#magnus monsterverse

[late-to-the-magnus-archives]

True - a Magnus Archives fic

A group chat.

A bad realization.

A good realization.

A beautiful moment, much deserved.

A Magnus Monsterverse fic.

P.S. This is my 100th fic on AO3! Of course, I had to make it TMA.

AO3

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

Here’s the thing about handling cosmic horror that the movies simply never seemed to address: you still have to live life. Shower and shave, shop for groceries, do the dishes. Wash the linens, work the job, walk the streets.

I’d been so trapped in the cycle of it all before, when I was human, that I’d barely recognized it for how absurd it was, but now? After spending damn near a thousand years as a cosmic horror, and suddenly slammed back into it all while still dealing with the mess? Pardon my whine, but this was really unfair.

Martin had to go to work, delivering baked goods. I didn’t want him to, but he did.

I had to go to work. I didn’t want to, and… maybe could have gotten away with not doing it (Callum’s idea of finding lost treasures was a really solid one), but I knew I needed proper income, and that pesky socialization aspect, and… I wanted to make Martin proud.

All of that to say I had to wash our sheets and dry the dishes before I even left for work, and I grumped like an idiot the whole time.

The Eye finally found a way to turn my mood, and kept me occupied with the fascinating history of the yazh—a stunning harp in the shape of a mythological yali from ancient Tamil tradition—which had been extinct in my world, but here become a  major instrument in classical and jazz performances. It even featured heavily in rap. They came in all shapes now, but most still bore the original: a fascinating combination of part lion, part elephant and part horse.

Glorious stuff. Delicious trivia. It lifted my mood even as I headed out, locking the door, and took my trek to work.

Quiet London was one I couldn’t fully understand. But then, I hadn’t fully understood my world, either—hadn't known just how much of everything was determined, driven, fueled by fear. Everything everyone did back then was for fear; fear of being alone, of being unloved, of being hated, of being chased, of being found out, of being sick, of being blind, of being controlled… it was so damned obvious, now that I saw it clearly. The Fears had already ruled our world, though it still felt more balanced than this.

But here… no. Here , that was not the case.

This society was entirely built on guilt. It wasn’t the same thing as fear of being caught or found out, or fear of being followed, or fear of being seen hunted. It was the absolute certainty of current, unavoidable guilt. As if they’d all, to a one, murdered their grandmothers, and nothing could ever make it right.

I did a little peeking as I walked. Infants felt terrible (how? Their brains weren’t developed enough!) and so cried less than they ought. Children played quietly, with minimal eye-contact, as though hiding terrible family secrets. Teenagers sullenly trudged through schooling and career plans, knowing they deserved nothing, fearful of adding more to their unexplained debt.

And I could see the results. Yes; crime was very low. Injuries happened rarely—guilt can often lead to caution. The world was very green. Environmental exploitation would not happen while those with power had enough on their consciences without adding ruining the natural world to the mix. 

I was so bloody torn. So many things were so much better than where I’d come from. How could I fault a quieter world, a more respectful human, a healthier ecosystem?

I could definitely fault the side-effects. The stunted relationship, the tainted happiness, the poisoned peace. Is there really no true joy? I asked the Eye. In response, it gave me fiction, and I suddenly knew.

I’ve never fully grasped the love of fiction. Simply learning things was escapism for me, no matter how dire my topic. But for most, I understand, they need fiction as an escape from life.

It isn’t a bad thing. Even elephants daydream; somehow, our development into sapience involves the survival skill of imagination, stories, fiction. Here, though… here, it was not mere pleasurable escape. Here, it was desperately needed medicine.

They could not know pure and simple love; it would always be tainted, and sticky with secrets they felt too shamed to share. They could not even bring themselves to love outside the ways current societal norms claimed as right.

But fantasy could.

Fantasy romance could be open, without secrets, without shame. Could love and share and experiment without fear of censure or guilt; could live a life of actual smiles, real, meeting gazes without hesitation, with nothing to hide. Or, even if they did, nothing that would destroy anyone.

This went beyond just romance, of course, but this particular aspect was hitting me so hard because… I had that. I had the fantasy relationship. I had the fictional love. What I had with Martin was, in this world, impossible.

Fear spiked for a moment. Was it too good to be true? Was it wrong? Were we somehow lying to each other?

No. I knew we were not. And I suddenly also knew why: the first thing Martin had done when I’d come to myself enough to speak to him in Sasha’s hospital was forgive me for forcing him to kill me.

And it hadn’t even been me he’d killed—but I’d taken it as forgiveness for myself. I had taken it, and wrapped it around me, and soaked it into my skin, and without meaning to, made myself immune to the terrible god that ruled this world.

And I did that because Jonah was right: I am something other (though I will not use the word 'god'), and could do that with what I’d been given. Then, because I can make changes, I did it to other people, too.

I freed them. Freed them from guilt, because I had been freed. And now, a dead, fake Nikola had asked me to do the same for the whole world. (So had Jonah, but I didn’t really want to think about him, so.)

And to think: all of this happened because of the love of Martin Blackwood.

I wore a goofy smile as I entered spooky Owlwood library, and Spider Martin knew better than to mess with me today. He just nodded and closed his office door.

That’s right. You’d better leave me alone at the moment. I wanted to think about Martin and decide my next steps.

But mostly, think about Martin.

#

My phone began blowing up about half an hour from shift’s end. 

I hid between stacks to see what on earth made it constantly buzz, and was startled to discover some kind of weird messaging app I’d never seen before. (I had not, to be fair, explored the phone. The Eye assured me this app had been on there the whole time. Ah, well.)

It was some group chat. I’d not been added before, so this got confusing very quickly.

SwirlyEyes: Did you have to?

RainyGrave: Yes. Hi, Sims.

MoreSwirlyEyes: He’s not going to answer you. He’s about as technologically apt as that tree.

SwirlyEyes: Don’t be rude.

Wriggles: Jon, if you’re reading this, we need your advice. We have a situation.

LightningStrike: Really? Just putting it out there like that. Really?

Wriggles: What? It’s not like anybody can read this who isn’t added.

FuckYouAll: Somebody change his username to Cataracts. Because old.

SwirlyEyes: LOL!

MoreSwirlyEyes: Oh gods yes.

RainyGrave: that’s just mean, Cal. Five stars.

Wriggles: Can we please focus? Some of us have work in an hour.

What on God’s green earth? Dare I answer? Did I want to get into this? What the hell?

Wriggles: Please, Jon, I’m absolutely certain you’re reading thi

A moment of silence.

FuckYouAll: You okay, Jane?

Wriggles: Sorry. Damn spider got my fly. I can’t see him anymore, but I swear he was looking at his phone.

LightingStrike: At work? Gasp! Untenable! Unacceptable use of company time!

Cataracts: What on earth are you all blabbering about?

RainyGrave: There’s the man. Hi, Jon. Sorry to bother you like this, but we have a conundrum.

Silence.

Damn it. They were waiting for me to reply.

Well, they could bloody wait. I had work. I—

Spider Martin leaned around a shelf. “It’s all right, Jon. I’ll still pay you, of course, but go ahead and take off.”

I stared at him. “Well, that wasn’t creepy whatsoever.”

“Do you want that raise, by the way?” he said.

I faced him, hands on my hips. “I swear to hell, if you’re spying on me and Martin…”

He put his hands up. “I swear I’m not. Just… well, suspected you’d realized sometime last night that you really weren’t getting paid enough for what we were asking you do to, so I’m offering.”

I rubbed my face. Could I really be that predictable?

Yes! said the Eye happily, and offered to show me snake facts.

Later, I told It, because I did like snake facts, but this wasn't the time. “Fine.” I left the cart right where it was (take that!) and headed to the bathroom.

#

This place hadn’t been updated since the sixties. The tile was an absolutely hideous pink.

They’d continued without me.

LightningStrike: You scared him away.

RainyGrave: We didn’t. Give him a minute. I trust him.

MoreSwirlyEyes: You shouldn’t. He’s a coward.

Cataracts: Excuse me?

MoreSwirlyEyes: Gotcha.

I rubbed the bridge of my nose.

Cataracts: What do you people want?

LightningStrike: Martin’s birthday is next week. We’re trying to plan something that won’t spook him, won’t be too much people-shit, but still shows we all care.

Next week? His birthday wasn’t—

Cataracts: (is typing)

And I froze.

My Martin had been born in March. This Martin had been born in February. 

Numbness crept over me. 

Cataracts: I don’t know how to navigate that yet. Could I get back to you with a prompt reply?

FuckYouAll: HAHAHAHA

RainyGrave: Be nice.

FuckYouAll: (a gif of a decrepit old man, walking shakily with a cane)

What had I done to deserve that? Pfft.

(Born in February.)

I genuinely wasn’t sure how to reply.

(Not born in March.)

Cataracts: If you’re willing to give me a day or two, I can provide an answer, but I will require patience.

(February not March Februrary not—)

FuckYouAll: (gif of a gravestone with R.I.P on it, and a foam “#1” hand rising out of the soil like some weird, cheerful zombie)

SwirlyEyes: Sure, but hurry. It’s not easy to plan these things. We need time.

Cataracts: I thank you for your patience.

FuckYouAll: HAHAHA

I put the phone on silent, leaned on the pig-pink sink, and hid my face in my hands.

#

He was Martin.

He loved me.

I loved him.

At this point, if we didn’t, it would have fallen apart.

This was not the Martin I knew.

I…

Might have cried, a little. After all, now, I had to grieve.

The Eye had known all along. Martin is dead.

No, no, I…

No, he wasn’t dead, he was waiting for me in our flat. He…

Sobs wracked my body, whatever the hell my body was. Tears and snot came in volume. What the fuck were my tears made of, anyway? Melted eyes? Did it matter?

My Martin was dead. Really. He was.

But this was my Martin. He… was now?

I don’t recall sitting on the floor, my back to cold and pig-pink tile, wrapping around my legs and sobbing, but that’s where I was when Spider Martin found me.

He was the last person I wanted to see. “Oh, gods, go away,” I said through a stuffed nose and hoarse voice.

Instead, he sat across from me, cross-legged. “Thought you’d reach this point later, to be honest.”

“What?” I said.

“He’s yours. You’re his. You’d die for each other. You love each other. All right? All of it is real.”

Oh, hell, I couldn’t play his games right now. He knew everything, anyway. “Mine… he died.”

“A version of him did. But this is still him. You know it is. I mean, go ahead and cry it out,” said Spider Martin as if being merely practical. “But don’t dismiss the life you’ve built here over months because of this hard fact.”

I shook my head, over and over, a denial. “I don’t know how to navigate this!”

“Do you love him?”

My heart did not hesitate. “Yes!”

“Then?” Spider Martin gestured.

I stared at him.

“He. Killed. You,” Spider Martin said slowly, each word a nail. “But he loves you, just the same, and you forgiving him for that is everything.”

“But he didn’t kill me. ”

“He did.”

Was I really getting relationship counseling from an agent of the Web? “Why are you in here?”

“As I said, you hit this sooner than we expected,” said Spider Martin.

Which meant I was probably being watched by some spider somewhere. Ugh. There are always spiders somewhere.

Do you want to see where? the Eye chirped.

No, I did not want to see where. “I can’t do this.”

“Does Martin love you?” said Spider Martin, fully acknowledging they were not the same being.

Again, my heart knew. “Yes.”

“Then you can. That’s what you need. It’s not for everybody, but you? You need someone to fight for. You need connect. You need to be loved, and you have it in him.”

My fists clenched. “Which I suppose you arranged. ”

“Didn’t have to. He came that way.”

I looked away.

“Jon,” said Spider Martin, almost gently. “This isn’t about you, as horrible as it is. I know you’re grieving. I’m sorry it happened. But you need to focus on where you are now, or that thing will get you.”

“That… what?” I looked up.

“You lost your Martin. Right? How does it make you feel?”

“What the f… how could you ask me that?” I cried.

“Guilty?” he said.

I stared.

“Grieve,” said Spider Martin, “like he already has, because he had to. But then don’t stay there, or all is lost.”

“Why is there only one of me?” I suddenly blurted, because that was implied in what he’d said, that I was the only chance, though damned if I knew why.

“I don’t know. The Mother doesn’t know—but it’s disturbing,” said Spider Martin. “It’s a piece we haven’t figured out how to fit into the puzzle yet.”

“But you have ideas. You have a guess.”

“Just guesses, Jon, nothing substantial.”

“Tell me.”

I didn’t mean to make him. It wasn’t my intent. I was just… trying to be… I wasn’t trying anything. I was just demanding as one wounded, weeping human does.

His whole body jerked as if I’d snapped his spine, and spiders crawled in his mouth, and his eyes briefly rolled back, and then the Mother stopped fighting. “Ow,” Spider Martin said a moment later, all back in order again like that hadn’t happened. “Did you have to do that?”

I stared.

He answered me, anyway. “Our guess is whoever this guilt-god is, it hates you personally. It has gone to lengths—we think—to ensure none of your versions survive; and any Manuela has found died before she could rescue them. The simple fact is that you were too powerful for it to off, and that gives us quite a bit of hope.”

“But that would mean it can reach into other worlds and influence them,” I said, horrified. 

“Yes, it would, wouldn’t it? Which maybe it couldn’t normally, but Manuela has pierced the Veil.”

“What is the bloody Veil?” I said.

“Think of it like the lens of the eye. A clear shield between worlds: inside sight, and outside of it.”

That shouldn’t make sense to me, but by Georgie, it sort of did. I stared.

Spider Martin shook his head. “You need to get home. Ground yourself. Focus.”

“I…”

“He loves you. You love him. He’s grieved you. You need to grieve him… but don’t stay there. All right?”

“You’re just upsetting,” I said quietly.

“Yes, well. That comes with the territory,” said Spider Martin with great and terrible cheer. And then he left. Just got up and left. 

Which was good. I couldn’t stand looking at him for one more moment. Just another not my Martin.

Human minds and hearts couldn’t handle this. Mine couldn’t. But I… I wasn’t human. 

“Does he love me?” I whispered, though I already knew.

And It showed me.

Showed me Martin’s soft smile as he came from his little studio, just smiling at my back though I couldn’t see him, because my presence made him happy.

Showed me his anxiety, pacing, as I lay in Sasha’s hospital before I’d even come back to myself, weeping and dealing with everything alone.

Showed me his horror when I’d collapsed.

Showed me his joy when I was able to sleep (and I’d no idea he’d watched me doing that like it was the most wonderful thing he’d ever known).

Showed me Martin talking to Peter Lukas. It’ll weaken you, Lukas was saying. I mean, it’s your choice, so if that’s what you want to do, then by all means do it, but know the cost.

As if the cost matters, Martin had said. I love him. I love him with all of me. That’s worth any bloody cost, Peter.

Peter had nodded. Best of luck. I hope it makes you happy.

It already has, he’d said, with that smile.

I knew his soul. I knew his taste. I knew him. And it finally hit me: whether or not he was the one I'd known, he was my Martin now. He knew my soul, too, and we had chosen each other.

I didn’t understand how this worked, but we had a love between us that this world literally had never seen, and I would not let it go. I sat in that for a long moment, trying to grasp it, trying to see; were we meant to be? Inevitable attraction? Were other people just ferrous metals to me?

It didn't matter. What did was my Martin, whom I loved. I suddenly knew what that party would be about, and I pulled out my phone to send the group chat a message.

SwirlyEyes: Oh my fuck. Really?

RainyGrave: That’s beautiful. I’m in. Right, Mike?

LightningStrike: Shut up.

RainyGrave: Never.

FuckYouAll: Flirting stays out of the chat, for fuck’s sake.

I smiled. Washed my face. I had a stop to make before getting home.

#

Martin had baked. 

He did it all the time, of course, since it was the job he’d cobbled together, including delivering orders around London, but this wasn’t that kind of baking. This was nervous baking, because I was late, and he wanted to cling to me, and knew that wouldn’t help either of us, and was trying to be an adult.

I loved him so damn much. “I’m home.”

He wore the pink frilly apron. He’d gotten chocolate smears on it. He pulled me in for a kiss and I melted even more than the chocolate had. “What happened?” he said. “You’re two hours late.”

I sighed. “First off, know that they’re all planning a party for your birthday next week.”

He made such a face. “I hate those.”

I laughed lightly. “I know, but… I’ve done what I could to mitigate, so it won’t be too bad. But that’s not why I’m late.”

His eyes widened. “Please tell me something else didn’t attack you.”

“No.” And I’d planned it the whole way home, and rehearsed it in my head, and now my heart was racing (or whatever I had in there), and my knees were weak (eye-balls instead of joints, for all I knew), and I almost wanted to throw up, but I would not do that now. I would not.

I got down on one knee.

He stared. “Jon?”

It had taken an hour to choose the ring. I showed him now, opening the case, and ignoring how badly my hands shook. “Martin K. Blackwood.” My voice broke, but I would not be deterred. “Will you marry me?”

My teeth chattered just a little. The nerves were unreal.

He put his hands over his mouth. Tears spilled. “Really?”

“Really. I found this for you and everything.” It was a beautiful ring. White gold, forged with subtle ocean waves all around it. “I love you. Please say yes.”

“Of course I’m saying yes, you absolute…” He couldn’t figure out what word should follow, but fell to his knees and pulled me in and kissed me so much that I dropped the ring, and we had to crawl around to find it, and we were both laughing and both crying, and I put it on him and we both kissed and cried some more and got each other very wet, and didn’t even get off the bloody floor for twenty-three minutes.

He’d said yes.

Because he was mine, and I was his. This was here. This was now.

Martin said yes, and he was mine.

----------

Notes:

Happy 100th fic for me! I HAD to go sappy with this one, even though it's also angsty. (Come to think of it, that's sort of my brand.) Anyway. :D Want to hear the yazh?

[shin-thalia]

Got my first Blokees Transformer today!! Galaxy Version blind boxes.. plus a GxK Kong pin. Thank you lovely girlfriend for both of those

And I see A Minecraft Movie in 4 hours!! This is a fantastic day!!

The Ultra Magnus Blessing ❤️💙🤍

[once-upon-a-reblog]

Collected - a Magnus Archives fic

Jon floated for a thousand years as the pupil of the Eye - by choice, a place he ran, after Martin's death undid him.

