#just. martin self comforting by reading poetry like he used to | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

eldritchqueerture · 3 years

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Hello! This is a project for @summer-in-the-archives-event that I worked on with @horizonindigo! We came up with the idea together and based our individual works around the poem I wrote, included in the fic. You can find their absolutely amazing art here!!

I freaking loved working on this one and I got more and more excited as we progressed. I also surprised myself with the poem itself a bit, definitely didn’t expect it to end up quite as cool, if I may say so myself. It was incredibly fun to write.

Big shoutout to @sunflowers-and-frogs for beta reading, I love you bestie <3

I would like to thank all the mods that made this event possible! It’s my first time taking part in anything like this and it was really, really fun, so THANK YOU <3 Love you guys :3 Anyways, enough of my rambling kdfjgkjsdfg

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Archive Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply Category: M/M Fandom: The Magnus Archives (Podcast) Relationship: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist Characters: Martin Blackwood, Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist Additional Tags: Hurt/Comfort, Canon-Typical The Lonely Content (The Magnus Archives), Kissing, Excessive Tea-Making, Set in Episodes 159-160 | Scottish Safehouse Period (The Magnus Archives), Poetry, Love Confessions Warnings: self-esteem issues, typical Lonely content, discussions of free-will and determinism, graphic kiss

Summary: As Martin fights the remnants of the Lonely's influence on their ride to Daisy's safehouse in Scotland, he focuses on his feelings for Jon to keep him tethered to reality. He watches Jon be himself in the safety of the cottage, share these small intimacies of domesticity and the words come to him as a poem weaves itself into the pages of his notebook...

He feels the taste of salt in his mouth, as he looks out of the car window at the rapidly falling away landscape, covered in the darkness of the night. He feels Jon’s presence next to him, focused on driving but glancing every so often at him with concern. Martin feels like he should say something, somehow fill the silence that has befallen them, but no words ever find their way to his mouth. He stays quiet, watching the trees pass them by, trying to ignore the anxious churning in his stomach. He’s always been pretty good at filling awkward silences with chatter; at least before the Lonely. Now… he can’t help but feel bothered by Jon’s presence, even though he did all of this for him, even though this is what he’s wanted all this time; it’s like a splinter, prickling at his mind, almost causing him physical discomfort. He swallows and feels the salty taste on his tongue; he discards the thoughts and tries his best to breathe through the discomfort, instead focusing on the sensation of Jon’s warm hand on his.

Martin used to be the warm one; he’d always been generating heat and his mind goes back to the early days in the Archives when the basement was cold in the winter and both Tim and Sasha used to gravitate towards him with their respective cups of tea during breaks. Now his whole body is cold, the chill of the ocean breeze and fog having settled in his bones so deep he thinks he’ll never feel warm again. The thought isn’t sparking any emotions in him though. It’s just a thing that he’s learned to accept, just as the fact that he’ll always be alo—

“Do you want me to put on some music?” Jon asks with another one of his glances. Every time, he raises his eyebrows a bit, and tilts his head to the side; Martin expects the concern in his eyes, but he sees something else there as well. He’s been afraid to put a label to the expression for the fear he’s reading him wrong, but the bolder part of his mind tells him it’s fondness.

Jon’s hand is warm, and his thumb grazes the skin of his palm just a little, as if not sure he’s allowed to. Martin looks down at their hands and feels warmth spark in his stomach; he smiles.

“I’m sorry I’m—I’m not really good at the whole, uh… small talk thing,” Jon adds with a flush, turning his head back to the road. “I should probably be talking about something, though, to, uh… to keep you here. I suppose.” He visibly cringes at his words.

“It’s—It’s fine, Jon,” Martin chuckles, and Jon relaxes, fixing him with a quick smile of his own. “I’m just… you know.” He looks down at their hands again and has a brief feeling they belong to someone else. Not him. Never him. “I’m not quite… out of that. Yet.”

Another look of concern. Martin feels heat prickling at his cheeks and he’s a little bit glad, because at least it’s a feeling. He interlaces their fingers and looks out the front window.

They spend the ride in relative silence. Jon tries a couple more times to start small talk and fails; they stop at a gas station at one point and Martin takes out his notebook when Jon disappears inside the station to pay for gas. He flicks through it and his eyes stop at an unfinished draft; he started writing it shortly before Peter took him down to the Panopticon, but he’d only managed to get a few first lines down. Despite still feeling the cold in his bones and his mind being clouded by the remains of the fog, words come to him, and he starts scribbling. He continues to do so even when Jon comes back with tea and an assortment of snacks, blushing just a little bit when Jon shoots a curious look at the notebook. He doesn’t ask and Martin is thankful for it. He’s not the sort to show his drafts to anyone, especially to the subject he’s writing about.

It’s 1am when they arrive at the cottage; they’re both exhausted and they quickly take their bags inside and lock the door. The cottage is small and practical, just Daisy’s style; it’s also quite dusty from months of abandonment. Martin yawns as he opens one of the bags to get the essentials. They should leave unpacking and cleaning for the next day.

He hears Jon’s footsteps on the wooden floor coming back from the initial run of the house and he turns to tell him that, but the somewhat sheepish look on his face stops him in his tracks. Has he ever seen Jon look sheepish before?

“So, uh, obviously this was Daisy’s safehouse when she was, well… Avoiding people,” he says, not meeting Martin’s eyes.

“I hope ‘avoiding people’ doesn’t mean killing them in this context,” Martin snorts, not sure if he’s entirely joking. The humour is lost on Jon, however, as he looks at him confused for a moment before he processes Martin’s words.

“Oh, no, no, I-I don’t believe she, uh… She just slept here.” Jon shifts awkwardly. “And that means there’s uh, there’s only one bed.”

Martin’s eyes widen and his lips form a little “Oh”.

“Of course, if you’re not comfortable with sharing, I can just take the couch, you need some proper rest and I’m used to running on low sleep” —Jon averts his gaze as he speaks. He grabs his bag and walks over to the couch, and Martin wants to stop him talking and just say that they should share the bed, but his voice seems to have left him at this crucial moment. He just stares as Jon places the bag on the couch and looks back at him, aware of the silence. “Martin?”

Martin swallows, a familiar cold freezing his toes. He feels the damp sand underneath his bare feet and a chill runs down his spine. He blinks and tightens his grip on the bag he’s been holding. This is real, he is real, Jon is real.

“You need good rest too,” he finally manages to say, and he’s surprised by how clear and normal his voice sounds; it makes Jon relax a bit. “We should share the bed, if-if you are comfortable with that.”

A small smile appears on Jon’s lips and a warm feeling fills Martin’s stomach again; he knows the smile is for him.

“Okay,” he says softly and picks the bag up.

They manage to keep the awkwardness of it to the minimum; they’re both very tired and at one point it just doesn’t matter anymore. Jon hands Martin a separate blanket and he pushes the disappointment down into a void inside him where he keeps feelings to come back to when he’s alone. It would be foolish of him to hope for cuddling since they haven’t talked about anything yet.

He expects to fall asleep as soon as his head touches the pillow, but he finds himself awake in the darkness after goodnights are said (Jon’s voice sounds so soft and tender Martin has forgotten all about his earlier disappointment). He’s laying on his back, eyes closed, and he feels Jon’s presence on his right. His breathing is steady, not yet slow enough to indicate sleep, but calm and relaxed. Martin peeks out through half-lidded eyes – he hasn’t gotten used to the darkness as much yet, but he can see Jon laying on his side, facing him, his eyes closed and his hair loosely framing his face. One of his hands rests close to his head on the pillow. Martin blinks, fully opening his eyes now and smiling softly. As his vision clears, Martin notices Jon frowning ever so slightly, and he wonders if the faint lines between his eyebrows smoothen when he’s asleep.

“Is watching people sleep a usual activity for you?” Jon whispers with amusement as he opens his eyes and Martin gasps with surprise and looks away, feeling heat prickle at his cheeks.

“Wha—uh, no! No, of course no—Sorry, I—” He rambles, and he thinks he might just die from embarrassment when he hears Jon laugh quietly.

“It’s fine, Martin.” He shakes his head with a sigh. “Really. I-- Sorry, I thought a joke would, um… lighten the mood somewhat.”

Martin risks a look at him and wonders if the red on his cheeks is visible through the darkness. Jon looks at him with that expression again, something Martin would very much want to classify as fondness if it didn’t feel so impossible. But now that he thinks about it… Would it really be thatfar-fetched? Jon had gone into the Lonely just to get him out. Would he have done that for anyone else? Martin rolls his eyes at himself in his mind, of course he would. He did go into the Buried, and it was for Daisy, a person who has threatened him multiple times, kidnapped and almost killed him. If Jon was ready to lay down his life for her, out of all of them, it shouldn’t be surprising he would do the same for his assistant; it says nothing about his feelings on the matter.

Martin’s memories of the Lonely are hazy. He remembers the cold, the dampness, and the loneliness. He remembers his thoughts, the lonely ones, and how they felt both alien and familiar at the same time. He remembers the comfort, the feeling of fitting in, but also the pain and the fear, just before they were numbed by the cold and the fog that made him forget. And then suddenly, Jon was in front of him, looking at him with desperation on his face, tears in his eyes glowing with a green light. Was it Jon calling for him, or just the Beholding?

“What are you thinking about?” comes Jon’s voice and Martin realizes he’s been staring into the air for a while. He blinks and looks back at Jon.

“Uh…” He searches for words before he gives up on trying to come up with an excuse. His voice is quiet when he speaks. “Why did you do it?”

Jon blinks at him a couple times and rises to lean on his elbow, to better look at Martin.

“What do you mean?”

“The Lonely,” Martin says, not meeting his eyes. Jon is wearing a blue t-shirt with a logo of a band Martin doesn’t recognize; the shirt is loose and it uncovers one of Jon's shoulders which would probably be distracting if Martin’s mind wasn't chilled by the remnants of the fog. “Why did you come for me?”

Even without looking at him, Martin sees Jon’s forehead ripple. A while passes as Jon searches his face and the thought that he shouldn’t have asked starts creeping up to Martin’s head. Shouldn’t have brought any attention to the subject, he should just be glad, he should—

“I care about you, Martin,” Jon says in a very gentle and quiet voice, like he’s afraid anything louder would take away the meaning of his words. Martin looks up at Jon and the hint of that intense blush from before makes it back to his face. “You’re… You matter to me. You will always matter to me.”

Martin can’t stop a small smile appearing on his face and Jon mirrors it.

“Thank you,” Martin whispers, feeling a warmth settle in his chest, finally driving the cold away.

“Anytime.” Jon lays his head back down and settles back with the right hand near his face. “Sleep well, Martin.”

Martin closes his eyes contentedly and he curls up on his right side, facing Jon, as if trying to keep this warm feeling from escaping his chest too soon.

“You too, Jon.”

---

Martin wakes up alone in an unfamiliar bed, the smell of foreign covers filling his nostrils and for a second he panics. He opens his eyes and the memories come back to him; their late arrival at the safehouse and laying down to sleep next to Jon.

He sits up, looking at the space Jon had occupied. It’s vacant now, just the curled up covers he left behind, but it manages to bring a blush to Martin’s cheeks, nonetheless. It feels so… intimate to know that they slept next to each other. It makes him feel warm and cosy.

Martin gets up and goes to the bathroom before he finds Jon in the kitchen. He’s humming quietly as he finishes cleaning the table and he looks up when Martin enters.

“Good morning, Martin.” He smiles and Martin’s afraid he’s going to melt. He takes a quick look around and notices that their sparse kitchen supplies are mostly unpacked, and the kettle is already on the stove.

“How long have you been awake?” He asks; some of the shock must have made it to his voice because Jon looks amused.

“Two hours or so. I’ve always been a morning person.” He shrugs and finishes cleaning the table. “Tea?”

A smile lights up Martin’s face and he gets swept up by the familiarity of the activity, while Jon busies himself with fixing up some breakfast. As both of them work in the kitchen, Martin notices the casual brushes of their skin and touches of the shoulders. He doesn’t know if he’s doing it consciously or if it just happens naturally, but he knows that Jon’s open demeanour is drawing him closer than before. He wonders if he’s been like this ever since he woke up from the coma, and there was just no one to appreciate it.

The morning is relaxed, the casual conversation flowing a lot smoother than the day before, and after breakfast they set out to clean the whole cottage and go down to the village to buy some actual supplies. The village is small, but the local shop provides all the essentials they need; for a moment Martin forgets about everything outside of that village and shopping for groceries with Jon, as if this is their life now, in the Scottish Highlands, living together in a cottage. They talk about cooking dinner, and the cows they passed on the way, and Martin thinks he could get used to that.

The bubble bursts when they finish up and Jon decides to call Basira. She picks up after a while and updates them on the absence of both Jonah Magnus and Daisy. Basira says she’ll send some statements up to them when the Institute stops being an active crime scene, and a shadow passes over Jon’s face. Wrapped up in a conversation about their taste in dinner dishes, it was almost too easy for Martin to forget food isn’t the only sustenance Jon needs. He finds it easier to forget things ever since the Lonely. They walk back to their cottage in silence, Martin grabbing Jon’s hand as soon as he lets go of the phone.

When they get back, Jon declares he’s going to take care of unpacking and cooking, and even though Martin knows Jon to be stupidly stubborn, he’s surprised by the strictness with which Jon insists he sit back and relax. Martin doesn’t really complain; he’s spent his entire life caring for others and, to be honest, it does feel rather good to be on the receiving end for once. He watches Jon from the couch for a while, before he takes out his notebook and looks over the poem he wrote in the car.

Wisps of mist conceal my eyes

A lone indulgence to lose one's face

And soothing a part inside that cries

With chilling sadness and numbing grace

The steadfast rhythm of waves ashore

As ocean breeze leaves a taste of salt

The words forgotten, erase what I swore

Until I hear your voice once more

I wondered many times what it might be

That we finally took to calling "us"

What would be left if we broke free

Of dread and horror's eternal grasp

The Eye looms aloft, ever-present dread

Watching all, eternal lids apart

You made your choice unaware you were led

By strings of web, against your heart

Jon starts humming under his nose in the kitchen as he cuts something on the board; the water in the kettle boils slowly and fills the air with a quiet whistle. Martin smiles while shooting a subtle glance at Jon; he seems to notice his gaze and falls quiet, but a smile lights up his face when he sees the fondness on Martin’s face. For all this talk about Jon “losing himself” in the role of the Archivist, this seems as human as you can get. Martin never favoured the approach the other archival staff took to the knowledge of the significance of Jon’s position, and he often wondered how they could look at him and see a monster. Of course he made bad decisions, but so did everyone. They’ve seen or read about so many avatars giving into the powers that fed them and yes, maybe Martin is biased, but Jon was nothing like them. They’ve all been caught in this huge web of statements that turned real; the more they struggled to break free the more tangled up they became, and it wasn’t Jon’s fault that he ended up in the centre of it. He knows Jon tried to make right choices every step of the way. Can you really blame a human being for failing to completely resist something that’s beyond mortality and human reality? One way or another they ended up here, together, and yes, maybe the Eye and the Lonely are still looming as very tangible threats, and Jonah Magnus is nowhere near being stopped, but at least they’re together now. Martin remembers thinking the Unknowing was the endgame, the last chapter of this horror for them, and he remembers the hopelessness of their story getting a bad ending that essentially pushed him into the Lonely; now he feels a different kind of an end approaching – he dares to be hopeful. Maybe everything works out in the end? Maybe, if they were safe and happy, it wouldn’t actually be the end of the world.

Martin looks down at his notebook and starts writing, sticking the tip of his tongue out in concentration.

What is a monster? Where is the line

That would separate us from the world

All I know is our paths align

And we together can battle the cold

You cut through the curtains of mist and See

The green glow fades when our eyes meet

My lips form a soft and quiet plea

To be loved has never felt so sweet

To be loved is a new feeling for me

I only know how to love from one side

But with you I hope we can once be free

Maybe ignore the whims of the tide

Although I know we're not nearly through

I taste and savour your voice, your breath

If only for a moment, we can start anew

And I will follow you even to death

As he stares at the last word of the finished poem, his hand with the pen hovering over it, he registers that his eyes have watered a bit. He blinks the tears away quickly as Jon sits down on the couch next to him, looking at him with a gentle worry. Martin looks up at the two mugs of tea he’d placed on the table.

“Did you make tea?” He asks with mock bewilderment, and Jon scoffs at him.

“I know how to make tea, Martin.” He nudges him with amusement, that gentle worry not quite gone from his eyes. “What are you writing about?”

Martin falls quiet, pressing the notebook to his chest in a knee-jerk reaction.

“Thought you didn’t like poetry,” he huffs out a laugh that’s only a little bit self-conscious. Jon shrugs, reaching out for his mug and taking a sip.

“I don’t understand it. And yes, I have been known to dislike it at times, but… Maybe I could be swayed to give it another shot.” Jon rolls his eyes fondly and looks at Martin out of the corner of his eye, a look that says ‘for you’. Martin grins, heat pricking at his cheeks once again.

“You see, i-it’s all about emotion.” He places the notebook gently on his lap face down and reaches for his own mug. “You w-want to put all of your emotions into words in a-an artistic way, that has a rhythm and, uh, and feels alive. And you want your, uh, your readers to feel that, that emotion through your words.”

Jon listens attentively and his eyes aren’t leaving Martin’s face; at one point Martin gets distracted by it and forgets where his explanation was going. Jon’s gaze has always been intense, in different ways throughout the time they’ve known each other. At first it was judgemental, the gaze of his boss, full of unmet expectations; then it was piercing, watchful and suspicious; as time passed, it seemed to gain more and more weight of the Beholding, something Tim always complained about. After Martin had joined Peter Lukas, the rare glances he got from Jon were full of yearning that Martin didn’t understand at the time; didn’t want to understand. Now, it’s that gentle fondness, interweaved with something intangibly sad and Martin feels an urge to hug him, to bring him close to his chest and never let go; to bury his face in Jon’s hair and protect him.

They move to place their mugs at the table at the same time and snort, amusement quickly turning into a fit of laughter. Jon throws his head back a little with it and Martin wonders if he has ever seen him laugh so openly before. He didn’t think it was possible for him to fall in love with the man even more, but once again, his heart proves him wrong. He stares at him with a lovestruck expression and thinks they should really talk about it. Martin doesn’t know where to start though and Jon seems to be thinking in a similar direction because his expression shifts into gentle seriousness.

“Martin, I…” He starts and bites his lip. “I need to apologize.”

Martin straightens a little; it’s not exactly what he expects.

“I—The way I used to treat you…” Pain and guilt flash through Jon’s face as he looks away for a moment to gather his thoughts. “It was not okay. None of it was okay. And I’m—I’m really sorry for that. It doesn’t—I know it doesn’t change anything that happened, but I” —he sighs. “I really am sorry. I hope I can, somehow, uh… somehow make it up to you.”

Martin reaches for Jon’s hand, and he looks down in surprise; Martin sees his eyes start glistening.

“I’m sorry for everything that happened to you.” He continues in a whisper and his eyes are locked on their touching hands. “I’m so sorry about the Lonely. I’m sorry that you’re trapped in all of this with me, and I would understand if you decided to leave—”

“Jon.” Martin squeezes his hand and Jon’s eyes shoot up to look at him.

“I’m sorry, that’s not an apology,” he sighs again. “I just… I’m sorry, Martin. About everything.” His other hand grips Martin’s. “I’m glad you are still here. I’m—I’m so glad, you d-don’t even know,” he laughs.

“I think I do.” Martin smiles gently. “Thank you for saying that. I’ve—I've forgiven you for a lot of it a long time ago. A-And the rest just isn’t your fault.”

Jon frowns.

“The Lonely was always there,” Martin shrugs. “Peter Lukas was just… a catalyst, I think. But now I have you.” His finger grazes the outside of Jon’s palm and his heart flutters in his chest when he sees that small smile appear on Jon’s face. “And you can’t be blamed for Elia—Jonah’s games. We’re all just… a bunch of people who didn’t know what was going on until it was too late.”

Jon’s eyes fall as he nods slightly.

“He’s still up to something,” he says quietly.

“Figures,” Martin laughs bitterly. “But we’re here now. And frankly, I don’t really want to think about him when we’re finally…” The word ‘together’ gets stuck in his throat, as if it would breach this fine line of ambiguity they’ve drawn between themselves. Jon seems to fill it in and his eyes land back on Martin.

He’s never wanted to kiss him more than he does right now. Jon's eyes are wide and glistening with something that looks suspiciously like hope, and his fingers gently graze the outside of Martin's palm. Warmth spreads in his chest and his eyes flutter a little, not breaking the eye contact. He wants to pull Jon close to his chest, to run his fingers through his hair and feel his breath on his own skin. To really feel like he's there, next to him, with him.

Before he can follow through with any of that, something sizzles in the kitchen, loud in the silence, startling them both.

“Food!” Jon chuckles slightly before he jumps to his feet and rushes to the kitchen, while Martin snorts and follows him. Jon stirs the pan with curry and sighs with relief when he sees it's not burned. He turns down the heat anyway and checks on the rice.

“Jon, this smells amazing,” Martin says, peeking into the pan with cheese and spinach. “I didn't know you could cook.”

“Well, contrary to the popular belief I was a functional human being. For a while,” Jon snorts and leans against the counter to look back at Martin. “It's Palak Paneer, my grandma taught me when I was a child.”

