around here all day.”

“Coming, boss,” Tim says, and grins at Sasha.

And if she reaches out to link her fingers through his, then that’s nobody’s business but her own.

[fox-guardian]

like 2 people have shown interest in the au I mentioned in relation to my header image which is this

[ID: A doodle of Danny Stoker, drawn in yellow, doing the Will Smith pose presenting Tim Stoker, drawn in purple, who is holding a paper bag. Danny is a beefy man wearing a button down, sweater vest and trousers, and Tim is a shorter, slim man wearing a coat, a t-shirt that says "pog", patterned pajama pants, slippers, and glasses. Danny is smiling excitedly and Tim looks frazzled with stubble, eyebags, and messy hair. end ID]

~~~~

so now I will Talk About It. don't worry it's very simple and silly

basically it's a stokerswap!au in which Danny survives his encounter with the stranger and goes to work at the institute to find out more about what happened to him. Tim doesn't die, but rather just does his own thing in publishing or whatever because I refuse to kill him off

Danny takes Tim's place in the research trio and everything is chaos. But all is well in terms of Friendship, and all this time Danny has been hyping up his beloved brother Tim. Perhaps a bit too much. He might be exaggerating a couple things.

The others have yet to meet him, however, until one day Tim realizes that Danny forgot his lunch and it's his off day so he's just gonna go deliver it real quick. In and out, no big, he's not even gonna get dressed because who's he gonna meet? The receptionist? He doesn't care that much. But then Danny sees him and gets excited and decides to introduce him to his coworkers saying all this really nice stuff making him out to be this amazing guy (which he is and he knows he is!!) but all on the one day he looks like utter garbage and Danny's coworkers are Looking At Him Now and that is what that image represents. thank you

[ostentenacity]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: The Magnus Archives (Podcast) Rating: General Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Martin Blackwood & Tim Stoker Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Daemons, Slice of Life, Developing Friendship, Light Angst, Fluff, Pre-Canon Summary:

From his very first day in the archives, Martin knows he isn’t going to fit in. It’s not the way his new coworkers dress—though it certainly doesn’t help that, like almost everyone in the Institute, they look like polished, professional, moderately-well-off academics, while Martin… doesn’t. Rather, it’s the way that their daemons are already familiar with each other, friendly with each other, while his daemon hangs back by his own feet.

---

Or: Martin and his daemon make some new friends.

[aro-ortega]

RESHUFFLE THE DECK, CHAPTER ONE: OPENING

Reshuffle the Deck is a canon rewrite of The Magnus Archives in which the events of canon stay the same, but with a twist thanks to Jon Sims being a new parent.

[LINK TO READ ON AO3 IN THE NOTES]

word count: 3,036

chapters: 1/?

relationships: jon sims/martin blackwood, jon sims & tim stoker, jon sims & sasha james, jon sims & original child character

characters: jon sims, original child character, tim stoker, sasha james, martin blackwood, elias bouchard

additional tags: alternate universe - different first meeting, alternate universe - parents, kid fic, single parents, archivist sasha james, jon sims with a cane, elias bouchard being a bastard, slow burn, other additional tags to be added

summary:  

Jon has a daughter. This changes nothing. This changes everything.

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“Hello, Jonathan Sims speaking.”

“Morning, Jon. This is Elias Bouchard. I’m aware you aren’t due back to work until next week, but something has come up. Are you free to stop by for a quick meeting today?”

Jon flounders silently, unsure of how to respond. On one hand, of course. This is Bouchard and his career. A year ago he wouldn’t have hesitated, would already be getting ready to head over as soon as possible.

But then there’s the other hand to consider. The one holding a cereal laden spoon just out of reach of his daughter’s reaching fingers. Alice makes an annoyed crying noise, just a short “muh!”, and bangs her small hand against the table of her high chair. Jon feeds her her spoonful of breakfast and lets her take the spoon from his fingers to keep her entertained while he steps away to finish his call.

“I would, of course Mr. Bouchard but-”

“Elias is fine, please.”

