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ollieofthebeholder · 4 months

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to find promise of peace (and the solace of rest): a TMA fanfic

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Chapter 98: February 2018

Martin had made a good effort to be cheerful for Christmas, but he’d been badly affected by his mother’s death and the statement he’d taken from her, and really none of them had tried all that hard to snap it out of him. Jon hadn’t known what to do other than be there for him, and while Martin insisted that was enough, Jon still felt like he should have done more. Melanie, too, had been upset by it, or at least Jon assumed that was what was upsetting her. It was hard to tell with Melanie these days. But it didn’t take much of a stretch of the imagination to conclude that the revelation that Liliana Blackwood-King had orchestrated Roger King’s dementia in order to manipulate their children had not gone over well with her. Gerry’s attitude towards the whole thing was hard to read, but Gerry wasn’t one to wear his heart on his sleeve.

Unlike the previous year, they hadn’t spent New Year’s Eve all together; Sasha had somehow managed to convince Melanie to go see the fireworks with her, Tim and Gerry had gone off on some mysterious date of their own—the nature of which they still hadn’t disclosed to the others, and none of them had asked—and Jon and Martin had gone back to their flat and had a quiet night in. Actually, it had been pretty nice, listening to old records and dancing in the kitchen while they made dinner, and they had kissed right at midnight while the mayor’s fireworks exploded on the horizon. Martin hadn’t even had any nightmares that night, or so he said. For a moment, Jon had sincerely hoped, even believed, that the new year would mean a fresh start, that things would start getting better for them.

He still believed it, but he had also bowed to the inevitable and made a list of all the different “new years” marked by the different cultures around the world. Surely one of them would turn the page.

The Christmas decorations had gone down on the second of February, but Tim hadn’t even mentioned Valentine’s Day, much to Jon’s relief. He had to admit he’d been a bit jumpy as the anniversary of that day—the day the Not-Rosie had attacked, the day Jurgen Leitner had been brutally and extensively murdered with a pipe in what had then been his office, the day he’d been forced to go on the run alone—got closer. Martin had tried very hard to give him the day off, but Jon had refused to spend the day without Martin, and in the end Martin had closed the Archives down entirely and told everyone to take it off.

After all, it wasn’t like they could get fired for it.

Jon very much wished he could say he and Martin had come in smiling, holding hands, and refreshed from their day off. Or, for that matter, that any of them had. But neither Jon nor Martin had slept well—Jon because he kept waking up what seemed like every few minutes to reassure himself Martin was still there, Martin because he had evidently had serious nightmares—and it was apparent from the dark circles under Sasha’s eyes when they arrived that she hadn’t either. Although that could have been because she was up earlier than usual, since she’d actually beat them to the Institute.

“Sasha. You’re…early,” Jon said, trying and failing not to let his surprise show.

Martin managed a small smile somewhere between amused and sympathetic. “Melanie keep you up all night?”

“In a sense. We had a fight,” Sasha confessed. “Really nasty one, I don’t even know what started it, and it didn’t matter what I said, she just kept getting angrier and angrier. It finally ended in her storming out and slamming the door so hard she actually woke Nod up out of a sound sleep.” She shrugged out of her cardigan, and Jon winced at the claw marks on her shoulder. “Cat. Not Melanie…anyway, I figured I’d just give her some space and she’d come back eventually, but then I realized it was dark out and she never had. I called her, but then I realized I could hear the phone. She left it behind.”

Jon’s heart kicked into high gear. Martin stared at Sasha, all the color draining out of his face. “Did she ever come back?”

“No. I came early hoping she’d be here, but…”

“Jesus, Sasha, why didn’t you call me?” Martin reached for his pocket, then stopped as it evidently occurred to him that wouldn’t help. “Anything could have happened to her, not just the Fourteen.”

“I—” Sasha dropped her gaze, looking shamefaced, her cheeks flushing. “I don’t know. I should have, but…I just, I wanted to fix whatever I did wrong before I started calling you into it. I guess I thought that would just make her angrier.”

Martin sighed and rubbed his hand over his face. “You’re probably not wrong, but she’s got to realize she can’t do this. Not now. Especially not now.”

Jon tried to think where he would have gone if he and Martin had had a fight like that. Not far, truthfully, because even at his angriest he didn’t think he could walk away for very long, but depending on how bad the fight was he might have broken down and bought a pack of cigarettes. Melanie hadn’t smoked as long as he had, but she still might have done something else destructive that she’d theoretically given up. But to be gone all night…

“Can you—” Sasha hesitated, then gestured vaguely at Martin’s eyes.

“Can, yeah, no problem.” Martin’s voice took on a slight edge. “Honestly, these days it’s stopping myself from doing something like that that’s the challenge. Should, absolutely not. It’s not a habit I really need to be getting into.”

“But if she’s in danger…Martin, please, you know I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important.” Sasha clasped her hands in front of her and looked up at Martin desperately. “Not when it’s something like this. I’ll take the blame if she gets mad about it.”

“It’s not Melanie I’m worried about being mad, but…fine. Fine, I’ll do it.”

Jon held up a hand. “I’m sorry, what are we talking about?”

Martin sighed. “Sasha is asking if I can use the Eye to Know where Melanie is and if she’s okay.”

A chill ran up Jon’s spine. “That…sounds like a very bad idea. Martin, you’re already so tightly bound in it—”

“I know, Jon. But Sasha’s right.” Martin ran a hand through his hair. “Melanie’s been missing for more than twelve hours, and she’s…she’s vulnerable right now. I won’t look long. Just a quick peek.”

Jon considered protesting further, but he knew it was useless if Martin had made up his mind. Anyway, he had to admit that he was worried, too, and if he had the power to Know where someone was like that, he’d be using it about now. “I’ll go find you a statement, then. You’re going to need one when you’re done.”

Martin gave him a crooked smile and bent down to kiss him quickly. “Thank you.”

As Jon headed deeper into the Archives, scanning the haphazard files on the shelves for something promising, he wondered when this had all become…maybe not normal, but expected. Just facts of life, just how things were. Gerry had come back from the dead and subsisted on souls. Martin could read minds and pull information from the ether like some kind of walking search engine. They’d traded in a boss who could plant memories in their heads and watch them without the aid of CCTV for a boss whom very few people had seen in person but could apparently make people who displeased him disappear in a rather permanent fashion. There was a makeshift bunker, complete with camp stove, down in the tunnels, which still held the Not-Them, presumably. Somewhere along the line, it had become just another day at the office. And something inside Jon mourned the fact that the best way he could think of to comfort his boyfriend was with a written record of someone else’s fear rather than a cup of tea.

The sound of commotion from the front of the Archives made every instinct Jon had fire simultaneously. Abandoning the statements, he bolted back towards the main area and skidded to a halt, gasping in relief—at least momentarily. Melanie was there, looking very much as though she had spent the night on the streets, but alive. She was also nearly purple with rage, her hands balled into tight fists as she shouted up at Martin. Sasha stood a few steps away, hands over her mouth and eyes wide.

“—stay out of it!” she bellowed. “You have no fucking right—”

“Melanie, I didn’t, I was only going to—” Martin began.

Melanie steamrolled right over him. “Spooky eldritch powers don’t give you the fucking right to just go in people’s heads whenever you want!”

“I didn’t.” Martin looked somewhere between anxious and angry. It was clear that he was trying to be rational and calm, but Melanie was pushing him to his limits. “You just vanished, you didn’t have your phone—”

“I’m a grown-ass fucking adult, and I don’t need you checking up on me every five minutes,” Melanie snarled, shoving at Martin and actually knocking him back a step.

Somehow, Martin kept his cool. “Melanie, it’s not safe—”

“Fuck you!” Melanie swung a fist and struck Martin in the stomach. He gave a soft grunt of pain and doubled over.

“Hey, hey, Jesus!” Jon rushed over to the group. Melanie whirled on him, and he took a step back on instinct. From the gleam in her eye, she liked that, liked that she’d scared him, which…wasn’t good. He held up his hands in supplication. “Melanie, come on, this isn’t like you.”

“Oh? What isn’t like me?” Melanie tensed her whole body again. “Choose your words carefully, Sims.”

Sims. Not Jon. She hadn’t called him that in a year and a half. Jon swallowed the sudden lump of emotion and tried to speak softly. “You know what I mean. Not you being angry. I know you well enough to know that’s your default state of being, like mine is being paranoid. But you never treat Martin like this, and frankly I don’t like it.”

“I bet you don’t.” Melanie sneered at him. Martin straightened and bristled, obviously as upset at Melanie talking to Jon like that as he was about her talking to Martin like that.

Jon shook his head, very quickly. Martin didn’t need to…he could handle this. He could. “What’s got into you?”

“What’s got into me?” Melanie repeated incredulously. She slammed her hand on the desk, making Jon flinch. “There’s nothing in me that I didn’t bloody well want there.”

Something cold trickled down Jon’s spine, and from the way Martin’s face shifted, he’d evidently had the same thought. He opened his mouth to say something, but Martin beat him to it. “Melanie, your leg. Is it—”

“Don’t you dare!” Melanie spun back around towards Martin and screamed in his face. “Don’t you fucking force me to answer your questions! You have no right! You have no right!”

“I’m not—” Martin began.

Jon jumped in before Martin could make things any worse. “Is your leg still hurting? Are you sure they—”

“And don’t you start either!” Melanie yelled, shoving Jon back. He stumbled and cracked his hip rather painfully against the desk. “You and your goddamn fucking compulsion, I don’t—”

“Melanie, stop,” Martin said forcefully.

There was no static in the word. It was just an order—from a boss, from an older brother, from a friend who recognized the destructive path currently being traversed and was desperate to save her from heading any further along it. Melanie didn’t seem to care. “Don’t tell me what to do!”

“Melanie, please, we’re—” Martin started.

“It’s bad enough that I’m trapped here, but—” Melanie ranted.

“If there’s still a—” Jon tried.

“—trying to help you—”

“—have a minute to myself—”

“—doctors couldn’t see—”

“—listen to me for one second—”

“—all calm down and—”

“—fucking irresponsible—”

“I’ll kill you!” Melanie screamed, lunging at Martin.

“Melanie, no, stop!” Jon leaped for Melanie, his heart in his throat.

Too late. The blade in her hand—a blade she hadn’t had mere seconds before, a blade Jon hadn’t noticed her holding until it was far, far too late—flashed as she plunged it into Martin’s shoulder, then withdrew it in the same swift motion. Martin cried out in pain, reeling back with a hand pressed to his chest, far too close to his heart for Jon’s liking.

There was clang as the knife dropped from Melanie’s suddenly nerveless fingers. To her credit, she looked absolutely stunned that she’d done that, all the color gone from her face. There was a heartbeat of silence as they stared at one another, wide-eyed.

Suddenly, Sasha loomed up behind Melanie, her own face pale. She threw one arm around Melanie’s chest and clapped a tea-towel over her mouth and nose with the other. Melanie stiffened for a second, then started to fight.

“Jon, help me!” Sasha shouted. “I can’t hold her on my own!”

Not sure what else to do, Jon lunged forward and grabbed Melanie’s wrists. She tried to knee him in the balls; somehow he managed to clamp onto her leg with his own knees and keep it down. Her attempt to kick him, or Sasha, with the other leg almost sent all three of them to the ground, but they just held on as she struggled.

“Sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” Sasha repeated, over and over. Jon was sure they were going to lose the battle any second, but slowly, Melanie’s struggles grew less and less, until she finally sagged against Sasha, boneless and unconscious, leaving the rest of them silent and worn out.

“What,” Jon panted, “the fuck just happened?”

“Chloroform,” Sasha said miserably. “I soaked the towel in enough to knock her out without doing too much permanent damage. Hopefully.”

“Why do you just happen to have chloroform lying around in sufficient quantities to knock her out safely?” Martin asked, sounding very much as if he were doing so through clenched teeth.

“I recommend not asking questions you don’t want the answers to.” Sasha shifted her grip on Melanie. “Someone help me get her lying down.”

“Can someone please get me up to speed here?” Jon asked, not for the first time that day and not, he suspected, for the last.

Martin came over and took Melanie’s legs from Jon, gingerly, then helped Sasha lay her on the floor. “You figured it out, too. I could see it in your eyes. The ghost’s bullet is still in her leg, infecting her with the Slaughter, and it’s only getting worse. We’ve got to get it out.”

Jon blinked. “How?”

Martin looked up at Jon and raised an eyebrow. “How do you think?”

Jon’s stomach flipped as he realized what Martin was implying. “Oh. Will—how long to we have?”

“Until she wakes up, which won’t be long. Chloroform doesn’t last forever.” Martin took a deep breath. “Someone get me a pair of scissors.”

“You’re going to do this with scissors?” Jon said, horrified.

Unexpectedly, the corners of Martin’s mouth twitched. “For the trouser leg, Jon. There’s a scalpel in the first aid kit.”

“I feel like that’s not exactly standard for a first aid kit,” Jon muttered, but he hurried over to the Archivist’s office to fetch a pair of scissors.

By the time he got back, Sasha had Melanie’s head in her lap and was holding her shoulders down, while Martin had spread the chloroform-soaked towel—probably not the cleanest in the world, but Jon guessed it was mostly for the blood—under the leg Melanie was always running. Jon tapped him on the shoulder with the handle of the scissors. Martin took them and nodded his thanks. “Do me one more favor?”

Jon sat on Melanie’s ankle without being asked. Martin smiled at him again, then began cutting away the pant leg. That done, he set the scissors aside, took a deep breath, and Looked. Soft static began gathering, then faded, taking what little color was left in Martin’s face with it. “Jesus.”

“Bad?” Jon asked.

“It’s poisoning her whole system. She’s not gone full avatar yet, but if I can’t get this out…God, I should have Looked at her ages ago.” Martin shook his head and picked up a small packet, then peeled the paper back to reveal a scalpel that was either brand new or had been cunningly replaced. “Right. Let’s do this.”

It was…messier than Jon would have liked, and he had to work hard not to be sick, but he made himself watch as Martin cut a surprisingly neat incision in Melanie’s leg, then dug into it with a pair of forceps. Melanie shifted and groaned, and Jon scanned her face anxiously. “She’s still awake?”

“No.” Surprisingly, it was Sasha who answered, not Martin. “People always used to think that, but it’s not true. She’s just restless from the anesthesia, but she’s asleep and can’t feel anything. Uh…maybe hurry, though?”

“I’m going as fast as I safely can,” Martin assured her without looking up.

There was an unpleasant wet squelching sound, and then Martin withdrew the forceps, seemingly empty…but when he opened them over the metal tray next to him, something landed with a clatter.

“Did you get it?” Sasha asked, her voice shaking a little.

“Yeah.” Martin exhaled slowly and laid the forceps gently in the tray next to the scalpel and, Jon assumed, the ghost bullet. “Let me close her up, and then you can take her back to the cot in Document Storage until she wakes up.”

“And then I want to look at your shoulder,” Jon said, unable to stop the anxiety from coloring his own voice.

Something infinitely sad flickered through Martin’s eyes for a moment, but he didn’t say anything, just concentrated on applying what seemed like an entire box of butterfly bandages to the gash he’d made in Melanie’s thigh. Finally, he was done, and he nodded to Jon to get off Melanie’s leg. The second he did, Sasha scooped her into her arms without a word and staggered towards Document Storage. Jon almost offered to help her, but one look at her face and he knew that wasn’t his place.

“Come here,” he said instead, turning to Martin. “Into your office. Let me see what she did to you.”

Martin gave him a sad smile, but got to his feet and headed for the Archivist’s office. Jon assumed it was the your office bit; even after ten months, he knew Martin still felt guilty about that. He swept up the parts of the first aid kit that hadn’t been used for impromptu surgery and followed him.

Once inside, Martin went without being told to the far back corner, where there was a sturdy floor lamp, and sat slowly down on the floor. He pulled off his torn and bloodied jumper, then simply tugged at the hole in the shirt underneath to make it bigger. Jon grabbed an alcohol wipe out of the first aid kit, hurried over, knelt next to Martin, and began wiping off the blood to see how bad the cut was.