“It looks fantastic,” Martin grins, and Jon rolls his eyes in mock exasperation.

Even though the moment's lost, the remains of the feeling can be felt between them as they prepare the plates and take the food to the table. They easily fall back into usual chatter and, as soon as they’re finished, Martin jumps to wash the dishes. Jon relents after extensive affirmations from Martin that he's alright and he can definitely take care of a couple dishes in the sink, and he drops onto the couch with a content sigh instead.

Martin finishes up with the dishes and dries his hands on a towel.

“Do you want some tea?” He asks and hangs the towel back on the rack. When there's no response, he turns to the couch. “Jon?”

Something sinks in his stomach when he sees that the object that consumes Jon’s attention is the poem he’s finished; he scratches his neck, as his cheeks take on a pink tinge. “Oh…”

He walks up to the couch, unsure, trying to gauge Jon's reaction. His face seems tense, he squeezes the notebook in his hand so hard his knuckles go white, and his eyes are focused at one point on the page.

“Um... Jon?” Martin asks weakly, his heart drumming in his chest so loud he's sure both of them can hear it.

Jon jumps to his feet, startled, and looks up at him with eyes wide, like a deer in the headlights. Martin instinctively raises his hands in a placating gesture, as Jon registers his presence, looks down on the notebook in his hands, and quickly puts it on the table as if it stung him.

“Martin, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to look, it was just there and—”

“Hey, Jon, it’s alright!” It’s maybe a little not alright, since the poem is nothing short of a love confession and a wish Martin had no right to assume would ever be true, so Jon reading it is less than ideal. Martin rushes to gently place a hand on Jon’s shoulder but when he recoils from the touch, Martin withdraws his hand, cursing everything about himself.

“No, I, uh…” Jon runs his hand through his hair, eyes darting between Martin, his hand, and the notebook frantically. “I shouldn’t have— uh, it’s—it’s your private business, what you write about, so—”

Martin is sure he’s tomato red on the face by this point and hopes against hope that the afternoon light filtering through the curtains obscures it just a little. Jon, on the other hand, doesn’t have the embarrassed blush that usually darkens his cheeks; instead he breathes fast, his hands shaking ever so slightly. Martin sees him hunch just a little, making himself smaller.

“Um, yeah, I, uh—” He starts fidgeting with his fingers. Did the idea of—of love frighten Jon so much? He was stupid to leave it out in the open and now Jon knows, and it’s not how he feels, so he hates him… “I’m sorry.”

Jon’s eyes snap to him, his eyebrows furrowed in confusion.

“For what?”

Martin huffs out something like a pained laugh.

“Th-That’s not exactly how- how I wanted to tell you.” He wrings out his hands and shoots Jon a pleading look. What’s done is done and the only thing he can hope for is for Jon to let him down easy and never speak of this again.

“Tell me?” Jon looks down at the notebook again and there’s the worry again, stark on his face. He breathes out, slowly, and looks at the floor. “I don’t—I don’t even want to think this is a possibility…”

Martin doesn’t need to imagine what it would be like to be stabbed, if he wanted to - he’s pretty sure the acute pain of his heart shattering in his chest is close enough. His mind tries to catch up to the emotions, slow them down just a bit, because something seems off, and isn’t this a weird way to reject someone you must have known had a crush on you? But his throat tightens with the swell of pain and shame and Martin blinks away the tears welling up in his eyes.

Jon sighs and plops down on the couch, hiding his face in his hands and pushing his glasses up to his forehead.

“We d-don’t have to talk about it, if—if you don’t want to,” Martin says quietly. He sits down next to Jon, careful not to touch him in any way, and puts his hands between his knees.

Jon lets out a bitter laugh.

“Isn’t that what they—the Web would want? Just… mindlessly follow, go with the flow until something… irreversibly bad happens?”

Martin turns to Jon with a frown.

“Wh—What?”

Jon looks at him with something glistening in his eyes and Martin can see the lines of pain and misery written on his face like they belong there.

“The web,” he says faintly. “Strings of fate. I—” He lets out a breath. “Was I just being manipulated this whole time? Was I ever really—Did I ever have a choice?”

“Jon... what are you talking about?”

“You—You said I was...” He reaches for the notebook and points at a verse with his finger. “’Made your choice unaware you were led by strings of web against your heart.’ How—W-Why did you say this?”

Martin stares into Jon's green eyes with concern, yet parts of his heart start to weave themselves back together. However confused and worried Jon seems to be, none of it is directed at Martin; he looks at him with desperation, almost pleading, and he realizes they’ve been having two different conversations at the same time.

“Oh-Oh, God, Jon, I-I didn't mean—I just, it's a-a metaphor, just that, you know,” he takes a breath. “It does remind me of a web, the-the way we got caught up in Elias' plans.” He looks down, his cheeks burning as he remembers why Jon would get caught at this specific phrase. “I'm sorry for, uh, using that, it was just the first thing that came to my mind and—”

Jon exhales next to him and Martin risks a look up. The uneasiness isn't gone from his face but he relaxes just a little bit, enough to stabilize his breathing.

“I'm sorry for this… this whole thing, Martin.” He gestures at nothing in particular and it's his turn to look at the floor, as if it's all of a sudden the most interesting thing he's ever seen. He starts fidgeting with the notebook. “I'm just—What if it’s true?” His voice goes higher at the question and he closes his eyes. Martin squeezes his arm. “What if I am just... Just a puppet? An inhuman, helpless puppet in the hands of—Of some spider pulling the strings?”

A tear rolls down Jon's cheek and Martin grabs one of his hands. It’s small and still shakes a little; he tries to put all the protectiveness he feels into this small gesture. Jon doesn’t recoil this time, instead taking a moment to watch Martin’s hand clasp around his.

“Jon,” Martin starts softly. “You're still you. You're not some—Some spider puppet that can't make choices.”

“But what if—”

“You've made a choice to go into the Lonely for me.” Martin bumps their knees together lightly and Jon looks up at him. “I don't suspect any webs would need me alive to push you into it. It was You.”

Jon looks him in the eyes and Martin barely stops himself from reaching up to his face to wipe away his tears.

“Or it just makes us think that we have a choice but are ultimately helpless against fate and everything we do is determined by intricately crafted circumstances,” Jon whispers. “Maybe free will is a lie.”

Martin blinks.

“Jon...”

“Maybe I was never able to stop it. Any of it.” Jon’s voice grows more horrified and even though his eyes are directed at Martin's face, he seems to be looking somewhere past him. “Maybe nothing we try to do really matters.”

“Jon.” Martin’s voice gains a bit of force, even though he feels all but sure. “What do you see?”

Jon frowns. “What?”

“Look at me and tell me what you see?” The force is gone; the sentence sounds more like a feeble suggestion than a request, but Jon's eyes refocus on Martin's in a frown of confusion.

“What do you mean?”

“We're here now,” Martin says quietly. “And yeah, maybe our decisions are all predetermined or whatever. I still think it matters that we try. I think our experience matters. And you're not a-a monster without free will, Jon. You care about people, and you’ve sacrificed a lot for other people. You've made your own choices and, no matter if they were good or bad, they were still yours. And I think that matters.”

Jon blinks at him for a moment, then his shoulders slump with a sigh and he interlaces their fingers. Martin doesn’t miss it and he feels warmth in his chest.

“I've always been afraid of—of my will not being my own anymore,” he confesses quietly. “Of, uh... of not knowing the difference.”

“I get it,” Martin nods. “If it’s any consolation, I see a lot of Jon in you still.” Jon looks up at him with surprise and Martin gives him a half smile. “I see a very changed Jon but it's still Jon.” He strokes Jon's palm as his heart picks up the pace. “The same Jon I've first fallen in love with.”

Jon exhales softly, his face caught in a soft surprise, and Martin smiles around the dull ache in his chest.

“You don't have to say anything. I'm sure you've known for a while, but I just... I wanted to say it.”

With every second that passes in silence, however, Martin's cheeks grow hotter, and he concludes that this might have been a mistake.

“I-I'm sorry. M-Maybe I shouldn't have said that, I… I don't want things to get weird or anything, so, uh, we can, we can just forget—”

“Martin.” Jon says his name in a soft and kind of inquisitive way that makes his heart bounce around and transforms the ache in his chest into swirling butterflies again. Martin looks up and Jon’s head is tilted to the side, his face still wet with tears, but he notices something hopeful glitter in his eyes. “I love you too.”

Martin frowns, suddenly wondering if he isn't dreaming. Is Jon really saying what he thinks he is? Did he hear correctly? Maybe he misheard—

“I have for a while,” Jon's voice is still quiet and soft. “I didn't want to say anything because I thought it was too early after the Lonely and you might not feel this way anymore, but...”

Martin swallows, acutely aware of how loud his heartbeat is. He squeezes Jon’s hand and smiles slightly.

“I... I didn't know,” he whispers, not trusting his voice to cooperate.

“As soon as I woke up from the coma, I wanted to tell you,” Jon says. “I thought I was too late; that it took me too long to stop denying the feelings I had because I didn’t know how to deal with them, and I'd missed my chance.” He laughs bitterly.

“So that’s what it was about,” Martin whispers, as Jon's actions towards him throughout his time as Peter Lukas’ assistant start falling into place. Jon looks at him with a frown, so he adds, “The ‘let's gouge out our eyes and escape'.”

Jon scrunches up his nose and clears his throat.

“Yes, well. Yeah.”

Martin chuckles quietly.

“I don't think I would have lasted in the Lonely if I understood then. But then again. It didn't really matter in the end. It didn't help.”

“But it was your choice,” Jon echoes Martin's words from before and their eyes meet again.

“Yeah. It was my choice.”

They stare into each other's eyes for a moment, losing track of time, before Jon smiles slightly and looks back at the notebook.

“I really am sorry for not asking your permission, though,” he says. “I got so caught up in the metaphor I didn’t even finish it.”

Martin blinks, the warmth from his chest spreading to his cheeks again.

“D-Do you want to?”

Jon smiles softly, this new smile that Martin has only seen in the past couple of days, always directed at him.

“If you’d let me.”

Martin needs to look away, unable to handle the affection in Jon’s eyes. He mumbles an ‘okay’ with a smile that’s not entirely under his control and gets up.

“But I am making that tea whether you want it or not, waiting for someone to finish reading something is a torture.”

He hears Jon laugh as he heads back to the kitchen.

When he comes back with two steaming mugs, Jon is waiting for him with a smile and his nervousness dissipates with his next words.

“I like it,” Jon says. “Apart from the, uh, web metaphor, obviously. It's hopeful.”

“Y-You do?”

Martin swallows; the pleasant tingling in his stomach is back. He places their mugs on the table and reaches out to join their hands again. Jon intertwines their fingers immediately and caresses the outside of Martin’s palm with his thumb.

Jon looks down at the verses again and smiles softly, almost sheepishly, a familiar blush darkening his cheeks.

“I—I don't know if there would be anything for us outside of. You know. The fears and all that,” he grimaces. “At least, for me. But, uh…” He looks at Martin again with a hopeful expression that makes Martin melt a little, and he gently caresses Martin's cheek with his free hand. “I really like the thought of it.”

Martin's brain might be short-circuiting at this moment and all of his thoughts take form of fuzzy static.

“Me too,” he says, suddenly breathless. Jon's hand rests cupping his cheek and, are they a bit closer than they were a second ago? Jon's gaze slides down Martin's face to his lips and he feels he might faint right there and then. He doesn't, instead gathering up his courage to take a breath.

“Can I kiss you?” Jon asks first and Martin feels his lips form a grin.

“Please,” he breathes out; the next second their lips meet, soft but urgent, desperate and sick of waiting. Martin's hand dives into Jon's soft hair, fingers scraping the delicate skin of his head and earning him a low sound from Jon's throat. They pull each other closer and find a rhythm to lose themselves in for just a moment; the sensation of Jon's tongue swirling in his mouth, of his slender fingers on his cheek and his neck, the pressure of his body against his chest; all of it making Martin dizzy with happiness.

Martin pulls away when his lungs painfully remind him breathing is still a necessity and he opens his eyes to look at Jon – His soft lips, his nose, his pockmark scars, and his eyes, green yet with no trace of Beholding in them. He takes him in whole, with all of his flaws and all of his virtues, and he feels seen in return, seen by the man he loves and who loves him. The weight of it all hits Martin like a crashing wave and he pulls Jon in for a tight embrace.

“I love you,” he whispers against his shoulder, and he feels Jon's arms tightening around his torso.

“I love you too, Martin.”

#tma #the magnus archives #tma fic #summer in the archives event #niki.writes #jonathan sims #martin blackwood #jonmartin

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bluejayblueskies · 3 years

Text

peaches and roses

happy international asexual awareness day! this doesn't deal directly with asexuality (though jon and martin are both ace in this)--it's a follow-up to one of my aspec archives week fics, agape, but can be read as a standalone!

ao3 link in the source

The bell that hangs above the door to the bookshop—hung there by Gerry and too high up for Jon to reach without significant effort—jingles, and Jon immediately snaps the book he was thumbing through shut like he’s been caught committing a crime.

“Hi!” Martin says cheerily, his cheeks red and wind-bitten from the chill of the October air, and Jon’s never been more thankful for a dark complexion that doesn’t give away the fact that his face is burning up at the moment as well. He subtly slides the book to the side and covers it with another as Martin steps fully into the shop, a travel mug of tea in each hand. He approaches the counter and hands one of the mugs to Jon with a smile before saying, a bit playfully, “Got any new poetry books?”

“No,” Jon says, too-quickly. “No, uh. Just the usual.” He thinks he should probably say something along the lines of We’ve already got too many books of poetry for any self-respecting bookshop or You would just complain about their excessive use of metaphors anyway, but all he manages is, “Any, er. Any new blends this week?”

Martin hums and gestures to the mug Jon’s holding. It must be quite cold outside—Martin’s cheeks are still bright red. Jon makes a mental note to dig his gloves and hat out of the back of his closet. “It’s, er. It’s not really a new blend? I- I mean, it’s- it’s new, it’s just not… it’s not something I’m serving in the shop yet.”

“Oh,” Jon says, looking at the mug in front of him with growing curiosity and, beneath it, something warmer that curls in the pit of his stomach. “I… what is it?”

“Oh, just- just some, uh—you know, it- it’s a combination of things—well, of course it is, all blends are—just some, er, you know, a- a bit of rosehip and dried peach, Lady Grey and- and oolong—”

“You hate oolong,” Jon says, amused.

“Yes, well, it’s not for me,” Martin says, a bit snappishly in that way Jon adores, where his forehead creases along the middle and his lips purse ever so slightly. “Threw in some dandelions too, I know you’re fond of those, and just a bit of almond because I would never hear the end of it if I left that out—”

“Martin,” Jon says, his stomach twisting into something light and fluttering and fond in a way he doesn’t quite know how to handle. “I’m sure I’ll love it.”

Martin makes a small noise in lieu of finishing his sentence and says, quietly, “Yeah. It’s, er. You- you’re the first to, er… try it, so- so let me know if it’s not—you know what, I’ll just let you… yeah. Should- shouldn’t be too hot.”

This has to be the thousandth cup of tea Martin’s given Jon. It’s certainly not the first that’s been made specifically for him; Jon can still taste the smoke on his tongue, tinged with almond and blueberry, when he thinks back on the day he’d stuttered his way through a poorly-executed coming-out and Martin had taken it with a smile that sent Jon’s heart racing in his chest.

Maybe he’d known before that, that he was a little bit in love with Martin Blackwood. But the first sip of that tea had solidified it into a flower that blossomed within him, growing ever bigger with every smile and cup of tea and teasing remark.

Jon doesn’t think he’ll ever grow tired of the way Martin says his name, like he’s learning it again for the first time. He never, ever wants to stop hearing him say it.

The tea warms Jon from the inside out and tastes like spring mornings and summer sunsets and Martin, Martin, Martin. With the lingering taste of rosehip on his lips, Jon says, “It… it reminds me of you.”

Martin makes a small, choked noise. “Y- yeah? Does… does that mean it’s good?”

Softly, Jon says, “How could it not be?”

“Oh,” Martin says, just as softly. And, well. It seems as good an opening as any.

“You know, I- I never really liked tea before I visited your shop the first time. It served a- a utilitarian function, so to speak, a slightly more palatable caffeinated alternative to coffee. I’d always just get black—whatever was cheapest—and try to pretend like I didn’t hate it.” Jon lets out a small laugh. “Gerry used to joke that I wasn’t a real Englishman.

So—and forgive me when I say this, Martin, I- I really do know better now—I didn’t come into your shop with the… highest expectations. I honestly think I just chose at random from the menu—your selection is quite extensive, Martin, much as you seem insistent on expanding it every other week. But I- well, to say it was a life-changing experience would probably be a touch excessive, but it- it did change me. Er, a bit.”

Jon swallows, ignores the little curl of embarrassment in his stomach, and continues, “I- I made it a mission, if I’m being honest. I thought, maybe it’s just the one. Maybe I- I just got lucky, found the- the one kind of tea that I like. So I came back the next day and got a different one. And it was good.” Jon laughs, a bit breathily, and says, “They’re all good, Martin. Even- even the kinds I don’t like, the- the herbals and anything with peppermint, they… they’re still good, in their own way.” Jon hesitates, only a moment, before deciding that if he’s going to do this, he’s going to do it right. “I still don’t know if I like tea, but… but I like your tea, Martin.”

Martin is staring at him with wide eyes, and Jon curls his fingers around the mug in front of him so he won’t lose his nerve. The warmth seeps through his palms, a comforting presence, and he lets out a small breath to relieve the tension. “I- I like the way you notice what I like, the- the flavors and the kinds of leaves, things I- I don’t really understand. I like the way you smile at me, when- when I tell you I like one of your blends, and- and the way you say my name. I like the way you talk about poetry, and even though I- I’ve never understood the appeal of it before, I… I want to.”

Jon tries not to let his hands shake as he reaches over and retrieves the book he’d been leafing through earlier, the small scrap of paper still stuck in between the pages to mark his place. “I- I’m not very good at…” He trails off and waves his hand in the air, gesturing at Martin and then himself and trying to ignore the pounding of his heart in his chest. “And I- I wanted to write you a poem.” He regrets the words as soon as they leave his mouth, as they bring with them a hot flush of embarrassment, augmented by the way Martin’s mouth parts slightly in shock, and he continues quickly, “But, er. I thought this might be preferable.”

He flips the book open to the marked page, takes a precious few seconds to attempt to steady his breathing, and begins to read.

Sweet, sweet is the greeting of eyes,

And sweet is the voice in its greeting,

When adieus have grown old and goodbyes

Fade away where old Time is retreating.

Warm the nerve of a welcoming hand,

And earnest a kiss on the brow,

When we meet over sea and o’er land

Where furrows are new to the plough.

After he finishes, there’s a few moments of silence before Martin says, quietly, his voice cracking around the words, “But… but that’s Keats. You hate Keats.”

It’s true; Keats is a bit too old-fashioned for even his tastes, and half of his poems sound like frivolous drivel. But even still, Jon had picked up the Keats book as soon as it had arrived, had skimmed it over and over, had carefully chosen the best poem he could find for his purposes, because…

“But you like him. And… and I like you. It’s- it’s not personalized tea blends, but I… I wanted to give you something. To- to show that.” Jon runs his thumb along the edge of the page, a nervous motion prompted by the steady increase of his heartbeat. “And- and maybe to ask if you… wanted to get dinner sometime? With, er. With me.” Of course with you, you’re the one who’s asking him.

Jon opens his mouth again, not entirely sure what he’s planning on saying but certain that it’ll end in another stuttering mess of embarrassment, when Martin’s voice cuts him off.

“Yes.”

Jon’s mouth snaps shut so quickly his teeth click together. “Yes?” he says, so quietly it’s barely audible over the pounding of his own heartbeat in his ears.

Martin laughs; it’s a beautiful sound, like the twinkling of wind chimes and the tweeting of birds at dawn and the whistling of the wind through tree branches. “Yes, Jon, I- I’d love to get dinner with you.” He laughs again before pressing his hand over his mouth, hiding that smile that Jon adores so much. His words devolve into giggles a few more times before he manages to say, “Christ, sorry, I- I’m just… happy.” He removes his hand then and looks at Jon, a new, shy smile upon his lips that Jon’s never seen before but that he immediately holds close to his chest to treasure forever. “I’m just happy.”

Martin leaves eventually, and Jon presses the Keats book into his hands as he goes, letting his fingers linger on Martin’s skin for a moment before they part. The tea is still hot when Jon takes another sip, rose and peach and almond blooming across his tongue, and he feels his lips curl into a smile, wide and giddy, against the lip of the mug.

The bookshop smells like roses and paper and ink and Martin, Martin, Martin.

It smells like home.

#the magnus archives #tma #tma fic #jonmartin #the magnus archives fic #my writing #my fic #wrote this really fast but happy with how it turned out!

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tmabigbang · 3 years

Text

Masterpost of TMA Big Bang 2020 Fics

To prevent clogging up anyone’s dash, we have put all of these fics under a read more since there are 28 wonderful fics created for this bang, which makes for a bit of a long post! Below the cut are links and summaries to all the fics created for this bang!

In addition to this post, you can also check out our fic page (which you can find here)! The fic page includes links to all the fics, art, and the team members that helped create them! You can also use some basic filters for rating and oneshot/multichapter to find fics.

Thank you again to all our participants, and we will see you next year!

