#she didn’t even actually seem that familiar with tma I just guess she’s heard about it a lot ? Respect !

[bifrostarchivist]

ok guys so i applied for an archivist internship at my college right. and during the interview the head archivist lady asked me why i became interested in archiving and i was like “okay so there’s this podcast…..” and she went “THE MAGNUS ARCHIVES?” and i went “yeah ☹️”

anyways i finally heard back and i got the internship !!!!! can’t wait to start the apocalypse….

[galaxy-parchment]

Jon is outed as Steampunk

Hello my beautiful patient followers. I’ve returned with TMA content because it’s my latest obsession. I’m proud to say that my first contribution to the fandom is an obligatory Mechs!Jon fic because I find them hilarious.

--

Tim was doing his best to avoid having to go up to the boss’s office all day, but was very disappointed to find he had no choice but to pop in for a visit to give him some of the ‘possibly true’ statements.

It wasn’t like he was going to believe it anyway - what was even the point? The guy was so uptight Tim didn’t think he knew how to have some fun and imagine the possibility that maybe there was something exciting in the universe. Tim supposed that didn’t really change the fact that he needed to give the guy his precious statements, so he groaned and grabbed the pile he’d gathered up.

He approached the door and stopped short of it, wondering if he would even notice if he didn’t give him the statements. He really didn’t have the energy for whatever job he was going to be given if he dared to walk in. Then something caught his ear.

Was Jon… chanting?

He was talking slightly quieter than his speaking volume and that definitely wasn’t English. It couldn’t be him speaking to himself. Jon had specifically told him the other day he didn’t speak any other languages. He tried picking out his words in case he was just mishearing, but the words were very clear and were certainly not anything coherent. He did catch him occasionally switch to humming. Was Jonathan Sims, head archivist of the Magnus Institute singing to himself?

Tim made a mental note of the more coherent words and stepped into the doorway.

“Hey, boss!” he couldn’t help but be amused at how Jon jumped at the sound of him. He ripped his hand away from his face, which was pressed up against it, and readjusted his glasses with the hand.

“What did you need, Tim?” he asked, looking up at him unenthusiastically. 

 “Got a fresh delivery of statements for you!” he said cheerily, stepping up to the desk and placing the pile on an empty part of the table with a satisfying slap.

“Later than usual I see. Doesn’t matter I suppose. Would you mind filing away all of these on your way out?” Jon said, gesturing to a pile of statement files that was even larger than the one he’d just brought in. Great.

“Sure thing, boss! Wouldn’t want you having any of the fun, eh?” He joked, which didn’t seem to carry the same amusement for the other man.

“Shut up, Tim,” he deadpanned, returning to his work, signalling that the exchange was over.

Tim wandered back to his desk faster than usual and frantically wrote down all of the phrases he could remember.

What were they…. He definitely said something that sounded like ‘yai’ and he thought he heard a ‘sothoth’. How was he supposed to find anything with this gibberish? With little hope he opened up his web browser,typing in the words, and was surprised to find it wasn’t gibberish at all. It was some Lovecraftian chant. He doubted Jonathan ‘this-statement-is-wrong-because-this-word-is-mispelled’ Sims would be the sort of guy to worship Cthulhu. 

He’d been humming though, hadn’t he? Maybe it was a song. With his impeccable research skills he added ‘song’ to the end of his search and right there on the first page of results was a song called ‘Red Signal’ by the Mechanisms. He clicked on a video and listened to the song. That was definitely the same tune. It was strange, though. He never really pegged the bossman as someone that listened to this sort of thing. It reminded him of a folksy sort of punk or metal? Then the chanting stopped and switched to a spoken verse and Tim froze.

Was that Jon? It definitely sounded like him… Maybe the voice was a bit deeper and gravelly but Tim could have sworn that it was his voice. He frantically searched up the band. After looking through some photoshoots for some old albums he couldn’t help but stare. That was definitely his boss with quite a bit of makeup and dressed in some very over-the-top steampunk getup and flipping off the camera. He suddenly felt someone pressing up against his chair from behind.

“Is that Jon?” Sasha asked, leaning over his shoulder, squinting at the screen with her head cocked.

“Apparently,” Tim said, grinning ear to ear. “Look, I did some digging and it turns out he used to be in this steampunk band,” he continued, showing Sasha more pictures of Jon and his bandmates on the page.

“That’s amazing. He looks quite good in the pictures though, don’t you think?” she said with a chuckle.

“Right? He actually looks like he’d be fun to have a drink with!” He switched back to ‘Red Signal’ and started playing it. “I mean listen to this, he’s actually good, too!”

“How did you even find this?”

“He was singing it to himself and I used my incredibly advanced skills to track it down,” Tim bragged, making a show of readjusting his lapels.

“If only you put the same effort into actually working,” she chided, giving him a cheerful nudge with her elbow.

“Alas, I don’t think there’d be any work left for the rest of you if I did. It’s a public service to you all.” He grinned.

“Riiiight, because this place could run without me around.” Sasha grinned back.

The door to the shared office opened with a sharp creak and Martin stepped into the room.

They looked up and Tim called, “Hey Martin! How was Bexley?”

“Quite nice, actually! No creepy witches sending body parts to people, but there were some very kind old ladies I had the pleasure of speaking to!”

“Sounds like it was fun!” Sasha replied with a warm smile.

Martin was placing his bag down at his desk when he stopped and looked back at the two of them.

“What song is that?” he asked.

Tim grinned mischievously. “It’s called ‘Red Signal’, it’s by-“

“-by the Mechanisms? I had a friend that loved them, played it all of the time,” Martin finished, chuckling to himself at the memory. “I quite like their music, actually.”

Sasha and Tim took a moment to stare at each other knowingly and beamed innocently at Martin as he turned back to them.

Sasha looked at him with the same warm smile she’d given him before. “Maybe you could ask Jon if he’s heard of them while you give him your report?”

“Are you sure? It doesn’t seem like the sort of thing he’d go for,” he wondered.

“People can surprise you all of the time, may as well ask anyway. It’s not like he’s gonna hate your guts any more than he already does.”

Martin made a disappointed wince. “I guess so.”

“Don’t let that grump get you down, Martin, he probably just has a huge crush on you,” Sasha smirked.

“What? N-no! As if, that doesn’t even make any sense!” he stammered, turning back to his desk and sitting down to hide the red that was spreading over his face. 

“Ask him, though, will you? I’ve already had to go up there today and he’s given me a whole stack of files to go through. Not sure I could take another trip,” Tim joked as Sasha moved back to her desk. “Don’t tell him it was me that was wondering, though, he’d probably think it’s a trick or something,” he added casually.

“R-right, sure thing, Tim,” Martin obliged.

—

Martin knocked on Jon’s half-open door later that day, report in hand. Jon spared him a brief glance upwards before looking back down at his work. 

“Did you find anything regarding the Bexley statement?” he asked, not bothering to hide his disinterest as Martin placed his report on the table.

“I didn’t find the woman described in the statement, but I made sure to check every elderly Angela,” he said, a bit disappointed at how useless the trip was. “I did have some wonderful conversations about jigsaw puzzles with a few of them, though!” he added cheerfully. Thankfully Jon didn’t seem to be in a mood to scold him, but wasn’t at all invested in the conversation. Martin was about to leave when he remembered Tim’s request.

“Oh, uh, by the way, we were- well we were talking about it earlier so I was wondering if you’d heard of the Mechanisms? Like that space pirate band that used to play in a lot of London bars?”

Jon froze up for a moment before quickly explaining, “Erm, no I don’t think I have. Not uh…. not a big fan of going to see bands play at shows, you know?”

Martin raised an eyebrow. “Oh, okay? I guess it doesn’t seem like something you’d like… are you okay? You seem… off?”

“I’m quite fine, Martin, just a bit of a headache, I suppose. If you’ll excuse me I need to get back to this,” he said dismissively, returning to whatever he was writing down and setting Martin’s report on a stack.

“Sure! Did you need any tea? I’ve got one that’s really good for headaches,” he offered.

“That won’t be necessary, Martin, get back to work.” 

“Right.” Martin concluded as he left the room.

—

Things had been going a bit too slowly for Martin’s liking in the past few days. That usually meant Jon got antsy about people not doing as much work. It wasn’t like there was anything to do in the first place.

He was at least in the break room with Tim having lunch, who was playing more Mechanisms music, so Jon couldn’t tell either of them off right now. As his mind drifted to Jon, the man himself entered the room with his own lunch and made his way to the coffee machine. 

The song Tim was playing was pretty good. Martin curiously looked at Tim’s phone on the table playing the music.

“What song is that, Tim?”

“Ah, it’s called ‘Loki’, it’s from this great album called ‘The Bifrost Incident’,” he said with an obnoxious grin. Jon looked at them and ducked his head when Martin looked back. 

Martin pulled out his own phone and searched up ‘The Bifrost Incident’ and found a video from a show that he opened up. After a bit of pre-show banter the first song started.

That was when Martin heard Johnny DeVille do the song’s introduction. He’d always thought the lead singer sounded familiar, but the paragraph gave Martin a very vivid recollection of the exact tone of voice Jon always used when he recorded statements. 

That couldn’t be right, no way was that him. He took a good look at Johnny and looked between his own phone at the man with black cracks drawn on his face wearing the most steampunk outfit he’d ever seen and Jon, who was standing there, in his sweater vest, making a cup of coffee to go with his sandwich. Tim was looking at both of them struggling not to laugh and Jon was suddenly VERY interested in the coffee he had just poured out.

“JOHNNY DEVILLE?” Martin exclaimed, prompting Tim to bend over, choking on his own stifled laughter.

Jon picked up his coffee and claimed his sandwich from the table behind him and refused to meet Martin’s gaze. 

“Thats- uh- probably just a coincidence… I’m, uh, I’ll just have lunch in my office today,” he mumbled out, clearly not convinced he’d covered it up at all and left the room without another word.

Tim pulled himself back up and let out a heavy breath. “Oh, ha, Martin, sorry, it’s just Sasha and I were wondering how long it was gonna take,” he sighed gleefully. “Hopefully he’ll face society again. Hard to imagine the bossman was ever that cool, huh?”

Martin stared at the door. “Yeah…”

—

The next day Jon came into the office, but hadn’t shown his face for the whole day. Martin felt bad about yesterday, he probably overreacted a bit. Tim assured him it was fine and that the boss just isn’t the type to take a bit of embarrassment on the chin. This didn’t stop Martin from dropping in with a cup of tea when it became clear Jon wasn’t leaving his office for lunch.

Martin knocked on the door and upon getting a gruff ‘yes?’ from the other side he let himself in. Jon was more dismissive than usual and didn’t even spare a glance at him. Martin wasn’t sure how much of it was his usual grumpiness and how much was because of yesterday.

He set the tea down in the spot Jon usually kept it, right next to his coffee mug from yesterday. Martin waited for any acknowledgement. The acknowledgement never came and Jon’s expression was unreadable. The fact that he was looking down intently didn’t help.

“You know, I think it’s pretty cool that you were in a band. It’s not like you’re a murderer or something actually bad,” Martin said, desperate to break the silence. Jon clenched his pen tighter and looked up at him cautiously.

“That’s… kind of you to say…” he responded.

“Don’t worry about it, we’ve all done some pretty silly things. I will be honest, though, Jon, if being the lead singer for the Mechanisms is the most embarrassing thing you’ve done, I am extremely jealous.”

Jon smiled in a way that looked almost bashful on him. “It was a lot of fun, performing. It was a real shame when we all split after university.”

“I can imagine,” Martin sighed, silently cursing himself at how softly he’d said it. “Steampunk outfits really suit you, though, Jon. The makeup was a nice touch too.” He turned and made his way back to the door. 

As Martin went to close the door behind him Jon grumbled, “Shut up, Martin.”

—

The next morning Martin found something on his desk. It was a Mechanisms shirt neatly folded up and a copy of the Bifrost Incident album, both signed by all of the band members. 

The note lying on top of them read ‘I had a few extras at home - J’ and Martin couldn’t help but feel giddy.

[ollieofthebeholder]

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

Tumblr tag || Also on AO3

Chapter 45: Martin Prime

“I Spy, with my mental eye, something that begins with…C.”

“Croft?”

“N—yes. Wait, how did you know that?” Jon sounded slightly indignant. “I didn’t even know you knew that word.”

Martin snorted. “Then you’re cheating.”

Jon sighed theatrically. “All right, fine, but which croft?”

“Hmm.” Martin pursed his lips thoughtfully. “The one two hills over, with the stone fence that was falling down in places. The one you had a hard time not seeing as sinister.”

“Well done.” Jon cupped Martin’s cheek in his hand and gave him a gentle kiss. “Right, your turn. Let’s go with…hmm. Let’s say Gertrude’s storage unit.”

It was a silly and relatively pointless game, but Martin loved Jon so much for coming up with it. They’d played I Spy several times when they were in Scotland because Jon had misunderstood Martin’s attempt to explain the one helpful thing he’d been given during his brief stint in therapy, but it had helped both of them, so Martin hadn’t told Jon until much, much later that it wasn’t what he’d meant. Still, it had been fun to play, and it had given them a brief moment of levity during their trek through the fearscapes between their tiny haven of sanctuary in Scotland and their ultimate destination in London. Martin had joked about playing it at Christmas, and Jon had apparently taken that to heart.

He’d come up with this variant not long after, and they’d played it a few times since. One of them would select a location they were both familiar with, and the other had to try and remember what it looked like, then pick something to “spy”. One part game, one part memory exercise, it was a continual surprise to Martin how many little details he could still picture in his head.

He sometimes suspected Jon of changing his answers solely so Martin could be “correct,” in the same way that Martin had never had a favorite color until Jon had guessed it to be green, but at least it was a fun exercise.

“Right,” he said, trying to cast his mind back over the storage unit. That one would be trickier. There’d just been so much crammed into a relatively small space, and Martin had admittedly been a little distracted by relief over having Jon back and talking to him, seeming to actually enjoy his company. It was hard to focus on details beyond the plastic explosives crammed in the hard case.

“I Spy, with my mental eye—” he began.

Jon’s fingers suddenly touched Martin’s lips as he hissed a warning to stay quiet. Martin froze and held his breath, and then he heard what Jon did—voices in the corridor. They were muffled but distinct, which did at least mean it wasn’t someone who didn’t need to be down there, but…

After a moment, though, Martin caught a laugh that sounded familiar and relaxed. “It’s them.”

“That’s…not good. It’s the middle of the day.” There was a rustle as Jon got to his feet. “God, what happened now?”