“It’s just that I don’t have a babysitter on hand until, well, next week. But whatever it is, I’d be more than happy to discuss it once I’m back, or even-”

“If it’s no trouble, you could always bring your daughter along. Our meeting shouldn’t take long at all.”

The added reach of the spoon allows Alice to reach her bowl on the table and Jon sighs quietly, lowering the phone out of earshot, at the mess she’s made. At least it isn’t on the floor. Yet.

“Alright, thank you, that should… be fine. I’ll come by as soon as I’m able.”

“No rush, Jon. It would be best if you could try to make it for one o’clock, but take your time.”

“Sure, yes, thank you again. I’ll see you then.”

He hangs up, sighing again and craving a cigarette.

Alice shrieks for attention, snapping Jon out of it.

She’s managed to pull the bowl closer, teetering just off the edge of the table and onto her high chair. She has one cereal covered hand to her mouth, the other, just as messy, firmly in the bowl. The spoon is still fisted in her little hand, but not at all being used properly.

“Look at you,” he coos, thoughts of research and nicotine evaporating for the time being as he helps Alice finish her breakfast.

Afterwards Jon gives her a bath and tells her about the trip they’ll be taking later. It felt silly at first, talking with a baby and narrating everything that goes on, but now it just feels natural. He holds Alice up to standing in the tub and laughs along with her as she bounces in the water.

She goes down for her morning nap not long after. Jon gets himself ready while she sleeps; he showers and combs his hair, notes that he’s in need of a cut with a grimace, and dresses. Alice is still sleeping, so he packs up her lunch and a snack in the baby bag and gently transfers her from crib to stroller. It’s an overcast day, but Jon still lowers the canopy to keep the light from her eyes, hoping she’ll stay asleep right through the meeting, though it’s unlikely.

She ends up sleeping soundly for most of the trip from Jon’s flat to the Institute, only waking once the building is in site.

“Oh, Alice it’s alright,” Jon says, shushing her as she begins to cry. He wants to stop so he can take her out of the stroller and comfort her, but they’re nearly there so he settles for pulling back the canopy and reaching forward, patting her on the shoulder so she knows he’s there before taking one of her hands, waving it gently as she continues to cry.

She’s still upset when they make it to the Institute. Jon unbuckles her from her stroller and she begins to calm down, still reaching for him and teary eyed as she sobs and hiccups. He apologizes to Rosie, thankfully the only other person in the lobby, as he gets Alice into his arms, bouncing her gently and rubbing her back as she settles. His neck is wet where her face lays and he’s sure his shirt is a mess. This had been Elias’ idea, but it still makes Jon anxious that he’ll be meeting with his boss for the first time in a year looking as he does, upset toddler clinging to him.

Jon keeps talking to her, reassurances that he’s here and she’s alright, until she’s mostly quiet again. He fetches the bottle he’d prepped beforehand from her bag and Alice takes it in both hands. He knows he should be weening her off of it, but it makes moments like these much easier.

“Sorry, again,” he says to Rosie. He looks to the stairs leading up to the main part of the building, considering what he’s going to do about the stroller.

“It’s alright, Mr. Sims,” she says, smiling gently and offering him a box of tissue. He thanks her and briefly wonders if she’s a parent herself, but without pictures on her desk he has no way to be sure without asking. “Elias let me know that you and your daughter would be stopping by.”

Unsure what to say, Jon just nods and tries to clean his shirt best he can with the tissues.

Rosie gives him the go ahead to go up to Elias’ office, and even offers to keep an eye on the stroller for the duration of his meeting. He thanks her again and heads up the stairs.

Alice makes quick work of her bottle and finishes it just outside Elias’ office. Jon takes the empty bottle from her and tucks it back in the bag, switching his hold on her so she can sit up, bottom supported by his arm and his hand coming back up to hold her thigh, just in case. She holds onto his shirt with one hand and Jon smiles at her, taking her other hand and bringing it to his mouth for a kiss.

