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bibliocratic · 3 years

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tim and jon

part of a series of archive polycule oneshots (minor cws and mentions in the tags - ask if you would like anything added. these cws are explained in more detail in the ANs on A03)

“Would you hurry up?” Jon hisses at him, his eyes scattering skittishly to dart and interrogate every night-echoed noise. His expression is bow-strung and embroiled in a hundred outcomes where they get caught, and he furiously shakes his head when Tim indicates through rough and basic mime the next stage of this impeccably-organised plan. There is a flurry of disagreement about who gets to take the starring role in the next part, performed entirely through gestures and whispers before Jon, snapping a ‘fine, fine’, takes the leg-up Tim’s offering. There’s a medley of ‘shit’ and ‘woahwoahwoah’ as both of them adjust to balance and Jon clings to the wall for a moment, psyching himself up prior to shimmying his lanky body worm-like through the open letterbox-shaped window.

There is a clattering, a worrying thump. Tim winces, and cautiously calls out “Boss?” as loud as he dares.

He gets a seething cats-hiss of “Keep it down!” so he presumes Jon’s not too badly damaged.

A minute or so later, Jon is opening the lock from the inside to let Tim into the building. His jumper is rumpled, his hair and face caked with dust like a talc bottle’s gone off in his face.

“Bit grubby there,” Tim grins. Jon gives him a look that promises untold violence and an unmarked grave if he doesn’t behave himself. Tim mimes zipping his lips shut before passing Jon the spare torch.

Despite Jon’s protestations, this outing was his idea. The security tapes and records are in here somewhere, the owner was cagey enough that it’s practically a given, and if they can use them to prove a case of a possible active entity, well, a little sneaking around can’t hurt. Jon had avoided calling it exactly what it was (‘It’s just some looking around’ / ‘It’s trespassing, boss’ / ‘It’s harmless, we’ll be in and out, we’re not really stealing anything valuable’ / ‘It’s breaking and entering and trespassing on private property’) so much so that Tim had laughed, declared it a case of Schrödinger’s illegal and told Jon he’d buy them both some gloves for their night-time ‘looking around’.

Moving further into the property, the flashlights they’ve brought arc with echoes of illumination a split second slow, like the dragging light of a Bonfire sparkler, eventually casting over to a metallic-walled office tucked off to the side. This place looks like a pre-fab, out on an industrial estate somewhere, and from contents inside, has spent the last few years being a motorcycle showroom. Gleaming structures are displayed proudly and buffed to shining in lines, the large open-plan room interspersed with load-bearing pillars. Off near the end, there’s the accessories part of the space, with metal shelving and stands and racks where helmets and gloves and leathers are clustered.

The office is locked. Jon wordlessly pushes the torch over to Tim, who holds both it and his own pointed at the lock, and pulls out a black rectangular carry case. Kneeling down, he unzips it with a quiet tug, revealing its contents as an honest-to-god lockpicking kit.

“Are you serious?” Tim expels in a high breath, his mouth curved high in delight.

“Childhood hobby,” is the only thing Jon will say, and any further questions are refuted with a ‘I am trying to concentrate’ or a stone-wall silence. Tim files all a hundred and one of his follow-up questions for a later time. He’s half tempted to snap a photo for Sasha, but then remembers with a guilty jolt that that would probably be a bad idea if anyone catches them.

The office is no better than their archives, and Jon is visibly disappointed at the lack of an easy job. Stowing away his kit back into his pockets, they settle into a routine after a few muttered back-and-forth suggestions. Tim takes the paper-drowned desk, the stuffed layers of the in-tray and the desk drawers, while Jon braves the rattling filing cabinets taller than he is.

For the most part, they work in silence, which means it’s a surprise when, after a few moments rifling, Jon says in a painfully faux-casual way:

“So. You and um. You and Martin.”

“Hmm?” Tim replies. His eyes flick over several receipts, a few carbon-copies of CBT papers and full licenses. He tries to separate some, only to find that they’ve started to stick together, and he sighs with irritation.

Jon remains quiet. Tim turns to look at him, and he’s still got his hands in the stomach of the highest and dustiest filing cabinet, obviously no longer looking with the entirety of his attention but still trying to keep up the charade.

“Was there a point you wanted to make, or…?”

Jon pulls his hands out and swings his face around, and Tim can’t read his expression.

“At the… At the Institute party. You seemed… close.”

No closer than usual, Tim had thought. Martin’s efforts hadn’t been enough to completely vanish his anxieties over the socialisation. He’d stuck close to the other three all night, tugging at his new jacket at intervals, running his fingers over the fabric to settle himself. He’d avoided the alcohol entirely, and had picked at the snack foods. Tim had been as free with his affections with Sasha as usual, casual touches to her hip, the small of her back, calling her ‘babe’ and ‘love’. Sasha had pressed a kiss to Jon’s cheek and dragged him over by the hand to their merry band when he’d arrived later than the rest of them. Tim and Martin hadn’t touched because Martin had confessed earlier that he’d prefer if they didn’t, not in this setting, not where other people could see or comment or judge, and so Tim respected that and kept his distance. Apart from once, when they were sat off to the side on plastic-backed chairs pulled out of some store cupboard somewhere, unnoticed by anyone else. Sasha had been drawn into conversation with Rosie about something political, and Jon had been extricating himself from talking to Elias after being summoned over to meet a few of their investors, and Martin had nudged Tim’s hand with the back of his own and murmured ‘Thanks. For, um, convincing me to come’ and then he’d glanced around before leaning in and kissing him demurely before moving back, his cheeks clawed with pink. Tim had felt a bit like a firecracker going off.

“You’re a bit late for any juicy office gossip,” Tim replies slowly, uncertain of where this conversation is going. “I mean, it’s not a new development.”

Perhaps Jon had seen him and Martin, although it wasn’t a crime, what they did, wasn’t inappropriate for work. He’d assumed Sasha would have told him, on the nights when Jon stayed at hers. Martin doesn’t tell anyone about them, but Martin doesn’t tell anyone about a lot of things, and they’ve spoken about his insecurities and fears both unfounded and painfully historical. Tim doesn’t mind Martin’s reticence, doesn’t mind the slow-building thing between them. Martin pretends not to smile at his jokes and beats him at Mario Kart every time and oversalts his chips and undercooks his eggs and finishes Tim’s onion bhajis when he’s ordered too much and scolds him for forgetting about the bins again and has started to kiss him for the first time like this isn’t something he’s going to lose. Martin hasn’t said he loves him, and that’s alright. Tim’s pretty sure he’s been gone for Martin for months now.

“Does he know?”

Jon’s follow-up is flint-strike, whiplash-corded. He’s set his jaw and his mouth in a tight line that looks like a wound in the unsettled torchlight.

“What do you mean?” Tim asks nonplussed, and if anything, Jon winches his body tighter and says, almost impatiently.

“Does Martin know about Sasha?”

“What about her?”

“About you and Sasha?”

“I mean… yes?”

“And does Sasha know about you and Martin?”

“Have you talked to her about this?”

“Well, no. I wanted to ask you first.”

Comprehension rocks him tidal with a sudden drenching wave.

“Christ, Jon!” Tim hisses out, and Jon gestures him to be quieter and it’s only with real effort that he manages: “Of course she knows. They both know about each other – I’m not a complete bastard!”

“I didn’t say that!” Jon counters defensive. A coil of embarrassment has begun to wind its way through his tone.

“Is that what you think? That I’ve, what, started seeing Martin on the side and just… what, haven’t told Sasha about it? That you’ve uncovered some sort of sordid little office scandal? The fuck, Jon!”

“Keep your voice down!”

“You’re the one who wanted to have this conversation right now,” Tim snaps back.

“I – ” Jon huffs, irritated with himself. The torchlight makes his expression stretch, take on more weight. “That wasn’t what I meant, and I didn’t intend it to come across that way.”

“What way did you intend it to come across then?”

“It – it doesn’t matter.”

“Well, it sounded a lot like you were a second away from accusing me of cheating on either one or both of them, so no, actually, I do want you to give me an explanation. Like, right now…. Is this some jealousy thing, with Sasha?”

“What? No! No, Sasha can, Sasha can date who she likes. It doesn’t bother me that you two are together as well.”

“So, what, Jon? What’s the problem?”

“I…” Jon makes an aggrieved noise. “I’m not explaining myself well.”

“You can say that again.”

Jon breathes hard. He fiddles with his fingers and Tim waits, making Jon be the one to speak first. Because for all Jon’s protesting that he didn’t mean it like that, Tim’s hurt, slighted by the idea that Jon might think that of him, might read callousness or deception into his actions so easily.

“I don’t think that of you,” Jon says eventually. “I know – you wouldn’t hurt Sasha and you wouldn’t hurt Martin. I didn’t think you were cheating. I just… I didn’t know that you and Martin… I thought that you and Sasha, not that you were exclusive, but that … and then I saw you with Martin and I wanted to make sure, because I don’t… so, I get that Sasha, she likes you and she likes me and that’s – I get that. But I don’t understand how you – what, you were with Sasha, and then you just… what, started dating Martin? How does that work? How are you with one person, and then you meet another and then you want to be with them as well?”

Tim does not have time to teach Jon Polyamory 101, considering they’re in the middle of something that, pretty euphemisms aside, is definitely a crime. If Jon was better at communicating, this was something he might have been able to broach with Sasha, or with Tim at literally any time other than right now.

Jon’s intensity is misplaced. He’s always been good at that, reflecting the inward out to something he feels he can tackle. Tim privately thinks that Jon’s had these little boxes in his head of what he understands poly to be, and that Martin’s involvement has jostled them out of alignment. That Jon might not be as monogamous as he’s previously considered himself to be and is having to work through all the baggage which comes with personal growth.

Tim’s seen the way Jon looks at Martin when he thinks no-one is looking.

“Jon,” he says, and he does well to strip the irritation from his voice. “Me and Sasha, we talked about it, early on when we first started seeing each other. About the whole exclusive thing. And like adults, we came to the agreement that we were happy for the other person to be in a different relationship if they felt drawn to be so, as long as all parties were informed and consented to the arrangements. And then, this thing with Martin came along… and I told Sasha about it, and she suggested I try seeing if he’d be interested. And luckily, you know, he was, and the three of us have talked about the logistics of it all, and it’s working out. I’m not sure what you’re finding difficult to understand.”

“So… Sasha and Martin are together too?”

“Nah. They’re, um – how did they put it… ‘incompatible in a few key areas’. But they love each other in their own way, and they’re happy, and that’s all there is to it.”

Jon ruminates on this for a bit before he seems to mentally prepare himself for another question.

“And how did you feel, when Sasha started seeing me?”

“Er. Fine. Questioned her taste in men a bit, but…” Jon’s face is a picture at that moment. “I’m joking! I was fine about it. Is… is that was this is about?”

“It’s… not exactly…” Jon looks at the dust on his shoes, rubs at a grubby spot on his face that he’d missed with his sleeve. “When she told you that she wanted to see me, it didn’t… it didn’t make you feel, I don’t know, hurt? That you weren’t enough for her?”

Tim loves Jon dearly but god, he can be an idiot.

“It doesn’t work like - Look. You’re not – it’s not about one person being ‘enough’, yeah? It’s not a finite resource, kay, people can love their friends and pets and family and partners and it’s not… it’s not going to run out or anything daft like that. When Sasha started seeing you, and going to pub quizzes with you, or when she’d be at mine one night and then she’d leave in the morning to go on one of your museum jaunts or whatever…. You being there didn’t reduce how she felt about me, or make our relationship any less meaningful. And when you’re with Sasha, you don’t feel she cares about you less because I’m in the picture, right?”

“No.”

“Exactly. She loves you differently, not less. And the same when me and Martin got together.”

“I… I understand,” Jon says slowly.

“Then, what about this is bothering you exactly?” Tim says, and his voice has quietened now.

“Sasha wouldn’t feel… hurt. If I wanted to, um, hypothetically see someone else. She wouldn’t think that I – I wasn’t happy, or that I wanted more than what we had together, or that she wasn’t… enough for me. And if I did see someone else, they wouldn’t feel like I was, I dunno, messing them around?”

“Jon,” Tim says. “I think this is a conversation you should really be having with our girlfriend, yeah? But… personally, I wouldn’t worry. Wanting to date another person isn’t bad. You just need to be honest and communicate.”

There is a long pause.

“Thanks, Tim.” Jon looks tired, mulling over things, but his face is plastered over with something like relief compared to his earlier tension. “I do – er. I do appreciate you. Talking to me about… about all this.”

“Don’t get soft on me, boss,” Tim says, and he gives Jon a wink. A deliberate gesture that says ‘it’s alright’. “I know I’m a delight to be around.”

Jon relaxes and his expression flint-sparks into a small smirk.

“Whatever Sasha and Martin have been telling you, you’re absolutely not that charming.”

“Please. I’m a catch. Irresistible.”

“I seem to be immune.”

“You sure about that?” Tim teases and Jon rolls his eyes and gives him a put-on look-over.

“You aren’t my type.”

“It’d be different then, if I was, say, a winsome-looking redhead?” Tim says. “If I looked like I’d fallen backwards into a tragically retro clothes shop. Would that, perhaps, be a little bit more your type, boss?”

It’s too dark to see if Jon’s complexion has flared with embarrassment.

“Where are you going with this, Tim?”

“Nowhere!” Tim sing-songs and turns his attention back to the desk. One of the drawers is stuck and he yanks at it before it opens with a complaining screech. “Nowhere at all.”

Jon doesn’t respond. For a few moments, they sink back into their search.

“He’s seemed happier recently,” Jon says after five minutes or so. “You’re good for him.”

“You could be too,” Tim says.

“Well. Ahem.” Jon has definitely gone a different colour at that thought.

And then his face hardens. He clicks off the torch sharply, and he's yanking Tim forwards by the arm, tugged him next to him into the cramped space next to one of the filing cabinets. Tim would have yelped, but Jon gives a sharp 'shhh', and grabs at Tim's torch to press it off as he pulls them both down crouching. For a moment, there's nothing but breathing, Tim trying to ask Jon what's wrong with his limited movement and Jon equally communicating that he needs to shut up immediately.

Then Tim hears the noises outside.

He thought they'd have more time. The doors to the office and the main building aren't locked, and they won't be able to get out now, not without facing whatever is out there that the statement giver warned them about.

"What'll we do, boss?" he whispers to Jon, the words threaded onto one breath.

"Plan B?" Jon suggests. He passes his torch to Tim, and goes for the inside of his bag again, bringing out the items Tim had argued repeatedly for bringing and Jon had repeatedly shot down.

Tim grins despite himself.

"Plan B," he affirms, and helps Jon light the firework.

#tma #the magnus archives #jonathan sims #tim stoker #tim/sasha #martim #pre-jonmartin #mention: cheating and infidelity #cw misunderstandings #cw implied internalised polyphobia #jon/sasha

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voiceless-terror · 3 years

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All Too Familiar

For @jonpeterweek2021

Characters: Jonathan Sims/Peter Lukas, Elias Bouchard

Rating: Teen, SFW

Summary: In which Elias and Peter make a bet and Jonathan Sims is courted by both the Eye and the Lonely.

“Archivist giving you trouble?”

Elias’s fingers are at his temple, his eyes closed in what could be called contemplation but is more likely irritation. Peter’s not fond of the woman, quite the opposite, but her ability to rile the man up is unparalleled. He can respect that.

“Should’ve offed her long ago, I say. Getting on in years, isn’t she?”

“And aging me right along with her,” Elias grouses, letting out a much aggrieved sigh. “It’ll be a while yet, but I do have plans for her.”

“And someone else, I see.” Peter’s eyes scan over the files on his desk- personnel files, each with an attached photo. He snatches one from the stack before Elias can protest and makes a show of squinting at the page. “Jonathan Sims. Bit young for you.”

The photo shows a young man barely out of college and desperate to be taken seriously, judging by his haircut and ill-fitting blazer. The flash must have caught him by surprise- he looks disgruntled and confused, eyes squinting ahead. It would almost be endearing to anyone who wasn’t Peter. “Well, he’s more to your tastes than Gertrude ever was. Best of luck.”

“Enough!” Elias hisses as he grabs the folder from his hands with surprising intensity, those cold, strange eyes narrowed in contempt. His gaze lingers on the file for a moment, staring down at the attached photo as if it reveals something Peter can’t see. Oh, this is a serious contender. Peter wonders what makes him so special. It’s an idle, curious thought; Elias rarely displays such cageyness, preferring instead to keep his cards close to his chest with a knowing smirk. It’s insufferable.

“Tetchy about this one,” he comments, watching as Elias carefully slots the file underneath the others, as if to guard it from Peter. “Any particular reason?”

Elias tenses for one brief, almost imperceptible moment, shoulders encased in a crisp, tailored suit rising at most a centimeter but Peter sees it. Elias has his eyes but for all his lonely solitude Peter can read people. He can find weak spots and exploit them, tiny insecurities laid bare and magnified. And then Elias relaxes, leaning back slightly in his chair as his eyes flicker to Peter’s with a contemplative smugness. There he is. “He’s afraid of spiders.”

That’ll do it.

“Special indeed.” Peter whistles lowly. The Mother’s not to be taken lightly. He can see the draw; few are marked by the web, and even fewer escape with their life. He wonders why she let this one go; from the one photo he’d seen, Jonathan Sims looked utterly unremarkable, which makes him all the more intriguing. Perhaps he should pay him a visit. Recent college graduate, taciturn countenance. Knowing Elias’s predilection for orphans and loners, the boy has little to no social connections. The Institute has always attracted these types, though he risks the ire of its head if he claims it as a hunting ground.

His face must reveal his musings, for Elias’s own hardens. “Whatever you’re thinking of doing,” he says, each word with a clipped precision. “Don’t.”

“You think so little of me,” Peter laughs, raising his hands in a conciliatory gesture. Always suspicious, that man. Rightly so. “I would never interfere with any of your plans.”

He can feel the Watcher’s gaze as he strolls through the halls, taking his time to peer in doorways and flash a pleasant smile at the confused staff. He does not run into Jonathan Sims, nor did he expect to. Elias’s irritation is a satisfaction all its own.

For now.

__________

There is a man in the courtyard.

Objectively, this courtyard is open to anyone, be it staff or guests of the Institute. Objectively, it’s a rare, beautiful day and people should take advantage of it. Objectively, Jon doesn’t have a ‘spot’ he can claim for smoking and insist on being alone. But Jon’s scowl and the wafting scent of cigarette smoke is usually enough to drive people away.

But this time, there is a man in his spot. Jon is not pleased with this development.

He’s tall, stocky in the way a middle-aged man usually is, though there seems to be some muscle lurking underneath his baggy coat. Is he some sort of vagrant? He’s pale, unhealthy so, and it puts Jon on edge.

But that’s not the most irritating thing about him. That honor goes to his whistling.

Jon takes his smoke break at precisely ten each morning. Ten. Who whistles this early? Certainly not any sane person. No, that’s an activity best left for mid-afternoon or dusk. Mornings are for silence and work, not playtime. This is obscene.

So why, pray tell, does he still go to his spot? He could easily sit on the bench in the center, there’s no one there this early, no one to bother with his little vice. But habits are hard to break, and Jon’s a man who likes routine. He doesn’t want people thinking he can be pushed around. So he walks over, trying to ignore the shiver he gets in the midmorning sun on a perfectly temperate day. Jon doesn’t meet the man’s eyes as he moves closer and despite his trepidation, something is starting to put him at ease. His scent is so familiar, cold and crisp like the foggy mornings of his childhood. His grandmother’s house, not so far from the sea. It brings a sharp pain to his chest as much as it soothes him; she passed months ago and despite their distant relationship, it’s still a sort of grief. Perhaps he didn’t visit her enough in the end. She didn’t deserve to die alone.

Breaking himself from his maudlin thoughts and taking his place at the wall, Jon fishes a cigarette from his pack and lights it in a smooth, practiced motion. The nicotine soothes his fried nerves and he can almost ignore the man in that old jacket whistling some jaunty tune and trespassing in his spot. There’s no greeting, no nod of acknowledgment. Jon smokes his cigarette to the stub until it's acrid odor all but wipes away that familiar scent, and he leaves.

He finds himself humming all afternoon.

__________

Jon’s an interesting fellow.

Peter can see the remnants of the Web clinging to his shoulders in an almost possessive shroud. The Mother is usually more subtle, but this one screams mine, mine. Elias will have his work cut out for him, that’s for sure. But his machinations have always bordered on unnecessarily complex- the man enjoys a challenge. Enough time under the Watcher’s gaze and you’ll start to think it home.

And yet the man still calls to him. There’s a vulnerability in the way he holds himself, how he stubbornly clings to his little spot and yet makes himself small. There’s Lonely in him, Peter can feel the itch of it in his skin. He could snap him up quite easily if he tried. But he’s always favored a longer game when he can find it; it brings so much satisfaction to see a soul slowly eaten away until it fades, unremembered and bereft. There’s a quiet dignity to it, and Jon would wane so beautifully.

On his third visit, Jon breaks his silence.

“Why are you here?”

He’s got a pleasant voice, if a bit posh. Jon thinks it probably makes him sound older, but he’s yet to land on a confident enough tone. He’ll get there one day. In any case, he’ll be perfect for reading statements. Another point to Elias.

“No idea what you mean,” he replies with a smile and he can see the boy is startled. He clearly wasn’t expecting a cheery answer, which Peter finds a bit insulting. He’s not that rude. “Just taking in the fresh morning air like yourself.”

“I’m smoking.” Jon waves his cigarette as if Peter had yet to see it. “In what world is that fresh?”

“Suppose I’m used to it,” he shrugs, leaning more casually against the wall and meeting Jon’s intense gaze. It’s heavy, though not so much as Elias’s is. You’ve got the Eye in you yet. He’s had practice with these types. “Sailors are fond of cigarettes, when they can get them.”