Martin bit his lip. Being blind and living essentially underground meant his internal clock was a bit off, but he trusted Jon. If it was midday, that meant it was Wednesday; Past Jon had been gone less than two days. He was probably still in Beijing. Nothing bad had happened to Jon while he was in China, unless there was something he hadn’t told Martin, and he probably hadn’t even had time to get into Pu Songling yet. Which meant something had happened to one of the others. Best case scenario, they’d uncovered a statement that bothered them or they wanted clarification on. Worst-case…

The door opened, and Past Martin’s voice came in, obviously in the middle of a sentence. “—like I’m offering to show you a pipe of Amontillado we’re keeping down here, it’s—oh, hey, you’re up already, that’s good.”

“What’s happened? Did something go wrong?” Jon asked urgently.

“Depends on your definition of ‘wrong,’ I suppose.”

There was a slight, nearly imperceptible creak as the door opened wider, and then a short pause before a female voice that sounded rather familiar spoke. “Is this some kind of a joke?”

Martin sat up a little straighter. “Melanie?”

He felt a surprising mix of delight and regret. He’d come to like the feisty firebrand in the short time they’d actually been able to get to know each other, despite the strain of the world having ended, and one thing he’d privately lamented when they’d made the decision to come back in time was that he wouldn’t get the chance to talk with her again, so having the opportunity was an unexpected pleasure. On the other hand, the fact that she was here and being brought down probably meant that she’d been trapped into working at the Institute, and that sent a stab of aching melancholy through his heart. They’d wanted so badly to keep her from turning bitter and angry…

She didn’t sound angry, though, at least not yet. Then again, their Melanie hadn’t at first either. “Are you clones or—you knew my name. What are you?”

Martin couldn’t help the grin that curled across his mouth, even as he got to his feet. “Me? Oh, I’m the Antichrist’s plus-one.”

The surprised laugh sounded like Tim’s. Melanie actually sounded delighted. “Does that mean he’s the Antichrist?”

“Assuming you’re pointing to Jon, yes.”

“Melanie.” Jon sounded like he was struggling to keep his composure. “It’s—it’s good to see you. What are you doing here?”

“Getting initiated. Or hazed, maybe. Depends on how you want to call it.” There was a rustle of fabric, and Martin guessed Melanie had just folded her arms across her chest. “You’re looking at the newest Archival Assistant.”

“Oh, Melanie,” Jon murmured, his voice full of regret.

“Yeah, yeah, I know, evil fear things, spooky stories, you can check out any time you like but you can never leave, today we are canceling the Apocalypse, blah blah blah.”

“Any other pop culture references you want to throw out there?” Martin asked dryly.

He could imagine Melanie shrugging. “I mean, you might have to give me a minute to come up with a few. But they told me all about the crap they have to put up with. We have to put up with, I guess.” She paused. “So, neither of you really answered my question.”

“Melanie King, meet the Primes,” Tim said. “Jon and Martin, meet the crazy woman who knew what she was getting into and did it anyway. Ow!” he added, punctuated by the dull, wet smack of somebody being punched in the side. “Jeez, what were you, a boxer in another life?”

“You say that like I’m not a boxer in this one,” Melanie grumbled. “I just don’t compete is all. Prime whats?”

“So you know those pop culture references?” Past Martin said. “Here’s one more. They’re—they’re Jon and me, from the future. They’re the reason we’re trying to stop the Apocalypse. The reason we know we need to stop the Apocalypse,” he corrected himself. “Tim calls them the Primes, like—”

“Like Spock Prime. Got it. Okay.” Martin could picture Melanie’s scowl pretty clearly; it had been more or less her default expression for a while. “Well, then. Unless one of you can mind-meld, you’re going to have to prove that some other way.”

“No, fortunately, the ability to plant thoughts and memories in someone’s head is one I was spared.” Jon sighed heavily. “I—I don’t know if there’s anything I can…m-most of what I know about, about your future counterpart are things that haven’t happened yet, o-or the others could have told us.”

Martin pursed his lips as a thought occurred to him. “I can think of one thing, but you probably don’t want it bruited about.”

“I seriously doubt that there’s anything you can come up with I wouldn’t want them knowing.” There was a challenging edge to Melanie’s voice that was all too familiar.

“Melanie—” Sasha began. Great, everyone was there.

“No. You think you know some big secret about me, something I wouldn’t have told you until later? Fine. Say it. I look forward to being able to look you in the eye and tell you you’re wrong.”

Martin sighed in exasperation. “You got shot by a ghost while you were in India. In the leg. You told the doctors it was a—a mugging, right? They couldn’t find anything in the scans, but trust me when I say it’s probably still in there.”

There was another one of those long pauses. “Fuck.”

“I did warn you,” Martin pointed out.

“You did, and I should have listened.” Melanie snorted. “I mean, obviously. I’ve only been working here for three hours and I already know that’s the number one Archives rule: Always listen to Martin.”

“Excellent life advice, both in the Archives and out,” Tim agreed.

“Both of you shut up,” Past Martin muttered, but without a lot of heat behind it.

Martin laughed. “It really is good to—we have missed you, Melanie.”

“You guys must have had a really rough few years if we’ve known each other long enough for you to miss me,” Melanie said, but he could hear the smile in her voice anyway. “For what it’s worth, it’s good to meet you.”

There was a bit of an expectant silence before Jon made a flustered-sounding noise of surprise and tapped Martin’s arm. “She wants to shake.”

“He’s not an idiot,” Melanie snapped. “If he doesn’t—”

“No, I’m blind. Sorry, should have warned you.” Martin reached out and found Melanie’s outstretched hand.

“Oh.” The slight pull against Martin’s arm was the only clue he got before Melanie—at least he assumed it was Melanie—surged forward and hugged him instead. In his ear, she said, “You look like you need it.”

“Well, I’ll never say no.” Martin didn’t need physical contact quite the same way Jon did, but it did give him comfort to feel a friendly touch once in a while. And it was substantially more important now that he was blind to have a tactile connection to the world around him. He was just momentarily caught off-guard; he’d forgotten how much shorter than him Melanie was.

After a moment, Melanie pulled back. “Right. Do I get an explanation or is it ‘you’re from the future’ and we leave it at that?”

“We can explain. Right, Jon?” Martin added, raising an eyebrow in his fiancé’s direction.

“Right. Of course. Ha-have a seat.” Jon sounded like the entire situation had put him off balance. “We’ll see what we can do.”

In a lot of ways, it was easier than when they’d told their story to the crew the first time, close to a year ago now. First of all, the team was aware now of a lot of things they’d had to explain, and Melanie had lived through at least some of it, so there was less to catch up on. Second of all, Tim, Sasha, and Past Martin were able to help fill in a lot of details. Including some things even Jon and Martin hadn’t been aware of.

“And then the world ended,” Jon concluded, much as he had the previous year. “And Martin and I…well, eventually we decided to try and put it back.”

“By coming back in time? How’d you even know you could do that?” Melanie asked. “Is it in one of those statements up there?”

“No. N-no, I don’t—I don’t think so. I don’t know how the Keeper found out about that passage back. That wasn’t our original plan,” Jon said slowly. “I’m not completely sure we had a plan, come to think of it.”

“Head to London, kill Jonah Magnus, and hope for the best,” Martin said with a shrug. “Push the big red reset button. I don’t know. I think we were still figuring it out when we got there.”

He could hear the frown when Melanie spoke next. “Sorry, I’m new to all this, I’m sure you’ve been over it a lot, but—how did you know you could? Can’t imagine the big scary fear god that thinks it’s won just…giving you a map to all its vulnerable spots or whatever. How did you know there was even a way to fix it?”

“We didn’t,” Martin said simply. He felt Jon lean against his shoulder and wrapped an arm around him. “But we had to try.”

There was another long pause before Melanie spoke again, her voice almost too soft to be audible. “Who else survived? Besides you two?”

“What?” Jon asked with a frown.

Martin realized she had almost been too soft to be heard; he’d only caught it because he had to concentrate so hard. “You, Georgie, and Basira. And the Admiral. But in our timeline…Sasha’d been gone for years at that point, she died when Jane Prentiss attacked us. And our Tim died in the Unknowing. Once Daisy went over to the Hunt, we were the only ones left.”

“The whole rest of the world died?” Melanie demanded.

“No,” Jon said quickly. “No, not—not yet. They would have. Eventually. But no. After the Fears came through…the world divided largely into two categories. Watcher or Watched. You were either trapped in a fear’s domain or—or observing one.”

“So which one was I?”

“Neither. You and Georgie, you were both sort of…outside it. I don’t know that you were the only ones, either, but you were the only ones we knew about.” Jon paused, then added, “You kept going into domains and—rescuing people, actually. Or trying to. These tunnels are a blind spot, and that didn’t change even when the Institute became the literal center of the world. You and Georgie would run into a domain, get someone out, and bring them down here.”

“And inadvertently started a cult,” Martin added. He couldn’t help the slight smile that tugged at his mouth. “You hated it.”

“God, yeah, I would have. I swear, the worst part of Ghost Hunt UK is dealing with the fans. I just got into it to investigate the paranormal, not to be famous doing it.” Melanie sighed heavily. Martin felt bad for her. “So what happened to us? After you left. Did you erase the whole future timeline so none of it ever happened, or did the three of us have to either fix it ourselves or live in a post-apocalyptic hellscape for the rest of our natural lives?”

“I—I don’t know.” Jon sounded incredibly shaken.

Martin rubbed comfortingly at Jon’s shoulder. “We left before…we didn’t get to tell them we were going. The Keeper—the one who helped us get back in time—he promised he’d let them know what was going on, he said they’d be safe. As far as I know, we didn’t…that timeline still continued to its end. I just don’t know when its end was. And unfortunately, we never will. Personally, I think what would have happened is that when the Keeper told everyone that our plan went to hell and Jonah got away, your counterpart would have said ‘fuck this’, got a knife, and gone after him herself. She kept trying to kill him in our timeline and he saw her every time. I don’t doubt for a minute that she’d take advantage of the fact that he literally wouldn’t have been able to see her.”

“Why not?”

“Same reason he can’t see me. Because she was blind, she was immune to the Eye. And as hard as she was working on her anger, I think she knew how to turn it into a weapon. Also, she hated Jonah.” Martin sighed. “So yeah. We don’t know what happened to everybody in our timeline, but if anyone could fix it, it’d be our Melanie. Correcting the Apocalypse with a knife and sheer spite.”

“Damn right,” Melanie said. Someone turned a laugh into a hacking cough.

Jon sighed and leaned against Martin’s shoulder. Martin shifted slightly to settle him into a more comfortable position. After all these months, the movement was as natural as breathing. “I’m so sorry, Melanie. We—we’d hoped we could keep you out of all this.”

“Hey, don’t take away my right to choose. I knew what I was getting into.”

“Did he ask?” Jon asked. “Or did he just hire you?”

“Of course he asked.” Melanie sounded exasperated. She dropped her voice to a lower register and did a very poor, mocking imitation of Elias’ drawl. “‘I understand that your show is on a hiatus, and with Jon off traveling, I’m sure Martin and the others could use some assistance. Jon spoke quite highly of your research abilities. Would you be interested in a paid position here in the Archives?’ I could have told him to fuck off if I’d really wanted to.”

Martin replayed the words in his head a couple of times. “Yeah, sounds like he flattered and dangled bait in front of you, but didn’t actually force you. Very carrot and stick.”

“So why did you say yes?” Sasha asked, sounding curious. “Knowing what you were getting into, more or less?”

Melanie sighed heavily—Martin was incredibly familiar with that sound—but to his mild surprise, it was Past Martin who answered. “She told us that, Sasha. Or at least indirectly. She—you said you started Ghost Hunt UK to investigate. And when we were having lunch before you left for India…I saw how animated you got when you were talking about that student film you did. The supernatural, the paranormal, it’s genuinely something you’re interested in. You agreed to join the Institute because it lets you do all that and get paid for it, with the added bonus of not having to deal with people if you don’t want to.”

“Yeah, basically. And, you know, if I can help save the world, that’s a nice little plus, too.”

Martin heard the rustling of fabric, but he honestly couldn’t have said if it was a hug or a light shove or what, and Tim’s next words made him none the wiser. “Thought you couldn’t read minds.”

“I can’t. I just know people.” Past Martin’s voice softened. “I promise, Tim. I’m not developing any new abilities.”

From the way he said that, Martin could picture quite vividly what Tim’s face had to look like. It was probably somewhere between the way he’d looked when he’d brought Sasha her coffee after she’d been attacked by Michael and the way he’d looked when telling Martin what had happened to his brother—a mixture of concern and fear and maybe a little bit of heartbreak. Tim really did worry about the others developing powers from the Eye, but there was probably an additional layer here because it was Past Martin.

Martin did know people. He had a fairly intuitive sense for the mood of a room and the way people interacted. In his timeline it had led him to play peacemaker, or try to, attempting to mediate between Jon and their Tim. In this…go-round, he supposed…it mostly meant he was picking up on a lot of things that weren’t being said, or at least weren’t being said aloud. He’d heard the fabric rustling, the lighthearted banter, the genuine laughter. He’d picked up on the gentleness in Past Jon’s voice that reminded him of the way Jon had spoken to him so often after Prentiss attacked, after he’d been accused of murder, and especially during those agonizing months he’d been working with Peter Lukas and they’d been so close and yet so far apart. He’d noted the affection in Tim’s voice, the way he’d tried so hard to control his anger and fear and actually talk to them. And of course he knew himself, and by extension his past self, knew what he sounded like when he was trying to navigate a simple conversation without wearing his heart on his sleeve, when he was trying to throttle back an emotion he desperately wanted to express but didn’t think would be welcome…or safe.

He knew love when he heard it, and dear God, if it had been that obvious to him for so long, he was already mentally betting with himself against how long it would take Melanie to call them out on it. Because he also knew hidden love, and he was willing to venture that they weren’t trying to hide their relationship because they thought it was inappropriate in the workplace. He was willing to bet all three of them thought it was unrequited on their part and that they had to keep it hidden from the others lest they be shot down.

He’d never really thought about polyamory himself, but in retrospect, yeah, maybe he had had a bit of a crush on their Tim. At least for a while. That would never have gone anywhere, though.

“Do we need to get out of here?” Melanie asked. “I mean, is Big Nose McCreepy going to notice we left the Archives essentially abandoned?”

“No, we’ve got a bit,” Sasha said. “He’s supposed to be meeting some of the Institute donors for a lunch of some kind. He’s not on site and he’s going to be occupied for a good while. I’m kind of hoping he gets a little tipsy, too. Anyway, he thinks he’s got us over a barrel right now. He thinks he trapped you into the Institute, so he’s feeling smug enough that he’s not going to pay attention to us for a while. His plan is to give us the rest of the week, at least, to let you ‘settle in’ before—”

“Sasha!” Jon said sharply. He sat up so suddenly it almost pulled Martin off-balance.