Only to discover that it had already closed itself over, leaving only a shiny pink ridge about an inch and a half wide.

Jon sat back on his heels and stared at it. “Oh.”

“Yeah,” Martin said quietly. “Same thing happened with Trevor stabbing me, kind of. Took a bit longer for that to stop bleeding, but, well, I wasn’t…”

“An Avatar?”

“I was going to say ‘Marked by the End’, but yeah, that, too.” Martin sighed and reached for Jon’s hand, then stopped, like he wasn’t sure he was allowed to. “Killing me won’t be that easy. Melanie wasn’t far enough along for it to be that simple.”

Jon shuddered. “She was so angry…”

“Yes. But there was enough of her left that didn’t mean it when she said she’d kill me that she couldn’t.”

He still wasn’t touching. Jon grabbed his hands and laced their fingers together, refusing to let go, then leaned forward and pressed a gentle kiss to the spot. It felt hot to the touch. “I wouldn’t have let her. You know that, right?”

“I know.” Martin sighed and wrapped his arms around Jon. Jon snuggled against him and rested his ear against Martin’s chest just below the new scar. The steady thudding of his heartbeat reassured Jon in a way few other things could right about then.

The sound of a door opening somewhere behind him reminded Jon that Tim hadn’t arrived yet. He sighed and started to turn. “You missed quite a morning. Late night or—”

Martin suddenly stiffened and shot to his feet, dragging Jon upright with him and simultaneously pushing him back. Jon was about to demand to know what the hell was going on when he, too, turned and caught sight of the figure standing just a few feet away, far too close for comfort—one of the two men who had menaced them outside the House of Wax.

Only one?

“Come to make a delivery, have you?” Martin’s voice was low and dangerous.

“Maybe,” the figure—Breekon or Hope, Jon wasn’t sure—said. “Yeah. That’s right. Just here to deliver a—package.”

“Why?” Martin’s voice crackled with compulsion.

Unlike when Jon had tried, the Stranger answered immediately. “Realized that I’m not tied to it anymore.” He—it—knocked twice on a wooden box next to him, and Jon felt what little courage he possessed desert him as he realized it was the coffin—the Buried. “Not on my own. Thought you could have it. Pay your respects, like.”

“Our respects?” Jon asked, bewildered, his voice shaking.

Martin didn’t answer, or move from in front of Jon. He only stared down the man in front of them. “Why are you here?”

“Dunno.” The man actually seemed bewildered, maybe a little lost. “’S not right on my own. Not right. No point in doing it on my own. Dunno what happens now.” He tilted his head to one side. “Thought I might kill you. Missed my chance. Thought I might just deliver something. So…here’s a coffin. In case you want to join your friend.”

Horror seized Jon. Oh, God, Tim. Tim was in there, that was why he was late…

He tried to step forward, only to be barred by Martin’s arm. A sudden surge of anger struck him—not at Martin, but at the thing in front of him—and he snarled, “Get out.”

The wrong kind of static crackled. The figure in front of them only grinned nastily, and there was a whooshing, rushing noise that filled the air as it said, “Make me.”

What do you think I was trying to do? Jon wanted to scream, but the anger was gone, replaced only by horror and terror in equal measures. This thing was after him, after Martin, it was so close, and there was nowhere to run, nowhere to hide…

But there was Martin, who continued to stand in front of him, and the whooshing noise died instantly as he said, simply, “Stop.”

Static rose, not soft and gentle but heavy and oppressive, like a sudden torrential downpour on a summer afternoon. The weight of it almost bore Jon physically to the floor, and he saw the thing in front of them reel back from it.

“What are you—stop it,” it protested. “Stop it!”

Martin didn’t so much as flinch. “No.”

Jon watched, fascinated, as the thing before them cringed, literally shrank before Martin’s gaze. “Enough! Stop looking at me!” it howled. Suddenly seeming unable to take any more, it turned and fled across the Archives. A door slammed shut in the distance.

The static died that fast, and Martin sagged slightly, panting for breath.

The world rushed back in. Jon became aware of the situation—the bloody towel, the used scalpel, the small invasion of their workspace, their sanctum. The coffin in the middle of the floor of the Archivist’s office.

The coffin.

Suddenly alive, Jon grabbed Martin’s arm and tugged him out of the office. Martin shook off whatever stupor he was in and followed, and the two of them practically dragged one another to the trapdoor by unspoken agreement, tumbling pell-mell down the steps. They wound up in the small room where they’d spoken after Jon’s return to the Institute after Leitner’s murder.

There was no light. They didn’t need it. They simply collapsed onto the floor, clinging to one another tightly.

Jon trembled head to toe. The adrenaline had worn off, and he was suddenly aware that the Buried, the Fear Martin was most afraid of, was in the middle of the Archives. Tim was trapped in it, and oh, God, what were they going to tell Gerry…and Sasha, she’d be so upset…but what if it took Martin too…

“Tim—” he choked out, unable to say anything more.

“Wh—oh, Christ, we’re going to have to get out there before he gets in,” Martin murmured. “He’s, I don’t think he’ll open the coffin, but—”

Jon looked up at Martin, or at least in the direction of the vague black shape that was Martin, wide-eyed. “He’s…not already…I-I thought that was what…”

“No, Jon, it’s Daisy,” Martin said gently. He kissed Jon’s forehead and tucked his chin over the top of his head. “They…fed her to it. Or—it did. After she killed the other one. She’s in there, and she’s alive.”

“You’re—you’re sure?”

“Yeah. Knew she was still alive before…but yeah.” Martin sighed heavily. “I got its statement. I think.”

“How are we going to get rid of it?” Jon began ticking over possibilities. “It—it can’t stay here, it’s dangerous.”

“I suppose we could put it up in Artifact Storage, but…that won’t help. I don’t know what we have to do with it. We’ll probably have to go over that with the others, and…it m-might need to wait until Melanie’s conscious, at least.”

“You can’t go near it. You—it’ll kill you, or at least it won’t let you go.”

Martin was silent for a moment. Finally, he said, “I am the Archivist, Jon. It’s my job to protect you all. And if that means keeping the Buried away from any of you, so be it.”

That wasn’t happening. It wasn’t. Jon was going to have to come up with a way to get Daisy out, and get rid of the coffin, without Martin going near it. But all he said was, “But Tim’s okay? You’re sure?”

“Yeah, he texted while I was getting the first aid kit, said he’d just woke up and he was on his way. Said there was something important he needed to talk to us about.” Martin sighed again. “Can’t say that fills me with confidence.”

Jon nodded slowly. He completely agreed. “So what are we doing in the meantime?”

There was a rustle as Martin got to his feet, guiding Jon up with him. “We’re going back up to the Archives. And…I think I need a pen.”

#ollie writes fanfic #to find promise of peace (and the solace of rest)#tma fanfic #the magnus archives #jonathan sims #martin blackwood #melanie king #sasha james #breekon and hope #manipulation #stress #fighting #anger #knife violence #blood #drugging #nonconsentual medical procedures #panic #mention of being buried alive

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dailycass-cain · 1 year

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Dark Knights of Steel #9 Thoughts

Dark Knights of Steel #9 rounds out our alternate Earth trio of Cassandra Cain this week. Like the other two, this Cass is quite different than the one we're used too. But... adds some intriguing layers.

If there was one predictable outcome so far in this series (other than "who" was behind pitting the kingdoms against one another) it was the MOMENT in #6 we sneakily saw Cass (again dang that was a good cameo).

We knew at that EXACT moment Bruce had someone inside the Amazons (which we knew in #1 two Robins were unaccounted for). Now, this Cass in particular raises a few intriguing new ideas.

The first being she's a Robin (an agent of Bruce in this universe), not a Batgirl. Cass hasn't been a Robin before. It's always been Batgirl or Orphan. One or the other. So this brings up an interesting dynamic.

The other (that we know of) this Cass is different in the usual origin as well. If we're to take the mystery hooded Robin from Dark Knights of Steel: Tales of the Three Kingdom #1 as Cass then...

This Cass wasn't built to be a weapon. She's quick yes, but not THE fighter like we always know. However, even if this is Cass then living on Amazonia she could be getting that edge from the Amazons.

We don't get that in #9 but we know she's sneaky enough to subdue (or sneak past) whatever guards are watching Superman at this point in the story.

If anything, this Cass is more a healer than a fighter as well. She mended Superman's wounds in #6 and here she's trying to mend the three kingdoms. She's lived in the house of El but also with the Amazons. She knows both nations are peaceful.

Unlike say Tim who was with King Pierce's and well... did a poor job being undercover. Though part of me always wonders if Tim and Constantine had a thing in this universe given their dialogue.

Back to Cass, this is quite possibly the most time she's had with Superman (it's always been Kon, teamed up with Linda, had an infamous moment with Kara, and dancing with Jon).

She's never really shared a scene with Clark and herself. So this is REALLY new ground for Cass.

I'm really curious of this Cass though and what becomes of her. We know this series is getting a "season 2" and honestly, I think it is deserved as there is MUCH potential here.

I'd love to know a one-shot short tale of Cass hiding and learning from the Amazons. Being with Diana, Artemis, Donna, and Cassie. GIMME IT PLEASE DC!! 🥺

Overall, this was an appearance that makes one hunger for more. At the very least, we know MORE is coming. I think this story has earned it (unlike say another alternate universe that would benefit HIGHLY from Cass's PoV or Mera's).

But this was a fun appearance (if predictable). What wasn't predictable was a twist that I didn't see coming. It now makes COMPLETE sense, but okay this series pulled the rug from me. I'm very curious about where this new development goes.

I'm just glad we're getting possibly more Cass. In all my years, I NEVER thought I'd see the day when we'd get SOOO many new versions of Cass distinct from the main universe.

#dc comics #cassandra cain #my thoughts

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tenthdynasty · 2 years

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One Easy Fix for MAG 200

Thanks very much to my fellow TMA Season 5 Critics, and the engaging posts that @elias-rights has been sharing -- I was rotating the canon finale in my mind and Had An Idea

Ok so by no means does this address all of the plot threads or character arcs but it does connect with many of them. And it is a suggestion which lets me make peace with much of season 5 and its ending.

TLDR: It's Martin's idea to stab Jon and let the entities escape into new worlds -- and this was the Web's plan all along.

Fair warning, j/onmartin fans are not going to enjoy this one.

So, the show proceeds apace, the eyepocalypse happens, Jon and Martin do their hiking trip to Mordor London, they are told the Web's plan, they debate the options, we get all the way up to MAG 200 and Jon stabs Elias and takes his place.

And then, Martin shows up. And he is very distressed, of course, and so is Jon, at what he has had to do. But it’s Martin (and ONLY Martin) who is convinced that stabbing Jon is the next course of action. It’s ONLY Martin who is confident (and perhaps it’s because of his own connection with the Web) that killing Jon will whisk them away to where they can 'be together.' And Martin forces the issue and does the deed. And it's not really because Martin is fully a Web avatar or is a bad person, but his relationship to Jon and the way he thinks about him are JUST SO that he could convince himself that he HAS to do this to Jon, FOR Jon.

And maybe Martin does convince Jon to go along with it, but we the listeners are damn clear that it was manipulation, Web tactics, all the way through. And that ultimately, if the decision was left entirely up to Jon, he would not have chosen to die and let the entities out. (But then again, isn't that already canon?)

The point is, ultimately the ending of the show is the exact same, but the INTENT is entirely different. There is nothing romantic about this. There is nothing hopeful about this -- unless you believe what Martin was saying, but then... perhaps you are also falling victim to the Web? The show concludes with reminding you that the entities (PARTICULARLY the Web) are too powerful and too unknowable to outmatch -- which has nigh-always been the theme.

Moreover:

it’s one last tragedy

it’s one more case of “even our care for each other is no match in the face of these horrors” a la Daisy and Basira, and Tim and Danny

in fact care can be preyed upon and twisted into something that serves horror!

it’s Jon getting fucked over One Last Time. He finally had his chance to get revenge on the entities for everything they did to him and to the world, and then he is literally STABBED ‘for his own good’!!

it’s the parallel of Jon stabbing Elias (who never thought he would) and Martin stabbing Jon (who never thought he would) with the same knife

it’s the culmination of the very-present tensions between Jon and Martin this entire season, the way they always seem on the verge of arguing. Because they are both upset and strained by the situation, and how well do they really know each other?

it’s the culmination of Martin’s increasingly obvious proclivity to manipulate, and in the name of how much he CARES about other people. It’s selfless, I swear!!

it’s the culmination of the implication that the tapes are only recording things the Web cares about. The tapes only turn on when the Web wants to record. And most of the tapes are about the entities but they also feature MANY significant Jon/Martin moments. And the implication is that those moments, that relationship, mattered to the Web and its plan. And Martin canonically reflects that he and Jon would never be together if it were not for the events of the previous seasons, all of these events that we heard on tape

it’s confirming, in the most damning way, that the Web was never leaving the final step of the plan up to chance. The plan was never at risk of being derailed by the decision of these few humans. Because no matter what, the Archivist was always going to try and get revenge on the entities because of his own guilt, and the Web not only relied on that but set him up with a web-aligned love interest who would capitalize on that guilt and accuse Jon of 'leaving him,' of 'doing this to him.' Who would again pull that rhetoric of “I’m the heart of the group and therefore my moral compass always points true, and we both know you are a cold bastard turned inhuman monster"

but the gruesome, satisfying irony is made plain by the show: Jonathan Sims, who was the cold bastard, is now the more sympathetic, is the one who STILL doesn't give in to the temptation of the Eye even after it reshaped a world for him, is the one who is willing to die for the rest of the universe. And Martin Blackwood, the soft boy cinnamon roll, is now the one who sics Jon on people he doesn't like, and advocates for the universe to be thrown to the pit. This is not said, straight-forward, in dialogue, but the narrative of this episode makes it clear: this is wrong. This is a tragedy. This is how it ends.

The protagonist of this show tried to keep you from ever having to learn about these horrors, and their victims, but he failed. The horrors turned the victims against each other and won, and that is how their stories got to you, that is why you know about it at all.

Johnny Sims can keep his Creepypasta "the horrors were real THE WHOLE TIME" twist ending AND make it as tragic as this show deserved. We can have our chocolate torte of tragedy and eat it, too.

#this concludes my tedtalk thank you #jonathan sims #martin blackwood #the magnus archives #tma #meta #words

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wordsintimeandspace · 2 years

Text

Love Somebody Like You (3/5)

Jon wanted to ask Martin out for months, but after too many dates that ended the exact moment he came out, he hasn’t managed to scrape together the courage just yet. Meanwhile, Martin desperately wants to ask Jon on a date as well, but he isn’t quite sure what to make of all the mixed signals Jon sends his way. And then there’s Jon’s flatmate Tim, who accidentally finds himself in the middle of all this after meeting Martin on a night out…

In the end, it might just take a supernatural encounter and a desperate rescue mission to sort out all this mess.

Jon/Martin with a good dash of Jon&Tim friendship, rated T, ~2600 words for this chapter. Read on AO3!

When Martin doesn’t run into Jon on the first day after the incident, he still thinks that it might be a coincidence. They often spend their lunch breaks together, but sometimes Jon gets busy with a case or so caught up in research that he forgets to take a break. It happens. Less so since Martin last berated him for not eating, but still.

When Martin spends a second miserable lunch break hearing about Gladys’ current health problems and Daniel’s divorce instead bantering with Jon, it’s a little suspicious. But when he makes it back to the library afterwards and Basira announces that Jon was there while Martin was on break, he’s pretty sure that Jon is avoiding him.

“Um. W-what, what did he want?” Martin asks faintly.

“He had a book due today.” Basira tilts her head, regarding him carefully. “He never returns books when you’re not on shift and he has to deal with Melanie instead.”

Martin buries his face in his hands and lets out a groan. “I told you I messed up.”

“Seriously? That’s a harsh response to someone asking you on a date.”