Your Job’s A Joke (You’re Broke) by @bisexualoftheblade and @desert-lily

Ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/collections/tmabb20/works/27590578

Summary: Working at the Magnus Institute was stressful by default. With monsters, mayhem, and potential primordial entities, it has very little expectations for being a comfortable job. However, everyone is allowed to have a little fun sometimes - even an archivist, their assistants, and their really creepy boss. Fueled by spite and a rampant lack of heterosexuality, they all try to balance their work life with a bit of fun and a healthy dose of bullying twelve-times divorced Elias Bouchard.

I Know The End by @williammatagot

Ao3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/collections/tmabb20/works/27947966

Summary: Except, for all that beautiful poetry, Eliot was wrong, because the world doesn’t end with a bang, sure, but it doesn’t end with a whimper, either. It ends with the distant-yet-deafening voice of the man Martin loves shouting through a ragged, wild throat--I open the door. (The world ends, Jon shatters, and Martin tries to fix it. The house tries, too, in its own way.)

From the Depth of the Spiral by @trickstergod14

Ao3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/collections/tmabb20/works/27842941

Summary: Michael had no idea what was going on. He suddenly woke up in the tunnels under the Magnus Institute with no memories of the past seven years after that fateful trip to Sannikov Land. Watch as he slowly spirals into madness, regaining his memories while strengthening his bond with the Distortion along the way. Can he hide all this from the other Archival Assistants? What will happen when Jon wakes up from his coma? And what does the newly crowned Distortion Avatar, Helen, have to do with all this?

Every Word I Say is Kindling (But The Smoke Clears When You’re Around) by @ohnoimdeathing

Ao3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/collections/tmabb20/works/27956897

Summary: The unknowing left Jon stirring in the nightmares of others, watching their torment and suffering and making everything worse. He wanted to wake up, to go back to Martin, Tim, Basira, even Daisy. But he didn’t know how to. Until a voice told him to choose Though, to be honest, he doesn’t remember actually making the choice to stay a monster and live rather than be human and die. The only injury the doctors will talk about is his missing eyes, and why are all the doctors Scottish? At least Martin is here.

Spinning ‘Round (like two sides of a coin) by @awayofunderstandingit

Ao3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/collections/tmabb20/works/27835756

Summary: Time is a construct. What we know as past, present, and future all exist at the same time, ad infinitum. • Guided not by time but a spoken word poem, follow along the lives of two intertwined souls, Timothy Stoker and Sasha James. The story of their friendship from the time they meet, through growing apart, to when they fall back together, and through their time working at the Magnus Institute. Witness slices of their lives—not memories, memories would suggest the past—as they exist, ad infinitum, even at The End.

retrouvailles by @jet-siquliak

Ao3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/collections/tmabb20/works/27818092

Summary: The Magnus Institute burns. The archivist, for all intents and purposes, burned with it. In a dingy hospital room lies what remains - Jonathan sims. weak, powerless, and insignificant. On Jon’s last day in the hospital, Martin awakes from a coma, unscathed. Melanie King kicks the dirt that once housed the institute. Tim stoker wakes up in the middle of nowhere. Elias Bouchard is dead. No one knows where to go from there. Or: the destruction of one home and the making of another.

Still, I’ll Always Keep the Memory by @revolutionnaire-e

Ao3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/collections/tmabb20/works/27932125

Summary: [MARTIN turns, stepping out of the shadows towards him. It is blood, not tears. His left eye is not his own. His eyes never shone that blinding green, never shone with such malice or self-satisfied pride.] MARTIN BLACKWOOD Pleasure to see you again, Archivist.

Making Home by @cuddlytogas

Ao3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/collections/tmabb20/works/27664805

Summary: After the events in the Panopticon, Jon and Martin rush to leave London. But making their home in an idyllic safe house isn't that easy: between the layer of dust, and Forsaken still clinging to Martin's heels, it could be some time before they reach an understanding.

called your name ‘til the fever broke by @corpsesoldier

Ao3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/collections/tmabb20/works/27845161

Summary: Basira made a promise to her partner. At the end of the world, a monster comes and demands she keep it.

assorted family photos by @lesbianbirds

Ao3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/collections/tmabb20/works/27903979

Summary: When setting off on a research trip, it is advised that you prepare yourself for certain oddities that may greet you. or; key moments in a world where the entities are weaker and everyone got a bit more therapy

Timothy Stoker’s Guide to Dating by @pezilla

Ao3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/collections/tmabb20/works/27841267

Summary: Timothy Stoker has a lot of advice when it comes to matters of the heart, online agony aunt, gossip monger and general love guru. He has a list and he sticks to it. Or he did. That was before he took a job at the Magnus Institute and before he met three of the most fascinating and frustrating people to ever come into his life. Rule #7 under no circumstances fall for a co-worker. Yeah, that rule was starting to become a problem.

Running the Institute by @drowsy-salamander

Ao3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/collections/tmabb20/works/27878306

Summary: Caroline Ferguson, the entirety of the Magnus Institute's legal department, is furiously ignoring any weirdness that could be going on in her workplace, from the tech issues to the vanishing colleagues to the everything about Artefact Storage, Caroline will turn a very deliberate blind eye. They're are not her problem. Now if only those murders could also stop.

kindred spirits (not so scarce as I used to think) by @pollylittlehigher-littlelower

Ao3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/collections/tmabb20/works/27914821

Summary: An Anne of Green Gables inspired AU, set in modern day England. Jon and Georgie are childhood best friends, but the two stop talking after a falling out. Even doing their best to avoid each other, Georgie struggles to escape him, even while dealing with her own mental health issues and a blossoming romance with her housemate, Melanie. Is Jon truly the kindred spirit she once considered him? Or will the two eventually part ways for good?

Friends of Empty Graves by @artswaps

Ao3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/collections/tmabb20/works/27974807

Summary: After the coffin, she cuts her hair. Who is Alice Tonner? People are searching for her in the space she left behind, in the person she was. Daisy looks elsewhere, and tries not to choke.

just let the feeling grow by @ajkal2

Ao3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/collections/tmabb20/works/27838447

Summary: Jon is a musician. He plays songs for a living. Except love songs. He doesn't do love songs, and he makes this quite clear with anyone interested in working with him. Except his manager has booked him for a wedding. Without asking. With days before the festivities start, Jon needs help. Desperately. He won't get it from his hosts, the Lukas family. He certainly won't get it from his manager. However, there's a certain amateur poet on the Lukas' staff who has a talent for making love sound genuine.

World Cold and Hard, Moth Boy Warm and Soft by @lcjenkinswriting

Ao3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/collections/tmabb20/works/27827491

Summary: Jon, a young moth fairy, leaves the nest in search of a place that feels like home

tapes winding forward by @ghostbustermelanieking

Ao3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/collections/tmabb20/works/27858721

Summary: Martin ignores him, stops him mid-sentence to say, "Jon, what have you heard about time travel?" --- Martin and Jon wake up two years in the future. It goes about as well as can be expected.

MAG 26.5: Beach Episode by @ebenrosetaylor

Ao3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/collections/tmabb20/works/27882746

Summary: Sasha is aware of the rising tensions in the archives after Martin was stalked by Prentiss and after she had her own encounter with Michael. In an attempt to boost morale and bring them closer together, Tim suggests that they all visit the beach to unwind and get their minds off of all things paranormal. Sasha takes it upon herself to make sure that everyone has fun and relaxes, but she forgets to give herself that luxury.

Rewrite The Rulebook by @radiosandrecordings

Ao3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/collections/tmabb20/works/27823774

Summary: "Panic! Bloody panic! I've been out since I was fifteen and never once actually brought someone home. I think I just wanted to seem like I had my life together, y’know? Mainly I just... I think I just wanted someone to be there with me, so I wasn't just alone with her the entire time. A bit of comfort.” There was pause as Martin let out a dramatic sigh, seemingly relieved to ramble out his thoughts. "... I could go with you. If you want."

A Test In Patience by @talking4the1

Ao3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/collections/tmabb20/works/27917749

Summary: Elias is going about his day as the new head of the Magnus Institute in 1995. Some spreadsheets to do, meetings to attend mundane and supernatural. Nothing seems out of place until The Eye calls him to Bournemouth.

Of Mothers and Memory by @loverdontleave

Ao3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/collections/tmabb20/works/27856585

Summary: There is a story to be told, of two people, a mother and a son. Of their history together, and the sacrifices they made for each other. Perhaps they loved each other once, but that thread of connection has weakened on one end, fraying away. And it is so, so cold.

Would That I Were Golden Dust by @that-one-girl-behind-you

Ao3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/collections/tmabb20/works/27734197

Summary: The world is a lot more dangerous with your soul walking by your side, and Entities aren’t shy about feeding on golden Dust.

Till Death, Parted by @bigowlenergy

Ao3 Link:https://archiveofourown.org/collections/tmabb20/works/27749680

Summary: Jon gets caught after ripping out Gerry’s page by Trevor & Julia, and through a comedy of errors ends up engaged as an excuse. Somehow, Jon gets out alive, Gerry is freed, and they have the two hunters accompanying them as bodyguards - and as best man and best woman - without a fight. Living alone in Gerry’s London safe house afterwards will be totally fine. Jon is fine. He knows what coping is and everything! Totally fine.

The Spoken Word by @drumkonwords

Ao3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27802708/chapters/68066326

Summary: Jon wants. Their pinky twitches — stretching and curling to the tune of something musical. The song of wanting, with its motifs of long, low notes. Starting quiet and mumbling up into Jon’s chest until the strings of their heart vibrate like the strings of a double bass and all they can do is wonder who’s tune they’re matching. But they know.

First Aid by @platypik

Ao3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/collections/tmabb20/works/27948284

Summary: Jon is certain Martin has been acting strangely all morning. When Martin offhandedly mentions he took a bad tumble off the tube to work, Jon suddenly Knows that the fall had given Martin a nasty fracture. Despite his desperate pleading, Martin stubbornly refuses to let Jon drive him to the hospital. In fact, it seems he would much rather take care of it himself than have Jon worry and fuss over him. Jon would disagree.

Burning Bright, In the Forests of the Night by @triffidsandcuckoos

Ao3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/collections/tmabb20/works/27915400

Summary: The safehouse bursts into flames at their backs. You can choose to change the path. Just be ready for what else you might change.

i’ve been static for too long by @furryjefferson

Ao3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/collections/tmabb20/works/27887878

Summary: Jonathan Sims ends up with a stranger’s phone on the way home from work. All signs point to the Magnus Institute, and all roads lead to its mysterious archivist: Martin Blackwood.

through the clouds like a moonbeam by @digital-waterfall

Ao3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/collections/tmabb20/works/27877402

Summary: After passing through the Vast’s domain, Jon is left with an unexpected surprise-- a pair of wings. Unsurprisingly, Martin finds them beautiful. Also unsurprisingly, Jon does not.

#tma big bang 2020 #fic masterpost #the magnus archives #tma

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hobbitsetal · 4 years

Note

HOBBS I wanna hear your opinions on the entertainment debate pls

Ahahahaha this brings me joy because @throwaninkpot said the same thing! Ask and you shall receive ;)

So. The entertainment debate. Is it sinful for Christians to consume media, particularly media that is not Christian, or indeed contains offensive content? Harry Potter is a popular target. Pokemon and Dungeons and Dragons had their day in the cross-hairs.

What I’ve seen floating around on Tumblr leapfrogs from “this media contains something I think is antithetical to Biblical teaching” to “THIS IS NOT 500% GOD ALL THE TIME SO IT IS SINNNNN.”

As a writer of poetry and fantasy, I cannot convey to you how immature I find this view. As a Christian raised with a healthy understanding of Christian liberty, I cannot convey to you how disgustingly legalistic this view is. But I am absolutely going to try, because this is important and I have seen beloved friends badgered and bullied into questioning harmless pastimes by these anti-gospel gatekeepers.

First and most key, I do not care what you’re watching, your salvation is not contingent on nor indicated by your media consumption. Your salvation is contingent on the love of God and indicated by Christ’s redemptive work and the work of the Holy Spirit.

Romans 10:9-10 outlines the requirement for salvation nicely: “If you confess with your mouth that Jesus is Lord and believe in your heart that God raised him from the dead, you will be saved. For with the heart one believes and is justified, and with the mouth one confesses and is saved.”

There ya go. If you’re watching Game of Thrones, that doesn’t revoke your Christian card. It doesn’t un-sacrifice Christ.

But mentioning Game of Thrones does beg the question, are there things Christians should not watch? I say yes, and Ephesians and Philippians say yes!

“Now this I say and testify in the Lord, that you must no longer walk as the Gentiles do, in the futility of their minds. They are darkened in their understanding, alienated from the life of God because of the ignorance that is in them, due to their hardness of heart. They have become callous and have given themselves up to sensuality, greedy to practice every kind of impurity. But that is not the way you learned Christ!— assuming that you have heard about him and were taught in him, as the truth is in Jesus, to put off your old self, which belongs to your former manner of life and is corrupt through deceitful desires, and to be renewed in the spirit of your minds, and to put on the new self, created after the likeness of God in true righteousness and holiness.”

“Let no corrupting talk come out of your mouths, but only such as is good for building up, as fits the occasion, that it may give grace to those who hear.”

“Finally, brothers, whatever is true, whatever is honorable, whatever is just, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is commendable, if there is any excellence, if there is anything worthy of praise, think about these things.”

That’s a giant block of text, so let’s break it down a bit. Before we are saved, sin doesn’t bother us. Sexually explicit materials, foul language, violence, depravity of every kind--we might personally not love it, but there’s no deep-seated moral argument against it.

After we have been saved, the Holy Spirit convicts us and reveals to us through Scripture how God wants us to live. Sex is holy and should be treated as an important thing. Foul language doesn’t build others up, so we shouldn’t use it. Violence is not loving, so we should not be violent.

How does this relate to media?

I would argue that it relates differently for different people, but that the effect of the media you consume on your spiritual life and your relationships with others is your best gauge.

I knew a young man who was deeply affected by music, so he was careful to listen to Christian artists lest he be tempted into sin by immoral lyrics. I don’t have that problem. I can listen to a song and not think more deeply about it than whether it’s a fun beat.

What about books? I do need to be careful here. Some people can read books with suggestive content and skip past those scenes, without temptation or without their imaginations being led astray. I can’t. So I don’t read romance novels. I would not glorify God with this.

TV shows, art, and movies are all similar: how do they affect you personally? I stopped watching the Battlestar Galactica reboot because the language and sexual content convicted me. But I watched The Witcher with my husband--partly because I’m at a different stage in my life and what stumbled me as a single adult is no longer as problematic now that I’m married, and partly because the subtle pro-life themes and the themes of good and evil and objective right and wrong outweigh the objectionable content.

Romans 14, to me, speaks most clearly to this:

“One person esteems one day as better than another, while another esteems all days alike. Each one should be fully convinced in his own mind. The one who observes the day, observes it in honor of the Lord. The one who eats, eats in honor of the Lord, since he gives thanks to God, while the one who abstains, abstains in honor of the Lord and gives thanks to God. For none of us lives to himself, and none of us dies to himself. For if we live, we live to the Lord, and if we die, we die to the Lord. So then, whether we live or whether we die, we are the Lord’s. For to this end Christ died and lived again, that he might be Lord both of the dead and of the living.”

I would not watch certain movies with certain family members, but I would with others. This is not hypocrisy because I don’t pretend that I don’t watch those movies; I make a choice to respect my family’s consciences when they differ from mine.