“Oh. Oh, shit.” Sasha inhaled abruptly. “I swear that wasn’t on purpose.”

“That’s—Christ, Sasha, you shouldn’t be able to do that from down here—”

“I didn’t—I Knew that before we came down. I’m pretty sure.” Sasha took another deep breath. “Right, okay. I don’t know who’s nominally in charge while Jon’s away, but—I think maybe I should take tomorrow off? Just to…recalibrate. Ground myself. Get some distance.”

“Take the rest of the week,” Tim suggested. “I don’t know who’s nominally in charge either, but—”

“I’ll stand in for your Jon,” Jon said. “Tim’s right. Take a good long weekend. Don’t think about the Institute, or the Archives, or the Fears. Just…I know it’s easier said than done, but try to distract yourself.”

“I think I have a way of doing that.” Sasha sounded thoughtful. Martin was pretty sure it was sincere.

“What do you do?” There was a hint of a challenge in Melanie’s voice, but also a good deal of curiosity. She was genuinely asking. “When it gets too much. What do you have that keeps you from—doing whatever it is you shouldn’t do?”

“Going out and pouncing random people to draw their traumas out of them,” Jon said dryly. “And I have Martin. He’s been my anchor for…much longer than I realized at the time. We’ll read or—or talk, or take a walk or something. We played cards a lot when we were in Scotland.”

“We were playing I Spy earlier,” Martin added.

Sasha snorted, but Past Martin seemed to actually understand. “Like a memory game type version?”

“Basically, yes. We pick someplace we both know—or knew—think about what was in it, and pick something for the other to try and guess. Five tries or less. And no mind-reading.”

“It’s still your turn,” Jon reminded him. “The storage unit.”

“Hmm.” Martin thought for a moment, then smiled as he remembered the one thing he’d fixated on while they were there. “I Spy, with my mental eye, something…brown.”

Jon made an exasperated noise. “I swear that must have been her favorite color. That could be anything.”

“Well, then, you’d best get guessing.”

“Fine.” Jon sighed heavily. “The…box full of dolls.”

“Nope. Guess again.”

“The book? The one we didn’t know what it was?”

“That was black.”

“It was—never mind.” Jon sighed again. “The notebook?”

Martin shook his head. “Come on, Jon, think. This is me we’re talking about. What would I have been looking at?”

“The…the frame on the painting with the dogs in it.”

“One guess left.”

“Give me one more hint.”

“It was the first thing that gave me hope in weeks.”

Jon was silent for a long while. Finally, he said, “I give up. I honestly, genuinely cannot think of anything that was brown that might fit the criteria you’ve given me. What do you spy?”

Martin’s smile widened. “Your eyes.”

There was a chorus of awws and exaggerated gagging sounds in equal measure from the other four, but from the way Jon took his face in both hands and kissed him, tenderly but thoroughly, Martin could tell that his choice had had the effect he wanted.

[loth-creatures]

Pain That Binds

TRIGGER WARNING: self-harm, blood, cutting, Big self-esteem issues, vaguely suicidal thoughts

TMA hurt/comfort day 1!

Jon’s hands were shaking as he tried to cut into a slightly stale bagel he’d scavenged from the breakroom. He was weak with hunger, though not the right kind. Not for food that didn’t taste like anything anymore and didn’t satisfy anyway. But Basira insisted he at least try to keep some fat on his ribs through normal human means, and it was not a good idea to argue with her. He had to prove that he still wanted to be human.

He flinched when the knife inevitably slipped and sliced his knuckles instead. Pain raced through his nerves and blood welled up and dripped onto his desk. Only for a moment. The cut sealed itself in seconds and Jon was once again left without distraction from the gnawing emptiness inside him. And a reminder that this pretending wasn’t working. Nothing was working, and well...what was the point anyway? Jon did want to stay human, but who was he even being human for anymore? Basira had made it clear that she would give him the chance, but if he couldn’t manage it, he wasn’t worth it. Maybe she was right. It seemed he’d managed to drive everyone away already, and they’d had the right to leave him. Georgie was right to distance herself. Tim had been right to hate him. Martin? Jon knew he had no right to miss Martin as much as he did.

And yet. If he let his humanity shrivel away, however flawed it was, he would only be making himself even more pliable to Elias. He still didn’t understand why, but if he let himself fall completely under the Eye’s control, the people he wanted to care about would suffer even more. If Jon was worth something to only one person, then it sure as hell wasn’t going to be Elias.

Jon surrendered the bagel and paper plate to the trash and slumped back in his chair, closing his eyes and trying to center himself. A pile of old statements lay on the desk but his gaze wouldn’t focus on them. None of them stood out the way they used to, as if now that he’d gotten a taste of real prey, the Eye would disdain anything less. The world tilted and his head ached with restless, seeking static. God, if only it would shut up. At least for a moment. He ran his fingers over the burn scars on his right  hand. Jude Perry’s mark still twinged slightly if he pressed in the right places.The maze of welts was now too familiar to be much distraction, but the pain dulled the static just a little. Just enough.

Suddenly knowledge erupted in his mind, just before he heard Elias’s deliberate footsteps in the hallway outside his office. A tiny burst of fear fluttered in Jon’s chest. He knew better than to be afraid, but what if Elias knew? Knew everything that Jon was thinking and feeling. Jon tensed and dug his nails deep into the scars, sparking tingling pain, breaking the skin, trying to stop himself from shaking so damn much. Elias stopped in front of his door, mockingly, with no intention of coming in. He didn’t need to, to see how Jon was doing.

Eventually he left, but Jon’s anxiety didn’t abate and he found himself continuing to dig at the small scrapes he’d manage to draw a tiny bit of blood from. They... weren’t healing. Jon opened his hand and forced his eyes to focus. Now that he’d stopped digging at them, they did start to close. Jon frantically scratched at them again. A burst of hope that his body might still be capable of working normally seized all his concentration. The static died. He ripped at the skin of his palm, desperately trying to keep the scratches open, as if they were his life line slipping away, but they were healing faster now. Anger built inside him, simmering with fear. Without thinking he snatched the knife off his desk and dragged it over his palm. Pain snapped his mind into focus and then the wound disappeared, mocking him. Jon glared at the scars that lined his palm and dotted his arms. All these scars. Like brands. Yet his body refused to bleed.

The static built in his head again, even more insistent than before. Well, if it wouldn’t shut up and leave him alone...With white hot determination, Jon seized upon the will of the Beholding and slashed again at the Desolation’s brand.

It burned. It bled. And it didn’t stop. Tears streamed down Jon’s face but instead of his own triumph, he felt only the Eye. It was enjoying this. He’d marked himself with his own power, and the action  was only making its hold stronger, as it drank up the fear that swam under his brief rebellion.  

Jon sat there, defeated, pinned under the Watcher’s sight, sucking in erratic breaths as the pain only grew worse and worse. He wondered if he’d just done himself in. He’d refused to feed his patron and now it seemed he’d offered himself up instead. Perhaps it would be better if he just let it consume him. But just as Jon remembered that despite everything, he really didn’t want to die, something changed. The Eye’s gaze shifted towards something else. Jon saw it too; the beginning of a small tragic scene within a longer story. Jon’s mind prickled. It was the enticing glimpse of prey. But beneath the Eye’s hunger, his own instincts resurfaced and he knew that something was wrong. Someone he cared about was hurting.

“D-Daisy.” The whisper left his lips before he realized he knew who needed him. He pushed himself out of his chair, the effort taking every ounce of strength he had left. Blood rushed away from his head, vision blackening, and he pitched forward. He caught himself on his desk, and cried out as his lacerated hand slid against the wood. Stupid, stupid, stupid thing to do. Jon belatedly noticed that his other hand was still clutching the bread knife. Cursing it and himself, he hurled it away. Perhaps Martin had been right to be worried all those years ago, about letting Jon near knives. Even if that scar had actually been Micheal’s doing.

He had to brace himself on the desk for several moments, waiting for the dizziness to ebb enough to walk. The Eye was still nagging, telling him to seek out the pain and fear of his next victim. He told it to fuck off. Taking a deep breath he dug for the strength to leave the office, tucking his injured hand against his chest and using the other to steady himself against the wall as he cautiously followed his Sight down the gray corridors of the Institute. For once he was grateful for their emptiness. He was pretty sure Martin would have a heart attack if he saw him like this. At least, the Martin he remembered and longed for.

Daisy’s room wasn’t far away,luckily. Jon nearly fell through the door, but managed to keep his feet as he fumbled for the light switch.

“Daisy?”

He’d heard her startle as soon as he’d entered, Knew she was sitting on the corner of her cot, against the wall, knees drawn to her chest, blood weeping down her arms.

“J-Jon? Go away. Please.”

“I, um. No.”

////

Daisy buried her face into her knees, determined not to look at Jon. Why did he have to be so damn stubborn? She could smell his blood, hear his labored breathing, feel his exhaustion. Whatever had happened, he’d made himself excellent prey. He needed to leave. Daisy dug her nails deep into the scratches she’d made, trying to focus on her own pain and blood, keeping the Hunt’s attention away from Jon.

“Jon, you’re bleeding, the blood--I’m going to hurt you if you don’t get out. Please.”

“No.” Daisy didn’t notice that he’d approached until he tentatively touched her wrists. She snarled and flinched away. Jon retracted his hands for a moment.

“You’re not going to hurt me. Because I’m not afraid of you. I am not afraid of you, Daisy.”

Daisy considered that. He was...right. She knew it. She could still kill him. The Hunt still wanted her to. But...Daisy realized she didn’t need to.

“Huh.” She grunted. This time when Jon gently guided her hands away from her arms, she let him. She could feel him trembling, and as concern began to replace the urge to tear into something, she let herself unfold and look up at Jon. 

“God, Jon. You look like shit.”

Daisy stood, lending some support by taking Jon’s hands. He winced, and Daisy pulled her palm away, now slick with red. The scent wafted into her nose, her throat. The urge to spill the rest of his blood was almost unbearable. She choked it down.

“Jon--”

“Y-yeah, I know. You’re not much better off, you know.”

“What happened--”

“I--I, I hurt myself. I hurt myself like you’re doing now. It didn’t help. I fucked up. P-please stop.”

Daisy nearly buckled under his slight weight as his legs gave out. She cursed herself for still being so weak.

“Fuck! Jon, I can’t--wait, there we go.” Muscles burning, Daisy sat Jon down on the cot as gently as she could. She knelt in front of him, brushed his long hair away from his face.

“You are such an idiot. Hey, look at me. Can you see me okay?” His eyes locked on hers for long enough that she could hope he wasn’t going to pass out. He nodded.

“Right.” She dug the box that contained her medicine out from under the cot, rummaging for the gauze and antibiotic she knew was stored in there as well. She took Jon’s hand in hers and had it cleaned and wrapped with practiced efficiency.

“Okay. I guess I should get you some water or tea or something. Wait here--”

With strength he shouldn’t have had, Jon grabbed her wrist and pulled her down beside him.

“You too.” He said, fumbling the cap off the antibiotic cream and smearing some onto the welts in her forearms. Daisy was confused until they started to sting as Jon’s fingers made clumsy, uncoordinated contact. It wasn’t until then that she actually remembered they were there.

“Oh. Right.”

She was used to them now, apparently. She’d reopened them so many times now that they were well on their way to scarring, the seams of skin raw and tired of trying to heal. Looking down at them as Jon began to cover them with bandaging, she realized that she didn’t want them there forever. She’d promised Basira that she would try to come back from all this. If that miracle came around, she knew she wouldn’t want to look down at those scars in the future, though she was sure she deserved to. She didn’t see how she could stop at this point though. The Hunt was still there, still hungry. If she had to hurt someone, it was going to have to  be herself from now on.

“No, it doesn’t,” Jon snapped. Daisy jolted, startled by the force in his voice, at the same time feeling the static prickle of being Known.

“Hey!”

“Sorry,” Jon mumbled. “I didn’t mean to.”

“Hmph.”

A couple awkward seconds passed, then Jon continued wrapping Daisy’s arm. “I’m serious though. You can’t keep doing this. It’s helping no one but the Hunt. Trust me, I’ve...tried too many times.”

“Hmm. We’re both real wreckage, aren’t we?” Daisy said.

“Yes. Real dumpster-fire people.”

Daisy snorted. “Me, maybe. Not you though.”

“What? Daisy, I’m--”

“A mess, a complete idiot sometimes, and also a right bastard once in a while. But that didn’t stop you from mutilating yourself to save someone who wanted to kill you.” She poked him in the side where his ribs were missing, eliciting a scandalized yelp.

“All I’ve ever done is hurt people. Kill people.”

Jon considered that. Maybe it was a tad awkward that one of his only friends was a murderer. There was no denying that Daisy had been a terrible person. Yet looking at her now, Jon couldn’t help but be a little proud. He squeezed her hand. “Well. For what it’s worth, I think you...are capable of being better. But you can’t start by hurting yourself.”

“Hmm. We’ll see. The pain, it--it helps me focus on not wanting to kill. It’s exhilarating...In a twisted way, I guess. Doesn’t replace the chase, but it's something.”

“Well, find a different outlet. Buy a shit load of steak or...something.” Jon said in his pretentious I’m-right-and-you’re-not voice.

Daisy turned to look at Jon. There was a haunted look in his face. Daisy realized that he had scared himself by doing what he’d just done. He’d done a lot of reckless things in the past, she knew. Reckless acts that had gotten him badly hurt. But this was the first time time he’d deliberately and directly hurt himself for the sake of hurting himself. Unlike her, he was not used to it, and he didn’t want to be. And he was scared for Daisy too. Although, Daisy was pretty sure he was too late to start worrying about her bad coping methods. Of course he was still going to try, and probably be a pain in the ass about it if she didn’t try as well.

“Heh, you’re a good friend, you know? So that goes for you too, Jon. You’re gonna be better, yeah? And take care of yourself to do it.”

Jon’s eyes dropped. “I...Don’t know if I can. The Eye has a stronger hold on me than the Hunt does on you. It’s pretty determined to keep me.”

“Pfft. Doesn’t matter. You’re too bloody stubborn. And I’m pretty determined to keep you too. And so is Martin.”

“M-Martin? He’s--got other things to worth about now. I didn’t give him any reason to keep caring about me.”

“But he still does, Jon. He’s just as stubborn as you, you know? You’re worth it to him. So be better for him. And I’ll be better for Basira. And for you. Okay?”

“Ah--okay, yes! Yeah. We’ll be monsters together, and then, uh, not monsters for everyone we care about?”

“Not monsters. Just very fucked up people.”

“Right.”