“It’s- it’s probably not that. Not only that, at least. There was… something else.” Basira looks distinctly uncomfortable, so Martin quickly tracks back. “It’s- it’s fine though! We don’t have to talk about it.”

Basira grimaces, like she’s about to make the ultimate sacrifice. “Do you… have anyone else to talk to though?”

“Y-yeah, sure,” Martin lies. “Really, you’re not the only person I talk to. Apart from Jon and Melanie, I mean.”

Basira doesn’t look convinced, but she also doesn’t push the issue. Martin quickly grabs the cart with returned books, and goes to hide between the shelves so he can languish in peace.

Maybe he should be annoyed at Jon, or hurt that he’s getting the cold shoulder. And he is, a little bit, but most of all he just misses Jon. He can’t remember the last time they didn’t speak for a few days. Now he hasn’t heard from him since Jon sent him the email with all the details for the Kent trip, that night when Martin met Tim in the bar.

Martin lets out a sigh. Yeah, that trip surely isn’t happening now.

He suddenly stills as that train of thought leads to another idea. He’s absolutely not talking to Melanie about this, but he nearly forgot that there is one other person to turn to. Martin pulls his phone out of his pocket and shoots Tim a text.

Martin: I think Jon is avoiding me

He only gets ten minutes into reshelving books before his phone buzzes with an answer.

Tim: A good day to you as well! And yeah, same :(

Martin: Shit I’m sorry

Tim: Not your fault! Besides, I don’t think we did anything wrong

Martin grimaces. Technically he knows that, but still. He can’t help but feel guilty. Like he did something awful, something forbidden. Like Jon is very much right to avoid him after what he did. The realisation that it’s also affecting Jon’s and Tim’s relationship does nothing to lift the weight off his shoulders.

Martin: I just wish we had a chance to explain? I mean, nothing happened in the end

Tim: Martin buddy I’m wounded that my cuddles mean nothing to you

Martin: That’s not what I meant! That was great actually

Tim: :) Let’s just give him some time to process But I’ll try to talk to him when I get the chance

Martin: Thanks I don’t feel like I should bring it up at work when he can’t get away

Tim: Yeah probably not I’ll keep you updated x

Martin: Thank you

Martin lets out a long breath and slips the phone back into his pocket. Reluctantly, he goes back to reshelving books. For the moment, all he can do is wait.

~~~

In the two days since the incident, Jon successfully avoided any conversations about it. Today, he left for work before Tim got up, ate a sandwich at his desk to avoid running into Martin in the break room, and now sneaks back to his flat by the time that Tim should be at the weekly pub quiz down the road. Yesterday, when he suspected Tim was home for the evening, he spent the night sitting on Georgie’s couch, burying his face in the Admiral’s fluff and avoiding Georgie’s pointed questions.

The flat is silent when he quietly pushes open the door, and Jon lets out a breath of relief. He knows he can’t keep this up for long, but he’s glad for every hour he can stave off the inevitable confrontation. He drops his bag in the hallway before making his way to the kitchen, and nearly jumps out of his skin when he sees Tim sitting at the kitchen table.

“Good Lord,” he curses, pressing a hand to his chest.

Tim smiles at him, a bit sheepish. “Sorry. I didn’t want to turn on the lights. Thought you might run if you saw that.”

Jon grimaces. “Well, I’m not,” he grumbles, even though he wants to do exactly that.

Tim leans back in his chair and crosses his arms over his chest. “So, are we going to talk about this?”

Jon forces his hands to be still as he takes a mug out of the cupboard and switches on the kettle. He doesn’t manage to meet Tim’s eyes. “I don’t think there’s anything to talk about.”

“Wha- Seriously? You've been avoiding me. Martin as well. I get that you’re pissed-”

“I’m not,” Jon interrupts, and turns to see Tim glaring at him. “I’m not angry at you.”

Tim raises an eyebrow. “Oh, really?”

“I’m not.” Jon turns back to the kettle, taking a deep breath. His hands shake as he pours the water into a mug. “You- you know I don’t judge you for having casual sex although I don’t quite grasp the concept.”

“But-”

“No,” Jon interrupts, with more force than intended. “No buts. You’re allowed to take home whoever you want. Martin is allowed to go home with whoever he wants. I don’t… I don’t have any sort of claim on either of you. It isn’t my place to be angry about that.”

Tim’s face softens. “That’s not how feelings work,” he says gently. “I’d understand if you’re angry even though you don’t feel like you’re allowed to. But for what it’s worth, I really did not realise he was your Martin.”

Tears burn in Jon’s eyes. He looks down at his mug, blinking hard. God, this would be so much easier if he was just angry about it. “Well, I’m not angry.”

There’s the sound of the chair scraping over the floor behind him, and a moment later Tim steps at his side. He’s close, close enough that Jon could touch him if he wanted to, but doesn’t cross the distance without permission. “Will you tell me what’s going on, then?” Tim asks softly.

Jon lets out a shuddering breath, squeezing his eyes shut. For a moment it feels like he can’t breathe, like the feelings take up so much room in his chest that there is simply no space for the air in his lungs. “I’ve just-” he finally begins, voice cracking. “I’ve been getting my hopes up, and I shouldn’t have.”

“Why?” Jon can practically hear Tim’s confused frown, but can’t bring himself to look at him. “Martin and I, we’re not together, and that’s not going to change. We’ve both made it clear from the beginning that this wouldn’t be anything serious.”

Jon shakes his head. “It’s not that.”

“What is it, then?”

“I’ve just…” Jon bites his lip, hesitating for a moment. “I’ve been hoping that maybe, he would feel the same way about sex than I do. Or that it’s at least not… I don’t know, not a priority to him.”

There’s a moment of stunned silence. “Seriously? You’re just jumping to conclusions here. You realise you’ll need to talk to Martin to know how he feels about that, yeah?”

Jon huffs. “Well. I know enough to make an educated guess.”

“If one of your coworkers would use this kind of deduction in a report you’d tear it to shreds.”

“That’s different.”

“How?”

Jon turns to Tim with a scowl. “Come on, Tim. If he’s the kind of person to enjoy casual sex with strangers he just met in a bar, I hardly need to know anything else.”

Tim’s face darkens. He crosses his arms over his chest. “If you don’t judge me for that, why do you do that to Martin?”

“I’m not judging,” Jon argues. “I don’t think he’s a bad person for that.”

“Oh, but that still makes him not good enough for you?”

“No!” Jon bursts out, tears prickling in his eyes. He doesn’t realise how much he’s raising his voice until he sees the stunned expression on Tim’s face. “Don’t you see? It just makes us… incompatible. If that is something he enjoys, how… how can I ever give him what he wants? He will just leave, or- or worse, and I, I can’t do this.” Jon gulps around the lump in his throat, blinking against the moisture in his eyes.

Tim’s face quickly morphs from anger to concern. He uncrosses his arms, reaching out to Jon, but Jon takes a step back to put some distance between them. “Jon…” Tim starts hesitantly, and the care in his voice is finally enough to make the first tears fall.

“How can I-” Jon starts again, voice cracking. He wipes his eyes before trying again. “How could I be enough for him?”

Tim looks at him with worry and sorrow in his shining eyes, and Jon just can’t. He lets out a shuddering breath, and without waiting for an answer, turns to leave Tim in the kitchen and hide in the solitude of his room.

~~~

Tim gives Jon some time before he makes fresh tea and takes the mug to his bedroom. He knocks and waits for a grumbled response before entering.

Inside the curtains are drawn, painting the room in dim light. There’s a Jon-shaped lump curled up on the mattress, hidden beneath the duvet with only the top of his head poking out. Tim sets the mug onto the bedside table and sits on the edge of the bed.

“Do you want me to leave you alone?” Tim asks gently. After a moment of hesitation Jon shakes his head, and Tim lets out a breath of relief. “Do you want a cuddle?”

This time, Jon is quick to nod. He turns and lifts the duvet, and Tim finally catches a glimpse at his tear-streaked cheeks. He’s clutching the plush shark Tim got him last Christmas to his chest as if his life depends on it.

“Oh, Jon. I’m sorry.”

Tim immediately slips beneath the covers and wraps Jon into his arms. A sob rips through Jon’s body as he curls closer, hiding his face in the crook of Tim’s neck. For a moment, Tim simply holds him close while he cries. Eventually Jon goes quiet, but from the tension in his muscles and the rapid beat of his heart Tim suspects he didn’t manage to fall asleep.

“Better?” he asks quietly. Jon nods after a moment of hesitation. “Are you okay to talk about this now?”

Jon shrugs, and that’s good enough for Tim to start talking. “Look, I understand why you’re feeling like this. And I’m sorry that you had to go through experiences with your previous partners that made you feel like this. But I still think you’re getting this all wrong in Martin’s case.”

Jon sniffs. “He shouldn’t have to settle for something less than what he wants,” he finally says quietly.

“You don’t know what he wants, Jon. Are you not giving him any say in this?”

“I don’t- I don’t see what’s the point if I already know the answer.”

“The point is that it’s really not that simple. People’s feelings about sex aren’t black and white like this. You can enjoy sex and still be perfectly happy without it.”

“I- I know, but-”

“Seriously. I met him and I think he’s a great guy and you’re not giving him enough credit by assuming he would have a problem with you being ace just because he went home with me. That’s just unfair towards him, and you’re hurting him by pushing him away.”

Jon abruptly pulls back, enough to look at Tim with wide eyes.

Tim gently smiles down at him.“Haven’t thought about it that way, have you?”

“No. I’m… shit.” Jon grimaces, wiping his eyes. “Is he okay?”

“I mean, he’s not great as far as I can tell. But it’s nothing that can’t be fixed by finally talking to him. Even if it isn’t about your feelings for him. You’re still his friend, Jon.”

“I… I know.” Jon lets out a shuddering breath. “I was just- I was just trying to wrap my head around the fact that you and him-”

“We didn’t even have sex,” Tim blurts out.

Jon’s eyes go wide before narrowing into a frown. “What? Why not?”

“I can’t tell you.”

“Tim…”

“Nope, I’m not giving you any more details. I’m not violating Martin’s privacy just because you refuse to talk to him. That’s something he needs to tell you himself, if he wants to.”

Jon hesitates for a long moment before finally letting out a huff. “And here I thought you wanted to help,” he says dryly, settling back into Tim’s embrace. Tim laughs as he holds him close.

“Yeah. What an awful flatmate I am. Providing you with nothing but cuddles and advice in your time of need.”

Jon’s lips curl into a small smile. “Thank you,” he finally says as he closes his eyes and rests his head on Tim’s chest. “I really do appreciate it.”

Tim’s smile softens. He runs a hand up and down Jon’s back, relieved that he finally relaxes in his embrace. “Course. And it will be alright, I promise. Just talk to him.”

Jon is quiet for so long that Tim nearly thinks he’s fallen asleep, until Jon raises his head again and squints at him. “You really didn't know it was him?”

“No!” Tim exclaims. “Seriously, you always refuse to give me the juicy details. I had that thought for a second, but then he said he’s a librarian and I always assumed your Martin was also a researcher and… well.”

Jon groans as he lets his head fall back onto Tim’s chest. “Oh, God. I can’t believe you.”

“And you never took a picture for me, no matter how many times I asked. That's what you get for denying my curiosity.”

“Out of the nine million people in this city, I didn't expect you to pick up the one person I like.”

There’s no heat in Jon’s gaze, so Tim doesn’t bother to hide his grin. “He's cute. I couldn't help it.”

Jon’s lip twitches, a hint of a smile. “I know he is.”

“Also, I bet you haven't told him about me, so how should he have known?”

“I do talk about you!” Jon protests before faltering. “Although I may have failed to mention that you’re my flatmate.”

Tim playfully rolls his eyes and pokes Jon into the ribs. “See, that's what I mean when I say you should share what’s going on in your life more often.”

“Shut up, Tim,” Jon grumbles, even as he curls closer to tuck his head under Tim’s chin, and Tim knows he’s been forgiven.

#the magnus archives #tma #tma fic #tma fanfiction #jonmartin #my fic: love somebody like you #my fic #as usual: for tags and content warnings please check ao3

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bisexualbumblebee-writes · 2 years

Text

Without a Word- Tim Stoker x OC

Tim Stoker x Clara Florence

Description: Tim left after the archival staff discovered the truth about Sasha without a word to Clara or anyone, and now he’s back and ready to beg for forgiveness.

Word Count: 1.9k

Two months. That’s how long Tim had been away. Clara had come home to an empty house, with Tim’s luggage missing and no note two months ago. He didn’t answer her calls or texts, leaving her confused. It eventually took Elias telling her that, in an attempt to escape the institute, Tim took a spontaneous absence to go to Malaysia.

Many emotions ran through Clara at that moment. Worry, emptiness, frustration, mostly negative feelings. And it wasn’t like those feelings weren’t justified. A million thoughts ran through her head as she walked out of Elias’ office. Was he safe and/or okay? Had she done something to make him just up and leave without warning? Why didn't he trust her enough to talk to her?

The more she thought about it, the more she hurt. But, Elias made it very clear that she couldn’t let it affect her work unless she’d like to be disciplined for it. After all, he still had an institute to run and he couldn’t allow anyone to slow it down. So, she was forced to set those thoughts to the side and continue on with her work.

It seemed to be a normal day (at least as normal as it could be given the situation she was forced into). She had spent quite a bit of time over the last few days assisting Jon in cleaning up his office after the whole Jurgen Leitner incident and such, which meant she’d been in his office for most of the day. Jon had left nearly fifteen minutes ago saying something about getting lunch with Mavis, leaving her alone.

After a small while Clara decided that she had done enough to earn a break and prepared to leave to grab lunch. As she walked towards the front of the building, her brows furrowed as she heard multiple voices yelling in Jon’s office. Naturally her interest was piqued and so she walked over to the door.

“Guys?” She called confusedly. Most of the yelling died down almost immediately but Clara could recognize Arwen’s voice as the last one yelling. Just as she reached the open doorway, Jon stepped in front of her, his hands resting on either side of the doorway. She would have run into him if she hadn’t already been slowing down.

“Jon, what’re you doing? What’s going on?” As she questioned him, she attempted to look around him and get a peek of the situation. The man refused to let her look though, maneuvering his body to block her view.

“Nothing,” he responded way too quickly. If Clara didn’t think he was hiding something, she definitely did now. Now she was becoming annoyed.

“Stop being ridiculous Jon,” she said before finally ducking under his arm and getting into the room.

“Wait- Clara no!” He attempted to grab her but she successfully dodged it and looked around the room. Basira, Daisy, Arwen and Martin stood in the room surrounding another person. Another person she hadn’t seen in almost two months. Tim offered her an awkward grin as he waved a hand.

“Hi Clara.”

For a moment all Clara could do was stare at him. Despite the blank look on her face, a rush of emotions came back and hit her like a bus on the inside. They were similar to the ones she felt when she learned that Tim had left: desolation, sadness and frustration. All of that washed away however a moment later as she finally processed what was happening. She was now past the point of sadness, and all that was left was anger.

Clara hadn’t even realized that she had lunged for Tim until Basira grabbed her, using all her strength to hold her back. The girl thrashed against her colleague’s grip angrily, yelling at her to let her go. Everyone was shocked by her rather violent outburst and Tim was even forced to take a step back when she got a little too close to him. She had always been the peaceful one of the group along with Martin, so this was severely out of the ordinary for her.

Eventually Daisy stepped forward and helped Basira get Clara out of Jon’s office, Martin following. Once they were a safe distance away Jon closed the door just to be safe while Arwen sighed.

“Well, that wasn’t the welcome I was expecting,” Tim attempted to joke. Neither Jon nor Arwen found it funny and instead glared at him.

“Seriously?” The latter questioned resentfully. “You really leave England without a word to your girlfriend or anyone and now you have the audacity to act surprised when she gets mad? Do you know what she’s been through since you left?” Tim opened his mouth to respond, but Arwen didn’t even give him the chance before she continued.