Were some friends to express dismay that I play Dungeons and Dragons or read Harry Potter, I would explain to them why I’m comfortable with that media, but I wouldn’t shove it in their faces.

~~~

This is dreadfully long already, but I can’t just stop with explaining our liberty in Christ to enjoy media and art.

We are made in the image of God. God is the Great Artist, the Supreme Storyteller, the Maker of Music. We were made to create art, to tell stories, to make music! This is part of how we glorify God! This is what we will spend eternity doing! Do you think Tolkien has stopped writing because he’s in Heaven? or Lewis?

And what is the greatest joy of a creator but sharing? God created us to share Himself with us--not out of need, for He needs nothing, but out of joy and the fullness of His Divine nature! And we, who are needy and who are made to be social in reflection of the Trinity, how much more do we want to share and rejoice in sharing!

As a writer, I love having people read what I write. And conversely, I love hearing my friends’ music and seeing their art.

Those who consume media are taking their rightful place as Audience. Those who create media are taking their rightful place as Sub-Creator.

And those who claim that media is sinful are cramming God into a pitifully tiny box and trying to limit human experience to the blandest existence possible. God did not craft sunsets and constellations and the whole of human history for us to look at each other and say, “Better not enjoy this, it’s probably sinful.”

As Martin Luther allegedly said, “Beer is proof God loves us.”

Enjoy stories. It’s what God created us to do.

#theology #Christianity #Christian liberty #long post #I'M NOT DONE RANTING #I MIGHT JUST WRITE A SEPARATE POST ABOUT STORYTELLING AND GOD #BECAUSE HOT DANG DO I LOVE IT

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somuchbetterthanthat · 4 years

Text

Probably too long for tumblr, un-betaed, written in one rush, utterly and completely self-indulgent. Have a little bit of touch-adverse/kiss-adverse Martin (with a good deal of denial and internalize prejudice to boot, so warning) for Aspec Martin Week.

It’s been a week, and they haven’t kissed.

It makes sense, Martin insists to tell himself, eager to find excuses for that one little discordant note in his otherwise perfect fairytale. What they shared in the Lonely had been -- much more powerful than that, for starters. And afterwards, there’d been the rush of getting somewhere safe, first to Martin’s flat, then to Scotland. They’d gone from stuttering at each other, exhausted and soft, blatantly trying to get over months of separation, to falling back in each other’s orbit with an easiness that made Martin light-headed when he thought about it too long.

So they hadn’t kissed. It just hadn’t -- came up yet. They’d gone so fast, so suddenly, it was nice to have that little thrill of anticipation. They were building towards something. They were building something, right now. There was no rush, was there?

After all, they’d hold hands, a few times. In the train to Scotland, fingers loosely intertwined, when Martin was still shivering from a coldness that had nothing to do with the rain pouring outside, and everything with the pervasive attraction of the sea that was still trying to drown out the beating of his own heart. They’d hold hands and it was warm and good and -- and well, sweaty, sometimes, when they kept at it for too long, but Martin had daydreamed of holding Jon’s hand for so long he could never make himself let go (and if there was an odd drop of relief wherever Jon let go first, at last, well, that was -- that was --)

Jon was affectionate, the way Martin had seen cats be when he fell into YouTube spirals, before. He hovered in Martin’s physical space, nuzzle his shoulder when he was sleepy, put his legs on Martin’s lap when they sat on the couch, and downright beamed and melted into his arms the first time Martin, filled with abrupt courage and stubbornness had decided to hug him, and every single time after that (this chased away the sound of the sea; if he kept Jon’s close enough, all he could hear was Jon’s voice and Jon’s heart and Jon’s breathing --)

(And if it get too much, sometimes, if he had to bite his tongue not to flinch when Jon’s hand brushed over his arms, his neck, his back, suddenly and without any apparent pattern, well, that was --)

They slept in the same bed, for heaven’s sake. They hadn’t even talked about it. The first night, tiredness had won over any potential flustering. Afterwards, it’d been easy, like everything else between them. Martin adored the intimacy of it in a way that was hard to describe properly. He loved it most in the morning, when the sun came in and he woke up before Jon, liked going to prepare breakfast knowing that he could come back whenever he wanted, and Jon would be there still, comfortable and vulnerable and in their bed, probably curled on Martin’s side, nose pressed against Martin’s pillow. He loved it most when they spent the evening there, still dressed, Jon’s reading, Martin scribbling in the small notebook Jon had bought for him at the London train station, cheeks flushed and eyes hopeful.

(They slept in the same bed, and Jon’s pajamas were too short, and his legs hairy, and his feet cold, and when he fell asleep he had a tendency to roll over and lean his legs against Martin’s, and Martin closed his hands into fists and breathed, breathed, and tried not to feel like he was trapped between suffocating in the bed, or disappearing into the fog to escape it all together. It was intimate. It was intimacy. It was what normal couples did, sharing a bed, and why couldn’t he enjoy it, he who’d dreamed of this his whole life? Intimacy. A relationship. Someone to love and to hold and fall asleep with, he who had been craving gentle, casual, loving touches his whole life, why couldn’t he ----)

So they hadn’t kissed; it didn’t matter, because Martin knew they would anyway. It was just that, out of everything, he had dreamed of kissing the most his whole life. When he was very young, the person hadn’t even had a face; he’d thought this would happen very officially, at his wedding. As a teenager, it’d slowly dawned on him he had no desire to kiss girls. Harder, he’d thought, but that would happen, he knew it could, Mr Anders had a boyfriend, everybody knew he had. Martin had imagined his first kiss with Louis who was two years older and played Rugby. Then it’d been with Tom, and Samir, and -- and then, there hadn’t been school anymore, but that was fine; he’d imagined his first kiss to be with an half stranger in a café, or in this bar where they hosted poetry nights.

It’d never happened, of course, but that was fine. That was fine. Who needed a relationship, anyway? Lots of people were single, and didn’t kiss people all the time, and if Martin sometimes felt icy envy when Tim used to speak of how easily he seduced people, well, that was easily pushed back down. (Martin had thought, once or twice, that he could ask Tim. Warm, friendly, easy-going Tim, who would never judge him for being inexperienced. He could have, but Martin didn’t want to kiss Tim. There was no pull, no attraction, no matter how charming Tim’s smile was. He wasn’t in love --)

And then there was Jon. The first time he’d daydreamed about kissing Jon, he was sleeping in his cot, and it smelled like his awful-but-not-quite-boss and safety-safety-safe-. Afterwards, there’d been million of other occasions. God, how much he’d craved, this past months, to go down the Archives, the hell with Peter, and to cup Jon’s face and to -- (and then he hadn’t wanted to anymore, and that was fine, too, it was easier, to stare at Jon and care in a pragmatic way instead of like a pathetic, lovesick fool. One of us should, he’d thought in his worst moment, and he loathed the man he’d been for those weeks so much -- there was a quiet dread in him that liked to murmur back to him Daisy’s words, that the entities didn’t force anything on them, just exacerbated what was already inside them, and every time, inevitably, he felt so cold again--)

So they hadn’t kissed. It was fine. They were going to. They were building to it. They just needed the perfect moment. First kisses weren’t just about the right person. They were about the right place, at the right time. Martin had wanted this for so long --

Tonight, Jon’s scowling at their puzzle like it personally insulted him, has been for the past ten minutes, and the light of the fire is reflecting in his eyes; he’s wearing Martin’s jumper and his hair is still wet from his earlier shower and Martin’s heart jumps at his throat as he thinks now. It has to be now.

“I’d like to kiss you,” he blurts out, filled with a sudden urgency. “Please? If -- If that’s -- if you want to.”

Jon looks up, startled, and it’s magic, the way his scowl disappears under his sudden flush and shy, happy smile. “Ah, yes,” he says, like he’s surprised. “Yes, I want -- I thought you might not --”

“No,” Martin says, “No I really really do --” “Well, then.” Jon’s lips curled into something that’s full of mischief, and Martin didn’t know it was possible to adore someone just as much as he adores Jon. “Come here, Mr Blackwood.”

“Oh I’ve got to work for it, have I?” Martin retorts, but he’s grinning, and already moving to Jon. They push the puzzle away, and Martin’s whole body is thrumming with nervous energy, abruptly, as Jon looks up to him, eyes dark and beautiful and soft. “I haven’t -- I haven’t actually ever done this,” he says, and is surprised to find he’s not embarrassed to say.

“There’s really not much to it,” Jon tells him, but he cups Martin’s face, tender as ever, and Martin thinks -- non sense, what is there more intense and intimate in the world than this? What else embodies love as much as kissing? -- and then Jon’s lips gently brush against his

-- and it’s good; for a few seconds, Martin feels electrified and so happy he could float; and then Jon’s lips are pressing back a little more insistently, and they’re a bit dry, and chapped, and his breath is hot against Martin’s face, and Martin’s knees are not wobbly, and the electricity has passed and all there is left is two bodies, pressed awkwardly against each other, skin and flesh and that odd, wet noise, and he wants to run, he wants to run so badly, this is ---

Jon moves away. Blinks worriedly, smile gone. “Martin?”

“No,” Martin says, his voice too tight, his hands trembling. “No, come back it’s -- sorry, i’m going to -- I’m just, i’m new to this? It’s got to -- It’s just -- I need --”

“Martin, breathe,” Jon snaps (he’s not angry, Martin has learnt to recognize the different ways Jon snaps over the years. He’s worried, and anxious, and probably thinking he’s done something wrong, the beautiful idiot --)

Martin breathes.

“Let me try again,” he stammers, after a minute.

“...Are you sure?” Jon tentatively asks. He’s so far away, careful not to lean too close while clearly yearning for it, and Martin forbids himself to start crying.

“Please,” he says instead.

“Okay,” Jon says. This time, he is so much more hesitant, so Martin is the one who crosses the distance between them, heart racing desperately in his chest. He tries to think of every movie, every story he’s ever watched or read or listen to; he puts one hand on Jon’s shoulder, and one hand on Jon’s hair, and Jon sighs, and their lips met and this time it’s right except, except it’s --

it’s all wrong, everything is wrong, and all that Martin manages to be aware of is how awkward and weird it all is; just like the hand-holding, when they do it too long, just like those little unexpected touches Jon offer at random moments, just like Jon’s legs in bed, and his damn cold feet;

Martin doesn’t remember breaking off the kiss; suddenly he is sobbing angrily -- at the lonely, at himself, at his childhood self who’s probably dreamed of this so much he’s ruined the reality of it all for themselves as an adult, -- and hides his face in Jon’s shoulder, apologizing like an idiot; he doesn’t even know what he babblers on. Stupid stuff, properly, because he’s an idiot, because he’s doing this horribly wrong, all of this, because he’s not feeling anything of what he should feel right now, because there is something ugly in him that refuses to be tamed even by love, and so what now? What now?

(Jon holds him. Jon murmurs it’s okay, it’s okay, we don’t have to, it’s okay, I love you, breathe for me, Martin, it’s okay, you’re okay -- and how is it, that Martin can love him so much and yet not be able to --)

“I want to,” he manages to say. “I’ve wanted to. All my life I just --”

“I’m sorry,” Jon says, as if he is in any way responsible for this disaster. “Kisses are very much overstated, if you want my opinion.”

“But it’s not,” Martin argues, clinging to him harder. “It’s how you, you show love --”

“Is it? I never thought so. I like kissing just fine, I suppose, but It does get boring, especially if you do it for too long. Assuming we’re speaking of mouth kissing, of course.”

“How can you -- How can you say that?” Martin sputters, tearing himself away from Jon’s arms to stare at him. Jon is frowning, but he also looks so calm, it’s baffling.

“Easily,” Jon said, shrugging, a bit defensively. “Look, Martin, I told you four days ago I didn’t have sex. Ever. And you said it was fine, that you didn’t mind.”

“Well, yes, but --”

“How is that in any way different than kissing?”

“It’s, it’s -- I don’t know but --” Martin can feel himself tearing up again. Jon’s eyes soften, and he gently squeezes Martin’s hand.

“If you want to try again, at some point, we can,” he tells him, and it’s so impossibly gentle. “But it’s alright if it’s not -- something you enjoy. If we don’t kiss, ever, I won’t love you any less for it.”

“Maybe I just -- I just need to practice,” Martin says, quieter now.

“Maybe,” Jon admits. “But if it makes you this distressed every time, I might be the one who has to say no, here.”

Martin wants to argue some more, but something in Jon’s expression, stubborn and worried still, stopped him from doing so. “I love you,” he says instead, because that part is true, that part he trust; if he cannot control his body, at least he has mastered his heart;

Jon smiles. “I love you,” he says back, and he brings Martin’s hand to his mouth and kisses it gently.

Martin’s heart stops; his cheeks warm up abruptly; a shiver runs down his spine. He feels his breath hitch up his throat.

“Do that again?” he tries, voice trembling.

Jon raises his eyebrows. “This?” his lips linger on Martin’s knuckles, this time. Martin’s knees feel weak. Jon’s smile gets wider; warmer. “Oh, I can do this,” he nods, seriously. “Tell me if it’s get boring.” and he kisses Martin’s hand again; each finger, with a tenderness that makes Martin feel dizzy.

“I love you,” he repeats, because he thinks, he’s starting to understand what Jon was saying. “I love you so much.”

Jon kisses his wrist; his lips are a bit chapped and it’s slightly wet and Martin’s pulse is loud in his ears.

This. this is perfect.

There is no but; there is no quiet, shameful parentheses; Martin thinks he might have to talk to Jon about the bed, maybe, tomorrow; for now, his eyes fall back on Jon’s hand. He wonders what it’ll be like, to kiss it. He’s got a feeling it might be very pleasant, indeed.

#the magnus archives #aspecmartinweek #tw: internalized prejudice #i /guess/ it can vaguely fit the prompt #exploration #?#or together #but mmh #tma stories #sorry there is an actual story i'm working on properly that ought to arrive hopefully next week or so

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rest-upon-the-morning-light · 3 years

Text

JonMartin fic

So I’m trying to get back into fic writing, especially for TMA, and have a multi chapter fic planned but wanted to start with a smaller one shot style fic to warm up. It’s been an age since I’ve written anything, much less something that wasn’t just reader based or smut lmao. I’ve added trigger warnings but if I missed any do let me know!

Any feedback would be great and if you like this, please send me prompts! Happy to write anything from fluff to smut, just as long as its TMA based :D

So! Here is my cute fluff JonMartin fic! Enjoy~

Everybody Wants To Be A Cat

Word Count: 2240

Trigger Warnings: Mentions of Animal Abuse, but nothing to graphic. Anxiety. Self Worth Issues. Season 1 Jon being Season 1 Jon. Season 1 Martin being Season 1 Martin.

Fandom: The Magnus Archive

Pairings: Jonathan Sims/Martin Blackwood

Summary: Martin was certain of two things. One, he had an enormous crush on his boss. Two, his boss hated him. Who knew a one eyed beast of an alley cat would bring them closer?

Martin Blackwood has two problems.

Problem number one. He was absolutely certain he was more than a little bit in love with his boss.

Problem number two. His was absolutely certain said boss hated him.

Well, hated was probably a strong word. Hated implied that Jon thought of him at all, and it was far more likely that Jon thought of him very little throughout his day. Except, of course, when Martin did something wrong. Then those piercing eyes of his would be solely fixed on him whilst he shouted about how inept Martin was or how stupid his mistake had been.

It hurt, those moments. It hurt that the only time Jon ever truly seemed to see Martin was when he was angry at him. Not when Martin did an amazing follow up on a statement. Not when he’d created a great rapport with a statement giver or their family. Not when he brought Jon tea. Just when he did something wrong.

It was a running theme in this annoyance Martin called his life.

He still couldn’t help these feelings though. Jon was an arse half the time that much was true. It infuriated Tim to know end when Jon would lash out at Martin. “He has no right Martin. Mistake or not he’s your boss, he’s supposed to help you, not act like a massive dick all the time”

It was harder for Tim and Sasha in a way. They’d been Jon’s equal for a long time, working together. Moving to the Archive was always going to be a bit of a challenge. To have friend become boss. Especially for Sasha, who everyone thought was going to be become Head Archivist. But neither had held any real resentment over Jon for the change. After all, it wasn’t his choice, it was Elias’s.

But Jon’s sudden shift from rude but mostly recluse and occasionally friendly colleague to rude very recluse and stick constantly up arse boss was harder than any of them expected.

Martin could understand. It was big position and Jon seemed like the type to take everything he did very seriously. This meant holding everything in the archive to a high standard. His assistance included.

So yes, Jon was awful to him a lot of the time. But he was passionate. He cared. For all his blustering that none of this was real, Martin could see how much he empathised with the people who had given those statements. How he looked like he’d personally failed them when a follow up revealed they had died not longer after they’d come to visit the institute.

His crush probably wasn’t the most healthy but sue him! He liked being a bit in love. He liked having inspiration for his poetry. He enjoyed the fluttery feeling in his stomach when he came into work.

He just wished Jon didn’t quite hate. No. Didn’t quite dislike him so much.

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There is a cat that has been hiding the alleyway behind the Institute for several days now.

Martin noticed the poor thing when he’d been taking out some rubbish that accumulated in the Archive. Usually that sort of thing wasn’t his job, but he’d been done for the day anyway and he liked to be useful, even if no one really noticed.

It was a mangy young thing. Light brown fur matted, one eye seemed to be damaged and it hissed every time Martin so much as approached it.

He couldn’t just leave it though. Poor thing needed help. It was out here, lonely, forgotten, damaged by the people that probably at one point said they’d love and protect it.

Was he projecting onto a stray cat now? God this was a new level of sad.

So he did what someone in his position did best. He researched.

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

There is a surprising number of places to buy cat supplies near the Institute and the workers in the shop were incredibly helpful with his questions.

Approach slowly. Don’t try to touch or hold the cat. Leave out food and water. He’d also bought a small plastic hut and shoved a warm blanket inside for the large cat. He didn’t know what breed it was. Just that it was grumpy and hurt.

It didn’t take a great deal away from his own funds either. His job paid well enough and he didn’t exactly go out with people very often, buying expensive drinks or tickets to shows.

His special treat was usually some sugar drenched coffee.

He couldn’t see any physical injuries on the cat, apart from its eye, so he put some treats in the hut, left out the food and water, then left.

He came back everyday with more supplies to keep the large growling cat comfortable. Every day that passed the cat came a little bit closer to him. He grinned at that. Hoping one day it would come close enough to pet.

He’d read somewhere that when cats blink, once and slow, it was a sign that they trusted you. Martin waited for that day with bated breath.

Tim and Sasha were a little bit suspicious as to where he was going on his lunch breaks. He told them he just taking a long walk, getting some fresh air away from the dusty old archives but he knew it wasn’t the best lie.

Lying for the sake of his job was one thing. Lying to his friends for no good reason was another.

It wasn’t like he doing anything bad. It was more that he wanted this for himself. He wasn’t even too sure why. Part of him wondered if he was worried the cat would somehow take some natural liking to either one of them or both. He didn’t want to lose all his hard work.

Or, if he was being more honest with himself, he didn’t want the cat to abandon him for someone better.

Yeah. New level of pathetic had been reached.

But one lunch, a few weeks after he’d first spotted the broken but massive feline, that the lying and the ill feeling became absolutely worth it.

Because the cat approached him.

Martin didn’t move a single muscle. He was sat on a small wooden box in the alley. Far enough away as to not frighten the poor thing, but close enough that the cat could make contact if it wanted to.

And today it did.

He held his breath the closer it got, keeping eye contact with its good eye the whole time. It paused for a moment, right in the front of his bent legs, before it let out a small mirp noise and butted its head against his knee.

“Oh hello” Martin laughed, chest feeling lighter than it had in an exceptionally long time.

He reached out his hand slowly to pet its head and let out another sign of relief when the one eyed cat let him.

“Well” he began

“I can’t very well keep calling you cat or beast in my head, you’ll need a name”.

It didn’t acknowledge his words in any way, just continued to let him scratch behind its ears and watched him with its one working eye. He could almost imagine its thoughts.

“Silly Martin, just come up with one already. Stop wasting time”.

He let out a soft chuckle at the thought, a name ready on his lips.

“Jon” he smiled gently.

“I think I’ll call you Jon”.

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It went well after that. Martin made plans to keep the cat. It would help the dreariness of his lonely flat, and he was lucky his landlord allowed pets in his building.

He couldn’t afford proper insurance but the workers at the pet shop knew an emergency vet that wasn’t too expensive, so he could get Cat Jon’s eye checked out soon.

Giddy as he was with his newfound friend, he didn’t realise that he’d been less subtle than usual about where he was going on his break.

It was one grey, wet Wednesday that it all came to ahead.

He’d been sitting crossed legged on the ground, his coat below him as a sort of makeshift blanket to keep his trousers dry, when Human Jon found them.

He hadn’t even noticed Jon had followed him until the backdoor that led the alley burst open with a bang that echoed down the narrow way.

“Martin” shouted Jon, looking at some papers in his hand.

“I need you to take your lunch late and follow up on this report. You made several errors in your research that, frankly, a child could spot. I don’t know what you’re doing out here but if you have time to sit around then –“

Jon’s rant was cut short as he finally looked up to the picture that greeted him.

Cat Jon had leaped into his arms from the loud noise, clinging to Martin’s bright yellow sweater.

Martin froze, cat in arms as Jon stared at him with a look of equal shock.

“Oh” began Jon softly

“Sorry” Martin practically shouted.

“I – eh – this is, well um, a cat, I found? A few weeks ago, actually. I’ve been sort of taking care of it? Getting it food and water and um” he gestured to the plastic hut and blanket he’d laid out.

“He was hurt you see. Only one eye and really badly taken care of. Abandoned, I recon. So I’ve been out here on lunches making sure he’s, um, that he’s okay? Is that..is that alright?” he trailed off nervously.

He couldn’t look at Jon. It wasn’t exactly something to be ashamed of, taking care of a stray cat. But he could imagine Jon being the sort of serious no nonsense person who would see it as a waste of time, his lunch break or not. God would this make his relationship worse? Would Jon scold him for it? Did it make him seem more pathetic than before? Christ, was that even possible?

He didn’t notice the movement until Jon was sat beside him on the floor.

Jonathan Sims, Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute, sat on a dirty alley floor with Martin K Blackwood.

He watched with bated breath as Human Jon reached his hand out to Cat Jon and let out a small sound of relief when Cat Jon didn’t bite, scratch or run away.

“You poor thing” murmured Jon, eyes only on his (unknowing) cat counterpart.

“What have they done to you? Well, you look better now than you probably did before. Thank to our Martin here”.

Martin couldn’t help but blush deeply at that. Hot all over his face. He couldn’t handle this. Jon being all, all soft and gentle and calling him “our” Martin.