[CONTINUE READING ON AO3, LINK IN THE NOTES]

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[jonspurpleskirt]

Down the Spiral

Tim Stoker & Jonathan Sims, hurt/comfort

Summary: Michael loves playing with the Archivist and so after Not-Sasha is taken care of and Jon is back at the Institute murder charge free it reveals that he has Sasha stashed "savely" in its halls. All Jon has to do to get her out is go through the yellow door. ____

Everything just kept getting worse. That thought hadn't left his mind since the confrontation with Elias. It kept him from his work, making him stare at the statement he had wanted to record hours ago. Something impatient within him tugged to finally get on with it, but his eyes just didn't see the words in front of him and the insides of his head kept resembling a barren wasteland.

There was nothing good in his life anymore. There was nothing good in any of their lives anymore. He had ruined everything. Dragged everyone into the cage with him and locked the door because he hadn't known any better.

If he had just known...

But he hadn't and now they were all trapped here. Nothing waiting for them outside and nothing but hostility meeting them inside. At least that was the case for Jon. He didn't know if Tim and Martin still spoke, still sometimes joked with each other. If Melanie had made friends with Basira perhaps, or god forbid even Daisy. The two of them shared a frightening amount of bloodlust.

He doubted it, though. Whenever he dared to emerge from his office these days the atmosphere in the shared space of the Archives was tense. One or more of them were always gone, Basira more often than not sitting somewhere reading.

Neither of them did much work these days, Jon mused. It was funny that once upon a time that thought would have made him angry.

Jon sighed, glancing over the statement for the upteenth time, saying to himself that now he would finally start and do some work, when loud cursing and several crashes made him jump out of his chair and run towards the door.

He ripped it open with the wrong hand, the burn left by Jude Perry sending a stab of pain through his arm.

Basira, Tim and Melanie were for once all there, and had taken on various defensive poses. They didn't grace Jons dramatic entrance with even the slightest of glances, but the being that called itself Michael grinned and cooed as though it didn't have a knife, an axe and a gun pointed at it.

"Archivist! Just whom I wanted to see~ It is quite hard to get a grip on you, you know. I've been meaning to have a little chat with you for a while now."

Jon squeezed his eyes together to ward of the headache Michaels multiple voices and impossible features always gave him. He breathed through the pain, before looking at the Distortion again, squinting to be able to make out something that resembled a coherent form.

The image still swam in front of him, Michaels smile literally blinding, teeth flashing with too many deeply saturated colours.

"Hello Michael. What do you want?"

"Awww you don't sound excited to see me at all! I've got more of a reaction from your assistants."

The thing pouted, but the grin reappeared fast when it heard the click of the safety of Basiras gun coming off.

"Aha I wouldn't do that if I were you."

The voice it used screeched like nails on a chalkboard and a microphone with its volume set too high. Weapons clattered to the floor as everyone scrambled to shield their ears from the sound. Jon felt a trickle of blood running down the side of his neck and winced.

"There. Better. You people are so rude." The laughter that followed was worse than the voices before, high pitched and low, aggressively amused.

"Michael." Jon hissed and it stopped.

"Yes dear Archivist?"

"Why are you here?"

"Ah." A misplaced chuckle, alltogether fake and a hungry grin. "I've heard you've dealt with Not-Sasha! Congratulations! Do you want the real one back now?"

"What?"

Tim had recovered fast and somehow had already taken up the axe again. He looked more than prepared to chop Michaels head off with it.

"Oh hello! I forgot you were here, too. How did you like my hallways?"

"Fuck you! What are you talking about?!"

Michael shrugged, or what could be perceived as a shrug. It was hard to tell when there seemed to be three sets of shoulders all in various places they shouldn't be.

"It is as I said. I took Sasha into my hallways so she could flee from the thing in the table. And now that Not-Sasha is gone I'm willing to trade her."

"Trade her for what?"

Jon had a bad feeling about this, but he let Tim lead the conversation. Better he ask the questions. Jon didn't want to accidently use compulsion and make Michael angry.

"Why for the Archivist of course! I'm terribly bored at the moment. No good prey out there. And I'd love to see how my hallways work against someone from the Eyes ilk."

"So it would be a game to you." Jon was careful to not word it as a question.

Michaels blinding smirk hit him square in the chest and left him heaving. "Yes, you could see it that way."