“Is that why you smell?” Jon blanches, as if realizing the rudeness of his question. Peter pauses, unsure of what he means. He’s showered, he’s not dirty. “I-I mean, it’s just- you remind me of the sea, is all.”

The words make him freeze. He shouldn’t be able to pick up on that, Peter’s been careful not to slip too far into the fog. He’s perceptive. Peter doesn’t usually like being seen, or in this case, smelled, but Jon’s an interesting case. He wonders how he’d fare on the Lonely’s shores.

“Smoking kills, you know.” He ignores Jon’s question, relishing the way his eyes narrow. “Nasty habit.”

“Hear secondhand’s just as bad,” he replies with a snarl, dropping his cigarette and stamping out the dying embers with a scuffed brown shoe “So maybe you should find another spot to loiter.”

“You’re right.” He abruptly turns to leave, not sparing a glance back in Jon’s direction. Best to keep him on his toes. It’s a cloudy day and Peter’s feeling quite hungry. For once he has business that keeps him in the city, why not have a little fun in the meantime?

His phone vibrates in his pocket. It’s a text he won’t answer. He never does, and to be quite honest, he doesn’t really know how.

Elias Bouchard: What are you playing at?

Peter chuckles to himself, slipping the phone back into his coat.

What indeed.

ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29266788/chapters/71869302

#my writing #jonpeter #jonpeter week 2021 #fanfic #sfw #cw smoking

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axe-armed-gnome-jon · 3 years

Text

day one: favourite character

This is my first entry for the @tmanostalgiaweek because the finale left a hole in my heart and I needed to write stuff. Enjoy!

Jon didn’t sleep a wink all night

Because of insomnia? No. Because he hated sleeping? No.

Because during the night some Instagram meme pages kept him too much company?

Absolutely yes.

It was almost an habit: coming home from work, going to bed and watching memes with monkeys and dogs until late night.

But he was in the archive, dragging his feet across the corridor with eyebags darker than an ink spot and a frown that touched the floor.

He just kept walking, praying silently asked him…

-Good morning, boss!- Tim’s voice shook him like a lightning directly into his veins. -How are you?-

Jon replied with a low, tired grunt, slamming his office’s door begging to drown in his chair as soon as possible.

Diving deep, drowning.

Basically, dying in the plastic fabric of the chair.

He sat down heavily, taking his head between his hands and passing his fingers trough his hair. He was twisting them around the phalanges as if they were nets thrown into the stagnant water, trying to think as fast as possible a solution.

He definitely couldn’t just sit there and take a nap, the pile of statements on his desk was judging him with his eyes made of papers and notes taken with a glitter pink pen, but he couldn’t move a muscle without crying and because he knew that when he was sleepy he could make...you know? Error on errors on errors, something very unprofessional that could have put him in troubles.

Because everything was a disaster and God was dead.

He had an headache. But not the kind of “pneumatic hammer at six o'clock in the morning” headache, but something more subtle, that crawls from the temples to the centre of the skull like an industrial press, the one that makes you close your eyes and stay still until it stops.

He could feel his eyes dry as dried plums pinned skewered in the head.

Next time, phone locked in a box before bed, okay?

He took a deep breath, massaging her temples slowly.

-Alright, maybe I have an idea- he muttered to himself, going through his jacket pocket to get his old cell phone and the headphoneThe music was like snake oil, at least for him. He put on his headphones and all thes all tangled.

The music was like snake oil, at least for him. He put on his headphones and all thoughts became liquid, he put on his headphones and everything became full of colours.

Maybe he could try.

-Just two songs- said to himself. -And then I’ll start-

He opened his cell phone, putting on the first energetic music playlist that he so liked to pretend to despise and vaguely hearing the music coming to his ears.

It was weird, how the volume was always too low.

But maybe his headphones were broken.

Tim had the superpower to recognize any Ariana Grande song after about ten seconds.

Sure, it wasn’t the most useful power, but he used that ability many times during his life.

And that time was one of them.

Sitting on his chair, he was going through some papers, the ones he was researching on, when the first notes of Dangerous Woman started to fly in the air like bubbles.

He threw a look at Sasha, sitting on a chair next to his.

-Are you hearing it too?- asked, with the voice of someone that knew he was right but needed a confirm. Maybe he was just losing his head.

Sasha lifted her head from the document she was researching on, fixing the glasses on her nose with a dubious expression. -Yes? It’s like Ariana Grande-.

-Yeah but- Tim looked around, meeting Martin’s gaze. -Where does it come from?-

-Jon’s office, I think- neither Martin, the good old Martin, was sure of that.

The song, however, continued to go on.

It wasn’t annoying, it was just...weird.

Weird, that was the right word.

They tried to keep their ears open, when the confirm struck them like a lightning.

It was coming from Jon’s office.

They looked at each others with embarrassment, unsure on what to do.

-What he’s doing?- Sasha didn’t talk to him all morning, she was late and she started to work immediately, and in addition no one ever knew with certainty what the hell was going on in the head of their boss.

So every hypothesis was good.

-For me it’s an error, it must be his ringtone- proposed Martin.

-He forgot to put the headphones’ jack in the phone- Tim leaned with confidence to the back of the chair, squinting his eyes. -I saw him this morning, he seemed very tired. More than usual, anyway-.

You always had to trust Tim, because he knew all about Jon.

Everyone nodded.

-But we have to say something to him, don’t we?- proposed the good old Martin after a few minutes, shining eyes full of wonder while he was listening to the music from the office at the end of the corridor.

-I think he’d die of embarrassment, he will notice it alone at some point- Sasha simply shrugged her shoulders, heading back to the document. -I’d let it drop-.

She wasn’t wrong.

She was never wrong.

-But if Elias comes he’ll be in troubles- replied Tim .

-Yeah. Someone has to tell him something- Martin made a pause. -But we have to decide who-.

Needless to say, the other two gazed at him with decision in their eyes.

-Oh no, guys- Martin put his hands in front of him, which resulted in the fall of a pair of pens from his desk. -I’m not going there-.

Martin found himself knocking at the office’s door.

Because he was a loser, that’s why.

Every time that he gazed back to his colleagues, there were always encouraging signs and fakes smiles, while the entire Ariana Grande’s discography was going ahead without any pause and even louder.

Martin hated Ariana Grande, but he knocked again.

Knocking and knocking and knocking.

Until he realized the door was open.

He opened it slowly, founding himself in a club where the only things missed were the dancers and the alcohol, replaced by papers full of stories and a water bottle full of warm water.

Jon had his headphones on, smiling quietly like he was actually having fun.

Martin’s heart started to aching, like if all of his ribs where trying to stop it from jumping outside his chest.

He was having so much fun, what a pity.

But hey, it was necessary.

Martin went in without announcing himself, staying there with his six feet of embarrassment in front of the door.

At the same moment, his boss tilted his head, stopping the music and taking off the headphones from his head.

He scaled him from head to toe with his big hazel eyes, wit confusion infused in his dark pupils and yet another pout that immediately replaced that half-smile.

The jack, Martin noted, was actually disconnected.

-What is it, Martin? - Jon stood up on the chair, as if he had been struck by a flash of seriousness, tapping his fingers on the desk.

-I...umh…- got to that point, he didn’t know how to proceed. He always had the bad habit of leaving everything down in the middle.

Jon raised his eyebrows in an impatient expression. -So?-.

-No, well. I was saying- Martin had to be brave. He was his boss, yes, but he was an human, first of all.

-You were saying…?-

-Your headphones. Are disconnected from the phone. We heard the music. It wasn’t annoying or anything, Tim likes Ariana Grande an everything but, if Elias comes or stuff like that…- he left the sentence hanging, noticing the terror and embarrassment flowing through the man on the desk’s annoyed expression.

He looked at the phone, then at the headphones, and realized.

Realization crawled out like a snake and sat down on his face, leaving him with uncertain eyes.

-Fuck. Sorry? Sorry. I didn’t notice...sorry. Sorry- he managed to murmur, immediately lowering the eyes, leaving a thick fog of awkwardness fill his lungs and coming out in small laughs.

he wasn’t used to being embarrassed.

-No, no. It’s nothing, really- Martin didn’t understand shit anymore.

He was already ready for his healthy daily dose of scolding, sarcastic comments and all the rest, but an apology? In this economy?

That wasn’t planned.

-Nice. Again, sorry. I’m just a little...slow, this morning. Had a bad night-. He always had the bad habit to mess up with apologies. Over explain everything.

-I understand- Martin cut short everything, making a small smile. -I’m sorry I didn’t knock-

-Sorry for the music-

-Sorry again-

-Sorry-

-I’m going to finish the thing you asked me to, the one about the haunted book- Martin proceeded backwards, without stopping to look at the other just to notice the tiny changes on his face.

From a bored grimace he started to smile in a nervous way, and now he seemed almost relaxed.

Amazing, how emotions can so quickly paint the human face in a thousand of different shades.

-Sure. Thanks- Jon made the tiniest smile, taking a statement from the big pile.

Martin took the door, coming back to his desk, between the applause of the other two, who had observed the door literally fearing the worst.

He sat down, and sighed.

There were no notes in the air.

But Jon, in his small and silent office, was blushing like a pepper.

#tmanostalgiaweek #tma #the magnus archives #the magnus archives fic #tma s1 #the sixteenth fear: the disconnected headphones in public places #jonathan sims #martin blackwood #sasha james #tim stoker

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entitynumber5 · 3 years

Text

hurt never meant

Chapter 1: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29723250/chapters/73101963

Summary: Jon and Martin enter a battle of wits regarding the hiding of injuries.

Content warnings: paranoia, blood, injury, canon-typical worm mentions, descriptions of wounds and scars, stitches, needles, internalised ableism, swearing, arguments, toxic work environment, nausea, food mention.

It was very fun to write Martin being petty and stubborn but my god, having Not!Sasha in this fic was PAINFUL!!!!!! Hopefully the second chapter will be finished soon. Full text below the line. I hope everyone’s having a great day <3

The Tube is choking with artificial heat, pumped unregulated through the vents so that inside in late November, cocooned in coats, the passengers shift and sweat and mumble in discomfort. Martin tries to remember the mundane cycle of complaints and platitudes he follows in circles every morning: the air is drying out my contact lenses. At least it’s not summer. I wish I wasn’t wearing a coat. You’ll be grateful when you get outside.

Each circle is broken, just before he completes it and begins again, by the sensation of heat crawling beneath his skin, a tingling upwards motion. It ripples across his face, inducing a drowsiness like fingers dragging his eyes closed, before the prickling across his scalp sends him spiralling into discomfort once again.

He tries to force himself back to his commuter’s hymn, but the heat feels internal, spreading outwards as if attempting to meet the warm air of the Tube. It’s different from the normal unpleasantness. It’s too distracting. He shifts his weight between bursts of dizziness—he gave up his seat three stops ago for a person with a tiny baby strapped to them, and now he is squeezed against the door by the passengers who have joined him since—and a fresh wave of stars burst across his vision at the sharp slice of pain through his left foot.

Martin clings tighter to the bar as the pain wraps around his ankle and flares up the outside of his calf. For a moment, he thinks his whole leg might collapse beneath him and he is almost grateful for the way they are all shoulder-to-shoulder in the compartment.

Perhaps he should have called Rosie and told her. But a deep-rooted part of him cannot bear to take time off, remembers the times he had dragged himself to work feeling much worse—smiling from behind the till even during a bout of flu that made his entire body ache, carrying plants to cars at the garden centre a few days after he dislocated his shoulder helping his mother up after a fall. At least, at the Institute, he has a desk and a chair and very few opportunities for heavy lifting. Given time to take some weight off the injury before lunch, he is sure no one will even notice. And by tomorrow, he will be fine.

The next stop is his. Outside, the cold air takes some of the unbearable flush from his cheeks and he walks the rest of the journey with his coat open to counteract the heat of the train. He resolutely ignores the throbbing in his left leg as he joins of the parade of commuters, bustling in tandem along narrow pavements. The Institute isn’t far.

Martin fights the instinct to immediately make Jon a cup of tea. He knows it takes Jon a while to warm up to him each day, withdrawn and nearly always absent in the mornings. By the afternoon, Jon is slightly more receptive after enough time co-existing without incident, slightly more willing to drink the tea offered to him even if he always smells it beforehand. Morning tea is fed to the plants; afternoon tea, Jon tolerates.

He should stop by the staff room, anyway. The first aid kit inside is well-stocked. He knows this because he did it himself, spreading the task out with extensive research on the empty, boring workdays before Jon and Tim had returned from their leave. There are painkillers inside and the sort of durable bandages Martin doesn’t have at home. But the urge to sit down drags him past the door and straight to his desk.

“Morning, Sasha,” Martin says, supressing a loud exhale of relief when he lowers himself into his desk chair.

Sasha glances up distractedly from her computer and pulls out one of her earbuds. “What was that, Martin?”

Martin tries to fight an unfamiliar nervousness, an old friend from his early days in the Archives where he wasn’t sure where he stood with Tim and Sasha. “I was just saying good morning.”

“Of course.” Sasha smiles, although her expression is blank, almost cold. “Good morning to you, too.”

Martin gives her a tight-lipped smile in return. Sasha pops the earbud back in and returns to whatever work she is doing on the computer. He wonders if she can hear the noise of the repeated error notification over her music, wonders what she is doing to make the computer so combative.

Before Prentiss, he has a vague memory of there being a radio on Sasha’s desk. She wouldn’t turn it on everyday—sometimes, she could only get work done if she was wearing noise-cancelled headphones—but whenever she did, she and Tim would sing along to cheesy ’80s hits. He thinks he remembers them dancing together, the middle of the open plan office becoming a makeshift dance floor, but he cannot hold the entire picture in his mind. It’s like a reverse polaroid, fading out of view rather than in. Perhaps he only dreamt it.

He shakes himself out of the fuzziness filling his mind and tries to focus on checking his emails. He left leg throbs dully beneath his desk, but the pain becomes peripheral as each email dredges up the irritation he tries to avoid indulging on weekends. Elias has sent a motivational Monday email about the importance of teamwork and rallying together, especially after a difficult few months for all of us. Rosie has forwarded a fundraising form from his old supervisor in the library, who is apparently raising money for Dementia UK. He tries not to think about how difficult it had been to explain to the aforementioned supervisor why he needed time off to help his mother settle into the care home in Devon. And there is no email at all from Tim, who has stopped bothering to even send his apologies for being late with each new blow to his and Jon’s relationship.

“Martin.” Jon’s voice, slightly raised to catch his attention.

Martin looks up. Jon’s door is open just a crack. Before he can reply, Jon adds stiffly: “My office. Five minutes.” And then he closes his office door firmly once again.

Martin resists the urge to groan and lower his head to his desk. While he’s glad that telling Jon about his faked CV seems to have been a small but significant turning point, he isn’t sure he can manage another complicated conversation dredging up old anxieties today. He doesn’t want to reveal each shameful, painful secret he has in a futile attempt to make Jon trust him.

He can’t concentrate for the next five minutes. He alternates between watching the second hand on the clock across the office and refreshing his emails. He resigns himself to giving a fiver to the library fundraiser and eating the leftover takeaway in the fridge for lunch rather than getting a meal deal. He tries not to think about where Tim might be or what sort of mood he will be in when he finally arrives.

As soon as five minutes have passed, Martin stands. But with his stomach twisting in anxiety and his thoughts spiralling, he has managed to relegate the pain in his leg to the bottom of his mental priority list. Now that he’s standing, it’s demanding first place again. He has to grab the edge of his desk, almost sending his nearly-dead office plant and pot of pens flying across the floor. His monitor, still displaying emails, wobbles dangerously with the desk. He stands completely still for a moment, trying to breathe around the wave of nausea induced by the pain.

The prickling hotness is back. He hopes his face isn’t red when he finally plucks up the courage—and energy—to knock on the door of Jon’s office. It wouldn’t be the first time, he supposes. No matter how hard he tries, he finds himself blushing quite often whenever it is just him and Jon in the latter’s office.

“Come in,” Jon mumbles from behind the door.

Martin creaks open the door carefully and steps inside, trying very hard to make himself smaller, non-threatening. Jon sits behind his desk, staring at his computer screen. He doesn’t look away, but he waves Martin into the spare chair opposite him.

Martin has a feeling that sitting down would be a dangerous decision. He clears his throat. “Actually, I’ll—I’ll stand, if you don’t mind.”

This finally draws Jon’s eyes away from his monitor. “Alright. Although I can assure you that, unlike some of its brethren in Artefact Storage, that chair doesn’t bite.”

Martin tries to smile. Jon has been doing this more since the confrontation and subsequent reveal over his CV—trying to make jokes, or some approximation. An attempt to diffuse the tension, even when Jon’s body language is nearly always screaming: I see you as a threat.

“I’m sure it doesn’t,” Martin replies, “But I, um—I was just reading this article about the impacts of sitting at a desk.”

“A productive start to your workday, then,” Jon mutters.

“And so I’m gonna try standing up a bit more,” Martin continues, deliberately ignoring Jon’s comment, “Around the office.”

“Around the entire office or my office specifically?”

Martin can feel the irritation—stirred by the emails, deflated initially by Jon’s joke—rising inside of him again. “Does it matter?”

Jon sighs. “I suppose not.”

“So, what did you, um, what did you need from me?” Martin asks, trying not to shift with nerves. He knows it will aggravate his leg.

“Sasha still appears to be having difficulty with her computer, so I was hoping to delegate the task of digitising the disproved statements from 1995 to 2000 to you,” Jon says.

Martin tries not to visibly bristle. Jon has been doing this a lot lately, too—far more frequently, in fact, than the half-formed jokes. He hoards the statements that won’t record digitally, combs them again and again for details rather than delegating this task to any of his Assistants, and only asks for very vague follow-ups.

But Sasha had volunteered to digitise the disproved statements. She said she liked the clear structure it gave to her day, always able to take a full hour for lunch to visit her new boyfriend, and how it led her to different places within the Archives. Besides, she has a transcribing qualification, although she had asked Martin the other day how to insert line numbers into a document. Brain fog, she had explained with that same thin smile.

Martin is quite happy to do whatever minuscule tasks Jon would sporadically trust him with, as long as it meant he had some idea of what Jon was currently putting all of his energy into. He doesn’t want to digitise statements from the ’90s.

“Will that be a problem?” Jon asks after the silence drags on.

“Nope. Not at all,” Martin lies, “It’s just that…”

Jon raises an eyebrow. “Go on.”

“I thought I could perhaps… do some follow-ups on the statements you’ve been reading.”

Jon sighs again. Distractedly, he lifts his left arm, his sleeve rolled up to his elbow, and scratches at the slightly-raw but almost-healed wound along his forearm. The stitches have dissolved, but Martin can see the pink scarring where they were placed across the wound, which is raised in comparison to the flat worm scars surrounding it.

“Don’t scratch it,” Martin tuts, “You’ll reopen the wound.”

“Martin,” Jon replies, exasperated, “It’s almost completely healed.”

“Completely healed? It’s not—it’s never going to be—you needed five stitches!”

“Yes, as you keep reminding me.”

“Because I—” Martin splutters, trying to find the words. “Because I worry about you.”

“Your worry is entirely unnecessary.”

“Is it? Because I think you’ve given me more than enough reasons to be worried about you lately.”

Jon’s jaw twitches angrily, but his expression is level when he forces his eyes to Martin’s. “I didn’t call you in here to have yet another pointless conversation about my mental or physical health.”

“Of course not. You called me in here to…” To do a completely meaningless task because you don’t trust me with anything else. He takes a deep breath and knows he cannot say that. “Digitise the 1995-2000 disproved statements.”

“Well remembered.”

Martin manages not to roll his eyes. “I’ll get started right away.”

Martin turns to leave. The first step is easy. The pain arrives on the second, taking him surprise, a direct strike to his ankle. He stumbles and has to steady himself again, this time against the chair Jon had offered him at the start.

“Martin,” Jon says, a hint of something like surprise—or worry—in his voice. He is half-standing from his own chair when Martin looks over his shoulder at him.

“I’m fine,” Martin insists.

“You’re clearly not fine. Are you injured?”

Martin leans into the chair so he can turn to face Jon again. At this angle, Martin catches only a glimpse of the healing wound where it snakes behind Jon’s wrist. But even with a limited view, the memory of the first time he had seen it grips him.

It had been near the end of the day. Martin went to use the toilet before he headed home, but the moment he was inside, all he could smell was blood. And for a moment, all he could think was the worms, they must have missed some of the worms, where did I last see Tim, oh, god, Jon hasn’t left for the day yet, is Sasha still in the office, the worms, worms again, always worms, it was only a matter of time. It was like walking through the Archives after the siege to give his statement: the musty smell of the worm carcases and the metallic hint of blood beneath. Jon and Tim’s blood.

He had lifted his sleeve to his nose to block out the smell and tried to gather some semblance of calm. The blood was in the sink. One of the bathroom stall doors was closed but not locked, a shadow just visible underneath. When Martin called out a cautious hello, the door creaked open at the behest of the occupant’s foot and Jon stood sheepishly inside, pressing a wad of red-stained tissues against his arm.

“Ah. Hello, Martin,” Jon had said. And then, “Heading home?”

Martin had shouted. He can’t remember what. His voice was always higher than it was loud when he was upset. After that, it had been a blur of the same lies. “I’m fine,” as Martin tried to apply pressure to the wound. “I don’t need stitches,” when Martin insisted on taking him to A&E. “It’s really not that bad,” while the doctor was injecting the anaesthetic and stitching the wound. “Why would I lie, Martin? For the last time, I cut myself on a bread knife,” repeated in the days after, again and again, no matter how much Martin pushed.

“Martin,” Jon says again, interrupting his train of thought, “Are you injured?”