“You’ve been taking care of him then?” Jon looked up at Martin now. Eyes soft and kind for once. It nearly took all of Martins brain power to respond after receiving such a look.

“Yes” he began.

“Like I said, I found him a few weeks ago. Planning on taking him back to mine soon, get him out of the cold properly”.

Jon nodded, eyes never leaving Martins, hand firmly petting the cat in Martins arms.

“I’m sorry, about the work” Martin nervously bit his lip.

“I’ve been really worried about him so I rushed it to get out here on time. It’s no excuse and I know you don’t exactly think highly of my work in the first place. I’ll make sure I stay late tonight so I can catch up”

“Martin” interrupted Jon, eye straying on the bitten lip, a slight flush to his cheeks.

“I’m the one who should be sorry. I haven’t been fair to you these past few months. It’s been unprofessional at best and, well, and downright cruel at worst”

“Your job is stressful” Martin tried to defend

“And we both know I’m not exactly at the same standard at the others”

“Still” Jon continued.

“It’s my job to help you, not, berate you at every mistake. You came from the library, not research, so you have different skill set and – well, its been hard for us all. Not fair of me to put all that blame on you. God knows Tim could stand to be a bit more professional at times” Jon grumbled out the last part, a small pout to his lips.

Martin laughed at that, smiling wider than he could last remember.

“Tim just likes to keep you human, I think” he winked and watched with fascination as the flush came back to Jon’s dark cheeks.

Cat Jon leap out of his arms after that, toddling off to who knows where.

“Well” Martin began, getting up from his cross legged position on the floor.

“We still have time for lunch, we could, um, maybe eat together? If that’s okay I mean! You could help me figure out a name for him?” “You don’t have one already?” replied Jon, surprise in his voice “Uhhh not any suitable ones, no” Martin laughed awkwardly.

He couldn’t exactly say he’d name the poor blighter after Jon. He doubted Jon would take it as a compliment and he didn’t want to ruin whatever fragile peace they’d stumbled onto.

He held out his hand to help Jon off the floor. Jon eyed it, before bringing his own hand up and placing it into Martins larger ones. Martin pulled him up and held back a small gasp as Jon shot forward quicker than intended, his smaller hand landing on Martin chest.

Jon looked up at him, a small shy smile gracing his lips.

“Beautiful” Martin couldn’t help but think, face and ears bright red.

Jon pulled back, coughing every so slightly into his fist.

“Yes, well, I’ve named a cat or two in my time, it won’t be too hard” “Oh?” teased Martin

“What about Magnus? We did find him here” Jon shook his head at that, crinkling his nose slightly.

“Absolutely not, something more dignified. The Captain maybe?” “Captain?” countered Martin

“The Captain” continued Jon as they began to head back inside

“I suppose the one eye does give him a bit of a pirate look” Martin couldn’t help by laugh slightly as he said it.

“Yes” Jon laughed back

“Dignified but still fitting his nature” And off they went, back into the Institute. Unaware of any monstrous eyes watching them as they simply watched each other. A new, wonderful feeling developing between them.

Neither noticed that they still held each others hands as they made their way to the break room.

And if they spoke of cat names, and toys and flushed deeply when they did notice the hands still entwined, well.

Those moments were only for them.

#the magnus archives #tma #writing #fanfiction #jon and martin both project onto the same cat #cats just sat there like #pls someone fucking take me home #kiss already #jonmartin #god i love soft moments for them #hope you guys enjoy!#pls send me prompts they feed me #my writing

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eventidespirits · 3 years

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Nicknames: Laur, Laurie Aliases: Jonathan Legerdemain, Jean Nuit Apparent Age: “30″ True Age: 51 Gender: Cis Man Pronouns: He/Him Sexuality: Demiromantic Gray-Ace Birthday: January 6th Occupation: Occultist, Bookstore Owner Species: Vampire (Nightingale) Residence: The Vista Rosa neighborhood in Santa Marta, CA.

𝔸𝕡𝕡𝕖𝕒𝕣𝕒𝕟𝕔𝕖

Height: 5′10 Build: Average height, has a sort of stereotypical “scrawny nerd” sort of build with a soft layer of fat/soft belly and not a lot of muscular definition. He has long arms and legs in comparison to his torso which makes him look taller than he actually is. Face Shape: Somewhere between an oval and a diamond, his facial features are fine and delicate with a long straight nose. Eye Color/Shape: Vibrant, unnaturally bright ocean-blue with cat-like slitted pupils. Large but set deep within his face with heavy, tired looking lids and deep dark circles which gives him a sort of permanent “resting bitch face”. Hair Color/Style: Slate Gray. Laurent’s hair is mostly straight with a slight wave to it (2A) and usually worn tied into a loose ponytail at the nape of his neck. he has long, messy bangs that usually hang in his face. Skin Color/Texture: Very pale and desaturated with a distinct yellow undertone. He has soft skin but has a lot of small scars and marks on his hands from various occult work he did while he was still a mortal. Distinguishing Features: First off, Laurent is prematurely gray. He also has a number of tattoos (a tattoo of a magical circle for protection on his back, another protection sigil on his chest over the heart, has a tattoo of an open eye on the back of his neck). He also wears glasses. Posture: Very “proper” posture -- stands straight up but there’s that slight hunch to his shoulders that comes from hours bent over books and papers. He moves very purposefully and a little bit stiffly with quiet footsteps. Voice: Soft and understated, with the remnants of a Quebecois accent. Laurent rarely raises his voice and his speech is usually curt and clipped, possibly even seeming rude or sarcastic at times. Clothing Style: Lots of blacks and blues with some cream and charcoal. He tends to wear comfortable clothing that could pass for being formal in most situations -- black slacks, button-downs over v-necks, turtleneck sweaters and cardigans. A lot of his looks vaguely recall the 1980s when it comes to sweater choice. Notable Mannerisms: Scrunches his nose when he’s thinking deeply about something but otherwise seems to not have a lot of particularly unique or defining mannerisms (almost purposefully so)

𝕊𝕜𝕚𝕝𝕝𝕤

Physical: Lockpicking, breaking and entering Social: What Social Skills? Basic etiquette, subterfuge/lying, manipulation Talents: Calligraphy, Poetry, Prose, getting in over his head Knowledges: Greek, Latin, French, currently learning German, Masters in Psychology, Traditional Magic, Ritual Magic, Sigilcraft, Herbalism Hobbies: Reading, Writing, Gardening, Cooking Special: Basic Nightingale abilities, some natural magical talent (mostly lost after becoming a vampire), spirit sight, minor precognition

ℙ𝕤𝕪𝕔𝕙𝕖

Strengths: Clever, quick witted, tenacious, detail-oriented, good concentration, inquisitive, intuitive, dedicated, loyal, strong sense of internal morals Weaknesses: overly curious, stubborn, too smart for his own good, overly self-reflective, can be cold and emotionally distant, closed off from his emotions, rude, irritable, afraid of intimacy, standoffish, shy, just generally bad at people. Goals: To gather all the knowledge there is to be had, especially where it concerns the occult; to learn proper spontaneous magic Fears: Loss of knowledge, loss of control, true death, what lurks beneath santa marta (but not enough to stop researching it) Ideals/Morals: Laurent is willing to do almost anything to gain knowledge but there are a few things that disgust him and he finds morally abhorrent -- like hurting children or murder (notably -- he sees a difference between killing and murder but also tries to avoid killing people as a general rule unless it’s in self-defense) Guiding Philosphies: Knowledge is Power Sense of Humor: Very dry and sarcastic. He’s definitely the person to deliver a sarcastic quip with a totally straight face and it leaves people wondering if he even has a sense of humor. Overall Personality: Laurent is kind of a prickly bastard. He’s introverted and introspective and has very little interest in being around or talking to people. He can pretend to be polite very well (and expects others to behave in a similar way). He prefers things to be well-structured and mostly predictable, he has trouble dealing with sudden intense changes. He seems very distant and cold to most people -- utterly focused on his work over anything else.

𝕃𝕚𝕗𝕖

Best Memory: Worst Memory: Biggest Accomplishment: Prized Possessions: Favorite Colors: Favorite Foods: Favorite Scents: Favorite Songs: Can't Leave Home Without:

ℍ𝕚𝕤𝕥𝕠𝕣𝕪

Birthplace: Suburbs of Montreal, Quebec Childhood: Growing up, Laurent’s parents were usually very busy, both having careers that demanded a lot of their attention. He and Louis were often left to sort of fend for themselves (classic latch-key kids). Being the more shy of the twins, Laurent often relied on Louis to make friends -- having few friends that he could consider his specifically. At around the age of 11, while playing at his neighbor’s house after school with Louis, their friend Alex and his younger sister Madeline, the four of them found a oujia board and did what any group of pre-teens would do: they turned out the lights and used it. Unfortunately for the twins, the house was old and the board itself connected to a rather angry spirit that would attach itself to Louis and scare the hell out of the other three children. This is what would start Laurent’s interest in the occult but it was what would happen the next summer that would cement it as an obsession... While playing in a local park, something that Laurent could neither identify or describe beyond “a writhing mass of eyes, grasping tendrils and eyes” would pluck Alex from the face of existence -- not only taking the 12 year old but erasing any sign that he had ever existed to begin with from the minds of everyone but Laurent.

Adolescence: At thirteen, Laurent’s family moved to Santa Marta, California. Highschool was difficult for Laurent, who had started to go prematurely gray by the time he was 14 and was shy and bookish. He had to deal with a lot of bullying and it cemented his irritability.

He did, however, thanks to the unique nature of Santa Marta (attracting the supernatural) manage to make friends with a Witch by the name of Martin. They’d also date for about a year in secret before both decided that it just wasn’t working. However, the pair of them were obsessed with the occult and the presence of the “Old Gods” which were present in constant whispers in Santa Marta. This is where Laurent got into most of the trouble he would as a teenager -- breaking into abandoned buildings looking for ghosts and signs of the supernatural as well as getting 100% illegal tattoos in dangerous settings (most notably, he had his protection sigil done by Martin in his basement along with the eye on the back of his neck).

Somehow, probably just due to luck, Laurent never actually got in legal trouble for any of the crazy shit he did as a teen but that luck wouldn’t last.

Adulthood: In his desperate search for occult knowledge, Laurent would end up crossing paths with a woman named Claudine -- a Nightingale who was also an accomplished occultist and a powerful witch in her own right. He would end up stealing several of her important research journals and end up becoming her “assistant” at the age of twenty-one (she normally would’ve killed him for it but was impressed by his dedication and natural skill). She would keep him on as an assistant, teaching him about the occult and preparing him for life in the Nightingale Court before finally turning him in 2000.

Recent: In 2010, Claudine would disappear suddenly -- leaving behind only a note about her own research into the “thing that lurks beneath the streets of this blighted metropolis” and pointing Laurent in a similar direction. During his training with Claudine, Laurent would run into mentions of the “Myriad Eyes” multiple times, especially when researching the occult history of Santa Marta... A phrase that he quickly came to associate with the thing that had taken his childhood friend.

Currently, he’s running a bookstore in Vista Rosa called “Eigengrau Books” and living in an apartment located above the store.

ℝ𝕖𝕝𝕒𝕥𝕚𝕠𝕟𝕤𝕙𝕚𝕡𝕤

Family: Jean DeFantome (Father; deceased), Emily DeFantome (Mother), Louis DeFantome (twin brother; estranged) Lovers: Martin Schwartz (former), Camellia O’Friel (current) Friends: Isaac Nerezza (works at his bookstore), Claudine Legerdemain (Missing) Enemies: ??? Other: ???

ℝ𝕖𝕤𝕠𝕦𝕣𝕔𝕖𝕤

Income: Middle-class Residences: A two bedroom apartment above his bookstore. Vehicles: Black 2010 Ford Fiesta Van

#Laurent DeFantome #About: Laurent #ooc

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seachanqe · 4 years

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write the softest words and kiss them

My first entry for Aspec Martin Blackwood Week, using the prompt “Poetry”!

Tags/Warnings: Internalized Acephobia, Aro-Ace Martin Blackwood, Demi-Aro Martin Blackwood, ace relationship, Non-sexualized intimacy, Post-159

Relationship: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims

Summary: Jon had walked into the Lonely and saved him from his own personal hell; he saw Jon, he felt the force of that love. It was all-encompassing, a choking, bright explosion, and after everything, Martin's afraid. He's afraid he's not a worthy recipient of those feelings, he's afraid his own version of-- of-- that emotion won't be enough for Jon. But Jon's Seen him, and he's still here. That-- it has to mean something, even if it's out of misguided pity or obligation.

Or: As they both recuperate from escaping the Lonely, Martin shares with Jon his feelings and fears related to love, through an explanation of his relationship with love poetry.

Read on AO3 or below

Pale, pink dusk light filters through the dust-filled air of Martin's neglected-of-late flat. Martin flicks on the hall light, blinking as he adjusts to the sudden flood of light. Routine kicks in and he toes off his shoes. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees that Jon follows his lead, though he makes sure to untie his first before setting them neatly next to Martin's. Martin's mind stalls on the sight of Jon's shoes next to his, though he can hardly process why at the moment. The warm weight of Jon's hand settles on Martin's back.

"Martin?" Jon murmurs with unconcealed concern, and steps closer; Martin knows the simple utterance of his name is many questions at once: Is everything okay? Are you still here with me? And-- and-- He flinches away from the emotion seeped into every syllable Jon utters; it's just too much, everything feels too much, especially when what he feels might not be enough for Jon. Jon had walked into the Lonely and saved him from his own personal hell; he saw Jon, he felt the force of that love. It was all-encompassing, a choking, bright explosion, and after everything, Martin's afraid. He's afraid he's not a worthy recipient of those feelings, he's afraid his own version of-- of-- that emotion won't be enough for Jon. But Jon's Seen him, and he's still here. That-- it has to mean something, even if it's out of misguided pity or obligation.

Martin takes a quick, deep breath, before nodding in what he hopes is a reassuring manner. "Yeah, yeah. I'm--I'm fine."

Jon appears unconvinced but nods back, his eyes never leaving Martin's face, his hand clenched in Martin's shirt as if he's afraid Martin will disappear in front of him and he'll need to pull him back. Martin simultaneously relishes and shies away from the attention; it's everything he's wanted and at the same time too much for him to handle. He had spent months purposefully withdrawing from his own life, and he's suddenly being properly seen, by the person he cares most about in the world. And although it's overwhelming, he can't help but also be drawn into it, like a moth to the flame. So few people in his life have offered to love him so freely, he can't help it. He tries to bury his dread, at least for now, for what he sees as an inevitable fallout; later, he tells himself, later .

Martin's flat is small; the short hallway they stand in leads to a combo kitchen and living room, and a door off the left to his room and bathroom.

"Jon? I--" He looks apologetically at Jon, with a quick glance over his shoulder where he can feel Jon's hand. "I need to close the curtains and turn the rest of the lights on."

"Mm? Oh, oh right, sorry, of course." Jon pulls his hand away, to rub at his own neck instead, in a familiar, awkward gesture that unexpectedly brings a smile to Martin's face.

"Thanks," Martin says softly, before retreating. He makes quick work of it and, out of instinct and a bit of embarrassment, begins to tidy up a bit. Books, used tea mugs, chipped plates with crumbs, haphazard pieces of trash, and random articles of clothing are all strewn about the living room. Martin had hardly been expecting guests; he honestly hadn't expected to still be alive, let alone have Jon in his flat.

"You don't-- Martin, it's fine."

Martin glances up at Jon, his arms full of clothes. Jon had been not-so-surreptitiously looking around while Martin had started cleaning, and was currently standing by his old, rickety desk.

"Is it?" Martin asks, and he can't stop his voice coming out higher pitched than usual. "It's a mess, Jon, I'll just--"

"Martin--"

"--put these clothes away, and finish tidying up the coffee table and end table--"

"It's fine, Martin. Really. You're tired. I'm tired. Please." Jon's voice drops to a pleading tone, and as much as Martin wants to be stubborn, he feels himself giving in. Jon's right--he's tired. And he doesn't want to keep Jon up either.

"Okay, fine, but only cause I already cleared the couch. And I'm making tea first no matter what you say. Then we can sleep"

Jon breaks into a fond, albeit weary, smile. "That's-- that sounds nice. Thank you, Martin."

---

While the tea is seeping, Martin looks up to see Jon holding one of his notebooks, an odd expression on his face. Tilting his head to read the front, Martin squints at the notebook in Jon's hand and immediately has a minor heart attack.

"Jon!" he blurts, starting forward. Jon flushes, nearly throws the notebook back on the desk, and immediately raises his hands, apologetic.

"I-- S--sorry, I didn't mean, I just-- I saw it and I--I suddenly knew -- I knew ," Jon says in a rush, "I didn't mean to know, I swear, I just-- it just happened."

Martin snatches the notebook from the desk, holding it so tightly he could feel the edges dig into the palm of his hand.

Biting his lip, Martin looks down at the notebook. It had been a while since he had opened it and read its contents, and even longer since he had written anything in it.

"What do you know?" he asks, heart in his throat.

"I'm so sorry, Martin. All I know is that it's-- it's some of your poetry," Jon says shakily. "I missed it," he adds, softly, like a wish, almost to himself.

Martin meets Jon's eyes, searching for deceit, for some proof that this is a joke, but Jon's earnest and pleading in a way Martin's never seen before.

"You've missed it?" Martin asks incredulously. "When have you ever-- "

"Oh god--" Jon's blush has spread to his ears, and Martin tries to ignore how adorable it looks. "Uh a few years ago, when I thought--" He sighs. "It doesn't matter. I was going through the trash, and found a few of your poems."

"Of course you did," Martin says with a sigh. "And then you read them."

"Yes," Jon whispers. "But," and his voice grows more loud, more certain, "I-- I liked them Martin. I missed having those little pieces of you around. I--I missed you ."

Martin can feel himself turning red now, and jumps on his immediate instinct to change to the subject.

"Tea's ready! Here," he says, tossing the notebook back down on the desk. "Go sit on the couch and I'll bring it over before it gets cold."

Jon murmurs his agreement and thanks, but doesn't comment on the change of subject.

---

Both too stubborn to take the couch, they end up agreeing to share Martin's bed. Too exhausted to change the linens, Martin halfheartedly apologizes for the musty sheets before collapsing into bed. He tries not to think about how this is the first time he's ever shared a bed with anyone, let alone someone who he--he... cares about so much.

---

The next morning, they decide to continue to hide away in the flat, both unwilling to risk being discovered until they hear from Basira. Martin gets to work after breakfast tidying up the flat with Jon's help.

"When did you start writing poetry?" Jon asks nonchalantly, no compulsion in his voice, as he folds freshly laundered bedding. Jon had insisted; apparently among Jon's many talents was folding a fitted-sheet perfectly.

Martin nearly drops his washcloth, and glances over at Jon, eyebrows raised. "Where's this coming from, then?"

Jon bites his lip, and gives a little shrug. "I--I don't know everything, Martin. Not the things I want to know."

Martin shakes his head. "Why would you want to know about this?" Martin asks, unable to keep the self-deprecation out of his voice.

"Martin," Jon says, in that damned voice, soft and laced with pure emotion. He had no idea Jon could even sound like that until a few months ago. Jon sets down the sheet he had been folding, and walks over to him, arms outstretched. Martin almost flinches away, but when Jon hesitates before him, clearly waiting for an okay, Martin sighs and gives a little nod. Jon wraps his arms around Martin, and runs his hand up and down Martin's back soothingly. "Martin," he says again, just a whisper, before pulling back, his hands falling to Martin's waist. "Is this okay?" Jon's warmth is a comfort, an anchor.

"Yes, yes. But, you still haven't answered my question."

Jon's hand, so assured, moves to his face, cupping his jaw, cradling his head. Martin squeezes his eyes shut at the casual show of affection.

"Because it's important to you, Martin. I--I love you." Martin's heart jolts, and his throat feels full of cotton, and he swallows, jaw clenched, refusing to cry. "And because of that I want to--to know everything about you."

After several long moments, when he's sure he won't start crying, Martin finally responds, glancing at Jon before quickly looking away. "Okay," he says, more raspy than he would like, "Okay. I, uh." Martin winces. "Jon, I, I care about you a lot too, I-- fuck."

He pulls away from Jon, his hands clutching the back of the sofa. Jon lets go of him, apparently reluctantly, and steps back, concern etched across his face. "Martin, its fine, you don't have to--"

"I-- It's complicated, Jon," Martin interjects. "I do... love you? I just," Martin runs a hand across his face, exhaling slowly. "Let me answer your original question. It will explain things better."

Jon nods, no less concerned, but waits, watching Martin intently. Martin's used to that though, it's almost comforting, the normality of it.

"When I was 9 or 10, I guess? Used to write instead of listening to the teachers. Kept at it even though I was never able to take any formal classes, but learned by trying to emulate poets I admired: Dickinson, Blake, Frost, Whitman, Keats."

"That's admirable."

Martin squints at him, unable to help being wary for a sign of any mocking. Jon looks stricken. "Martin, I'm serious I promise. You didn't-- You didn't have the opportunities that others had, but you still-- You did it anyway."

"I have a harder time reading modern poets. It's hard-- it's hard for me to sort out the good from the bad. And there's," Martin winces, "some stuff I'd rather not read."

Jon's interest is clearly piqued. "Like what? If you don't mind sharing."

Martin gives him a pained look, a feeling of dread in his gut. "Love poetry-- don't laugh-- It's just-- I hate the tone of it, and then there's all those break-up poems and heartbreak and I just… I don't get it. It's not for me," he finishes, a touch too defiant.

Jon tilts his head slightly, questioning and bemused.

Under his scrutiny, Martin folds inward. He grasps his hands together, his head bowed. "I don't-- I usually don't feel that way. And I didn't like to read what I'm missing," he says in a small voice. Jon says nothing, but his hand twitches, like he wants to reach out. Martin takes a deep breath, and continues.

"Jon, I don't usually get crushes-- I, uh, actually never had one before you, and all this time I wasn't even sure that it was an actual," Martin couldn't help how his voice curled with aversion, " crush . All I knew is that I wanted to see you happy, I wanted to help you, protect you, I-- that I would do anything for you. I care, I care so, so much, I may even love you. I just-- I don't know what that is, and I don't want to promise anything that might-- that might go away. And, Jon, I'm terrified ."

"Martin," Jon says, voice raw and aching, and it's too much, Martin's terrified of what Jon will say. Jon will leave him, walk away, and, if he's being honest with himself, it's probably for the best.

Jon reaches forward, gently covering one of Martin's hands with two of his. "I get it--or at least I think I do--this… stuff," Jon says, echoing Martin's tone of aversion, "is complicated, ephemeral. I have similar struggles with trying to define how I feel when it comes to relationships, love, though I do not wish to claim it's exactly similar to your experiences."

"If you still want a relationship, if you want to try this, being together, I want that too. Any version of us would make me so happy. But if you--if you aren't comfortable with it, if it's too much, that's--that's fine. A world with you in it is enough for me."

Martin bites his lip, considering what Jon's said, wisps of bitter skepticism clouding his thoughts, even as tears burn at the corners of his eyes. But Jon's hands are warm around his. Jon's hands don't cling at him, but simply rest there, a steady, solid weight. Something real , offered freely, with no strings attached, no expectations. And he knows what Jon's said, what Jon's offered contains no lie. The tears bud like flowers, and fall down his face.