"Jon." Basira warned, inching toward him.

Melanies lips were pressed into a thin line, her eyes never strayed from the Distortion, even when tears started to run down her face from the strain. She kept quiet, but it was clear that she would attack if she felt it to be necessary.

"And that exchange."

"Yes." Michael dared him to ask.

"What would it look like."

"No static! My you are truly making an effort! It goes like this. You come here and step into my door and I let Sasha out."

"Jon we can't trust him." Basira hissed.

"I'm an it, actually." Michael purred.

"Whatever."

"I know. I want to see her. Melanie, you know what Sasha looks like. We'll both verify."

"Hmmm, sounds like a deal. Come here."

Jon scowled at the crooked finger beckoning him to come closer. Michaels horrible 8 bit laugh echoed through the Archive again.

"Don't be shy. I won't stab you this time, I promise!"

"What." Tim sounded about as done as Jon felt.

He'd rather not have to explain himself though. He was glad Tim wasn't directing his ire at him at the moment. So he quickly crossed the distance and came to stand stiffly beside Michael, tensing when the entity curled three of its impossible long fingers around his elbow.

"Marvelous!"

Another door that had appeared in on of the shelves banged open and out of it stumbled a woman with clammy tanned skin, big round trendy glasses and warm brown wavy hair, her grey eyes open wide.

Tim stumbled forward to catch her, trembling about as much as her. "Sasha?"

He looked to Jon for confirmation, who had to fight back his own tears. "Yes. Yes."

"That's her." Melanie whispered her own affirmation.

Before the smile on Jons lips had time to fully form he was yanked back, the yellow door slamming shut behind him. It felt like being dragged into a whirlpool while high on LSD and if Michaels realm would have permitted it Jon would have lost what little food he had eaten that day right then and there.

As it was he had to endure the minutes or hours he had to get used to the shift in reality, unsure if he was standing, laying down or sitting. When his head eventually stopped spinning and his eyes and other sensory input systems agreed to work again he found himself standing at a deadend. The door and Michael were gone, but the air was still filled with joyous laughter.

"Welcome to my humble abode little Archivist! I hope you like getting lost~"

Jon frowned at his surroundings that seemed to tilt and wobble under his every step. He was sure Michael was being extra distorting with the surroundings it had thrown Jon into. Jon didn't want to give it the satisfaction of knowing how much that bothered him. Although he doubted he could hide his terror from it.

Time didn't matter in the Distortions halls. It all melted together, turning and twisting into a bizarre fever dream. Jon relaxed as much as was possible with the horrible migraine that had formed behind his eyes. This actually wasn't so bad. He would probably just wander around aimlessly until he would either die from hunger or thirst, Michael would grow bored and kill him or he actually found the exit.

Jon very much doubted the latter. He had no real grasp of his supposed powers and the Beholding only opted to drop in a fact or two about the colours that normal humans shouldn't be able to see.

When he didn't grow tired nor hungry or thirsty in what he presumed was quite a while a new fear formed beside the pounding in his head. What if he was stuck in here forever?

But even that terror dulled over what didn't quite account for time. The hallways got tamer. They were still decorated with garish colours and wallpaper, bits of furniture strewn about here and there. But they had stopped being all wobbly and impossible.

Well they were less impossible. Jon thought as he walked through a wardrobe only to emerge from a mirror into a room with six walls, three doors, a window and a painting.

On and on it went until he felt deep in his bones a rhythm to it all. There was a spiral pattern to the twisting turns of the rooms and hallways. Inverted and containing a lot of deadends, but it was there and all Jon needed to do was follow it.

Down and down he went, even when the path lead him upward or turned him upside down. His head started to feel blissfully empty for once. No worry, no greater goal. He could just exist here in this weird home and wander. He might be as lost as he had been in the real world, but at least here he wasn't hurting anyone.

Electrical lights flickered on and off before turning to torches casting pink shadows across the chessboard walls. He startled out of his haze when he heard the clacking of heels somewhere to his right, a thought thundering into his mind, shattering all other not thoughts that hadn't resided in there.