Jon is lying to him. Jon is playing a game. Perhaps unintentional, perhaps well-meant, but nonetheless—two can play and Martin has thrown his hat into the ring. The irritation scratching against his ribcage is replaced with a petty sense of satisfaction.

“I sprained my ankle on the way to work. Tripped while I was getting off the Tube,” Martin tells him, “You know me. Clumsy as anything. It’s nothing serious.”

“Well, it doesn’t look like nothing,” Jon snaps.

“It’s fine.” Martin smiles. “I’m sure it will clear up on its own,” he adds, since Jon had something to that effect to him while bleeding profusely in the bathroom stall.

“Perhaps you shouldn’t be digitising the statements, after all,” Jon murmurs, almost to himself, “Sasha hasn’t yet transferred them to the office and the boxes can be rather heavy.”

“Honestly, Jon, I can manage,” Martin interjects. The satisfaction has faded slightly, replaced with that desperate urge to prove himself, to show he doesn’t need time off work. He won’t go home. And he won’t be a liability while he’s here. “Besides, what else is there for me to do? Unless you want me to follow up on that statement?”

Jon looks down at his desk. A flash of panic crosses his face when he realises the statement folder is open and Martin, at any time, could have read it. He closes it, deliberately slow, as if trying to hide the reason why. “I’m sure I can find you something else to do at your desk.”

Martin knows this has become a different point of pride now. A dangerous point of pride. He doesn’t want Jon to fuss over him. He doesn’t want to be handled. He will do his job as usual and no one will know he is in pain, no one needs to assume he is anything other than fine.

“I’ll digitise the statements,” Martin says, “In fact, I’ll get started right away.”

“Martin, I—”

“I’m fine. Really.”

“If you insist.”

“I do.”

“Then…” Jon hesitates. “Have a good day, Martin.”

Martin almost folds at the softness in Jon’s voice. For a moment, he considers taking it back—the stubbornness, the bitterness, the insistence that he’s fine. Would it hurt to give in, for a day, to the urge for rest? But it would. He knows it would.

“You too, Jon,” Martin murmurs, dismissing himself from Jon’s office and managing to make it out of the door without flinching every time he puts weight on his left leg.

Jon refreshes his emails. He deletes Elias’s aggressively positive bulletin before panicking that he will somehow know and transferring it back to his inbox. He flips through the statement on his desk. He makes sure the pages are in order, properly aligned. He takes the tape recorder from the drawer. He takes a sip from the sealed water bottle he keeps in the same locked drawer as the tape recorder. He lifts his thumb, letting it hover above the button to start recording.

Martin, he thinks. And he can’t begin the statement.

Martin is not fine. Jon is going to prove it. He had decided this before the emails, the statement, the water. But at the crossroads of burying himself in work or investigating Martin’s denial, he realises that it was never really a choice. He needs to know.

Perhaps Martin is hiding an injury related to Jon’s clandestine investigation. The tunnels are dark and, in places, littered with debris. A person visiting without the right equipment—or, at the very least, without a torch—could easily hurt themselves. Or likewise, if the tables had somehow turned, Martin could have lost his balance in the station while following Jon. The best lies always held some element of truth.

The worry eating at him is for this scenario, Jon tells himself. Not for Martin. He is not worried for Martin.

Jon props his door open slightly with his shoe. Now that he has taken to working in his office, door closed, he no longer worries so much about working in only his socks. He never liked the feel of his firm work loafers, and it’s easier to sit comfortably in his chair when his feet aren’t covered. He checks to see if any of them have noticed him, but in the bullpen, Sasha doesn’t look away from her malfunctioning computer, earbuds in. Tim has yet to arrive. And Martin’s desk is empty.

He goes back to his own desk and sits down. From this angle, he can see through the small gap where his shoe is holding the door open. A direct view towards Martin’s desk. He will know when Martin comes and goes, will be able to examine his reaction to movement and pain. Jon begins a timer on his phone—he should keep a record of how long Martin takes, that might give him an idea of the extent of the injury—and then throws himself into scouring the evidence that Basira left the last time she visited.

Jon keeps stopping to check the timer. At fifteen minutes. At eighteen. At twenty-two. Twenty-three. Twenty-nine. Thirty. Thirty-one. Thirty-four. Martin has been gone for far longer than Jon had expected.

At thirty-seven minutes, Jon steps out of his office.

Sasha gives him a brief wave as he passes, but the other two desks are still empty. Jon feels himself frowning. He checks the staff room, but it’s empty and the kettle is cold when he touches his fingers to it. Next, he forces himself to walk slowly to the stacks where the original statements, even disproved, are stored. It is light and temperature controlled here, adjacent to the room where Martin had once stayed for months while they waited for Jane Prentiss’s attack. Because he knows now that was what they were doing: waiting.

Jon keeps his pace slow and measured. He realises he’s still not wearing shoes, which makes it easier to walk quietly along the stacks looking for the right dates. 1980-1985. He’s getting closer. He stops just before 1995-2000, listening for any clue Martin is there.

The first thing he hears is heavy breathing, every other inhalation hitching in pain. Jon grips the shelf behind him, digging his fingers into the wood, focusing on the sensation of the grain. He grounds himself, refuses the first and overwhelming urge to check on Martin. And then, shifting his weight very carefully, he leans forward so he can see through a small gap in the shelving.

Martin is sitting on one of the wheeled, plastic stools used for reaching the higher shelves. His left leg, the one he couldn’t put weight on earlier, is extended in front of him. The hem of his left trouser leg has hitched up slightly, revealing Martin’s sock—covered in tiny dinosaurs and padded as if hiding bandages beneath. His body trembles, almost like a slight blurring around the edges. He is gripping his thighs tightly, digging his nails in as he squeezes is eyes shut.

Jon’s heart clenches. He knew, in his office, that Martin was injured. But this is something else entirely. Beneath the sickly lighting, Martin is pale, almost grey, his skin shinning with a thin layer of sweat. Jon recognises the tightness at the edges of his mouth, the way his throat works against a rising nausea.

“Martin,” Jon says, stepping into view before he can think about what he’s doing.

Martin leaps off the stool, but the motion sends him immediately careening into the opposite shelf when his left leg won’t hold his weight. He catches himself before he falls fully, but he lets out a breathless “shit” that Jon attributes to both the pain and the shock. He tries to pull himself back up to his full height, but Jon can see the toll the sudden movement has taken on him.

“Christ, Jon,” Martin gasps, struggling to regain his breath.

“You’re lying to me,” Jon says. He stops himself before he adds: again.

Martin’s eyes widen slightly in alarm, a look of panic washing out his features further. “Jon, I—I thought we—I’m not—”

“About your injury.”

“Oh.” Martin deflates. “Oh. That.”

Jon is so angry he doesn’t have energy to spare on being embarrassed by his lack of subtlety. “Martin, you look awful.”

“Thanks,” Martin mutters.

“You should take the day off, at the very least.”

“Jon, I’m grateful for your concern, I really am, but—”

“If you say you’re fine again, I swear I will—”

“It’s a sprain,” Martin interrupts, insistent, “Nothing I can’t handle.”

Jon sighs. His anger leaves him, replaced with a sort of sadness he can’t quite place. Nothing I can’t handle. That sentence implies a comparison, a time before that hurts Jon to think about. “Let me get the boxes, at least.”

“No,” Martin says quickly.

“Martin, you clearly—”

“I’ll get them,” Martin insists, “Your arm—”

“Is almost healed. The same cannot be said for your allegedly sprained ankle.”

Martin rolls his eyes. “Allegedly?”

Jon doesn’t dignify his echo with an answer. “My physical therapist says I’m ready to start—”

“No, see, that’s exactly why you shouldn’t be here!”

“I know my limits, Martin. You, apparently, do not.”

Martin laughs humourlessly. “Oh, for gods—”

“What?” Jon bristles. “I attended physical therapy, didn’t I?”

“Because I texted you every day to make sure you went. Because I sent you home when you tried to come back into work too soon.”

“I am more than capable of looking after myself.”

“You stabbed yourself with a bread knife!”

For a moment, a rebuttal sits on the edge of Jon’s tongue. He almost reveals the truth—the door, the blade of Michael’s finger tearing through his flesh when he tried to go after Helen. But no, that would be too much. That would be giving Martin exactly what he wants.

“So you finally believe me,” Jon says calmly.

“I’m finally starting to believe you’re never going to tell me the truth,” Martin replies.

“I’ve already told you the truth.”

“And so have I.” Martin looks him in the eye, unwavering. “I sprained my ankle. I’m fine. I can do this.”

Jon sighs. He rubs at his eyes, wishing he had gotten more sleep for the past—well, the past year. “In that case, I’ll leave you to it.”

“Thank you.”

“Thank you,” Jon echoes, although he has no idea why, and leaves before Martin can question him.

Back in his office, he paces. He checks the timer on his phone. It’s been an hour. He sits down, glancing between his computer and the door, the computer and the door, the computer and the door. Eventually, he hears Martin drop a large box of case files on his desk, far louder than he would ever usually allow himself to be. Jon sighs again. He is not sure what battle they are locked in, but he knows it is going to be long and hard-won.

Jon goes back to scrutinising Basira’s evidence. A collection of statements taken from people in the vicinity of the Institute during Jane Prentiss’s attack. A profile on some of the employees who had frequent contact with Gertrude, including Martin’s old supervisor in the library. He had sent a reference of thinly-veiled insults across with Martin’s employee record and, for some reason, Jon had never liked him since.

He is disturbed by conversation outside.

“Afternoon, Tim,” Martin says.

“Afternoon, is it?” Tim replies bitterly. “I didn’t realise.”

Only then does Jon realise it is after midday and Martin still hasn’t badgered him about getting lunch.

“Can I get you anything?” Martin asks, his tone much softer. “A cup of tea, maybe?”

“Thanks, but I prefer coffee these days.”

Martin laughs, a small, quickly fading sound. “Believe it or not, I do also know how to make coffee.”

“I guess I…” A loud, exhausted sigh from Tim. Then, in a smaller, kinder voice: “A coffee would be great. Thanks, Martin.”

Through the half-open door, Jon watches as Martin grips his desk and uses it to leverage himself up. The change of elevation clearly makes him dizzy and he stands for a moment, breathing deeply while he reaches an equilibrium. But when he walks, he is mostly managing to mask the pain, at least until he leaves Jon’s field of vision.

Jon listens. He hears the familiar squeak of the staff room door swinging closed. After a fortifying breath, he forces himself out into the main office. Sasha’s desk is empty; she’s probably on her lunch break with the boyfriend who works at the wax museum. Tim is sitting in his chair, hands in his lap, staring blankly at his computer. The screen isn’t on.

Tim blinks. Pulls his dull gaze away from the computer. The shadows beneath his eyes are deep and purple, and he doesn’t even attempt to smile. “Can I help you with something, boss? Must be big if you’re willing to leave that office of yours.”

“Have you noticed Martin behaving strangely at all?”

“Oh, bloody hell, Jon, not this again,” Tim hisses, “I’m not helping you spy on—”

“No, no, not that,” Jon interrupts, “I believe Martin injured himself on his way to work, but he won’t tell me how severe it is.”

“Wow. Sounds kind of like someone else I know.”

“Tim.”

“I suppose he learnt from the best.”

“Tim,” Jon snaps, “Did you notice anything?”

“No.” Tim sighs. “No, I was a bit distracted, to be honest. I was sort of hoping Sasha would be here. I, uh, I need to talk to her about something.”

“Will you keep an eye on him?”

“I already told you, I’m not—”

“It’s not spying.”

“It’s as good as!”

“It is not.”

“You would know.”

“Tim,” Jon says, lowering his voice for impact, “If you are not going to do any work, at least—”

The staff room door whines open. Martin walks out backwards, holding the door open with his shoulder as he shuffles into the office a mug in each hand. One is the novelty mug with a celebrity and slogan on it that Jon doesn’t recognise, no matter how many times Tim has tried to explain; the other is the plain, sunny yellow one Martin always gives to Jon.

“Oh,” Martin says, pausing when he sees them both, “Is… everything alright?”

“Fine,” Tim replies, “Jon was just interrogating me about why I was late. And I was just telling him how I was passing by London Zoo when I heard a scream and I immediately began running—”

“Alright,” Jon interrupts, “I’ve heard enough.”

Martin lifts the hand holding the yellow mug slightly. “I made you tea.”

Jon tries to push away the warm feeling that unfurls in his chest, every time Martin says this. “Thank you, Martin. Let me take those from you.” He adds, firmly, “Both of them,” for good measure.

With some manoeuvring, Jon manages to relinquish Martin of both the mugs. He places Tim’s down on his desk, receiving a mumbled thanks, before walking the distance back towards his office door. Martin lingers in the doorway to the staff room, looking casually at Jon, but there is a stubborn set to his shoulders.

“How are the files?” Jon asks.

“Terrible,” Martin replies with a slight pout, “I’ve already read five statements about three separate Oasis concerts.”

Jon shudders. “I never liked the ’90s.”

Martin chuckles. “Yeah, well, at least they weren’t getting up to anything actually spooky.”

Jon hesitates. He knows, if he moves first, he will have lost this particular battle. But the war is still all to play for. He assesses the determination on Martin’s face and decides that, on his occasion, he will concede. Just this once.

“Well,” Jon says, clearing his throat, “Good luck with the rest.”

“What, you’re not going to make him put a quid in the jar for saying ‘spooky’?” Tim interjects.

Jon startles. He had almost forgotten him and Martin were not alone. “It’s a first offense.”

“It is not,” Tim calls after him, but there’s something playful in his tone, at least, “That’s preferential treatment!”

Jon goes back into his office without replying. He keeps the door open.

For the rest of the afternoon, Tim doesn’t exactly keep his word, but he does do everything in his power to prevent Martin from getting any work done. Tim isn’t subtle about it, but Martin tries to resist. He only plays two rounds of online Battleships with Tim before insisting on returning to the disproven statements. Tim then attempts to throw pens from his pot into Martin’s, scattering most of them around the office. When Sasha comes back, he quietens slightly and they all fall into some semblance of productivity. Jon does catch Tim playing solitaire when he passes his desk on the way to the bathroom, though.

Sasha is the first to go home. She leaves without stopping by Jon’s office and the absence scratches at his consciousness, some long-buried sense of rejection that he soothes and smothers with the knowledge that this is what he wants. He wants space to work. He wants to snap the lines of connection that might lead him towards betrayal.

Less than twenty minutes later, Tim is next. And he tries to take Martin with him.

“Come on,” Tim whines, his voice carrying through the barely-open door to Jon’s office, “Just one round. On me.”

“Tim,” Martin replies, his voice gentle but holding his position, “I really can’t. Not tonight.”

“We could grab something to eat instead? I’ve been meaning to try this sushi place right near—”

“I can’t eat—”

“Oh, right.” Tim clicks his fingers in remembrance. “You’re allergic to fish.”

“Not all fish,” Martin adds, like an apology.

“Not all fish,” Tim echoes, “But no sushi, just to be on the safe side.”

“Yep.” Martin sighs. “Sorry.”

“No, no, don’t apologise.”

From his office, Jon can hear Tim shifting slightly. The floors are hardwood, carefully maintained over the years, and despite taking some damage during Prentiss’s attack, Elias insists on keeping them. They creak. He remembers Martin mentioning it once in passing, when he was staying in the Archives, how sometimes he thought Jon was there even on the nights when he left before it got dark.

“At least let me walk you home,” is Tim’s last attempt, “A sprain is definitely not nothing. I sprained my wrist years ago climbing and it still plays up sometimes. Especially when I’m caving, actually, but that’s a story for another time.”

“Well, um… I won’t go climbing any time soon, then?”

“Are you just saying that to make me feel better?” Tim says in his most flirtatious voice.

Martin laughs. “I appreciate it, Tim. But I’m—I just want to finish this off. Before I leave.”

Through the crack in the door, Jon sees Tim raise his hands in surrender. “Well, I tried.”

“I’ll be alright,” Martin adds, almost guiltily.

“You better be.” Tim hesitates again. Jon watches him pat the pockets of his coat, searching for his phone or perhaps his keys. “You got my link? The NHS website one about strains?”

“I did. Thank you.”

“And you know about calling 111?”

“Also yes.”

“And you can call me if you need me?”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Okay, okay, I’ll go,” Tim says, resigned, “Just—take care of yourself.”

“You too, Tim,” Martin replies softly.

Tim heads off, again without stopping by Jon’s office. And it’s habit, by now, it’s not unusual for Tim to do this, but Jon taps the desk lightly with his fingers to try and dispel the feeling of wrongness sitting on his chest. He watches Martin go back to the computer, a tension around his eyes that suggests at a headache and the same pallid, nauseous look visible even in profile.

Jon considers the work he has left. The work he knows, realistically, he will never quite finish because every statement, every piece of footage, every lead, only stirs up more questions. He could stay. He could push himself on into the night, as he has done so many times before. He could find another reason to go into the tunnels. But deep down, he is exhausted—by the need to know, by the itch at the edge of his knowledge where uncertainty lingers and festers. He wants to rest and he thinks if he leaves now, Martin might, too.

Jon gathers his things, stuffing a few statements inside his messenger bag before shrugging on his coat, his scarf, his gloves and his hat. The cold air hurts his scars and dries out his skin until they become tight, small movements made increasingly uncomfortable without intervention, so he’s resorted to wearing more layers. Finally, he puts his shoes back on, retrieving the left one from the door and then closing it behind him when he steps out into the main office.

Martin glances away from his computer. “Heading home?”

“Yes,” Jon replies, as casually he can, “I thought I would call it an early night. Would you—I thought—perhaps you would like to join me?”

Jon tries not to notice Martin’s cheeks flushing pink. “Oh, um, I—I was actually—I think I should stay. Just for another half an hour or so. It’s just, I’m nearly finished with October to December 1999 and I know it will bother me if I leave it.”

Jon quirks an eyebrow. “That interesting?”

“Hmm.” Martin shrugs. “Mostly just a lot of people worried about the turn of the millennium.”

“Ah. I remember that.” Jon doesn’t let on that he spent October to December 1999 researching that very phenomenon obsessively, walking the line between intense curiosity and deep dread at the possibility of catastrophe. There are some things—many things—Martin doesn’t need to know about him.

Martin smiles. “Well, I… I better get on.”

“Martin,” Jon says, trying to keep his voice measured. He feels like he is wavering between an offering and an argument. “I know I stressed the importance of digitising those files this morning, but there is no reason to spend overtime on—”

“There is, though,” Martin interrupts, “A reason.”

“Oh?”

Martin looks him in the eye and almost smiles. “I want to.”

“Right,” Jon sighs.

“Right,” Martin echoes.

“I suppose I’ll—I’ll be going, then,” Jon murmurs, tapping Martin’s desk just once in deference to the slight tremble in his body, the way he isn’t quite sure what to do with his hands. “See you tomorrow, Martin.”

Martin smiles, this time. A full smile. “Bye, Jon.”

Jon turns. He begins to walk away. In his mind, he sees an alternative: going back, asking Martin to walk with him to the station, an offer he knows will, at least, make Martin think again. The both of them squeezed among commuters, hands stuffed into the pockets of their coats because of the cold, elbows knocking against each other every so often as the crowd tightens and expands. The awkward, protracted moment of goodbye when they part to separate platforms, the glimpse of the other walking away and the pang of sadness that comes with it.

It’s manipulative to ask, a cruel trick, and yet—is it? Is it, if that is something Jon wants, too?

Jon doesn’t turn around. He keeps walking, even though he knows—somewhere deep and hidden and insistent—that he will regret it.

#cw paranoia #cw worms #cw injury #cw blood #cw nausea #cw toxic work environment #cw internalised ableism #cw food mention #cw needles #i feel really shy about posting this?#idk why #it was genuinely hard to write not!sasha that might be it #my confidence might be low right now but my love for martin increases daily #so i will write him no matter what 😤#my writing #love to eveyone #thank you for reading #<333

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ieattaperecorders · 3 years

Text

Something’s Different About You Lately - Chapter 9: A Disappearance

Several employees become preoccupied with personal projects. The archive has a minor infestation.

Read on Ao3

Martin leaned against the break room counter, phone to his ear. As before, the call went directly to voice mail.

"Don't know what I expected," he muttered to himself. He'd called twice already that morning, third time wasn't going to be the charm.

The sound of the kettle came nearby, and he paused to pour water into two mugs. As the tea steeped, he brought his phone up to stare at the familiar number. Pushed down a tiny, anxious compulsion to just call again, as if that would accomplish anything. The phone was either on silent or powered down, either way he wasn't getting through.

Sasha always had her phone on her. She always had it charged. Martin had never known her to go more than a few hours without responding to texts or missed calls. Really, he had no idea how she kept on top of it.

Maybe she'd caught the flu and was sleeping all day, too tired to call in or charge her phone? Or maybe she'd lost her phone. It happens. You couldn't assume someone was missing just because they'd skipped a couple days of work, could you? One and a half days, really, since it was barely past noon. And the weekend, of course, no one had seen her then. But that was the weekend.

Reassurances like these might have sat easier with him if it weren't for the time Jon had vanished into a set of supernatural corridors. As was, things were beginning to feel uncomfortably familiar.

He opened his text history with Tim, knowing as he did there'd be nothing to see.

Martin: are you at the institute ?

Tim: nah nowhere near

Tim: doing some field work

Martin: oh :/ are you coming in at all today?

Tim: probably not. dw i texted jon, he knows

Tim: tell him not to worry, just doing some recon

Martin: maybe you should call and tell him yourself? he seems pretty upset

Tim: it's cool. i 'm gonna have my phone off so i won't see texts for a while :) ttyl

Martin: I really, really think you should call Jon and talk to him

Martin: seriously. Things are getting weird here

That exchange had happened that morning, and there'd been no word from Tim since then. Martin didn't like this feeling. Half of him thought he was worrying over nothing, while the other half suspected that he wasn't worrying enough. And the only other person in the archive wasn't likely to provide a model of stability anytime soon.