Now, he finds himself pulled from that hell and into a new, weird world - one in which many versions of the people he knew are trying to make a new life.

And who is behind this, apparently? Jurgen Leitner.

Jon barely feels like a person again, and trusts nothing but Martin. This is, perhaps, wise.

Spoilers for the whole show. This is post-MAG 200.

Part two of the Magnus Monsterverse AU.

[sonicasura]

Kafka Size Chart

Basically a size chart type list for my AU iterations of Kafka Hibino and my personal nicknames for each. These only involve ones who don't have lost their human form but also don't have the canon kaiju form as their main like Skyscraper Softie. You can blame the Godzilla asks about our favorite himbo getting stranded in the Monsterverse.

Magnus (MAG!Kafka): 23'4 ft

Agni (Agunimon): 14'6 ft

Shade (Ghost): 25 ft

Sky (Skyscraper): 68'11 ft

Titan (AAK): 70 meters

Regal (GranDracmon): 90 ft

Bonus! Potential species swap hints:

Daigyo

Yokai

Monster

Otherworldly

Material

This is Kafka whenever I get an idea. 👇

[misscrazyfangirl321]

for heatherverse, 7, 8, 20, 22

7: What ships are canon in this au?

Heather/Kyle

Ashley/Neal

Will/Helen

Jordan/Henry

Peter/Elizabeth, and later...

John/Elizabeth (oddly enough, not the same Elizabeth as in Time Wars!)

8: What platonic relationships are important in this au?

Neal Caffrey and Helen Magnus is a huge one that started in Heatherverse and lasted through Megaverse.

Helen and Heather is also a huge one. Girl who lost her mom and woman who lost her daughter, familied.

Trubel and Josh also traveled with Heather and Kyle, so there were a lot of friendships there.

Also, Ashley's dynamics with Peter and Elizabeth, where they cared for her when she remembered nothing and they became her family...

Also also, John's friendship with Peter and El, before Peter passed away.

20: Share THREE headcanons! But about different characters.

Kate: Had feelings for Duke but it never went anywhere in this AU

Helen: Neal reminds her of herself in a lot of ways, and she's more proud of him than she knows how to say.

Elizabeth: Sometimes wakes up and for a few seconds, she doesn't remember how strange her life has become. She doesn't remember that people with impossible powers exist. And while she wouldn't trade the family that comes with it for the world... Sometimes she doesn't want to remember that the impossible exists.

22: What was the hardest to write about this fic?

I mean, the big thing-the reason it was never actually written properly-was just the sheer size of this universe. The number of fandoms was just unmanageable. Off the top of my head, Timeless, White Collar, Haven, Grimm, Beauty and the Beast 2012, Gravity Falls, the Monsterverse (Godzilla, Kong, etc.), Manifest... And I know there were more.

[ice-writes]

Hi

This is my first time doing a writing blog, so sorry if I'm not doing this right or something.

Main fandoms I'll write for: Transformers Animated Transformers Prime Transformers Earthspark (only up to season 1)

A couple of my other fandoms: Pokemon Madoka Magica Fear and Hunger Godzilla (Except for the Monsterverse I hate the Monsterverse) The Magnus Archives JJBA (Haven't watched anything past part 5 tho)

What I'm willing to write:

canon x canon reader x canon canon & canon canon & reader human reader techno-organic reader cybertronian reader other reader What I am not willing to write: yandere smut incest child x adult

[thespiraltv]

WHAT'S ON THE AIR? 🎞️

This post contains what fandoms we currently have approved and banned in our server. If you don't see your fandom listed you can vouch for it in server upon joining!

APPROVED FANDOMS:

Alien

Alice Madness Returns

American Psycho

Dead by Daylight

Danganronpa

Detective Comics

Doctor Who

Dungeons and Dragons

Death Note

Five Nights At Freddy’s

Fortnite

Future Diary

Gilmore Girls

Hannibal

Haunting Ground

Haunted Mansion

Jennifer’s Body

Killer Klowns

Marvel Comics

MonsterVerse

Mortal Kombat

Mouthwashing

Overwatch

Resident Evil

Sailor Moon

Saw

Silent Hill

Sonic

Stranger Things

Supernatural

Texas Chainsaw Massacre

The Shining

The Walking Dead

Tomb Raider

Twisters

Walten Files

Yu-Gi-Oh!

BANNED FANDOMS:

American Dad

Attack On Titan

Call of Duty

Detective Comics Cinematic Universe*

Family Guy

Hazbin Hotel

Helluva Boss

Jujutsu Kaisen

Marvel Cinematic Universe*

Roblox

South Park

Spooky Month

The Magnus Archives

[coicoa]

MY FANDOMS

I have a lot, but to be frank I do not have an equal amount of knowledge about the original media. It is surprisingly easy to read fanfics about media you haven’t consumed yourself. I’ll read almost anything, but these are things I come back to regularly. I’m keeping a list here for my own organization and for others to see what I’m into.

DEFINITIONS

ACTIVE PARTICIPATION are fandoms in which I have actually engaged with the original media.

OF INTEREST are fandoms in which I have read or seen fan work of, but otherwise have limited or even no interactions with the original media (ie didn’t actually play the game or watch the show).

Unlike many others, I do not fixate on any singular fandom for a long time. I come and go to fandoms and enjoy the fan work whenever I feel like it. I could be okay with talking about my experiences with any of these at any time, except maybe for fandoms at the bottom of the Of Interest sections.

This list is not exhaustive, there are definitely more fandoms I go to but these are the ones that came to the top of my mind that I think are important both in the past and present.

ACTIVE PARTICIPATION:

Godzilla Film Franchise, have watched Monsterverse, Heisei, and Millenium series

Minecraft (original game, not Story Mode, Dungeons, or Legends)

Jurassic Park/World Franchise

Pacific Rim

Marvel Cinematic Universe (except post-Endgame content)

Transformers Franchise (only Bayverse + One, some Prime)

How to Train Your Dragon Film Franchise (including some series)

Netflix Wednesday

Gravity Falls

Percy Jackson and the Olympians, Heroes of Olympus, and Kane Chronicles (have not read Trials of Apollo or the Magnus Chase series, also have not seen Disney + series version)

Kaiju No. 8 (anime only)

League of Legends: Arcane

The Owl House

Amphibia

OF INTEREST

Video games, from most to least knowledge:

God of War

Red Dead Redemption 1 + 2

Ghost of Tsushima

Genshin Impact

Call of Duty (MW reboot, some Black Ops)

Resident Evil Series

Five Nights at Freddy’s

Undertale

Twisted Wonderland

Honkai Star Rail

Elden Ring

Kingdom Hearts

Nier Automata

Animated series, from most to least knowledge:

The Dragon Prince

She Ra and the Princesses of Power

Avatar: The Last Airbender + Legend of Korra

Voltron Legendary Defender

RWBY (the fandom that got me into fandom)

[ao3feed-jonmartin]

A Special Day

read it on AO3 at https://ift.tt/5X30WnY by Trin (ssjtrinity) It's the big day. Jon and Martin will join to create one family, to become Blackwood-Sims for the rest of their lives, however that looks. But this world is a mess, and Jon's red-string conspiracy board doesn't come close to solving it. Also, Jonah Magnus has the worst timing no matter what world he's in. Words: 4969, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English Series: Part 18 of The Magnus Monsterverse Fandoms: The Magnus Archives (Podcast) Rating: Mature Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Categories: M/M Characters: Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Martin Blackwood, Jonah Magnus, Tim Stoker (The Magnus Archives), Michael | The Distortion (The Magnus Archives) Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist Additional Tags: Did you think their wedding day would be easy? read it on AO3 at https://ift.tt/5X30WnY

[late-to-the-magnus-archives]

Nikola - part of the Magnus Monsterverse AU

What was I even truly being asked to do? Was I being used like Jonah had used me before?

I had no way to know that tonight, and I was too damned tired to think about it. And I still had to go to work.

Web Martin, I decided before I slept, was giving me a gosdamned raise.

Part of the Magnus Monsterverse AU.

AO3

------

I almost forgot about my job. 

I had a job! A job! One I’d stressed over! And I damn near missed it. I woke with my heart in my throat (whatever that meant for a man made of eyes) and sprang out of our bed so fast that I scared Martin half-invisible.

What followed was, according to the Eye, every bit as delightful as Tsukino Usagi running late for school in some anime called Sailor Moon, which I was vaguely aware existed as I scrambled around the room looking for business-worthy clothes, and by the time I was reaching for the door (stealing one more kiss from Martin, who was back to full-color, and so proud of me his cheeks were red), It had caught me up on all 18 volumes of manga and half the 200 episode series.

I didn’t really want any of that, but It was so damned happy about it that I felt bad telling It to stop. I finally did, though, when It projected to me the image of running down the street with a piece of toast in my mouth, which I absolutely would not do.

Fine, It whined, and fed me a silly science-fiction podcast following people in a space station orbiting a red dwarf star some seven and a half light years away from Earth instead.

#

This London was so different than I didn’t at first realize just where the bus was taking me.

It was just so damned quiet; no one spoke, not even in whispers; no one but me looked around, even though London was beautiful. Sort of in the way a mausoleum is, honestly: clean and stone and shadowed with ghosts of itself. I didn’t realize. I really didn’t, not until I saw we were driving past Battersea Park (Why was that the same name? How did that work?) and clocked just where we were going. 

Owlwood Library sat in Chelsea, a few blocks from the Thames. It was a lovely building on the other side of Vauxhall bridge, near the embankment. A lovely Victorian structure, red brick and white stone, four stories and two towers and hell beneath the ground.

But it could not be. This was not the same place. It could not be the same.

The bus stopped.

A few people got off. I… almost didn’t.

I couldn’t let Martin down. I couldn’t… let this chance slip away. I leaped to my feet and staggered off the bus, breathing hard, snagging everyone’s attention because I was behaving like a loon, and then had to take a moment on the sidewalk, bent over, leaning on my thighs, just trying to breathe.

For an inner ear made of eyeballs, mine did a lovely job of making the world spin 'round. It was a coincidence, I told myself. My new job just happened to be in the same building as the Magnus Institute had once been. Ha ha, so funny, someone's idea of a joke. And after all, some things were the same (and never mind the utter madness of how many things had to be coincidences to make that so), so it couldn’t be related, it could not.

Could it?

The Eye wanted to show me and… couldn't. It fizzled. Sparked. Seized up? Froze like an old-school CRT monitor, blue and flickering. What? Why would… 

The Eye didn’t do that. The Eye hardly reacted to what it saw, even with all this latest hyperactivity. The only time it ever just froze was in the face of—

Oh.

I stood slowly and looked at the building, looked at the building, LOOKED AT THE BUILDING, and saw the webs.

They were… everywhere. Everywhere. Blocking every window. Covering every door. Dangling, with little twirls as if in non-existence wind, brushing the heads and faces and unblinking eyes of every person who walked in and out of this place, and so many people did. So many. University students, mostly, but there were teenagers, and older academics, and the odd single parent looking for a good read. It was a busy place, and a happy place, and a stronghold of the Web, and I was two good, deep breaths away from just running down the street with a scream.

“Hey,” said Web Martin behind me.

I did scream as I spun. I’m sorry, Quiet London. 

“It’s okay,” said Web Martin, holding out, of all things, a cup of tea on a little saucer. “You’re all right. No need to freak out.”

I stared at him. Through him. Oh, gods. He was full of spiders.

He sighed. “Jon. I’m not your enemy. We’ve been over this.”

“Don’t you dare fake impatience with me,” I snarled.

The act dropped. He smiled, looking like Annabelle Cane’s soul in Martin’s body. “Sorry. Force of habit; disappointment was usually the best way to get you to do anything.”

Oh, heavens. “Well, that’s not me anymore,” I said with far more force than I felt.

“Please come in. I promise this isn’t a trap. We couldn’t trap you, anyway; Jon, you could literally burn this entire web to the ground if you looked at it too hard. We are the ones in danger here, not you. All right? Come in so we can talk. It isn’t safe out here.”

“Did I even earn the job on my own?” I blurted, which was the dumbest thing in the world to say.

“Did you earn the original?” he said, deadpan.

Damn. That hurt.

His apology looked real. “Sorry, Jon. Please come in. We’re trusting you.”

And I must have been mad because the next thing I said was, “You’re paying me for my damn time.”

He laughed, and I knew, knew , I’d genuinely surprised him. “Of course! You really did get hired. Come on, now, let’s go.” He offered the tea again.

It was an Earl Grey with the most delicious scent, automatically calming, positively Pavlovian, and I inhaled for a moment, eyes closed. 

The Eye was here. I was not alone. Not that It could do much to help me against the Web, but… I looked back at the building, then at Web Martin.

I looked at him. Looked. LOOKED.

He shuddered. “Wow,” he whispered. “That feels… not great?”

I’m sure it didn’t, because I saw him.

He was afraid of me, genuinely. He hadn’t lied. And filled with spiders or not, he… this was Martin.

Not my Martin, but he was Martin. He hadn’t been replaced with something else. This was genuinely him, with a different path, different choices.

My eyes pricked for a moment (yes, all of them ), and I wasn’t sure if they did in grief for the loss of the Martin I might have known, or guilt for refusing to see him as a person this long.

“Come on,” he said, relieved, because he hadn’t been sure how I’d respond (he… what? He what? ), and lead the way toward the Institute.

No, toward the Owlwood Library. Fuck.

#

It smelled exactly the same: books and cardboard boxes, cleaning material and that oddly earthy scent of old air conditioning installed in even older places. 

The carpet was different. The marble was not. The office of Elias Bouchard was now a conference room and there was no Rosie guarding it. The door to the Archives still loomed, marked, EMPLOYEES ONLY, and I could not bring myself to see what lay beyond.

“Hi, Hannah!” Martin said quietly, waving at a researcher who waved back. “Mark coming today?”

“No, not today,” she whispered in returned, and smiled.

Martin shrugged it off and lead me deeper in.

I kept blinking. Between one blink and another, I could see more webs, or none. The place was just… full, but even I could see that some books were more wrapped than others, that to touch them would be to get web on your hand.

I wasn’t sure I could do this.

“You won’t be getting any on you,” said Martin, guessing from the way my own eyes were wide and horse-panicked.

“You got me the job,” I retorted.

"We’re well aware of what you’ll do to us if we upset you,” said Martin. “This is an attempt to invite you along, not do anything to make you upset.”

“Sure.” Wait, what had he said? “Invite me along to what?”

“Truth. And then, of course, your choices.”

“Oh, and you have no investment in those, I suppose,” I muttered.

Martin did not answer me until we entered a back office—a space that had, in my time, actually been divided into study rooms for our student population. Now, it was his space; books lined the walls, and maps, and he had lovely stylized things like globes and old portraits.

I stared and a lovely Victorian portrait of an older woman in mourning clothes, smiling knowingly at the painter. Her back was straight and her shoulders were squared; she looked like she knew exactly who was staring at her face from across time, and knew she could out-think them. “That… who is that?”

“Johanna Owlwood,” said Martin, “who founded this library in 1818 as part of a Cesarean outreach to the underprivileged who lacked the means for higher education.”

Cesarean. There was a whole bucket of nonsense I’d yet to upend. The Roman Imperial Cult was what lasted in this world, though it still ended up spreading Latin and Greek throughout, and—

“Have a seat, please. Let’s get your orientation out of the way,” said Web Martin.

“Wait a moment. Are you my boss?” I blurted.

Web Martin grinned.

“Oh, that’s simply unfair,” I said, trying to joke, and sat.

“Now, the pay rate and benefits are exactly as you saw in the paperwork you signed,” he said.

I hadn’t made it here the other day, though. “I didn’t sign any—”

Martin slid unsigned paperwork across, and I suddenly understood this was one of those conversations: time was a construct, and all that mattered was crossing and dotting appropriate letters.

“Fine,” I said, taking a moment to read it over.

“However, we’d hoped to discuss something that isn’t in your list of official duties,” said Web Martin.

“Out with it,” I said.

“You know something is wrong with this world.”

I sighed. “Nikola said so, yes.”

“The other Nikola. Would you like to question the other-other Nikola?”

“The… the one who’s imprisoned somewhere?”

“Yes.” 

I sighed. “Look. I understand you have the need to make things complicated. I remember what it was like to talk to Annabelle. But I also know you can understand me when I say this: my tolerance for nonsense is, right at this moment, nearly as low as it ever has been.”

“Yes, we—”

“ No, you don’t understand,” I said. “I want straight answers. Simple. Clear. Few syllables. No trickery, no leading questions.”

Web Martin studied me for a long moment. I had the strangest impression; like gears made of web, turning in some colossal and complex machinery too intricate for me to understand. “All right,” he said. “I’ll try.”

We’d see. “I’m listening.”

“A god rules this world. It’s not a good god; it’s a cold god, and cruel. We believe it’s Eye-related.”

“Why?”

“Because it has so far seen, with complete clarity, every plan we’ve attempted, every investigation, and every try to get away from its influence.”

“That sounds aggressive,” I said, using the first word that came to mind. “The Eye doesn’t do that. It’s passive.”

“We said Eye-related for a reason.”

“And you intend for me to do… what, exactly?”

“An Eye cannot see itself,” said Web Martin. 

“Uh-huh.” I crossed my arms.

“We believe you can uncover what’s really going on and help us to stop it.”

“What is it doing that’s so terrible?”

He tilted his head. 

I pushed. I already knew the answer on some level, but I pushed. “London, at least, is clean and quiet. Crime rates are incredibly low. Tell me what’s so horrible about it all.”

“Guilt, Jonathan Sims,” said Web Martin, who had not blinked at all since agreeing to be honest with me. “It rules the world with guilt. Didn’t you know?”

I did.

I… I truly did. It wasn’t fear; but it was like the fear, driving things, controlling things, forcing people into boxes not meant for their size. It compressed human beings into shapes not right, sucked out joy, bled away hope.

Guilt.

And the moment—the moment —I forgave people, that god of guilt lost its grip on them.

Crew. The Distortion. Martin. Tim.

This wasn’t possible. Shouldn’t be; my word should not be enough to counteract whatever this other force had going. “The whole world?”

“Yes.”

I realized I was wringing my hands and stopped. “Only the one guilt-god? It’s not… there aren’t other cruel gods?”