Daisy looked at Jon’s brightening expression and had to laugh. “You know you’re blushing, right?”

“What?”

“So when did you realize you loved him back?”

Jon spluttered, his cheeks darkening further. “Uhh, erm, I--”

Daisy laughed again. “Nevermind. Hey, you know what we need right now?”

“Um.”

“Let’s try food. I mean good food. When’s the last time you ate something other than trauma?”

Jon huffed. “Well, I tried to eat a bagel today. It didn’t go very well.”

“You mean the shit that’s in the breakroom? No wonder you’re collapsing everywhere. I know you’re probably never hungry anymore, but seriously. Let’s get takeout at that fancy Indian place down the block. Shock the system back into liking food. I’ll pay.”

Jon had to smile. He doubted he would be able to keep much down, but supposed he should start making up for all the times he’d declined dinner with his coworkers--his friends. He’d missed chances with them. He wouldn’t miss anymore.

“Alright. Th-that sounds good. Thanks Daisy.”

“Yeah. You too.”

TRIGGER WARNING: self-harm, blood, cutting, Big self-esteem issues, vaguely suicidal thoughts

I speedwrotethis I speedwrotethis I speedwrotethis, BUT I did have a beta reader!

@themagnuswriters

[pitviperofdoom]

It’s impossible for me to get into a fandom without coming up with an AU or two. Or ten. I’ve got several for TMA, and I’ve written for a few of them already. 

Under the cut is the beginning scene of the one that I’ve developed the most. I’ve been sitting on it for a while, and I don’t have enough to start posting on AO3, but I thought I’d share this here at least. 

Hope you guys like Head Archivist Martin!

***

When Martin received the e-mail summoning him to Elias Bouchard’s office at his earliest convenience, he thought, Well, that’s it then.

It was only a matter of time. Honestly, it was a miracle he’d made it this long. It was a miracle he’d made it in at all; he’d applied to the Magnus Institute almost on a desperate whim, because surely an academic institution would take the time to run basic background checks on new hires. But then he’d gotten a call back, and then he’d gotten a second interview, and then he’d been called in to fill out all the necessary paperwork, and that had been years ago, now.

And now here he was, staring at a formal message from his boss, requesting his presence for a meeting to discuss “his future with the institute”. And that could only mean one thing.

Of course, Martin thought distantly as he typed out some generically polite response. All things come to an end eventually. It might be a stretch to say all good things come to an end, because sometimes he wondered if this job really was a good thing, if the stress of waiting to be caught in his lie was worth it when he still had to stretch his funds to cover rent and food and Mum’s care and scrape together a rainy-day fund for any inevitable disasters.

Martin got up from his desk, half-heard Hannah’s greeting as he passed her on the way out of the library, and numbly pointed himself in the direction of Elias’s office. Already his mind was racing through the math, calculating how long he could afford to hunt for a new job.

At some point he shook himself. It was no good to walk in panicking. He just had to stay calm, somehow. Be polite. Hope like hell that he’d made himself useful enough to at least broach the topic of listing someone as a reference.

…Yeah, right.

He was lost deep in thought—so deep, in fact, that he didn’t notice his coworker until he was already colliding into them.

Luckily, he was walking slowly enough that the crash wasn’t terrible, even if the other employee seemed to be in a hurry. It was more surprising than painful, and they both kept their footing, so… could have been worse, really.

“Sorry, so sorry—” Martin stammered out, stumbling back, and froze when his eyes landed on his coworker’s face. “O-oh. Morning, Jon.”

The look he got in return could have split rock. “Do try to watch where you’re going.”

Martin couldn’t help but wilt under the glare, for all that Jonathan Sims was nearly a head shorter than him. “Sorry, again,” he said. “Are… you alright?”

“Obviously I’m alright,” Jon retorted, already storming away.

“No, I know, I didn’t mean us crashing into each other, it’s just, I was wondering if…” Martin hesitated, with the growing dread of someone stepping into a minefield. Jon had paused but was looking increasingly impatient, so Martin ripped the bandage off. “I mean, are you alright, work-wise?” Jon’s scowl deepened. “It’s just, if you ever need—I dunno, an extra set of hands, or—” Jon left without a word.

“Guess not,” he muttered, mentally kicking himself. It was stupid to offer anyway, when he was probably minutes away from being let go.

Something about literally running into Jon had knocked his growing nervousness off balance, and he was almost paradoxically calm when he knocked on Elias’s office door. It was mostly open already, but it seemed the polite thing to do.

“Ah, hello, Martin.” Elias’s voice, calm and clipped though it was, brought the nervousness rushing back. “Close the door behind you, if you don’t mind.”

Martin did as he was bade, then took the chair that Elias indicated for him and tried not to fidget. “You, er, wanted to see me?”

“Yes, of course.” Across from him, Elias shuffled papers that Martin was too nervous to look at. “It’s a matter of some urgency, so thank you for coming so quickly.”

“Of course,” Martin said, trying not to fidget. He opened his mouth to say something else, couldn’t think of anything, and closed it again.

“You’ve been with the institute for about six years now, haven’t you?” Elias went on.

“A-almost, yes.” Martin replied, heart pounding in his throat. Distantly he wondered if Elias could hear it.

“Good, good. As I said in the e-mail, I was hoping to discuss your future with—”

“Have I done something wrong?” Martin blurted out, and immediately regretted it. For a moment he longingly imagined vanishing into thin air just to escape the situation. Or a hole opening up underneath him, maybe.

Elias raised an eyebrow at him. “If there’s anything you can think of…?”

“I mean, the wording was a bit ominous,” Martin stammered out. “So I was just wondering if—if there was something wrong… with how I was doing things?”

“Hardly, Martin,” Elias replied, and the relief that flooded through Martin made him light-headed. “Quite the opposite, actually. I was more than satisfied during your last performance review, and you’ve yet to give me any reason to change my mind.” Elias leaned forward, hands clasped neatly in front of him. “I’m sure you’ve heard about… recent developments, with Gertrude Robinson.”

“The head archivist? Y-yes.” Against all odds, he did know about recent developments with Gertrude Robinson, namely that no one had seen her in a while. She was already a reclusive woman—Martin had only met her twice and seen her from afar a few times besides that—but lately she seemed to have vanished outright.

Martin wasn’t close with anyone at the institute, either in the library or elsewhere, but that didn’t mean he didn’t hear the gossip. It didn’t mean he didn’t notice things, like the lack of people coming in to give statements. Or how dark and still the Archives had been over the past week or so.

Or how sullen and angry Jon had been, for about as long.

“Well, work in the Archives is never done, and unfortunately she was already somewhat… understaffed,” Elias went on. “Since the beginning of her absence, I’ve been reviewing employee files in the hopes of finding a replacement.”

“Oh,” Martin replied. In the back of his mind he thought, No, absolutely not, he can’t possibly mean…

“Simply put, Martin, I think it would be best for the position to go to you.”

“Oh,” Martin repeated. “M-me? Really?”

“I can think of no one better for the job,” Elias said with a thin smile.

“Really.” Martin struggled to keep most of the disbelief out of his tone. “No one better? Not… I-I don’t know, the person who’s already been working in the Archives for the past year?” He swallowed, with some difficulty thanks to his dry throat. “I… sorry, I don’t mean to sound ungrateful? But I thought… I thought Jon would replace her, as her assistant… since he’s already been working under her, a-and he’d know the archives better, and…” His voice trailed off.

“I understand,” Elias assured him, his smile turning almost friendly. “And you’re right, I did strongly consider him for a time. But, his duties were largely research and clerical work for Gertrude, and he unfortunately lacks a background in library and information science.” He indicated one of the papers in front of him—a familiar CV, Martin realized. His CV. “You, on the other hand, have been working in our library for the past six years, and you listed a previous job at a records repository.”

“Oh, right,” Martin said faintly. What his CV didn’t say was that he’d been in the night cleaning crew, not the accessions department.

“I understand if it feels a bit daunting, but don’t worry,” Elias went on. “I have great faith in you, Martin. And as you said, Jon’s familiar with Gertrude’s system, so you’ll have his expertise to fall back on.”

Oh God. Oh God, if he took this job then he’d be Jon’s boss. Unqualified, clueless, and living a lie, and Jon—with actual experience and competence and an existing predisposition to dislike him—would be his subordinate.

Oh, the thought made him ill.

Martin took a deep breath. He’d just have to turn it down. There was no upside to taking it; he was technically unfit for the job he already had, and he certainly wasn’t prepared to be anyone’s boss, especially not Jonathan Sims in the archives of the Magnus Institute. If he took this job, they’d find him out for sure.

“So, if that’s settled, we may as well discuss a pay raise and expanding your benefits,” Elias went on lightly. “These things come with a promotion, of course.”

Martin froze in his seat, uncomfortable and stiff in spite of its padding.

He thought of the bills on his kitchen counter, and the perpetually empty rainy-day fund. He thought of his mother, in that care home in Devon that wasn’t going to pay for itself.

“A-alright,” he said quietly, slumping a little in defeat. His eyes were fixed on that damned CV, and because of that he almost missed the look of calm satisfaction in Elias’s eyes.

Twenty minutes later, Martin wandered back out of Elias’s office in a daze. His feet carried him not back to the library, but down to the archives where the air turned dusty and stale. He wasn’t sure what he was there for. Maybe to apologize? Jon must have heard. Elias must have told him first, and that was why Jon was so irritated with him when they ran into each other.

Not that it mattered, in the end. Jon was nowhere to be found down there, and Martin could only search for so long before the air of the place got to him and he fled back to the library.

Even down there, away from the rest of his coworkers and well away from Elias Bouchard’s office, Martin couldn’t shake the feeling that every eye in the institute was on him, just waiting for him to screw up.

[slightlyloomingone]

Local Cryptid Tries His Best

As previously mentioned, I read a ridiculous number of time travel TMA fics and wrote this as a result. Inspired by lots of things, but especially The Guy Next Door, by pigeonanarchy, which is an amazing fic if you like time travel, Archivist Sasha, Jon being a cryptid and trying his best, jonmartin and the original archives team. Yes, all at once, go read it. This one has s5 Jon going back to pre-canon 2014 and trying to help statement givers, especifically Erin from MAG 63, so spoilers for that, I guess? Also warning for Brazilian writing British people.

At first, Jon thought he could just… scare Erin and her brother-in-law away from the entrance into St. James’ Church underneath St. Paul’s. He was rather scary, after all. He found his way inside the church shortly before midnight (he was getting better at this breaking and entering thing), and waited for them near the spot where he thought he could sense the Dark, assuming that would be the entrance they would take.

When they arrived, Jon would just have to do the Archive thing and drive them away. Easy.

He hadn’t counted on Erin Gallagher-Nelson’s response to his voice saying “you should leave this place” being to brain him with her torch.

“Erin, what the fuck! Did you just kill a guy?” a male voice was almost screaming while Jon lied on the floor, groaning. Not his best moment.

“Well, he shouldn’t have crept up on me like that, if he didn’t want to get hit!” Mrs. Gallagher-Nelson almost screamed back, sounding… halfway between unrepentant and concerned, actually. “Hey? Hey, you alright?”

“Fine…” Jon slurred, pushing himself up and blinking. There were spots on his vision. Concussion? “Mrs. Gallagher-Nelson?” he asked, feeling someone’s hands help him sit up, but then let go again at Erin’s next words:

“I’m sorry? Do I know you?”

Jon chuckled weakly and pressed his palms to his eyes.

“No…” he answered. “But I know you, Erin…” he forced himself to look up at the short-haired woman now glaring at him. “You came here to take pictures, right?”

“Yes,” she bit back. “What about it? Do you work here? Did someone warn you about me?”

“No on both accounts,” Jon tried to stand up, but then sat back down when his vision started spinning. “But I know for a fact you’ll regret going down to St. James’ tonight, if you don’t turn back now.”

He tried to give his best Archive Look, but Erin and Luke, now standing beside her, didn’t look impressed.

“Is that supposed to be a threat?” Erin asked, sounding incredulous.

“Uh…”

“Because I don’t feel very threatened right now.”

“I mean…”

“No offense, pal, but you look like a strong wind could knock you down,” Luke added, and Jon glared a little at them both.

“This is not a joke,” he snapped. “If you go down there, I can assure you at least one of you won’t come back.”

“What? Are there murderous ghosts down there?” Erin mocked and Jon huffed at her.

“Not exactly ghosts, but definitely murderous,” he finally managed to stagger to his feet, feeling the Eye healing his concussion slowly. “Just go home, there are other places to take pictures of.”

They did not go home. Not even when Jon followed them down the entrance, almost slipping and falling from the ropes they had used in the process, which… didn’t seem to help when it came to convincing them to go home.

“If you fall and crack your head open, I refuse to be held responsible,” Erin warned while Luke placed the lightning rigs along the underground tunnel.

“Would that make you leave?” Jon asked, watching the walls a little nervously. No signs of shadows so far.

“Why would you ask…?” she sighed and shook her head, getting her equipment out. “Never mind, just stay away from the lights, we won’t take long here.”

“You really should leave, Erin,” Jon tried again. “This place isn’t safe.”

“Because of the murderous ghosts,” Erin mocked, preparing her camera as Luke finished setting up the lights.

“They aren’t ghosts.”

“Right, my bad,” she knelt down and adjusted the focus, camera pointed towards the tunnel. “Just stay put, we’ll finish this in a moment…”

This was not good. Jon watched the walls, remembering how the statement described the shadow of a person showing up in the pictures of the far wall. Were they already here? He tried to focus, to See, but the Dark was so antithetical to the Eye that it was hard to do so down here, if only he could find it…

“Luke!” Erin suddenly complained, and Jon realized she was looking at the pictures in the camera. “You’re standing in front of the lights!”

“No, I’m not!”

Jon saw her look back at her brother-in-law, look away from the far wall, and right there, standing in front of it, he saw it.

“Step back,” Jon said, and he was suddenly standing between Erin and the shadow on the wall. “Stay away from them.”

He could see the shadow better the longer he focused on it, and it looked like a person, but in a few moments it wouldn’t be.

“What are you doing?” Erin asked, sounding annoyed. “I said to stay away…”

“Hey, Erin…”

“I said to step back,” Jon blinked and there were two shadows, so he didn’t blink again. “I see you,” he warned.

The lights were flickering. Jon could feel the Dark creeping closer, trying to hide their creatures from his view, and it made him glare at it, furious that these things would try and challenge him.

“Hey, I don’t know what your deal is, but we have work to do here, just get out of the…”

The shadows were wavering. Turning less human-shaped. Turning into something monstrous. Jon glared and opened his eyes wider.

All of them.