He remembered what it had been like during the two weeks Jon had disappeared. The first days had been marked by a passive confusion, with the three of them going about things normally, occasionally looking up and asking has he still not come in? Did you see him at all? Should somebody call him? Idle concern that grew into anxiety as more time passed.

After four days of it, Martin went to Elias to ask whether Jon had called in, if he knew where he was. Elias had said something vague about field research. Said that it was open ended, and no he didn't know when Jon would be back. Added with a smirk that he was taking a "hands off" approach with him. When Martin pressed for more, expressed worry that he wasn't answering his phone, Elias had given him a knowing smile that made him feel like he was naked in public. He'd suggested Martin might be letting his own "personal preoccupations" color things, and reminded him that repeated phone calls can make one look rather desperate for someone's attention. Martin had shuffled off, face burning, and not brought it up again.

Elias's explanation and lack of concern had kept them all complacent for too long. But Martin shouldn't have been complacent. He should have known better. No, that wasn't even it – he did know better. Deep down he'd known something was wrong, because he'd spent so much of those weeks worrying.

Worrying, and thinking about those days he'd spent trapped in his flat, slowly accepting that no help was coming, that the outside world had shrugged at his absence and moved on. He remembered worrying what would happen to his mother when the payments for her care stopped coming. And thinking that the others at work might not even learn he was dead unless his landlord gave a statement about the rotting, buzzing, hole-shot thing he'd find when he finally came to evict him.

Sitting with his back to the wall, cold, tired and halfway to delirium, Martin had hoped that they'd feel guilty when he did.

It had been some consolation to learn Jane had been using his phone, that there was a reason nobody had looked. Nursing resentment, he'd thought to himself that ‘stomach problems' had been a weak excuse. But then, an even weaker excuse alongside a snide comment about how obvious Martin was had been all it took to stop him asking questions, so how much worse was he? He'd known something was wrong, but instead of doing anything he'd kept his head down, and worried, and hoped it would work out.

Tea finished, he brought the mugs out to the bullpen. Jon was already there, bent over Sasha's desk -- he'd emptied the contents of her drawers all around him and was sifting through them, brow furrowed. He looked up as Martin entered.

"Anything?" he asked, expectantly.

"Still no answer . . . should you really be going through her things like that?"

"Yes, it's fine." Jon waved a hand and turned back to the papers he'd been looking at.

The question had been rhetorical, not an opportunity for Jon to give himself permission to keep rifling. Martin decided to let it go.

"She didn't tell you what she was working on, did she?" Jon asked. "Anything that could give you a clue where she'd be headed?"

"Not really," a twinge somewhere, because since when did anyone tell him anything? "I mean, she's been looking up statements for some research she's doing, but she's secretive about what it is. I think has something to do with Gertrude? She's been talking about her a lot, anyway."

"That isn't much help . . . there's too many directions it could lead. And that's just the ones that I know about . . . ."

"Sorry . . . I wish I knew more." Maybe it was the anxiety already swirling in Martin's stomach that made Jon's tone cut through him the way it did. It was hard to say.

"It's something. A starting point, at least." Jon sighed, shoving some papers haphazardly into a drawer. Assuming Sasha wasn't eaten alive by some nightmare creature, she was definitely going to notice when she got back. He pulled a notebook from his pocket and began scribbling in it. "I'll try making a list of relevant statements, maybe we can check whether she accessed them recently."

Martin stepped a little closer to peek at what he was writing: 0081912, 9522002 (would she recognize the voice?) 0141010, 0063011, 0090202 (anything involving A. or L.F.) The moment he realized Martin was watching, Jon frowned, flipped the notebook closed and stuck it back into his pocket.

"What about Tim? Have you been able to reach him at all? I think he's flat-out ignoring me at this point."

"No. His phone rings, but he doesn't answer. Last we talked he just – well, see for yourself."

He displayed the last text conversation. Jon's eyes scattered over the words, then he grabbed the phone from Martin's hand and began typing a reply. Martin barely had time to sputter a hey! before it was handed back to him: Sasha is missing. Call immediately. -J

Terse, but he supposed it might get Tim's attention. Martin looked up to see Jon pacing back towards Sasha's desk, shaking his head.

" ‘Recon . . .' there are only a few places that could mean, and all of them are bad," he muttered. "I'm going to have to go after him, aren't I? I'm going to have to – but there's only one way that can end for me and I can't – not yet, not while Sasha's still gone. . . "

Martin frowned. "When was the last time you slept?"

"Last night." There was a note of triumph in Jon's voice, an unspoken so there. "The same as you, presumably."

"Okay. How much sleep did you actually get, though?"

"I don't know. Not much. Doesn't matter . . . can't sleep anyway." His voice dropped in register and he muttered, "spiders" like it was the name of his mortal enemy. Martin considered mentioning something about how they'd at least keep more harmful pests out of his home, but thought better of it.

"Okay, then. . . suppose I'll file that away with all the other weird, cryptic things you keep saying." At that, Jon gave him an aching look that made him instantly regret saying anything.

"I'm sorry, Martin. I am trying to be more forthcoming. I t's just – well, it's difficult . A nd I'm afraid it's already making things worse . . . ."

"Look . . . you don't have to tell me everything, okay?" Martin said. "Just let me help. If you think you know where Tim's vanished off to, tell me. I can check in on him if you can't. Really, I'd rather be doing that than sitting here doing nothing--"

The rest was cut off by Martin's yelp of surprise, as Jon closed the distance between them, grabbing him tightly by the shoulders.

"No! Don't you dare. Not you too," Jon's voice began to crack. "Please . . . if I can't even keep you safe . . . ."

His eyes were wide, and he was holding Martin very, very closely. As Martin tried to think of what to say to that, tried even to remember how words worked, his phone rang and startled them both. Jon's grip on him loosened and he pulled away to check it – it was Tim.

"Put it on speaker," Jon said. He did, and Tim's voice came out before Martin had the chance to say hello.

"Martin. What's going on?"

"I see now you're suddenly available," Jon's voice dripped with disdain.

"Don't. Not now," Tim said warningly. "Just tell me what's happening with Sasha."

Martin held a hand up before Jon could interrupt him again. "We don't know exactly. She didn't come in today, or yesterday. We'd actually been wondering if she was with you."

"I take it from your call she isn't," Jon said. "Did she tell you anything about where she was going?"

"No. I didn't even know she was going anywhere. Have you called her?"

"Of course--"

"--We tried," Martin cut Jon off, his tone forcefully calm. "We've been trying to reach her for a while, actually, but she isn't answering calls or texts."

There was a pause on the line as Tim quietly cursed. Then Jon's hand was on Martin's wrist, pulling him – no, pulling the phone in his hand – closer.

"Look, just . . . come back to the institute," the argumentative tint to his voice was gone, now he was all but pleading. "We can work this out together. Just – just come back."

There was a pause, then Tim's voice again.

". . . I'll be there in a few hours."

He hung up without ceremony. Jon released his hold on Martin and slumped into a chair.

"Well, that's one crisis dealt with," he exhaled. "Or postponed."

There was nothing like relief in Jon's voice, only a low, tired dread. Martin looked at him, taking in the bruises under his eyes, the unsteady tremor to his hands. He looked . . . harried. Like he'd been running for days and might drop dead from exhaustion before whatever was after him even caught up.

Martin found himself badly wanting to reach for him, to brush away whatever dark thoughts were settling in. He wanted to take a blanket and wrap him up warm, to sit next to him as he'd done for Martin in the storage closet, until he felt safe enough to close his eyes and rest.

"Jon . . ." he said softly. "You're not well."

A hollow, humorless laugh. "Not really, no."

Sasha was missing, monsters were real, and Jon was keeping secrets that were tearing him apart from inside out. Martin didn't know how anything he might say could stand against any of that. But he still wanted to say something. He pulled up a chair and sat down.

"You don't have to take everything on, you know. We're in this together, right? That's what you just told Tim. So let me help you," Martin said, something weak and pleading in his voice. "Tell me what you need."

An indecipherable look passed over Jon's face. Martin wanted to take his hand but had enough sense not to try, instead placing his own hand palm-down on the desk beside them. To his surprise, Jon reached forward to grasp it. For a moment something fluttered in Martin, but he nudged the feeling carefully aside. This wasn't about his embarrassing, childish crush. Jon was scared and exhausted, and he needed a friend. Martin turned his palm and gripped back. If he could give Jon any little bit of comfort, he was going to, and he was not going to be weird about it.

"What I need . . . ." Jon swallowed and shook his head. "What I need is to know where Sasha is, and – I need Tim to not be doing something suicidally dangerous." He looked up at Martin, then back to their joined hands, placing a second palm over them both. "I need you all to be all right. It's all I have . . . ."

"Okay . . . okay. Well." Martin took a breath, in and out. "We'll do what we can to find Sasha. And Tim is on his way back for now," he said softly. "And for what it's worth, you know, I – I'm here."

". . . I know." Jon gave him a weak smile, and shook his head again. "Whatever else happens, I . . ."

He trailed off, looking down at their hands. His thumb moved back and forth, absently brushing little arcs over Martin's knuckles. He was quiet for a long while.

"I don't know," he finally said. "Just be safe. Please. If . . . if I lost you, Martin, I don't even know . . . ."

Jon kept his grip on Martin and yes, he was definitely stroking his hand now. Martin's heart began to pound. He might have kept it together, but then Jon's fingertips trailed up the curve of his wrist and his breath hitched – quiet, but Jon heard it. He looked up abruptly, seeming to realize himself, and dropped Martin's hand as if it was on fire.

"God, I – I'm sorry, I didn't –"

The pained look returned to Jon's face as he pushed away from the desk. Several responses crowded Martin's brain at once. It's okay, you don't have to stop, and please don't look so sad, and I'M GAY IN CASE THAT WAS SOMEHOW UNCLEAR, I MENTION THIS NOW FOR NO REASON. But instead of saying anything he stared, dumbfounded, as Jon got to his feet.

"I have to go," he said, hurrying back towards his office. Martin heard the door slam followed by the click of the lock, and he was left sitting speechless next to two cold cups of tea.

* * *

Back to the door, Jon pressed his face into his crossed arms, swallowing back the noises that refused to stop coming out of him. He wasn't crying, the fact was that he was far too tired for tears, but kept his mouth covered all the same. He'd done enough to confuse Martin already without him hearing Jon sob through the door.

Stupid, stupid. Careless. It was falling apart so quickly. He couldn't imagine what else he'd have managed to destroy if he'd stayed in that room a moment longer.

Every step he took seemed to be a mistake, every option leading to disaster. Keep his secrets to himself and Sasha runs off to die looking for answers. Let out a little truth and Tim throws himself to the Circus. Be the Archivist, let the Beholding in and he would repeat the cycle as Jonah's tool. But stay human, and if he wasn't killed by something lurking in the shadows he'd be spun into the hands of the Spider.

Assuming he wasn't there already. He'd danced his way to the apocalypse once, all the while thinking he was trying to prevent it. How could he be sure every action he took now wasn't part of the Spider's plan?

He'd had a dream some nights ago. Martin had been in his flat, curled up with him on the couch – there had been no confession, no revelation of feelings, they were simply together once more, and it was wonderful. Until Martin tried to get up. Jon felt a tug as he moved – first gentle, then more insistent. Martin's expression went from one of contentment to confusion, to sudden distress. He was trying to pull away, but somehow his arms were still wrapped around Jon. With as much force as he could muster, Martin yanked back hard, and his arm finally moved to reveal thick, white webbing between them, binding their flesh together.

Horror washed over him as Martin began struggling in earnest, and Jon felt every tug and snap, the desperate writhing of hopelessly trapped prey. Jon wanted to say something – to comfort him, to scream with him, to beg for his forgiveness – but a thousand legs were stirring inside him. He felt the press of movement in his throat, and put all his effort into keeping his mouth closed. Not certain how long he'd last, but entirely sure of what would swarm from him the minute he let it open.

He very nearly found himself missing the Watcher's nightmares when he woke. At least he'd never worried that they might be prophetic.

Jon's fingers tangled themselves into in his hair, and he felt something crawl over his hand. He jumped, shaking his arm free, and a palm-sized spider fell onto the floor. Revulsion crawled through him – he grabbed a loose folder, ready to smash it. But the moment he raised his arm he saw something move in the corner of his eye. He looked around and suddenly they were everywhere.

Hundreds, thousands . . . more? He didn't know how many, it didn't matter how many, it was too many. Too many spiders, his brain screamed. Tiny, skittering things crept out from behind boxes and between files, from under the baseboards and over the ceiling. They crawled from every direction in the room – above him, around him, everywhere, EVERYWHERE.

Panic gripped him. He froze. So did the spiders. For a tense moment, they all stayed like that – Jon too terrified to move, eyes darting from one part of the room to another. He was surrounded. There was a clean circle a few feet around him, and beyond that, the swarm. Waiting. Unmoving. Why were they just sitting there?

Experimentally, he lifted the folder in his hand, ready to bring it down. The swarm crept closer. He stilled, and they stopped. They didn't withdraw, but they didn't advance either. It seemed that they weren't going to touch him . . . unless he made a move to kill one of them.

What the hell was this ? Some new way to toy with him? Was he being trained like a dog, now? The Web didn't like his habit of killing spiders, so it was sending a message – quit swatting at us, or – or what? They'd kill him? Not if they intended to use him, they wouldn't . . . but then, they wouldn't need to. He'd seen the sort of things they do to people – victims left hollow but alive, helpless to stop as their bodies are jerked along on invisible strings.

He shuddered, withdrawing his hand, and he swore he could feel the pleasured satisfaction running through them as he did what he was told. It made his stomach twist.

He couldn't just obey them like this, could he? But if he defied them and they swarmed, wouldn't they have him then as well? Was it reverse psychology, did they want him to attack and give them an excuse? Or was that what they wanted him to think, so he'd fall in line? Maybe he was damned either way, maybe it was only a question of how his free will would be stripped from him.

To hell with it, then – if nothing mattered, he could still spit in the puppeteer's face. He raised the folder in his hand.

Then he stopped.

Something dawned on him. Not the sudden rush of Knowing he'd felt from the Beholding, this was more akin to the moment he'd understood what the Distortion was, his own mind putting together the pieces of something he'd been struggling with. He forced himself to ignore the swarm and focus on the lone spider he'd shaken from his hair. The one that had made sure he'd noticed it, that still hadn't scuttled away. It was waiting for him. All of them were. The last pieces fell into place.

"It has to be a choice," he whispered.

The spider regarded him, silent. Slowly, he lowered his hand, wary of any sudden movement that could break the stillness holding it all back. He never took his gaze off the palm-sized spider on the floor.

"It has to be a choice. But it doesn't have to be a fair choice." he continued, face twisting into a hateful grin. "Doesn't have to be a choice you understand the consequences of, or even one you know you're making. It can be made under the threat of death or heat of panic, as long as it's done."

"That's what's been haunting me this whole time, isn't it?" His voice was bitter. "You have to make a choice , Jon. You chose to pursue knowledge, Jon . All of this has been because of your choices Jon. That's where you creep in."

Jon knew the small, eight-legged fear in front of him. It had been with him a long time, its legs tickling the back of his mind whenever he agonized over the all things he might have done differently. And how much more had he been thinking of those things since he came back? Since what he might have done differently had become an immediate reality, no longer hypothetical? How many hours had he spent dwelling over all the possible outcomes, the consequences he could never predict? How many times had he been paralyzed by the thought that each new action would make things worse?

If there was no hope – if there was truly nothing he could do, no way to keep the world from ending . . . well, that would be a nightmare of its own. But if the world could be saved, then Jon could fail to save it, could destroy them all again.

That horror of choice, that fear of responsibility. He'd brought it back with him.

The spider scuttled forward. Decades-deep arachnophobia rose in Jon at the skittering motion, but he resisted the urge to swat at it. Stiffly, he pressed himself into the door as the thing began to crawl up his leg. Every muscle in him wanted to jerk away, to get rid of it, destroy it. He resisted the urge. Carefully, he reached down and scooped it up, cupping it between his hands. Its legs tickled his palms and his skin crawled, but his own fear screaming at him to to crush and kill it solidified the certainty that he shouldn't.

"So you come to me when I'm at my worst," he said, "at my lowest and most self-destructive, and you set up this little tableau. Make me feel powerless, toyed with, so that I lash out. And as I do so, I think – to hell with it, let them have me ."

And they would have him then. They'd swarm, slip in through his eyes, ears, and nostrils, crawl through him as he screamed and wept and writhed. Then they'd tuck themselves away inside him, where they could spin their webs, lay their brood, and turn him to their purposes.

He'd be theirs. Freed from all responsibility, a helpless, innocent puppet.

Not a fair choice, but enough of one.

". . . That part of me that wanted you to be the reason I hurt people, that in my worse moments wished the Eye would overtake me, take the fear and the shame and make me a monster that didn't care. It called to you, didn't it? I'm sure it's calling to you still," he said softly. "But that isn't me. A part of me, maybe, but not all of me. And I've been fighting it too long to give in now."

Bending forward, he opened his palms and shook the little fear onto the floor, glaring at it with every ounce of hatred he had in him.

"I don't know if I can fight you forever, any of you. Maybe it's foolish to think anyone can. But I'm not going to give myself to you that way," he growled. "I'm. Not. Yours."

The lights flickered as he spoke those final words, and for a moment he felt an overwhelming sense of vertigo. When he managed to focus again, the spider was gone. As were all the others – he looked in every direction, but they were nowhere to be seen. Left . . . or crawled back into hiding, he didn't know which.

Jon sat there, wondering what exactly he'd just done. It felt as though a decision had been made. But he didn't have much time to think about it before the sounds of shouting came from down the hall.

"Jon!?" Martin's voice, strained and panicked. "Jon! Sasha's come back, and she's hurt!"

#tma fanfic #tma time travel au #time travel au #canon typical giving jon a bad day #*slips this in before thursday morning*

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aquilege · 5 years

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“Do you hate me at times?” Jon found himself asking while Arthur prepared himself to go back to his rooms.

Arthur stopped in his tracks to look at Jon puzzled.

“Why on earth should I hate you?”

Because I’m not Elia.

Because I’m the reason you’re breaking your vows every night.

Because if I loved you enough I would have never asked you to do this.

Because even if you’re putting everything of yourself on the line for me you know I’ll always choose Rahegar first and then you.

All of those things Jon thought of saying. But, if Arthur hadn’t come up with them himself, why give them to him? Jon was selfish enough to decide to keep those reasons for himself.

He shrugged.

“I always guessed it worked that way in every couple. It sure worked like that between my parents.”

Reassured Arthur reprised dressing and seemed thinking about Jon’s words.

“It is probably because most of the couple we know didn’t marry for love, it’ll probably create some resentment with time if two people aren’t compatible. Luckily that didn’t happen to us.”

“Yes, because we can’t marry,” Jon commented. He hadn’t wanted to make it sound as bitter as it came out, it just happened. Arthur stopped again and looked at him with such naked sweetness that Jon almost burst with love.

“My love, I told you hundreds of times: I’ll never resent you if you one day will decide to leave me to create your own family, you deserve it. And you’re the heir of your house.”

Jon huffed.

“There is no family I’ll ever want to make if you’re not in it,” he said. And Arthur rewarded him with one of his brightest smiles.

There were so many reasons why a family of their own had to remain a wishful dream: besides the fact that they were both men, there were Arthur’s vows as a king’s knight, and even if that had never happened Arthur would still have been the heir of House Dayne, one of the most powerful houses in Dorne, while Jon was the heir of a small house of landed knights in the Stormlands.

The only house they would have ever been able to made their own was the Red Keep; the only time they would have ever been able to steal for themselves was those short moments left from Arthur’s duties as a king’s guards and of Jon’s as First Hand of the King; the only kids they would have ever been able to raise were Viserys and Dany when they escaped Lyanna and Rahegar’s control.

“You’re been extremely pensive today,” Arthur noted once he was ready to go.

“I know, I’m sorry. You get to relax so rarely and here I am ruining your breaks.”

“I wouldn’t say ruin exactly,” Arthur replied with a smirk before bending forward to deposit a cast kiss on Jon’s forehead. “Now I have to go though if there is something bothering you we can talk about it first thing in the morning. I’ll come to have breakfast with you, I promise,” he added before disappearing out of the door.

Jon collapsed on the bed. Yes, things were complicated, but he had no idea what he had done in his life to deserve someone as incredible as Arthur Dayne.

Jaime&Elia - Oberyn&Cersei - Ned&Ashara - Robert&Janna - Brandon&Catelyn - Elbert&Lysa - Rhaegar&Lyanna

#game of thrones #a song of ice and fire #jon connington #arthur dayne #jon x arthur #asoiaf edit #asoiaf au #my writings

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aegonbeingfakeisracist · 4 years

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mykneesareweak replied to your post “I just saw the weirdest argument on Twitter where someone said that...”

Is the person just ignoring the fact that the fandom normally defends Elia becuase many demonize her for Rhaegar's shitty behavior, or simply(like the show did) completely erase her from the story. It's not infantilization to defend a character of color who is constantly trampled, in order to prop up the shitty white dude who got framed as a hero.

The argument is confusing and straight up weird but I don't think it is as bad as the other comment I read about Elia not being bother by the affair becuase she believes in "true" love.

I...honestly have no idea. I think it’s mainly really poor comprehension skills, because the context in which this came up was something along the lines of this: picture of Jon and Dany -> "why are people saying they’re in love, they met five minutes ago” -> “the main reason for liking them is the ice and fire aesthetic” -> “Rhaegar and Lyanna are there for that, but Tumblr hates them” (ha!) -> the whole think about Elia being infantalized.

So not only did this argument ignore what really goes on with Elia and fandom, it neglects to consider that Lyanna was a child and therefore Rhaegar/Lyanna would be gross even IF Rhaegar didn’t have a wife and children he was putting into harm’s way.