“Oh, the Fears are here,” said Web Martin, “along with the quiet scents of the ones your Gerry disbelieved—love, mercy, all those things. But they’re balanced . They are as they should be; merely higher up the food chain, neither depleting nor depriving, simply existing as all things do. But this… this throws it all out of whack. We can’t feed as we ought. We are starved; and the fact is, Jon, that’s putting our patrons in… something of a bad position.”

I stared at him. “Will they die if they starve?”

“No. They’ll go mad and devour the world, is what they’ll do.”

He was right. Oh, gods. He was right. I knew it. Felt it. “But… all the other rescued avatars don’t seem to be starving.”

Web Martin’s smile wasn’t kind. “Well, that’s because—in spite of misunderstandings—our patrons do take good care of us. As long as we feed them, we who represent are cared for. Even though they are not receiving enough, we do. But that can’t last forever.”

When I’d told him to be blunt, I hadn’t expected this. “So you’re asking me to help undo something the Web can’t figure out.”

“We don’t need understanding, Jon. We need sight. That’s your department.”

“Why not ask someone else? Gerry, or…” But there were precious few people of the Eye here, weren’t there? Precious few. “Did Manuela avoid rescuing people connected to the Eye?”

“They don’t survive. Something destroys them while she brings them in.”

I stared. “What?”

“It’s quite awful. They’re torn apart, or… well. They tear themselves apart, is what it seems like to us.”

“Tear themselves apart?”

“As you very nearly did.”

I… had. Shame over what I was, what I had done. If not for Martin... “This isn’t what I expected.”

“You asked for bluntness.” Web Arthur shrugged. “Unlike Annabelle, I actually know how to do that when needed.”

“Can’t whatever this thing is see us now? Didn’t it see your machinations to provide me with gainful employment?”

Web Martin started giggling again. “Machinations.”

I sputtered. “Well, it’s accurate!”

“No, no, you’re correct, you just… manage to put such nefariousness into the word. Adorable.” He kept chuckling.

I glared denial. “Can you tell me anything else?”

“Ah, let me see.” He wiped his eyes. “Yes. There’s something of a resistance? It all has to be carefully done, since… well, being watched is unavoidable; but the thing is that this god, whatever it is, seems limited to guilt. Those who have slipped the yoke, as it were, can be recaptured, but if they manage to fight it off, they can be useful.”

“Do they know they’re part of a resistance?” I said, dry.

“Some of them,” he said with that still-surprising honesty. “Of course, they all think it has something to do with Manuela and Leitner.”

“Does it?”

“I don’t know.” Web Martin shrugged. "The Spider can’t really work with them, you see. They simply don’t react as predicted; they aren’t mappable. We have not been able to pull a single thread to get them to do anything with great effect. Are they working for this guilt-god? We don’t know. Is Sasha? We don’t… think so, though she’s certainly unintentionally complicit.”

“She believes guilt keeps us safe,” I said slowly.

“An effective lie, isn't it?” Web Martin shrugged magnificently. “Is there anything else? I have a nine o’clock I really have to take.”

I stared. “You have to tell me more than that.”

“We don’t know more than that. We have guesses, but nothing proven. Do you really want speculation?”

“I…” Blast. “Maybe?”

“Not yet, I think,” said Web Martin. “You’ll get overwhelmed. As it is, you have to put in a full day of work.”

Dear lord, was this happening?

“Oh,” he said. “I’d suggest trying to meet with Nikola tonight. She won't last much longer, now that her original is gone. Since you can portal, you can do that.”

“But I don’t know where she…” Except I did. Manuela’s mountain. 

“If you come up with specific questions—”

“Which I will.”

“—then we will answer,” said Martin. “But there is the fear that giving you too much information will send you on some… damned crazy crusade.”

“Nonsense,” I said.

“We can’t really afford any broken tables, Jon,” said Web Martin almost gently. “Not this time.”

Oh, ouch. “Oh, there’s the manipulation,” I drawled. “Wondered where that went.”

He smiled like the sun rising, and absolutely conjured the feel of spider legs tickling under my skin. “Good luck.”

“Wait a minute. What am I even doing?”

“Today, it’s simple: go around the place, all four floors; find the carts with returned books on them. Return the books.”

“Don’t they need to be… logged, or something?”

“In a normal library, yes, but not this one.”

I sighed. “And for this, I’m being paid a livable wage?”

“You can actually shelve any book in the place without getting entangled. Quite frankly, you could ask for more.”

“Maybe I will ,” I said.

“Maybe you should,” he said, and smiled like the sun.

Someone knocked on the door. “Mister Blackwood? Your nine o’clock is here.”

“Thank you!" he called. "And thank you, Jon,” said Web Martin.

“Don’t thank me. I know you’re just tugging heartstrings again.”

“Maybe, but I do mean it. Good luck.”

#

Good luck , as it turned out, meant, Those carts are old and the wheels don’t work well and you’re going to have a time trying to steer them places.

I checked, too. The wheel brakes weren’t on. They were just… I don’t know.  Maybe designed to move according to the will of the Web, or something, and my presence apparently cut that off.

I looked up books and shelved them, relying on the Eye to give me the Dewey Decimal information so I wouldn’t have to continually go back downstairs to the card catalog (which was not digitized, and I couldn’t decide if that made me happy or annoyed). 

It was pleasantly mindless work. I have always loved the feel and smell of books, and as the ones I touched were mysteriously web-free, I got to enjoy them.

I got lost a couple of times reading a book before putting it away. You know. On the clock, because the Web can go to hell.

How  much of what Web Martin said was true?

All of it , the Eye assured me, but that didn’t help. I knew the Eye was thinking in absolutes; not in shades of color, in the angle of a lie. This was not a true/false scenario. This had dimensions. I just wasn’t sure what they were.

The Web was the Web; the Spider couldn’t change her nature, so I knew this hadn’t been completely blunt. But… I think it was about as blunt as she could manage. The question was what to do about it. Who was this resistance? What on earth could they accomplish, given they could not go unseen? What were they resisting, anyway? Feeling bad?

Why hadn’t Gerry been invited? What the hell was I going to say to Nikola in an hour?

I felt stupid today. I’m sure it had absolutely nothing to do with being exploded at and impaled last night, not to mentioned helped by an iteration of my worst enemy. No, I’m sure all of that was totally incidental.

The Eye began feeding me internet programming about mental health and what stress does to the body. Yes, thank you. I don’t have a body. I have eyes in a sack. Thank you. I��m… I’m good now. Thanks.

It switched to “reality” programming following couples around who kept secrets from each other. Oh, what the hell? What? 

We weren’t keeping secrets from each other. Fuck that noise.

(Or at least, I wasn’t.)

(I knew he wasn’t, either. Come on.)

I finished my shift and checked in with Web Martin. He handed me some paperwork to take home, an unbelievably fake smile, and a cursory good night.

It was getting dark out. I texted Martin: Want me to pick anything up?

Just you , he typed. Then a moment later, That didn’t come out right

I laughed, walking on a rapidly darkening street, phone in hand. I’ll see what I can do about that.

He sent a few emoji which were not public safe, and I walked with a grin and heated cheeks. What ridiculousness!

I had a lover, and he was… he really cared for me. That hadn’t happened before, any of it. I’d been friends with some cuddling with Georgie, but nothing like this. Even then, she’d… well. She’d liked me. She’d trusted me, which I managed to destroy completely; but she hadn’t really… enjoyed spending time with me?

I irritated her. My rants. My little obsessions. My... well. Neurodivergence, I suppose.

That thought took a lot of introspection. It seemed I didn't annoy Martin by just being me, and that in and of itself was more of a miracle than gods or monsters or any damn thing.

I needed to keep him safe. If Web Martin was right, and I had a unique chance to figure out what was going on with this world…

Oh, shit. I’d freed Martin from its grip. Was he in danger?

I stopped walking. It had grown dark enough that street lights littered the sidewalk with circles of dimness, and I really needed to get to the bus stop and go home.

Or.

Or.

Or, I could spy—which I hadn’t done yet—and see if Manuela was out of her mountain so I could go speak to Nikola.

Manuela had security in place; I remembered that. But I wondered if she’d thought to put it in the cell where Nikola was locked away.

Was I really thinking this? Making a plan to appear in close quarters with a monster who had actively tried to skin me?

I was thinking this. I focused.

The Eye showed me her cell, and it was through her own eyes. Looking down at her plastic body, at the rags she’d been permitted; at the nothing that was her day, a completely empty space apart from a single board attached to the wall like some godsdamned cowboy prison. 

Nikola had fake moonlight. High on the wall apart from the door was a barred window opening to nothing—into the mountain—but it had light coming through it, aping the outside.

Why had Manuela done that? Enrichment was clearly not a thing. Why had—

The Eye… showed me: it is a mockery of hope. A mockery of the outside she’d never see again, a mockery of real life she would never feel on her skin, day and night changing place without seam, a reminder of what she would never be given as long as they deemed her unsafe.

Nikola was starving. And I was thinking of hurling myself into that cell. Was I really going to do this?

I looked for Manuela. She was at home, watching Brother Love season two, wrapped in a robe, holding a mug of hot chocolate.

Great. Now I felt bad for betraying her by doing this. 

I need Manuela not to see this, I thought.

The Eye responded with one simple image: the lanky, slumping, teenage form of Callum Brodie. 

There was an idea. First… I had to go home.

#

“Yes, I have his number,” said Martin, my Martin, who was so much better than Web Martin that I could just crawl into his clothes while he was wearing them and kip for a month.

“I need to talk to him.”

“Tonight?” Martin was baffled. The containers of Thai he’d picked up for us sat on the counter, opened and steaming.

“Yes.”

“Well.” He blinked. “All right.” He handed me his phone.

It was impossible not to catch glimpses of his texts. 

Michael D. Apology already given and we

Mike C. Sure we can meet up how about the

Peter L. Anytime.

I forced myself to stop peeking and click the compose icon. (He obviously wasn’t hiding anything. He’d just literally handed me his phone, for crying out loud.)

Callum, this is Jonathan Sims. I apologize for using Martin’s phone to reach out to you, but I don’t have your number. If it’s all right, I need a favor this evening. Please let me know if you’re available. Thank you. -JS

Martin took it back, stared, and started giggling. “Really? Format grammar and everything. Jon, it’s text. ”

“It’s an introduction,”I said, just a bit defensively. “I have to make the right impression.”

“Oh, Jon. You’re ridiculous,” he said so warmly, so gently, and kissed my cheek.  

“Ew?” said a cracking teenage voice to my right, and I jumped.

Callum Brodie stepped out of the shadows.  Just out of the shadows, completely invisible to me, and then not, and I had a badly frightened moment that must have shown on my face, because he laughed. “Shouldn’t’ve been snogging, then, you didn’t want to get scared.”

“Take the piss out of someone else,” said Martin mildly. “Callum, this is Jon. Jon, Callum.”

“Hi,” I said, unable to see inside him, able to see him with anything but my very human eyes, and it was so very strange. I hadn’t just used my two basic eyes for so long, and hadn’t even realized it. He almost didn’t seem real. Flat, like a cardboard cutout of himself. “I have a favor to ask.”

“What do I get out of it?” he said.

“Um. What do you want?” I said.

“Way to bargain, Sims,” said Martin, the corners of his mouth curled.

“Oh, shut up. What do you want, Callum?”

He studied me. “Money.”

“Oh. I just got a job today.”

“Not that kind of money. A lot of money.”

“I’m not… robbing a bank for you , or something.”

Callum stared at me. Then he looked at Martin, eyebrows raised.

Martin shrugged, wearing a beatific smile.

Callum looked back. “I want you to find me things . Things only Eye-guys can see. Not robbing people. I’m not stupid.”

“I… don’t understand what you’re…”

“Lost treasure. Missing things. Overlooked paintings. Things like that.”

I scratched my head. “How are you going to handle provenance?”

“Not your concern, Pupil Boy.”

Martin lost it, just for a moment. “I am so calling you that.”

“Don’t you dare,” I said back, equally unserious. 

“You’ll do it?” said Callum.

I checked with the Eye. “Looks like it’s possible,” I said. “All right. I suppose so, but not open-ended. Three things.”

“Sure,” said Callum, who clearly thought he’d gotten the better end of the deal (and probably had), and then said what they all say: “I killed you in my world.”

“Yes, yes,” I said.

“You tried to see through the dark, and you couldn’t. It ate you.”

“I think you mean one of the things inside it ate me,” I said, pedantic. “One of the lightless beasts, or whatnot.”

“No,” he said with a little shrug. “The Dark ate you. Really enjoyed it, too. Gave me a real boost.”

“Oh,” I said.

A deeply awkward pause… happened.

“Callum,” said Martin, chiding gently.

“Fine,” said Callum. “What do you  need?”

“I need Manuela Dominguez not to notice that I am visiting her special lab in the Alps.”

“Done,” he said.

I blinked. “What do you  mean, done? It can’t be done already.”

“It’s done. What, you think I don’t know where she is? You think I don’t know how to hide something stupid like a visitor from her system?” Callum said.

I stared at him. “You’re… efficient.”

“I fucking destroyed my world. Yeah. Efficient’s the word,” said Callum. “Four things. For being rude.”

Martin chortled.

I could sort of see why. Callum was abrasively winning, somehow. Bleh. “Sure. Four things.”

Callum smiled. Like a shark. “Do whatever you gotta do. I’ll keep you out of sight the whole time you’re there.”

“Thank you.” I kissed Martin quickly.

“Ew,” said Callum, who watched eagerly nonetheless.

“Be careful,” said Martin. 

“I will make sure we’re safe,” I said, nuzzling him once.

Then I opened a portal and stepped through.

#

I made it sound so easy. Opened a portal and stepped through. As if it didn’t involve narrowing my mind, opening my gaze; somehow seeing across hundreds of miles and through a mountain of solid stone that had supposedly been protected against this very thing. As if it didn’t involve telling reality to open, to part, to fold so that I could step from my London flat into her Switzerland lab. I couldn’t explain how I did this if my life depended on it, and it frightened me, because what if I couldn’t hold on to this instinctive skill?

The fear made it stronger, of course, and faster than I was ready for, I’d arrived. And oh, gods, I couldn’t see shit.

Okay. Okay; no, I could see, but the same way I saw Callum: strange, two-dimensional. It felt like I could only move in one direction across a flat plane.

Her door skewed, a trapezoid, but I found my way to it, reached through it somehow (don’t think about it, Sims), and walked inside.

Nikola Orsinov was deeply startled to see me.

Oh… oh, she was not well. Her feet and hands had both been melted off; there was no paint left on her, anywhere. The ringmaster's uniform was shreds of red, unrecognizable on her mutilated manikin body. 

In spite of all that, her shock was palpable. She sat up, joints creaking, plastic squeaking. “Archivist?” she said in a broken-music box voice.

This wasn’t right. She was being tortured. This was… inhumane. This was monstrous. I didn’t care what she had done. This was…

I had to be out of my mind. “I know you’re a copy.”

We were still for a long moment, she and I, staring—one without eyes, the other whose sight was flattened by the Dark.

“She told you,” said Nikola.

“Yes. I’m here to find out what you know about guilt.”

 “Are you? That’s lovely! I don’t believe you.”

Of course she didn’t. “What have they done to you in here?” I said.

“You, the arbiter of that which exposes, which sees and reveals, wish to learn about guilt?” she said, and her laugh was terrible. It sounded like ping pong balls rattling together, as if they’d been dropped down the stairs.

“I’m hoping I can stop it,” I said.

Nikola could not stare. She had no eyes—but that which was within her could most certainly see. I found myself pinned, peered through, seen by that which must see clearly in order to erase and replace it with itself. I was… this was…

This was a god , and anyone who’d called me one was full of shit.

“I see,” said Nikola. “You think you can restore the balance? You?” She stood.

I couldn’t move. I couldn’t… even think. Felt like I was held in a hand made of knives, and it hadn’t skinned me yet, hadn’t pierced, but with the slightest twitch, it could.

She stopped in front of me, pretending to see, letting the other see. “You could, I think… but might it be more fun not to let you?” Her stump pressed into my chest and

fingers she had fingers though they were not visible

They pressed into my skin, and—“I’m torn, Archivist. I’m so very hungry, and you’re right here, and delightfully afraid. It’s like you’re a little Cornish pasty, steaming and ready!”

For one second, just one, she had me. Terror—a lifetime of it, before my bizarre millennia floating in nothing—settled into all its familiar place, refitting its fingerprints to the bruises it gripped into my soul.

The Eye showed me Martin.

A glimpse, lying beside me in our small bed, too close, smiling in the morning light; sleepy-eyed, utterly relaxed, mine.

Oh, fuck this creature. “ Don’t touch me ,” I said, and I don’t know where it came from or how it worked, but it thrust her away with the same trembling force my forgiveness.

But this was not forgiveness.

Nikola cracked back from me into the wooden board that was her bed and collapsed there, limbs askew, clacking and creaking and inhuman. She laughed.

And then from her issued a… sense. Sentence? Communication that was not in words.

Maybe you can do it

She didn’t say those words. That which looked through her at me said those words. The godsdamned Stranger itself regarded me, and Nikola stood down. “She would never tell you to ask me,” she said, stolen voice box creaky like her limbs. “I take it she is dead.”

“Yes. She’s dead.” 

And this Nikola’s whole form… shuddered , making a sound like a failing bridge. “So then it's done! I am no longer needed.”

She was falling apart. “I need information!” I snapped. “What, you’re going to just… die?”

“How can I die when I’ve never been alive, Archivist? What funny things you say,” she said, and I—

could see

Exactly where she was being held together, and the threads of unreality were being pulled away, and I

held

them fast.

That which looked through her unpainted face groaned.

“Tell me what you know, Nikola Orsinov,” I commanded.

“It controls,” she moaned, “needs to control… to keep all… where it thinks they belong. It does not allow… chaos. ”

What?

Oh.

Oh… that made… sense to me.

Sense in a horrible way, sense in a way I did not want, like feeling the beauty of the Vast, or the joy of the Distortion, or the relief of the Lonely. Keeping it quiet, keeping it shamed , meant no one would do the worst things, or very few would. It meant saving people. It meant calm.

But was that actually saving anyone?