“Did you even think about the potential consequences of your actions before you decided to just flee the country? I mean, you didn’t even consider Clara’s feelings with you leaving out of nowhere! I just-” At that point Arwen had gotten angry enough that for a moment Jon and Tim thought that she would do what Clara attempted to do before being dragged out. She quickly calmed herself down enough to storm out. Both men flinched when the door slammed quite loudly behind her. Jon sighed, pushing his glasses up when they slipped down his nose, then looked at Tim.

“She’s right, you know,” he muttered, crossing his arms.

“Well I’m sorry if I was overwhelmed after finding out one of my best friends was dead and I was stuck in this hellscape,” Tim retorted sarcastically. “What would you have suggested I do then?”

“Telling Clara,” the man answered immediately. “I don’t care that you left, I care that you left without warning your girlfriend and she suffered for it. Every single day she constantly wondered what she had done for you to just leave her out of nowhere.”

“I didn’t leave her,” Tim said desperately.

“And how was she supposed to know that? How were any of us supposed to know? You. Didn’t. Tell. Us. Clara wondered why you didn’t trust her enough to talk to her about what you were thinking or feeling. Every. Single. Day. Tim, it’s not often that you genuinely make me mad, but you have crossed the line here. You need to do something about it because I will not have Clara being upset again.” Jon sat down after his little speech, gesturing for him to get out. Tim sighed, but did as he said. Rather than go find Clara, he instead went home and gave her time to calm down.

Meanwhile, Clara was fuming in her office. She had gotten so angry that she had begun crying, which only irritated her more. It took quite a while for Martin, Arwen, Mavis and Basira to calm her down (Daisy was asked to leave because she was encouraging Clara to beat up Tim), but after they did they decided to call it a day. It had been an upsetting day for everyone and it was nearly time for them to clock out, so that’s what they did. Martin and Arwen had been kind enough to give the girl a ride home because she just didn’t have the strength.

“Call us if you need anything,” Arwen requested as Clara got out of the car. After promising to do so, she bid them farewell and walked up the steps of her house. Upon walking inside she was greeted with Tim on the couch. A small sigh left her lips and she held a hand up as he opened his mouth to speak.

“Please, Tim, I can’t do this right now,” she said tiredly.

“I know, you’re mad at me,” he said as he stood up. “But I want to make things right.”

“Oh, I think you’re a little late for that,” she laughed humorlessly, setting her bag down and slipping off her jacket. “By like two months.” The man sighed at that.

“Yeah, I’m an ass for that, but I want to apologize,” he responded, continuing when he realized she was about to say no to it. “Just let me say this and if you still want nothing to do with me, I’ll leave. I’ll move out and never try to talk to you again if that’s what you want.” Clara sighed, considering his offer. When she ultimately nodded he grinned and internally sighed in relief.

“Okay, why don’t you sit down.” He led her to the couch and helped her sit. Once she was comfortable he took a deep breath.

“You know talking’s never been my strong suit. Hell, you didn’t even know about Danny until after our third anniversary. We both know that I just use humor to hide what I’m thinking because I have a problem processing things, and you’ve been helping me work on that,” he started, earning a nod from the girl. It was true after all.

“Sometimes I just revert back to how I was before I met you, especially when new information is dramatic enough. When I realized that one of my best friends was dead and we were all trapped at the institute with no escape I did what I do best: I ran. I packed a bag without thinking and hopped on the first flight away from England. When I got there I tried looking for something I couldn’t get in Malaysia; I was looking for comfort. I wouldn’t get that there though. What I really wanted was to be with you again while we dealt with this.

I didn’t think about how that might have affected you until after I got to Malaysia. But then I was afraid of you being mad at me, and I didn’t think that I could handle it after everything,” he paused then kneeled in front of her, carefully holding her hand before continuing. “Clara, what I did was stupid and insensitive, and words can’t even explain just how sorry I am. I already know that I’m way past the point of forgiveness, but I just want to let you know that I am sorry.”

It was silent for a few minutes after he finished speaking. Clara had yet to look at him again. Instead her gaze stayed focused on their enclosed hands. She ducked her head a bit so he wouldn’t see the tears threatening to well up in her eyes. It took her another minute to gather herself enough to speak.

“I don’t think that I can forgive you yet,” she started, which made Tim nod. “But, I understand why you did it, and I can start the forgiving process as long as you don’t go running off to the other side of the world without telling me.” She shot him a pointed look that made him laugh as he nodded again.

“I think I can manage that,” he muttered softly with a fond smile, making her giggle. “I missed you, you know.”

“I missed you too,” she responded in the same tone, surprising the man by wrapping her arms around him in a tight hug. He was quick to return it and allowed her to nestle into the crook of his neck. His smile widened as he stroked her hair comfortingly. What he had done was far from okay, and maybe Clara was stupid for attempting to forgive him, but they just couldn’t stay away from each other. Especially now, when they need each other the most. And that’s what brought them back together.

#the magnus archives #the magnus archives imagine #tim stoker #tim stoker imagine #tim stoker x oc

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castyells-yeehaw · 2 years

Note

52 damijon :D the angst potential is killing me

52. “All I want is you and if I can’t have that-“

“What do you think you’re doing, Jonathan?” Damian asked as Jon picked all his belongings and messily put them in his bag, both breathless and anxious

“I’m sorry, Damian, I’ll go”

“You don’t have to” Damian insisted, taking the bag from Jon’s hands so that he’d stop, and it worked but not as he had predicted.

He’d thought Jon would helplessly look him in the eyes and let him talk. Of course, that didn’t happen ( why wasn’t he in a universe in which Jon Freaking Kent fucking listened? )

Instead, Jon muttered a broken apology and flew away.

Damian decided to give him space. He needed some himself. He wasn’t even sure of what he was going to say…

That evening he swallowed all his pride and knocked on Jason’s door.

“Come in!” Was heard from inside, and Damian took a breathe before walking in, “oh, it’s you” he rolled his eyes

“Obviously, Todd”

“What do you want?”

Damian stayed at the door

“I need to make my peace with someone”

“And you think I can help because…?”

“Because if I asked Dick he would tell me to apologise and some cheesy shit, and I’m not interested in it”

“Bruce? Tim? Alfred?”

“Are you going to make me beg for it?” He frowned.

Jason seemed to think about it for a few seconds, that idiot, until he replied

“No, I guess not. So, what have you done?”

“Nothing!” He said before Jason’s unimpressed gaze

“Listen, you’re either too stupid to see you’ve fucked up or too proud to admit it. Either way, you won’t get that person back without acknowledging it”

“Jon was supposed to stay here yesterday”

“I’m aware” he invited him to continue, and closed his laptop as he saw it was going to last longer than he expected

“And we were doing our homework so we could have all day today to play video games and go to the zoo” he told the story, “but I took his phone to check an operation with the calculator because I didn’t have mine. And I put in his password-“

“You know his password?”

“Yeah. Why?”

“Nothing. Continue”

“Well, the notes app appeared first thing on the screen and there was a draft of a letter there, that he wrote himself. And it was for me”

“Is this your ego talking, or facts?”

“Dear Damian, I’ve been meaning to talk to you about this for some time- need I continue?” He asked, deadpanned

“It’s weird that you remember it word by word, but no. What did it say? And I don’t have all day, so summarize”

“Basically that he loved me. As in… love, love” Damian dropped his gaze. It was the first time Jason had ever seen him talk about it without his head held up high, in pride and self-respect.

“Well, what did you do?”

“Nothing, he didn’t give me any time!” He complained, “he just ran to my room, tried to take his things and then flew away!”

“Tried?” Jason inquired, fearing Damian had tried to force Jon to stay.

“Yeah? I took the bag because he wasn’t listening to me and-“

“Okay, first of all, you can’t keep someone from leaving if they want, Damian. Think about how Jon felt in that moment… you discovered his darkest secret, one that could basically blow up your whole relationship, and when he tried to back off and clear his head you ran after him and tried to get him to stay… by force?” He raised his eyebrows, as blush crept to Damian’s cheeks.

“You make it sound way worse than it was, Todd”

“No, I think you’re sugarcoating it because you only see what you want to see, and that’s yourself. You can’t be in a relationship if you don’t think of the other”

“Who says I want to?” He fought back

“Do you not?”

“I mean, I do like Jon, but love?” He asked, fearful, dropping at the feet of Jason’s bed, and in that moment everything clicked in for Jason.

Damian had the wrong concept of love. First Talía taught him it was a weakness, then Bruce said it wasn’t but showed otherwise, Dick loved with his heart up his sleeve but in a particular way, and Tim and Jason had a lousy way of showing it.

No wonder the kid was emotionally constipated!

Jason sat with his legs crossed in front of him and said

“Okay, I want you to listen very carefully okay, because I’ll only say this once” Damian nodded carefully, and then he kept going on, “You’re 15 years old, kiddo, and you have a dysfunctional family. Those two things don’t mix up well in terms of love. Now that we settled that… there are people that love you, right? Bruce, Dick, Tim, Jon, Alfred… me” he added, swallowing his own pride so that Damian saw it was alright to open up sometimes. “When you love someone, you like spending time with them, you laugh at their jokes even if they suck, you want what’s best for them, even if it hurts you in the process… you know life hurts more than anyone, so if you have a chance at happiness it would be stupid to let it go, wouldn’t it?”

Damian raised his doubtful eyes

“I don’t want to hurt him”

“You should be talking about this with him. The most important part of a relationship is communication”

“And how do I know he’s the one? What if I fuck up?”

“He’s the only person that has gotten you whining and asking me for advice. I think that means something”

“I’m not whining” he muttered under his breath, “but alright. I’ll go talk to him” he stood up

“And Damian. Boundaries. Don’t rush him nor force him into anything he’s not prepared for”

Damian nodded, and instead of thanking him he offered him a small, grateful smile.

Jason replied with one filled with confidence and encouragement.

“What do you want?” Jon asked, as he heard Robin’s footsteps entering his room. He’d recognise them everywhere. They were the lightest footsteps he’d ever heard, and were walked by a person that carried the weight of the world.

Ironic.

“I want whatever you want to give me. What do you want?”

Jon sighed, and decided to be honest. It was one of his best traits, after all. He was truthful, and he thought Damian deserved an explanation for what he had read.

“I want you, and if I can’t have that-“

“You are an idiot, Kent” Damian bowed his head, “you didn’t even let me explain, and I shouldn’t have kept you from getting the peace you needed so… I’m sorry for that. I’m not sorry for having read the letter, though”

Jon’s eyebrows furrowed in confusion

“I’m sorry?” He thought he’d heard wrong

“Jon, I do love you. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you straight away”

“You’ve apologised two times in a single conversation, are you alright? Is this a joke?” His face turned into a suspicious grimace

“No? Do you think I’d ever try to play you with something like this?!“ he argued, indignant, “besides I just said I loved you and you totally ignored it!”

“No, you’re right. I’m sorry” Jon apologised too, and then opened his eyes widely, “wait, did you say you love me?”

“God, had I known you were so off I’d come back later”

“Damian, just answer!” He lost his patience

“Yes! I said it, alright?!” They both fell silent, looking into each other’s eyes, and then uncertainty crept its way up Damian’s mind. “Do you?” He asked, his voice a barely audible whisper, but loud enough that Jon heard it.

Jon, as he had mentioned in his letter, loved hearing what Damian wasn’t strong enough to say out loud, being Damian fully aware of it and still muttering it… it was just a whole new level of trust.

“Yes, I do” Jon smiled, brighter than he ever did, and then got closer to him. “Why did it take you so long?”

“Yeah, you see, my inability to fly held me back a bit” Damian rolled his eyes sarcastically.

“You ran to Dick, didn’t you?” Jon asked with a knowing, playful smile and passed his arms around Damian’s shoulders so their faces were close enough to feel each other’s warmth. ( God he was glad he hadn’t eaten anything since he last brushed his teeth, for having bad breath would be absolutely embarrassing. )

“Nope” Damian replied proudly, putting his hands in Jon’s hips. “I went to Jason”

“Jason?”

“Yes. Now, are we going to keep talking about my idiot brother or are you gonna-“

Jon kissed him. At first none of them knew what to do, and then it turned messier than both of them expected, but it was a kiss that erased all words from Damian’s mind, replacing them with fireworks.

“You talk too much” Jon said when they separated.

@wannajointhecrabcult Hope you liked it💛💛

Pick a prompt and a ship and I’ll write a shot!

#damijon #jondami #dc #prompts #fic #Logan writes

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ghostbustermelanieking · 3 years

Note

AU of the Archives finding out Jon is being held by the Circus (while he’s still being held captive there?)

anon, thank you for giving me an excuse to write something like this; i am always looking for 101 h/c lol. warning for discussions/depictions of the kidnapping scenario in 101.

1. They only really find out by accident. More specifically, they find out because Melanie is snooping around the Institute (already searching for solutions to her being trapped there), and finds the tape, somehow, the one where Nikola talks to Elias. She only needs to listen through once before they put the pieces together: Georgie told her Jon left. They haven't seen Jon since—and sure, he wasn't in much before, but—this long? And that is Jon's voice on the tape: muffled and panicked and indecipherable, but still pretty obviously him.

Melanie shows it to the others, and the tape isn't even finished before Martin is demanding they have to find him, they have to find him now, panic flashing visibly in his eyes—he's been gone for WEEKS, and why didn't I notice, why didn't any of YOU notice, and don't fucking try to argue with me, Tim, Jon has been KIDNAPPED and they're going to KILL HIM— And Tim looks hurt, at this insinuation, is snapping back before Martin can even finish, I wasn't going to ARGUE, Martin, Christ, and he hasn't told them about his brother yet, but he immediately went pale when he heard Nikola's voice, heard her going on about skinning Jon, and they all saw it, and Melanie and Basira are putting it together before Martin is: Tim's in, too.

Basira's the one who says We need to find him in the end, but Martin and Tim have already decided by then.

2. In the end, Elias is the one who tells them where Jon is. (After some persuasion.) He hadn't intended to originally, but obviously they already know, and obviously no one is going to be focused on finding the ritual site, and sloppy work won't benefit anyone, much less the whole world. (And if the rescue goes messy, and it ends up benefitting the whole of his plan, well—)

They take a car and ride up there, the four of them. (There's some brief argument as to whether or not they all should go, but Martin's obviously going, and Tim doesn't back down, and Basira insists she can get them in and out, and Melanie isn't saying no…) It's a long, tense car ride, hours of mostly silence broken up by panic on Martin's behalf. (He's still berating himself, even if he won't berate the others—how could they not have known, how could he not have noticed, how has Jon been held prisoner somewhere for weeks and Elias didn't goddamn tell them, and it's been so long, and what if it's too late, what if they're too late, what if he's already dead—) And then, eventually, Tim breaks the silence. By telling them what happened to his brother. (It's NOT a statement, he says, but it feels like one anyway, and no one speaks until he's done. He sounds choked up by the end, furious and fearful and grieving all at once—I didn't think they would come for—I-I didn't think Jon would…)

The images from Tim's story loom over well enough, along with the half-remembered sounds of the tape sent to Elias. We're going to use every piece of you. I thought you'd make a lovely frock. The imagery is grotesque and Martin is sick with it, leaning against the car window, hoping with a fierce desperation that they aren't too late.

3. They aren't too late. And they get in without being detected, somehow. (Afterwards, Basira will keep saying that it was too easy, the whole thing felt too easy, and Tim will say tiredly, "Who the fuck cares? We got out.")

Jon's woken up by someone whispering his name—quiet, with a gentle subtlety that the Stranger more than lacks. It's Martin—this becomes clear as soon as he opens his eyes, although it takes a moment for everything to slot into place, the reality of Martin leaning over him, eyes wide with concern. "Oh, Christ, you're all right," Martin says, his voice shaking. "Thank God. I-I thought…" He stops then, and goes to work on getting Jon free.

"Martin?" Jon hisses as soon as the gag is gone, and then—Tim, working at the ropes on his legs, Melanie and Basira towards the door. "What—wh-what are you doing here?"

"What are you talking about?" Melanie says, her voice as muted as the others. "We found you, that's what we're doing here."