God, I hate those comments. Are...where are people even getting this from?!

#mykneesareweak #replies

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haberdashing · 4 years

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This Place Is Not My Home

TMA fic. After a very long day, Elias returns to his living space... which he doesn’t recognize at all. Luckily, he has a few companions by his side to help him figure things out.

Follow-up to A Rude Awakening and The Blind Meeting The Blind.

on AO3

Elias knew every square inch of his flat, which would probably be more impressive if the place wasn’t so damn tiny.

Objectively speaking, it wasn’t much to write home about, he knew. The space was cramped, the wallpaper was peeling, the hot water supply was iffy at best, it was freezing in the winter and sweltering in the summer no matter how he configured the thermostat, and there was always the lingering scent of mildew and weed (he was trying to cut down on his use of the latter--mostly because it was an expensive habit, partly because he was afraid the smell would catch on his work clothes and James would notice and he’d get in trouble for it--but, well, old habits die hard)...

It was a shitty flat, sure. But it was his shitty flat. Elias didn’t share it with anyone, didn’t have to leech off his trust fund or beg his father for help just to pay the rent. It was a space all his own, one he had earned the right to reside in, one that he worked to maintain as best he could, one where he could relax and unwind after a long day of work without any fear of interruption.

Or, at least, that was how things had been back in 1996. Which felt like it had been only hours ago, but had in fact been all of twenty-three years in the past now.

He still had a flat of his own in 2019, but it wasn’t the same one. It was more centrally-located, for one, compared to his old place, which had always required a lengthy Tube ride to get to work at the Institute. It was on the top floor of a skyscraper, with what was apparently a spectacular view of downtown London, not that Elias himself would ever get to appreciate it.

And it was utterly foreign to him.

It smelled like old books and cleaning supplies, it was actually a reasonable enough temperature inside (slightly warm for Elias’ tastes, but then, he always did tend to be on the warm side), and Elias was pretty sure that a single room in the place could easily contain his entire flat from 1996 with room to spare.

At least he wasn’t there alone when he arrived. Jon and Martin had gone off to do... something with the rest of the night (Elias’ money was on them snogging, or possibly doing more than snogging, though he couldn’t say for sure), but Basira, Daisy, and, to his surprise, even Melanie had agreed to accompany him as he entered what had apparently been “his” living space for years now for the first time.

Admittedly, it became immediately apparent that at least one of them had an ulterior motive for volunteering to help Elias.

“What can I break in here?”

Elias instinctively turned towards Melanie, though he knew well enough that she couldn’t see the gesture any more than he could see the expression on her face. “Wow, rude.”

“I mean, I’ve been dreaming for a while now of going to Elias- er, going to Jonah Magnus’ home and trashing the place. And now he’s dead and everything, and this place practically smells like money... c’mon, let me have this. It’s not even your stuff.”

“It literally is my stuff though. I mean, I might not have picked it out, but legally speaking-”

“Right, because you all are so big on following the law, aren’t you?”

Elias wasn’t sure what exactly Melanie was referencing there, but he could definitely feel an uncomfortable tension settle over the room just the same.

“Just let me break something.”

“Nobody’s breaking anything in my flat.” Elias paused, considering what monstrosities might well be waiting inside, especially given what he now knew about Jonah Magnus’ proclivities. “At least not without getting my permission first.”

“You’re no fun.”

Elias probably would have rolled his eyes at that, if he had them. As it was, he let out an exaggerated sigh and trudged further inside.

It took less than a minute before Elias heard the clang of metal striking marble.

“Elias, can I-”

Elias’ shoulders tensed up a little as he prepared for the inevitable question from Melanie, but her speech stopped suddenly, and when it restarted it was softer and shakier.

“I’m sorry, that just- it sounds wrong, to me, I promised myself I’d never ask Elias for anything again, and I know you’re not the same Elias Bouchard but it’s still weird somehow-”

Elias scratched the back of his head nervously. “You could call me Eli, if that’d help. Some of my old school mates used to call me that. ‘s no skin off my back.”

Admittedly, he hadn’t been called that since he was a teenager, which felt like ages ago, and the wrinkles that were starting to cover his skin were proof that it was even longer ago than it felt...

...but Elias remembered those days fondly, remembered how his father would protest because “We named you Elias because we wanted you to be called Elias!” and how that only made him cling to the nickname more fervently in a fit of teenage rebellion, and it felt right, somehow.

Plus, whatever steps he could take to avoid being confused for Jonah Magnus again, Elias would gladly take in a heartbeat.

“Alright then. Sure. Eli, can I break this?”

“You’re gonna have to tell me what ‘this’ is first.”

“Metal statue of a person wearing robes, it’s got eyes and a smile but no nose, which is surprisingly creepy-”

“First off, what’s your plan for breaking a statue made of metal?”

The long hesitation before Melanie’s response was practically an answer in and of itself.

“I’m sure I can figure something out.”

“Aaaand that’s a no from me.”

Melanie let out a huffy sigh.

“Try again?” Elias said in a more encouraging tone.

“Speaking of creepy, get a load of that painting.”

Elias jumped a little at the sound of Daisy’s voice; he’d been so focused on talking to Melanie and making sure she only destroyed things that deserved it that he’d half-forgotten that Daisy and Basira were there as well. The two of them could be surprisingly quiet when they wanted to be, apparently.

“What painting?” Elias asked.

“It’s hanging in the middle of the hallway, old guy wearing fancy Victorian-looking clothes. Dunno who it is, but I don’t like the look in his eyes.”

Daisy and Basira took a few steps closer to the painting in question.

“I think...” Basira let out a soft gasp. “I know who that is. God.”

“Who is it?”

“Jonah Magnus. The original. I read up on the history of the Institute back when I first joined, I remember that face. The smirk’s familiar enough too.”

“Jesus Christ.”

“He put a painting of himself in his front hallway? Seriously?”

“Apparently. Not terribly subtle, was he?”

Melanie cleared her throat loudly. “Can I?”

Elias let out a shaky laugh as he replied, “Please.”

The painting was taken off the wall, in a way that sounded like it might have scraped against the paint on the way down, but the state of the paint on the walls of his flat was the least of Elias’ concerns right about now. It got handed to Melanie, who wasted no time in attacking it; the sound of a knife stabbing canvas was a peculiar one, but after a few solid stabs she went from stabbing to ripping, the noise indistinct enough that Elias wasn’t sure if she was still using the knife or was tearing the painting apart with her bare hands.

After a minute or two of tearing, small pieces of what had once been a painting landing on the floor with soft thumps periodically, Melanie wiped her hands on her pants and said, “God, that felt good.”

After a brief pause, she added, “Thanks, I guess. I take back that time I got Tim to call you Elias Douchard-”

“Never heard that one before.” Elias said in the driest tone he could muster.

“-and then he posted it on Twitter dozens of times over--he was so proud of himself, too, even though it wasn’t even his idea--think he got a couple hundred retweets out of it, more than I expected really...”

Elias knew he was going to respond with a question, because how could he not after an apology/confession like that thrust upon him without warning, and two possibilities for what that question might be stood out to him.

This was the first time he’d heard the name Tim--from Melanie, from anyone in 2019--and Elias was naturally curious as to who that might be... but whoever Tim was, he clearly wasn’t a part of their little gang anymore, though it sounded as though he once had been, and regardless of the specifics of how exactly this Tim was forced out of the picture, it was almost certainly an unpleasant story that would bring down the mood right when things were finally starting to get a little less somber.

So instead, Elias went for the safe option.

“What’s Twitter?”

Basira let out a soft snort, and Daisy said, “Oh, you sweet summer child...”

“It’s a website--social media thing, the gimmick is you can only write so much--but that’s not the point.”

“What is the point, then?” Elias asked, a hint of teasing in his voice.

“...I’m sorry, I guess? I mean, that’s on the Internet forever now. That’s your- your Internet legacy.”

“If a childish pun being part of my ‘Internet legacy’ is the biggest problem I have to face from all of this, I’ll be damn lucky.”

“Fair point.”

They made their way through the hallway and into another room--The living room? Family room? God, Elias didn’t even know the layout of the place well enough to tell--before Basira spoke up.

“Giant eye tapestry on the couch... he really wasn’t subtle, was he? Or maybe he just thought he was being clever...”

“Go for it.” Elias said, a wry smile on his face.

“I- I wasn’t actually-” Basira laughed a little there. Had he heard her laugh before? If so, he couldn’t remember. It had a nice ring to it. “I was just making a comment, but you know what, sure, I’ll destroy it for you.”

“Good. Probably not in the best taste to have eye stuff all over when, well, you’ve got none.”

Elias had meant the comment to be a light-hearted one, but an awkward silence fell over the room. (He still didn’t know which of the group had done the actual eye-gouging bit--and rather preferred it that way, to be honest--but it belatedly occurred to him that it might be a sore point for more than just him, especially since Melanie’d gone through much the same thing.)

The sound he heard from Basira after she grabbed the tapestry off the couch was a much smaller one than he’d expected, a far cry from the grand spectacle of stabbing and ripping that Melanie had performed, and Elias wasn’t even sure what the sound was until he smelled smoke and heard a series of crackling sounds. A lighter opening and flicking on, then, and fire beginning to consume the fabric. She was burning it, then. Sensible enough, he supposed, though...

“Don’t go burning this whole place down, you hear me?”

“I’ll try not to.”

“If you do, you’ll have to replace everything in it for me, you know. Even the spooky shit.” Elias paused briefly, more for effect than to actually consider his next words. “Especially the spooky shit.”

“And bankrupt myself halfway through?” Basira snorted. “Nice try, rich guy.”

Elias let out a hollow laugh, but he couldn’t bring himself to continue their banter further. Basira probably didn’t know it--aside from the general outline of things, he hadn’t gotten that into his life story with them, probably knew more about each of them than they did about the real him--but it wasn’t the first time he’d had his wealth thrown at him as an insult, and maybe it was a stupid thing to be sensitive about, being mocked for being a trust fund kid, but he was sensitive about it just the same.

After a brief pause, probably the others taking the time to realize that Elias wasn’t planning on speaking up anymore, they went back to trudging through the flat, Basira and Daisy giving an ongoing commentary on what was to be found in there. Elias had had his fair share of money before, but it sounded like Jonah Magnus went above and beyond even the usual shows of wealth he was used to. Everything was luxurious and bespoke and impeccably-made. The sight was probably breath-taking, though Elias wouldn’t know, and those who did were hardly in the mood for admiration.

Meanwhile, Elias had grown used to towels filled with holes around his place, partly because replacing them all would make finances difficult for a bit without dipping into his father’s money one way or another, partly because he was just too lazy to bother with hunting down replacement towels in his free time outside of work.

This was... going to be a bit of an adjustment.

“Mantle’s got some big-eyed Russian nesting dolls-”

“Matryoshka.” Basira muttered.

Elias could hear the grin on Daisy’s face as she repeated, “Yeah, like I said, Russian nesting dolls. Don’t like them one bit, something about their expression... Unlike some people-” And here Elias was sure Daisy was staring at and/or gesturing towards Melanie, not that she’d know any better than he did. “-I didn’t come here to break things, but destroying those would probably put me a little more at ease.”

“Sure, why not.” Elias said, a slight sigh in his voice as he wondered how much of a mess the flat--his flat--was going to be by the time the others were done breaking things in it.

Part of Elias was curious to see how exactly Daisy would go about demolishing the nesting dolls that made her so uneasy. Would she go Melanie’s route, stabbing and smashing them until they were unrecognizable? Or something subtler, like Basira’s flames, quiet but still sure in their destruction?

Elias jumped when he heard the gunshot, flinching as the dolls shattered to pieces. He instinctively threw his hands up in front of his face protectively, only lowering them slowly when he heard Daisy softly laughing.

“I- I thought you knew-” she stammered out between laughs.

“That you had a gun? No, I didn’t! Why do you have a gun, anyway?”

Daisy didn’t respond, but as her laughs quieted somewhat Basira joined in with her own, and Elias began to slump down, feeling that somehow he was the one who crossed a line here...

...until Melanie spoke up to defend him when he himself felt too awkward to speak.

“It’s not really that funny, you guys. And it’s a valid question, you know, if you’re- him.”

That emboldened Elias enough for him to speak for himself again. “New rule: no using guns in my house. Didn’t think I needed to specify that, but apparently I do.”

“You’re right, you’re right, I’m sorry.”

“And why do you have a gun?”

“It’s... it’s complicated.”

“Everything’s complicated with you lot, isn’t it?”

“Like you’re one to talk.” Basira muttered, and Elias could feel his face heating up; rather than respond, though, he just walked onward, forcibly changing the subject as yet more of Jonah Magnus’ household arrangement was uncovered.

They stopped asking to break things, after that, though Elias offered things up for destruction once or twice when they sounded particularly offensive. He realized, as the conversation moved forward, that he hadn’t been the one who had crossed a line there after all, and that they’d probably realized as much as well. Things were calmer, then, a mood of inquisitive exploration rather than righteous destruction.

As Elias walked from room to room of what was now his flat, learning more about what was in it, how perfectly coordinated it all was, how much wealth had clearly been poured into making it just right... it didn’t feel like the space he was exploring was his own. Description after description of the tasteful and mildly eccentric conversation pieces to be found on a number of surfaces there seemed familiar, but not as things Elias himself would have chosen. It felt uncomfortably like this was all his father’s stuff, that perhaps his father had died (had his father died? Elias still didn’t know either way) and he had inherited his old living space. It was an easier scenario to wrap his head around than the reality of things, but not one that really made him feel any better about it all.

Elias would make it his own space eventually, sure, but that would take time, time and effort, and Elias felt like he had used up enough of both already by just getting himself through the day more or less intact.

For now, though, he dragged his hands along the row of suits (”Does this man own a single pair of sweatpants? I know I sure did--what’d he do with them all, bag them all up and give the lot to Oxfam?”), and when Basira noted dryly that he was getting blood on them, he didn’t hesitate in his response.

“Good. That’s a quality aesthetic right there. Imagine me going into a room of businessmen with my fancy bloodstained suit. What are they going to do, point it out, ask where the blood came from?”

He got a few laughs from that, and an appreciative murmur of “Hell of a power move” from Melanie, so that felt like a success, at least. Bloodstains weren’t the kind of mark he really wanted to leave on this place, but it was something, at least. It was... it was a start.

Eventually, the whole of the flat--which was huge, a much bigger space than Elias needed or even really wanted--had been fully explored, and after a bit of awkward discussion, Basira, Daisy, and Melanie left him on his own. It had been a long day, and Elias didn’t hesitate to head to his bed.

The mattress was almost obscenely soft, a far cry from the uncomfortable solid block of a mattress Elias was used to, and it had an imprint in it that fit Elias’ shape perfectly, if he slept on his back. Which he didn’t. Elias was strictly a side sleeper, though he switched which side he slept on periodically, often tossing and turning and switching between the two in the middle of the night.

Elias curled onto his right side and clung to those too-soft sheets and thought about what now was and what had been.

For all the wealth contained within the space that Jonah Magnus had curated as his own over the years, Elias would have gladly traded it all to be back in his shitty, cheap, cramped, falling-apart flat from 1996, to be somewhere that was truly his once more.

He’d never thought he’d wax nostalgic over that flat, had figured he’d be glad to be rid of it once he could get something better, but... well...

Life wasn’t always that simple, was it?

#tma #tma fic #tma fanfic #the magnus archives #the magnus archives fic #the magnus archives fanfic #personal #my writing #elias bouchard

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archivebottles · 5 years

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osirisjones replied to your post “not gonna lie, jon saying this in episode 135 literally shot me dead”

This made me literally desperate for some outside POV on Jon from within the Institute, tbh.

i was also just talking about how much i wanted an episode just about the other institute employees last night bc i was wondering if elias was manipulating everyone else in the institute with planted rumors about jon to make him feel MORE isolated from his peers (like an extra sort such as oh these people i barely even know think im some sort of freak) bc well theres no way weird shit hadnt have happened at the institute before? i guess there are no comments about attacks as severe as jane’s and the flesh’s pre jon archivist

#osirisjones #we Sort Of have an idea what nonarchive people have with georgie and im assuming its #similar.......

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ieattaperecorders · 4 years

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Something’s Different About You Lately - Chapter 2

The three archival assistants engage in some highly unprofessional office gossip, showing a lack of respect for the esteemed academic institution that employs them.

Read on Ao3

“He’s going to fire me, I just know it.”

Martin sat miserably at his desk - head down, hands at his temples, trying in vain to banish the tension headache forming behind his eyes. Tim leaned over him, casually tossing one of Martin’s little desk toys from hand to hand. It was a stress ball shaped like a Snorlax, and had done very little to reduce Martin’s stress of late.

“Don’t really think that adds up,” Tim said, “why start being friendly if he’s planning to fire you? And wouldn’t he have, y’know, done it by now?”

“Elias, then. He’s going to fire me and Jon knows about it, so he’s acting nice to soften the blow.” Martin pulled at his hair, dragging a few messy curls down over his face. “Or - - or else he’s just happy I’ll be gone soon. Either way.”

“Or, here’s a thought - -” Tim reached over and set the stress ball down on the desk, about an inch from Martin’s nose. “He’s just decided to be nice. Something nice is actually happening to Martin Blackwood but he can’t accept it, because he’s got worms in his brain.”

Martin glared tiredly up through his hands. “I did ask you to stop with the worm jokes, Tim.”

“Sorry, sorry.” Tim put his hands up. “But that’s a thought, right? He probably just feels bad that you, y’know. . . got attacked by a stalker and her army of flesh eating parasites?”

There was some sense in that, Martin had to admit. It hadn’t been long after his encounter with Prentiss that he’d begun to notice changes in the things Jon said and did. Some of them were nice enough - he snapped a lot less, for one thing. He didn’t grumble and complain over little things Martin did or forgot to do, at least not where Martin could hear it. But other things were just baffling. He seemed to ask after Martin a whole lot more. He’d make strange comments and look at Martin like he expected him to laugh. And more than once, Martin had turned around to catch Jon staring at him with an expression that he couldn’t make heads or tails of. It left him feeling scrutinized. As if it was just a matter of time before he slipped up somehow, made some mistake that would upend his life even more.

Oh yes, and then there was the incident two weeks ago when he’d nearly smashed Jon’s head in with a wrench, and he’d said it was fine and they shouldn’t worry about it. Martin almost had a heart attack with that one. And then, then Jon said to call him if he thought he heard something at night? What did that even mean? Was he concerned that his employee would be making frivolous 999 calls from the institute every time he heard the floor creak if he didn’t keep him from it?

If so, well . . . he probably wasn’t far from right, to be honest. Martin had been doing his best to keep it to himself, but he'd been pretty badly wound up lately. Especially at night, when everyone else was gone and it was just him and a thousand files filled with spooky stories to keep him company. And there was always that sensation of eyes on the back of his neck, no matter how many times he told himself that no one else was there.

To say nothing of the creepy noises. It was an old building, and everything creaked at night. The pipes were especially bad, the uncanny susurration of rushing water that through the walls at night. He tried to ignore it, even block it out with music. But as the long, empty nights wore on, it always crept back into his mind. His sleep-deprived brain making it sound like muffled, unintelligible voices. As if there was something just beyond the walls whispering or singing to him. It made him feel sick inside.

He really needed to get better sleep.

Still. If Jon just felt sorry for Martin after everything that had happened, it would at least explain why he was grumbling less and hovering more. Really, Martin should be enjoying the better treatment while it lasted, because he doubted it would stay for long. Jon probably wasn’t going to ever actually like him. But if Martin could gain some ground with his new boss out of pity, well. That was something, wasn’t it? Better than being hated. And despite everything, he still really needed this job.

Tim’s eyes suddenly widened. He gripped Martin’s arm and smiled brightly, looking over his shoulder to the door.

“Hiya boss,” he called, “how’s decoding Gertrude’s filing system going?”

Martin turned to see Jon enter, a rueful smile on his face.

“It’s a challenge,” he said. “I’m afraid it will be some time before we can expect any progress.”

“We really should come up with a name for it,” Tim replied. “Creepy Card Catalog? Dewey Decimal of the Damned? Oh! How about Old Lady Robinson’s Disaster-o-pedia?”

“‘Disaster’ is certainly appropriate.” Jon's tone was neutral, but he didn't hide his smile. He turned to Martin, setting a mug in front of him. “I ah, I’ve noticed you’re always making tea for the rest of us, Martin. I thought it might be nice if someone else brought you a cup.”

It was the mug that Tim had bought Martin as a gag gift shortly after they’d started working in the archive. The one with a black and white pattern that looked like a Jersey cow, with a pink three-dimension udder sticking out of the side. Martin looked at it, then back at Jon who was smiling expectantly.

“Oh. . . thanks?” Martin smiled back, a little awkwardly. “That’s nice of you.”

Jon’s smile widened. It widened a lot, actually. His whole practically face lit up and it was way too much, and it was weird. Maybe Jon didn’t hear people call him nice very often?

"Least I can do. Given, ah - -" Jon hesitated, as if trying to remember what he was supposed to be grateful for. "Well. Given how hard you've been working, I suppose."

“What, nothing for me?” Tim teased.

“Ah . . . I didn’t think to--” Jon frowned, an expression of mild distress on his face. “But I could? I’ll just be a moment.”

Jon turned back towards the break room, and it was clear that even Tim was startled by that reaction. He’d obviously been joking, setting Jon up for a retort or an excuse to complain. It’s what he'd have normally responded with.

“See?” Martin gestured to where Jon had been standing. “That’s weird, right? That’s not just being friendly, it’s . . . I don’t know what it is. It’s an entire personality change.”

“Hmm. Yeah.” Tim blinked at the doorway. “He’s definitely planning to kill you.”