"Okay," Martin whispers, "Okay."

Jon leans forward, enfolding Martin in his arms, and Martin rests his head on Jon's shoulder, taking a deep breath to calm his racing heart.

After several long moments, Martin gives a damp laugh. "Don't expect me to write you any love poems though."

Jon inhales, clearly ready to disavow any need for love poems, but Martin pulls back slightly before he can, so that he's looking into Jon's eyes. "I actually tried, you know. When I realized how--how strongly I felt about you. I got excited, that I might be able to write a love poem, but--hm. It felt, hm… wrong, I guess? But," he adds quickly, "it's nothing personal, I just. Like I said, don't like 'em."

"That's fine, Martin. I would be honored to hear any of your poetry, though."

Martin rolls his eyes, a small smile peaking through, like the sun on a cloudy day. "Persistent, aren't you. How about later today?"

"I'd like that," Jon says, and Martin could lose himself in the quiet, joyful mood Jon radiates. "Thank you, Martin," Jon says, like he isn't giving Martin everything, like he isn't the most wonderful man Martin's ever met, like he isn't accepting everything Martin is and continues to love him.

Martin leans towards Jon, scrutinizing his face, trying to memorize all the little details from his many scars that pepper his cheeks, to the small mole on his jaw, to the rich brown-gold of his eyes. Jon gazes back, his expression reverent. With some apprehension, Martin presses a kiss to Jon's forehead, a mere brush of lips.

"Is this okay?" he asks, biting his lip as he pulls back.

Jon gives a little laugh, warm and breathy, and nods. "It's--it's good, Martin." And despite Jon glancing down at where Martin's biting his lip, Jon doesn't surge forward to claim a kiss, but continues to let Martin lead. Martin considers Jon's nose; it's always cute when Jon scrunches it. Martin presses a kiss to the tip of his nose, and drinks in the nearly dopey smile on Jon's face when he pulls back again. He did that.

"Would it--would it be okay if we finished up the… the," Martin attempts, waving a hand vaguely towards the pile of unfolded laundry. His own washcloth was somewhere behind him.

"Of course, Martin." Unexpectedly, Jon doesn't look put-out by this, but appears happy to return to his folding. "If you don't mind though, I'd like to--to talk more about this later? There's some stuff about me I want to share as well."

"Oh! Yeah, oh god, sorry, I--"

"Martin!" Jon says sharply, but not unkindly. "Martin, don't apologize, there's nothing to be sorry about. I just think--" Jon exhales. "This heavy stuff needs to be in small doses, there's only so much we can handle at a time."

"That--that makes sense. But whenever you want to talk about it, I'm here."

"Yes," Jon says, with a warm, gentle smile. "You're here."

#aspecmartinweek #the magnus archives #my writing

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thelonely-archivist · 4 years

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TMA 170 thoughts

Because the new episode comes out soon I wanted to put out some thoughts that I’ve had on the last episode because it was one that I can’t get out of my head no matter how many times I listen to it.

I guess content warning for talks of isolation and depression and everything that came with the episode

First off Martin is a character I relate to a lot especially now with the world going to hell and I share his fear of isolation. This episode being a look into martins thoughts puts a lot of his character through the series into perspective.

The episode was broken up by what seems like a few different recording sessions each one split after Martin begins to seek Jon and beginning with him once again finding a tape recorder. It gives an interesting look into how the lonely distorted time for him through out especially since we don’t get any semblance of Jon’s POV during this episode to go off of.

The episode starting with him talking to himself with the tapes being a way to anchor himself and make himself feel less alone is an important part of what makes this episode work. Despite the fact that up until recently Martin has been shows as the most anxious character he in no way is a vulnerable one putting himself last to every one else. The talking to himself or the recorders in this case would be the only time us as the audience would get to hear him be vulnerable. We in this case are like the watcher or the beholding as we get this voyeuristic look into martins inner thoughts. And as I said I relate to Martin, this is a thing I do talking to myself and only being vulnerable when I think I’m alone, which is what made his initial confession that he didn’t like himself all the time more poignant in my mind. The acknowledgment that this is something he would never say out loud with people around. He even says “it’s nice to have some one to talk to. It can make you go strange” even though he knows he’s alone.

Then there’s the forgetting, Martin forgetting things periodically through out the episode being a very unhealthy coping mechanism magnified by the lonely. The idea of pushing everything away and just forgetting the world exists being something common of depression and at the same time forgetting the people he loves to take the pain away of shutting them out. Because the thing with being afraid of isolation and depression linked to it is even though your scared of being alone you often choose it because your afraid if you tell anyone they’ll leave you and it’ll be out of your control. It’s kinda like self torture. He then admits he doesn’t think he can do this on his own showing the mental tug of war he’s currently facing hopping some one will swoop in to save him even though this is something he wouldn’t admit if Jon where there.

This contrasts to the next part after he forgets again. He seems happier talking to the tape recorder before he begins to talk about his childhood. The subtle change shows a manipulation in time between the two recording sessions showing that the lonely has drug Martin back in after he started to become more conscious of his mental state and stress. And just like the last part he begins to pull himself out even going as far to acknowledge “I’m not suppose to be here” and that there are “people who love me” even though they seem out of reach. his mind went straight to Sasha as the first one he remembered then to “ not Sasha” two sides of a coin for Martin it seems. As Sasha the real one represents a sense of safety (which makes sense as grounded a character as she was) and “not Sasha” being one to take away the safety the lonely manipulating Martins safety into intrusive thoughts of being alone and unwanted especially. Which is why when he remembers and calls out for Jon it’s a clear attempt to fight this idea of the self isolation especially since you can hear his tone change from the sort of dreamy nostalgia to a more panicked voice calling out. I’m also convinced that this moment is the moment Jon realizes he’s not there and starts to look.

That starts the next recording session where he again seems happier talking about poetry (I want to hear his poetry). In this one he remembers the statements and the eye giving the idea that at this point he’s more present. He again reiterates how it’s nice to talk to some one as if the lonely has him in a loop. He begins to talk about how he feels unwanted by everyone around him quoting things he often hears and heartbreakingly he is obviously mimicking Jon specifically in season one when he was much more aggressive. This not only shows the lasting affects jons words had on him but gives way to the most interesting revelation about martins character that after listening to this episode changes the way I’ve perceived him looking back at past episodes and his story arc with peter Lucas. And that’s that Martins been depressed the whole series and that he truly doesn’t care about what happens to himself as long as the people he cares about l, who he sees as better then himself are ok and thrive.

The moment when he is repeating his own name reminds me of a scene from my favorite movie (the perks of being a wallflower) where the main character (high on weed) remarks about how when you say your name enough times in a merror it starts to not feel real. It shows Martin losing his identity in dissociation, but referring to himself in I guess kinda the third person shows him rationalizing his thoughts and desires to himself. When he says Martin is a name that sounds like it wants to be warm and safe, he specifically is talking about himself but can’t admit to himself he wants to be warm and safe.

With the other person Martin finds this is purely speculation. I think it’s not a person at all but the lonely showing Martin a very distorted reflection of himself. I say this for several reasons one being that the nature of this fear is the lonely it is unlikely that this fear domain would let those who dwell it it be together in any capacity. Second Martin asks the person their name and they can’t answer this is right after the moment with Martin obsessing over his own name and how in the end when it seems the stranger asks Martin his name he momentarily can’t remember. But possibly the most interesting of all is the fact that Martin asks if it’s their house and the stranger says yes. The same house Martin has been referring to as his own the whole episode. And for me that connection was actually one of the most damning pieces of evidence. And when the stranger asks him questions like “who are they?” And “is there any one looking for them?” it’s really Martin asking these questions a darker part of him. He ended up running away from the stranger or as I see it running away from himself. And this leaves his completely alone where he utters out loud the thought “no body would care if I lived or died” and at that moment that includes himself who he just left.

This is when he admits he’s scared and that he is losing himself who he just left. His next thought that he doesn’t think he minds all of this shows he is beginning to become unwittingly complicit to the lonely and to his own mind. Or in psychology terms he’s submitting to learned helplessness. Believing it’s easier to just not fight anymore. Thinking he deserves it and that he wants this. The lonely and his mind are trying to keep him trapped which is something very common with depression and isolation making you think you want it and you choose it. Which is what makes the next part in my opinion the most important part in my opinion.

Starting with him saying “No” and facing the fear he feels and acknowledging that other people are feeling the fear he feels. That he’s not alone. Rationalizing to himself how he got to the point where he is now and remembering Jon again but this time not going back into another loop of forgetting and remembering. Then there’s this line the most important in the entire episode

“You - You are Martin Blackwood. Yes. You, you didn’t choose to be here. Jon is coming. (stronger) I am Martin Blackwood, and I amnot lonely anymore; I am not lonely anymore. (voice shaking with effort) I want to have friends; I - no, I have friends. I-I’m in love. (heh) I am in love, and I will not forget that; I will not forget. (stronger) I am Martin Black-“

This moment when Martin seitches from saying you to saying I is him accepting that this is him and not someone foreign to himself he’s reassuring. It’s him choosing to see himself as someone who is valued and worthy. This is something that for many can be hard to accept but is a first step to being able to heal. He realizes nothing can change or get better unless he wants it too he’s no longer waiting for Jon to save him he’s saving himself and breaking away from the lonely. And this lets Jon find him.

Then there’s Jon who once he finds Martin instead of dragging him out gives him a choice. Saying if he wants to stay that Jon won’t stop him. This is important because it’s Jon giving Martin comtrol letting him take the lead. Something Martin hasn’t really had even saying he often felt like he could only fallow. Jon realizes that On this martin needs to be able to do it himself and decide for himself. Jon is patient and doesn’t push which shows his love for Martin.

And finally the last exchange is Martin finally being able to admit to himself he’s not alone anymore that the comfort and fear that comes with loneliness has been replaced with love and hope and now at the end of the world he feels alive. And all of that is shown with the last line

“No. No, not anymore.”

These are just my thoughts on the episode and how I understood it. I compared it a lot to things I have been going through so it may not be perfect. Thank you for reading the train wreck that is my thoughts.

#the magnus archives #martin blackwood #jonathan sims #jonmartin #tma #tma spoilers #tma 170 #the lonely #jon #martin #sasha #tw // negativity #tw//depression #tw// isolation #magnus archives #the archivist

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pronouncingitwang · 4 years

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jonmartin | 3.8K words

When Jon wakes up, the bed is trembling.

“Martin?” he mumbles, turning around. The darkness softens the edges of his vision, so he reaches a hand out. Nothing. But he can hear breathing, sharp but constrained, and the bed jolts slightly. “Martin?”—louder, and this time, fear, familiar and unwelcome, slithers up his throat—“Are you alright?”

Slowly, a shape begins to form on the other side of the bed. Martin lies on his side, facing Jon, both hands over his mouth. His eyes are wide and still, but his chest rises and falls with exertion. He’s kicked off the duvet, and in the half-light sliver coming in through the window, his trembling forearms look exposed and vulnerable. Jon wants to reach out, past Martin’s frayed T-shirt and still-translucent skin to his frantically-beating heart, press his palm gently against its walls, and… do what?

“Sorry for waking you,” Martin gasps into the cupped space between mouth and palm. The words come in a burst, crammed hastily into the space between one breath and another.

“There’s nothing to apologize for. How are you feeling?”

“Fine, I’m—it’s fine. You caught me at the tail end; just—give me a second…” Martin squeezes his eyes shut, and his breathing begins to slow. Carefully, he removes his hands from his face. His lip is bleeding, like he’s been biting down on it for a long time. “Okay. I’m okay now.”

“You were invisible.”

“Oh. I, uh, didn’t really notice.”

“What happened?”

“Nothing—it was- silly of me, really, you were just turned away, and I- couldn’t see if you were breathing, and obviously you’re alright, but I just. I’ve had a lot of practice watching you not breathe, and I wasn’t particularly… keen on doing it again.”

Oh. What with the running and packing and driving, Jon hasn’t even given thought to—“I’m sorry.”

Martin gives him a half-shrug. “Not your fault.”

“Wasn’t it?”

Jon shifts the duvet toward Martin, who tucks himself back in. “I can… I can leave, take the other bed. If you want.”

“What?”

“If my being here—seeing me asleep, if it’s distressing to you, it only makes sense that I—”

“No, don’t feel like you have to—”

“It’s not a problem, I’ve had far worse—”

“Or—it’s not—don’t—it’s not just that.” Martin sighs. “I’d prefer it if—I… I want you to stay.”

“... Oh.”

“Yeah.”

Jon can’t tell if Martin is blushing or not, and god, does he want to know—wants the lights on, wants the sun up, wants a flashlight and a camera and a microscope so he can see exactly what Martin’s face looks like in this moment, but he also wants to lie here next to Martin in the dark and say, “I’ll stay, then.”

“Thank you,” Martin breathes, and doesn’t turn away, and Jon doesn’t either.

“You can… check my pulse next time. If you’d like.”

“What?”

“When I was—after the Unknowing. If I- recall correctly, my heart wasn’t beating. If you check my heartbeat, and it’s still going, it might be enough to let you know that I’m just asleep?”

“That’s a… pretty good idea, actually,” Martin says, and then, reaching out a hand, “Can I?”

Jon must have nodded, or made some kind of head movement, because Martin’s pressing his fingers, warm and still a little sweaty, to Jon’s neck, and Jon proves Martin’s earlier worries fully rational by forgetting how to breathe.

Martin’s thumb brushes the scar on Jon’s neck. “Daisy?”

Jon wants to nod, but he’s afraid of jostling Martin. “Yeah.”

“And now we’re in her safehouse.”

The calming effect is gradual. Martin keeps his hand steady, and slowly, his shoulders begin to relax.

“Is it helping?”

“Yeah,” Martin says, a little wonderingly, “I think it is.”

A few more minutes pass, the tension draining out of Martin until his eyes start to droop. “Do you think you can sleep now?”

“I do,” Martin murmurs distractedly. “Does it always beat so fast?”

Jon swallows, feeling his carotid press up against Martin’s skin. “I don’t know,” he lies, and thankfully, there are no follow-up questions.

Martin falls asleep with his hand still resting in the dip of Jon’s collarbones. Jon doesn’t sleep for a long time.

When Jon wakes up the next morning, Martin’s already awake and dressed.

“How’d you sleep?” Martin asks.

“Good. I actually don’t think I dreamt at all,” Jon realizes. Another reason to be glad he fed Peter Lukas to the Lonely, he supposes. “I hope it lasts.”

Despite the cabin’s square footage, cleaning it takes Martin and him until sundown. By the time they’ve finished, the floor is clean enough for the two of them to set their shoes by the door and walk about in their socks, which they soon do. There’s an unspoken understanding there—if they thought they’d only be here for a few days, a week, if they thought they would need to run soon, they would leave the dust in the corners and forget to sweep under the couch. We are safe, Jon whispers to himself as he watches Martin deposit a beetle outside, and we are staying.

After dinner. Jon tries to teach Martin how to play 24 Challenge.

“It’s the only card game I know,” he says apologetically. “My grandma wanted me to brush up on my mental maths. It’s alright if you don’t want to play—”

“Jonathan Symbiosis—”

“I beg your pardon?” The look on Jon’s face must be especially affronted, because Martin bursts into laughter, loud and unconstrained in a way Jon hasn’t heard in a long time. I did that, he thinks, letting the thought spread, rose-gold, through his veins, and commits the soundbite to memory.

“As I was saying, Jonathan ‘Sims,’ short for Jonathan Symbiosis—I would be honored to learn how to play your weird childhood maths game on this fine night.”

“Okay, well, normally, we’d use a card pack made especially for 24, but we can also draw four cards at a time from a normal deck. The goal is to make 24 by using the value of each card exactly once. For example…”

The rest of the explanation comes out on autopilot, leaving Jon’s higher brain processes to observe Martin, as they’ve been doing all day. Jon’s glad to see that very little of the panic from last night has bled over into the now. Though Martin’s eyes flicker anxiously to the window every time there’s a sound outside, they always return, relieved, to his hands, the cards, and most often of all, to Jon.

“... That’s that,” Jon says, stuffing the example set back into the deck. “Do you have any questions?”

“Just one. What are you waiting for?” Martin says (What? Jon thinks)—and flips four cards over. (Oh. Right.)

Jon learns several things over the next hour, namely that the best way to uncover someone’s torrid rugby past is to challenge them to card-based arithmetic. Martin’s about as embarrassed by Jon’s discovery as Jon is intrigued, if the former’s look of utter mortification after (seemingly involuntarily) crowing, “No pain, no gain!” the first time he accidentally slaps Jon’s hand to get to the cards first is anything to go by.

“Don’t say a word—”

“I’m sorry, Martin. Could you—could you repeat that? It’s just that it was so very pithy and, I’m afraid, too clever for me to fully comprehend the first time—”

“Shut up—”

“No pain, no… what was it? Plane? no, that can’t be it. Grain? Martin, you simply must help me understand—”

“Jonathan Verisimilitude, I swear to God—”

“Do you have, like, a list of these—”

“Obviously. Poet, remember?”

Then, the implications of Martin’s words sink in, and he freezes.

Jon’s chest is tight. “You wrote poetry… about me?”

Martin shrugs, barely meeting Jon’s eyes. “Might’ve done.”

“I don’t think I saw any of that when I was…” accusing you of murder and rifling through your personal belongings.

“Yeah, I uh, kept most of it on my phone. Bit of light reading for Prentiss.” Martin wince-laughs. Martin, who apparently wrote poetry about Jon within weeks of meeting him, during a time when the kindest thing Jon had ever said to him was a noncommittal grunt every time Martin brought him tea. God, no wonder he had said loved, past tense.

“How… exactly were the Sims puns incorporated?”

“Um, well”—Martin somehow manages to flush more—“it’s more that I used the words in place of your name? I thought it’d be appropriately… roundabout.”

“Ah.”

The moment steeps in the air for a second, then two before Jon takes pity on both of them. He gestures back at the cards. “You got there first; what’s the answer?”

That night, the two of them settle in bed, facing each other again. Martin only hesitates a little before he reaches for Jon’s neck. This time, Jon falls asleep first.

When Jon wakes up, he’s curled up in the dead-center of the bed, and—

“Shit—” says Martin, from the ground.

“Martin! What the—Martin, are you hurt?”

“Ow—no,” Martin says, wincing, and Jon helps him up to a seat on the edge of the bed. “Just took a bit of a tumble. There should barely be any bruising, I think.”

Jon moves to sit down next to him. “Nightmare?”

“No, no, you just—”

“Dropkicked you into the floor?”

“No”—Martin laughs—“you just sort of… rolled toward me? And I moved back to give you space and then… you know.”

“Christ, I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault; this isn’t the biggest bed”—Jon opens his mouth—“And that’s not a cue for you to offer to move again. Unless you really want to.”

“I don’t,” Jon answers, a touch too quickly. “But you should know you’re allowed to move me if I ever get too comfortable.”

“I didn’t want to manhandle you in your sleep, Jon, you’re welcome to as much of the bed as you like—”

“I’m welcome to exactly half. Less, really, if we’re going off of relative sizes. I don’t mind if you push me, really; I’ve never faulted Georgie for her shove-Jon-in-self-defense maneuvers.”

“If you’re sure…”

“I am. Here, practice run”—Jon flops back onto the bed—“Look, I’m rudely encroaching on your space. What do you do?”

Martin laughs—“Alright, alright”—and stands.

Suddenly, there are sturdy arms under Jon, and then, both he and the duvet are being lifted in the air (with very little difficulty, Jon notes). Martin sets him down ever so gently on the left side of the bed.

“Happy?” Martin asks.

Jon is glad his face is pressed into his pillow, glad that the duvet covers the fact that his hands are shaking a little, glad that his throat is too tight for an I love you I’m in love with you and I love you to squeeze through.

“Yes,” Jon says, and is surprised by how raw the syllable sounds.

The bed dips as Martin settles next to Jon. “Then so am I.”

Jon gets up early to make breakfast. He hadn’t set an alarm for fear of waking Martin; somehow his body Knows exactly when to wake, but he’ll worry about that later. He leaves a note on Martin’s pillow in case waking up alone is too disconcerting and heads to the kitchen, tying up his hair as he goes.

The village shop was fairly limited on supplies, and Martin could only carry so much (though, considering last night, that “so much” is... quite a lot) back over when the village is a twenty-minutes’ walk away. Thus, Jon’s options are limited. He settles for poori, even though he needs to use a water bottle as a makeshift rolling pin and even though they’ll have to eat it plain. Jon spends several minutes debating how much oil they can spare for the deep-frying, then decides that he can just fill the pot and pour it all back into the bottle later.

In between mixing and rolling out the dough, he lets the kettle boil and scrambles some eggs. Jon is relieved that he can remember how thick his grandmother used to make each poori before it was ready to fry and how Martin takes his tea—plain; he’d said something last year about how he’s sure his ancestors would throw a collective fit if he ever deigned to disgrace their country’s invention with milk or sugar. When Jon drops the first circle of dough in the oil and it begins to rise to the surface, he breathes a sigh of relief. Then it’s about ladling more hot oil on top of the poori and trying very hard to not get burned and taking it out, and doing it all again six more times. He samples one. It’s not as fluffy as he would have liked, but it’s good enough for him and almost good enough for Martin.

Jon contemplates the spread before him. It still looks incomplete, so he washes off the water bottle and sets it to work as a juicer, too. It takes three oranges and all of Jon’s hand strength to make enough liquid to fill a mug, and Jon eats the leftover citrus pulp so as not to be wasteful. Then, he sits and waits.

Martin emerges from the stairs barefoot and muss-haired, and Jon has to look away before his mind can start waxing poetic about how the sunlight caressing Martin’s cheek makes it look like Martin is the one who’s glowing.

“Thanks for the note,” Martin says, crossing the room in two strides, “and I promise, I’m okay, but can I still…”

Jon nods, and tips his head up for the now almost familiar ceremony having his pulse checked. This close, and in the light, Jon can see Martin’s pupils, just barely distinct from the dark brown of his eyes.

“I made breakfast,” Jon says.

“Oh,” Martin says, seemingly noticing the food for the first time. “Oh. Jon. Thank you.”

Martin has no right to sound so grateful for something that’s taken Jon less than half an hour to do, and Jon tells him such.