"Y-you can't be here," says Jon, still stuck in the panic of the past few weeks. "They'll kill you, you can't be here…"

"We're already here," says Tim. "We're not leaving you behind."

Jon's eyes jerk between the four of them frantically before landing back on Martin—Martin, who looks like he's nearly on the verge of tears, who says, "We're getting you out of here, Jon," and helps him to his feet. Jon grips at his hand as he's pulled to his feet, the relief washing through him in waves—he hadn't realized until then how much he'd expected never to be rescued or found—how much he'd thought he would die here.

4. They get hotel rooms rather than driving back—it's a long drive, and Jon looks nearly dead on his feet, and it makes sense. Jon sleeps for nearly sixteen hours straight after a long-running shower, and the others mostly alternate between sleeping and watching for agents of the Circus. (No one ever comes.)

Melanie calls Georgie to let her know. Tim leaves Elias a nasty voicemail. Martin goes to get breakfast from a store nearby, and take-out tea, and when Jon wakes up, they eat clustered in the hotel room to mostly silence.

Jon says, at one point, I didn't think anyone would come. He says it mostly to the floor, when the others are out of the room, and it's just him and Martin drinking tea that isn't nearly as good as the homemade stuff. He clears his throat and adds, Thank you for… for coming, Martin, I…

Martin tenses beside him immediately in immediate horror, says, Of course we came; of course we came, Jon, I don't know why—I-I am so sorry, I'm SO sorry we didn't come sooner, we didn't know… We didn't know, I'm so sorry.

It doesn't matter, says Jon. It doesn't matter, just… thank you. Thank you for coming, I… i-if anything had happened to you, I wouldn't have…

They're leaning together, almost unconsciously, their arms pressed together, and Martin says, I'll always come. If… I-I hope this never happens again, Jon, b-but I… I'll always come.

Sitting in the dim-lit hotel room, Jon believes him. He knows immediately that he's telling the truth, and he says, I will, too, and he means it just as much.

5. The whole experience is a catalyst to everyone talking more, because how could it not be? There's a difference between someone saying they were kidnapped and actually hearing about it—actually seeing it. The drive back leaves plenty of time to make peace, or something like it.

Jon starts spending more time in the Archives, in the weeks before he has to leave again. He and Martin have lunch almost every day; sometimes the others join them. Melanie calls and tells Georgie what's happened, and Georgie immediately reaches out to make sure Jon is okay. And Jon and Tim make their peace, more or less, gradually—not all at once, but gradually. (Tim hugs Jon when they get back and says he's glad he's okay. Jon offers an apology a few days later, for everything they haven't had the chance to talk about, and the recorders come on, and neither of them mention it. And nearly a week later, Tim tells Jon about what happened to his brother.) And it's something, some step in the right direction, towards healing.

#\ (ツ) /#tma au #tma fic #sort of #i wrote this

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cuttoothed · 3 years

Text

For the second day of @jonmartinweek, mostly for the prompt "injury", though also a little bit "love confession" (by omission).

Set directly after episode 92. Content warnings for mild descriptions of Jon’s canonical injuries (blood, burns).

Things are...tense, when they go back down to the Archives. Actually, “tense” is probably an understatement, after finding out that Elias murdered not only Gertrude Robinson, but also the unknown man in Document Storage—who as it turned out was none other than Juergen bloody Leitner.

A lot to take on board, all in all.

Basira seems to have accepted her new employment status with eerie calm, and starts setting up at Sasha’s old desk (oh god, Sasha’s dead, has been for months), fetching notebooks and folders from the stationery cupboard and arranging pens and highlighters in a desk tidy. Daisy is nowhere to be seen—thankfully, Martin thinks, because she was even scarier than usual in Elias’ office. Melanie storms off into the stacks and there are sounds of shouting and things hitting the floor, which Martin is in no hurry to investigate. Tim sits at his desk with his feet propped up for about five minutes, then stands up and says: “Fuck this, I’m off to the pub.” He doesn’t invite anyone else to go with him, and Martin thinks their presence probably wouldn’t be welcome.

Jon arrives in about half an hour later, smelling of fresh cigarette smoke. Normally Martin would disapprove, but the way things are right now he’s tempted to take up a few bad habits himself. Jon looks...exhausted, defeated, his shoulders slumped wearily. His clothes are smudged with dirt, and there’s drying blood crusted around the injury on his neck; the bandages on his hand are starting to slip, revealing the angry, raw burns beneath.

Martin’s not sure he’s ever been so happy to see someone in his life.

Jon gives him a small, tired smile as he passes, then heads into his office and shuts the door. Martin knows that no sane person would try to go straight back to work looking like they’d just been through a war zone and still with an open wound; he is also aware that Jonathan Sims is the sort of person to do precisely that. He hesitates for a few moments, then makes a decision.

He fetches the first aid kit from the break room, and goes and knocks on Jon’s door. It’s a firm knock, a knock that he hopes says “I’m coming in whether you like it or not”, because it’s not beyond Jon to try to avoid them all for an extended period.

“Come in,” Jon calls, and even his voice sounds exhausted. When he sees Martin enter the room, his expression softens in a way that’s difficult to parse. Is he just relieved that it isn’t one of the others? Or is he actually pleased that it’s Martin?

It’s been two months since Jon went into hiding while suspected of murder, and the last time Martin saw him he had been quite sure Jon was planning to—to hurt himself, somehow. Before that, though, there had been a time when they were...well, close, in a way. Jon had let his guard down around Martin, in the midst of being so suspicious and afraid. He had trusted Martin, when he didn’t trust anyone else, had eaten lunch with him and talked about boring, ordinary things, the tight set of his shoulders relaxing just a little. He had even laughed, sometimes. It had been, despite everything, one of the happier times in Martin’s life, and if that’s not pathetic he doesn’t know what is.

“Hi, Jon,” he says.

“Martin,” says Jon, his tone soft. “It’s so—ahh, how are you?”

“How am I? You’re the one with a bloody great gash in your neck and looking like you put your hand in a fire.” Martin brandishes the first aid kit. “You really should go to the hospital, but I know it would be a waste of my time suggesting it.”

“Thank you for bringing that,” Jon says. “I appreciate it. You can just leave it on the desk.”

“Nope,” Martin tells him cheerily, setting the kit down and opening it. “I know you, Jon. If I leave it with you it’ll still be sitting here untouched tomorrow. Plus, I got my first aid certification when I was working in the library. It’s probably expired now, but I think it still counts.”

Jon looks as if he’s about to protest, but then he huffs a breath that might be a laugh, and nods in concession.

“All right then,” he says.

Martin snaps on a pair of disposable gloves and directs Jon to sit on the desk and undo the top two buttons on his shirt, so Martin can examine the wound on his neck. It’s shallow, fortunately, and the bleeding seems to have already stopped. Martin cleans away the crusted blood as gently as he can, though Jon still winces a few times.

“What happened?” Martin asks, as he smears on antibiotic cream.

“Daisy. She, ah, she decided that I was dangerous. Needed to be dealt with. Fortunately Basira was able to convince her otherwise.”

“Bloody hell,” Martin mutters. He’s not sure why he’s surprised; he’s always felt afraid around Daisy, like a rabbit being in the same room with a fox. But he just sort of assumed it was typical Martin fear of, well, everything. He never thought Daisy would actually hurt any of them. He applies a bandage carefully over the wound, and then turns his attention to Jon’s hand. Unwrapping the bandages reveals the red, blistered mess beneath, and Martin hisses in sympathy.

“Please tell me you went to the hospital for this.”

“I went to a walk-in clinic,” Jon says. “They cleaned it up, gave me some antibiotics and painkillers. They, uh, they did recommend I see my GP for follow up monitoring, and that I should get a referral to a physiotherapist, but, well, it’s been a busy few days.”

“Jon,” Martin sighs, exasperated, and Jon smiles a bit shakily.

“I know,” he says. “I will go to a GP, I promise. It’s just a bit tricky when you’re wanted for murder. Anyway, it seems to be healing rather well, all things considered.”

Martin considers whether to apply antibiotic cream, but the skin doesn’t seem to be broken, and he knows it’s best not to touch the area more than needed. Instead, he rewraps it with clean, dry bandages, being sure to keep them loose.

“How did this happen?” he asks, to distract himself from the fact that he is, technically, holding Jon’s hand. Jon gives a self-deprecating laugh.

“I, uh, I was trying to get information from a devotee of the Lightless Flame. This was her price.”

“The Lightless Flame? That cult—from the statements?”

“The same. As it turns out, a—a lot of things from the statements are real. Unpleasantly so.”

“I—yeah, I sort of figured that out when Tim and I got trapped in these weird corridors for days by that Michael...thing.”

Jon’s face blanches, his brows furrowing.

“You—god, Martin, I didn’t know. Are you—I mean, you’re okay, obviously, but— Have you seen Michael since?”

“No, and I hope I don’t.” Martin feels faintly nauseous at the memory. He doesn’t realize his hands are trembling slightly until the fingers of Jon’s hand, the unburned one, touch his wrist.

“I’m so sorry, Martin,” he says. “When I realized a-about Sasha, about that thing, I hoped I could take care of it myself, spare you and Tim. I never wanted to drag you into all this.”

“I don’t think there’s much avoiding it,” Martin mutters miserably. “And you didn’t seem to mind dragging Melanie into it, while you were on the lam.”

“I shouldn’t have asked her for help either. It wasn’t fair to put any of you in the position of aiding a suspected murderer.”

“I never believed you did it,” Martin tells him fiercely. “It just would have been nice to know you were okay, you know?”

“I know, and I’m sorry. I—I wanted to contact you, but it seemed too risky. I knew the police would be watching you, since we’re friends. Or—or at least friendly.”

Everyone I’ve talked to says you and him were close. Martin had been ridiculously pleased by the accusation at the time, and he feels the same now, with Jon’s injured hand cradled in both of his. Jon trusts Martin with his wounds, his vulnerability. Jon wanted to contact him; Jon thinks they’re friends.

“I—” Martin starts to say, and he doesn’t know if his next words will be I missed you or I worry about you or some humiliating romantic confession blurted out and impossible to take back. He draws a deep breath, and instead says: “I’m glad you’re back, and that you’re okay. I don’t have that many friends, I can’t afford to lose one.”

He says it like a joke, and mercifully, Jon takes it as one, and gives a relieved laugh. Martin realizes he’s long since finished bandaging the burn and is now just sort of...holding Jon’s hand; he releases it, reluctantly, and Jon smiles, lifting his other hand to touch the bandage on his throat.

“Thank you, Martin,” he says, hopping down from the desk. “I appreciate it, really.”

“As a token of your appreciation, you can go ahead and make a doctor’s appointment for that hand,” says Martin firmly, closing up the first aid kit.

“I will,” Jon says solemnly, and Martin believes him, but he’s also going to check in and remind him at the end of the day because Jon has a tendency to forget about trivial things like his own wellbeing. It’s just who he is, and Martin’s made his peace with it, like he’s made his peace with being utterly, hopelessly gone for Jonathan Sims.

“I was going to make some tea, if you fancy,” he says as he opens the door. “You look like you could use a cup.”

“Oh, yes, that would be lovely, thank you. Oh, and Martin?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m glad I’m back as well. I—” Jon hesitates a moment, then says: “I missed your tea.”

It’s not much of a declaration, but Martin understands what Jon means by it; for the two of them, it means a lot.

#the magnus archives #jonmartinweek2021 #tma #my fic #jonmartin #cw injury

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aster-aspera · 3 years

Photo

It’s just my skin

@badthingshappenbingo

Prompt: loss of hearing

Pairings: (platonic) jonmartim

Warnings: claustrophobia, hospitals, hearing loss

Masterlist

If you liked it please reblog <3

The aftermath isn’t as quiet as Tim thought it would be.

Maybe it’s the fact that he isn’t dead even though he should be, maybe it’s the dreadful ringing in his ear, maybe it’s the way his chest is heaving in gasping breaths he can’t hear.

There’s a thousand pounds of stone pressing down on his back and somewhere far above him he can feel the ground rumble and shift. He can’t even find it in himself to worry about the whole place coming down. He wasn't planning on making it out alive either way.

He thinks he floats in and out of consciousness for a bit. Time seems to wind and stretch and loop back, only the rubble on his back and the incessant ringing to keep him company.

Something shifts eventually, a change in the air at first, the darkness becoming just a bit softer, a bit less cloying.

And then there are hands and stretchers and needles and people pulling and prodding him and over it all is still that high pitched ringing, rising higher and higher into an impossible crescendo. He thinks they ask him things, he is sure he sees their lips moving and their expectant gazes. He thinks he tries to say something, but his lips feel awkward and unwieldy.

Everything goes dark after that. A cool blessed darkness where he just floats, no stone, no rubble, no dust, just peace.

He thinks about Danny for a while, and the ritual and the burning collapse of it all and the way Sasha smiled at him every morning when he came into the archives. Then he just sleeps.

He wakes up a bit more coherent the next time. The ringing isn’t gone yet, but at least his brain doesn’t feel like it’s through different planes of dimensions at a hundred kilometres per hour anymore. At least now he can breathe without the dust clogging his lungs.

He looks around the overbright hospital room, the disconnected monitor and the IV dripping a clear fluid into his veins. There’s a bouquet of orange flowers on the bedside table. Probably from Martin, he thinks bitterly. There’s no one else who would go through the trouble.

Martin walks into his room at some point and Tim wonders why he’s here and not hovering around Jon like some lost puppy. Maybe Jon didn’t make it out of the explosion.

Something sharp and painful shoots through Tim’s chest at the thought and he does his best not to examine it too closely.

He looks up at Martin, whose lips are moving as he fusses with the flowers on the little table. Tim stares up at him uncomprehendingly, waiting for sound to come through, waiting for that unbearable ringing to resolve itself into something he can understand.

It doesn’t.

“I can’t hear,” He says, his lips forming the words, his vocal cords vibrating, but no sound comes out, not to him at least. Martin looks up at him with concern, his mouth moving in shapes that should have been familiar, had they been accompanied by the right noises.

“I can’t hear,” Tim says again. And this time, it doesn’t come out half as controlled. He can feel something very close to panic crawling it’s way up his throat and he doesn’t quite manage to swallow it down.

Martin presumably says something else, before giving up and typing something on his phone, shoving it into Tim’s hands before stalking out of the room.

Getting a doctor, stay here

Well of course he’s going to stay here, does Martin really think he’s going to wander around London when he’s just survived an explosion? He isn’t Jon.

He waits impatiently in his bed, rubbing the uncomfortably thin hospital sheets between his fingers and trying to adjust the flat pillows so he can sit up.

Eventually the doctors come in and once again, it’s back to being poked and prodded. Doctors examining his ears and brain and all the million scans they take, with Martin occasionally coming in to hover over him, bringing along coffee from the cafeteria.

In the end, the verdict is predictable. Permanent damage from his proximity to the explosion. Figures he couldn’t just walk out of that unscathed.

And most people would probably consider being permanently deaf better than being dead. Tim wasn’t too sure he agreed with them yet.

They let him go home eventually, with a whole laundry list of instructions on how to care for himself. Tim throws the papers into a corner as soon as he gets home. He’ll be fine, he’s survived Jane Prentiss, he can survive this. And it isn’t like it matters much.

His phone buzzes to life when he sticks it into the socket, all the messages he missed streaming in at once, a tidal wave of promotional mails and push notifications. He’s half tempted to just shut it off again when he notices one text notification between all the others.

Jon

Martin had told him he was alive, of course. But something about seeing his name displayed black on white on his phone screen drives the point home in a way Martin’s scribbled notes hadn’t done. Something sharp and hot shoots through his chest and he wants desperately for it to be that familiar anger that carried him through the last few months.

But as he lets his head fall back onto the couch, he can’t quite feel it burn the same, and without its familiar warmth, he feels hollow in a way he hasn’t since Danny died.

He swipes away the message without reading it and curls up on the couch, pulling an old, dusty blanket over himself and shutting his eyes. He tries not to think too much of the darkness after the explosion, of the plaster dust swirling through the air and settling in his lungs, of the stone crushing his limbs at awkward angles.