"Helen!"

"Jon?"

"Helen! I'm here. Stay where you are!"

Jon skidded around the corner and there she was, still wearing her business dress and jacket, chin length brown hair curling around her ears. She was sobbing before he could even get to her and soon he had an armful of crying real estate agent in his arms.

They held each other tight and just weeped for what felt like an eternity, but was still too short.

"I was so scared." Helen sobbed as she drew back just enough to fix her gaze on Jon. "I thought I walked out of the Institute, but instead I found myself back in these horrible hallways and I couldn't find a way out this time, but I just couldn't stop walking, you know? I needed to find some way out. And Jon, Jon! There's an end here. It's close I just know it! You believe me right? That's why you're here? You're also looking for the end?"

Jon rubbed up and down her arms to calm her. "Yes. Yes Helen. I'm so sorry. Had I known-"

"It's alright." She gave him a watery impression of a smile. "It'll be all alright soon. I hear it whispering. Come."

"Now that was quite the show." Michael suddenly stood between them and they sprung apart. It had its arms crossed and a deep frown carved into what could have been its face.

Jon couldn't exactly make out its eyes. And yet he was sure there was a spark of fear there.

"It was nice to play with you." Michael adressed Helen. "But I feel you overstayed your welcome."

A door appeared behind her, standing in the middle of the hallway, no walls around it.

"There is the exit. Shoo."

She looked at Michael with wide, glassy eyes. "No. No I can't. I need-"

And with a sudden, horrible clarity Jon knew what would happen if she didn't leave now. A door locked from the outside. The body of Michael Shelley destroyed. Helen lost.

"Helen. Please believe me when I say that this is better. Don't heed the call. It will only cost you."

Her flitted between Jon and Michael, hesitating. "Why?"

"Michael was human once, too." Jon whispered and understanding bloomed behind her eyes.

"Oh. But can I be sure?"

"I can." Jon assured her. "You can open that door. It's save."

She swallowed. "Okay. Okay. Are you coming with?"

She reached for him, but Jon shook his head. "No. I don't believe my game is quite finished yet."

He looked over to Michael to make sure. The Distortion looked back at him, frown lightened by a pensive look. It didn't feel the need to correct him.

"Okay." Helen said again, sounding like it was everything but. "You'll be fine, though?"

Jon gave her the best smile he could manage at the moment, which wasn't much. "I think so, yes."

"Good then. I'll... see you around. Just. Not here, I guess."

"Yes. Take care Helen."

"You too."

The door clicked softly shut behind her, taking with it the swift breeze of fresh air and gentle midday sunlight.

Jon sighed. "That was... something. Thank you for letting her go."

"Hmmm."

Jon felt a deep satisfaction at how uncomfortable Michael seemed to be at the moment.

"I guess I shouldn't continue to walk down, then?"

"You were walking straight."

"It's all the same here, though, isn't it?"

"Stop that." Michael frowned harder, drawing itself up, terror apparent in the way it shook, after images pulsing off it in waves.

"What?"

"Knowing me."

"Sorry."

"You could just walk back up again, you know." Michael muttered, friendly facade all but forgotten. A near death experience would do that to you. Jon could sympathize.

He nodded, indulgent. "I guess I could."

Michael heaved a sigh that sounded more like the blare of an airhorn. "I'll show you out."

Jon didn't deem it necessary to tell it that it could just manifest a door like it had done with Helen. He got that Michael probably needed a hot minute to digest what had just happened. And for once Jon was more than content with providing some company.

It was Michael who talked first, essentially giving Jon its statement. Jon saw the fierce anger burn behind those multicoloured eyes and was reminded of Tim and his fury at Jons betrayal.

"How much of Michael is there in you, then?" Jon carefully asked, voice so soft it was barely there in order to keep any sort of compulsion out of it.

"That's not the right question to ask Archivist. Because there is no answer to that, that would stay definite. How much of you is in those tapes you record? It's your voice in there. How much of you is actually you? There's no meaningful distinction."

"That doesn't sound right."