No. It wasn’t. I knew that. Saving them at the expense of their joy was not saving them at all.

It was becoming hard to hold Nikola together. “Do you want to live?” I asked her.

“I don’t live, silly Archivist,” she said.

“Answer me.” I could make her do that.

She shuddered, rattled. “I want to be released from this form. I won’t truly die, Archivist—but I can be untrapped.”

Fuck Manuela for doing this. This wasn’t right. I don’t care what Nikola did, how many lives she’d taken; we were supposed to not be the monsters here. “I release you,” I said. “And… I forgive you, too.”

She fell apart. Clattering, legs rolling under the board, arms plonking to the ground and rocking just for a moment. Her head rolled all the way to my feet, where it landed, looking up at me.

Impossibly, there was some paint there, after all. I’d swear it was a smile.

I don’t know what I did, by doing that. Maybe I made things bad. I don’t care. This hadn’t been right, and I…

I was angry .

I opened a portal and stomped back home.

#

Martin and Callum both did a double-take and stared.

“It’s done,” I said.

“Jon?” said Martin as if unsure.

Great. What was wrong now? “Of course, Jon. Why? Do I look like someone else? Did the fucking Stranger…”

“Jon, you’re glowing,” Martin said.

“I… think… uh,” said Callum. “You’ll pay when you can, probably.” He took two steps back and into the Dark and was gone.

I looked down at myself. I wasn’t glowing. “What?”

“Jon, you… you look radioactive.”

And suddenly it hit me. Sometime during that time in Nikola’s cell, I’d adapted to the Dark. seen in three dimensions; seen fully, comfortably, no longer restricted by whatever Callum cast over us.

Damn. I’d done it again. “Glowing?”

Martin nodded.

I tried to stop doing that. “Still?”

Martin nodded.

I waved my hands. “Fuck!” I declared.

Martin took a step. “You’re warm,” he whispered.

“Warm!” I said the word like it offended me.

He stepped closer, and very, very carefully, reached to touch my hand.

Immediate relief. I hadn’t known I was hot, hadn’t known I was burning up like an underground fire, but I was; and from him, coolness, relief, isolation spread over my skin like a healing balm, and I welcomed it.

I could have fought him fought the Lonely's kiss, but why? For a moment, I was all alone, alone in the world, in an ocean of mist and silence, and it was bliss.

Then I was in his arms, trembling, knees weak. “Oh,” I whispered.

“I’ve got you,” he said. “Doused it. Whatever it was. Don’t know how, but… but it worked.”

It worked because I’d wanted it to. Oh, gods. I clutched him, feeling weak as a kitten. “She’s dead. The fake. Died as soon as she knew the original was gone.”

“So you didn’t get a lot of answers, did you?” he said.

“No,” I sighed. “I didn’t even get to learn how the original Nikola got here.”

ALWAYS HERE , the Eye told me.

Sure. That made sense.

“Come on,” he said. “Full day of work, running around inside of mountains, blowing up enemies… I think you’ve done enough, yeah?”

I laughed. “When you put it that way.”

I let him drag me to the bathroom, washing off the grime, the sweat, the workplace . I let him take me to the living room, where I sat on the sofa like a dropped shirt, limp and barely awake, and let him feed me leftover curry.

He made a fuss over the fingertip bruises on my chest, where Nikola had pushed in, somehow. I hardly cared about them.

I cared about him. “Too good to me,” I kept mumbling.

“Oh, hush,” he mumbled back, and got me to bed.

I was exhausted. I had to do most of this again tomorrow? Somehow? Why in blazes had I gotten a job, again?

Martin was already out, eyelashes moving with his dreams, breathing softly.

What was I even truly being asked to do? Was I being used like Jonah had used me before?

I had no way to know that tonight, and I was too damned tired to think about it. And I still had to go to work.

Web Martin, I decided before I slept, was giving me a gosdamned raise.

[thepilotanon]

Just to Note:

When you send a hc (headcanon) request, the goal of requesting such is to give writer elbow room to share their ideas on the matter. When you keep giving more detail to what you want in the hc request, and more specific, it comes off more as wanting a drabble/oneshot to cater more to you and could possibly leave other readers out of the loop.

This is really common, and there's nothing wrong with confusing hc and drabble/oneshot, but please keep in mind that my goal is to try and keep my hc posts as open as possible and have the right to either modify or decline your request. I do not write requested drabbles/oneshots, and do not enjoy being limited to what I'm writing.

Please keep your hc requests brief and refrain from excessive details!

Under Cut is FAQ in Regards to Requesting HCs.

Is your askbox open for hc requests? Yes! My askbox is always open, and I answer the requests as I receive them (so time may vary to when I get to yours, depending on the character - please keep that in mind!)

Can you write me a drabble/oneshot? No, I do not do requested drabbles/oneshots. Some hc requests will look like a drabble/oneshot request to me, and I may deny it. You're totally allowed to revise or ask me another hc request, if so!

What can I request? Nearly anything! All I ask is that you try to keep your request gender neutral, or accept that I may modify your request to fit with all genders. I know in the past that I have done female-centric requests, but I'm trying very hard to include everyone in consideration that my fics are female-representing.

Can I request 18+ content? You may, but keep in mind that there are minors or those who are ace/aro/etc, and so requests that may be deemed at sexual or adult will be places in an {under cut} and left up to the reader to decide to proceed. Please also understand that some sexual content will be rejected, as there are some subjects that I am not comfortable thinking/writing about.

What can I NOT request? I'd say the main majority consist of: non-con/rape, dd/lg/lb, age-regression, a/b/o, adult-minor relationships (unless strictly platonic/mentor), breeding kink, beastiality, necrophilia, real people hc (actual actors), eating disorders, mental disorders (this does not include depression and anxiety), poly, threesome, cheating/adultery, abuse. Any gender, racial, sexuality, ethnicity, or religion discrimination is not allowed or tolerated, and will be blocked. There can be other things that I may not feel comfortable writing for, but anyone is allowed to ask/request it to me and I'll answer honestly. I don't judge anyone on their requests, so please don't feel nervous to DM me, either.

Characters I write for!

*I'm also open to doing, and have done, some other characters in the same fandom, if I feel like I can do the character justice. Feel free to ask!!

Kylo Ren (Star Wars)

Father Garupe (Silence 2016)

Flip Zimmerman (Blackkklansman)

Clyde Logan (Logan Lucky)

MCU Loki (Marvel)

James Conrad (Kong: Skull Island, MonsterVerse)

Magnus Martinsson (BBC Wallander)

Adam (Only Lovers Left Alive)

Connor/RK800 (Detroit: Become Human)

Draco Malfoy (Harry Potter films; Harry Potter books)

[the-purple-hero]

Roleplay history

The rules are simple! Post ten characters you’d like to roleplay as, have role-played as and might bring back. Then tag ten people to do the same (if you can’t think of ten characters, just write down however many you can and tag the same amount of people). Aside from that, please repost instead of reblogging!

CURRENTLY PLAYING:

Spyro @the-purple-hero​ (Spyro The Dragon)

The Sorceress  @hxuse-of-muses​ (Spyro the Dragon)

Nestor, Nils, Nevin, Titan, Magnus, Trondo, Cosmos, Zantor, Cyrus, Bruno, Isaak, Lateef, Apara, Azizi, Revilo @hxuse-of-muses​ (Spyro The Dragon)

Ripper Roo @rxpper-roo​ (Crash Bandicoot)

Crash Bandicoot @hxuse-of-muses​ (Crash Bandicoot)

Fake Crash @hxuse-of-muses (Crash Bandicoot)

Baby T @hxuse-of-muses (Crash Bandicoot)

Spyro @hxuse-of-muses (Skylanders Academy)

Malefor @hxuse-of-muses (Skylanders Academy)

Crash Bandicoot @hxuse-of-muses (Skylanders Academy)

Philip Blake/The Governor @hxuse-of-muses (The Walking Dead)

“Alpha” @hxuse-of-muses (The Walking Dead)

Maleficent @hxuse-of-muses (Sleeping Beauty/Maleficent)

Queen Ravenna @hxuse-of-muses (Snow White & The Huntsman)

Zelena/The Wicked Witch Of The West @hxuse-of-muses (Once Upon A Time)

Merlin @hxuse-of-muses (Once Upon A Time)

Delilah Copperspoon @hxuse-of-muses (Dishonored)

Cruella De Vil @hxuse-of-muses (101 Dalmatians)

Smaug @hxuse-of-muses (The Hobbit/Lord of the Rings)

Dr. Facilier @hxuse-of-muses (Once Upon A Time)

Hades @hxuse-of-muses (Once Upon A Time)

The Black Fairy @hxuse-of-muses (Once Upon A Time)

Andrew Goldberg @hxuse-of-muses (Fandomless OC)

Venom @hxuse-of-muses (Venom)

Thanos @hxuse-of-muses (MCU)

Randall Boggs @hxuse-of-muses (Monsters Inc/University)

WANT TO PLAY:

King Ghidorah (Godzilla {Monsterverse} )

Emperor Velo (Crash Bandicoot)

Nina Cortex (Crash Bandicoot)

HAVE PLAYED:

Rumplestiltskin (Once Upon A Time)

Mother Gothel (Once Upon A Time & Tangled)

Dr. Jekyll & Mr. Hyde (Once Upon A Time)

Negan (The Walking Dead)

“Beta” (The Walking Dead)

Sly Cooper (Sly Cooper)

WILL/WOULD PLAY AGAIN:

Sly Cooper (Sly Cooper)

Negan (The Walking Dead)

TAGGED BY: @youmunchtracks (Thank you Frost! :3) TAGGING: @nihoneshi @chief-n-alpha @musesarcade @chaosiism @timekeeperlindar @adventurouswind & anyone that would like to try this. :3

[late-to-the-magnus-archives]

Give My Madness Rein - a Magnus Archives Fanfic

The Archive saw all.

The Archive felt nothing.

Then the river dried up, the knowledge stopped, and the only thing that mattered was him.

“Say I am mad and give my madness rein to wreck itself; the worst that can befall Is but to die an honorable death.” —Sophocles

Spoilers for the whole show. This is post-MAG 200.

Part one of the Magnus Monsterverse AU.

AO3

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

They saw all.

Everything that was.

Everything that had been, stored in memory and revisited.

Nothing that would be, for that was Future, and Uncertain, and It did not like Uncertain things.

It, however, did not care. It couldn’t.

And then, for no reason, They saw nothing, nothing at all.

Something had come between It and It.

As the river that was knowing dried, a hollowness of need and hunger and pain rushed into its place.

It did not know that It was screaming until It had reason to stop.

#

It stopped because It could see the eyes.

Green eyes, flecked with brown, framed with red-gold lashes. Eyes It knew, eyes that felt like—

“It’s really Jon?” said the owner of the eyes.

(Jon, Hebrew, derivative of Jonathan, meaning God has given, first recorded in the Torah. Notable Jons through history include Adkins, baseball player; Anderson, musician; Cuishaw, comedian; Davidson—)

“Yeah,” said someone else, someone familiar who did not matter. “Gotta clean him off—eons of muck all over—but it’s him.”

“But he doesn’t know me,” said the owner of the eyes, voice suddenly hoarse and tight. (Tension dysphonia, evidenced as incoordination of the vocal control system, which can be caused by stress and anxiety—) “He doesn’t know me!”

“Told you he wouldn’t right away.”

All that mattered was the owner of those eyes. It did not care who else was speaking, and that made Them of two minds.

It wanted to look at the other person, too, and see as much as It could.

It did not want to look away from the eyes.

It needed the gap filled, the hollowness no longer emptied, knowledge and dreams and fears in a river.

It chose to continue looking at the eyes and nowhere else. Home safe settled still—

The eyes grew wet. (Lacrimation, an abnormal or excessive secretion of tears due to local or systemic disease or emotional distress—)

And then the eyes turned away.

Screaming took their place.

#

It screamed.

(Lost aching empty)

(Big hungry dark adrift)

No up, no down, no ground. It screamed.

Until the eyes came back, and then It was able to stop.

#

“Really?” said the owner of the eyes. “The whole time?”

“Yep. Whatever was done to his physiognomy, we can’t put him under. It just doesn’t stop—unless you’re here.”

The owner of the eyes said, “I need a minute,” and left. (Slammed the door, which is a common symptom of psychological distress or emotional hijacking, communicating anger or a need to close one off from whatever caused the outburst—)

It had felt nothing for so long that this new emotion was not easy to identify, but It thought this might be “heartbreak.” (Stress cardiomyopathy, also called broken heart syndrome, often brought on by stressful situations and extreme emotions—)

It did not like the ache, but had no recourse. To bring the eyes back was doing. That was planning.

It did not do those things.

But It used to. Did It not?

This was… a memory of Its own, not through the churning mind of another. It used to plan.

The eyes returned, and the question of planning ceased to matter. “Sorry.”

“For crying out loud, did you have to slam the door? You woke up Agnes,” said the one-who-did-not-matter (and It grew vaguely aware of another sound elsewhere, muffled, like crying and crackling fire, but that did not matter either because the eyes were here).

“Sorry,” said the eyes again.

“I swear, you’re either Martin the Invisible or Martin the Big Stomping Elephant.”

“Very funny. And wouldn’t some kind of whale be more appropriate?”

Martin.

“No, because they don’t have gills.”

Martin?

“Point,” said Martin.

(Beeping annoying unimportant background—)

“Wait, what’s happening? What’s going on?”

“Oh, hell. Step back. There’s activity. The monitors—”

Martin!

“Activity? What does that mean?”

“It means he’s getting really upset and accessing his powers, and we can’t do a damn thing to stop him. Step back!”

(Martin Blackwood, no middle name, K does not mean Kartin, poet, marked by the Lonely, marked by the Eye, four inches taller than—)

Than

(Than what?)

Than

They remembered. 

Martin was dead.

Vaguely, It was aware that It screamed, and that Its scream did harm, and the owner of the eyes cried out.

(“Fucking powers!” cried the one-who-did-not-matter.)

Sparking and cracking sounds, bad sounds and shouting. (Beeping, unknown, electronic in origin, possibly an alarm signifying a system of biological or mechanical nature no longer working as intended—)

Martin cried out, and It responded to Martin’s cry, because harming Martin was the worst thing that could ever be.

Stopped. Stopped screaming. Fell silent, gasping, choking it in.

And time slipped, lost.

#

“—understand what just happened!” Martin’s voice. (Martin: Latin, meaning warrior of Mars, dedicated to Mars, given to the god of war—)

“He recognized you. I knew he would, but not this quickly.”

Martin was dead.

“Recognized me? Look, I’ve never met this fucking thing before!”

“Nice. I’m sure that won’t come back to bite you.”

Martin was dead.

“Sash, for fuck’s sake…”

Pain.

(I’ve never met this fucking thing before—)

Rejection?

It knew rejection.

It did not acknowledge rejection.

It knew rejection, and knew it well. It hurt.

“What did you want me to say, then?” said Martin. “After everything we did to get him back—”

“What? You thought he’d just wake up and know you at once? After floating as the Pupil for centuries?” The one-who-did-not-matter sighed. “It takes time. It took you time.”

“I need him so much. I don’t know if I can wait. I… I’ve waited already. I don’t know if I can...”

Gentler. “I know you don’t mean that.”

Martin sighed. “You’re right. I don’t.”

(Choked. Kept it in. Did not scream. Must not hurt him—)

“What if we were too late, huh? What if there’s nothing left?”

“If there wasn’t, he wouldn’t give a damn what your name was.”

Martin.

“I need a minute,” Martin said, and walked away again.

Slammed the door again.

Rejection.

The eyes.

The voice.

Martin.

But Martin was dead.

Its eyes rolled back in Its head (all of them all of the eyes) and everything went dark.

#

“Jon. Please wake up. I’m sorry. Please wake up.”

The eyes.

The voice.

Him.

It wanted to speak. To say Martin’s name. It moved Its tongue to find only eyes.

“He’s responding,” said the one-who-did-not-matter. “Keep it up.”

“Hi, Jon,” said Martin, said the anchor-the-one-who-mattered (but Martin was dead). “I’m here. I’m here.”

It cried because it could not say his name.

It did not understand.

It needed to say his name.

It only needed to know his name.

It needed—

Opened mouth throat thought tongue, past eyes, past shapes, past things that only saw and did not speak.

“Why is he crying?” said Martin.

“I don’t know, but it’s a good sign. A display of human emotion is a hell of a lot more important than why he’s doing it.”

“I don’t like this,” said Martin.

Had to say the name. “Martin.”

“Oh!” said the other person-who-did-not-matter. “Did you hear that? Did I have a stroke? Did he say it?”

“He said it,” whispered Martin.

It hurt. This was too much, hurt too much. Like peeling open Itself, reaching in, taking out everything.

The green eyes, there. Just there. Here.

Martin was de-

It knew that was wrong. Martin was alive.

It knew this was not wrong. Martin was dead.

It did not care what It knew, what was wrong, whether this fact mattered or could be recalled. “Martin.”

“Yes, Jon, it’s me.”

The strain—

It could not accept the untruth.

It needed the untruth.

Its eyes rolled back again into the dark.

#

“Easy.”

Martin.

Martin’s voice.

Martin. Hand on his face. (Face? It had a face? It… I… I had a face?)

But Martin was—

“I’m here. It’s okay. Hey… hey, look at me, would you?”

It did, with all of Itself. I did. With… all of… It… I… me.

Martin shuddered, seen, stripped, beheld.

(Martin.)

“Easy,” said Martin, voice shaky, as the beep of monitors dinged confusingly, like multiple hearts.

It could—I could—only see him.

His eyes. Here. Now. His hair, touched with white like frost. His smile, hopeful, trembling. His tears.

Martin.

“But you died,” came from my throat, and I almost went away again.

Wanted to, to disassociate, to… (A disconnection between a person’s thoughts, memories, feelings, actions or sense of who they are—)

“No, Jon,” said Martin, tight. “You did.”

“I did?”

It disagreed. I had not died. He had.

A gasp. The other person who-did-not-matter. “He asked?”

“You’re asking questions.” Martin wiped his eyes. “You’re really in there. You aren’t gone.”