A dark apartment isn’t much like a collapsed building but his brain doesn’t care when it brings up vivid images of his time under the rubble. Despite it all, he does eventually drift into the comforting darkness of sleep, his slumber taking the pain and weariness out of his bones for just a moment.

It’s peaceful, till he wakes up gasping from a nightmare.

His desk rattles slightly when a heavy book is dropped on it and Tim looks up in annoyance, ignoring the painful squeezing in his chest when he meets Jon’s tired, regretful eyes.

‘Learning sign’ The book proclaims and Tim feels irritation bubbling up.

“Fuck off,” He says, focusing his attention once again on his desk.

‘I know sign, I can help, or at least recommend you some classes/books’ Jon informs him through the notes app on his phone.

“I don’t need your help.”

‘I know you don’t, but I’d like to'

“Why? So you can feel better about everything that happened? You think this is going to fix it?”

‘I’m sorry Tim’

“Sorry is too late,” he bites out, shoving out of his chair roughly. He tries to move past Jon, make it out of this stifling, dusty room, get somewhere it doesn’t feel like the walls are watching him.

A rough, calloused hand shoots out, wraps around his wrist like a vice. Jon’s eyes are dark with concern and Tim feels an odd anger at the expression. How can he show so much empathy after everything that happened?

He looks at the hand wrapped around his wrist and suddenly, it’s all just too much.

The deafening ringing in his ears, this wretched place that trapped him and choked him and took his best friend from him. And Jon, eyes still hopeful, still compassionate, after Tim had blamed him and hurt him for months on end.

“Go away,” He tries to say and he doesn’t even make it to the first syllable before his voice betrays him with a choked sob. A shudder runs through him and he looks down at the wooden floor, trying to compose himself.

The grief has never felt as all consuming as it does in this moment and it chokes and burns and pulls him under all at once.

And then, there are arms around him. A familiar touch, a familiar weight, from days so long ago Tim can barely remember them. The first touch that isn’t hostile, the first comfort he has felt in so long.

And it’s all from the man he’s tried to hate for months.

His hands curl themselves tightly into Jon’s cardigan and he buries his face in his shoulder, biting back tears with all his might. It doesn’t do much good against the tidal wave of emotions sweeping through him and soon he’s shaking all over with the sobs that wrack through his body.

Jon’s hand comes up in a familiar movement, brushing through Tim’s messed up curls. It’s hesitant at first, as if Tim will yell at him again, but when he makes no motion to do so, only melting deeper into the hold, the fingers carding through his hair become surer.

There’s a rumble against his cheek as Jon says something and Tim wishes desperately he could still hear it, hear Jon’s sure and steadying voice.

He remembers when, near the beginning of it all, he would stand in the corridor outside of Jon’s office and listen as his voice drifted through the halls, all the pain and fear and emotions painted so clearly on it. He’d always thought Jon a bit ridiculous for the way he read those statements. Now he just wished he could hear it one more time.

He closes his eyes as the loss of his family and his friend and even his hearing tear through his chest, leaving him shattered and shaking.

Jon’s chest rumbles again and Tim presses his cheek into it, pretending for just a moment he can hear a sound that isn’t the awful ringing.

Another pair of hands close around him, softer ones, broader ones. They pull him up gently and he’s not entirely sure how they both ended up on the floor, it probably has something to do with how broad he is and how skinny Jon is.

He’s pulled close against a soft, broad chest and relaxes into it almost immediately. Martin’s safe, he always has been.

He’s deposited gently on the cot, a blanket wrapped around his shoulders and a warm mug of tea pressed into his hands. He feels a bit like a child, being coddled and carted around. But right now, he can’t find it in himself to care.

He thinks Jon and Martin are saying stuff. Martin’s chest is rumbling against his back and he tilts his face so he can feel it better. Martin runs a comforting hand along his face, brushing away the tears that stick to it.

A hand settles on his knee, comforting and grounding and he’s sure it’s Jon’s. Both of Martin’s hands are occupied holding him together after all.

He closes his eyes. He can deal with the mess of it all tomorrow.

Right now, he just feels safe. His friends are here and that’s enough.

#tma #the magnus archives #magnuspod #tim stoker #jonathan sims #martin blackwood #jontim #jonmartim #martim #jonmartin #i do not know how to tag for this fandom yet #anyway tell me if i missed any warnings #bad things happen bingo #my writing

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dickwheelie · 3 years

Text

@coulson-is-an-avenger thank you sm for the jonsasha prompt!! sorry this took so long but here's a fic about jon and sasha brushin each other's hair :) with a bonus gender discussion(tm)

___________

Jon leaned back against Sasha's legs where she sat on the sofa above him, feeling her gently tug his braid loose, his hair tumbling into her lap as she began to comb through it. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes, letting himself relax.

"I've always been jealous of your hair," Sasha said, as she started brushing it out. "So long and lustrous . . ."

"Hah!" Jon barked out a laugh. "Lustrous is not a word I'd use to describe anything about myself."

"You don't give yourself enough credit. Maybe your skin needs work, but your hair is doing fine."

"Oh, well, thank you," Jon said. "Wait, my skin needs--?"

"Why do you keep your hair long, anyway?" Sasha went on. "I mean, it looks good, but you don't seem the type."

Jon snorted. "What does that mean?"

"Nothing," Sasha said cheerily. "Just, you know, the whole male academic persona." Out of the corner of his eye, Jon saw her hand wave theatrically at the words. "You dress and act so straight-laced at work, I guess I'm just surprised your hair didn't go along with it."

Jon worried at the hem of his cardigan. The soft, casual cardigan he'd worn to Sasha's flat because it was his day off, and he didn't have to dress in stuffy, professional clothing so nobody would figure out he was a fraud who didn't belong in a head archivist position. "I just always liked keeping it long," he said. "Couldn't tell you why. Just feels nice, I guess."

"You know," Sasha said pointedly, "I used to want to keep my hair long for reasons I couldn't explain, either."

"I--" Jon began to protest, then closed his mouth and tried again. "I . . . I've thought about it. Believe me, I've--" He laughed humorlessly. "I have thought about it. But I'm sure I'm cis. I-I mean, by now, I'd know otherwise. Right?"

Sasha hummed as she tugged at a stubborn tangle. "Not necessarily. I've met lots of people who didn't know they were trans until they were in their forties, or older."

"W-Well," Jon said, and then didn't know what else to say. For a moment, he just sat there, losing himself in Sasha's steady pulls of the brush, the feeling of her hands running through his hair. "I mean," he said eventually, "I'm not a woman. I know that much."

"Okay," Sasha said, and was quiet. Jon recognized her "letting him talk it out" voice.

"And I'm not uncomfortable with being a man." Jon sighed. He hadn't been prepared for this conversation, and he didn't feel like digging too far into it. "Maybe I'm just a man who likes having long hair. What's wrong with that."

"Absolutely nothing," Sasha said, and he felt her press her lips to the top of his head before returning to the brush. "I think it's handsome."

"Ah. Thank you," Jon said, with a twitch of a smile.

Soon Sasha had finished with his hair and tied it back up in its braid, and they swapped places. Jon could accept Sasha's compliments about his hair's lustrousness, or whatever, but faced with her dark curls he didn't understand how she could ever be jealous of his hair, or anyone else's, for that matter. Sasha's hair was so . . . he didn't even know, he just loved it. It wasn't quite as long as his, but it was a beautiful, rich dark color, almost black but not quite. The texture as he ran his hands through it felt astonishingly nice; he was reminded of the stim toys he used to play with when he was younger.

Sasha's hair didn't need brushing out like his did, so instead he just evened out the center part and ran through it with a comb. He spent the majority of the time carding his hands through it, careful not to tug on the strands. Sasha leaned warmly against him, her back up against his calves, her legs splayed out comfortably in front of her. Her head was tilted up at him and her eyes were closed, with a peaceful look on her face.

"How long did it take you," Sasha said at one point, her voice low and relaxed. "To grow your hair out."

Jon had to think a moment. "Last time I had it cut was . . . almost two years ago, now. I remember because I'd just gotten an interview for the researcher job and I wanted to look . . . presentable. Male academic persona, and all that."

Sasha laughed. "Right."

"Before that it was pretty long, past my shoulders. That was how I kept it at uni too. This is the longest it's ever been, though," Jon said, as he tugged at a strand of his own hair absentmindedly. "I guess the Institute's kept me so busy I forgot to get it cut again."

"Well, if you like it that way, why waste the money?" Sasha said, quite reasonably. "Besides, I stand by what I said. Your hair's a gift, don't waste it by cutting it off." She reached above her head and waved a finger at him. "Unless you want to. Don't let me tell you what to do. God knows I know a thing or two about other people telling me what to do with my hair."

Jon laughed. "I won't. I want to keep it long, anyway." He was glad Sasha liked his hair like this. Georgie had been the same way, encouraging Jon not to cut it. He'd had friends in the past express confusion about his hair, but he'd gotten pretty skilled at ignoring them. It took a job interview, apparently, to change his mind. Jon wasn't entirely sure how he felt about that.

Well, no, that wasn't true. Bad, that was how he felt. Walking around those first few months in research with his hair cropped short, wearing those stuffy outfits . . . he'd never felt more like an imposter. The day he realized his hair had finally grown back past his shoulders had been a very, very good day.

His work clothes hadn't really changed, and his persona hadn't gotten easier to play, but now he had his hair, and his nails, and even the occasional earring studs he'd wear, if he was feeling brave.

And Sasha. And Tim. He had them, too, and they were two very good people to have in one's corner.

Impulsively, he reached down and gave Sasha a hug around her shoulders. It was a bit of an awkward angle, and he had to lay his cheek on the top of her head, but she reached up to hug him back anyway.

"What's this for?" Sasha said, but she didn't let go.

"I don't know," Jon said softly. "I love you, that's all."

"Well, if that's all," Sasha said. She gave him a few pats on the arm, as well as she could reach. "Don't mess up my hair, now, or you'll have to comb it again."

"Oh, no," Jon intoned, "what a horrible fate."

"You're not funny, Sims."

"I'm hilarious."

Sasha grabbed his hand and kissed the back of it, which Jon suspected was a last-ditch effort to derail the conversation by flustering him. It worked extremely well. Jon busied himself by going back to her hair, and it was a few minutes later before either of them spoke again.

"I love you too, you know," Sasha said at length. "I know I don't say it a lot, but I do."

"It's okay," Jon said, and it really, really was. He knew Sasha couldn't see the wide smile that had just appeared on his face, but he liked to think she could hear it in his voice. "I know you do."

#tma #the magnus archives #jonsasha #sasha james #jonathan sims #gwyneth writes #thank u for the prompt moss :))))

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ollieofthebeholder · 4 months

Text

to find promise of peace (and the solace of rest): a TMA fanfic

Read from the beginning || AO3 || My Website

Chapter 94: October 2017

The room wasn’t silent. Silence would definitely have been preferable to the faint but…distinctly organic sounds left behind in the aftermath of everything. There was a wet sucking sound every time someone so much as shifted their weight, let alone tried to pick up a foot and actually move, and an annoyingly intermittent splat as a thick, viscous liquid formed a bulbous drop and smacked into the center of a slowly forming puddle. The air, always somewhat chilly, seemed downright cold, and only long practice stopped Basira from showing how she was feeling.

Fuck, that had been a bad one.

Tim was the only one besides Basira who was still on his feet, but he was leaning heavily on the axe, his chest heaving for air, looking slightly shell-shocked. Melanie was on her hands and knees, streaked and spattered with pink and red, her hand still wrapped around the handle of the knife she had shoved to the tang into the last heap of meat to go down, sobbing for breath or maybe in anger. Sasha knelt next to her, one hand between her shoulder blades, talking to her softly; Basira couldn’t tell if it was having any effect at all, or frankly if it was helping Sasha any—she looked more bothered by the mess on the floor and, in fact, kept picking up her free hand and starting to rest it on her lap before hovering it awkwardly for a few seconds and then gingerly setting it down on the floor again. A few feet away, Martin still sat slumped where he had crumpled after the weird door vanished, back to a stack of boxes they were probably going to have to burn. His face was the color of old putty, and his breathing was shallow and slightly ragged. He was leaning heavily on Jon, his head resting on his shoulder, and Jon gently ran his fingers through Martin’s curls with his cheek pressed against the top of his head, a look of such tenderness and pain on his face that Basira had to look away.

The sound of a door banging open came from somewhere across the Archives. Martin’s head shot from Jon’s shoulder and his eyes snapped open, the green glow rising in them again; Tim straightened quickly, and Jon jerked upwards like he was going to get to his feet. Basira clenched her fists, not sure what she could do—she hadn’t exactly been very effective just now—but willing to try, since she was probably in the best shape out of all of them. In the split second it took her to think about it, though, Sasha fell back on her arse as Melanie’s head snapped up, and she leaped to her feet with a wild cry, yanking the knife out with a squelch as she did so.

“Melanie, wait—” Martin got to his feet with a speed that told Basira he was almost certainly going to collapse again as soon as this moment passed.

“Whoa!” Gerard caught Melanie’s wrist just in time. The knife fell out of her hand and clattered to the floor. “Neens, it’s me. It’s just me.”

Basira crossed her arms tightly over her chest to try and smother the emotions that rose in her chest at the expressions that skated across Melanie’s face—surprise, shock, and a mix of panic and devastation as it hit her that she had very nearly eviscerated her brother instead of an intruder. In typical Melanie fashion, however, she hit him with her free hand rather than apologize.

“You bastard,” she yelled as he gave a startled oomph and let go of her wrist. “What the hell were you thinking, just barging in here? Have you not ever heard of calling ahead?”

“Melanie,” Martin said, as emphatically as he could through tightly clenched teeth. Jon got to his feet beside him and took a breath, but a hand on his shoulder and a sharp shake of the head from Martin stopped whatever he was planning in his tracks. Probably that weird Simon Says thing he’d taken to doing in the last few months; he didn’t do it often, partly because Martin usually stopped him, but occasionally he tried to whip it out. He’d tried earlier to no effect, but Melanie was—theoretically anyway—easier for him to lay orders on.

Gerard held out both hands and looked around the Archives. “Would you have answered if I had? Or would it just have distracted you at a crucial point?”

Melanie looked like she was gearing up for another attack, but Sasha, who was probably going to have to burn her skirt now too, managed to get to her feet and wrapped her in a bear hug from behind. Restraint or embrace, Basira couldn’t say—maybe both—but Melanie only struggled against it for a second before sighing and giving up the fight, for a moment anyway.

Martin exhaled, the glow in his eyes vanished, and his entire body sagged once more. Jon caught him, or tried to, but he was close to a foot shorter and a good deal skinnier, especially these days, and it wound being something of a barely controlled mutual collapse. The second they were on the floor, he practically crawled into Martin’s lap and held onto him as Martin leaned against the desk this time for support to keep him from being completely flat out on the floor. It seemed that whatever he’d done—probably tried to Know who or what was coming—had taken what little of his strength remained.

Gerard looked momentarily torn, then evidently decided that Martin was in good enough hands for the moment and stepped over to Tim, then touched his shoulder gently, as if he wasn’t sure it would be welcome. It evidently was, as Tim let go of the axe and wrapped his arms around Gerard instead.

“That was fun,” he said dryly. It would have been unconvincing even if Basria hadn’t known what they’d just gone through.

“Yeah, I’ll bet.” Gerard swiped at something wet on Tim’s cheek with his thumb. It…probably wasn’t Tim’s. Basira didn’t think he’d got that close. “What the hell happened? And how the hell did it happen so fast? The wards just went crazy all of a sudden and I got here as quick as I could, but…” He gestured helplessly at the mess.

“Flesh,” Basira said succinctly. Gerard’s eyes barely flicked in her direction.

“I don’t know,” Sasha admitted. She risked resting her chin on Melanie’s head; Melanie showed her affection by not immediately removing it, from both her head and Sasha’s. “One minute everything was fine, if, you know, tense, and then suddenly, wham, we’re being attacked by sentient hamburger.”