“I See You,” he spoke in the static-filled voice of the Archive, and there were gasps of fear behind him, but the shadows were trembling, growling and snapping teeth towards him. “Leave them, or not even the Dark will protect you from me.”

They hissed and growled and the lights flickered and then. Went out.

The moment they did, Jon felt the sharp pain of something piercing his stomach. He cried out and then forced himself to bite down the sound. He wouldn’t give the Dark the satisfaction. There were frantic sounds of fear behind him and then a camera flash, bright and blinding, but still a source of light.

He glared at the shadows again, snarling and calling the Ceaseless Watcher's gaze upon them.

“I See You!" he said one last time, and it was finally enough.

The lights flickered back on with the shadows' retreat and Jon staggered in place with a gasp.

“Oh, my god, you’re bleeding!”

“What the fuck, what the fuck…!”

Jon covered the wound on his stomach with a hand and turned around, stumbling a little. He looked at Erin Gallagher-Nelson and Luke Nelson, feeling exhausted.

“We really should leave now,” he managed to tell them.

“Fuck!” Erin hurriedly put the camera back in her bag and Luke, for some reason, stepped forward and put Jon’s arm over his shoulders. What? “Come on, Luke, just bring him here, we can… we can use the ropes and… and...”

“What are you doing…?” Jon muttered as he was half-dragged, half-carried to the spot where the ropes still dangled from above.

“Just keep putting pressure on the wound or something,” Luke babbled at him as they walked, and Jon kept some eyes open to watch their back just in case, and he knew Luke could see them, he knew he was afraid, but he was still helping him. “Come on, come on, Erin, call an ambulance when you have signal!”

“Yeah, I know!”

“I can’t go to the hospital,” Jon mumbled. Wow, he felt light-headed. His hand was pressed on the wound and it felt sticky with blood. Gross.

“Well, I can’t have you bleed to death right in front of me, so shut up and deal with it!” Erin snapped, untangling the ropes and waving the two of them closer at the same time. “Bring him here, Luke, don’t you stop putting pressure on that, you creep!”

“I don’t understand what’s happening,” Jon muttered as they started tying him up with the rope, for some reason.

“Just keep pressing that, pal, you’re gonna be alright, yeah?”

“Help me out here, Luke!”

Jon may have passed out for a moment when they started using the ropes to pull him up from the tunnel. In his defense, being stabbed really hurt. He didn’t remember it hurting this much the last time it had happened. Or maybe it was that this wound in particular hurt a lot? Either way, he came back to his senses lying on the floor of St. Paul’s Church with Erin and Luke arguing as they knelt above him, and, oh, no, she was using her phone…

“Please, don’t call an ambulance,” Jon groaned, pushing himself up. The wound was healing, but… very slowly, he thought. Probably because he had used Beholding to deal with the shadows and didn't have enough in him to take care of it. He was still bleeding a lot, although Luke had apparently been putting pressure on it with a jacket.

“What are you doing?” Erin snapped at him, her voice shaking with something that could be anger or fear. Probably both. “Lie back down, do you want to bleed out?”

“Not particularly,” Jon muttered. “But I still can’t go to a hospital. So.”

“We won’t tell anyone about the… the eyes, if that’s the problem,” Luke whispered, his own eyes wide with terror. “You can hide them, can’t you? So just… just…”

Jon looked at him and he flinched. That made him sigh. He really was going to bleed out if he didn’t do anything. Actually. He tried to check on the wound, which made Erin snap at him again to stay put, and it was bleeding a lot, and fast.

“I don’t think I’ll last until the ambulance arrives,” Jon mused, still feeling a little dizzy.

“Well, you won’t if you don’t stop moving…!”

“I really didn’t want to do this, this time…” he mumbled, shoulders sagging. “But…” Jon raised his eyes to them, remorseful. “I’m really sorry, but, please, tell me what you saw in the tunnels.”

He heard the click of a recorder running someehere. Luke was the one who started talking, but Erin picked it up, and soon enough, Jon was lost in the familiar rhythm of a statement. Yes, he had heard this one before, but it was different enough now, and it was… it was still fresh. He breathed in when it was done and let out a quiet sigh that was undeniably satisfied. Then he looked at the two wide-eyed victims in front of him and whispered:

“Thank you,” he gently removed Luke’s hand from his stomach and then the jacket, checking the wound. It was halfway to healed now. “Yes, that’ll do.”

“What happened?” Erin asked quietly, still watching him. Jon sighed and pushed himself to his feet. “Wait, you were… you were just…”

“I’m really sorry,” Jon said again. “I wouldn’t have done this if I had any other choice,” he paused, trying to decide what was the appropriate response. “You should avoid tunnels for a while. Or caves, or… dark places, really. Stock up on torches, and batteries, and stay away from, well, from churches too, probably. Hm.”

“Will they come after us again?” Luke whispered and Jon winced.

“There’s a chance,” he admitted. “I never figured out how to counter it, but…” he frowned. “Actually, maybe you should just leave this church as soon as possible? I don’t think it’s safe here…”

“What?” Erin was starting to glare at him again.

“Well, they stole your camera last time…” Jon muttered and then took a step back at Erin’s look of indignation. “Just avoid churches in general, just in case? Don’t forget the torches… um…” he decided it was time to leave. “And… and I’m really sorry, again,” he said one last time, retreating a few more steps.

“Hey, wait a second…”

“Sorry! I’m really sorry, I have to go…”

He almost ran out of the church, ignoring the two of them calling out behind him.

That. That could have gone better.

Also, being stabbed really hurt.

[fates-theysband]

Chronophobia

Rating: T

Ship: Aeren Chapman/Tim Stoker (vaguely alluded to; this is more of a narrative oc profile)

Warnings: mentions of decapitation and vivisection, vaguely described gore, blood, head trauma, canon-typical thanatophobia triggers, more than canon-typical swearing (not in that order)

i literally am not capable of just writing a fic, it all has to be vaguely epistolary bs like “craigslist missed connection” and “basically a script for an episode of tma”. Jon’s dialogue is in bold, to make up for the fact that there’s not a single dialogue tag in this whole mess

--

"Statement of Avery Chapman, regarding the bizarre events preceding the death of their twin sibling Aeren Chapman. Statement taken direct from subject, twenty-third June two thousand and sixteen. Statement begins."

"Look, this isn't going to cast me in a great light to start off with, but I lied to get in the door. I mean, can you blame me? If I had let me in, and I’d heard the truth, I would've been like, 'We don't have time for pranksters, come back when you have an actual statement to give.' Because, I mean, come on. What I'm about to tell you sounds like bullshit. The truth is, I'm not Avery Chapman, and my statement has nothing to do with any events from before Aeren died. So, let me give you a more accurate version of what you just said."

"Statement of Aeren Chapman, regarding the bizarre events following their own untimely death. There, now it's on the record. Let's get into it.”

"My entire life, I could hear a ticking clock. Not literally. But I was always thinking about the time. How long would it take to do this? How much time until that? Will I be able to do everything I want or need before time runs out? Nobody really understood, of course. From the day I was old enough to even communicate that kind of feeling, all I ever heard was, 'Don't worry, you're young! You have all the time in the world!' And it was the same, right up until the end. I mean, guess that's not really fair to my folks. They tried to get me help, usually in the form of allergy meds that kind of had anti-anxiety properties in low lighting if you were really trying to see 'em. I've never been a cheap drunk and since my grandpappy on my mom’s side was, every psych I went to see was too scared of the Ghost of Addictions Past to give me anything that worked. So instead, I lived with the clock. And I got really good at pretending it wasn't there. Sometimes I could even enjoy the moment."

"That changed when I got older, of course. I'm from the US, if you couldn't tell from the...everything about me, and you probably can at least guess how it is over there. Go, go, go, until you drop dead if necessary, to appease the almighty money line. And unlike with school, with work you don't exactly get summers off. So that ticking clock came back full force. I remember, one time, my roommates and I were going to get carry-out and watch a movie, and I had work in the morning. One of my roommates, Jace, went out to pick up the food, and I guess he got stuck in traffic or something, because he didn't get back for an hour and all I could think was 'that's one less hour I have to actually relax before I have to get up and go back to work tomorrow', and I was on edge the entire rest of the night. Couldn't enjoy the movie, was short with Jace and Holly every time they tried to make conversation...just being a real irritable asshole."

"That was pretty close to when it happened, actually. Maybe a few weeks or so. I guess that would explain a lot. It doesn't matter what happened to me the night I died. All you really need to know is that it was violent, gruesome, and traumatic. For some reason, it didn't even register to me that I was dying until I realized I could hear the ticking, for real this time. With every single step it got louder and louder, matching pace with my feet staggering down the pavement as my body was basically falling apart below me, until I finally rounded a corner and collapsed. And then the ticking stopped, and I looked up."

"I could see a skeleton sitting in front of me, but...not the way a corpse would be sitting. Not the way I was sitting. They were sitting criss-cross applesauce, and for how old and dusty the bones looked I was shocked to see that they were dressed pretty young for, you know, a skeleton. Big skirt, peace sign shirt, hippie headband, that kind of thing. Could've died in the seventies, could have died last year. I didn't get to really figure that out before they motioned to the things laid out in front of them. Game tokens. Not an exhaustive amount of them, but I could see a chess piece, a die, and a deck of cards. All bone, because apparently every single psychopomp’s a corny bastard. I tried to decline. I know that sounds ridiculous, but I was sick of the clock and I couldn't see an upside to going back to it. They laughed at me. Not out loud, but they made the motions. Then they urged me to pick a token again. Asshole."

"By the way, turns out Death knows Yahtzee. I wouldn't say I expected to win. I wasn't even sure I hoped to win. All I wanted was an end to the not knowing. I figured something out that night, Archivist. It’s not death humans are afraid of, it’s uncertainty. If we knew for sure exactly what happened after we died, I don’t think anyone would be afraid to die.”

“Guess this goes without saying, but I won. Didn’t even cheat, just got a few really good rolls. I didn’t really know what to expect; I figured my insides would knit themselves back together and I’d rejoin the world of the living instead of playing Yahtzee with a hippie skeleton in a dark alley on a street that was normally a hell of a lot busier. That I’d go back to the miserable job and the crappy apartment and the ticking clock. But that isn’t what happened. If it was I would’ve taken this whole experience to my permanent grave. I mean, someone’s insides got knitted back together that night. But they weren’t mine. I watched the flesh fall off my bones as the skeleton in the long skirt became more and more alive, until a flesh-and-blood girl who couldn’t have been older than me stood up and left the alley. I think she said something to me as she was leaving. I want to say it was ‘forgive me’, but I’m thinking it was ‘better you than me’. For some reason I wasn’t scared or sad or anything but relieved. It sounds fucked up, I know, but have you ever lived a life where you had nothing to look forward to? At least with this I could see a way out.”

“I won’t bore you describing the interim. You look like a smart guy, you’re probably familiar with what the Grim Reaper does. What matters is how I got all the meat back. And why I’m wearing this massive coat and knit cap in June.” “You see, most people in the few years I did this were partial to the chance games, or low-skill board games. Roulette was a big one. So was blackjack. Someone got smart and tried Candyland once. But only one person ever picked chess.”

“He was maybe mid-thirties. Wasn’t really sure what had happened to him but he was covered in blood and terrified. I’d say ‘scared to death’ but that seems gauche. I don’t understand chess beyond the basic object of the game and what the different pieces can do, but even I could tell this guy was either terrible at chess or not in the right mental place to be making strategic decisions in a game for his life. Or both. Both is always an option."

“I could have wiped the floor with him, even with my lack of skill. He pretty much put his king in check by himself, all I did was avoid his clumsy attempts to capture my pieces. Here’s where you probably think I’m about to say ‘this is where I got sloppy’ or some shit like that. No. I knew exactly what I was doing and I meant to do it.” 

“I’d say it was agonizingly long, but really, any amount of time is agonizingly long when the action is ‘playing chess in complete silence under a bridge somewhere in London’. But after the most frustrating game of my life, my clueless savior checkmated me. I told him I was sorry as I left. I don't know if he heard me over the screaming."

"Just like that, it was over. Quick trip to a library told me it had been about three years since I won the most important game of Yahtzee ever, and that same quick trip found me an extended family member in the area who didn't ask too many questions. Weird, really. Always thought my dad was an only child. But that's beside the point. Since becoming flesh again a few months ago, I haven't heard the ticking clock, metaphorically or literally. I suffered the agony of death and the indignity of reaping, and came out the same as I've ever been.”

“Or so I thought. Here’s the thing: whatever chose me that night didn’t like that ending for me. The dying are supposed to try to cheat Death. It’s in their nature. If they win by successfully cheating, more power to them. But Death is impartial. Death isn’t supposed to cheat. And Death certainly isn’t supposed to get clever and throw the game. Which brings me to the main reason I'm here, I guess. Give me a moment."

[There is a sound of a heavy coat hitting the floor]

"I normally don't wear tank tops, but in this case it's kind of important that I show as much as I can. Check this out."

[There is a sound of something unzipping]

"They unzip into shorts. Best sixteen pounds I ever spent. Would've just worn shorts, but with how big this coat is I would've looked like a flasher. And now, off with the hat. Don't freak out."

"Good god, what happened to you!?"

"I literally JUST said not to freak out, dude. Impressive you managed to keep it together up until the bleeding head wound though. A lesser man might have said that when he saw the sutures."

"None of this stuff actually happened to me, of course. Not in the sense that I was ever actually physically vivisected or beheaded or whacked in the head hard enough to crack my skull. These just happen to me. I wake up with them, for the most part. And...well, I'll spare you the gruesome stuff, but they're not stitched up neatly when I get them. Thank god Cousin Jesse's a passable seamstress, because hospitals tend to lose their shit when you bring in a patient who's still up walking around with several fatal wounds and no detectable pulse. Not something I want to deal with twice."

"So that's the whole story, I guess. I broke the rules, and now I'm suffering the consequences. The wounds go away, after a while. At first I thought it was mercy, but now I know it's because if some of them didn't disappear there eventually wouldn't be enough left of me to keep punishing. And, I'm not exactly an expert, but I think I'm supposed to suffer the damage from every single gruesome, unimaginably painful death that's ever happened to a human being before I'll be free. That's a lot of deaths. Good thing I have all the time in the world, I guess."

"Statement ends."

“Awesome. Is that all you need from me?”

“I believe so.”

“Great. Let me just get all my coverups back on...”

“Don’t forget your...trouser legs.”

“Of course not.”

[There is a sound of something zipping.]

“Uh, if I don’t see him on my way out, can you tell that hot guy with the undercut who showed me the way to your office that I’m sorry I ran into him? I turned the corner too fast and damn near hip-checked the poor guy into a wall. Not a great first impression.”

“I suppose so.”