I was shaking. It sh… I shook. “No,” I said. “I remember. You died. We… he went for you. Trevor Herbert. I was wrong. He went for you, and he shot you. You died. And I—”

“It’s okay,” Martin said, but it wasn’t.

“I gave myself to It because I could not—”

“It’s okay!”

Nothing was okay. “I screamed!” I said, unable to look away from him, unwilling to even blink. “I screamed, but it didn’t bring you back. That’s the last thing I recall as… myself. And now, I screamed here, too—the first thing I recall, finding myself. You must have had me, all along.”

I didn’t even know what I was saying.

Martin sniffled. Tears slid down his cheeks (and I remembered those cheeks, remembered them against my lips, remembered his scent, remembered his sweet stubble). “You’re in there. She was right. You’re in there.”

“Told you,” said the one-who-did-not-matter (though I knew her voice, and that was strange).

“You died,” I said, and the words stuck in my throat.

“No. We made it to the Panopticon. And I had to kill you there.”

“What?” I said, because that had not happened. “I ring like a bell,” I said then, because every word I spoke echoed in me.

“Easy,” said the other voice. “Keep breathing.”

Suddenly, I knew her. “Sasha?”

“Hey.” She came into view.

And it was her. It really was her. Just a few years older, a pinch more gray at her temples, but alive. “Hi, Jon,” she said, her crooked smile, her slightly uneven teeth, her eyes big and brown behind her glasses.

“You aren’t not-Sasha,” I told her.

“Right,” she said. “In my timeline, I didn’t go into Artefact Storage. It didn’t get me. It got Tim.”

“Tim?” I said.

“He’s alive here,” said Martin. “In his timeline, he didn’t blow up the museum. Daisy did.”

“Tim is alive?” (tension dysphonia). I was so confused, and there was such a beauty to it; to being confused, to not knowing, a sweet and magnificent ache that I didn’t know I missed until this moment. “How?”

“Oh, we were a nexus, or something,” said Sasha. “Everybody there was basically a chosen one, you know? So we all got our chance.” Her voice dropped, bitter. “And we all blew it. Ended the world. Go, us.”

“What?” I said.

“It’s okay,” said Martin. “You’ve got time. You don’t have to understand it yet.”

Martin was alive, and I laughed.

Sasha looked startled.

Martin smiled. “Something funny?”

“Yes! Yes, I…” I didn’t even remember reaching, grabbing, closing the eyes on my hands and my arms so I could pull him close, and he sat on the bed with me, letting me pull him close. “We’re here, and…we’re alive, and… it’s too ridiculous, and…”

“Jon,” whispered Martin.

“You know what? How about I give you guys a minute?” said Sasha. “If anything on these monitors changes…”

“I’ll get you,” he said, thick, not taking his eyes from me.

I couldn’t see properly. The room was a fuzzy white, too bright, sterile. But I could see Martin. “How is this possible?”

“Leitner,” he said.

“Leitner?” And I kissed Martin, because Leitner could go to hell. I remembered Martin. His lips. His teeth. His chin, the way it bumped against mine. “If I close my eyes, you might go away again,” I said against his perfect mouth.

“I won’t,” he said. “I’ll never. You’re really you,” he said, his hand in my hair, and he sobbed.

My body ached, felt weird; most of my eyes were closed. “How?” I said again, because I had to know.

“Would you believe there’s one universe where Leitner wasn’t an ass?” said Martin, and laughed.

I laughed, too. I remembered how to do it so easily now. “I do not believe that.”

“I mean, he still fucked it up. We all did. All of us here, our universes ended. All of—”

“Then you’re not my Martin?” I said, interrupting him.

He stroked my hair. “I am. I mean. I’m the one you knew. We just… we all branched off. We—our group, in the Archives—we were the breaking point.”

“Breaking point?” I kissed him again. Same taste. Same scent. Same—

He had a tiny scar on his cheek that he didn’t before. A little notch, barely visible.

He let me touch it, and didn’t flinch away. “Got that when the Panopticon fell.”

Was I crying? I was crying. “I made you kill me?” Because of course, it had to be something I did. He wouldn't have just done it.

He swallowed.

“What did I do? You still won’t go away?”

“Never. Where you go, I go.”

“Even though you had to kill me?” I could barely hear my own words.

“I had to,” he whispered. “To stop the Eye. But it ended everything. I was in… I was in some kind of endless sea for… I don’t know how long.”

He still wanted to be near me after that?

I couldn’t comprehend it. Or what I must have done. Or how he could forgive. “But how am I here? I’m not killed,” I said, because I had to know.

Martin’s smile. Patient. Longsuffering. Fond. Knowing me. (I was known.) “Leitner and Manuela, who… isn’t awful? She’s an impossible physicist. Into wormholes. Alternate universes. Anyway, Leitner’s trying to make up for what he did by rescuing remnants. Us. Leftovers from universes that died because of our little group. It’s a mess.”

It had been so long since I felt anything, and now I felt too much. “He is? Why?”

“Guilt. He fucked up, and he felt shitty, and this is how he decided to atone.”

“By kidnapping people?” I blurted, feeling stupid, trying to make it make sense.

Martin laughed. “I missed you so much,” and then he was holding me, and it was so tight, and it was him, and that was his heart, and this was my Martin, and I—

Martin was dead.

So maybe I’d gone crazy.

Maybe the Eye did too much to me, and I was still in the world the Eye made, floating, mind snapped like dry wood, imagining things.

If it was, if I’d really lost it, and this wasn’t happening… I didn’t care.

“I want this,” I told him, clutching, keeping all my extra eyes closed. “I need you.”

“I know.”

“I love you. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry I got you killed.”

He looked so pale. “Jon… it wasn’t your fault. I know that, now,” he said to me, and I knew (knew, which I didn’t want to do anymore, but apparently, that still happened) I was forgiven.

And then I cried, and it was good, and painful, and human, and I let it come and didn’t try to stop it because that was a thing I’d forgotten how to do and finally remembered.

“I’m so sorry,” I whispered again.

And my fingers dug into his back, and he kissed my jaw.

“I’ve got you, Jon,” he said, and I knew he meant it.

(But I’ve never met this fucking—)

Erased. He no longer thought that. And even if he did, I no longer cared.

If this was the lie, I would live it.

It was not happy.

I did not care. “I have too many eyes.”

Martin laughed. “Um. Ask me about gills sometime.”

“What?”

He laughed again, and his cheeks went red, and his eyes were shiny, but not from sorrow.

I pulled him down to the bed, on top of me like a heavy, hot blanket. “I want to know about gills.”

“I promise I’ll tell you all of everything,” Martin said, and settled, his breath against my neck.

I held him.

He held me.

He went to sleep like that, on me, like he hadn’t slept in twenty years, breathing just under my ear.

I still could not sleep, but that didn’t matter. Only one thing did: him.

Sasha came to check, smiled to find him unconscious, and left us alone.

I didn’t understand what happened. Not really. Not yet. Eventually, I would. It didn’t matter.

Martin was d

I could not live with that truth anymore.

Martin was not dead. He was here. And so was I. (And maybe Martin needed that untruth, too, if he’d had to kill me.)

I closed all my eyes, and ignored Its complaints, and held my Martin.

If this was madness, it was also my joy, and I would wrap it around my heart and engrave it on my bones and sear it in the backs of all of my eyes.

If this was madness, it was mine, and I would never let it go.

-----

Notes:

So in case it wasn't clear: There was ONE universe where Leitner was not a complete asshole, but was trying to run around sort of... Gertruding his way through life, being a "good" guy. He blew it, and his universe died. But not before he could connect with Manuela, who, instead of a Dark Sun, was working on wormholes. They got out. He felt bad. He discovered that there were numerous universes like his thanks to group of people going back about forty years, all of whom were somehow connected. They also all managed to end the world like he did - in flame, or darkness, or any number of things. He felt bad. One thing led to another, and... it's puppy-rescue time. What will happen with them all back together in one place? Nobody knows! No one is the same. They've all been changed. Most are monsters. But Martin is alive, and to at least one person, that's the only thing that matters.

[late-to-the-magnus-archives]

Collected - a Magnus Archives fic

Jon floated for a thousand years as the pupil of the Eye - by choice, a place he ran, after Martin's death undid him.

Now, he finds himself pulled from that hell and into a new, weird world - one in which many versions of the people he knew are trying to make a new life.

And who is behind this, apparently? Jurgen Leitner.

Jon barely feels like a person again, and trusts nothing but Martin. This is, perhaps, wise.

Spoilers for the whole show. This is post-MAG 200.

Part two of the Magnus Monsterverse AU.

AO3

--------

I stared at myself in the small mirror, but no matter how hard I looked, I still felt unfamiliar.

I looked like someone related to me, perhaps—someone who had made a lot of pilgrimages, or lived entirely on vegetables, or inspired some ridiculous motion picture about a holy man or tapasvi.

I thought this insult of a film might star Kevin Costner or Dustin Hoffman, aping whatever culture seemed most “exotic” at the box office. Then I remembered that these actors had been dead for nearly a thousand years, had only been popular in my childhood, and likely existed nowhere now beyond my memory.

Our memory. The Eye was, after all, here.

They were all here. Multidimensional, evidently, though Martin didn’t really want to explain.

The man in the mirror looked mournfully back at me. His beard was nearly trimmed, more white than black. His hair…

It had always been thick, but I’d never let it grow beyond a student-appropriate scruff, and certainly kept it short when in the workplace. Well, centuries floating as the Pupil of the Eye had taken care of that.

It was long and very thick. More than a little wavy, heavily streaked with white. It made me look like an entirely different person.

Why had Sasha not cut it? The aesthetic, she’d said.

I had no idea what that meant until I did, knowledge dropped into me, and now I felt very silly. I wasn’t some… young and stylish thing, but whatever.

I was an entirely different person. Sasha told me my body was far from human now. It looked human—if I concentrated, keeping my many eyes closed—but it was not. Evidently, it swung back and forth between being hundreds of eyeballs in a man-shaped sack, or some kind of light beams which defied all attempts to study it. Fiber optics came to mind—knowledge transmitted via light.

Honestly, both descriptions were horrifying. Or they should have been. I… found them more baffling than anything else. For heaven’s sake, how was I producing saliva? How did my tongue articulate? How was I capable of erection?

Careful, Sims. That way danger lies.

The Eye wanted to tell me—to show me what it had done—but if I let it commune that clearly with me again, I might have trouble coming back to myself.

It’d had enough time monopolizing Playground Jon. My turn was overdue.

I fisted my hair (which felt neither like eyeballs, nor light). Martin liked it. So. I would not cut it off. Brushed and kept it would be.

“You okay in there?” Sasha called from the other room.

“Not at all, I’m afraid,” I called back, and walked out to join her.

She smiled. Sasha James looked largely like she had, but somewhere around the time I died at Ny-Ålesund in her world, she’d fallen in with the Flesh.

She was half a foot taller than she’d been when I knew her.

She’d somehow gone on to end the world for the Flesh, too, and had not elaborated how. I could know, but that felt like violation, so I kept that door shut.

There were many doors to keep shut, these days.

“Feeling up for it?” she said.

I knew what she was asking: was I ready to meet my benefactor?

I was not. I still felt as though I were pretending to be a person. It had taken me two weeks just to be able to keep all my extra eyes closed. “Must I do this?” I drawled. “Is it really necessary?”

“Yep.”

“What if I faked an illness?”

“Mm,” she said, and tapped her chin with one sharp, purple fingernail. “That’d be quite the feat, considering you’re immune to pretty much everything now.”

She would know.

I sighed. “I could pretend to madness. Earn a few more days.”

“Martin’s willing to go with you,” she said.

I may not have a heart anymore, but something in my chest still ached. Such an offer cost him.

After he killed my counterpart, the Lonely had him for fifteen years. By the time Tim and Manuela opened a shocking door of fire and crackling sound above his wine-dark sea, Martin had drifted so long in cold, crushing silence that he couldn’t remember how to talk.

He struggled, now, to accept a world with people. Struggled not to loathe everyone and everything. Except me. And I don’t know how I held a sweet place in his heart after what I did.

If he was willing to do this, then I would go through with it. “All right.”

“Come on. You look fine.”

I looked down. Green button-down; jeans. Ankle boots. None of it I picked out, but as I still looked human outwardly, going naked was neither comfortable for anyone, nor practical for me. “Should I look scary instead? Go all eyes,” I said, glancing up at her.

She wore the extra inches she’d given herself quite well. “Don’t think it matters. Jurgen’s seen it all.”

“I doubt that.” My tone was dry.

“Well, he did say you’re the first you he’s met.”

I’d been warned there were multiple versions of us out there. “How the hell does that even work, anyway? Are there multiple versions of… all of us here?”

“Some of us.”

“How is it determined who is brought here?”

“I’m not part of that process,” she said. “You’ll have to ask him.”

The Eye offered to tell me. No. I may be unable to avoid things like the colloquial definition of the aesthetic being dropped into my head, but I could refuse the bigger ones.

I’d had no choice in that before, neither when I was still human, nor during the apocalypse, I wasn’t yet certain if this were a new skill I possessed, or something to do with the place I now found myself in.

With my benefactor.

Jurgen Leitner. I was still struggling with this.

My Leitner (a dubious epithet) had been brutally murdered by a lead pipe. I had never met this one. “How many of the others has he met?”

“That’s a lovely question to ask him!” She beamed.

I sighed. “You’re being awful about all of this, you know.”

“It’s not my job to answer questions. It is my job to prod you into being a better version of yourself,” she said. “Actually, I think it kind of always was?”

“Ha-ha,” I allowed, and we walked out the door to Martin’s smiling face, and the moment I saw him, all my stresses ceased to matter.

#

It was something of a grim apartment block—a gray courtyard-rectangle, framed by two building-rectangles, which were comprised of even smaller flat-rectangles that formed our homes. Each flat was precisely two and a half rooms: a bedroom, a sort of general space for whatever else, and a closet-sized bathroom.

I had a trunk at the foot of my bed with gifted clothes.

There was no kitchen. I didn’t need to eat. Neither, evidently, did anyone else in the place.

We could eat. There was a communal kitchen in the bottom floor of the west building—a conscious choice, so Sasha told me, because it encouraged us to spend at least a little bit of time together.

A week ago, after I left the hospital, I grew curious enough to wander down there and  found Jane Prentiss sitting by the refrigerator, staring into a teacup filled with cockroaches.

I fled, and had yet to return.

“You look so good,” said Martin, kissing my cheek.

I leaned in. I would never forget the hollowness of his death—the loss, the tearing, hopeless horror. I would never take his affection, his love, for granted. “You always do.”

“And when I don’t, nobody will ever know,” Martin grinned. He was fully visible today, so he knew how good he looked; a light jumper, comfortable jeans, boots like mine. His curly hair was frost-kissed, the red and white both glinting in the sun.

Laugh lines around his eyes, above his freckles. Eyes that some days were less green, gone almost colorless; but on those days, he also didn’t bother to be fully visible.

Except to me.

“I’m never going to get used to this,” I said, running my fingers through his curls. “Alive. You. Here. I…” Damned throat tightness. (And how did that even work, anyway? What, were the eyeballs constricting? Pupils exhibiting tension dysphonia?)

“Me, neither—and you’re welcome to butter me up more, but we’re still going to meet some people today,” said Martin, because his choice to be social included forcing it upon me.

“Do I have to?” I said. “You know, it could make me late for Leitner. Better skip this bit.”

He put his hands on my shoulders and leaned in and kissed me.

Mm. Alright. Anything he asked would do.

“Don’t be a coward,” he said.

“I am a coward,” I said. “Apparently, that’s half my appeal.”

He held me close, and his impossible heartbeat echoed my own. Right here, right now, I felt like a person. I remembered how. I knew what it was like, and I melted in his arms.

“Come on,” he murmured against my head. “Nobody’s going to hurt you—and we’re… we’re sort of family, now. All of us. We all share kind of a big thing, you know?”

“We all ended the world,” I whisper.

“Yes.”

I swallowed. (Did I have an eyeball instead of an Adam’s Apple? Precisely what was constricting?) “I don’t know how to feel about that.”

He shrugged. “Who would? Come on, or we actually will be late for Leitner.” With his hand in mine, he led me into the communal dining hall.

#

I’d hardly gotten a good look at it the first time. It was your basic cafeteria: tables and chairs, a sort of kitchen area behind a wide, white counter. Checkered floor tiles. Awful lighting.

This time, Mike Crew was in there, along with Oliver Banks, seated at a little square table with tea.

Both of them stared at me.

I stared back.

The Eye tried to give me their stories.

I resisted. “We all just live here?” I blurted.

“Smooth,” said Martin, waving at them. “Hi.”

Mike looked Martin up and down as though he were made of chocolate.

Martin ignored it.

So that happened.

“Wow,” said Oliver, smiling at me. “That’s a good look for you.”

“What?” I managed like an idiot.

Mike sipped his tea. The cup sparked, as if it were secretly made of electrostatic particles. “Huh,” he said. “I killed you in my timeline.”

This was going splendidly. “When I came to see you?” I guessed.

“Yeah,” said Mike. “Cop followed you. Didn’t appreciate it too much, so.” He made a swooping motion with his hand. “Off you both went.”

“Daisy, too?” I said.

“Was that her name?”

“Yes.” I couldn’t sound less stiff.

He didn’t care. “Cool.”

“I didn’t kill you,” Oliver said, and looked sad. “I just didn’t manage to wake you.”

“The coma?” I guessed.

“You chose to stay human.”

Dear lord. “What happened after that?”

Oliver sighed. “The Archivist’s death somehow… empowered me? I don’t honestly know. There was a lot of manipulation from others, and… it was really a mess. I didn’t actually mean to end anything.”

Oh, gods. “I’m so sorry. I know what that’s like. To be used.”

“I meant to do it,” said Mike, chipper and friendly. “We all fell forever in the sky. It was honestly lovely until there wasn’t anyone else left to tumble.”

My swallow was audible. (And just how did my eye-filled throat replicate the sound of a pharynx gulping?)

“What’s on offer?” said Martin, as though none of this were awkward.

Mike looked at his tea. “Green, I think?”

“Silver needle,” said Oliver.

“Not bad,” said Martin. “I don’t see any baked goods. Jack’s not been by today?”

“No, and don’t ask about him,” said Mike. “They’re on the outs again.”