“It’s only hamburger if it comes from the Hamburg region of Germany. Otherwise it’s just sparkling ground beef.” Gerard groaned dramatically, and Tim continued more seriously. “It was definitely the Flesh. Pretty sure the thing…leading or conducting or whatever was Jared Hopworth. Not that I’ve ever seen him before, but it fit what gets said about him in most of the statements he’s in.”

“It was.” Martin’s voice was a mere thread. Jon looked up at his face, eyes full of worry.

“Martin, Jesus, you sound like hell.” Gerard looked over Tim’s head at him. “What did you do?”

Martin let out a tiny huff of air. “What I had to.”

“You need—y-you need a statement. Or, or something.” Jon made as if to rise, but seemed reluctant to let go of Martin.

“Probably…more than one.” Martin tipped his head back against the desk and breathed slowly. “Give me a few minutes.”

“He was using his abilities to…stay on top of things,” Sasha told Gerard. “Give us as much of an edge as he could. And, you know, survive. Melanie and Tim fought most of them off.”

“Be accurate, Sash. Melanie fought most of them off,” Tim said. “I got like three, and only because Martin gave me a heads-up.”

“Well, look on the bright side,” Melanie said, her voice full of false joviality. “If you need a second income, you can always get a job as a hairdresser.”

Sasha looked slightly unhappy as she touched the back of her newly exposed neck, but said only, “You saved my life, anyway.”

“Maybe.”

“Almost certainly.”

“You did,” Gerard said, quietly but with absolute conviction. “Somebody nearly died, anyway. It’s why I was rushing so hard to get here. I felt—I could sense a death waiting for me, and then it just…snapped. I don’t know how to explain it.”

Jon looked around, as best he could from where he was, anyway. “I-I mean…a lot of things died here.”

“A lot of things stopped living,” Gerard corrected him. “They weren’t aware enough to die.” He blinked. “Or not enough to be satisfying to Terminus, anyway. I…take it Jared Hopworth escaped?”

“Not exactly,” Basira muttered.

She didn’t expect anyone to hear her. She didn’t know if they did or not. Sasha’s statement might have been connected, but then again it might not. “Michael was here.”

“The Distortion?” Gerard frowned deeply.

“No,” Martin said firmly. “Michael.” He opened his eyes, but there was a half-blind look in them, like he had a migraine, or maybe like he’d just woken up. “I mean, the…Distortion was here too, but…it was Michael that helped.”

Gerard exhaled heavily. “Christ, Martin, you had to deal with the Flesh and the Spiral in one day? No wonder you’re exhausted. You’re going to need something stronger than old bits of paper.”

“What do you suggest?” Martin said, as close to testy as he was probably capable of right about then. “That I go…pounce some random person at a Tesco Express? Ask them to…spill their secrets?” He swallowed and closed his eyes again. “I at least need to…start with the paper ones. Otherwise I…won’t be able to get up.”

Jon made a small, distressed noise in the back of his throat and curled closer to Martin for a moment. “I’ll get you something, hold on.”

“Just…let me rest for a minute, Jon. I’ll…be okay.” Martin turned and pressed a soft kiss to the crown of Jon’s head, then groaned quietly and dropped his head back against the desk, as if even that slight movement had cost him dearly. Anyone with half a brain could see that he wasn’t anywhere near the vicinity of okay.

Basira looked around the Archives as Sasha attempted to explain to Gerard what, exactly, had gone down. What a mess. This was going to take forever to clean up. She was almost tempted to ask why bother, since they’d really only just finished cleaning up from the last one, but, well, at least that one hadn’t involved…viscera. This wasn’t just chaos, it was gross, and they couldn’t stay down here in it. They also couldn’t very well leave it, not really. Not for more than overnight or the weekend, and even that was rapidly becoming a luxury. Basira honestly couldn’t remember if Martin had set foot out of the Archives to go into the rest of the building, let alone outside, in the last month. Certainly he always seemed to be there when she came in after an increasingly rare night in her own flat.

They hadn’t had long to believe, or pretend to believe, they’d really won after Elias’s arrest. Basira, for lack of anything better to do, had gone up to Elias’s old office with the idea of…she didn’t know what, getting the tapes maybe, or getting out their employment contracts and burning them to see if that would free them. Manal had been away from her desk, and the door had opened easily enough, but she hadn’t been in more than thirty seconds when a man’s voice spoke from behind and introduced himself as the temporary Head of the Institute “while Elias is incapacitated”. He’d assured her things would continue to run smoothly, and she’d escaped, defeated, to tell the others. Warn might be a better word for that. Martin had gone white when she’d named the man, then gone up to introduce himself as Archivist, or so he said. As far as Basira knew, he still hadn’t been able to do that, or anything else. They knew Peter Lukas was up there—God knew he sent out enough memos about reorganization and policies, and they’d all heard what had happened to the two guys in Research who’d decided to ignore one of them—but it didn’t seem like anyone else had seen him. Just her.

Not that anyone in the Institute was really talking to anyone else. Basira had never really been one for socializing in the breakroom anyway, even with the Archives staff, but now it was like everyone was actively ignoring her when she ventured above the basement level. Even Manal had stopped saying hello when she passed by. She wasn’t sure how much of it was the influence of the Lonely permeating every level of the building and how much was her specifically, or how much of it was the current situation in the Archives and people not wanting to get involved, which was Martin’s theory. His logic—that nobody had seemed to know what was going on down there when Gertrude was Archivist either—was sound, anyway, but there was a part of her that was skeptical, and a part of her that wondered if it was engineered somehow.

If Peter Lukas believed things were “running smoothly”, he either hadn’t paid attention to anything he couldn’t watch on CCTV or had his own reasons for wanting the Archives to be in chaos. It hadn’t been two weeks after they got back from the Unknowing before the first attack happened, all the lights going out at once and the shadows starting to move. They’d fought it back easily enough, but there had been another just before Martin’s birthday, and then another, and then another. All told, the one they’d just survived had been lucky number thirteen, and for a minute, Basira had been sure it would be the one to finish them. If not for Melanie, it probably would have been. And Martin had used so much energy trying to protect them—Sasha had massively downplayed what he’d done, but she was probably trying to keep Gerard from blowing a gasket—that the only reason Basira didn’t think he was likely to die was that Gerard hadn’t called him on it.

They couldn’t keep this up forever. Sooner or later someone was going to get killed. Martin was probably the only person Basira really cared enough about to mind if he died, but she also knew that he’d never get over it if someone else died on his watch. Even if it was her.

She didn’t have much of an illusion that the others would even notice.

“This can’t keep happening,” Tim said, and Basira wondered briefly if he was reading her mind before deciding that, no, he just happened to be thinking the same thing. “They’re getting worse all the time.”

“I don’t control the other Fears, Tim. I…barely have any influence over ours, let alone…anything that could remotely be termed control.” Martin was slowly regaining his breath, but he still sounded incredibly weak. “I might have a few powers, but…I’m not really all that powerful. Comparatively. Just enough to be annoying.”

“Don’t sell yourself short,” Gerard muttered. He still hadn’t let go of Tim. “There’s got to be a way to make these attacks stop.”

“Open to suggestions, Ger.”

Gerard sighed, sounding exasperated. “Can we start with why? Do we have any idea why all these attacks are happening—or why they’re this bad? They weren’t exactly uncommon under Gertrude, but not like this, I don’t think.”

Martin considered that. “Maybe. Not like we’d have…known upstairs.”

“You know the answer to that,” Melanie snapped. She still hadn’t made any real attempt to break out of Sasha’s hold, and Basira knew she could if she really wanted to. “You said yourself, she disrupted every ritual she could come up with, and the Eye’s one of the only ones that hasn’t attempted yet. Stands to reason they’re trying to stop us from getting one off too.”

“That—makes sense,” Jon said slowly. “If the Eye remakes the world in its own image before the others get a chance, they’ll be rather put out. And how do we know that isn’t why Gertrude kept trying to stop them? Maybe Elias did kill her to keep her from starting the Watcher’s Crown.”

“She was trying to avoid being part of it,” Gerard said, a little uncertainly.

“So she told you. Are you sure she wasn’t lying?”

Martin rubbed his forehead hard, grimacing. “Can we please stop asking questions for a bit? At—at least until I can keep from Knowing the answers better?”

The way Melanie and Jon looked at that was the final straw for Basira. She turned on her heel and strode out of the Archives, secure in the knowledge that nobody was paying enough attention to her to even see her leaving, let alone stop her.

Martin was right. He wasn’t that powerful, in the grand scheme of things, and the powers he did have weren’t really all that helpful in a fight. He wasn’t omniscient any more than Elias was, couldn’t just Know attacks were going to happen, and had to concentrate even to know what a single opponent was doing, let alone all of them. And he didn’t have the skill set to keep things from attacking in the first place.

There was one person that did, though.

Manal wasn’t at her desk when Basira hit the main floor. She didn’t know if it was because she was off on an errand or because it was now so late that everybody else in the Institute had gone home, since she felt like there wasn’t another soul in the building besides her and the crew in the Archives, but she didn’t care. The important thing was the door behind Manal’s desk. If the office wasn’t occupied, she would damn well wait until it was. As she got closer, though, she could sense—no idea how, maybe the same instinct she’d had as a police officer—that there was someone in there. Without breaking stride, she barged her way in.

“You have to stop this,” she said without preamble.

The man who had been scanning the shelves for something turned to her with a benign smile. He looked much as he had the first time she had seen him—tall and austere, with fine white hair and a mustache to match and between them a pair of the darkest blue eyes she’d ever seen—except that he had changed out his vaguely naval uniform for the most inoffensive, boring black suit possible and seemed inordinately delighted by it.

“Stop what, Basira?” he asked mildly.

Basira folded her arms over her chest. “You’re the head of the Institute. That means you have a responsibility. You can stop all these attacks.”

“Oh?” Peter Lukas raised his thick but finely sculpted eyebrows into his hairline, but he didn’t look like he was challenging her, the way Elias would have—more like the idea had never occurred to him before and he found it intriguing. “Can I, do you think?”

“Yes.” Basira took a deep breath—and took a risk. “Elias could have. He chose not to, but he could easily have made the things stop bothering the Institute. Nothing would dare attack the Institute directly if he forbade it, I bet.”

It worked. The look of jealousy and pride that flickered through Peter’s eyes told her she’d judged him right; he was competitive and ruthless and would stop at nothing to be the best. If she lured him in with the idea that Elias might have been better than him at something, he’d instantly do it. The fact that he instantly suppressed it, though, told her that she’d also been right in her thinking. This wasn’t going to come free.

“You’re right,” he agreed. “I certainly can protect the Institute…or at least the Archives. I think that may be the most vulnerable part, don’t you agree? But…” He sighed theatrically. “That is the Archivist’s job, is it not?”

“The Archivist is strong enough to protect his people.” Maybe, Basira added silently. For now. “But the Archives? That needs more. That needs you.” She bit her lip, then said the words she knew she would work, but would also commit her to this path. “I’ll do whatever you need me to. Whatever you ask. Just…make it stop.”

Peter studied Basira for a long moment, probably assessing how serious she was. “Well. I could use a personal assistant. Are you prepared for what that might entail?”

Basira shrugged. “What do I have left to lose?”

“Yes.” Peter drew out the word slowly. He looked her over for a moment, then smiled. “Well, then, Basira…we have ourselves a deal. Your assistance—with everything I need at the Institute—in exchange for your, ah, colleagues’ safety.”

He held out his hand.

Basira hesitated. Something told her this would be even more binding than the contract she’d signed under duress. Once more she would be sacrificing herself for someone else, and it wasn’t even the partner she’d depended on, just a bunch of people who probably wouldn’t even have a clue what she’d done for them.

But as she’d said…what did she really have left to lose?

She reached out, making an effort to be absolutely sure she didn’t tremble, and accepted the handshake.

“It’s a deal.”

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elareine · 3 years

Note

I had a thought for a prompt: What if Tim had a Costco membership, for getting groceries for Titans Tower right? But what if he got himself a Costco sized tin of those Danish Butter cookies (you know the ones that everyone’s grandma uses the tin for sewing supplies?) for his and Jay’s apartment. Que every single one of their siblings, friends, and Bruce sneaking into their apartment to steal some. Because Alfred DOES NOT let them into the manor for reasons.

That is a hilarious prompt, thank you, love!

(Also thanks to @atasteforsuicidal for explaining what exactly Costco does XD)

It started with Dick.

Which, okay, not too weird. Tim and Dick were close, and if you asked Jason under torture, he would admit that the two of them managed just fine these days, as well. So Dick was a regular visitor these days, and with his metabolism, him sneaking some cookies from the big tins wasn’t too surprising.

“Eat something real,” was Jason’s only reply, and then he made Dick some pasta because no one in this family could feed themselves.

Stephanie was a lot less subtle about it. She marched in with a fervent: “God bless your kitchen” and ate everything in sight. Nothing unusual about that.

Duke was next, though Jason only retroactively added him to the list. That kid was just charming as fuck, dropping by to ask for some opinions and making such a show of stealing Jason’s quesadillas that Jason never noticed him going for the cookies.

The problem really started when Damian broke into their kitchen.

Jason didn’t even figure it out until after it happened, which bugged the hell out of him. Apparently, the hellspawn was willing to do the song-and-dance of slipping through their alarm system but didn’t care about being recorded. Possibly because nothing Damian was all that bad, as far as Jason could see. He went through a few of their assorted tins and boxes, ate a few things, crammed some cookies into his bag, and… left. Maybe the kid had just been hungry on patrol?

(Jason still replaced all of Tim’s coffee, just in case.)

Only that wasn’t the last break-in. No, they had nightly visits by two speedsters. Two. Jason was amazed they had any food left at this rate. This was why Tim had become a Costco member; they would be broke otherwise, inheritance or not. Damian broke in again. The second time, he even brought Jon.

Jason just wished he knew why their kitchen had turned into midnight-snack central. When he complained, Tim just laughed at him.

It didn’t click until Roy fell upon the tin with a cry of delight. “Oh, Jaybird, you bought the good stuff!”

“They’re just cookies.”

“Yeah, but the good ones.” For some reason, Roy looked… disappointed with him? “You really don’t appreciate the finer things in life, do you?”

Normally, Jason would’ve taken that as the starting point for a rant about quality in food and art in these modern times. Right now, he was too busy experiencing an epiphany. “Is that why fucking everyone is trying to burgle our kitchen?”

Roy patted him on the shoulder sympathetically and inhaled another cookie.

Sadly, Jason didn’t feel any better about the madness just because he now had an explanation. They still had the nightly visitors, and more daytime ones than ever, too. Even Damian stopped pretending and just invited himself over for lunch.

One night, Jason switched on the kitchen light, saw Bruce standing there, and switched it right back off.

“Barbara is now my favorite sibling,” he declared upon returning to the bedroom.

Tim didn’t look up from whatever he was typing. “Does she really count as a sibling? She does have a dad.”

“Half sibling, half future sister-in-law, then.” Jason would feel more awkward about that sentence if he wasn’t literally sliding under a blanket with Tim. In their bed. In their apartment. Sooo. No stones to throw here. “Anyway. She’s my favorite.”

“Any specific reason?”

“She didn’t yet try to steal those fucking cookies.”

The typing stopped.

Jason groaned. “…seriously?”

He must’ve sounded truly pathetic because Tim actually put the laptop on the nightstand and scooted his way over into Jason’s arms. “She stopped by when you were out with the outlaws yesterday.”

“And there goes my last hope,” Jason sighed.

Tim showed his sympathy by cuddling in closer, which Jason appreciated, but he wasn’t done with this whole thing yet.

“It tells me I need to start baking again,” he grumbled into Tim’s hair. “If ya’ll are going that crazy for some fucking butter cookies, you should try my mom’s recipe.”

“Yeah, but if you make them, Alfred will love them.”

“What does Alfred have to do with this?”