“You made me tea,” Martin replies, in a tone that brooks no argument, and Jon feels all his half-formulated replies die on his tongue.

Martin approaches the poori first. Jon watches anxiously as Martin lifts the first piece to his mouth and chews.

“Jonathan Symphony…”

“Yes?”

“You’ve been living off of nothing but sandwiches and microwavable macaroni cheese for the last year when you can cook like this?”

Jon can’t help the pleased shiver that goes down his spine at the words, but he tries not to let it show. “You forgot Pot Noodles. And statements.”

"Point still stands, Jonny Pessimism."

Jon barely reacts to the name this time, which he considers an achievement. “It’s just fried bread.”

“Very good fried bread.”

“Fair enough. I mean, I’m sure you know I’m not the most dedicated to ‘self-care’”—Martin snorts—“I suppose I just don’t cook much when it’s just me. There doesn’t seem to be any reason to.”

“Well then. Good thing I’m here now,” Martin says around another bite of poori.

Yes. Yes, it is.

Jon wakes up Hungry.

Somewhere in his mind, he can register that it’s still early stages, and nowhere near unbearable—just some dizziness, something he wouldn’t even notice on an average day at the Archives—but after spending a few Seeing-less days hoping that Lukas had been enough to last him a few weeks, the realization still strikes him cold.

Since Jon is obviously not going to leave the cabin to snack on some poor villager, he tucks the duvet more securely around himself and tries to fall asleep again. But dread begins to pool in his stomach, and no matter how he shifts his position, the restlessness refuses to relinquish its hold on him. And if it’s already downright uncomfortable right now, how many days before it becomes unbearable? At what point will he need to lock the cabin door to keep himself inside? When will he no longer trust himself to leave the bedroom? Even getting up and pacing might be too much of a risk in time. Basira’s sending him some statements once the Archives are less police-monitored, she promised. He just has to hold out until then. He has to. He has to. He—

“Jon? Jon, can you hear me?” Martin’s voice sounds like it’s coming from a distance, but Jon consciousness grasps for the source. Then, there’s two fingers pressed to his neck, and Jon grasps at those too. “Jon, please—” and the room and the bed and the man Jon loves come rushing back.

“Martin,” he whispers.

“Jon, you were making little noises—are you okay?”

“Martin. I thought we’d have longer. The Eye—it’s back.” His voice cracks on the second sentence, and Martin swears under his breath.

“Never mind that—How bad is it?”

“It’s—it’s not, really. Or—I just felt a little dizzy, I think most of- that was panic.”

“And now?”

“I’m back now. You—you brought me back.”

“Still dizzy, though?”

Jon nods.

“How can I help?”

“I don’t know, it’s never—”

“Or, easier question—what’s helped in the past?”

“Sleep, sometimes, but I can’t—” Jon breaks off into a sob.

“It’s okay,” Martin whispers, “It’s okay, Jon. Stay with me. What’s helped you sleep in the past?”

“I, uh, had a weighted blanket, it’s probably still in Document Storage—”

“Right, I remember—”

“I felt—solid, under it. And a little trapped, but in a good way. Less likely to go out and Compel people, at least.”

“I don’t think Daisy has a weighted blanket here, but we could try to imitate the feeling? What if—I could- kind of lay… on top of you, or—”

Jon shakes his head.

“That’s fair, I’m probably a bit heavier than your average—”

“No, no, no, that isn’t the reason; I just don’t want to… take advantage.”

Martin scrunches up his brow. “How do you mean?”

“Well, just—the experience might… elicit different emotions from the two of us, and that would be unfair to you.”

“Right,” Martin says, then frowns. “No, hang on. Not ‘right.’ How does asking me to cuddle you count as you, what, ‘taking advantage’? Are you saying you’re somehow… manipulating my feelings for you in order to get me to—”

“Sorry, what?”

“—if anything, wouldn’t I be the one ‘taking advantage’ by offering, not that that was my inten—”

“—Your feelings? What do you mean, your feelings?”

“My… romantic feelings toward you?”

Jon blinks. Are auditory hallucinations a rare side effect of panic attacks? Or maybe it’s an Avatar thing; did Helen ever mention—?

“Jon… you’re staring.”

“In the Lonely. You said ‘loved.’”

“You’re right. I did.” Martin is, for some reason, smiling. “But I wasn’t fully myself there, surely you know that. What about the past few days?”

“I mean—you’re an affectionate person, and there’s no one else here—”

Martin cups Jon’s face in both his hands, and now, he’s laughing too—“Jonathan… Simpleton—”

“Martin,” Jon says, confused and heart-racingly hopeful. He thinks it may be the only thing he can say right now.

“Please, call up Basira, or Melanie, or Georgie, and ask them if they’d call me affectionate.”

“But—”

“It’s just you, Jon. Of course I love you. Of course I’m in love with you.”

“But… why? I was awful to you, and then I was gone—”

“—and then you changed, and then you came back to me.”

“It can’t be that easy.”

“It can, though. I’ve chosen to make it that easy.”

Christ, I love you, Jon thinks, and then, oh, God, I haven’t said it back yet. “This might be- clear, already, but Martin, I love you too, so much, and I’m sorry that I didn’t always show it, or realize it—”

“Hey,” Martin says, smoothing his hand over Jon’s hair. “It’s okay. We’re here now, aren’t we?”

“Yes. This—this is real.”

“It is.” Then—“Can I kiss you?” Martin asks.

Jon’s thought about kissing Martin before, but those imagined kisses had always been hurried and frantic and for larger, more selfish purposes—convincing Martin to stop working for Lukas; making a last-minute, time-efficient declaration of feelings before the Unknowing unmakes them both; trying to prove that there’s still some humanity left in him and hey, the logic of the universe is so twisted already that he may as well give it the old Frog Prince try. This moment—warm, close, deliberate; no danger present except for Jon himself—feels far more right than any of these. And yet—“Maybe not now?”

“Yeah, of course,” Martin says, in a voice that harbors no resentment and asks for no explanations. Jon explains anyway.

“I’d still like to, in the future, but I think I’m still a little… raw from all of tonight’s—revelations, and I- sometimes find skin contact challenging in even the best of situations.”

“Do you want me to let go of your face?”

“No, what you’re doing right now is… it’s not too much. Feels nice.”

“And what about the weighted blanket offer, now that you know you aren’t”—Martin pitches his voice lower in a frankly horrendous Jon-imitation—“‘taking advantage’?”

Jon laughs. “That would be nice, too.”

Martin hmms, then presses closer and swings his legs over Jon’s.

“Would taking a statement from me help?”

“Hm?”

“I don’t know if it counts, but I was there when the Flesh attacked, and I met Simon Fairchild.”

“You met Simon F—”

“Jon, Jon, it’s okay, he didn’t hurt me. The point is, you can Compel me about him, see if it does anything for you.”

“I’d rather lay off the Seeing until it’s really necessary. But I appreciate the offer.”

Martin pulls Jon in a little closer. “Anytime.”

addendum:

Jon wakes up tucked into the space between Martin’s neck and shoulder.

“‘Morning,” he mumbles into Martin’s skin, and feels Martin smile against his hair.

“Good morning to you, too. Do you still feel Hungry?”

Jon takes stock of his headache, then shrugs. “Yes, but I believe I’m more used to the dizziness now.”

“Well, last night’s offer is still on the table, if you’ve changed your mind.”

“O-oh. Of course,” Jon says, and kisses him. Martin makes a small mmph! that Jon finds extremely gratifying, and for a few seconds, he just lingers there, feeling the warm, dry press of Martin’s mouth against his.

When Jon pulls back, Martin has gone pleasantly pink. “I—ah—meant the Fairchild statement, actually, but I did appreciate that. A lot.”

“Oh,” Jon says, and before he can get too embarrassed, kisses Martin again.

“Someone’s affectionate this morning.”

“Mm.”

“We should probably get out of bed soon.”

“Mm.”

“Maybe write up a plan for if you get worse before Basira can mail the statements over?”

“Mm-hm.”

“Also, if you need any ingredients for cooking, let me know; I might pop down to the shops again tomorrow; I’m due to spend some quality time with the cows soon.”

“Mm.”

“Write me a list later, when you’re a tad more verbal?”

Jon nods. Yes, he’ll do it later, because they have a later to make promises for.

#the magnus archives #jonmartin #tma #magpod #fic

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literatehiss · 3 years

Text

Ghosts of Past Pain

Day 2 of PeterMartin Week - Home & Melancholia Peter has a funeral to go to, and he doesn’t want to go to Moorland House by himself so he drags martin along for the ride Read on AO3 here

Martin had awoken to a text from Peter and a parcel on this doorstep.

Stumbling through his morning routine, Martin flicked open the message while he waited for the kettle to boil.

Head Idiot (Lukas)

Sent at 05:10 Hello Martin! I have an urgent meeting today and I would like you to come with me.

I have ordered you something so that you don’t stand out too much.

Please be ready and at the institute for 6.

Thanks

Peter

It did not matter how many times Martin told Peter than he didn’t need to sign his name at the bottom of his texts, the older man still did it.

Martin groaned at the time though, he would have to rush to get there in time. Well there goes his relaxed morning.

He almost forgot the package, until he was almost out the door. He tucked the parcel under his arm and ran down to the underground station that would take him most of the way to the Institute.

He ended up arriving a little early and sat down on the front steps of the building. Using the sharp edge of his keys, Martin cut the tape securing the box closed.

Inside was a coat, long and black. It looked a little like Peter’s, though this one seemed to cut off a little higher, at the knees rather than all the way down to the ankles like Peter’s did.

He did have a coat of his own. A ratty second hand one he had bought with his first pay check from the Institute. It’d had ripped stitches when he bought it and the past few years of use hadn’t helped matters. He shrugged it off and slipped on the one that Peter had bought him.

It felt expensive.

Knowing the amount of money that Peter was willing to throw around on a single lunch meeting, it probably was more expensive than anything Martin had ever seen.

It was warm and soft and somehow it still didn’t block out the chill of Peter’s arrival.

“You didn’t need to go to the trouble Peter. My own coat was fine.”

“Maybe. You deserve to have something nice every so often Martin.”

Martin did not know who exactly Peter was trying to fool here.

“And also, we are going to Moorland House and my family will eat you alive if you go in wearing something that cheap. This way they know you’re with me.”

As far as reasons go, this was a pretty good one. Peter was actually thinking something through. Martin was, however, a little nervous at that.

“Why? Um, yeah, why are we going there?”

“Funeral. An uncle I think, I don’t actually know” Peter still sounded unnervingly cheery as he said this.

“Let me re-phrase that Peter. Why am I going?”

Peter didn’t answer, just shuffled Martin into a chauffeured car that just pulled up.

It wasn’t until they were about half-an-hour out of London that he finally answered. He wasn’t looking at Martin, preferring to stare out the window at the passing countryside.

“I haven’t been back in quite some time. They aren’t pleased with me, never have been really. Didn’t want to go by myself. And it will do you good, I think. You’ve been to the Institute, you know what a temple of the Eye feels like, but you haven’t felt anything like Moorland.”

Martin was sure that last bit had been tacked on to make Peter feel less self-conscious.

“You’ve sent me to the lonely Peter, surely it couldn’t be any more than that?” Peter hummed in agreement.

“Well yes, but that’s mine. If I entered the lonely and a cousin entered as well, even if we were in the same space we wouldn’t see each other. The lonely you have experienced is effected by me. Moorland is more, well… its the lonely of every generation of Lukas, its more of a mix so no one person effects it. You’ll see when we get there.”

“Wait. So the beach, that’s not standard? That’s just your version of the lonely?”

“Exactly! I have a cousin who’s domain is a long stretch of road at night, and I think one of my nieces had started to be able to manifest a library.”

“A library? That’s a bit Beholding isn’t it?”

“And a night-time road isn’t of the Dark? That my beach couldn’t be considered Vast? The lines aren’t as clean as you might want to think.”

Martin thought back to the eccentric old man he had met the other day. The one who seemed so fond of Peter.

“Simon Fairchild must be pleased with that?” Peter was still looking out the window and must have forgotten that Martin could see his face in the reflection of the glass as he smiled, his eyes showing actual fondness for once, rather than his usual fake cheer and dead-eyed cheer.

“Huh, yeah he is.”

Martin did not know how he felt about Peter having anything close to normal human emotions and so wrote himself a little mental not and put it on his mental back-burner.

That seemed to be enough interaction for Peter and he shut up for the rest of the journey no matter how much Martin attempted to start conversation.

It wasn’t even mid-day by the time they rolled up the driveway of Moorland House. The crunch of the tires on gravel was the only sound around, breaking the unnatural silence.

Martin could see movement in the graveyard and as he stepped out of the car he expected to be lead over there. Instead Peter pulled him by the elbow into the old house.

“We are actually a bit early, don’t want to get in the way of the preparations. Come on, everyone who is already hear will be out in the graveyard or milling about the gardens. We should be left alone in here.”

The house was cold and quiet and heavy in a way Martin had never really experienced. The weight of history and family expectations and generation upon generation of deeply unhappy families. It was a weight that appeared to be affecting Peter quite badly. Martin watched as Peter’s feigned cheer struggled and eventually dropped entirely as Peter lead him around.

“So which was your room?” martin asked as he ran his fingers over the carved wood of the stari banister.

“Oh we didn’t do that. I didn’t understand the concept of having a single unchanging room until I stayed the weekend at Simon’s once. Every year we would all switch bedrooms. Stopped us getting attached I guess. I remember fighting with one of my sister’s to get my younger brother’s room one year. It had a great view over the gardens.” Martin’s brow furrowed as he looked at Peter with curiosity. The older man looked somehow even paler than usual, his cold stare slipping into a deeply uncomfortable and sad look.

“you have siblings? Will they be here?” martin felt like he knew what the answer would be.

“Ha. No, not anymore. Don’t know where the older two vanished off to, the same way as Evan I suppose, tried to leave and fed the Forsaken all the more for it. The younger two were taken away when I was young, I like to think they were given away to some distant family member, though sometimes I doubt it”

They eventually came back to the front door and Peter sat down on the cold stone steps. Martin could feel the cold fog of the Lonely start to gather stronger and thicker around Peter. Martin hadn’t considered that Peter didn’t like it here, that his childhood home was nothing more that a museum of bad memories. He looked around to see if they were being watched and then slipped his hand into the same pocket that Peter had shoved one of his, entwining their fingers. Peter looked at him sharply. Martin shushed him quietly.

“Just for now Peter, they don’t need to know. I’m glad you brought me here, it’s beautiful, even if it makes you so sad.” Peter gave his hand a squeeze.

“Thank you Martin. I don’t like coming back here, but I am glad to share this with you.” His melancholic look brightened for a moment. “Once this whole charade is over, I’ll show you some of the grounds. That is where I spent most of my days. I think you will like it, it is very peaceful,” he gave Martin a conspiring nudge, “the sort of place poets go to for inspiration.” Martin flushed at the reminder of his poetry. Before he could retort, he felt Peter quickly remove his hand and walk over to an older man who was walking up to them.

Martin couldn’t hear their conversation but he caught the occasional glance over to him from the stranger. Peter came back and, with a hand on the middle of his back, guided him over to the graveyard.

Martin didn’t know why exactly Peter needed the comfort of his company.

But as he looked into the cold stares of the Lukas family, those who made Peter look like a warm and welcoming individual, he squared his shoulders and stood by his side.

He took a deep breath and staring boldly at a man who was glaring at him, he linked his arm with Peter’s. Peter looked shocked but didn’t pull away.

So close to Peter, even surrounded by people who probably hated him, he had never felt safer

#petermartinweek2020 #NaNo 2020 #PeterMartin

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arecomicsevengood · 4 years

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QUARANTINE MOVIES PART FOUR

It’s wild to watch any movie knowing that none will be made for the foreseeable future, and that the whole collective experience of filmgoing might be dead. I tend to have a certain sad, scared lonely feeling when I contemplate the future at night, and while I attempt to put off by watching movies, it only partly works. Now, more than ever, movies are a larger part of my processing of the world than the ongoing conversations I have with friends.

Smithereens (1982) dir. Susan Seidelman

There is something particularly powerful about movies where people run around, socializing. These things are pretty resonant with my youth, but “youth” in this broad sense that just means “the before times,” because if there’s anything quarantine is bringing home it’s the importance of a form of adulthood based around domestic partnerships with someone you like and having “real jobs” that can translate to telecommuting. Of course, socializing of the sort no longer allowed is really useful, and shouldn’t be written off as youthful frivolity. Smithereens is not a particularly romantic movie: While it might be famous for being “punk” in a “cool” way, documenting young New York nightlife in a way where David Wojnarowicz’s band 3 Teens Kill 4 is on a club’s marquee, it’s really about young people as these sort of upwardly-mobile opportunists with no real talent trying to exploit one another for a mixture of sex and social clout, and ignoring those who are not actively useful to them. It’s a useful document of people being shitty where the appeal now is how cool they look, and it’s interesting to watch in this moment where I’m worried that the whole idea of community will be lost very soon, in a way we won’t even be able to articulate. We’ll all be scrambling for jobs and security but everything will be further hollowed out, and we’ll be left with an even more vicious and dog-eat-dog citizenry. So a movie like this has nostalgic appealing, but by depicting the seeds of what will only become more widespread problems, it avoids feeling dated or idealistic.

Gloria (1980) dir. John Cassavetes

Oh shit this movie rules! I was under the impression I disliked Cassavetes, based on the others I had seen, and watching the first twenty-odd minutes reminded me of why: Sort of circular conversations, involving a lot of people being upset with one another. But this ends up feeling more like a movie, and less like a play. Once Gena Rowlands kills a carful of people I was completely on board. She’s great in this, playing opposite a child, who is also amazing in it, tons of dialogue that should be quotable: “You’re not my mother, my mother was beautiful” being but one amazing bit of poetry. Both extremely cute and extremely badass from moment to moment, the parts of this movie are in tension with one another where it also feels like it’s going from strength to strength, and ever scene, every moment, is great. Incredible music, and also great documentation of a world that doesn’t exist anymore, of telephone booths, smoking sections, and places that’ll develop photos for you. Highest possible recommendation.

The Naked City (1948) dir. Jules Dassin

Seemingly the first movie to be shot on location throughout New York, rather than studio backlots, and it milks the city for all its worth, shifting frequently from one location to another, introducing to new characters. Initially guided by omniscient narration but quickly focusing to become a police procedural. I knew Dassin from Rififi but this feels more exciting, I would gladly watch movies bite the techniques from this every few decades, though Gloria does a good job of moving through the streets of New York in a less-contrived way. There was a Naked City TV show ten years later, shot on location and focusing on a police precinct.

Near Dark (1987) dir. Kathryn Bigelow

I consider this Kathryn Bigelow’s best movie, but circumstances have not led me to watch it as many times as I’ve seen Point Break, so the memories I’ve retained of it were kind of inaccurate: Specifically, the thing I thought of as the climax, the part at the hotel where light is getting shot through the blankets taped up to cover windows, happens like halfway through. Screenwriter Eric Red wrote this at the same time as he wrote The Hitcher, and that’s another one that just GOES, moving from one scene to another where they all have this climactic intensity constantly but the scale is shifting of what you’re invested in? The Hitcher is a nightmare and this is more of an action movie. People point out this movie has a bunch of the cast from Aliens but I didn’t realize there’s a shot where Aliens is actually on the marquee of a theater. I also wonder if this whole horror/action/western/but with vampires thing was an inspiration to Garth Ennis? I kinda feel like the pacing I find so powerful could not really be sustained over the length of an extended comic run.

Hero (1992) dir. Stephen Frears

Dustin Hoffman plays a criminal schlub, doing a weird voice. It’s almost like he was told that the role was written for Sylvester Stallone, but Stallone’s insistence on getting a writing credit on every movie he acts in complicated the premise in a weird way, so Hoffman just attempts a Stallone impression. One of his few redeeming characteristics is he’s a loving father, but that isn’t why he’ll remind you of your dad. Maybe most men are just Dustin Hoffman doing impersonations of Sylvester Stallone! From 1992, so Hoffman’s I guess in a post-Rain-Man mode, but the film also feels very early nineties in its commentary on television news turning stories into celebrities, and an analysis of the problems with professional cynicism that seem very much of their time. It’s not like a more sophisticated critique has found its way into any mainstream film I can think of, we’ve just stopped thinking about these issues, as they’ve become much worse. Joan Cusack’s good as his Hoffman’s ex-wife, and Susie Cusack’s good as his lawyer. I would like to see Susie Cusack in more things! Geena Davis plays a television reporter, Andy Garcia plays a decent guy who is a contrast to Hoffman, there’s also small roles for the likes of Stephen Tobolowsky and Tom Arnold, really placing this in a moment of time.

The Age Of Innocence (1993) dir. Martin Scorsese

I didn’t like this one, for all the obvious reasons: I don’t like costume dramas about rich people, and I don’t like Daniel Day-Lewis. It’s an Edith Wharton adaptation, all about a world of well-mannered old money with very rigidly defined rules of behavior. Michelle Pfeiffer plays the true love Day-Lewis is kept from by the mores of the day, and part of her romantic appeal is she’s able to see through the rituals and make fun of them, while Winona Ryder fully buys into them, and thus reaps the benefits. Everything is repressed, all behavior is affect, this is of course the point but very much not my thing. There’s also a lot of a narrator reading the text of the book while the camerawork fades between lavishly composed image, while the cinematography probably looked great on a big screen I would still be very anxious about getting to the storytelling.

Experiment In Terror (1962) dir. Blake Edwards

This one starts off super-intensely, with a home invasion scene, the sense of horror in this is palpable but the fear is just used as this blackmail structure for some noir stuff? It straggles the genre line pretty well, feeling weird because of this horror energy of sheer creeping malevolence defines it. This is also considerably longer than most of the other film noir I’ve watched recently, because those moments extend and take away from the sense of a building plot, to instead feel like they might derail it. Lee Remick is the lead, and she is this terrified victim, which makes the film more interesting than if it were focused on the cop played by Glenn Ford. The main character’s younger sister gets kidnapped at one point, it gets creepy. The climax occurs at a end of a crowded baseball game, and there’s shots that I assume were done via helicopter, which seems like it would’ve upped the budget considerably.

The Harder They Fall (1956) dir. Mark Robson

Humphrey Bogart stars as a former sports writer, working to drum up publicity for a fresh-off-the-boat boxer who does not know how to fight, but is naively participating in fixed matches, for the economic benefit of the mob. While the boxer is being exploited and making no money, despite his celebrity; Bogart is being well-compensated to sell out his conscience and he is very good at playing a dude in moral conflict with himself, struggling to do the decent thing. While this isn’t the best boxing movie, or the best Bogart, it’s still pretty good.