“Thanks a bunch. I’d ask you to give him my number, too, buuuut right now I only have a home phone. Oh well. Later, skater.”

[Click.]

[ollieofthebeholder]

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

[1] [2] [3] [4] [5] [6] [7] [8] [9] [10] [11]

Also on AO3

Chapter 12: Martin Prime

As soon as he heard the bedroom door shut behind Tim, Martin turned towards Jon. He didn’t even get his mouth all the way open to say anything before Jon’s hands were on his face, and then Jon was kissing him.

It was their first kiss in far too long, since Martin had kissed Jon goodbye and promised to see him on the other side, and thank God it still felt the way it had before. A part of Martin had worried that things would be different—now that they were in the past, now that their plan was on its way, now that Martin was blind. This went a long way to reassuring him that they weren’t, though. Nothing had changed between them.

He gripped Jon’s elbows to hold him still. Jon’s hands dropped from Martin’s face and slid around his neck, seeming to try and pull him closer, although honestly if they got any closer Jon would be inside Martin’s rib cage. He also somehow managed to deepen the kiss, which Martin wouldn’t have thought possible a second previously. He closed his eyes and gave himself completely over to the moment.

The need for air was the only reason they separated, even a little bit. Martin rested his forehead against Jon’s and reveled in the simple fact that they were together again. It had probably been a good thing that they’d had these two weeks apart—it had given Martin a chance to prove to himself, and hopefully to Jon, that he could manage on his own—but he wasn’t going to deny that he’d missed him, and that he wanted him there as much as possible.

Something wet hit his chin, and it took Martin a second to realize what it was. Jon was crying.

“Jon?” he asked, unable to hide the worry in his voice. He reached up hesitantly to cup Jon’s cheek and rub his thumb across it, catching the tear tracks coursing down it.

“I was afraid I’d lost you,” Jon whispered. Martin could feel his sweater bunching up into his hands. “I was so damned—sure of myself. I told myself, when I let you follow the Keeper into that door, I told myself it would be okay, that whatever was hiding you from the Eye, from Jonah, I-I was sure it wouldn’t keep you from me, that I’d be able to find you, that I could Know you wherever you were, and then I couldn’t and I—I kept telling myself you were fine, you had to be fine, that I’d see you when I got to the Archives and you’d fuss at me for trying to get in your head and then we’d laugh about it, and then I got to the Institute and I saw all that chaos a-and I couldn’t find you, you weren’t there—”

“Jon. Jon, it’s okay, I’m okay,” Martin soothed. He pulled Jon’s head down to his shoulder, then began rubbing his back in slow, gentle circles with his free hand. “I’m okay. We’re okay.”

“It’s n—” Jon’s voice started rising, but he checked himself and hissed, “It’s not okay. I promised you I wouldn’t let anything happen to you, and then everything almost happened to you. You were in the middle of Jane Prentiss’s attack, again, but this time you were alone and blind and helpless—”

“I’m not helpless,” Martin interrupted. He was rather proud of the fact that he managed not to say that in an angry or petulant tone, but quietly and firmly. All right, yes, he was a little pissed at Jon for thinking of him that way, but he did get where Jon was coming from. Still, he’d done perfectly well for himself on his own. He honestly didn’t know if he would have been able to do as well as he’d done if he hadn’t spent time with Melanie before…everything, but he’d done it. He could still handle himself.

All the tension and fight went out of Jon in one long exhale, and he sagged against Martin. “No,” he agreed quietly. “You’re not.”

They held each other for a long moment of silence. Martin could feel Jon trembling, and he guessed it wasn’t all nerves. “Come on,” he said at last. “Let’s at least lie down. When’s the last time you slept?”

“Ah—yesterday? Day before, technically?” Jon stepped back a little, but didn’t let go of Martin. “The—the bed’s over here.”

Since Martin was completely unfamiliar with Tim’s bedroom—he’d only even been to his house once—he let Jon lead him. Getting ready for bed was easy enough, as was crawling into it, the movements more than half-mechanical. Jon pulled the covers up over both of them and immediately curled into Martin’s chest. They both sighed in near unison.

“I’ve been worried about you,” Martin murmured, running a hand through Jon’s hair. He tried to be gentle about working through the knots he encountered. “How long have you been…here?”

“In the past? About a week. Six days, more like.” Jon sighed and tucked his head into the crook of Martin’s neck. He fit there like he was a part of Martin’s body. “I just got to London earlier this evening, though. How—you said you’d been here two weeks. Where did you…come through?”

“The Archives. I think I was in one of the back corners.” Martin bit his lip. “Wasn’t sure where I was at first, until I heard Tim’s voice. What about you?”

“The safe house. I should have expected that, really, but it still hurt knowing you weren’t there. And…walking out the door was harder than I expected it to be.”

“At least the sky wasn’t blinking at you.”

“It took me a bit to convince myself that it wouldn’t before I could open the door.”

Martin wanted to laugh, but he knew Jon was in earnest. “I’m sorry. I wish I’d been there to help you.”

“And I wish I’d been in the Archives to help you. I—I know you don’t need it. I know you’re…I wouldn’t have been able to do it.”

“Do what? Stop Jane Prentiss?” Martin frowned. “You did the first time—”

“You may recall that I didn’t do all that much, except make statements and slow everybody down,” Jon interrupted. “It was mostly you and Tim. Some Sasha, and…but that’s not really what I meant.” He reached up and brushed a trembling hand over Martin’s eyes. “I wouldn’t have been able to handle being alone and blind. I’d have been completely lost without you.”

“Well…I mean, I was, too. I even told the others that just before you showed up,” Martin admitted. “It’s just…I’m used to being alone, I guess? There was…I never had anyone to take care of me, other than myself, so I learned how from a pretty early age. Worrying about me was something that happened when I didn’t have anyone else’s needs to worry about, and that almost never happened. I’m always lost.”

“You’re not now,” Jon said fiercely. He pulled Martin’s head down for a kiss. “But that’s my point, Martin. If our positions had been switched, I wouldn’t have lasted two weeks on my own. I’d have broken completely. You’re…so much stronger than I am.”

Martin snorted. “I’m stubborn. There’s a difference.”

“You’re both,” Jon said. Martin didn’t need to see him to know he was smiling—it was obvious in the affection in his voice. “Almost everyone we’ve encountered has mentioned that. It doesn’t change the fact that I couldn’t have done half of what you did. Let alone without getting everyone else hurt, if not killed. You did that.”

“Luck.” Martin hesitated. “I…I couldn’t really…Jon, the others, are they really okay?”

“They’re fine,” Jon assured him. “Except for…well, you. I’m sorry. It—it looks like their Martin took the brunt of the worms. But I didn’t even see so much as a hole on anyone else.”

Martin sighed in relief. “I can live with that.”

They fell silent for a while. Martin concentrated on the weight of Jon’s head against his shoulder, the thud of his heartbeat against his side, the warmth and softness of his skin under his hands. For as little time as they’d had together, or at least how little time they’d had before the world had ended and their clinging had been more desperate than loving, this was still so familiar, so comforting. Martin knew exactly where was safe to touch and where wasn’t, where Jon was overly sensitive and where he had no feeling at all. He literally didn’t need to see a thing.

“You know what’s bothering me the most?” he said at last.

“You don’t know what Sasha looks like?” Jon guessed.

“I don’t—are you reading my mind?” Martin felt his lips quirk upwards in a smile. Just a few months ago (or…whatever the actual span of time since the end of the world had been, he was guessing here), the very idea would have made him indignant, but now it was almost delightful.

“Is it wrong to say ‘I wish’?” Jon chuckled slightly, then sighed. “No. I—even right here with you, I can’t…it was the same with Melanie. Your eyes don’t work, so the Eye can’t use them. I just…know you. Lowercase know. And honestly, I wouldn’t have realized that was her if I hadn’t recognized her voice from the old tapes.”

Martin kissed the top of Jon’s head lightly. It was the closest thing to an apology he would be able to give for something Jon would fuss at him if he tried to actually apologize for. “So? What does she look like?”

Jon hummed. “Well, she’s tall. Not quite as tall as Tim, but taller than me, at least, which must have irritated me at some point. Slender, but…curvy, I guess? Not as waifish as the Not-Sasha was. Long dark hair, brown eyes. Glasses, too—the cat’s-eye type, you know what I mean?”

Martin frowned, trying to remember. “Are they…purple?”

“Yes. Wait. How do you know that? Could you see them?”

Jon sounded so hopeful, Martin hated to break his heart, probably as much as Jon had hated to admit he couldn’t actually read Martin’s mind. “I found a pair like that in the Archives once. While you were off on your world tour, I think. Tim made some snide remark about them being possessed or infused with evil energy or something like that, since they pretty obviously weren’t reading glasses.”

“Oh.” Sure enough, Jon deflated against Martin. “I hated that I didn’t recognize her. We were arguably friends for years and I—I didn’t recognize her.”

“That’s…kind of a good thing, though?” Martin didn’t exactly mean to make it a question, but he was uncertain. He hadn’t known Sasha as long as Jon had, even though he’d been with the Institute longer than the entire rest of the Archives staff put together. “I mean, if you did recognize her…it would have meant that she got taken by…”

“The Stranger. I know. I—God, I’m going to have to tell her tomorrow I looked into her head. You know I’m trying not to do that, but—I had to know if she was all right. When I realized the Institute had been attacked…”

“I think she’ll forgive you. I mean, it’s not like you did it for fun.”

“Still.” Jon suddenly tensed. “The table—has it been—?”

“Not yet,” Martin assured him. “Or if it has, someone else signed for the delivery. But I told…my counterpart to let me know if it did happen.” He paused. “Jon, what are we actually going to do with that table?”

“I don’t know. The—the Other was bound by it, not to it, so I’m reluctant to destroy it and risk unleashing it on the Institute. At the same time…”

“Someone’s bound to study it eventually,” Martin completed. “What about sending up a copy of the statement talking about it? I mean, they’ve got the calliope locked up. Maybe if they know how dangerous it is, they’ll let it be.”

“Maybe.” Jon didn’t sound sure. “I—I don’t know enough about the people in Artifact Storage to know how they’d react. We can ask Sasha. She wasn’t there long, but she might know more than, well, the rest of us.” He sighed. “I’m just glad she’s all right. I—I wasn’t sure if we’d even know if she got taken. If we’d get muddled and forget that the voice wasn’t the same.”

Thinking about it gave Martin a headache. “Thankfully, she wasn’t. And your counterpart didn’t get hurt. Or Tim.”

“I worried about that, too. I don’t know how much of…the way he was at the end there was because of the Stranger and how much was because of the worms and how much was just…the general atmosphere of the Institute, and the Archives specifically, but I’m sure him turning into a sieve didn’t help.” Jon pressed a kiss to Martin’s collarbone. “And you didn’t get bitten?”

“Not even once,” Martin assured him.

“Good. That’s good.” Jon paused. “Why did you trust Michael?”

“Honestly? I didn’t feel like I had much of a choice.” Martin thought about how to phrase it. Because Jon was absolutely right—the Distortion was incredibly dangerous and untrustworthy, whether Michael or Helen. “He showed up in the tunnels…I don’t remember him doing that when Jane Prentiss attacked us, but maybe it was just because it was in the middle of the day. Or maybe I just wasn’t worth tormenting. But he did this time, and it was, well, it was me or them. Tim and Sasha needed to make it out of the tunnels because Past Me needed to know they were okay. I didn’t want them lost in those corridors for days or weeks on end. And I guess maybe I was hoping it would be less disorientating because I couldn’t see.”

“Was it?”

“Actually, yeah. Or maybe he just made it more…direct.”

Jon snorted. “I can’t see him being so…helpful. Especially not to someone tied to the Archives.”

“Well, I’m not exactly tied to them anymore,” Martin said slowly. “Especially not now. And like he said, I’ve been marked by the Spiral myself, that time Tim and I wound up in his corridors. Mostly, though, I think he was helpful because I told him I’d come back to help save the world.”

“Michael or Helen, I really don’t think the Distortion would care that the world ended.”

“I…might have left out a few key details,” Martin said. He couldn’t help the smirk that tugged at his lips. “I told him that the Beholding was the one that had eventually succeeded in its ritual, and that he had been completely and utterly destroyed. He didn’t seem too sure until I described exactly what his hallways looked like, and who he used to be. Then I told him that if he wanted to have any chance not to have those things happen, he’d best let me through safely.”

“God, I love you. Have I told you that lately?”

“Not since you walked in the door, no.”

Martin meant it as a joke, but from the way Jon suddenly went stiff, he realized it hadn’t quite landed. “Good Lord. I—I really haven’t, have I?”

“Well, to be fair, neither have I,” Martin pointed out. “We did have other things to worry about. And, I mean, there’s the whole ‘we’re not going to tell our past selves that we’re in a relationship because we don’t want to rush them’ thing we agreed on. Honestly, Jon, you really think you have to say the words for me to know?”

“No. No, o-of course not. Still…” Jon cupped Martin’s jaw with one hand and kissed him—a soft, tender kiss that spoke volumes, even before he said, “I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

Again they fell into a silence, one less heavy than before but still weighted. Martin was tired—not as tired as the others had to be, but still tired—but he was reluctant to sleep just yet. He was perfectly content to lie there with Jon, enjoying the nearly-forgotten sensation of not being in imminent danger for once. The last time they’d been able to rest like this had been…well, all right, Salesa’s house, which didn’t really count with Annabelle Cane creeping about and Jon growing steadily weaker the longer he was cut off from the Eye. They hadn’t been able to relax this much, really, since before the world ended. And there was no telling how long they’d be able to relax now, so Martin was determined to enjoy it for however long it lasted.

He almost thought Jon had fallen asleep until he spoke again. “How much have you told them?”

It took Martin a second to realize what Jon was asking. “Not a lot. They only got here a few minutes before you did, really, and that was the first time I met Past You when he knew I wasn’t, well, Past Me. All I’ve told him so far, that you weren’t here for anyway, was that I was from the future and that we were here to save the world, and that the statements on the tapes were real. And, well, you heard how much Tim and Sasha knew. I told Past Me a bit more, but not much. Just that the Fears exist and that one of them runs the Institute.” He paused. “Actually, he—put things together pretty quickly, but I didn’t go into details. I suppose he’s figured it out, though.”

“What do you mean?”

“When I told him about the Fears…he asked if one of them had something to do with spiders, and when I said yes, he asked if that was why you hated them so much. I didn’t put it together until I heard your tape about that damned Leitner.”

Jon made a noise that was somewhere between a laugh and a sigh. “When did you listen to that tape? I—well, I’m not upset, obviously, and I would have…but I don’t remember actually giving it to you.”