"That's because you're too deep inside your head." Michael laughed. It wasn't as grating as usual.

"Thank you for keeping Sasha safe, by the way." Jon whispered into the screaming silence that had enveloped the two as they meandered through the endless expanse of hallway stretching out in front of them.

"You are no fun."

"Pardon?"

Slim fingers crawled like worms across his shoulder. His head spun with a sudden dizzying motion, feeling oddly light. His skin tingled with confused nerves at the points of contact. Unconsciously he leaned into the touch loosing himself in the sensations. The Distortion was less scary now that he knew it. It was actually kind of sad and he might have formed a small grudge against Gertrude for it.

Michael huffed beside him, caught between grinning and frowning. Jon wondered which emotion the Spiral wanted to portray and which one actually belonged to what was left of Michael Shelley.

"That's what I mean. You're not afraid at all! You're enjoying yourself. That just won't do."

It nudged him forward and oh, there was a yellow door there. Jon stepped up to hit and hesitated, hand hovering over the handle.

"What is it now?" Michael grumbled behind him, pout evident in its voice.

"I... I'm not sure if... I'm not sure if it's alright for me to get out."

Michael blinked at him in surprise. Jon shouldn't have been able to see it, but the motion was reflected in front of him.

"I just don't know if it's a good thing that I'm out there. Something is going on with me and at least in here I'm not hurting anyone."

"You... don't want to get out? You like it here?" Shrill, disbelieving laughter filled every nook and cranny of their space, drilling into Jons head and hollowing out his skull. Michael was bent over in a spine breaking way, arms wrapped twice around it and shaking with manic chuckles when Jon turned to frown at it.

"Two people in a row wanting to stay." It giggled, rightning itself. "I really need to redecorate this place." It shook its head, smile sharp yet soft. "No Archivist I will not drag you around as deadweight. Not when you aren't even making an effort of being afraid."

Jon squeaked as he was lifted, knife hands nicking the skin on his cheek and temple. With a heavy thump Michael kicked the door to the Archives open, startling Tim awake, who had been slumped over the desk, facing the door.

"We're baaack!" Michael crooned. "I'll leave you to decide if the Archivist should stay." He dumped Jon into Tims lap, who was barely awake enough to grab at Jon before he slid off.

"But Jon, when you next step into my door I will not let you back out again. See you around~"

Jon tried to identify the exact moment Michael had left the room. It was a futile attempt and not at all enough to distract from the fact that he was currently still inhabiting Tims lap.

"I'm sorry I'll-" Jon tried to stand up, but the arms around him tightened and he was squashed unceremonously against Tims body.

"Jon"

Oh no. What had he done now? He just got here why was Tim already so mad? Was he mad? Oh good lord he was crying. Jon awkwardly turned so he could sling unsteady arms around Tims neck, letting the man bury his head into his shoulder.

"Uhm hi?" He'd really rather go back to Michaels hallways now, please. This was already starting out to be a situation much more terrifying than wandering forever in a fever dream.

"You absolute bastard!"

"Sorry?"

Tim laughed and it was a strange sound. Too normal after who knew how long in Michaels domain.

"No you don't get to apologize. Not when you don't even know what you've done." Tim stood, Jon scrambling to get his feet under him so he wouldn't crash.

Standing on even, unmoving ground was like coming back on land after a year at sea. Tim shaking him did not help his coordination.

"You've been gone for over three months. Over three months, Jon! We had to blow up the circus without you. Elias was pissed! But Sasha managed to McGyver together a remote control for the C4 and it was amazing! Pressing that button was probably the best thing to happen in my life!"

"Wait slow down." Jon mumbled, trying to keep up with Tims flood of exposition while simultanously trying to get Tim to stop shaking him. He was going to be sick at this rate.

Tim didn't seem to hear him. "And then everything was over and Sasha was there, but you still weren't. And that bloody door stayed here all the while, mocking us. It wouldn't open. We tried everything minus blowing it up, figured you wouldn't have liked that. Tried to hunt down other Spiral locations, but no odd door would open to us."