“Don’t joke about that either.” Martin groaned, rubbing his brow. The stress headache had not left, and he doubted it was going to any time soon.

“It starts with tea.” Tim continued, feigning a solemn tone. “Then, bit by bit, he’ll begin slipping you teeny tiny amounts of poison. Once you’re too weak to fight back or run, bam. Briefcase full of snakes.” He shook his head. “The perfect crime.”

"Come on."

"Snakes can't talk, Martin. That means no witnesses."

Martin sighed and reached for the mug. Whatever was going on, he supposed he was at least getting tea that he didn’t have to make. As he took a sip, a familiar flavor bloomed on his tongue and he choked in surprise.

“Yikes.” Tim looked at him with concern. “Is his tea that bad?”

“No . . . no it’s - -” Martin set the mug down, coughing a little, and wiped his mouth. “There’s jam in it. Strawberry jam.”

“Seriously?” Tim wrinkled his nose. “Who puts jam in tea?”

“I do! Sometimes . . . .”

“And you have the nerve to call anybody else weird?”

“I like it! It’s sweet and - - and anyway that’s not the point.” Martin frowned. “How does he know that? I know I never mentioned it.”

“Eh. He remembers strange things sometimes.” Tim shrugged. “He’ll forget that you had to show him how to use the copier, but he’ll rattle off a thousand details about how it works. He’s probably got an encyclopedic knowledge of how everyone in the institute likes their tea.”

At that moment, Jon’s head appeared back in the doorway. “Tim. I forgot to ask. Do you take sugar or milk?”

“Oh, you know it’s both.” Tim grinned, pointing in Jon’s direction.

Jon nodded and ducked back out. Martin looked at Tim, who shrugged.

“Listen,” he said. “I’ve known Jon a lot longer than you. And one thing I can say about him is this - he’s a prick, but he’s not an asshole.”

“What does that even mean?” Martin sighed, picking up the mug again.

“It means . . . he’s just sort of like that,” Tim gestured vaguely towards the door. “He’s insensitive, and kind of snobby, and when he’s in a bad mood he makes it everyone else’s problem. But he’s not mean-spirited. Most of the time I don’t think he even realizes he’s doing it, honestly.”

“Realize it or not,” Martin muttered into his tea - - which damn it, was delicious and he was going to enjoy it regardless. “It’s not very nice being on the other end of it.”

“Oh, absolutely.” Tim smirked. “Like I said, he’s a total prick. But I don’t think he wants to be mean. And he doesn’t like thinking he’s hurt someone. You want to know my guess?”

“. . . Sure.”

“The whole worm thing made him take a look at how he’s been acting, especially with you,” Tim said. “And now he feels guilty. Covertly figuring out your awful, deviant tea preferences is probably his way of trying to make amends.”

“Mmm.”

Martin tapped Tim’s arm and looked at the door, which he’d been watching more closely ever since the first interruption. Jon appeared with a second cup of tea, this one in a mug that read “Over Sixty and Still Sexy!” in pink bubble letters.

“Here we are,” he handed it to Tim, looking pleased with himself.

“Thanks, chief.” Tim snapped his fingers. “Oh, hey! Almost forgot, I followed up on Statement 0162102. The woman in Sussex who saw a manifestation in her backyard? You know. The one with the uncanny, owl-like features?”

“Oh.” Jon raised an eyebrow. “What did you find?”

“Well. I looked up her address and as it turns out she lives half a mile from an owl sanctuary.”

“Ah.”

“Went to investigate like you said. Really nice old lady. He scones were a little dry, but she had all sorts of interesting knickknacks that she wanted to show me.”

“Sounds profoundly fascinating.”

“Anyway, I managed to tear myself away long enough to check out the yard. Shockingly enough, found some owl pellets there. So, stop me if you’ve heard this one, but--” he clicked his tongue loudly. “Think maybe she saw an owl?”

Jon smirked. “Another one for the discredited section.”

“That thing’s filling up fast.” Tim observed.

“Quite unsurprising, all thing considered.” Jon sighed, feigning disappointment, badly disguising how smug he was about it. Given his attitude towards the paranormal, Martin expected he believed that every statement should go straight into that pile. “Still. Progress is progress, and elimination is a form of progress on its own. I’ll let you know when I have something new for you.”

“Sure thing. Still waiting for my chance to unmask the creepy old mill owner trying to scare those meddling kids off his property.”

Jon laughed, sharp and loud, before catching himself and putting a hand over his mouth. There was something in his expression when he looked at Tim that Martin couldn’t quite place, and he found himself wondering if Jon had any interest in men. If so, it would make sense for him to be interested in Tim. Everyone was interested in Tim.

“Yes, well. I’d best be going,” he added hastily, nodding at Tim and then Martin. “Work to do. Good afternoon.”

Off he went again, ducking through the door and heading back towards his office. Tim turned to Martin once Jon was out of earshot.

“See?” he said, sipping his tea. “Deep down, the man’s a teddy bear.”

“Hmnn.” Martin fiddled with the handle on his mug. “Well. You and Sasha have known him for longer.”

“We were a duo of infamous murderers in a past life,” Tim said, “and now we’re being punished for it.”

“I suppose if you guys think this is normal for him - -”

He was interrupted by the loud thunk as Sasha appeared beside them, setting a box full of files down on the desk next to his. She looked at them both and smiled brightly.

“Oh, are we talking about how weird Jon’s been lately?” she asked. “Because he’s acting super weird, don’t let this guy over here tell you differently.”

“Right? Thank you!” Martin exhaled, relieved.

Tim gave Sasha an annoyed look. “Thanks, Sash.”

“Welcome, Tim!”

“It’s tough for me to say this," Tim leaned back, shaking his head, "but I’m honestly not sure that we can trust him anymore.”

“Jon?” Sasha asked.

“No, Martin,” he made a show of putting a hand over his mouth, loudly whispering. “I found out he’s got this weird jam thing going on. Highly suspicious.”

“It’s not even that unusual!” Martin gesturing towards Tim. “See, he thinks Jon just feels guilty because I almost got murdered by worms.”

“Well, sure. I could believe that was it if he was just being less of a grouch. But there’s other things.” Sasha leaned in, lowering her voice. “I was talking to Cora today about some of the things in artifact storage? Jon overheard as he was walking by and he got . . . oddly upset. Went off on a whole rant about how there was nothing good down there and it would be better for everyone to keep their distance.”

“Well, I sort of get that.” Martin had been at the institute long enough to notice the high turnover rate in artifact storage. He’d heard stories. “That place is really creepy.”

“Sure. I don’t like going down there anyway.” Sasha shrugged. “But he was so intense about it. Like he’s trying to keep something shut up there . . . not sure what, though. Kind of thinking of taking a look around, just to see if anything came in recently.”

She reached over towards Tim and grabbed the mug out of his hand, taking a sip from it. He glared at her in mock annoyance.

“And you know when I hurt my shoulder just a few days ago?” she continued. “I asked if he’d let me record a statement about what happened, since some of it was a little bit odd --”

“What did happen anyway?” Tim asked, “you keep dodging me on the details.”

“Why stop now?” Sasha grinned, taking another sip of Tim’s tea. “At any rate, he wouldn’t let me just tell him about it. Handed me a form and said that I should write it down and he would read it afterwards. Was insistent about it, too, even though Elias says we should be committing as many statements to audio as possible.” Her eyes lit up. “Oh, and there’s something going on there. Have you noticed the way he looks at Elias now?”

Martin blinked. “Not really.”

“Hate.” Sasha said. “Not his usual - ‘ah, how dare you have the temerity to exist in my immediate area while I’m working’ thing. I mean real, proper hatred.”

She paused dramatically to let that sink in. Martin frowned. He wasn’t entirely sure what it meant if she was right, but he didn’t like the thought of it. Elias was an okay boss, as far as he could tell - not that he had much experience. But there’d always been this edge to him, something in his eyes that made Martin never want to be on his bad side.

“At first I thought it was an ego thing, you know?” Sasha continued. “That Jon had some new ideas about how things should be done around here, that Elias pushed back on them, and now they were having a pissing contest.”

“Thank you for that horrible image.” Tim said.

“But aside from the recording, he’s not doing anything differently. There’s just this tension between them all of a sudden. Feels like something happened.” Sasha continued, taking another sip of tea. “Not that I have a clue what it is. Yet.”

“Okay Poirot.” Tim reached to grab the now mostly-empty mug back from her. “As long as you’re solving mysteries around here, how about you catch the villain that keeps stealing snacks from my desk? Sometimes in front of me, while I watch her do it?”

“Oooh. Dunno, Tim.” Sasha smiled. “Got to deal with one thing at a time, don’t I? Don’t want to overwork myself on an empty stomach.”

“Speaking of . . . I should probably get back to work.” Martin said, glancing at the pad of notes he’d been ignoring since Tim sat down and started chatting with him. “Got a lot to get through.”

Work had been piling up since he moved into the archive. He wasn’t getting the best sleep, and during the day he was distracted too often. Occasionally he’d spot what looked like one of Jane’s worms and have to drop everything to lift up boxes and move furniture, make certain there was nothing there. Not the best circumstances for productivity. Jon hadn’t commented on it yet, but he was sure to notice if he hadn’t already, and Martin didn’t want to spoil whatever tentative good will he’d gained too quickly.

“I can take some of it off your hands.” Tim said. “I’ve got nothing to do anyway.”

“Oh, uh --” Martin hesitated, looking at the small stack of folders beside him. “Are you sure? I mean, if you don’t mind. . . .”

“Sure. Archival assistants gotta stick together, right?” Tim smiled and gave Martin’s shoulder a gentle shove. Martin smiled back, something soft and grateful rising in him at the gesture.

“Well . . . take your pick, then- -” he held up the two folders containing statements he hadn’t started on yet. “We’ve got, let’s see . . . a guy who thinks his car is haunted because it’s been making funny noises and, uh . . . someone who claims her parrot is the reincarnation of her late husband.”

“Thrilling stuff.” Sasha muttered.

“I’ll take the parrot one.” Tim said, holding out a hand for the file. “I’m good with birds.”

Sasha shook her head and sighed. “Is it just me, or have all the cases we’ve been working on been really, really dull lately?”

“Hey, I’m developing a real appreciation for dull.” Martin held up a hand. “The last interesting case I looked into got me locked in my apartment for a week. I’m pretty happy to have something where the follow-up’s probably going to involve recommending a mechanic.”

“Hmm.” Sasha sighed, glancing with disinterest at the files she’d brought in. “Well, I’ll leave you to it. Got some follow-up of my own to do.”

Martin saw Sasha grab her coat off a chair and walk back out the door, leaving the files untouched. He turned his attention back to his own work.

#tma #the magnus archives #tma fanfic #looks like i'm still writing this #time travel au

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indebetou-ghost · 5 years

Text

I don’t know how I feel about this, but it’s my first attempt at anything involving actual TMA characters, so we all have to start somewhere. (That Lonely Eyes is coming soon)

86 – Jonmartin – I’ll Walk You Home

The Institute was quiet, save for the soft squishing noises that accompanied Jon’s every step. It sounded like his shoes were full of water, like he was stepping in mud, but no; that wet noise came from the hundreds of dead worms littering the floor of the institute- the rooms and the halls alike- that Jon was trying very hard to avoid stepping in, but one simply can’t accommodate for the worm-to-floor ratio when moving. It would involve copious amounts of tiptoeing, and though the Institute was mostly empty, he didn’t quite want to lower himself to that.

It was definitely past closing hours, and Jon told Elias that he would go home just to get the man off his back, but in reality he didn’t really want to leave. The Institute felt like it was in safety limbo, as it were. It shouldn’t have felt safe, given that at any moment, any worm could slither back to life and deign to embed itself into Jon’s flesh like the rest of its kin seemed to enjoy doing. The Institute was full of worm corpses. It shouldn’t be safe, and yet-

Yet it felt like the only safe place in the world, purely on virtue of surviving the whole ordeal. If the Institute could fortify itself against an eldritch horror of worm-like proportions than surely it could hold its own against any threat. Jon felt like his home just didn’t have that same quality. Sure, it was worm-free, always had been, but… it didn’t have the same warding atmosphere the Institute had. The Institute felt ominous on the best of days, but it also felt enveloping, beckoning. Nowhere else in the world felt like that right now.

Still. Elias would have his head if he stayed in the Archives, so Jon made to leave.

And on a stairwell that was remarkably free from worms, he saw Martin Blackwood.

He looked about as tired as Jon felt, and the effect of exhaustion seemed to make the man physically droop. Shoulders slouched, slightly curled in on himself, even his hair, which was generally comprised of bouncy golden curls, was almost wilting. The day had taken a toll on everyone, after all. Jon was sure he looked a lot worse.

“Hi, Jon,” Martin said, a few steps up. Jon had to crane his neck to look him in the face. “You heading home too?”

“I… suppose I am, yes.” He replied. He climbed a few steps, and when he was level with Martin, the two of them wordlessly began walking together. It was more a solidarity thing than anything else, Jon reasoned. The loyalty of co-workers, monster-based trauma notwithstanding. Corridors passed, and the worms gradually started becoming more and more scarce. The silence became the air, and the air became silent, until Martin Blackwood seized the opportunity to break it.

“This’ll be the first time I’ll be in my flat again since the whole Prentiss thing started.” He mused, voice rising above the silence. Jon probably should have spent less time thinking about the fact that words had been said, and more time thinking about the words, because by the time he responded, it was a beat too late for it to feel natural.

“Oh, I suppose that’ll be… nice.” Oh, very eloquent. It was the exhaustion, and the will to be polite. He didn’t think either of them had the energy to be anything but civil right now, anyway, but Martin continued talking as if Jon had said something worth responding to.

“I guess. It’s been more than a month. It’ll probably be dusty. God know what state my houseplants’ll be in.”

“Better dusty than wormy.” Jon said, mostly without thinking. Martin actually huffed out a chuckle at that.

“I’m pretty sure I’d prefer anything to the worms right now. I’d take spiders any day of the week.”

“I think I’d settle for the worms out of those two options, actually.”

“Spiders aren’t everyone’s cup of tea,” Martin smiled. The smile was quickly followed by a sigh, and the Institute door was in view. “Sometimes I think I see worms out of the corner of my eyes, you know? Even when it’s just light moving, or a cigarette butt on the footpath, or… just a bit of dust on the wind. At least now we know they’re all gone. Well, most of them are gone. Some could still be wriggling around, heaven forbid.”

Jon hummed in affirmation, a quiet yes, and they were out into the night air. A far different chill to the bone-deep cold of the institute. At the end of their walk side by side, Martin turned to face Jon.

“Right, well, safe home, Jon. Have a good night.”

“Wait, Martin,” Jon found himself saying, and Martin took an aborted step forward before turning back to Jon.

“What is it?”

God, this was stupid.

“Would you- that is, if you don’t mind, ah- can I walk you home?”

Jon could feel the surprise radiating off Martin, and quickly backpedalled. “I-if you don’t want me to that’s fine, but, see, the thing is, after the worms I don’t think I-” Jon sighed and restarted mentally, went back, rewrote the sentence in his head. “I’d prefer not to walk alone, for a while. Just until I’m… far enough away from the institute. Is that alright?”

Jon really didn’t expect Martin’s look of surprise to change into something more pleased, but he smiled something far too warm and happy to have come from today, and he nodded. “That’s- It’d be more than alright. I’d be glad for the company.”

They walked.

It was mostly companionable silence for the first few minutes, while Jon was trying to get his bearings on how, exactly, to actually start a conversation with Martin. They walked between lampposts, the sections of dark between the radius of light the zones of slight tension, the place where the hairs on the back of Jon’s neck stood up, but then Martin would smile at him, and the sudden surge of fear would dissipate.

“So,” Martin eventually said, “How’re, the, uh, worm wounds? I mean, I assume they’re bad but… are you alright, is what I’m trying to say.”

Jon could snap back at him, tell him that of course he wasn’t alright, that it was an idiotic question to ask, but… he doesn’t. He bites back a cruel comment, because Martin means well. He’s trying. It’s just conversation.

“They hurt. But I’ll be fine. I’ll survive.” His answer is succinct and maybe a little sharp (he’ll blame that on the exhaustion) but Martin seems satisfied with it. After a beat, he adds to it. “I’m glad you’re mostly unscathed.”

“So am I,” Martin says, and then his step falters for a second before he falls back into the same rhythm as Jon.” “Sorry, thought I saw something… moving. Probably nothing.”

“Probably just a stray piece of string.” Jon says. “Or some particularly mobile dirt.”

Martin chuckles at that. “Is it a worm, or is it some volatile debris? Place your bets!”

Jon huffs amusedly in place of laughter, and shoots back, “That piece of plastic looks very like a worm, I think we’d better investigate to be sure.”

“Be careful, that empty can could be full of them, lurking, waiting.”

They laugh as they go on, and Jon finds it completely surreal. The sheer amount of stress he’s been through today seems to have come full circle, as now it feels just completely foreign. Hours ago, he decided that he couldn’t trust a soul in the Institute, but here he is now, not twenty four hours after being ravaged by flesh-eating worms, laughing with his equally traumatised co-worker about said worms. He thinks, if you don’t laugh you’ll cry, and that’s exactly the philosophy his tired mind latches onto, because every second spent with Martin is a second he doesn’t need to think about how he could have died today, or about the murder of Gertrude Robinson, or about the hold, the pressure he can feel exerted upon him by the Institute at large. He knows there’s something larger at play, some greater web he’s in the centre of, but at this very moment there is only him, Martin, and the ever-living traffic of London. It’s almost enough to forget about the holes in his skin and the gaps in his knowledge.

Almost.

“Watch out, that one looks very worm-like,” Martin starts, jovial, until he squints at the creature and stops. “Actually, I think that is a worm.”

Jon stops too, and Martin’s right: it is a worm. A normal, pink worm, twisting and writhing on the footpath. “It is most definitely a worm.”

They exchange glances, and look at the worm, and at each other.

They cross the road just in case.

The conversation fades after that, but the night is so filled with the sounds of London that Jon doesn’t really mind. There’s never a silent note to coax unpleasant thoughts from his head and that’s all he could ask for. Walking with Martin is… nice. It’s nice.

They’re at Martin’s flat too soon, and suddenly there’s distance between them, and Martin’s walking up the stairs and Jon has to crane his neck to see his face again. He’s smiling, and looking so fondly that Jon can’t help but wonder if it’s actually directed at him.

“Well, this is me. Thanks for walking with me, Jon. I think it did a lot of good.”

“I… think so too. Thank you, Martin.”

Before he finished his ascent to his building, Martin stopped and looked pensive for a second before descending the stairs again, and standing level with Jon once more. Quickly, and a little hesitantly, unsure, Martin pulled Jon into a hug, and Jon barely got to register the sensation before it was gone again. Martin was warm. He smelled faintly of lavender, and a little bit like tea bags.

“Stay safe, Jon. Be careful on your way home.”

“I will. Thank you.”

Martin Blackwood disappeared into the darkness of the apartment building, and Jon made his way home. His mind was more at ease, and as he walked alone, the ghost of warmth around his body, he found that he wasn’t plagued by the worries of the past and the future. They were kept at bay for one blessed evening, and Jon thought that was enough.

It was more than enough.

#the magnus archives #tma #jonmartin #well here you go here's the preslashiest thing to ever preslash #it is. mediocre

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iamalivenow · 5 years

Text

“Well.” The man takes his glasses off of his nose and slides them into his front shirt pocket. “Nice to finally meet you.” Martin blinks, more shocked than anything, when Peter exists in front of him- between him and the man. “And you are? The secretary didn't call ahead.” “Rude of her.” The man looks between Peter and Martin as best he can. Peter's certainly not making it easy for him. “You gossip about me so much, and you don't even know my name? I'd feel hurt, but.” He's thin, hair graying at the roots, biggest circles under his eyes that Martin's ever seen. “Extinction.” He whispers, and Peter sighs.

“I suppose. Though I'm still shopping around for proper names.” He smiles and Martin thinks it would be a rather charming smile if it wasn't for all the smoke- no, smog pouring out of his mouth. “You've Done This feels right but a bit on the nose.” “They're all on the nose,” Peter says and takes a step back as the smog begins to settle on the floor, the smell of chlorine and paint thinner and gasoline sinking into their clothes. “Blackened Earth is interesting. Watcher's Crown too.” Martin chances another look just as the man scratches his neck, sickly pale. “Where are they, by the way? Watcher and Archivist.” “Jail,” Peter says, and takes another step back forcing Martin up and against the door. “And where's Basira, Martin?” “Don't know.” “Doesn't know. Travesty.” Martin chances a look out the windows of the office. The hallway is empty but not the wrong kind of empty. It's still here. Peter can't leave- this man won't let them leave. Well. At least Peter's come back for him. It's more then he expected. “Yes.” The man says and sighs. The smell of burning plastic coming off of him makes Martin nearly gag. “Travesty.” He pulls his phone out, not a model Martin recognizes at a glance, and taps away at it. “Martin you need to-” Peter shakes his shoulder and Martin catches his eyes. “You need to go.” “Where- I-” He makes a hand movement, fingers twitching. “Fixed your CCTV for you.” The man says, not bothering to look up. “Did you know that was off? What a lark. This place and no CCTV?” “If you get to the street, they'll be a car- my nephew will get you away-” “Oh, black sedan?” The man looks up, flips his screen around. “You know most new cars are so- what is it- convenient? All electronic now, don't even need real keys anymore.” Martin doesn't need to look to know that it's a photo, several photos even, of a car wreck. Peter swallows, audibly. Not a good sign, generally, Martin's found. “So where does that leave us now then?” His voice doesn't waver, and that's fairly impressive, circumstances considering. “Barely even born and you try and sweep our legs out from under us? The rest of you had chances, where are ours? You understand, don't you, Peter Lukas? Whispering about things like that, it's nice to know you're scared.” “We've had bigger concerns,” Martin says, over Peter's shoulder. “Have you? Worms, I suppose. Very frightening. And dolls.” He walks around the desk and sits in Elias' chair. “Aren't you tired of it all? Aren't you always tired?” He rests his hands in his hands. “I was. I still am, really. But I suppose that never leaves anymore. Aren't you exhausted? Hm-” He stops, looking back at his phone. The click of the phone camera goes off before anyone has a chance to do anything. “Martin Blackwood. Still, have a facebook? Really?” “I meant to... delete it.” Peter looks at him with the sort of disdain he's so much more used to, and the slip of normalcy almost grounds him. “Not a lot of friends. No wonder you're with him.” He almost looks bored now, sliding through his account. “Oh you write poetry- that's sweet. Not particularly good, though.” “That's just-” Rude, he wants to say as another wave of nausea rolls over him. The man smiles again, and more of that smog rolls out, like nitrogen, rolling slowly across the desk and down the floor. “I friended you.” Martin looks at Peter who's not really paying attention anymore, thinking of ways to get away or at least get Martin away. He didn't think the Lonely was as weak as the Beholding was. The man's name is Jon Sims. He only has three- now four friends. One of them is a pet account. “Thanks?” “Anytime, Martin.” The man- Jon closes his eyes for a moment. “It was nice meeting you both.” And just like that, he's gone. “Well.” Peter opens the door, finally, and the smog pools out into the hallway. “That's enough excitement for one day, don't you think? You should take the rest of the day off.” “Right. Are- are you okay? I mean- Your nephew-” But Peter's gone too. Martin's head hurts.