Martin bit his lip. “It was…it was while you were in your coma, actually. I listened to all of them. Every tape I could find. I told myself I was trying to fill in the missing pieces, to find out the things you’d known so I could keep the Archives running for you, because I had to believe you’d be back, but…really I just needed to hear your voice.”

“I know how that goes,” Jon said softly. “Honestly, it’s why I listened to all those tapes you were leaving for me as soon as I did. And the ones you did while I was…gone before.” He paused. “Wait…did you listen to the official tapes or the ones I recorded for myself?”

“Both. I didn’t know they were the same cases at first, but…well, the first time I realized I was listening to something I’d already heard, I went ahead and listened all the way to the end.” Martin tightened his arms around Jon without really thinking about it. “God, I felt awful about them. You were going through so much and I didn’t even notice…”

“Martin, no, it—you did notice. I honestly don’t know that I would have survived those months if you hadn’t been looking out for me. Even when I all but accused you of murder, you still looked out for me.” Jon hugged Martin tighter, too. “No one could have done more for me than you did. What happened wasn’t your fault. It’s never been your fault.”

Martin wasn’t sure how much he believed that, but he also wasn’t going to argue, not right now. They’d have plenty of time to argue later, he supposed. And really, if that was the worst thing they had to fight about, he could live with that. “Still. I wish there’d been something else I could have done.”

“Just as I wish I could have done more for you when you were working with Peter Lukas. We did what we could with what we had.” Jon sighed. “It will have to be enough. We can’t change it now—not for ourselves, anyway. And hopefully we can keep our past selves from ever having to face that.”

Martin hummed in agreement. “Jon…do you think we can? That we can actually keep Past You from being…marked by any more powers before we can take out…you know?” He left out the question that had been haunting him during the nights he lurked in the Archives: Could they even take out Jonah Magnus? He’d thwarted their efforts once before, after all, and even though they were in the past now, it wouldn’t be easy. “I know you can’t Know the future or hypotheticals or anything like that. I’m asking for your opinion. What do you think?”

For a long moment, Jon didn’t answer. Finally, he said quietly, “I don’t think we can keep him completely free of marks. Michael…wants his revenge. Despite your warning, I think he’ll go after Past Me at some point regardless.” He pondered for a moment. “Before the Unknowing. We’ve got to take him out before then.”

Martin didn’t question which him Jon was talking about. “Tim’s not going to be happy about us taking away his shot at revenge.”

“If there was a safe way of disrupting it, I’d be all for it, but I don’t think there is.”

“Jon, the whole point is that the rituals can’t succeed,” Martin pointed out. “It’s going to collapse under its own weight anyway, right? Why does he have to disrupt it right at the height of the ritual? Why not just…plant the stuff and let him press the button from a safe distance?”

Jon paused. “That…God, why didn’t I think of that? Of course, you’re absolutely right. As long as they’re all there, it…it doesn’t matter how far along it is.”

Martin could hear the exhaustion in Jon’s voice. He was about to ask if Jon was sure he’d slept within the last week when it hit him all of a sudden. Quietly, he asked, “When’s the last time you took a statement?”

The split-second pause before Jon answered told Martin everything he needed to know. “I’m fine.”

“Not what I asked.”

Jon sighed heavily. “I’ve done a couple small ones for myself since I came back, and, well, I was in the room when they gave their statements. It…took the edge off, at least.”

“Yeah, but it’s not enough. You’re starving, Jon.”

“What do you want me to do, start…pouncing people on the streets? You stopped me from doing that once before, and you were right, but—”

“I can give you one,” Martin said. He pressed a finger to Jon’s lips, forestalling his immediate refusal. “No, listen to me. You need a statement. And you’ve been without one so long, it’s got to be…fresh. Besides, I know you want to know what my trip back here was like. That’s…definitely a statement.” And it’ll probably keep you going for a while, he didn’t say. What he’d experienced, in a place he hadn’t expected to feel much fear, had nearly undone him, would have undone him if the Keeper hadn’t intervened at probably the last possible moment. But if there was anyone he wanted to have it, it was Jon.

“I don’t want you to keep destroying yourself to help me,” Jon whispered.

“Gotowe zdrowie, kto chorobie powie.” Martin quoted one of the old Polish proverbs his grandfather had taught him when he was little. He didn’t bother translating. One of Jon’s “gifts” from the Beholding was the ability to understand languages spoken at him, at least sometimes. He couldn’t speak them necessarily, but he could understand them, when the Eye felt it was important. He also knew that Jon didn’t always realize he was doing it. “Let me do something for you, Jon. Please.”

There was a long silence before Jon said, “Tomorrow. Not tonight. Just…I didn’t start seeing Melanie again after she—quit, but just in case it—one more night without nightmares.”

“Okay,” Martin agreed. “Tomorrow it is. After we’ve answered some questions, how’s that?”

“That’s…honestly better than I expected. I thought you’d try to make me do it first thing in the morning.” Jon sounded relieved.

“I’m trying to meet you halfway here.” They were both stubborn as hell—Martin probably worse than Jon, if he was being honest—but they were learning to make concessions to one another. As badly as Martin wanted to force Jon to just take the damn statement already, he also knew that the need for statements was the one part of the Archivist package Jon still hated. More so after what Jonah Magnus had done to him, done through him. And Jon was right about there being a chance taking his statement would mean both of them had to experience it in their nightmares. It was a chance they’d have to take, though.

“So am I.” Jon exhaled. “I…I don’t know how I’m going to do this. How to find the balance between keeping them safe and not keeping them in the dark. And how to do it without…manipulating them. Without forgetting that they’re people, not pieces on a game board.”

“That’s what I’m here for. To help you.”

“I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

Martin twirled a strand of Jon’s hair around his finger idly. “I don’t want to ever have to find out.”

Jon snuggled against Martin’s chest, and he felt the butterfly kiss of his eyelashes fluttering shut. “Neither do I.”

Translation of the proverb: “Ready the health, who shares the disease.” English equivalent: “A problem shared is a problem halved.”

[ollieofthebeholder]

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

Read from the beginning on Tumblr || Also on AO3

Chapter 53: Sasha

Beep! Beep! Beep!

“No.” Basira’s voice manages to sound matter-of-fact and authoritative despite being muffled by Sasha’s shoulder blades.

Sasha groans and rolls forward to slap at her alarm clock. “Well, you don’t have to get up, but I have work today.”

“Ugh. I should. I really need to start looking into getting a new job, but…” Basira sighs and flops back against the pillows. “Think I’ll wait until this whole…thing is done. Might be hard to get time off to go chasing down killer mannequins in a taxidermy shop.”

Sasha grumbles wordlessly, then gets up to start getting dressed.

She follows the smell of coffee and something sweet into the kitchen, where she finds Wade standing at the stove. Sasha’s never been much for cooking—she’s eaten more homemade meals in the last year than she has in the preceding nine put together—and her kitchen isn’t well-stocked, but she laid in a supply of the basics after work on Friday in anticipation of her uncle coming home, and she’d tried to make something for him yesterday. Seeing him standing there trying to cook himself is at once unexpected and familiar.

He looks up and smiles at her. “Good morning, sunshine,” he teases her.

“Morning,” Sasha mumbles. She pours herself a cup of coffee, sweetens it automatically, and downs about half of it in a single gulp, at which point she feels human enough to give her uncle a smile and a hug.

“You haven’t changed a bit.” Wade hugs her back with one arm, then flicks his wrist and flips the pancake he’s cooking into the air before catching it neatly. “Still got it. Your friend doesn’t eat bacon, right?”

Sasha tries not to be embarrassed. She’s a grown woman and this is her flat, and Wade has made it clear he respects her and her choices and she’s allowed to do whatever the hell she wants, but she’s still got the same feeling she had when she was sixteen and he nonchalantly asked if her boyfriend wanted eggs or if he’d already escaped out her bedroom window. “Right.”

“Well then, these are almost ready. Would you rather eat at the table or standing around like a bunch of twenty-somethings in a bad sitcom?”

“I’ll set the table.”

Basira comes out just as Wade is plating the last of the pancakes and greets him with no trace of discomfort; Sasha envies her for that ability to stay calm and unruffled. As they eat, Sasha asks her uncle, “What are you planning to do today?”

Wade looks pleased. “Actually, I have an interview at nine. A gentleman wrote me last week and said he thought there was a position I might be qualified for. I—I suppose he has an eye out for upcoming releases that might have skills he needs.”

There’s a hesitancy there, and Sasha is almost tired enough to give into the static and reach for his secret, but stops herself at the last minute. “You’ll have to tell me all about it after work. Or I can call you at lunch.”

“I’d like that.” Wade grins.

Basira leaves with Sasha twenty minutes later. While she’s in less need of coffee than usual, thanks to her uncle actually making a pot—she really ought to get a programmable coffee maker, but she’s never managed to get around to it—she has a routine and she doesn’t want to break it now. They ride together until Basira has to get off to change trains; she pats Sasha’s shoulder, wishes her luck, and vanishes.

Melanie arrives at about the same time Sasha does, from the other direction but also clutching her usual cup of coffee. When they get down, Tim is having an apparently good-natured argument with Jon about whether he needs help getting his jacket off over the cast while Martin makes the first tea of the day. He glances over his shoulder with a smile that looks a tad strained at the edges. “Morning. How’s your uncle, Sash?”

Sasha returns the smile. “Settling in remarkably well, all things considered. He’s even already got an interview for a job. Seems excited about it. How was your weekend?”

“Quiet,” Martin says after a brief pause.

“Tim didn’t wrap your room in tinfoil or staple all your furniture to the ceiling?” Sasha teases.

Tim holds up his casted hand. “With this?”

Sasha laughs. “Fair point.”

Martin smiles again as he sets a cup down in front of Tim and hands another to Jon. “Seriously, it was a good weekend. Charlie’s birthday was yesterday, so…”

“He came over and helped us with his cake,” Jon tells her. His eyes light up the way they usually do when he talks about the little boy. “Martin found one of those old-fashioned hand-crank ice-cream makers somewhere, and it still works, so we made ice cream, too. Spent the rest of the evening playing board games.”

“Betrayal at the House on the Hill,” Tim supplies.

Melanie frowns. “How old is this kid? Nine?”

“Eight,” all three of the boys say in unison.

“Good. Start ‘em young.” Melanie thumps down in her chair. “What’s on the agenda for today?”

Jon’s smile fades. “Honestly…I think we need to focus on the usual work today. Statements, filing…all of that. I’d—I’d like to have things as much in order as we can, before…”

He trails off, but he doesn’t need to finish. They have a location—Melanie’s been doing a lot of poking around, using skills she honed during her Ghost Hunt UK days, and managed to confirm that the Unknowing will be taking place at a museum called the House of Wax in Great Yarmouth. They have a time; Melanie and Tim’s combined efforts have led them all to estimate the ritual will be going off sometime on the sixth of April, God alone knows why. They even have something approaching a plan, which is a novelty. Actually, they have two plans, sort of. Now all they have to do is…wait.

Sasha hates waiting.

She gives it a go, though. It’s all busywork, it’s a way of marking time, but she knows it means something to Jon, and subsequently she knows it means something to Martin and Tim. Honestly, the three of them are obviously stupid in love with each other, it’s borderline ridiculous. It’s also kind of touching, watching them together—the gentle touches, the small acts of service, the wordless communications, the way they lean into one another when they’re sitting together. The fear on their faces when one of them is hurt or in danger, the relief when one comes home safe and sound, the smiles when they think the others aren’t looking. Add Charlie into the mix and they’re an absolute mess of domesticity and sap.

They’re also scared shitless about what’s going to happen on Thursday night, and she doesn’t need the Eye’s power to see that they’re afraid of losing one another, so if squaring away files they’ve been neglecting will make them feel better, she’ll suck it up and do it.

The four assistants work away at their cluster of desks in more or less silence; Jon’s in his office, but the door is propped open. He’s recording, judging by the rise and fall of his voice, but Sasha guesses they aren’t real statements or he’d have it closed. They’ve all been working away for a couple hours when the Archives phone rings.

“Not it,” Martin says without looking up.

“Not it,” Tim and Sasha say in unison.

“I hate you all,” Melanie claims and picks up the phone. “Archives.”

She leans back in her chair, twirling the cord around her finger and looking for all the world like a teenager from every single nineties sitcom Sasha ever watched talking to her best friend or boyfriend, except that her expression is one of utter disgust. “Yeah. Okay. Yes, sir.” Her Doc Martens thump onto the floor as she leans forward to hang it up.

“Let me guess,” Tim says dryly. “Elias?”

“Yeah. Wants to see all of us in his office, ASAP. He says it’s important.” Melanie’s voice drips with contempt.

Martin sighs and scrapes his chair back. “Jon?” he calls.

Jon appears in the doorway of his office. “I heard. Let’s get this over with.”

They all trudge their way upstairs. Rosie gives them her usual bland, pleasant smile and asks about Tim’s hand, then announces them to Elias and ushers them in. Sasha starts slightly when they walk in to find Basira and Daisy standing there, Basira with her arms folded over her chest and an expression of faint annoyance and Daisy with her hands in her pockets and a look of utter disgust. Elias is watching with that smarmy, oily smile of his that makes Sasha want to set his hair on fire and see how long he’ll burn, like a cheap kerosene lamp.

“Thank you, Rosie, I’ll call if we need you,” he tells Rosie.

“Of course, Mr. Bouchard.” Rosie backs out of the room—reluctantly, to Sasha’s eyes—and pulls the door shut behind her.

There’s a brief pause before Elias speaks. “Thank you all for coming.”

Sasha sighs impatiently. She’s not the only one; they all make various noises of frustration and annoyance. Is Elias even capable of talking like a normal human being anymore, or is he deliberately playing up the Evil Overlord trope? Jon’s lips press into a thin line before he says, “Well, you said it was important.”

Elias flicks his gaze over to Basira and Daisy. “I’m glad you could come as well. I don’t want to take up too much of your valuable—”

“What do you want?” Jon interrupts, sounding tired and annoyed. Sasha sees Martin’s hand twitch and silently wills him and Tim both to keep it together. The last thing they need is for Elias to know the depth of their feelings for one another.

“To help,” Elias says pleasantly. “Do you have your recorder running?”

“Of course he does,” Melanie says, sounding unimpressed.

“I…” Jon looks down at his hand, as if he’s just realized he’s holding the official Archives recorder. “Yes.”

“Well, then, I’ll speak clearly,” Elias says. He folds his hands on his desk and meets Jon’s eyes. “You will soon be attempting to stop something few have witnessed and fewer still have survived.”

“Not alone,” Jon says quietly.

“We’re, um—” Basira shoots a sideways glance at Sasha, her expression hard to read. “I think we’re all going.”