“He forbade those cookie tins from the manor years ago. No one wants to cross him, but… the lure of the forbidden…”

“So we’re in some sort of reverse psychology experiment?” Jason chuckled. That. That actually explained a lot. Except—“Wait. If you knew—why did you buy it in the first place?”

Tim mumbled something unintelligible. When Jason poked him, he raised his voice, but not by much. “It’s kinda nice, isn’t it?”

“Oh.” Jason cupped Tim’s jaw, gently tipped his head so they were looking at each other. “Sweetheart, you know they would visit with or without the cookies, right?”

Tim just looked at him. “Kinda?”

They had done this for long enough that Jason just asked: “You want logical or emotional reassurance?”

And Tim knew he could reply: “…both.”

“Literally every single one of them has a trust fund. They can afford all the Danish butter cookies in the world. Dames could just break into Cosco—and you know he would, cause it’s a corporation, so ‘stealing is ethical.’” Jason allowed that to sink in. Then he leaned forward and pressed a kiss to Tim’s temple. “And they love you very much.” Just like I do.

When he thought that Tim got it, he nodded and let go, allowing his boyfriend to hide his face in Jason’s neck again. That turned out to be a mistake, for Tim chose that moment to strike: “You know the same goes for you, too?”

Jason took a moment to blink. “…Nah. It’s definitely the cookies.”

“Sure, Jay.” Tim pressed a kiss to the side of his neck. “Keep telling yourself that.”

Jason hummed. A peaceful quiet settled over their bedroom.

He waited until Tim was just settled in, his breathing starting to slow down, to say: “By the way, Bruce is in our kitchen.”

“I’m gonna pretend I didn’t hear that.”

#elareine writes #batfamily #jaytim

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stray-tickles · 3 years

Text

Sofa Fight

Summary: There is enough space for two people on the safehouse sofa, no matter what Jon seems to think.

Read on AO3

Martin had long had an instinct for mischief. He wasn’t sure where it had actually come from, since his mum had certainly never been the type to go along with it, and he hadn’t had many friends growing up. As he got older, he learned that he was quite good at it. He could keep a straight face while asking a question that was only intended to tease, he was observant, he was a good liar. And he was lonely.

Tim had liked to make fun too, but he was a lot more up front about it than Martin. For Christ’s sake, he’d straight up asked Martin who he had a crush on when Martin knew that if he’d somehow observed himself from the outside for all of five minutes he’d have been able to tell.

Martin had only had a few of boyfriends in his life before the archives, none of them very serious. Then again, he’d rarely needed more serious in his life. He liked the fun, the laughing, the intimacy. Often the deep talks didn’t feel deep enough for him. Poetry captured that kind of abstract feeling better.

For a very, very long time, it had seemed like Jon was someone with no sense of humour at all. Martin supposed that his proclivity for relentless criticism in those first months didn’t leave much room for joking around.

It took a while for Martin to catch, but he eventually realised that Jon did have a sense of humour, it was just one that was drier than the Sahara. Little comments and puns that Martin had assumed were accidents were, in fact, jokes. There was a particular light in his eyes as he told them, which was what eventually tipped him off.

It was a surprising realisation, and an entirely welcome one.

All of that had intensified once they’d made it to the safe house.

Martin wasn’t unconvinced that Jon was doing this all on purpose to try to get a rise out of him.

He teased, he grinned at Martin in a way that seemed designed to make him blush, switched their cups around and chuckled when Martin took a sip of the wrong tea and pulled a disgusted face, faked being asleep in the morning while cuddled up to him like a koala and keeping Martin from getting up.

It was amazing.

Even putting aside how lonely and empty Martin had been feeling since Jon’s coma, he loved being the person that Jon felt close enough with to joke with. He liked being the person who got to see Jon’s smirk, hear his muffled snickering.

Jon seemed happy too. Any time his jokes got a grin or a laugh or a squawk he looked utterly delighted, a sight that Martin had committed to memory. It was just too cute.

It had been a couple of weeks at the safe house by now. Martin’s nightmares of fog hadn’t ceased, but at least he stopped seeing it when he was awake. He and Jon had settled into a comfortable intimacy. It felt peaceful.

Martin rose from the sofa at a little after eleven in the morning to make them each a cup of tea. He took Jon’s hand and kissed it before he left. The ritual of tea-making was second nature by now, so he barely had to think at all until he turned back to the sofa, at which point he stopped dead.

In the couple of minutes he had been in the kitchen, Jon had stretched out over the entire sofa, his knees hanging over the end.

Martin snorted a laugh. “Comfy?”

“Very.”

He set their cups down on the counter and crossed his arms. “Any space for me on there?”

Jon groaned, pretending to think about it long and hard. “There would be Martin, but I’m afraid I’m incapable of moving at the moment. Check again in five to ten business days.”

That got another laugh. Martin caught the not terribly subtle grin on Jon’s face that told him it was his intent the whole time. He heaved a sigh. “I guess I’ll just have to sit on the floor then.”

Jon eyed him warily as Martin approached, sinking down on to the ground by the arm his legs were draped over. He didn’t say anything; it was clear that Martin was up to something. That was sort of the point of baiting him like this in the first place.

Martin didn’t make eye contact, instead staring at the far wall, keeping an eye on Jon out of the corner of his eye. He waited several seconds until Jon’s eyes floated back to his book and then playfully wiggled his fingers against the soles of his feet.

Martin wasn’t sure what kind of reaction he’d expected. Probably a slight twitch and a half-hearted glare before Jon ‘surrendered’ and let him back on the couch. He did not expect a loud yelp that sounded suspiciously like a squeal, paired with a full body jerk that had Jon’s feet now pressed into the top of the armrest for protection.

Wide eyes met wide eyes, and after a long moment, Martin felt his face break into a broad, mischievous smile. Now this was good. “Jon, may I please sit on the sofa please?”

Jon cringed. On one hand, Martin surely still held a micron of respect for him which would surely be lost the moment he realised just how godforsaken ticklish he was, but on the other… he loved the chance to see that smile. Oh, who was he kidding? He loved when Martin was close. He loved when Martin would touch him. He loved this playfulness that they’d cultivated together.

And well, maybe in the face of all that, his dignity didn’t amount to much.

He swallowed nervously, his toes already curling. “Um, no, I-I’m actually far too comfortable here.” God, Jon could feel his face flushing. He barely managed to glance at Martin, who was now grinning bigger than he’d ever seen.

Martin felt like his face might actually split in half from smiling. He’d only asked to give Jon an out. Some people really hated being tickled, and he wanted to be sure that Jon didn’t. “S’pose I’ll just have to stay here then.”

“Uh, y-yes, I suppose you will.”

“Ah well.” He fell back on his hands, feeling the scratchy rug under him. “Could be worse.”

“Mm-hm.” Jon hummed, staring forcefully at the book in his hands. Martin noted with amusement that he was blushing quite furiously, a wobbly smile trying to break through.

This would be fun.

He didn’t wait long before tracing the fingers of one hand over the top of Jon’s foot. It was too tempting, especially since he knew Jon wouldn’t move away immediately.

Jon yipped. Like a small dog. His eyes widened when he realised the sound he’d made, and he ducked his head into his stolen jumper in a vain attempt to hide. It didn’t work terribly well, because barely a moment later Martin continued. His fingers were soft and warm and so so ticklish he could hardly stand it. He yipped into the jumper again, quickly having a hard time keeping breathless giggles in.

Martin chuckled. He had been right, this was fun. He was barely tracing the top of just one of Jon’s feet and the guy was flushed and flustered, little muffled giggles escaping every few seconds. It was adorable.

Just to shake things up, he started using his nails instead of his fingertips. In a moment, Jon’s other foot had shot up to cover the one Martin was targeting. He smiled up at him beatifically. “Everything alright, Jon?”

Jon mumbled incomprehensibly, refusing to unbury his face. He couldn’t stop smiling or blushing and he was slowly going mad at Martin’s gentle touch and for god’s sake he had barely been tracing his fingers over the top of his foot, why did it tickle so much?!

Martin shrugged innocently. “Okay!” Jon hadn’t moved either of his feet, which turned Martin’s grin evil. Easy enough to guard his soles in the arm of the sofa. No so much when one foot was just resting on the other.

Jon jolted bodily when fingers danced up and down the arch of his foot, his legs shaking for a second before he got the tiniest bit of control, locking his legs in place and hugging himself, squirming from side to side. He kept the laughter bottled for all of half a second, sinking into bubbly giggles that refused to be contained in his jumper.

Oh, this was like Christmas. It was every holiday rolled into one; Jon was squirming and blushing and laughing and it was the single cutest thing Martin had ever seen. He almost wanted to take a picture, but that would mean stopping, and he certainly wasn’t going to be doing that anytime soon.

It only took a minute or so of gentle fingers wiggling over his arch for Jon’s foot to shoot back, the heel now digging into the arm of the sofa. Martin laughed. Jon’s knee was bent, his heel was planted firmly in the armrest. He had retreated all of five inches.

On purpose. He’d gone from squashing one foot into the other, giving Martin access to his arch, to squashing his heel into the armrest, giving him access to all the other parts of his foot.

It was sort of good that this jumper was far too big for him, Jon reflected. Plenty of material to hide his face in if the need arose. And the need had definitely arisen. He didn’t even have to look at Martin to feel his mischievous grin burning into him, and indeed, to burst out cackling when his nails started scraping at his instep, maddeningly slowly.

Jon flew down onto the couch, head thrown back in loud, boisterous laughter. Through some miracle of willpower, he didn’t pull away, though his poor foot was squirming this way and that, trying to escape Martin’s evil evil touch.

Martin laughed. “Look at you, all squirmy.” He teased, squeezing Jon’s second toe between finger and thumb and wiggling it, delighting in the resulting garbled shriek. “Very cute.”

Jon barely heard him through laughter. All he could focus on was trying to keep his legs still and laughing himself stupid. “M-Martin!”

“Yes Jon?”

The most Jon could muster was a series of jumbled noises, none of them coherent. He couldn’t help it, it tickled, he was losing his mind, and he was loving it.

Martin swapped to wiggling Jon’s big toe. “This little archivist went to market.” He teased. He’d decided he wouldn’t stop until Jon actually asked him to.

Jon’s other foot kicked out. “NO!” He wailed between laughing and squeaking and snorting. Much more of this and he wouldn’t be able to hold still.

Fingers wiggled lightly up and down Jon’s arch. “No?” Martin asked, deliberately changing his attack so that Jon would be able to pull away easily if he wanted to.

Jon’s hands tangled into his hair, trying desperately not to give in. He squeezed his eyes shut, his toes curling as far as they would go.

Martin cooed. “Aw, look at your little toes.” He dragged his nails over them, laughing out loud when Jon snorted.

Then kicked him.

“Ow!” Martin complained, as if it had been hard enough to hurt in any way. “Well, that was rude.”

Jon was still red-faced and giggling, even though he had been gifted some respite. He felt like he was on a cloud. Now that he thought about it, this was the most he’d laughed in years.

Then, without warning, a finger wriggled its way between his toes.

Jon froze for a moment, processing the new sensation before letting out a loud shriek and devolving into babbling cackles. He barely managed to keep from pulling away for two seconds, abruptly curling up into a tiny ball on his end of the sofa, still laughing, and rubbing his feet against the material to get rid of the residual tingles.

He felt giddy, happy, and decided that it was definitely worth the loss of dignity.

Martin’s chuckle from the end of the sofa warmed his heart.

He cracked his eyes open just in time to see Martin bearing down on him, evil hands squeezing at his ribs a moment later.

Jon burst out laughing again and tried to squirm backwards, batting at his hands. “No-nonono- you- you can sit now!” He shrieked.

“Mmm, what of it?” Martin inquired calmly, fingers lingering at the place where his bottom ribs should have been.

“Martin- please!”

“You’re welcome.”

Jon whined. His stomach hurt from laughing, and he was pretty sure he was at some kind of limit. “S-stahap!”

The devilish hands retracted immediately, leaving Jon in his giggly cocoon of tingly skin and a giant jumper.

Martin grinned down at him. “You alright?”

Jon shot him a half-hearted glare, undercut by his continuing giggles.

Martin snickered. “You know, that was actually the first time you told me to stop. Just putting it out there.”

Hotness flooded Jon’s face. Oh. He wasn’t aware he’d been that obvious. “W-well it’s a little hard to speak when someone’s…” Oh god. He couldn’t say it.

Martin’s grin grew. “When someone’s what?”

“You know.”

“Yeah, I do, but I wanna hear you say it.”

Jon buried his face in his jumper again. “Sadist.”

Martin laughed. “Oh yeah, really sadistic of me, tickling my boyfriend until he tells me to stop.”

A whine. “Don’t tease.”

“Alright, alright.” Martin pulled him into a more upright position, wrapping him in a gentle embrace and kissing his cheek. “You are very cute though.”

“You’re terrible.”

“Mmhm.”

“You wanted the sofa so much, you can sleep there tonight.”

“Ooh, I’m so scared of the big bad archivist.”

Jon glared at him again, but this time his eyes lingered for several seconds. His pouting lips loosened into contemplation and, after a beat, into a knowing, evil smirk.

Martin blinked. “Jon?”

Hi smirk grew, and that was all the warning Martin had before thin fingers homed in on the sweet spot behind his ears.

Martin gasped, quickly sinking into the sofa, giggling breathlessly. His hands latched onto Jon’s wrists, but made no attempt to pull him away.

It didn’t make sense, this wasn’t fair, how did Jon close in on his most ticklish spot in all of two seconds?

Wait.

“You bastard!” He exclaimed, his head twisting from side to side. “You Knew!”

“Hmm? I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean, Martin.” Jon said innocently, making Martin’s face flush bright red. “I do know a lot of things; you’ll have to be more specific.”

Martin’s laughter was mostly squealing, really. And snorting. He’d always been self-conscious about it, but he could hardly do anything now. One hand fluttered around the shell of his ear, and he yelped. “Asshole!” He laughed, with no venom behind it at all. “How could you?!”

Jon only smiled at him and pressed a kiss to his cheek. He pretended to think, not stopping his playful assault of Martin’s ears. He couldn’t really be blamed though, the man was beyond cute like this, turtling his neck up, giggling, squealing, and swearing at him. It was delightful.

He hummed. “Oh, I think I see what you mean Martin!” Jon exclaimed, as if Martin wasn’t bordering on hysterics. “You’re not saying I knew that your ears were a weak spot as in I’d noticed and some point and knew the information, you’re saying I Knew, as in that I learned the information through the beholding. That’s an interesting theory, perhaps we should discuss it further?”

Martin could barely make out one in three words that he was saying between snorting giggles and shaking his head. “Nonono, noho need!”

Jon frowned, using his nails to gently scratch at the bone behind his ear and making Martin buck and shriek. “Are you sure? I wouldn’t want you to be protecting my feelings on the matter.”

“Yes!” He squealed. “Please!”

Jon grinned and kissed a line along his cheek until he could whisper in his ear. “Can you ever forgive me, love?”

“Yes! Yes- anythihing, Jon!”

“Oh, that’s good to hear.” Jon murmured in his ear. The vibration of his voice tickled all on its own, but at least his hands mercifully ceased. “You’re not just saying that?”

“Jon!”

He chuckled. “Alright, alright.” And then, just because he could, whispered, “I love you.” Into his ear, as breathily as he could.

Martin squealed loudly, slapping at him. “I love you too, you prick.”

Jon laughed again, wrapping his arms around him and resting his head against Martin’s chest. “You know, you didn’t tell me to stop either.”

Giddy giggles kept bubbling from Martin’s lips. “Imagine that.”

“It was an accident.” Jon murmured. “I didn’t mean to- to Know. Sorry.”

“I know.” Martin promised. “It’s okay.”

Jon hummed contentedly, snuggling closer and savouring the intimacy. Martin let his head drop down just enough that it was resting atop Jon’s, still grinning at the phantom tickles around his ears. It felt peaceful. It felt nice.

“Oh shit, our tea!”

#tma tickles #My writing #jonmartin #jonmartin tickles #ticklish!Jon #ticklish!martin #tma fluff #tma #jmart

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