…

There's a rash on his forearms, almost down to the wrist, that he notices when he's lying in bed and scrolling through his phone. It's sore and blistering, and when he prods at it lightly it bruises almost instantly, and when he touches the spot again, his finger comes away bloody. He considers calling Peter, but then, Jon's not Corruption. This could just be a spider bite that he didn't notice in all of the commotion. There's been so many of them at the office lately anyway. It's not getting any worse really, and with the way he's been existing lately, he really doesn't want to bother medical staff and ruin their lives, somehow. He bandages his arm and lies in bed, staring at Jon's facebook. He's doing research, obviously. There's not a lot on there, just some pictures of the man when he was obviously younger, mostly tagged by other accounts. His university days. If he wasn't a monster he'd be cute, Martin thinks with some sense of embarrassment. The two other accounts are of some girl who runs a podcast and uses her page as a business advertisement, and the other one is of a deceased page of some angry looking goth. Jon's account is the only one to leave a farewell message. That's kind of sad, almost, but again, scary smog monster. The nausea still hasn't gone away, not really. The pet account is of some massive orange thing that could be a cat or could be a fox in certain angles. It seems pretty popular. Jon likes most of the photos. It is pretty cute. The Admiral, it's called. Jon leaves comments under the videos and the account actually reply to him. It's shockingly simple. He expected something worse. He wakes up late for work the next day, still tired. A lot of hair on his pillow, but otherwise, fine. The rash hasn't gotten any worse. Hasn't gotten any better, but. He's fine.

…

Martin gets lunch at the Deli he used to visit with Sasha and Jon sits in the corner, reading his phone. The building is oddly empty, aside from them and two workers who look rather under the weather. Maybe something's going around. “Martin.” “Jon.” Smooth. Smooth and respectable. “How have you been?” He doesn't make a habit of looking up from his phone, glasses still down, thin curls of smoke twisting up towards the ceiling, darker than the smog. That same burning plastic smell is back, with undertones of exhaust and maybe just a hint of aerosol again. “Fine, I guess. Considering.” “Right. Stressful. I understand. Everyone's tired these days. Have you noticed? Tired and sad.” “I suppose that's a sign for you? End times?” “Maybe,” Jon says. “I'm still figuring things out. It was a lot of nothing, and then everything accelerated so quickly, I don't have teachers like everyone else does. But people want to rest. Talk to anyone our age.” “Oh so- you're what? Thirty?” “Twenty-nine.” A year younger than Martin- but then he knew that, from the facebook page. “It's just-” He shrugs. “Just the zeitgeist.” “Well, maybe you'd know better than me.” He says. “You're the one jumping from power to power.” There's an implication that makes Martin frown, He should leave. Get lunch elsewhere. If he could eat at all really. He coughs, to try and clear his throat before hacking harder. An allergic reaction, maybe. To the spider bite. Jon waves as he leaves.

…

Peter has the same rash, up and down his arms, and around his neck and when he coughs he draws blood, and it does little other than turn Martin's stomach. “At least Corruption has the decency to be quick about it,” Peter says bitterly while Martin pours their third cup of tea. “And you?” “No blood yet.” “From your throat you mean.” And he points at the bandage that's turning pink. Martin didn't even notice when the skin must have broken. “I guess.” Peter coughs again.

…

He finally throws up. There's blood, and Martin can't bring himself to be surprised. He drinks water and lays in bed and tries not to cough his throat anymore raw. The angry goth's name is Gerard Keay. Martin is only familiar with his mother because his mother skinned herself alive. The woman is Georgie Barker, and her podcast is called What The Ghost and the Admiral is her cat. They went to university together, her and Jon. They used to date, for a year. There's a few pictures of them together, one of Jon holding a much smaller Admiral and trying to hide a smile. The only picture of Jon and Gerard together is on vacation. Jon's wearing a tacky bar shirt. It's a selfie. They look horrifically mismatched, but Jon looks happy. He messages Georgie, more out of curiosity than anything and unsurprisingly doesn't get an answer back. He wakes up twice to throw up again, and when he gets back in bed, he's certain its a fever now. In the morning, when he showers and washes his hair, it comes out in clumps.

…

A young woman talks to Rosie when he gets in for work, and she takes one look at him and sighs. Georgie looks like what he expected her to. Prettier, in real life. Photos really didn't do her justice. “He applied here, I think? When we were still together.” She says. “Someone turned him down though.” “And now he's-” Martin trails off. He's not going to be the one to say- “And now he's a monster. Who's given you radiation poisoning, by the way. That's what that is.” She reaches into her massive bag and pulls out a slim well-worn box, and after turning a dial, an obnoxious loud clicking sound goes off. Even louder when she points it at him. “Do you just carry that around?” Because that's a good first question. “He does this a lot.” “Oh. Are you... also...” “No. I'm not involved in whatever this place is. Or any of the others.” He coughs, off to the side, and wipes the blood on his jeans. “Yeah. If it's that bad, I'd say go to a doctor but, I doubt any hospital will actually admit you. You're a walking biohazard.” “Oh.” “If I were you I'd get your affairs in order. Or ask him to take it back.” She shrugs. “He might.” “Oh.” He says again, like an idiot. “You know the fire people?” “Desolation?” Blackened Earth, he had mentioned. “He hangs out with them sometimes. Or the weird murder band.” Georgie pauses for a moment. “Actually, they're not that bad, now that I think about it. Ethically, horrific, but musically? Anyway.” She stands up and packs her counter with her. “Good luck.” “Right.” Later, when there are people running all of a sudden, down to the office, and Martin doesn't have to run after them to know Peter died.

…

He finds Jon surrounded by Lightless Flame members, smoking. Jon either doesn't see him or pretends not to see him so Martin inches around the hot bodies of the cultists until he's right next to him. Jon startles when Martin tugs on his sleeve, a large plume of dark smoke pouring out of Jon's mouth at once before he coughs. “Sorry,” Martin mumbles while a woman laughs beside them. “Really.” Of to the worst start, maybe. The smog makes him cough, and he doesn't bother cleaning the blood from his mouth. Maybe with his teeth covered in it, he'll look more pitiful, and that might be the only thing going for him. “Martin.” Jon blinks, pulling his glasses off his face. The woman whistles and he doesn't spare her a glance. “Peter died.” “Did he?” The woman whistles again, and claps Jon on the back. Martin swallows and nods, and the woman laughs, leaning on Jon's back, arms over his shoulders, before she ruffles his hair and Jon looks shockingly self-satisfied. She practically hangs off of him, her fingers dripping onto the floor. “Look at you.” She says, proud, and presses a singeing kiss into the side of his head. “Jude.” He sounds like an embarrassed child who's clingy mother won't leave him alone. “Agnes would be proud too.” She says, and he softens with that. “Could you-” Martin tries to clear his throat which only turns to more pathetic hacking. “Sorry to- to interrupt. Could you fix me?” That sends Jude cackling again, and Jon turns his head to try and hide a smile. “How do you imagine I do that?” “I don't know-” He feels very small. Tired. “Jump ship, kid.” Jude leans forward over Jon again. He can feel the heat that rolls off of her even through his fever. “Don't you want an little helper, Jon? An assistant?” “Not really.” Of course not. He doesn't know what he was hoping for- what he thought any part of this would even accomplish, really. “Aw. He looks like a kicked puppy.” “I have that effect on people.” Martin turns to leave, Jude's cackling following him all the way on to the street. He tastes blood in his mouth. It drips down his nose too.

…

The angry goth shows up in his dreams. Martin thinks it's odd at first, until Gerard “Call me Gerry” Keay tells him that he's bound, literally, to an End book, and then it's just more business as usual. “Just appeal to his better nature. Or get a cat.” “A cat?” In the dream, his skin doesn't feel like its dipped in acid, and his lungs don't ache. He can't taste iron anymore. He has a full head of hair. “Massive soft spots for cats. I think he had one, before? Or his ex had one. It's his phone background at least.” They sit in front of the Trevi fountain which Martin was sure he'd never see in real life, where Jon and Gerry took that one picture together. It's a gorgeous sunny day, and if he doesn't focus on the fact that the other tourists don't have faces, he thinks he could really learn to like this. “Why are you helping?” “He needs more friends who aren't dead.” Gerry pulls out a crumpled pack of cigarettes and lights one with a cheap looking lighter that looks a lot like Jon's. “I don't think he likes me.” “You'll grow on him. Probably. You seem friendly.” “Do you give this pep-talk to everyone he poisons?” “No.” Gerry blows a thin line of smoke through his nose. It smells of nicotine, faintly. “He doesn't bother keeping most people alive this long.” “Ah. Does he- Does he know?” Gerry shrugs. “He does, or he doesn't. I only found you cause you're irradiated the way you are.” Through Jon, Martin thinks he means. “I spend most of my time in his pocket,” Gerry explains like that's a normal thing to say casually. “Right.” “Oh-” Gerry puts a finger up, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a cheap looking felt tip marker. “Before you go.” He grabs Martin's hand and scribbles an address on Martin's palm. “He'll be there tomorrow, sevenish, if you want to try again.” “He didn't seem- interested last time.” He says again, starring at the address. “Well, look at it this way.” Gerry gets up, cigarette already down to nothing in what feels like a few seconds, and he tosses it into the fountain. Some people shriek in objection, but Gerry walks back to him, pulling his long hair up and out of his face. Same deep circles under his eyes, made even more obvious by the eyeliner. “Either you make nice, or you die trying to vomit your lungs up alone in your apartment.” “Well, when you put it like that.” Gerry shrugs. “Tell Jon I like you, maybe it'll net you some favor.” “Do you?” Gerry pulls on a pair of glasses- Jon's glasses, and turns to walk away, almost disappearing into the faceless crowds. “Why not?”

…

He can barely move his legs, can barely keep his eyes open by the time he stumbles into the dive bar. There are some people setting up on stage, or unsetting up, Martin can't tell, and Jon sits at furthest bar seat, talking to- no- talking at one of the musicians. A cellist, leaning against his seat while Jon whispers about Peter Lukas' death. “Jon.” The monster turns around and gives him a glance before finishing his one-sided conversation. “Please.” “Please what, Martin?” “Please- Please anything-” A flutist clears his throat and taps the microphone before giving Jon a wink and playing the first notes. Martin doesn't pay attention to the mountain frenzy around them. Barely can with the blood pounding in his ears. And out of his ears. “Jon.” “I can't undo this.” He says, and the lighter smog pours out of his mouth. “Best I could do is speed it up. And that is something, isn't it?” “I'm-” Martin leans against the barstool, almost slides off of it. He doesn't want to die. Not after the worms and Not Them and the Unknowing. Not after Sasha and Tim and his mother. He's not going to- He doesn't want to yet. Not yet. He's suffered too much to just throw it all away because some cute abomination had a fight with his stand-in boss. “You're?” Jon's obviously not listening, too enraptured by the senseless violence in the rest of the place, glass flying and bones shattering. Georgie was right though, the music's nice. “I'm useful.” He says, hands shaking, dripping red on to the floor. “And sturdy. A- A really quick study.” “But aren't you tired, Martin?” There's the tiniest smile on his face. “Don't you want to rest, Martin?” “Why do you keep saying that-” He cuts himself off with a miserable cough, deep and red. “Because things don't hurt when you sleep.” He says. He reaches into his pocket, and there's the flesh page, just like Gerry said it would be. “There's nothing to worry about. Real life is a nightmare. Wouldn't it be better to just- rest.” Jon runs delicate fingers over the pale skin, flipping it over in his fingers. So Martin does what he does- well no, not best, Basira is way better at on the fly choices likes this- but he does- he does something. “What if I could get him back?” Another cough. “Corporeal.” And another. “The Archives- The Archives are-” “Very big, yes I know.” He sighs, and maybe the fever finally starts melting his brain, but there's a look of hopefulness, maybe. “Georgie likes you.” “Oh.” That's nice of her. “I'm. Fairly demanding.” “But you need help- all of them need help-” Even if it seems like Jon might be the exception to the rule. “Tell me where the Archivist is. And then I'll- I'll fix you.” “I-” Peter's kept him in such isolation that even if he wanted to, he had no idea. But- But he knew where Daisy was- and that's- that's almost like knowing where the Archivist is- where Basira is. “Martin?” Yes, he supposes, it's only polite to inquire about one's health when one faints at a concert.

…

He wakes up in a hospital room- no. In a hospital bed in a room made out of plastic, with iv's and monitors, thirsty and delirious. “What happened?” He asks no one in particular. “You died.” That's Jon's voice, unmistakably, even if muffled by the bubble Martin's in. “Oh.” Martin tries to turn his head, and it's harder then he imagined it would be. Jon's holding a big ball of- “Is that a cat?” “I'm babysitting.” It's hard to see through the plastic, but Jon scratches behind its ears, and it purrs so loudly, Martin thinks he's losing his mind again. “Georgie had to go to a convention.” “Oh.” Again. The- the normalcy of it all just really threw him. “I've thought about what you offered. I wouldn't mind if you did.” “That was on offer before I died.” He says without thinking because really, the nerve. “Oh, my mistake.” Jon stands, and The Admiral jumps up onto his shoulders, and then they're both in Martin's bubble. “And if I reintroduced the same circumstances again, would the offer return?” The smell of disease and fire and metal might as well drown him. “Didn't realize you were such a glutton for punishment.” Well obviously. Martin takes a deep breath, and smog pours out of Jon's mouth. It's in him again. He can feel the slow creep of it, the rancid smell of burning plastic sticking to his hair as his skin begins to burn itself from the inside out. The cat seems entirely unphased. Like it's used to this. “Wait-” The smog gets pulled back into his mouth like a smoke trick. “I'll- I'll start research tomorrow.” “My very own assistant.” Jon smiles at him, the dark wisps rising and fading like regular cigarette smoke. “Really moving up in the world, aren't we?” The Admiral purrs when Jon scratches under his chin.

"So-"

"I'll come collect you soon. Once my friends flush the rest of it out of your uh-"

"Irradiated corpse." He should ask who Jon's friends are- who does hospitals? Or places that look like hospitals? Rich people? Maybe? For someone power that doesn't even know what it's going to call itself Jon sure has a lot of friends. Martin can't help but wonder where he finds them.

"That's the one."

And then Martin is alone.

Again.

#the magnus archives #writing #full fic #once again on tumblr for those who like it more like this #long post

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fakexface · 5 years

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Season 8

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━ 𝓢𝓸𝓶𝓮𝓽𝓲𝓶𝓮𝓼 𝓘 𝔀𝓸𝓷𝓭𝓮𝓻 𝓲𝓯 𝓖𝓸𝓭 𝓮𝓿𝓮𝓻 𝓹𝓻𝓪𝔂𝓼 𝓯𝓸𝓻 𝓶𝓮. ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

•Upon arrival in the North, Rhaegar, Daenerys, Jon, and their combined forces march through Winter Town on their way to Winterfell. The townspeople cast the Targaryens many suspicious looks, and Jon reminds them that Northerners have a long-established distrust of outsiders. Rhaegar gives a tight smile and replies that he deserves these looks- the blame they give him. He was the one who took Lady Lyanna from them, after all. Immediately following this exchange, Vhagon, Meraxal and Rhaenyx fly overhead, startling the townspeople and causing Daenerys to smile proudly. Rhaegar lets out a soft laugh as he watches the trio fly overhead.

•In Winterfell's courtyard, Jon introduces Daenerys and Rhaegar to Sansa; the two women exchange a civil but tense greeting while Rhaegar drops into a low bow, surprising everyone present, and states that Lady Sansa favors her mother, Catelyn.

•Later, Rhaegar is seated at the high table in the castle's great hall along with Jon, Daenerys, and Sansa. Tyrion attempts to calm the slightly hostile Northern lords by telling them that the largest army ever seen has been assembled, but Sansa asks how she is supposed to feed such a force along with three dragons. When she asks what dragons even eat, Daenerys replies, "Whatever they want." Rhaegar cuts in, giving his sister a harsh look, before replying that the dragons will hunt outside of Winterfell; they are capable of feeding themselves. One of the Northern lords makes a passing comment of how Targaryens know treason better than anyone else; Rhaegar does not reply.

•While inspecting the preparations for the coming battle, Daenerys remarks to Jon upon Sansa's apparent dislike for her. While Jon assures her that Sansa wasn't overly fond of him when they were growing up, Daenerys rebuffs him by saying that they don't need to like each other, but she will be respected as hand to the King. Several Dothraki approach the pair and mention that the dragons haven't been eating as much as they normally do.

•Rhaegar can be seen standing before Rhaenyx, worry evident. He asks for Daenerys and Jon to take them out, away from Winterfell- the dragons don’t like the cold, and flying would help warm them up. When Daenerys asks if Rhaegar will join them, he shakes his head and states that there are matters that he needs to attend to.

•Daenerys mounts Vhagon, planning to take him for a ride, and suggests that Jon mount Meraxal. After much trepidation, Jon does so, and the dragons take the pair on a wild ride over the snow-covered landscape, Daenerys being somewhat pleased at Jon's almost instant connection with the dragon. Eventually, they land near a waterfall in an area where Jon used to hunt as a youth. Away from all concerns about the coming battle, Daenerys and Jon share a brief moment of intimacy. Rhaenyx can be seen continuing to fly farther south before circling around, almost as if he were playing the role of scout.

•Rhaegar finds his way into the catacombs of Winterfell, and he takes his time, walking past the tombs slowly. He stops before Lyanna’s, and tears can be seen falling from his eyes. He finally breaks down after a moment, all but collapsing to his knees, sobbing softly and apologizing over and over again for leaving her alone, for dragging her into everything, for not making it back to the Tower of Joy in time. Tyrion, having followed Rhaegar, does not approach and instead, stays hidden behind a corner, listening to Rhaegar cry.

•Daenerys and Jorah later encounter Samwell Tarly in Winterfell's library. After praising him for realizing the secret behind dragonglass and curing Jorah of his greyscale, she asks if there is anything she can do to repay him. Sam jokingly asks for a pardon for stealing books from the Citadel and for taking his family's ancestral sword without permission. Upon hearing his surname is "Tarly", Daenerys realizes that he is in fact Randyll's son, and proceeds to tell him the difficult truth that his father and brother are being held on Dragonstone for rebelling against Rhaegar, and will have a trial for this crime after Rhaegar takes his throne. Sam is speechless for a few moments before asking to leave the library.

•Rhaegar is on the battlements, studying their composition and how many men could fit without it becoming too cramped when a commotion erupts in the courtyard. He quickly leaves, making his way down, only to pause when he sees who was causing the commotion: Jaime Lannister. He moves quickly, with purpose, striding across the courtyard. He calls out to Jaime by using his title of Kingslayer, and as the Lannister turns, Rhaegar snaps out, striking his jaw with a harsh uppercut that caused a split lip to form. Jon Snow sees what happens and runs forward, separating the two as Rhaegar snarls out how he had trusted Jaime, how he had put him on duty to watch his father because he trusted him, before yelling out why he didn’t try to stop the murder and rape of his wife, Elia Martell, or their children.

•Later, Rhaegar and Daenerys are once again seated at the high table with Jon and Sansa. The two women harshly berate the Kingslayer for his past actions and question whether his loyalty to their cause is genuine. Rhaegar makes idle comments on how Jaime stood by while his family was slaughtered “like cattle”. Only when Brienne of Tarth vouches for Jaime does Sansa trust him, and Daenerys allows his sword to be returned to him. Rhaegar, after a moment, relents- there are bigger monsters to deal with currently.

•Rhaegar finds himself alone in the mess hall, a much needed moment of peace and quiet. He stands, staring at the flames, when Bran wheels himself in. Rhaegar turns, and before he can say anything, Bran says two words that have Rhaegar stilling: he knows. Rhaegar does not attempt to dance around the subject, simply stating that it was not Bran’s place to tell Jon, that he had plans. Bran does not reply. Rhaegar, on his way out, pauses, and states that he had a relative, Bryndyn Rivers, who was rumored to have been the last Three-Eyed Raven. Bran agrees, stating that he is the one who taught Bran and passed the mantel onto him. Rhaegar places a hand on Bran’s shoulder, but he does not speak. He leaves a moment later.