“Yes.” Elias doesn’t look all that happy about that, to be honest. “And I believe your plan—ah, simplistic as it may be—does have a reasonable chance of working.”

“Well, thank you.” Jon’s voice is dry as the Sahara, but Sasha sees him stiffen slightly. They’ve known all along that Elias probably knows more about what they’re planning than they want him to, but to hear him confirm it…

“It should work. It doesn’t need to be fancy,” Daisy growls.

“Well, quite. But given that there is every likelihood that one or more of you may end up confronting the Stranger in a rather direct manner, I thought it best you have an idea of what you might encounter.”

Jon and Martin both throw identical quick, pained looks in Tim’s direction; Tim doesn’t seem to notice. Sasha sighs. “Oh.”

Elias reaches into a drawer—not, Sasha notes, the one containing his gun. If his gun is still in there. “Detective Tonner was kind enough to bring me Gertrude’s tapes, as soon as her superiors released them.”

Startled, Sasha turns to look at Daisy. Basira, too, is looking at her with raised eyebrows. Daisy ignores them both. Jon doesn’t look at her. “Of course they did.”

“There is one I feel it may be wise for you to hear. All of you,” Elias adds, his gaze sliding over Tim and Martin in particular—or is that Sasha’s imagination? He places a loaded tape recorder on his desk. “May I?”

There’s a chorus of sighs and groans. Elias is really laying it on thick. “Fine,” Tim mutters.

Elias presses Play.

Sasha feels the familiar sensation of the statement flowing through her. Like with every other one of Gertrude’s tapes she’s listened to, it’s not as satisfying as most and doesn’t fill her as thoroughly as even an older statement. She’s always assumed that it’s because it’s more…regurgitated, that it’s empty calories in a way, but with what she knows now, she wonders if it’s just that more of the energy from Gertrude’s tapes goes to Martin. If their family connection makes their connection through the Eye stronger as well.

She banishes the thought ruthlessly from her mind and listens. She’s heard of Wolfgang von Kempelen and his Mechanical Turk, of course. One of her papers in uni was on the history of automata and artificial intelligence, so of course she’s heard of it. At least those details that are known to the general public…

Suddenly, with a jolt, it occurs to her that she knows where this statement is going, where it ends up. At first she thinks it’s the Eye granting her knowledge, but then, suddenly, she remembers a conversation with Gertrude Robinson she had once regarding the papers she’d included in her portfolio when she first applied at the Institute, including the one mentioning the Mechanical Turk, and she remembers a later conversation where Gertrude asked her to come down to the Archives and spent an hour picking her brains for everything she remembered from her research, then handed her a letter and said I thought this might interest you, my dear.

She’d been flattered. Gertrude didn’t call anyone my dear.

The tape clicks off, almost making her leap out of her skin. There’s a beat of silence before Jon says, slowly, “Right.”

“Is that it?” Basira demands.

“It’s unlikely to be identical. The stranger is not known for its…consistency.” Elias stows the recorder away.

“But something like that?” Basira presses. Sasha’s come to know her well over the last few months and she knows Basira likes facts, good solid things she can sink her teeth into. She doesn’t do well with maybes and we-hopes. “We can’t trust what we see.”

Elias nods sagely. “The familiar may seem strange, the strange familiar.”

“One long category error,” Sasha muses.

“Well, isn’t—I mean, that’s what the Stranger wants, isn’t it,” Martin says. It’s not a question. “For us to doubt everything.”

Jon brushes his fingers against Martin’s for the briefest of seconds. Sasha hopes Elias hasn’t seen, but at the same time, what can he do about it at this point? “No one ever said it was going to be easy.”

Which is true. The Primes have never underestimated the danger they’re going to be in. Elias looks pleased. “Brilliant. I have been doing my best to prepare you, Jon, to see. You should have an easier time of it than the others.”

“I doubt that,” Jon says, a bit acerbically.

Elias eyes the four assistants skeptically. “Well, it should, I hope, give you an edge. Otherwise I would never suggest you going yourself.”

You are such a terrible liar, Sasha thinks but doesn’t say. Aloud, she says, “Well, I guess we’ll all find out, won’t we?”

“No,” Elias says. “I understand you will be taking Detective Tonner and Basira with you?”

“We’re going with them,” Daisy growls, and the rewording speaks volumes.

“Quite. Then honestly, Jon, I think you have all you need. Your…assistants should remain here.”

“Wh-what?” Martin sputters. “No, no, we can help—”

“Too many will attract attention,” Elias says. “And while I know your team have been…acquiring abilities, shall we say, none of them are on your level, and Melanie doesn’t even have that.”

“Melanie was planning to stay behind anyway,” Melanie says with false brightness and gritted teeth.

Elias nods as if this was all his idea. “And of course, Sasha, I would expect you wouldn’t want to risk death or…worse. Especially now.”

At those words, Sasha freezes and her blood runs cold. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“Your uncle seems to be settling in well. I’d imagine he’ll do well here, but of course you wouldn’t want him to worry.”

Sasha’s eyes widen. “What. Do. You. Mean.”

“He didn’t tell you?” Elias’s smile broadens. “Well. I certainly wouldn’t want to steal his thunder, so to speak. But nevertheless, I should think the last thing you would want to do is worry him, or risk leaving him so soon.”

Sasha hasn’t been planning on staying…but honestly, she’ll be a liability if she goes, she rationalizes, and even if he’s being a smarmy arse about it, Elias isn’t necessarily wrong. “Fine. I’ll stay.”

“So the five of us—” Tim begins.

“No,” Jon says firmly. “Elias is right, it’s going to be—I can’t put you all at risk like that. It’s too dangerous.”

“Tough,” Tim says bluntly, his face tight with anger. “We’re not risking you. You don’t want to take all of us, fine, but you’re not going alone. Either Martin goes or I do.”

“I…” Jon looks stuck. Sasha bites the inside of her cheek. So far this has been going exactly according to plan, but she doesn’t think Tim is faking that anger. She files that away to ask him about later.

Martin puts a hand on Tim’s shoulder. “I—I think you’re right, Jon. I’d be more of a—I’ll stay behind. But please take Tim.”

“I’m not sure how much help Tim will be with his hand in a cast,” Elias says with a raised eyebrow.

Jon’s lips thin. “I will take that under advisement.”

“Fine.” Elias appears to give up the fight. Sasha doesn’t trust it. “Now, unless there was anything else…?”

“Not if—no,” Jon says finally.

“Excellent. Well, it’s a three-hour trip up to Great Yarmouth,” Elias tells them. “When do you plan to leave?”

“We think the ritual is going to be Thursday,” Jon answers.

“Perfect. I’ll be in touch with you on Wednesday to confirm the arrangements.” Elias beams. “Now, if you’ll excuse me?”

It’s a clear dismissal, and they all file out quietly. Rosie watches them in undisguised interest as they pass her desk, but they leave the office and head down the stairs in total silence, Daisy and Basira accompanying them.

The second the door to the Archives closes behind them, Basira asks, “Do you think he bought it?”

“We’ll talk about this later,” Martin says, flicking his eyes towards the trapdoor.

Jon nods. “Do, ah—can you two come back later? Say around four?”

“I’m off today,” Daisy growls.

“R-right. Right. We’ll…reconvene then. Go over the plan one last time. Confirm a few last scheduling details. Thank you.” Jon manages a smile, then turns to Tim and Sasha. “In that case, I’m sorry to have delayed you two so long, but you can go ahead and get your lunch.”

Sasha’s a bit startled. She’s honestly lost track of time. “I’m not actually hungry right now, but thanks, Jon. I’ll just keep working. Someone else can go.”

“It’s Monday,” Martin points out. His cerulean eyes are wide with worry—almost fear. “You and Tim always go to lunch on Mondays.”

Sasha’s about to remind him of all the times they didn’t take their lunch together when Tim nods and takes her elbow with his good hand. “That’s right, it is. Feels like it’s been a week this morning. C’mon, Sash, let’s go.”

“O-oh! Sure,” Sasha says, surprised. She grabs her jacket off the back of the chair and follows Tim out the door.

It’s a nice, moderate day, exactly Sasha’s kind of weather. There’s a fish and chips shop just across the nearest footbridge they usually go to on Mondays, and they walk in an unusually charged silence. Sasha waits until they’re settled at the table opposite one another before she says, “You didn’t forget it was Monday.”

“You were going to duck out,” Tim counters.

“I didn’t realize you needed this so much.”

“I don’t necessarily. It’s routine, though. It’s a ritual. That’s important to him.” Tim’s face softens. “When Jon left for Beijing…Martin told me he and his dad had this ritual they used to do the night before he left on a voyage, and the last time his dad left, he fell asleep in the middle of it. And then his dad didn’t come back. I guess he’s a little superstitious, but I’m not going to argue with him. It matters to him. So yeah, if it helps him feel like we’ve done everything we can to make sure this goes off successfully, I’ll go to lunch with my best friend.” He gives her a pretty good impression of his signature cheeky grin. “It’s a sacrifice, but I’ll manage.”

Sasha flicks a fallen bit of batter at him, pinging it off his cheek. “Arse. Well, then, while I’ve got you as a captive audience—what’s wrong?”

“Do I really need to spell it out for you, Sash?”

“Yes. I’m keeping my eyes firmly inside my own head and out of yours, so I don’t know what you’re actually thinking. And you’re impossible to read. Also, I don’t think you were altogether acting in Elias’s office.” Sasha points a chip at Tim, then pops it into her mouth. “So. Spill.”

Tim sighs. All traces of false mirth disappear from his face. “Just…can I ask you a favor?”

“Of course,” Sasha says, a bit bewildered.

“Look after them for me, will you?” Tim evidently sees the look of confusion on her face, because he elaborates. “Jon and Martin. Wh—if I don’t come back from this, if I die—”

“I thought the plan wasn’t going to have you anywhere near the actual ritual.”

“The timing on the—we’ll have to talk it over with Daisy, but I think it’s going to be tight. There’s a risk I’ll be bringing the building down on my head,” Tim says. “It’s fine. I’ve come to terms with it. It’s worth it if it keeps them safe. Just promise me that if it does happen, you’ll look after them for me. I-I’m sure they’ll be fine without me.”

“The hell they will.” Sasha sets her packet of fish and chips down on the table a little harder than necessary. “Tim, I don’t need the Beholder to know how you three are, it’s as plain as the nose on your face. It will devastate them if they lose you. Just like it would devastate you to lose them.”

Tim looks away. “It’s not the same.”

“It’s exactly the same! They’re not going to let you go in there with a death wish.”

“I don’t want to die, Sasha,” Tim explodes. At least he’s keeping his voice down. “I’m just saying, if I do…please. Just…just make sure they’re okay. Make sure they don’t…break.”

Sasha doesn’t want to, she really doesn’t, but she also knows this is important to Tim, so she nods. “If that happens…I promise I’ll do my best for them.”

Tim relaxes. “Thank you.”

“But,” Sasha stresses, “you have to promise to do your best to live. Especially if, as I strongly suspect, you’re not discussing this with them. Because I swear to God, Timothy Stoker, if you die I will be telling them that we had this talk, and I’m sure you don’t want them furious with you.”

“Duly noted.” Tim grins, but doesn’t meet her eyes.

Sasha is about to push him when her phone rings. A quick glance at the display screen, and she flinches. “Sorry, Tim, this is Uncle Wade. I’ve got to take this.”

“Go ahead.” Tim breaks off a piece of cod and stuffs it in his mouth.

Sasha thumbs the CALL button. “Uncle Wade, hi, I’m so sorry, I was going to call you but—”

“It’s fine, it all worked out.” Wade sounds like he’s barely keeping a lid on his emotions. “I only just got out myself.”

“Of your interview?”

“No, no, that—that was over hours ago. Sasha, I got the job! He hired me on the spot. We did all the onboarding paperwork then and there, and I actually got to start today. I’ve been spending the last couple hours getting set up, learning the ropes, all that sort of thing.” Wade says all of this in an excited rush she hasn’t heard from him since she was thirteen. “Someone just popped in to let me know I could go take a lunch break. I just got so into it I forgot about food. I was hoping you’d be on your lunch break and I could talk to you.”

Sasha smiles, relieved. Her uncle’s adjusting to freedom a lot better than she had feared he would, and it’s good to hear him so much like the man she remembers. “That’s great! What are you going to be doing? Where do you work?”

“You are talking,” Wade says proudly, “to the Executive Director of Information and Operations Technology at the Magnus Institute.”

“So your job title is the E-DIOT?” Sasha teases, and then her mind catches up to the last part of what he’s just said. “The Magnus Institute?”

Tim snorts his drink out of his nose. Wade still sounds delighted. “It surprised me, too. Did you know the Institute doesn’t have a proper tech department? I mean, of course you do, you’ve worked there seven years now. But yes. Mr. Bouchard wrote me last week saying that he knew I was getting ready to be released from prison and that he’d very much like to interview me about the position. He wants me to integrate all the systems in the building, troubleshoot programs and technology, that sort of thing. It’s just me for right now, but once I give him a list of what needs to be done and what resources I’d need to do it, I might have a staff to work with. We’ll see.”

“That’s…that’s wonderful, Uncle Wade.” Sasha can’t bring herself to dampen his enthusiasm by pointing out how terrifying an organization this is.

“I know it’s a bit—I know what you’ve told me about the Institute,” Wade says, as if he’s reading her mind. “But quite honestly, in my position, I can’t afford to be all that choosy about a job. The pay’s good. The pay’s great. He’s offering me way above the industry standard. And to just walk out of prison and walk straight into a high-paying position? In my field?” His voice softens. “Plus, I get to work with you. That’s worth a lot to me.”

“And to me,” Sasha says. She smiles warmly. “So what’s your next step?”

“This afternoon I’m going to start going round the different departments, talk to the heads and staff and whatnot, figure out what they need in terms of tech. What they need as an isolated system, what it would help to have integrated with what other departments.”

“Brilliant! Definitely come by the Archives today. I want you to meet the rest of my family.” Before it’s too late, Sasha adds mentally. “We’ve got a meeting at four, but—”

“Say no more. I’ll be there at three, how’s that?”

“Sounds good. See you then. I love you, Uncle Wade.”

“Love you too, Puddle-Duck.” Wade pauses. “And don’t worry. I won’t call you that in front of your friends.”

Sasha laughs and hangs up.

Tim watches her seriously. “He was interviewing at the Institute? Is that what Elias meant?”

“More than that. He’s already been hired.” Sasha rubs a hand over her face. “Guess that’s as good a reason as any to stay back. At least I won’t be in any danger. Probably.”

“You’ll be fine.” Tim knocks back the last of his drink. “C’mon, finish up and we’ll head back. Loads to do before we save the world.”