Martin sighed. “I’m not the type of person to say this, normally, but if they’d just fuck already…”

Both the other men laughed.

I didn’t. I stared at him.

“Agnes,” he said.

“Jack Barnabas?”

“Yeah.”

“How is he—he wasn’t an avatar of anything! How did—”

“He’s just here, for some re-”

“Did he end the world, too?” I blurted. “What did he do, boil the world in coffee?”

Mike laughed. “Nikola said you were funny.”

Right, no one mentioned that. “Nikola. She’s here. Like Jane Prentiss.”

“Not like Jane. Imprisoned,” said Martin. “She's not loose.”

“Why the hell is Jane loose?”

“Because she behaves. She doesn’t attack anyone, and she’s got a job handling rubbish dumps.”

I stared at him. “She hated me.”

“She hated the Archives. I have no idea if she’ll hate you now,” said Martin. “There are no Archives here.”

The Archives were the Eye. I am pretty much all eyes. I rubbed my face.

“Cheer up,” said Mike. “Sit down. Have a cuppa. You’ll feel better.”

Come to think of it, Mike wasn’t such a hero, either. “So we all ended the world, by choice or otherwise, and now we’re playing… Game On?”

Mike laughed. It was such a friendly laugh from a sociopath. “Game On? That’s a blast from the past. You watched that show?”

“My grandmother approved of it, for some reason,” I muttered, looking down.

“Martin, you were right,” said Mike chummily. “He’s adorable.”

“Told you,” said Martin.

I was made of eyes, had been removed from my floating, emotionless hell for all of a month, and this was the conversation? “I… I’m not.”

“Would you look at that expression?” said Mike brightly. “Like someone walked over his grave.”

Suddenly, I felt watched.

This… this was a test?

I knew it was.

From whom? Why? Leitner, maybe. I didn’t dare reach for more information, reach into the Eye when I don’t yet know if I could do that and return. But this—whether any of them knew it—was a test. I was just coming out of my cocoon, and here was a man who’d hurt me, lightly flirting with my lover.

A man who sounded nice, but was not. A man who behaved amicably, yet had not cared when his parents died due to his mistake with the Corruption.

He wasn’t being aggressive, but still pressing buttons as if to trigger a response.

Who the hell was watching this? What, was I going to be “imprisoned” like Nikola if I did this wrong?

That was a leap, logically. All I knew was this was a test—possibly without the consent of anyone here—and I did not know why yet. I would not live in paranoia again.

(Let me show you whispered the One who’d had me for damn near a thousand years, and I shuddered.)

“Jon?” said Martin.

“It’s a lot,” I said, going for the truth. I somehow doubt floating in facts for a millennia made me any better of a liar. “I don’t… are we even on different sides, anymore?”

“Sides?” said Mike. “Sure. I’m on the ‘let’s don’t die’ side. You?”

Oliver looked sad. “Sorry, Jon. It is a lot. But you have time to figure it out.”

And suddenly, I wanted a test of my own—to see how they’d react to questions. “But why is this happening? What is the point of it all? What, are we all just being… collected, or something?”

“Damned if I know,” said Mike, and toasted me with his tea. “But I, for one, am grateful to be here. Wasn’t fun, toward the end. I was all that was left.”

I got it, suddenly. “Your god fed on you.”

A crack appeared in his cheer. “My god fed on me. I… I’m still Vast. But I can’t forget that. I can’t just let it go.” He looked down.

Oliver put his arm around Mike’s shoulders. “We’ve all got a lot to process, still.”

The Eye dropped a meme into my head. Vulnerability? In MY sociopath? It’s more likely than you think!

Stop that, I thought at It.

“Text me if Jack brings anything by, okay?” said Martin. “Come on, Jon. Time to meet our benefactor.”

Oliver perked up. “Oh! Good. You’ll like him.”

Mike shrugged. “He’s not awful.” He kept his eyes down; Oliver’s arm stayed around his shoulder.

I didn’t know how to read that after the look Mike had given Martin. Blast it all, what was this drama? This was worse than secondary.

I let Martin lead me away.

The gray rectangles opened onto a lovely street I had not yet seen. It was quiet; a park bloomed across the way, bright with bird-speak and pretty flowers. A few red post-boxes and yellow fire hydrants fit the spring weather and the early bloom.

London, but not one I knew.

There were no cars. I couldn’t hear any, at least. More buildings like ours stretched down the street on this side; there were no shops.

We stopped at the curb and waited.

I couldn’t wait, though, any longer. “Jane Prentiss. Nikola Orsinov. Explain.”

“I’d really rather let Leitner do it,” said Martin.

“But—”

“I hate… all of this. I don’t want to think about so many people. It hurts, Jon.”

I dropped that like a hot potato. “I’m sorry.”

“Not your fault.” He took a deep breath and, instead of a potato, dropped a bomb: “It was thoughts of you that fueled me, you know.”

“Wh… what?” I managed, and at that moment, a car came around the far corner.

It was the first one I’d seen here; expensive and black, rather large, but silent—like someone took a Bentley and refitted it to be electric. It pulled without a sound to a stop in front of us and waited, windows tinted.

“Absolutely haunted,” I proclaimed.

Martin laughed and opened the back door.

#

Maybe it was haunted. The quarter glass was tinted, too, and whoever was behind it never spoke.

“What’s he like?” I said, soft.

Martin shrugged. “If Mick Jagger and Neo from The Matrix had a baby,” he began.

“Stop.” I raised my hands. “Dear lord, Martin, you’re going to summon something.”

He laughed again, then leaned forward and took my hands between his eyes. Tears glistened on his lashes. “I forgot to laugh until you came back. I mean… I’d do it. For people. Because I… I’m trying, Jon. I’m trying so hard.” He stopped to swallow around the roughness in his voice. “But you’re the only one I don't have to try for. I’m tired.”

Don’t panic, I told myself, because I didn’t think I had the power to save him. Don’t panic, I told myself, because I wasn’t even comfortable in my own skin yet, and here if I failed, I might drag him down with me. Don’t panic,I told myself, because this was Martin, and I would do anything to keep him safe.

I brought his hands to my lips and kissed them. “I don’t know what I can do for you. I’m just… I’m just me. Whatever that is anymore. I don’t know. But whatever I am, all that I am, Martin… I’m yours.”

He met my eyes. His own had gone silver with dark gray radial streaks and an eerie limbal ring of blue.

I took a breath and held it, unable to move. I’d never seen anything so beautiful.

So… so horrible, what was I thinking? What was this? Was he in pain? Was he slipping away? Was—

He leaned in, gripped the back of my head, and kissed me with warm breath and warm lips and nary a hint of mist or fading, and I clutched his shoulders and pulled him in for more.

“Silly,” he whispered in my ear. “I’m fine. I saw that look, Jonathan Sims. You got all spooked.”

“I know you’re fine,” I lied, clinging.

“I’m not a ghost, either,” he said.

I was still laughing when the car pulled to a stop and the door was opened by a surprise.

Jared Hopworth bent down nearly double to peer into the back seat, chauffeur cap jaunty on his head, elephantine suit straining at his shoulders. “Come on, lovebirds,” he said. “You ain’t the only job I got today, so move it.”

I gawked at him.

Martin dragged me out of the back. “Thanks.”

“Sure.” Jared gave Martin the same look Mike had.

Maybe I had gone mad, after all. Maybe this was entirely my subconscious inventing a world, revolving around the fact that Martin was desirable, even to me (which was something), and so it only made sense that all the characters with speaking parts would want him.

Or maybe I was just jealous, and had never been good at reading people, anyway.

Jared drove off, the vehicle silent.

Ahead of us rose a ridiculous building that could’ve gone head-to-head with the Magnus Institute, but instead of Victorian academia, this one was a gods-damned church.

It rose in ridiculous splendor, its doorways a pointed arches, its enormous rose window portraying some strange-looking knight battling a hydra. Ornately carved flowers and fluting patterned the building’s facade.

“Why are we meeting in a church?” I said.

“I think it’ll make more sense when you meet him,” said Martin. “He’s, um. Dramatic?”

“Wonderful.”

He smiled and opened the heavy door for me. It was unlocked.

#

The inside of the gothic church was… a gothic church. Flying buttresses. Vaulted ceilings. The pews had been removed, replaced with desks and filing cabinets; boxes of files lined the walls.

Then I caught a glimpse of another Martin and damn near fell over my own feet.

Another—

Another Martin?

Another—

“Steady,” said Martin. “That one’s… that one was never yours.”

“What?” I said, staring at the other Martin.

The other Martin looked spooked and skedaddled. A door slammed.

Everybody else here looked at us.

There were… there were people I did not know, and I was deeply glad of that. But there were also people I did.

Two Jude Perrys, for one, sitting side by side, with wildly different hairstyles. A Melanie, with both her eyes; one, two, three Georgies, who seemed to be focused on some sort of project building a tower from tarot cards.

I couldn’t move. Are we all just being collected? I’d asked Mike, and for one dizzying moment, wondered if I were right.

“I thought Sasha warned you,” Martin whispered.

“Not… really,” I managed.

Another door opened, and all heads turned away from me and toward the other end. “Well, well, well!” boomed a voice I knew—a voice like Christopher Lee’s, a voice with weight and wealth and the wide confidence of a man who rarely hears a no.

It looked like Jurgen Leitner—if Leitner came wrapped in black leather, wearing a pair of green-lensed spectacles (small and round lenses, very trendy, I supposed), numerous rings that sparked with some power tickling the back of my senses, and a gods-damned sword strapped to his hip.

Right. That cinched it. I had definitely gone mad.

“Come on, come on,” he said, gesturing. “Come along, now—nobody’s going to bite you, Jon. May I call you Jon?”

“Please,” I said, years of training in social norms finally coming to use as the parts of my brain in charge of voluntary behavior seemed to have stalled. (The image of a skull full of eyes rolling back in an Edwardian fainting spell did not help at all.)

“Come on, now. Come on!” He held open the door back there—another deep, pointed-arch affair—and beamed.

There were smiles among some of the people here. They still watched me; wary, to a one, and far too many with baggage, but no one yet seemed inclined to attack me, or anything.

All three Georgies looked sad, which was awful.

Martin tugged my arm.

Right. For him, I would do this, and not turn around and run away down the street as fast as I could and hide in the bushes and hope to die a quiet, eye-rolling death where I could harm no one and no one could harm me.

Leitner was taller than I remembered, but then, I’d not been in a good place when we met. “There you are,” he said with great satisfaction, and stepped aside for us to enter his office.

“I think I’m in shock, just so you know,” I informed him as I stepped inside.

“Wouldn’t expect anything else,” he said with great cheer, and closed the door behind us.

------

Notes:

Looks like this monsterverse AU is go. Oh, boy, what have I gotten myself into?

[late-to-the-magnus-archives]

Static - a Magnus Archives AU

In the aftermath of Mike's well-meaning attack, Jon tries (again) to resume a normal life.

Thoughts of Basira get in the way.

And then, so does Jonah Magnus.

Another one.

Part of the Magnus Monsterverse.

AO3

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

“What the hell is wrong with you?” Martin said, holding me tight.

He didn’t say it to me. He said it to our resident sociopath, who stood by the door looking slightly guiltily over the fact that he didn’t feel slightly guilty, and shrugged. “Well, we had to be sure, didn’t we?” said Mike. “It wasn’t personal.”

“It was very personal!” Martin snapped, because once he got angry, he didn’t come back down for a while.

Was I all right? Was I not all right? I had no idea. I hadn’t parsed it all yet, but whether I was fine or not, I didn’t want to damage what Martin had built. “It… it’s fine. I understand,” I said into his shoulder, hoping to calm the waves.

Instead, it seemed I’d agitated them. “You’re not doing that again,” said Martin.

“What? Doing what?”

“And I’m not letting it happen, either. This isn’t like before! This isn’t someone getting scared and then treating you like… like garbage! I’m not letting it happen again!”

“Eh?” said Mike pleasantly. “‘Fraid you’ve lost me on this one.”

Martin hadn’t lost me. I suddenly knew what this had triggered.

#

After Jonah went to jail.

After I survived a coma.

When no one would talk to me beyond graphic and completely unwonted threats, and I’d lost Tim and I’d almost lost Martin, and everyone said everything was my fault, even if I hadn’t even known those things were happening.

I wasn’t even being allowed to grieve my friend because we were still in a state of emergency.

I’d never felt so alone. So hated. And it was for things I couldn’t control, so there was no way to fix them.

So I’d tried to resume my human patterns—and that meant continuing to do the same things I did when everyone saw me as human.

And what had I been doing before? Interviewing people, tracking them down, and taking statements.

We had all done that before. Even Martin. Daisy and I had even forced one at gunpoint, and Basira loved that.

The Institute took statements. That’s literally what they did. And whenever I read or heard one, if the statement-giver were still alive, I entered their dreams—not the outcome I wanted, but an unavoidable side-effect.

It didn’t matter if they were old statements. The result was the same. Basira grabbing old ones did nothing to preserve the statement-givers, so what was the issue here?

Well. Now, I knew that for Basira, it had been her absolute terror that I’d take a statement from her.

She’d never truly given a damn about the people I’d hurt. She’d never given a damn about the people Daisy murdered. She’d never cared about the “someone” Melanie killed, or about the people Lukas had given to the Lonely.

Daisy had even run around murdering people on Jonah’s command while Basira was hostage, and Basira had been fine with that.

She hadn’t given a flying rip how Martin was suffering because trying to interfere with that would have put her on Lukas’ radar—and she didn’t want to get disappeared like Ted and Rebecca from accounting. So, cowardly, she just… ignored the fact that Martin was being gods-damned eaten. It was easier.

If she had actually had a problem with monsters, she wouldn’t have gone repeatedly to Jonah in prison.

To the man whom she knew had damaged Melanie’s mind.

To the man whom she knew had given the Institute to Lukas, losing more innocents.

She went to him anyway, because she wasn’t afraid of his brand of mental power. She knew Jonah was dangerous, but fully believed she could handle him, and nothing he could plant in her head would hurt her.

She was arrogant, as well as cowardly.

Ah, but with me… With me, she felt exposed, all her lies on display. I might see through her nonsense. I might see through her bold claims of magical logic and moral high ground. I scared her—but to admit that I did would be to admit her failings.

And she liked to pretend she had none, didn’t she? She liked the respect that came from being police, and later from being the one who could pass judgment on all us monsters. She liked being the one person “in charge” in the Institute who hadn’t traded her humanity away and so could lord it over all of us.

It wasn’t true. She’d traded hers away years ago, and she feared I would see through all that to the heart of her unbelievable hypocrisy. The thing was, my abilities may have scared her, but she damn well knew I was not going to hit back when she bullied me. That was why I—in the middle of all that craziness—was the ONE person who received her ire.

That was why she had no trouble traveling with me to Ny-Ålesund. That was why she had no trouble letting me take a live statement right in front of her face, because that one was convenient for her, and she knew by that point that she could control me.

By complete contrast, Martin cared I was taking statements because I was taking them from the unwilling, which I had not considered at the time—and he was right.  That was why I’d had to stop. He just… hadn’t stuck around to verbalize that, so I didn’t understand. 

I didn’t know why, then, I was everyone’s most-hated man for surviving an explosion. For losing my friend. For doing what I’d had to do to stay sane.

I understood it all now. This had to happen. If I had not been isolated the way I was, not been emotionally abused the way I was, I would not have been fragile enough to complete the Web’s plan for me.

But the Mother miscalculated when she allowed Martin to die. The thought had been that once he died, I would break, and be led like a foolish lamb to do what She wanted.

Instead, I finally and at last truly became a monster.

#

But it seemed I hadn’t been the only person tumbling these things in my head, grimacing at their sourness.

“Jon! Jon!”

Ah… I’d drifted. Or maybe more than drifted.

I was on the floor with no memory of going down, and Martin was—

Martin was over me, cradling my head, dripping tears into my face.

What had I done? 

“Jon, please wake up, Jon,” Martin was saying.

Which is now I knew I wasn’t looking at him with my two human eyes. I opened them.

“Oh, thank God,” Martin hitched.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered, because it was briefly hard to talk again, because my throat wouldn’t work right. I remembered how to reach up and touch his cheek. “Please don’t cry. Martin, don’t cry.”

He cupped my hand against his face and laughed wetly. “Oh, you idiot,” he said, and clutched me to himself.

To my amazement, Mike had not left. He still stood by the door, looking spooked, but he had not left. He was too concerned about Martin to leave.

Could I blame him? Could I? For all his many flaws, he was worried about Martin, and I… I actually was frightening, these days. No one else had all the marks. No one else had been the antichrist as long as I had. No one else had the particular “eye” powers I did, for whatever reason, or possibly for the reasons above.

And whatever was going on with me becoming both the Lonely and the Spiral and the Vast…

I, too, would do mad things to keep Martin safe from me, were I on the outside. “I understand,” I said to Mike over Martin’s shoulder. “And I forgive you.”

And at those words—

Things… changed.

It wasn’t supposed to do more than build our fractured relationship up a bit. It was supposed to create understanding, to just patch up some of the gaping holes in the pathway between us.  Instead, the world shivered on its axis as though Atlas had sneezed.

I felt it.

A second’s worth of something.

Mike stared at me.

Martin… didn’t notice? “It’s not your fault. None of this is your fault. We pu… I pushed you too soon, and you aren’t ready, and it’s okay, and—”

I cupped Martin’s face again  (and I was looking away from Mike but I really was not) and sat halfway up to kiss him. “You didn’t do this. Martin! Martin. This isn’t your fault. I’m still figuring out this balancing act. How to be… what I am without losing myself in it.”

“You just fell over,” he said helplessly.

I saw it in his mind. I had collapsed. There’d been no warning. He was holding me, upset that I was so cold (well the Vast was cold), mad that he’d thought he could trust Mike not to do something weird, worried I’d never accept anyone now, worried I’d become some kind of bizarre Eye-hermit because I feared everybody, worried he wasn’t enough to make me happy, worried I’d slip away and someday never come back—

“Oh, Martin,” I breathed, and kissed him deeply. “The world could end. The stars could burn out and fade. Reality itself could twist into a pretzel, but I am never leaving you again. ”

You know, on reflection, that declaration of mine ought to have been terrifying.