•Jon finds Rhaegar in the chambers Sansa appointed for the Targaryen, and approaches him, distraught over what Samwell has told him. Rhaegar does not speak at first, prompting Jon to grow distraught and ask if it was all true, what Sam had said. Rhaegar replies that yes, it is- that Jon is, indeed, his son. His given name was not Jon, but rather, Jaehaerys, named after Rhaegar’s grandfather, the last sane Targaryen to sit on the Iron Throne. Jon grows angry, asking why he left, why he never tried to reach out, to which Rhaegar, just as distraught, tries to explain what had happened- how he had been nearly killed, and by the time he reached Dragonstone, it was too late and he had to run. That he had correspondence with Ned and Maester Aemon over the years, keeping track of Jon.•He wanted to see him, to visit and be a part of his life- but it would be far too dangerous. Jon then asks if he was ever going to tell him, to which Rhaegar replies yes, he was- after the war was over. Jon then asks if Daenerys knows, and Rhaegar, after a moment, states that she doesn’t; she believes that Rhaegar’s children are dead. Jon doesn’t stay, leaving Rhaegar alone in his chambers. Rhaegar, in a rare fit of rage, tosses a chair across the room, causing it to shatter against the stone wall.

•Later, Daenerys speaks privately with Sansa, addressing some of the thorny political issues involved in their alliance. She also openly confesses her love for Jon, explaining she has had only one goal - retaking the Iron Throne - until she met Jon and now she's in the North helping him fight the Night King and the army of the dead. Although a greater understanding appears to develop between the two women, Sansa remains firm in her conviction that the Northerners will never truly accept an outsider as their ruler again, and bluntly asks Daenerys what Rhaegar’s plans for the North are once the dead have been defeated. The awkward moment is interrupted by Maester Wolkan announcing the arrival of Theon Greyjoy and his men.

•Rhaegar is already within the room when Sansa arrives to greet Theon, and he watches with curiosity, having met the boy back on Dragonstone. After they have their moment, he clears his throat and asks where Yara was, and if he knows what has happened with Ellaria Sand. Theon replies that Yara was the only one on the ship when he arrived, and that he doesn’t know what became of Ellaria. Rhaegar, crestfallen, thanks him before leaving.•Surprisingly, Sansa comes after him, finding him standing upon a battlement overlooking the front gates to Winterfell. She asks him how he finds Winterfell, and he replies simply that it is much colder than he expected. She then asks what his plans are, after he gains the throne- to this, he turns to her and studies her for a long moment before stating that while she favored Catelyn in looks, her strength and biting resolve were that of Lyanna’s. He then explains that after the Throne is taken back, he will call a council of those who are the new heads of the houses of Westeros, and from there, decide on where to go. A change needs to happen, he states with a shake of his head; the time for total control is over, that much he learned in Essos. His ancestors- Aegon, Rhaenys, and Visenya ruled together. He wants something akin to that- multiple rulers, not just one person, or one council.

•When the survivors from Eastwatch bring the news that the army of the dead will be at Winterfell's gates within a day, preparations inside the castle begin to move forward at a feverish pace. Rhaegar meets with all the prominent commanders and heads of houses to discuss battle strategy. Daenerys finds herself in the crypts with Jon. While standing in front of Lyanna Stark's statue, Daenerys recounts the story of how her brother Rhaegar kidnapped Lyanna and drove Robert Baratheon to rebel against the Iron Throne.

•On a prior urging from Samwell, Jon finally reveals the truth about his parentage to Daenerys. She is utterly stunned, and immediately questions the validity of the story. When Jon assures her that it's true, she realizes that Jon actually has a better claim to the throne than she does. Daenerys leaves in a hurry, leaving Jon behind in the crypts. She finds Rhaegar in his rooms, polishing his blades, which is where she demands to know the truth. Rhaegar tells her quickly- yes, Jon in his son, yes, he knew it was him from the moment he saw him, yes, he planned on telling her, and no, he did not kidnap Lyanna. This brings out frustration and anger, and he begins to tell her the full story of how he and Lyanna fell in love; however, before either can discuss the matter further, a horn sounds three times to signal the arrival of the army of the dead. They exchange a look before leaving quickly to find their dragons.

•Rhaegar, Daenerys, and Jon watch with Vhagon, and Rhaenyx, and Meraxal from a distance as the Dothraki charge the army of the dead, but when the Dothraki are slaughtered, Daenerys breaks away from Jon's plan to wait for the Night King and attacks the army of the dead with dragonfire. Rhaegar curses and quickly follows after his younger sister, with Jon trailing behind. Rhaegar keeps lower than Daenerys or Jon, watching the battle unfold. Rhaenyx leaves the dragonfire to Vhagon and Meraxal. Daenerys and Jon's visibility is cut off when the White Walkers summon a blizzard, however. The pair take to the skies above the blizzard while Rhaegar keeps low, circling Winterfell the best he can. Daenerys suddenly plunges on Vhagon, drawing Rhaegar’s attention. When he realizes who she is aiming for, he screams for her to pull up, but his voice is lost in the sound of battle. He watches from the back of Rhaenyx in horror as Vhagon blasts the Night King with fire- but to no avail.

•They escape as the Night King hurls an ice spear at Vhagon. When Jon is surrounded by newly risen wights, Daenerys and Rhaegar save him with Vhagon and Rhaenyx, burning through wights and creating a path for Jon to rush into Winterfell to help Bran and stop the Night King. Rhaegar leaves shortly after, trying to find where Meraxal had flown off to, and is horrified to see the dragon being covered by wights. He and Rhaenyx dive down, freeing Meraxal. However, Rhaegar is thrown from Rhaenyx’s back as Rhaenyx attempts to keep the wights away from Meraxal, leaving Rhaegar to be surrounded with two angry dragons.

•He manages to climb atop Rhaenyx and take to the skies with Meraxal, injured but able to fly, following after. He panics when he realizes that Dany is nowhere to be found. He takes Rhaenyx over Winterfell and blasts what dead he can while Meraxal flies further south, to safety. As Daenerys watches over Jon, wights climb onto Drogon, and Daenerys falls off while Drogon flies away. She is protected by Jorah, who dies defending her, leaving Daenerys crying hysterically while Vhagon wraps around them after the Army of the Dead falls. Rhaegar, having dropped from Rhaenyx’s back, is fighting alongside those in the courtyard of Winterfell and growing overwhelmed by the minute, until the Army of the Dead suddenly falls.

•After the battle, which saw a living victory, Rhaegar and Daenerys mourn the dead outside Winterfell, lighting a pyre. He steps forward with Daenerys to light their funeral pyre; she kisses the dead Jorah's forehead and whispers something to him before Rhaegar lights the pyre. Later, the siblings celebrate at the feast inside Winterfell. Tormund makes a toast to Daenerys, "To the Ruby King!"- a new title for Rhaegar, and Daenerys stands up herself, toasting Arya Stark as the "Hero of Winterfell." However, despite her initially celebratory mood and the smiles she exchanges with Jon, Daenerys's mood grows downcast when she finds herself worried over Jon's popularity among the Northmen, Valemen, and wildlings compared to Rhaegar’s popularity. Rhaegar, on the other hand, is celebrating just as much- congratulating Jon and toasting. Daenerys rises to leave, but Rhaegar stops her with a hand on her arm, shaking his head. It is then that Tyrion speaks up, requesting a song from Rhaegar. The hall falls silent, as many who are there have heard of the Targaryen’s voice moving people to tears. Rhaegar, flustered but still reeling from their victory, agrees and begins to sing The Night That Ended; no one joins in, and the hall is surprisingly silent as he sings. Daenerys sits beside him with a fond smile.

•Daenerys finds Jon in his chambers that night and they kiss, beginning to undress, before Jon stops himself due to learning of their relation. Daenerys laments that she wishes Jon never told her about his true identity because otherwise, she'd be happy- they’d both be happy. Daenerys tells Jon it doesn't matter what he wants or how many times he swears fealty to Rhaegar - he didn't want to be King in the North either. Jon gets on one knee before her and says that Rhaegar is his king. Daenerys begs Jon not to tell anyone else about his parentage, fearing that it will destroy them. Jon insists he must tell his sisters because he owes them the truth about who he is, certain it will work out and they can all live together. However, Dany believes the only way they can live together is if Jon keeps his identity secret.

•Rhaegar spends the night alone, walking the halls of Winterfell until he finally grows too restless and goes to leave, only to be stopped by Sandor Clegane, who asks him what he was planning on doing. Rhaegar confesses he needed to get out of Winterfell for a bit; The Hound decides that he’s going to join him. The pair walk out of Winterfell’s gates in relative silence. Sandor breaks the silence by asking if Rhaegar plans on killing Cersei or Jaime or his brother. Rhaegar hesitates before answering that Cersei will have a trial once King’s Landing is taken; while he would love to kill the man who took his children and beloved away from him, he believes that the honor should belong to Sandor. The Hound doesn’t reply, and leaves Rhaegar to be alone afterwards. Rhaegar, instead of returning to Winterfell, continues his walk, eventually finding the dragons, each asleep. Rhaenyx awakens first and watches as he approaches, but does not stop him. Rhaegar settles down on the ground beside the dragon, who lowers his head and covers Rhaegar, all but hiding him from view. In the silence of the night, Rhaegar allows himself to grieve for those he had lost.

•Come morning, no one can find Rhaegar. A panic sweeps through Winterfell before Arya arrives with Rhaegar trailing behind, the pair both looking amused at the situation. Arya explains that she had watched him leave Winterfell the night before, and curiosity drew her to look for him- and get a closer look at the dragons. Rhaegar then leads a war council for the resumed campaign against Cersei Lannister for the Iron Throne. They will not sail immediately to King’s Landing, despite Daenerys’ argument that they should march now. Rhaegar counters, agreeing with the Lady Sansa that their men are exhausted and injured; marching to King’s Landing right now would be marching them all to their deaths- again. They would wait five days, giving the men time to rest. He ends the meeting, though requests to speak with Daenerys and Jon alone. However, Jon has already disappeared, leaving the siblings to have a tense stand off before Daenerys leaves without a word.

•Later, Rhaegar is in the crypts beneath Winterfell once more, standing before Ned’s statue. Sansa finds him here; she makes to leave at first before he speaks up, stating that while she may favor the Tully side in looks, her personality was purely Stark. She takes this as a cue to approach him, and she admits that she did not know Lady Lyanna, but had heard plenty of tales. Rhaegar smiles and tells her the story of how Lyanna poured wine over her brother’s head. A moment of silence passes before he turns and studies her, before sighing and asking if Jon has spoken with her and Arya. She says that he has- that she had, admittedly, been looking for Rhaegar to ask if it truly was so- that he was his son. Rhaegar nods slowly, and Sansa gets a pensive look about her before asking why he didn’t come after Jon. It is then that he begins to recount to her the tale of Elia, Lyanna, and himself as they make their way back to the surface: the murder of his father, his mother’s death giving birth to Daenerys, how they had to flee Westeros completely and seek shelter in Essos. How he sent ravens to Ned and Aemon, asking after Jon. How assassins had been sent after himself and his siblings, and how dangerous it would be if the world knew that he had a living heir in Westeros.

•They depart from one another afterwards, where Sansa runs into Tyrion and tells him of what she had learned. Rhaegar, meanwhile, went to find Daenerys and Jon; they would be leaving at dawn. He gave Jon the choice: travel by dragon, or ride by horse. Jon, after a moment, admits that he isn’t used to riding on the back of a dragon yet, and relents to lead their forces by horseback. Rhaegar agrees.

•As his fleet is sailing back to Dragonstone, Rhaeagar rides Rhaenyx next to Daenerys on Vhagon, with Meraxal trailing behind, when suddenly three bolts are fired, narrowly missing the dragons. Rhaegar yells for Daenerys to fly higher while Meraxal soars ahead quickly, weaving towards their fleet. Euron's Iron Fleet reveals itself from behind Dragonstone's rocks and tries to take down Daenerys and Vhagon as they escape, but are unable to do as they pull back. Rhaenyx turns and takes them around the back of Euron’s fleet, allowing Rhaegar to get a look at just what he was dealing with. To his dismay, the part of the Iron Company he had left behind had joined with Euron. Euron instead targets Rhaegar’s fleet, destroying it and capturing Missandei in the process.

•Rhaegar, furious with this outcome, returns to Dragonstone. There, both siblings become tempted to storm King's Landing. However, Rhaegar is brought back down by Varys, who reminds him that while it may be a tempting idea- there were far too many innocent lives at stake. Daenerys, Tyrion, Varys, and Grey Worm parley with Cersei outside the gates of King's Landing, where Cersei threatens to execute Missandei in front of them. She taunts them, asking if Rhaegar had decided to give up, to turn tail and flee like he once did, when the roar of a dragon is heard. Rhaegar soars overhead upon Rhaenyx, landing upon a spire beside Cersei. Rhaenyx takes out two scorpions with his tail, and another with dragonfire before Rhaegar dismounts. He asks Cersei if she knew of the casks of wildfire beneath the streets. On cue, a burst of green flame shoots into the air, startling Cersei and giving Rhaegar the chance to grab Missandei and pull her behind himself. In the midst of the chaos and confusion, a Scorpion looses a bolt- only for it to fly wide and crash into the road below.

•Rhaegar gives Cersei an ultimatum: give up now, and King’s Landing will not suffer. Refuse, and come dawn, King’s Landing will no longer belong to the Lannisters. Cersei commands for the Mountain to kill Rhaegar. Before he can move, Rhaenyx releases a blast of dragonfire close enough that it scorches Cersei’s dress, allowing Rhaegar and Missandei to climb atop Rhaenyx, who takes to the skies quickly and retreats to safety behind their lines. Missandei and Daenerys have a tearful reunion before Grey Worm takes her into his arms.

•Rhaegar states simply that Cersei would not compromise. Come morning, King’s Landing would no longer belong to the Lannisters. He leaves them, then, despite Tyrion calling after him, and makes his way towards the camp that had been set up. There, he meets with his guards, who had caught Jaime attempting to sneak into the city. Rhaegar sits down with the man, removing his chains and offering him a cup of wine. Rhaegar does not speak, allowing the silence to grow until Jaime finally breaks and asks if Rhaegar intends to kill him and Cersei. He replies that no- Cersei will not die. She will have a trial- but she needs to abdicate the throne, lest Rhaegar be forced to take it by force. Before Jaime can begin to defend her, he adds that her sentence would be less severe, should Jaime bend the knee. He knows that Cersei is pregnant, and guesses correctly that the child is Jaime’s.

•Jaime, after a moment, settles down onto one knee, and bends the knee to Rhaegar. Rhaegar takes this time to ask Jaime why he did it- why he killed Aerys. Jaime replies that Aerys would kill Rhaegar if he knew about Lyanna, and that Aerys would had been killed anyway because Tywinn would not have let him live. When asked about Elia, Jaime falls silent and admits the fault was purely on his part, that he should have gone to them, and he regrets it every single day. Rhaegar agrees- that he, too, regrets not being here. He admits that he can still hear Elia’s voice singing Dornish lullabies to Rhaenys and Aegon.

•It is in the early morning hours that news breaks; Varys had spread word of Jon being Rhaegar’s son. Daenerys becomes enraged, saying that it should have been kept a secret, that Jon should never had told Sansa the truth. Rhaegar counters that Jon was not raised to be a Targaryen, that he was a Stark, and those were his sisters- his family. The ones he had grown up with, lived with, eaten with. However, it was not Varys’ place to spread word. Rhaegar brings Varys to Dragonstone, where they hold a mock trial; Rhaegar explains that, by all means, he should kill Lord Varys. He should allow Rhaenyx to snap his spine and burn him alive. Rhaenyx even begins to creep forward, but Rhaegar stops the dragon. Instead, he states that he will allow Varys to live. This was the first time he had crossed Rhaegar- and the last. Should it happen again, he would not live to see the dawn. He leaves Varys on the rock outcropping as the sun begins to rise over the horizon, painting the ocean vivid hues of orange, yellow, red- like dragonfire.

•Later, Rhaegar calls Daenerys and Jon into a private bedchamber to talk. He begins by saying that the room they were in had once been his; it was now striped of everything that had belonged him. He turns to them, and asks Jon if he was okay with word now spreading that he is Rhaegar’s child. Jon hesitates, conflicted; he states that he hadn’t meant for word to spread. Rhaegar replies that it is too late now- the Lords and Ladies of Westeros would soon know the truth, and that Jon should prepare himself for that. Rhaegar hesitates for a moment before stating that he has not chosen an heir- that, technically, Jon should be his heir, but Daenerys had a viable claim since she is his sister. He leaves them afterwards to talk amongst themselves.

•Rhaegar consults with Tyrion on how best to go about this; Euron’s fleet would need to be destroyed, as would the Scorpions atop the battlements. However, he does not wish to end innocent lives if at all possible, which Tyrion agrees with. Daenerys asks why they wouldn’t simply storm King’s Landing and destroy it. Rhaegar replies that while it had never been Dany’s home, it had once been his, and the people within King’s Landing were innocents, held hostage by a tyrant- ever since Robert Baratheon had died. Tyrion responds that the smallfolk are afraid of Cersei because Cersei will punish any rebellious acts. Daenerys counters that Cersei is using mercy as a weakness against them but Cersei is wrong, mercy is their strength - her mercy for the future generations of Westeros, not those in the present. Rhaegar shuts her down quickly, reminding her that they are not Aerys- that, as much as he would enjoy seeing the Red Keep fall- they would not burn the city. They would give them mercy.•Before Tyrion leaves, Rhaegar informs them both that Jaime was caught by his men trying to get past their lines. Rhaegar informs Tyrion that Jaime is not a prisoner- that he has bent the knee and swore to serve Rhaegar once more. Daenerys asks Rhaegar if they can trust Jaime, to which Rhaegar and Tyrion reply simultaneously with a simple “yes”. Come morning two days later, Rhaegar flies over King’s Landing- high above, hidden by clouds, though the sound of wings beating could be heard. It is as if the city stands still as they listen; Cersei can be seen peering into the clouds, looking, listening, straining to catch a glimpse of Rhaegar.

•Daenerys attacks Euron's Iron Fleet atop Vhagon as the Battle of King's Landing begins, sinking the fleet and destroying the scorpions. Rhaegar suddenly appears, looking as if Rhaenyx were falling, when suddenly the pair sweep low along the walls of King’s Landing, destroying scorpion after scorpion while Daenerys lands Vhagon atop a tower. Meraxal appears, and upon his back sits Jon Snow, who lands outside of the gates. Terrified screams can be heard from the people below.

•Rhaegar has Rhaenyx fly up once more, taking to the clouds over King’s Landing, where the silhouette of Rhaenyx can be seen through the clouds, casting a shadow over the city. Daenerys destroys the gate and its walls that the Golden Company guards, killing many of the sellswords from the debris that falls upon them. This allows the Dothraki, Unsullied, the Northern and the Vale armies to destroy the remaining sellsword contingent and charge into the city. Overwhelmed, the Lannister soldiers surrender despite Cersei not ordering it, ringing the city's bells. A piercing cry from Rhaenyx has Vhagon and Meraxal taking to the skies as the bells ring out. While the two dragons circle King’s Landing like dogs herding cattle, Rhaenyx suddenly plummets once more, settling atop the Red Keep. Rhaenyx cranes his neck down, allowing Rhaegar to see Cersei, in which he informs her that her soldiers have surrendered their arms, that her people are being evacuated, and that as they speak, Unsullied are making their way through the Red Keep, slaughtering her soldiers. She barks back that Euron’s fleet was still there, to which Rhaegar shakes his head slowly. She asks about the Golden Company- and he shakes his head once more.

•He asks her if she will abdicate the throne peacefully, or if he needed to take it by force. The sound of battle can be heard growing closer; she can be seen casting a wary glance to the doors, to the Mountain, before looking back towards Rhaegar. Just before the door breaks down, she relents.

•Rhaeagar gives her a small, sad smile. Rhaenyx releases another cry, which Vhagon and Meraxal echo. He informs her that, should she attempt to escape, he would kill Jaime (a bluff, though she is not aware of it); that he has him outside of the city, surrounded by Dothraki screamers who are dying to bloody their blades. She relents, and the Mountain leads her and Maester Qyburn down from the tower; the steps are cleared of her soldiers, and Rhaegar’s Unsullied remain. At the bottom of the steps stand Daenerys and Grey Worm. On Daenerys’ order, Grey Worm shackles both Cersei and Qyburn.

•The Hound appears, then, and the battle between brothers commences. Daenerys orders no one to intervene, despite her growing horror. Finally, Sandor has Gregor on his knees, and decapitates him, ending the Mountain once and for all. The Hound falls to his knees, grievously injured, though he does not succumb to his wounds.

•Thousands of the surrendered soldiers and innocent civilians are gathered outside of the Red Keep and in the streets with Northmen and the armies of the Vale. In front stand the Unsullied; at the very back, the Dothraki sit on their horses, screaming and cheering. Rhaegar stands above them with Daenerys to his right and Jon to his left. Jaime stands off to the side beside Tyrion. Here, Rhaegar gives his speech to the people, proclaiming that the Lannisters are no longer the rulers of Westeros. Cersei has abdicated the throne, the very same throne that his ancestor, Aegon Targaryen, forged. He explains that he will take the throne as the Rightful Heir, and they will begin to rebuild the damages caused to King’s Landing, as well as holding a trial for the crimes that Cersei Lannister has committed, as well as one for Euron Greyjoy, who had been captured by Theon and Yara Greyjoy. Maester Qyburn would be stripped of his chains, and held accountable for the crimes he’s committed.

•He adds that a Great Council will be formed in the coming months of the Lords and Ladies of Westeros. Things would be changing; no longer would a tyrant rule. He leaves it at that as the crowd cheers.

#Rhaegar Targaryen #rhaegar lives au #daenerys targaryen #jon snow #Cersei Lannister #Jaime Lannister #game of thrones #game of thrones au #fakexface writing #my writing

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