Tim took a huge breath and stopped shaking Jon, his grip tightening when Jon tried to put some space between them.

"We didn't know what to do. And then about a week ago Helen came in to tell us about what happened in the hallways. She's fine by the way. Apologized for waiting so long before coming by. She was sad to see you still missing, left her contact details and wants you to call her when your feeling like the world makes sense again, whatever that means."

Jon knew exactly what it meant. He was sure it would take him a while to make sense of anything that wasn't strobe light effects, after images and nausea. He would have liked to elaborate on that and point out that he really should sit down oh my god everything was spinning.

"We figured if she was out you'd come back, too. And we didn't want you to stumble into an empty Archive so we took turns watching the door. Do you know how hard it was to keep Martin from hogging all the night shifts? The man hasn't slept more than a wink in months I tell you. He looks about as bad as you so if you don't let him hug you and fuss I will play the most embarrassing prank I can think of on you next April Fools day, you hear me?"

Tim shook him once and Jon had to cough and force the bile back down his throat before he could answer.

"Quite."

"Good."

There was another shaky exhale and a much more tentative hug. "You look like shit, come on you can crash at my place."

"I too have a flat, Tim." Jon felt the need to remind him, but let himself be led to the front doors and to Tims car, grateful to finally be allowed to sit again.

"You just came back. No way am I letting you out my sight and give you the opportunity to vanish again. Sasha and Martin would have my head."

Jon frowned down at his hands, flinching when the car sprung to life and grabbing for an empty take out bag, just in case. Tims behavior deeply confused him. The last time he had mother henned him like this was back in Research. Did Michael accidently drop him in a different dimension?

"We're there."

How did Tim get to the side of his door? When had they started to move? When had they gotten to Tims flat? Good lord time didn't make sense anymore.

Jon half stumbled out of the car and followed Tim into his apartment.

"Make yourself comfortable boss. I'll get you some tea, yeah? And food. Try not to fall asleep on me yet. And don't wander off."

Where would he even wander off to? Jon wanted to ask. He forgot about that as soon as his body hit the hard surface of the couch. At least the pillow was nice enough to cushion his fall. Letting out a pitiful groan he levelled himself up again to take his glasses off, rubbing at the spots where the plastic had dug into his skin.

He was glad that Tim seemed to have calmed down during the ride. Maybe doing something had helped. Tim had always been an action guy, needing an outlet for all the pent up energy.

It all felt so surreal. Here he was, out of the hallways, in Tims flat, with Tim being nice to him and the apocalypse over and done with. He would probably get an earful for missing out on that one later. Probably from Melanie. Maybe from Basira and Daisy.

Gods they were alright. He was gone for so long and they were all fine. Maybe a bit more traumatized, if Tims behavior was anything to go by, but alive. And in this economy that was probably the best outcome they could get.

"Sasha, how is she?" Jon asked as soon as Tim came back into the room.

A rainbow coloured mug and a bowl of instant noodle soup was placed on the coffee table in front of him before Tim answered.

"She's amazing. I mean she's doing well. She was in way better shape than you coming out of there. But I guess you didn't exactly go in at the heighth of your power. She said she was afraid for awhile, that Michael would keep her forever. But she was also curious how the hallways worked and she kinda got lost trying to figure them out? She chatted with Michael whenever it popped up to gloat. It kept her updated pretty well actually, which is kind of creepy. I think out of all of us she had it the easiest."

"That's... that's so good to hear." Jon breathed.

Tim chuckled. It sounded suspiciously wet. "Yeah. Come on sit up and eat your shitty soup."

Before Jon could move on his own an arm curled around his waist and hoisted him into a sitting position.

"I can move myself, Tim." Jon grumbled, leaning heavily into Tims side either way. Just for the contact, he told himself. He could totally sit upright if he wanted to.

"Of course boss."

Tim turned on the TV as Jon ate, the soothing chatter of news reporter talking about the weather filling the air. Jon was half dozing, unsure if he had eaten much at all when Tim moved him again.

"You want to clean up before going to bed?"