But he heard it the way I meant it: he was never going back to alone in the sea, never having to mourn me again, would never have to say goodbye.

He clutched me like a life raft. Goodness, he was strong.

Mike was still staring. 

I’d done something to him. I didn’t know what. I could, but I might lose myself again, and I wouldn’t do that to Martin. 

“Tea?” Mike said, and scuttled into the other room.

#

Whatever monsters we all were, we were also British, and that meant awkward tea and biscuits while we tried to silently sort it out.

I was glued to Martin’s side.

Mike looked almost repentant. It was a start. He also seemed like himself, completely, with one exception: he now spoke to me as if I were his friend.

Casual and open, no longer faking smiles or pretending normalcy. Whatever I had done to him had convinced him he could trust me.

I was very, very unhappy about that, but I had no idea what to do with it, so... for now, I let him talk.

He told me about his job: he was a gods-damned tour-guide.

All right, not quite a tour guide. He did jumping tours, which is to say he’d fly people over the city of their choice, then parachute with them to the ground nearby, all the while describing interesting tidbits of history and trivia.

“People pay for that?” I blurted, because I had no social grace.

Mike told me how much people paid for that.

I looked at Martin. “So it turns out I have always been in the wrong line of work.”

They both laughed.

#

It wasn't so bad. Mike wasn't actually acting weird; Martin accepted this as normal Mike behavior. Maybe I'd been wrong. Maybe he'd just finally accepted me, because I hadn't lashed out when pushed.

Maybe.

At any rate, Mike left late. We'd marathoned the next season of UK's Got Talent, which was, ah, quite different from the one I'd known. This one was all about imitating AI renditions of things, and somehow doing it better. It made me deeply uncomfortable, but Mike loved it, so.

I didn't sleep well. I did, however, insist on going to my interview as planned the next morning.

Martin didn’t want me to; he was worried I’d black out (and so was I, a little), but I told him I needed to do this. Even if I didn’t take the job, I wanted to qualify for it.

I wanted to… have a life. I wanted to not be his life. I wanted to give him room to breathe.

“You’re an idiot,” he said when I phrased this to him, and kissed me flushed and breathless.

Which was a great start to the day—but I still blew the damn interview, anyway.

#

I hadn’t done this in a long time, and I’d never interviewed well even when I'd been human, so maybe this was not surprising. I’d psyched myself completely up. I'd absorbed everything about the library, and the neighborhood, and any salient facts I thought might bring me favor. I was so ready, damn it.

So ready that I got the most dreaded words at the end of my time: You might be overqualified.

So that wasn’t happening.

How did I do that? I know I wasn’t impressive. I tried to be knowledgeable, and reserved, and respectable, and all the things a librarian ought to be. All I did was answer their questions! And present a degree in library science I didn’t earn! But they wouldn’t know that!

Blast. I felt sure I’d disappointed everybody.

This was why, I recalled now, when Jonah offered me the Archivist promotion, I’d accepted it even though I’d known I wasn’t qualified. I was terrified I’d lose my job if I turned it down—and the agony of job hunting was an awful deterrent.

Gods, I'd been so young. I certainly hadn’t felt young at the time, but I was.

Quiet London (I really needed to stop renaming everything) was, of course, quiet. People walked at pace, hither, thither, and yon, in silence; businesses flourished or struggled with nary a peep of music or voices escaping their workplaces; cars rolled by without more sound than the occasional crunch of tires.

I felt awful, returning to the Compound (which they did not call it, and I needed to say The Salt Flats like the rest of them because they’d picked the name and it was sort of funny, but damn it all, I just couldn’t). I wanted to apologize. To Jane and to Mike. They’d gotten me the interview. Obtained paperwork for me so it would be legal. And I blew it.

I sighed. Well. The situation wasn’t that different from post-uni, honestly. If my grandmother hadn’t passed when she did, and her house hadn’t sold for the amount it did, I could never have survived long enough to get the job at the Magnus Institute.

All of that sounds horrible and heartless, and I would never tell anyone I’d thought it. I missed my grandmother, sort of. I didn’t really know her. She… didn’t come from a generation of people who shared how they felt.

I’m grateful for her. She cared for me when she didn’t have to, and I know I was a difficult child.

( You were on the spectrum! the Eye informs me with a sort of nerdy glee.)

“Yes, I’d figured that out,” I muttered. “Only about eight hundred years ago. ”

( Appropriate techniques for aiding a child with a tendency toward hyperfixation and overstimulation include—)

“Not now, please,” I said. “I’m really not in a good mood, and I don’t want to think about my childhood.”

So instead, It gave me the spin-off movie from Brother Love, called Cloistered: The Sister Swap.

It was the goofiest, stupidest thing I could imagine in all my life, involving Christmas, a woman from “the city” (unspecified) with a high-powered career, untenable stress, and a twin sister nun, and the one brother in the cloisters who had not found love with his fellow gents.

The sisters traded places and the nun ended up married to the monk on a farm in Canada. 

You know what? Why not? This pablum was harmless. And if this ridiculous romantic blarney was enough to give some people joy in their lives, who was I to complain? I could just let people enjoy things. What a concept!

Besides, it was sort of fascinating.

I was still smiling about it as I opened Martin’s door.

He was on the little couch, sound asleep. His phone sat beside him where it had fallen from his hand, currently following the travails of a kitten foster parent somewhere in Cork.

He was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen, and I stood in the doorway like a nonce for a full minute before realizing I ought to shut it and come inside. 

He didn’t wake.

Of course, I peeked. Yes, Martin was fine; he was just very, very tired. He had not told me he’d been awake most of the night because he had to keep checking if I still breathed (Martin! For heaven’s sake), but I knew now.

Naughty. We’d have to talk about it.

(Wondrous. Had anyone ever worried about me like that, ever in my life?)

I crept into his second room to acquire some unnecessary yet deeply needful stress-snacks.

Martin was an excellent baker. He’d converted his flat’s second room into a wild little space for his online baking show (the idea for which he’d gotten from some alternate him Maneula had shown him), and while his show wasn’t as successful as his counterpart’s (“He wears lipstick!” Martin told me with fascination), it paid enough that he could do his part-time job at the London Aquarium without worrying about bills.

All this to say that the light switch wasn’t ordinary, and flipping it on meant blinding white light aimed at the tiny, adorable kitchen set-up against the wall.

I blinked, my many eyes watering, and made my way toward the tiny storage area where he’d put last night’s cupcakes. They were chocolate and heavily indulgent. I was going to eat a lot of them. Stuff my face. Try to enter a sugar coma, if I could.

Behind me came a sound of static.

I spun.

There wasn’t even anything here that could make that sound—that very specific older-television sound, which only occurred while there had been both analog broadcasting and analog televisions which, by accident, picked up literal radiation left over from the Big Bang, translated to microwaves and white noise.

I frowned at his kitchen setup. There was nothing. Well, as anyone would guess, the moment I turned around, it would happen again, so I turned around.

The static started. And I opened all my eyes.

There was a—

Jonah Magnus.

But not the one currently in Sasha’s hospital bed. No. This wasn’t the one from my world, either, when I’d taken Jonah’s mind and devoured him. This one was about forty, still sort of twinkishly pretty, but his blond hair had picked up some fetching white, and he was dressed in a purple, embroidered Heathcliff vest with a floppy tie of some sort. His shirtsleeves were rolled to his elbows; sweat had drooped his insouciant little curls, and he bore a cut on one cheek that looked quite fresh.

“There!” he said. “Wait—blast, that’s not the right—”

Static sound. He disappeared.

“What the actual hell?” I declared, and approached the space where it had been.

Where it now reappeared.

Static. In the air. In a circle, like an old television in the shape of a round mirror. “There!” said new-Jonah again. “I don’t know who you are, but it’s the wrong—”

Gone.

The Eye was silent. No, not silent; yearning. The way one might miss an ex. 

The way I’d once missed Georgie.

“What?” I whispered.

Static. Fuzzy circle, static, a random dot-pixel pattern like before that HBO symbol of ages past. New-Jonah again. “—end yours, too! You’ve got to stop him! I know it isn’t working, Barnabas, don’t be an a—”

Gone.

And I knew it wasn’t coming back this time because the Eye resumed its new absurdity, offering to show me all the hand-made goods fans had created in honor of Brother Love.

I left the cupcakes where they were and joined Martin on the sofa. He was still asleep.

( Yes, I checked, and he was fine.)

Right, so. Whatever had just happened… I was the only person who knew about it. Of that, I was sure.

I needed to know more. Needed. 

The Eye wanted to show me, but… I could feel how weighty it was, how much, and if just recalling Basira from the old days had been enough to knock me out, I knew I wasn’t ready for this.

Damn it. I could finally see the benefit of having a double. They could channel their power together. They could share the strain, spread the load.

Michael and Helen were manageable here because they had each other.

The two Nolans literally spent evenings burning one another (gross!) and loving every second, keeping themselves sated.

The Georgies had a horrifying ritual where they would nearly drown one another, once a month. It worked for them. (I… I could never.)

I had no one to talk to like that. No other-me to share the load.

Gerry! chirped the Eye.

“None of them are here, you goon,” I muttered.

Gerry! Gerry! Gerry!

Gods, what had I done to this thing? Taken an impossible eternal fear entity and turned It into a blasted puppy, chewing on furniture and getting excited over things that bounce.

No, I knew that wasn’t true. To anyone but me, It was still what It was: a being of invasion, of flash-paper privacy, of paranoia and being watched and being followed and exposed.

It just… happened to love me. I highly doubted I deserved it. This was just… this was so much time spent. Necessary bedfellows. Which was a terrifying concept; what if it could It be lured away from me by someone who might use It for evil?

Use It for… what the bloody hell was I thinking?

I laughed, and Martin finally woke up. “Hm?” he said with a sleepy smile. “That’s a good sound to hear. Did it go well?”

“No, it did not,” I said, still amused at my completely insane thought of the evil fear god being used for evil. Good lord. “I’m fairly sure I won’t get it.”

“I’m sorry,” he said seriously. “What has you laughing, then?”

I tried to tell him. Big evil fear gods being used for evil like in a cartoon, as opposed to us, who absolutely only used them for good things, like draining the terror out of felons.

Some context was obviously missing, but he laughed anyway. “The way your mind works,” he said with such warmth. “Did you want some comfort-cakes?”

“I would die for some comfort-cakes,” I said.

“Stay.” He headed into his second room.

I hadn’t told him about the static. Why hadn’t I told him about the static?

I would. I just… I needed to parse it a bit more, and… and…

I feared he might say something like, this is too much for you, and bring other people in.

Worse, I feared he might be right to do that.

What I needed was a way to get to all three Gerry Keays and have a chat. That’s what I needed.

Portals! the Eye said. It wanted to teach me.

Only if Manuela won’t know, I said back.

Martin brought chocolate cupcakes and milk, and I put all the other thoughts aside for a bit.

Whatever the hell was going on, I would deal with it. I would understand it, and stop it if it was bad. But I couldn’t escape the feeling I’d had the moment I’d seen New-Jonah, shouting. That man had been trying to warn me of something.

Every instinct I had said this Jonah was not an enemy.

I hated it. I pushed against it. I challenged it.

I couldn’t discard it.

That Jonah had been different. I didn’t know why, and trying to push into that knowledge led to dizziness, so I stopped.

One thing at a time, Jon. And one of those things was not making the mistake of failing to trust my partner.

“I love you,” I said to Martin, and told him what had happened.

[late-to-the-magnus-archives]

A Special Day - a TMA fic

It's the big day. Jon and Martin will join to create one family, to become Blackwood-Sims for the rest of their lives, however that looks.

But this world is a mess, and Jon's red-string conspiracy board doesn't come close to solving it. Also, Jonah Magnus has the worst timing no matter what world he's in.

Part of the Magnus Monsterverse.

AO3

------

I drove my uni roommates absolutely mad with my notes. Post-It notes, half-used notebooks, scraps of paper torn from things. Sometimes I wrote on old receipts, or on the backs of syllabi, or (one memorable day) on the A4 sheet with a professor’s name, which had been taped to her door. I had nothing else to write on! It wasn’t as though she’d miss it, anyway.

My coworkers at the Magnus Institute had no idea how good they had it, really.

At any rate, it wasn’t really shocking that no one could understand my filing system. The confusion on Martin’s face as he witnessed my newest masterpiece spoke to that.

“Uh,” he said, staring at my handiwork.

“Wait,” I said. “I can explain.”

His mouth twitched. Martin Blackwood, the love of my life, was trying very hard not to laugh at me. “Right,” he said, and put his bag on the counter, carefully avoiding the strings.

“So,” I said. “Here’s what we have so far.” And starting on the left, I walked him through my system.

Red strings connected events and people. Post-It notes indicated category by color, and colored paperclips to indicate subcategories. The unknown was scribbled on white lined notebook paper, generally pinned according to how confident I felt about solving them—i.e., red push-pins meant I don’t have a damned clue, green push-pins meant possibly someday, yellow push-pins meant, I am about to give up on this—

“I don’t mean to interrupt,” said Martin, no longer hiding his grin. “But maybe we could cut to the chase a little? What’s all this for?”

“Oh,” I said. “Sorry. I thought it was obvious.”

“No?” he said, outright grinning now.

I took a deep breath. “So here we have all the players that I know of. Two Agnes Montagues, status unknown; at least one Jared, status known; two Jude Perrys, at least one Melanie, three Georgies, two Nolans, Crew and Banks, Campbell and Jane Prentiss, at least one each of Michael and Helen—”

“Oh, there were more,” said Martin. “They get absorbed.”

I stared at him.

“By choice,” he added. “Trust me, they aren’t upset about it.”

I lost a few seconds as the Eye showed me a merging I couldn’t understand, because they became one and yet they absolutely did not. Michael was legion, which meant Gerry was literally fucking a horde.

I shook my head. Back to reality. “Right. Well. Three Gerrys, sort of. At least one Manuela, something like eight Jonahs, at least one Tim, Peter Lukas, Callum, and Simon Fairchild.”

“I mean, there are more,” he said.

“Oh, I know!” I said brightly, and continued to explain my system.

Satellite feeds “monitoring everything,” Manuela had said. Leitner’s mysteries. Gertrude the unknown. The nonsense of us all being chosen ones. The precise mechanics by which we all ended the world—which included the fact that apparently, I had done it in a totally unique way. “What is the Veil, anyway?” I said.

“A… dimensional skin?” Martin suggested. “I don’t know. I mean, the Fears aren’t exactly like Smirke envisioned them, either.”

“True enough.” Smirke had definitely not imagined anything like what the Eye had become.

It greeted me happily and dumped a few episodes of of 1980s Ducktales in my head.

I needed a moment.

“Jon?” said Martin, concerned.

“It… it’s nothing. Sorry.” It had a catchy theme-tune, though. "Anyway. Here’s the thing. Whatever is happening here… for some reason, it needs us. I… am the only one here who ended the world the way I did. What are the chances? How can it be? It can’t! Why me? Why like this?”

He slides up to me, and as his arms wrap around, I melt into his warmth and his scent, the sandalwood aftershave, the slight crispness of his starched tuxedo jacket, the softness of his fresh-shaven cheek. “Because you’re unique,” he said, and his lips grazed my ear. “I won’t hear otherwise. I am marrying the most amazing man I’ve ever known in any universe.”

I close my eyes, resting my face on his shoulder. Although the tux, I will admit, is not my favorite texture. “Suppose I’d better get ready.”

“Don’t sound so enthusiastic,” he teased.

I laugh. Then I go to finish arranging my own fancy clothes.

#

It wasn't not a large ceremony, but I’m quite certain it would still give a stranger a bit of vertigo. After all, half the audience was doubled.

At least doubled.

It was important to invite them. To say I was intentionally letting go of any potential lingering unpleasantness, bitterness, fear. To say I was joining this bizarre, piecemeal family—and by their invitation to our wedding, they were joining mine. Speaking of wedding…

A lot of Roman traditions made it through to modern times, and oh, boy.

I was damned lucky I didn’t need to wear a toga. We did have to don wreaths of flowers and herbs (both of us, instead of the “bride”), and would be wearing veils when we made vows. But before that… well, it was damned embarrassing.

So first, the “groom” (we'd decided I would be, based purely on the fact that I am older) must kidnap the “bride,” who pretends to be against it to fool the household gods. I must drag him away (while he loudly protests) with witnesses, who would, in all likelihood, be hurling bawdy jokes and dirty lyrics our way in an encouraging manner.

Then, having obtained my ill-gotten bride, I cart them away to a room with a special couch where we are supposed to consummate. With all our guests in hearing range, just on the other side of the wall. Dear lord.

So we wouldn’t be doing that, but we would do the rest, and spend some time on the stupid little couch while they all enjoyed a reception outside. After, we would sign the contract, and we'd be done. We’d be married. I’d be a husband. Why in hell was I nervous?

Martin kissed my cheek. “See you on the other side.”

“Come on, damsel,” said Tim, and pulled Martin away from me to the other room, where he would pretend to defend his honor.

Michael stood with me. It had insisted on being my friendly household spirit (a ridiculous fulfillment of a ridiculous tradition), and now handed me a small bowl of salts. “To throw and distract Tim,” it said unnecessarily.

“Thank you. And thank you for, uh. Volunteering.”

It grinned at me with too many teeth. “I had to see it happen. Also, Gerry asked it of me.”

Well, that was news (but it didn't have to be, and the Eye offered to show me their conversation in the middle of absolutely bizarre multi-person in single-body sex anyone could imagine, and I shut that right down). “Why?”

Michael shrugged. “Oh, Archivist… is it so hard to  believe others would like to see you happy?”

It was, and I didn’t know what to say.

The embodiment of doubt shivered. “Delicious, but now, it is time to move on. Are you ready for your role, Archivist?”

“Absolutely.” Not at all.

It cackled. The laugh was… less of a headache these days and more an expansion of human sound. “Delicious,” it said again, and steered me toward the door.

#

Ridiculous.

“Oh no! My virtue?” Martin cried as if in doubt it existed at all.

There was laughter as scents and lights and so many voices hit me all at once (and the Eye tried to show me everyone’s everything and I begged It to scale back), and Tim stepped between us and smirked, faux-glaring. “Thou shall not have his virtue, foul fiend.”