The Devil And Miss Jones (1941) dir. Sam Wood

Heard about this one in the context of it having good politics. It’s about a rich guy who goes undercover at a department store hoping to bust the union only to realize that the guy organizing the union is supremely decent and the middle manager should get fired. It has some scenes that feel like they might play for “cringe comedy” but also are just so fucked up? One where the rich dude is forcing shoes onto the feet of little girl who is crying saying “I don’t like it! I don’t like it!” feels way too much like a pervert’s fetish for me to be comfortable with. The female lead is played by Jean Arthur, who is very good at playing a genuine, kind, and idealistic person. I am very grateful she dates the union organizer and the old rich dude’s love interest is someone age-appropriate. Interesting to see a pro-union movie from a time when unions were popular, so it functions as populist entertainment while Sorry To Bother You gestures at being radical propaganda for self-congratulation’s sake.

Human Desire (1954) dir. Fritz Lang

Another noir from Lang, with the same leads as The Big Heat. This one made me worried about age-inappropriate relationships too, as it begins with a dude being back from war, moving in with his friends, and their daughter having “become a woman” while he was away. Luckily the title refers to a desire he ends up feeling for a married woman who as an accomplice to a murder committed by her abusive husband. Glenn Ford stars in this one, and he has this very boring morally upstanding male lead quality that makes these well-made movies feel generic. This thing is happening to me watching movies where I get kind of hung up on how no one ever explains themselves or their feelings: I don’t think they should, I think the whole thing of watching a movie where you watch it thinking like “Why don’t you just tell her you love her??” is interesting because… a writer doesn’t need the characters to explain their feelings to each other if the viewers understand them, these feelings are the most obvious things and so can go unspoken, and so you would really only have them say these things if they were lying or being manipulative? But maybe in more modern movies people really do state their motivations because screenwriters are dumber now? I don’t know.

Fail Safe (1964) dir. Sidney Lumet

I have talked about this movie a lot since watching it, and in a way that doesn’t even mention that the opening is amazing, and the title and credits sequence are all-time greats. Instead I mention that Henry Fonda’s performance seems to have inspired David Lynch’s performance of Gordon Cole, and how the weird, fucked up nightmarish ending doesn’t really change the fact that watching it in 2020 it feels like a sort of pornography of competence when contrasted against our own reality. The whole movie is about an accident that leads to a U.S. military plane flying to Moscow to drop a nuke, and everyone (except for the pilots) realizing this is a mistake and trying to avert global nuclear war. The ending is pretty astounding in its darkness. Walter Matthau plays a guy whose role is to argue for the pragmatic value of mass death, but the moral calculus that ends up being embraced is far beyond the nihilistic death drive he advocates for. Mutually assured destruction is such a motherfucker of a concept. I am really hung up on the idea that unilateral nuclear disarmament never became a thing really set a precedent for how political parties in this country will never unilaterally dismantle their propaganda machines. 24-hour news is a nightmare, not really on a par with nuclear weapons, but similarly something that should be illegal, but for the calculations made. We would be a different country if we were willing to make these kinds of sacrifices but we really are not.

The Deadly Affair (1967) dir. Sidney Lumet

James Mason stars in this John Le Carre adaptation. He plays a spy whose wife is cheating on him, with another spy. None of the twists in this are unforeseen, in fact, the title alone explains a bunch, but the title is also so generic you might forget what the movie is called while you’re watching it. James Mason is good in it, although it’s weird that he’s playing a likable guy who sort of doesn’t seem to understand why everyone can’t get along or be honest adults with one another considering his work in the intelligence community. Another solid Sidney Lumet movie.

Three Days Of The Condor (1975) dir. Sydney Pollack

This movie does a very good job of not explaining things up front, and then portioning out understanding as it goes on. The movie begins with Robert Redford getting his office getting shot up, and we eventually learn he works for the CIA, but he cannot rely on them for his protection. It doesn’t introduce the female lead, played by Faye Dunaway, until like halfway through the movie, when our hero takes her hostage. Redford can’t really explain the situation to her, and just sort of acts like a psychopath, but they are able to have a quasi-romantic relationship where she trusts him because he’s played by Robert Redford, who is in some ways the seventies’ answer to Glenn Ford. The movie star aspect allows him to sell his agreeability, although he’s also supposed to be something of a nerd, a guy whose job is just to read books and analyze the information. Max Von Sydow plays the villain.

The Third Shadow Warrior (1963) dir. Umetsugu Inoue

Watched this because it’s made by the dude who made Black Lizard, it’s a samurai thing about a warrior who employs body doubles. It follows one such body double, overshadowed by the man whose existence he supports, at the expense of his own individuality or happiness. Interesting enough, feels like it occupies the solid middle of samurai movies- Something sort of common to stuff on Criterion is something that doesn’t blow you away but it is definitely a “real movie” at the very least.

La Cienaga, (2001) dir. Lucrecia Martel

That said, you kind of do need to be careful with newer Criterion channel stuff, because some things feel more like they’re just trying to engage with an art house history in order to earn their place in the canon. This movie isn’t bad, but I do feel like the reason it’s interesting stems from a context the film itself has nothing to do with: After Martel made Zama (2017), there was talk of her being asked by Marvel to do a Black Widow movie, which is insane. The studio also volunteered to handle the action for her, which she said she would actually be interested in learning how to do herself, but she had no interest in working with Marvel. Let Lucrecia Martel make a big-budget action movie without corporate properties you cowards! This movie is pretty difficult to follow, with no clear narrative thread, a lot of characters, weird pacing, etc. There’s moments of poetry or tension but this is one of those things that’s just beyond my preferences enough to remind me of a certain aesthetic conservatism I possess. I didn’t finish Zama, though I had read the book. It’s honestly tough to imagine Martel making a movie with straightforward plot that can easily be followed, it doesn’t seem to be what she’s interested in, even in terms of editing a movie so that you have a sense of where scenes stand in relation to one another in time. Many scenes still maintain a sense of beauty or mystery but at there’s no velocity. She’s closer to Apichatpong Weerasethakul or Carlos Reygadas or Bi Gan, to name three people whose names I absolutely had to Google because I couldn’t think of them off the top of my head.

All these movies are streaming on The Criterion Channel, if you want me to recommend things on other streaming services, please DM me your login information.

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tacitwhisky · 5 years

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Jon / Sansa Reread - Arya I, AGOT

< Previous Chapter (Jon I) | Next Chapter (Jon II) >

In which Arya is not good at sewing, she hangs out with Jon, and the two of them watch Joffrey be a dick.

The main action of Arya I is essentially two scenes and interactions: Arya with Sansa, and then Arya with Jon. But despite its simplicity, there’s a lot going on in this chapter. Jon I introduced the first really big conflict in the Stark family (Jon vs Catelyn), and Arya I introduces the second (Sansa vs Arya). It also our first real introduction to Sansa; not just her as a person, but a character in her element and the social sphere she’s most comfortable in.

Martin has said before that he originally created Sansa as a contrast for Arya and to introduce some conflict into the Stark family, and that’s very much in evidence in these first few chapters, starting with how in the second paragraph of her very first POV chapter Arya is already being contrasted unfavorably with Sansa by Septa Mordane.

Arya’s stitches were crooked again.

She frowned down at them with dismay and glanced over to where her sister Sansa sat among the other girls. Sansa’s needlework was exquisite. Everyone said so. “Sansa’s work is as pretty as she is,” Septa Mordane told their lady mother once. “She has such fine, delicate hands.” When Lady Catelyn had asked about Arya, the septa had sniffed. “Arya has the hands of a blacksmith.”

There’s a perception in fandom that Sansa and Arya fundamentally don’t like each other or that Sansa was condescending to Arya, but something that’s underrated is just how much the two are actively pitted against each other by Septa Mordane. And this is as good a time as any to mention that Septa Mordane fails epically in her role as a mentor and is kind of a dick. It’s one thing for Septa Mordane to not want to encourage Arya’s more rambunctious interests, but it’s entirely another for her to constantly beat Arya down and reinforce her negative self image.

It’s unfortunate in a lot of ways that Arya’s POV comes before Sansa’s. It’s a known psychological phenomenon that your first impression of someone else really does affect how you see them: there’s a study (wish I still had the link) where two groups were given the same list of actions someone took with the only difference being a negative or positive news story they had the group read about the person before the list of actions. Sure enough, people who read the negative news story rated that person’s actions as more negative, while the people who read the positive news story rated their actions as more positive.

With Sansa all her negatives as a character are front loaded, and our perception of her is permanently tarnished by Arya’s frustration and issues with her. This has the cascade of making the reader judge Sansa more harshly than they should for everything she does later.

She looked glumly at her sister. Sansa was chatting away happily as she worked. Beth Cassel, Ser Rodrik’s little girl, was sitting by her feet, listening to every word she said, and Jeyne Poole was leaning over to whisper something in her ear.

“What are you talking about?” Arya asked suddenly.

Jeyne gave her a startled look, then giggled. Sansa looked abashed. Beth blushed. No one answered.

Arya is pretty clearly excluded from this group, though considering what they’re talking about it’s not that surprising.

“Joffrey likes your sister,” Jeyne whispered, proud as if she had something to do with it. She was the daughter of Winterfell’s steward and Sansa’s dearest friend. “He told her she was very beautiful.”

“He’s going to marry her,” little Beth said dreamily, hugging herself. “Then Sansa will be queen of all the realm.”

Sansa had the grace to blush. She blushed prettily. She did everything prettily, Arya thought with dull resentment. “Beth, you shouldn’t make up stories,” Sansa corrected the younger girl, gently stroking her hair to take the harshness out of her words. She looked at Arya. “What did you think of Prince Joff, sister? He’s very gallant, don’t you think?”

We can see here in Sansa holding court a lot her natural leadership qualities that will make her a good lady or queen someday. She’s kind when she corrects Beth, and doesn’t embarrass her. She also tries to include Arya in the conversation now that’s she engaged in it. I think there’s a tendency to read this interaction as Sansa fishing for a compliment, but there’s no actual reason to read negative intent into it. She really does seem to just be trying to include Arya.

“Jon says he looks like a girl,” Arya said.

Sansa sighed as she stitched. “Poor Jon,” she said. “He gets jealous because he’s a bastard.”

It’s worth pointing out that Sansa isn’t completely off base here. If Jon’s first chapter showed anything it’s that he is remarkably bitter about the cards life has dealt him and it’ll be an ongoing aspect in this chapter too. So while it’s dickish of Sansa to dismiss Jon’s opinion because of his birth, she’s not actually wrong on the substance of it.

“He’s our brother,” Arya said, much too loudly. Her voice cut through the afternoon quiet of the tower room.

“Our half brother,” Sansa corrected, soft and precise.

It’s the same thing here with her calling Jon their half brother. Sansa is the Stark most aware of formalities, and there is a formal distance between Jon and the other starklings that even he observes (for example back in Bran I where he called Robb “Stark”). There’s a legitimate argument to be made that’s Sansa’s simply being precise here and not trying to distance him from them.

That’s not how Arya perceives it though; for her to be bastard is to be other (we’ll see this again in a minute), so when Sansa says, “He gets jealous because he’s a bastard” Arya immediately interprets that as Sansa othering and distancing Jon. Thus why her answer is that Jon is their brother despite Sansa not actually saying he wasn’t related to them. Bastard is other, and Arya is closer to Jon than anyone.

I actually think since we don’t get Sansa POV of this interaction there’s enough ambiguity to support either reading depending on your headcanon: she may simply be being precise and formal, or she may be trying to distance Jon from them. Or maybe a mixture of both.

Of course, because we’re in Arya’s viewpoint and already preset to think the worst of Sansa, I imagine most readers interpreted it the second way on their first read, which would then make them dislike Sansa: we’ve had two chapters to empathize with Jon, so just by narrative law our first loyalty is to him, and we’re currently in Arya’s viewpoint and thus biased towards her interpretations of events.

“Arya, why aren’t you at work?” the septa asked. She rose to her feet, starched skirts rustling as she started across the room. “Let me see your stitches.”

Arya wanted to scream. It was just like Sansa to go and attract the septa’s attention. “Here,” she said, surrendering up her work.

The septa examined the fabric. “Arya, Arya, Arya,” she said. “This will not do. This will not do at all.”

Everyone was looking at her. It was too much. Sansa was too well bred to smile at her sister’s disgrace, but Jeyne was smirking on her behalf. Even Princess Myrcella looked sorry for her. Arya felt tears filling her eyes. She pushed herself out of her chair and bolted for the door.

This is one of the pettier and crueler things Septa Mordane does. Instead of minimizing Arya’s embarrassment, she amplifies it so she can preen and cast herself as long suffering. She truly is the worst.

There’s also an interesting thing going on here where Arya’s attributing things to Sansa that aren’t actually happening. First she blames Sansa for attracting Mordane’s attention, then thinks thinks Sansa is internally pleased at her embarrassment but just isn’t showing it. In both instances there’s no actual proof this is what's happening, but again we run into that cascade of negativity in how the reader sees Sansa. It also dovetails perfectly with the negative trope of the snooty feminine older sister that Sansa already falls into.

It wasn’t fair. Sansa had everything. Sansa was two years older; maybe by the time Arya had been born, there had been nothing left. Often it felt that way. Sansa could sew and dance and sing. She wrote poetry. She knew how to dress. She played the high harp and the bells. Worse, she was beautiful. Sansa had gotten their mother’s fine high cheekbones and the thick auburn hair of the Tullys. Arya took after their lord father. Her hair was a lusterless brown, and her face was long and solemn. Jeyne used to call her Arya Horseface, and neigh whenever she came near.

Again we see a zero sum dynamic between Sansa and Arya: there’s only enough femininity for one of them, and Sansa already used it all up (again attributing something to Sansa that she actually has no control over).

It’s also interesting to note that I think a lot of people actually conflate Sansa and Jeyne when it comes to their treatment of Arya: even I internally thought that both of them called Arya horseface, when the paragraph very clearly states it was just Jeyne. And while Sansa doesn’t seem to have shut Jeyne down (though I can’t remember if she ever knew Jeyne was doing that), it is worth noting that Sansa doesn’t bully Arya, and outside of arguments doesn’t seem to antagonize her.

This matters because Sansa and Jeyne despite being lumped together in Arya’s head, actually occupy very different positions within Winterfell. I wish I had bookmarked it, but I just read a meta the other day about how galling Arya’s existence must’ve been for Jeyne; no matter how much closer she is to Sansa or better at feminine pursuits, Jeyne because of her birth will always be lower than Arya, never Sansa’s true sister. Which is kind of fascinating when you remember that Jeyne will later be forced to be Arya when she’s married to Ramsay. She gets what she wants, but very much not how she wanted it.

(this also makes me want to read a Jon x Jeyne AU. No? Just me? Fine)

It hurt that the one thing Arya could do better than her sister was ride a horse. Well, that and manage a household. Sansa had never had much of a head for figures. If she did marry Prince Joff, Arya hoped for his sake that he had a good steward.

Being canonically bad at horse riding and math are strangely enough two things people tend to forget about Sansa. Partly I’m sure it’s that this isn’t in the show, and partly it just doesn’t really jive with the rest of Sansa’s character. Being able to manage a household is part of the westerosi feminine ideal, and so it doesn’t really make sense that she’d be bad at it, especially considering how well she is at logistics and managing a household later on in the Eyrie. Chalking this one up to early installment weirdness seems fair.

By now Septa Mordane would certainly have sent word to her lady mother. If she went to her room, they would find her. Arya did not care to be found. She had a better notion. The boys were at practice in the yard. She wanted to see Robb put gallant Prince Joffrey flat on his back. “Come,” she whispered to Nymeria. She got up and ran, the wolf coming hard at her heels.

They [Arya and Nymeria] arrived, flushed and breathless, to find Jon seated on the sill, one leg drawn up languidly to his chin.

This is a very Jon pose; composed, thoughtful, intent. It’s actually low-key one of my favorite descriptions for just how much it tells you about Jon in just a few words. It’s also very in keeping with how Bran described him in his chapter as slender and quick and graceful. Jon in these early chapters and from the viewpoint of Bran and Arya has a very different physicality to him than later when things are solely from his viewpoint. In these early chapters he’s a little more bishie than later; partly because he’s younger, partly because men don’t think there appearance as much in fiction.

Which all on its own is interesting to contrast with Tyrion who is exceptionally aware of his body at all times, and the female characters who are much more attentive to what they wear and how they look. I tend to think it comes from Martin’s, however subconscious, male gaze, but it also fits westeros: women from a young age are socialized to view themselves as sex objects and to be hyper aware of their attractiveness and appearance. It’s sadly not that different from the real world.

Jon gave her a curious look. “Shouldn’t you be working on your stitches, little sister?”

Arya made a face at him. “I wanted to see them fight.”

He smiled. “Come here, then.”

Arya climbed up on the window and sat beside him, to a chorus of thuds and grunts from the yard below.

“A shade more exhausting than needlework,” Jon observed.

“A shade more fun than needlework,” Arya gave back at him. Jon grinned, reached over, and messed up her hair. Arya flushed. They had always been close. Jon had their father’s face, as she did. They were the only ones. Robb and Sansa and Bran and even little Rickon all took after the Tullys, with easy smiles and fire in their hair. When Arya had been little, she had been afraid that meant that she was a bastard too. It had been Jon she had gone to in her fear, and Jon who had reassured her.

Arya’s fear that her outsider qualities stem from bastardy hints at just how much damage Catelyn’s ostracization of Jon seeps unintentionally into the rest of the starklings. As we saw when Sansa called Jon a bastard, Arya equates bastardy with otherness. It’s no doubt one of the reasons she’s so close to Jon as they both don’t feel like they fit. That and his unquestioning acceptance of her less feminine coded interests.

And just like when he gave up having his own wolf so Bran and the other starklings could get theirs, we see again just how much Jon loves his siblings. It must’ve stung for Arya to so blatantly unhappy about being like him, but he wasn’t bitter about it. In general with his siblings Jon doesn’t get bitter (outside of some stuff with Robb), only when the rest of the world intrudes.

(this also marks the first of many, many, many times Arya thinks about Jon mussing her hair. It gets old)

“Why aren’t you down in the yard?” Arya asked him.

He gave her a half smile. “Bastards are not allowed to damage young princes,” he said. “Any bruises they take in the practice yard must come from trueborn swords.”

“Oh.” Arya felt abashed. She should have realized. For the second time today, Arya reflected that life was not fair.

“The Lannisters are proud,” Jon observed. “You’d think the royal sigil would be sufficient, but no. He makes his mother’s House equal in honor to the king’s.”

“The woman is important too!” Arya protested.

Jon chuckled. “Perhaps you should do the same thing, little sister. Wed Tully to Stark in your arms.”

“A wolf with a fish in its mouth?” It made her laugh. “That would look silly. Besides, if a girl can’t fight, why should she have a coat of arms?”

Jon shrugged. “Girls get the arms but not the swords. Bastards get the swords but not the arms. I did not make the rules, little sister.”

Like with Tyrion last chapter, we can see here the seeds of Jon’s later ability to empathize and understand other marginalized groups. Jon’s narrative is a constant examination of his own privilege and then using his bastard status as a way to extend sympathy and understanding. This is something he’s challenged with again and again.

It’s also reminiscent of Bran I where he was sympathetic to Bran but also didn’t hesitate to tell him the truth. Jon as a person is fiercely loyal and kind to those he cares about, but doesn’t coddle. Like we talked about last chapter, because of his position Jon is keenly aware that the world is not fair.

Jon watched them leave, and Arya watched Jon. His face had grown as still as the pool at the heart of the godswood. Finally he climbed down off the window. “The show is done,” he said. He bent to scratch Ghost behind the ears. The white wolf rose and rubbed against him. “You had best run back to your room, little sister. Septa Mordane will surely be lurking. The longer you hide, the sterner the penance. You’ll be sewing all through winter. When the spring thaw comes, they will find your body with a needle still locked tight between your frozen fingers.”

Arya didn’t think it was funny. “I hate needlework!” she said with passion. “It’s not fair!”

“Nothing is fair,” Jon said. He messed up her hair again and walked away from her, Ghost moving silently beside him.

I find it endlessly hilarious how extra Jon tends to be in these Winterfell chapters; it’s a good writing tip though. Teenagers in general tend to be extra.

Show Comparison

I’m putting this as its own section this time because both of these scenes are almost entirely missing from the show: in the first episode we see Arya bored at sewing before she runs off to hang with the boys, but there’s no confrontation or dialogue with Sansa. And the second scene with Jon simply doesn’t exist.

While on the surface these aren’t big cuts, and were most likely simply due to time constraints and attempts to streamline things, they do subtly change the characters and speak to an underlying difference in how D&D see Arya and Sansa: feminine arts become something Arya generally despises because she thinks they’re dumb, not something that she dislikes because she’s bad at them and there’s no place for someone like her in her society.

We also miss her “the woman matters too!” exclamation, which is a far cry from her “most girls are dumb” line later in the show. It’s a subtle shift, but an important one.

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This wraps up Arya I. Overall it’s a strong chapter, and an interesting introduction to Sansa: not a favorable one because of the POV, but one that’s consistent with her character. We won’t get her perspective on her relationship until both of them are well on their way south, but luckily for us we won’t have to wait that long. Next reread will be Jon II where he has the infamous scene with Catelyn at Bran’s bedside, and then the chapter after that will be Sansa I.

If you’ve got any questions or comments hit me up on my asks; I love talking with you all.

Previous Chapters:

Bran I

Jon I

Next Chapter (Jon II) >

#reread #jon snow #arya stark #sansa stark #jonsa #agot #got #game of thrones #a song of ice and fire #meta #asoiaf #asoiaf meta

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