Jon took stock of his body, weighting his options. It was as if his muscles only now began to realize the amount of miles they had walked. His scars itched and pulled and the cut on his throat as well as the burn on his hand pounded against the confines of his mangled skin. His head felt like it was stuffed with cotton, a bit of vertigo still throbbing in the back of his skull, while his ears still echoed faintly with piercing, inhuman laughter.

"No?"

"Okay. Sit tight boss I'm gonna get you a blanket."

Sit tight... Where did Tim think he would go, if he wasn't even up for taking a shower?

"You got better, too." Jon said in lieu of a thank you when a heavy blanket got draped over him.

"Hm. Blowing up a building helped."

"Ah yes, arson. The best therapy of all."

Tim laughed at that. "You'd be surprised. But actually I did get a therapist at Sashas request. I blew up at her a few times in between and she didn't take it well. I wanted to be better for her."

"Good." Jon mumbled, half asleep. "That's good."

"Yeah. Sleep well."

"Hmhm."

He woke up in the middle of the night. Or was it day? It was dark, but the curtains were drawn so he couldn't be sure. It wasn't to a full body flinch like he was used to waking up with. Just a slow, disorientated blinking into wakefulness.

The flinching came later, followed by a yell when he made out a blurry shape sitting in the arm chair mere inches away from him.

"Good Lord, Tim! What are you doing?!"

"Making sure you're not getting kidnapped." Was the brightly given answer.

"That's creepy." Jon grumbled, rubbing his eyes and settling his glasses back on the bridge of his nose.

"Well you're not the only one allowed to be spooky."

"M not spooky."

"Suuure. So Martin and Sasha will be by in a bit. Wanna tell me what all that about going back through Michaels door was about?"

Jon sighed. "He- it just threatened me."

"Really? Cause it kind of looked to me like it was kicking you out."

"I have it on good authority that I can be rather annoying, yes."

Tim crossed his arms and narrowed his eyes at him. "Does that mean I and the others need to make sure you take the right doors from now on?"

"No?"

"That's not very reassuring, Jon."

"Why do you care all of a sudden?" It was said out of exhaustion and Jon immediately regretted it, seeing Tims face fall. "I'm sorry I shouldn't have said that."

"No." Tim took a shuddering breath, mussing up his hair with the hand that wasn't clutching at his own shirt. "No, that's fair. I've been an ass to you before... Fuck before you literally fed yourself to the Spiral in order to get Sasha back."

"You don't have to feel guilty about that."

"I do! But that's not just it. You've missed a lot. And I got better, but I'm still so angry most of the time. But when you were gone I was also fucking terrified. For Christs sake Jon we were friends once. And I just let you barter your life away like it was nothing. I was happy. When Sasha came back and you were gone I was even happy for a while."

Oh no he was crying again. They both were. He knew because Tim had gotten up to draw back the curtains before dropping onto the couch at Jons feet.

"I... it didn't last long. Call me selfish, but after a while all I wanted was for us to be complete again. You know the original four. It took me a bit to realize that I was mourning."

Tim barked out a broken laugh. "I've probably not slept about as much as Martin."

"You should then. I'm here. I'm not going anywhere at the moment."

"I can't. Every time I try I panic that you will be gone when I wake up."

Jon mulled that thought over in his head, an odd tingle flooding his body. "Lay down with me then?"

Tim stared at him for a moment, biting at his lip and barely stopping before drawing blood. "That... that sounds like an idea. Yeah. Let me draw the couch out first."

They could have just gone to bed, but Jon just about managed to drag himself to the armchair. And Tim hadn't offered so Jon wouldn't pry.

Tim collapsed on the couch and immediately reached out an arm and made grabby hands. Jon huffed out a small chuckle and obliged, trying not to seem too eager.

"We'll have to get up again when Sasha and Martin visit." Jon noted, snuggling into Tims chest with a sigh, whole body thrumming at the none violent contact.

"Sasha has a key." Tim muttered into his hair, spitting out some of the loose strands right after.

Jon shook his head. There seemed to be quite a lot he needed to be caught up on. And as they tangled their legs together Jon found that for once the future didn't look as threatening as it usually did.