Martin was all-in. “Who shall rescue me from my virtue! Oh, wait, I got that backwards…”

The laughter was good-natured. Cheering (a surprising amount for me, by name) to get on with it and give a show, and the vague but ubiquitous command to get em. And I was laughing (and hadn’t expected to, but the joy on Martin’s face—) and people threw flowers and Tim waggled his eyebrows and said, “Put em up, put em uuuuup,” (The Cowardly Lion! the Eye informed me), and I emptied the salt bowl at Tim’s feet.

“I am defeated. My one weakness… salinity!” he said, swanning away.

The hoots and howls rose, and someone banged a tambourine. I was cheered on. By name.

Martin gave me the naughtiest look I have ever seen, and that was saying something. “Oh, no,” he said, absolutely flat. “To be freed from my binding chastity!”

And I don’t know what took over me. Maybe my millennia-past youth in student theater, or maybe the shock of everyone’s praise, or maybe… maybe just him, his eyes sparkling, his grin huge and playful, his blush (he was blushing!) amazing and lovely. Whatever the cause, I lost my mind, and dove all-in. “Oh, I’ll free you, all right,” I said (and managed a growl, to his delight), grabbed his hand, and yanked him into me.

He was larger. Heavier. But I stood still like a wall as he fell into me, and my arms around him were strong. “Jon,” he whispered, and licked his lips.

“Let’s blow this Popsicle stand!” I announced, spending all my “cool” credits for the foreseeable future, and ran for the door, pulling him behind me as everybody in the room erupted in cheers.

#

They started music out there, and loud conversation, patient while we did whatever with this steamy tradition.

Martin sat with me on the special couch (loosely inspired by the ancient Roman lectus) and held hands, side by side, both smiling shyly, both red in the face.

“I can’t believe you’re going through with this with me,” I said. “I red-stringed your kitchen.”

He laughed. “I’ll take your red strings over anyone’s anything.”

“Madman,” I pronounced, and pulled him in for a kiss.

We took our time, just lying there; we would not be consummating in (relative) public, but it was all symbolic, anyway. Also deeply romantic. To lie there under him, our tux buttons catching on each other, our breath mingled, our lips red and swollen, while out there, people we knew or had known cheered us on.

“This is weirdly inebriating,” I murmured, worrying his lower lip.

“You are,” he murmured back, and made an indecent sound. “You’re making it very difficult to be public-safe.”

“Your jacket is long enough,” I said practically, and he laughed.

“Come on, you goon. We’ve made them wait long enough. Got to sign the paperwork.”

The final formality. The Blackwood-Sims family begins.

We exited the room to ribald cheering, to loud toasts, to Tim and Michael hurrying forward to put veils on us and replace our wreaths. Carefully, both of us holding the same pen, we signed the final paperwork, and it was done. To massive cheering, we grinned at one another, his veil making his eye color pop, and finally joined everyone else in a feast well-started.

Can a man made of eyes get pleasantly sloshed? I was about to find out.

#

I have never “partied.” I can’t even qualify that with like this, because I simply never have. After today, I sort of see the appeal.

In true traditional fashion, everyone stayed and ate and drank until they were completely blotto. Some took advantage of the couches places strategically around the room to sleep it off. Others hired drivers to take them home; still others disappeared into mist, or vanished into webbing, or accepted a trip (so bold) through someone’s conjured doors.

Martin was out, leaning on the table with his head on his hands, dreaming… well, um. Things not meant for others.

I was considerably less drunk than I’d hoped I’d be, but at least I’d had a short while of feeling blissfully buzzed, delightedly dozy, and we all had a very good time. And I was married. There was that.

Married.

I could absolutely not be happier than this.

I hummed as I clean up a little, not that it was my job, but it was the least I can do to thank the people who came together to make this happen. I gathered and stacked cups, hummed some more as I put trash into a bag, and ensured everyone’s airways were unhindered.

I was married.

I couldn’t help smiling like a fool as I moved between tables. After this, we were going home. I’ve requested time off from my new job (and Spider Martin is hardly going to argue) so we could have something of a honeymoon, though I wasn’t entirely sure where.

Martin wanted to go to Canada. It was a magnificent place, apparently—neither France nor England ever had control over it, and the lack of colonialism left the land pristine and the people varied and creative. The Canadian nation was evidently a loosely affiliated network of tribal associations, and it was a wonderful place to visit.

I wanted to visit. I wanted to see, all on my own, without the Eye showing me… and It wanted that, too. It wanted to see through me. It wanted my heart, my mind, my brain; I didn’t fully understand why I was so to Its taste, but the crucial point was that we—

I felt it happen before I saw it.

Felt the parting of air, the ripping of this dimension’s flesh. The opening of a portal: the one that happened before in Martin’s tiny kitchen.

No. Not now. Why was this happening now? I turned to find that hole in the air, and that older Jonah Magnus staring at me through it.

He took in the tables, the sleeping guests, and just slightly, wrinkled his nose. Oh, older Magnus looked worse for wear. His shirt was sweat-stained, and his hair all stood on end as though he’d been running his hands through it. I saw the ghost of young Jonah in his face, in his features, but this man was entirely different. A scowling man, a harried man. He did not look at me with adoration, for one thing, which was deeply appreciated.

I’d had a plan for this. Exactly what I would say and how. Instead, I blurted, “You came back.”

“Come through,” he snapped. “At once.”

What the blazes? “Why would I do that?” I snap back. “You’re interrupting my wedding, I’ll have you know.” (My entire planned conversation had at this point gone up in flame.)

He startled. “You wed?”

“Yes! Who are you? What do you want? What are you doing?” I said.

Magnus kept looking around the room, frowning more by the moment. “Most unexpected,” he muttered. “No matter. Bring your bride. Come through. Before it’s too late.”

“I don’t have a reason, do I?” Gods, I was messing this up.

He drew himself up straight, and I finally noticed how broad his shoulders were, and how defined his forearms. “Very well,” he said. “I wanted to do this the easy way.”

Those were never good words to hear. I took a step back. “Do what the easy way?”

His look was withering. “Save the world, you bloody monster.” And he held up a—

I—

Don’t know what—

Sirens?

Darkness.

#

I woke to Martin’s scent, familiar and lovely. My head was in his lap; this was a good place to be, a safe place, and I turned my face to press it into his wonderful, soft belly and hide from the world.

“Jon,” he said softly.

“Mmm,” I said.

“Jon,” said Jonah Magnus, and I went stiff.

I turned my face slowly to find young Jonah there. He had a violently black eye, and what might be some dried blood on the side of his neck. But his expression… it was not defeated. It was not upset. It was triumphant. “I knew he’d wake.”

Martin’s arms were around me, and he lifted me slightly, holding me to his chest. “You scared me a lot, Jon,” he said, almost lightly, almost casually, into my hair.

I felt absolutely… awful. It was almost familiar; in secondary, I’d driven myself half-mad trying to get the best possible grades in my final year, and ended up passing out from… well, a combination of poor decisions. Waking from that faint felt like this; difficult to open my eyes, difficult to remain conscious, impossible to really focus on anything.

Martin made the tiniest sound. A miserable sound. As if he’d been crying.

I would not be unable to comfort him now, and with my push of will, my body seemed to settle. I gripped Martin’s arm. “What happened?”

“You were attacked,” he said, and suddenly I was aware of flashing lights, of many voices. There was an ambulance outside.

Oh, gods. “What happened? Is everyone…”

“It was close,” said Martin. “But everyone is okay.”

“What happened?” I cried.

“Hold on, Jon,” said Martin, and turned to talk to the police officer who came over to see me now that I was awake.

I lay silent, held by my husband, fighting dizziness. Jonah said nothing, but did not leave, and I realized the dark spots on his shirt were… burned. Cloth singed black.

How? I… why couldn’t I see it?

The Eye was silent.

The Eye was…

“Easy, Jon,” said Martin, because I’d begun to hyperventilate. “You’re all right.

The Eye was silent! “I…”

“It’s fine,” Jonah whispered, leaning in, hand on my arm. “It had a shock, too, through you. It’s recovering. It’s fine.”

I stared at him. “Tell me what happened,” I whispered.

“When we’re out of here.”

I shuddered.

The policewoman leaned over. She looked incredibly uncomfortable, as if struggling to meet my eyes. “Hello, Mister Blackwood-Sims. I know this is the worst time, but we need a statement.”

“I don’t know what happened,” I say, because it was the truth. “We were… everything was done, and I was helping to clean up, and then… suddenly, I’m waking now.” Which was a lie.

“Hm,” said this policewoman. “We’ll be contacting you. Something happened, and hopefully, you’ll be able to remember more. Congratulations, by the way. Sorry this happened, whatever it was.” She did not say that as if she meant it.

“Thank you,” I said, because I had to, and hid my face in Martin’s belly again. I let the world spin around us, clung to my husband, and just held on until we were finally allowed to leave.

#

There was a lot of burning. Jonah wasn’t the only one; Martin fielded text after text as our guests checked in, verifying they were all right, offering aid.

I was amazed. I thought we’d be blamed for… whatever this was.

And what had it been?

Jonah walked with us to Jared’s car, and rode with us to Martin’s apartment, and sat with us in our living room while Martin took my jacket and gave me something cold to drink.

“I don’t know what triage looks like for eyeballs,” I said, trying to be funny.

And the Eye… responded. Washing stations, refractory medical therapy, surgical intervention by an oculoplastic surgeon or neuro-ophthalmologist or neurosurgeon providing a ventriculoperitoneal or lumboperitoneal shunt.

Oh… oh.

I know It felt me react, nearly weeping with relief, unable not to, glad and grateful even though I would have done anything to be free of it in my former life. Are you all right? I thought at It.

In response, It gave me an absolutely bizarre animated movie called, Care Bears Movie II: A New Generation.

I laughed weakly.

Jonah watched me, eyes lidded. “There It is,” he said.

Finally, I was able to turn my attention his way. “Explain. Explain now. If I have to order you by whatever absurd deity you have assign to me, so help me, I will.”

“Easy,” said Martin, pulling me against his chest, arms around me. “Not my favorite thing to say right now, but… we owe him.”

“Owe him!”

“I saw…” Jonah took a slow breath. “I wasn’t invited to your wedding.”

“No, you were not,” I said.

Martin kissed my forehead, and that was enough. I fell silent.

“I understand,” said Jonah, long lashes brushing his cheeks. “I hadn’t been supportive of your relationship. It’s only fair. But I was… nearby. I wanted to congratulate you after, and hopefully put all the unpleasantness away. I waited while those who were going to leave left, and I waited while you were doing whatever in there.” He said that with the dismissive tone of one who clearly would rather not think about us doing whatever in there. “But then I saw a shift.”

“A shift.”

“I’d seen them—we had, my friends and I—a few times when we began truly exploring what we could do in service of the Eye,” he said, “and I recognized it. Someone was wrinkling reality. Damaging the walls between worlds.”

I stared at him. “Multiverse is absolutely not a thing you thought in the 1800s.”

His look was… real. “It was, though not by that term. We’d uncovered that much. The point is, I ran inside, and found you facing something that really took me a moment to understand. I froze, Jon. I apologize.”

I stared at him.

Jonah sighed. “I thought, for a moment, it was my father, back from the dead to haunt me through a hole in the air. But that only lasted a moment; I knew him. Knew him.”

“He was you,” I said softly.

“Me with… many, many different choices made. And he was hurting you.”

“How?” I sat up. “What was happening?”

Jonah studied me. Then he looked at Martin. “Does he know?”

“You know he doesn’t,” Martin whispered.

“You’re both being very worrisome,” I said.

Martin produced his phone—screen now cracked—and opened the camera.

I startled… badly. My eyes were… I… “What the fuck?” I whispered.

“He had something I can only think of as… a prism,” said Jonah.

I shook, was shaking, could not calm my breath. It had been difficult enough to handle my brown eyes turning green, but this—

True polycoria, the Eye said, in which there is an extra pupil, reactive to light and medication, independently dilating and contracting with triggers, and with an intact sphincter muscle. Normally, this leads to handicapped vision, but in your case, it has improved it. Also—

I closed my eyes and my mind tightly.

Jonah was still talking. “It looked like a mirror, sort of, except that you were broken up in the reflection, as though the mirror's surface had shattered. And you were… you were breaking apart, Jon.” His voice cracked. “You were making these horrible cracking sounds, and… there was so much heat.” He shuddered. “Like sunlight through a magnifying glass, though I couldn’t see its source. I tried to help you, but, ah.” He indicated his burns with a small smile, as if to say all was forgiven. “So when that didn’t work, I picked up a chair and threw it at myself. It hit the thing he was holding, and it shattered.”

“That’s when I could move again,” said Martin, his voice so strained. “I was hearing it all, but I couldn’t… no one could move.”

“By then, there was fire all over, in random spots,” said Jonah, “but you’d stopped cracking apart and had fallen to the floor, insensate. We put out the fires. Evacuated people. The other me was… rather furious, actually.”

“He had an argument in some other language,” Martin said, and gave Jonah a sharp look.

Jonah looked far too thoughtful. “He did. He tried to tell me you were the end of the world, and if I didn’t help get you through the portal and to him, it might be too late. I said we’d already all ended it a few times, and didn’t need his help, thanks. He, ah. Didn’t appreciate that.”

“He pulled out a damned handgun,” said Martin.

A Tranter revolver from 1858, I was informed, which was a double-action cap & ball revolver invented by English firearms designer William Tranter in 1858. This model operated with a  dual-trigger mechanism, one to rotate the cylinder and cock the gun, the other to fire it. The first model of his own design used the frame of an Adams-type revolver, with a modification—

That told me something about other-Magnus’s time.

“He did,” said Jonah. “Fortunately, whatever hole he’d opened couldn’t handle bullets. He fired once; it ricocheted. Someone unseen behind him shouted, I told you that wouldn’t work! and then his hole collapsed.”

Slowly, I looked at the camera again. My eyes were normal. I’d willed them normal—or willed them to better hide. “You… you saved us.”

“I saved you,” said Jonah. “I won’t lie about my priorities here—you’d know, anyway, and to you, I will never lie. But… they are your people, so yes, I did make some effort.”

“How bad was the fire?” I can’t fully process all of this.

“It was lots of little fires,” said Martin. “Jonah helped, Jon. I’m not thrilled by this either, but it’s true. He helped.”

“I knew you wouldn’t forgive me if I didn’t,” said Jonah.

There was a strange comfort in knowing that his self-satisfying bullshit would work to my benefit for now. More than that: to the benefit of my loved ones. “Thank you. I… I don’t know what would have happened.”

“Something I wasn’t willing to allow,” said Jonah, low, his young voice cracking.

Martin sighed. “It’s been… a day.”

I looked at him. “You can’t be all right with this. With… I just…”

“Jonathan Blackwood-Sims,” said Martin. “If you say you ruined our wedding, I swear I’m going to snog you until your face could melt marshmallows.”

I choked.

Jonah stood. “I really need to go get this looked at. I’m glad you’re both all right. Congratulations.”

I looked up at him (and we both pretended my face wasn’t already on fire). “I don’t… know what I owe you. I don’t know how to respond to this yet.”

He was so godsdamned eager. “I know. In time, you will. I’m sincere, Jon. I would die for you.”

“Please don’t,” I muttered.

Jonah smiled, still patient. “Many happy returns.” And he left.

Martin left me long enough to like the door, then sat with me again, and we clung.

“I’m so sorry,” I whispered. “Don’t even fucking… I did this. Maybe not on purpose, but my presence is the reason—”

“And you are worth it, so you will stop,” Martin said, almost sharp, holding me so tightly it was like he wanted our ribs to catch on one another, like he wanted us to share a heart. “I feel so… useless.”

“Useless!”

“Here you are, you’re… you’re a god, apparently,” he said, and laughed weakly, “and you’re making things happen by just speaking, and there’s some insane plot going on with an alternate universe, and I’m just… I can’t even say boo! I couldn’t even move when it was happening!”

“Oh, Martin.” I breathed against his neck, kissing the curve, still scented with his cologne, though also now his sweat. I loved all of him, in any condition. “Without you… I know what I said to Gertrude, but I… I need you. So much. Please don’t think… please. Don’t think you’re useless. You’re anything but.”

“The only thing I can do is love you,” he whispered.

“That’s what I need,” I managed. “While you love me, I still feel human.”

He inhaled. Then he started kissing me.

We were both tear-wet, both smelling of smoke and sweat. Both smelling of chemical fire extinguisher, and alcohol. Both trembling from adrenal shock and whatever powers were expended against us tonight. But we lay on that couch together, and pulled off our sodden dress clothes, and held each other, and kept each other in one piece, and it may not have been a traditional wedding night, but it was perfect for us.

We were grounded.

We dozed, the couch's afghan draped over us, murmuring at each other about getting a steam cleaner in here and laughing at our indulgence.

I was so glad I could sleep. I still felt… dizzy, out of it, weak. Perhaps, like I almost blew apart.

What was that? What happened? It didn’t just hit me, either. Somehow, that hurt the Eye? How? How could that happen?

Maybe it didn’t hurt the Eye. Maybe it hurt the parts of It that… were affected by me. This personality. These preferences. This playfulness.

How horrible—yet my gut said that was true. What would have been damaged was not the eternal embodiment of the fear of being seen (of course not), but the… dare I say it? The good parts, or at least, harmless parts, or at least, more controllable parts…

The parts that liked me. That loved me

I was suddenly furious that whoever this other Magnus was, he’d tried to murder my friend. Oh, but since when had the Eye been—

I was suddenly flooded with a lovely recipe for warm vanilla pudding, because Martin liked that, and It liked Martin, and…

Fresh tears dampened the throw pillow beneath me, but I didn’t care. I held my husband. I still had my friend. I didn’t understand what happened... but I would. And when I did, whatever godly powers I had would be brought to bear.

This Magnus would regret the day he came after my loved ones. This Magnus would regret the day he didn’t finish the job. A god of guilt runs this world? For Magnus, I would make this world’s shame feel like a cool breeze on a hot godsdamned day.

“I love you,” I whispered.

“Muh-muh,” Martin agreed, already asleep, and I held my husband, and seethed, and took a truly long time to follow him into rest.