#tim because of danny (and then sasha) and martin because he's been made to feel worthless his entire life

[screeching-painter-witch]

martim desolation power couple

[nucifraga]

so... who was going to tell me that my estimates of the tma characters' ages was WAYYY off??

and i know jonny probably meant it to be that way so that there'd be leeway for creative interpretation of the characters and all, but my brain wants them pinned down. so. here's a mini-list/research rant of my favs. presently the list consists of:

Jonathan Sims

Martin Blackwood

Sasha James

Timothy Stoker

Mike Crew !

Oliver Banks

Michael Shelley

Gerard Keay

Three disclaimers – (i) The TMA timeline is a trainwreck. Many assumptions have been made. At least half of them are probably wrong (especially where University is used as an age marker) and also my maths ability sucks because I haven’t done maths in two years, so where there are glaring issues, so feel free to correct me and I will edit accordingly :’) (ii) This is by no means definite. See above. Honestly, attempting to decipher them feels like trying to understand the Spiral. But I’m doing it anyway, because as both a fanfic writer and an academic, I want to at least try. (iii) SPOILER WARNING!! SO MANY SPOILERS! I think the only seaosn that isn't spoiled is maybeeee S5 ???

With that, let's go! [Ages are approximate & as-of 2016 / S1]

Jonathan Sims Age: 28 Birth year: 1987-1988 There seems to be a general consensus on this one. MAG81 appears to be one of the key clues here – ‘Jon says that he was about 8 during the events of the statement and that it happened a year or two after Leitner's library ended, which was in 1994. So he's born around 1987-88.’ [source: reddit]Of note is the fact that he lied about his age and pretended to be older, which is hilarious, and leads me to believe that he’s the youngest of the Archives crew – or at least, near there.

Martin Blackwood Age: 28-ish Birth year: 1988 Has worked for the Institute since at least 2009. He’s lied about having a Master’s in parapsychology, so is likely old enough to feasibly be able to have one. As all institute staff have to at least have a Master’s in something archive-related (iirc), all of them must hence be at least 22/23, assuming the Master’s courses are 1 year long. Jonny has, however, stated that Martin is either a bit older or a bit younger than Jon, and I’m tempted to believe it’s the former (see above).

Sasha James Age: 28-34, 30-ish? Birth year: 1981-1987 There’s like, nothing on Sasha. I’m assuming she’s at least older than Jon, because that might be why he began faking his age. The only possible marker would be that Sasha’s worked in Artefact Storage (for 3 months), Research (for longer, I assume) and long enough in Archives to be considered as Gertrude’s likely successor. So, definitely more qualified, and also older than Jon.

Timothy Stoker Age: 30-ish Birth year: 1986? Tim has a degree in Anthropology from Trinity College (I assume this to be Oxbridge, rather than Ireland or something, since he resides in London), and spent 5 years working at a publishing firm. This puts him at 26 (18+3+5) in 2013 when Danny was taken. As he says he began working for the Institute shortly after, I would assume that this is when he stopped working for the firm. I’ve added a bit of buffer because nobody’s birthdays are given, ever, and also there might have been a bit of time between leaving university and joining the firm and/or leaving the firm and finding the Institute. So – 30.

Okay that’s the core staff, onto my other favs.

Michael 'Mike' Crew Age: 37-ish Birth year: ~1979 My #1 avatar! I did a double-take after I worked out his entire timeline, but here’s the highlights: He was a uni student during late 1997-early 1998 when he went looking for Ex Altiora in Lion Books. I’m assuming he was a first year, because generally uni students stay in the sameish area for the whole course and I don’t see him missing out on an opportunity to Leitner-hunt just because the store was in a slightly out-of-the-way part of town. So! This puts his birthdate at around 1979-1980.

Oliver Banks Age: 28-ish Birth year: ~1987 Oliver Banks’ timeline during & post-Uni makes NO SENSE. Fortunately, we do know that he moved to London around 2005 to do his undergraduate degree at the London School of Economics. Which puts him at around 18 in 2005, and his birth year can be worked out from there. Quick rant about Oliver’s timeline: Oliver is working at Barclays by 2007, and he was recruited after graduating. Which means he both began and subsequently completed his undergraduate degree between 2005 and 2007. That’s literally impossible for a standard 3 year course. Plus, by around 2007, he’s been working for nearly a year at Barclays, so he started in 2006… so apparently he began his degree and completed it in under a year, since the academic year starts in September??

Michael Shelley / Michael the Distortion Age: 31 / 49 / early 50s (but canonically 92 at all points in the timeline) Birth year: ??? I didn’t do the research on this one, so here’s my source because I don’t think there’s any more I can add.This mess is truly Spiral-worthy, which could have been intended, but also may just be the TMA timeline wonkiness at work. There’s also been some speculation that he was hired at even younger than 18, but equally it’s possible that he was hired older, which puts his age squarely into the [I don’t have a fucking clue] range.

Gerard Keay Age: technically 32 Birth year: ~1984 Gerry was born in the 80s, and given that the above source states he was in his ‘late teens’ in 2002, this tracks. Making the assumption that he’s 18 in 2002, I’m going to place his birth year at around 1984. However, he died in 2014 (I’m assuming late-2014, given that he had time to encounter Leitner in London & travel a bit with Gertrude before his death) in the USA, putting him at around 30 at the age of his death. Since he’s dead, he doesn’t really age, but he is ‘aware’ enough to be in existential pain so I’m going to go with Descartes on this one and say he’s ‘alive’ enough to continue counting his years of existence. Poor guy. Doesn’t even get to actually die til August 2017 either.

Part 2 ft. the 4 Grandpas of the Apocalypse here

[lovelylichabee]

Good morning I have some headcanons for yall about the archives crew (mostly Martin bc I love him) in no particular order. Be warned there are some spoilers for throughout the series.

- Martin has ADHD so things like audio processing and object permanence are a challenge, and Jon being unaware of this is one of the reasons he thinks Martin is incompetent in the beginning. Because what else do you think of someone who takes twice as long to type out transcripts than his peers, or who can't focus on the follow up research assigned to him sometimes, yet other times focuses so much on it he forgets to take his lunch? Plus the man "loses" files on his desk (because to Martin he just sees a stack of uniform files and getting used to Gertrude's weird looking date-based labels as an organization system compared to the Dewey Decimal System they had in the library is damn difficult!) Upon learning he has ADHD though Jon finds that with some accommodations, Martin is actually decent at doing what he needs to for his job and feels a bit guilty for being such an ass.

- Tim was the first friend Jon made upon being hired into research which to Jon is weird because he's always had a hard time making friends (partially because he's autistic and partially because he hasn't had the routine environment to try to make friends since college). Tim is also a pretty opposite personality to him, so to Jon it felt sort of like when you meet a dog and the dog likes you *way* before you like the dog, but then he grows on you so you kinda sigh and go "Yeah yeah, we're friends"

- Sasha and Tim's hookup never grew to anything more because Sasha didn't know how to tell Tim she was aromantic without possibly hurting his feelings (meanwhile if she had just told him, he would've been fine with it and happy to be in whatever kind of relationship with her, qpp or otherwise). She never gets to tell him, so that's another reason why Tim never caught the differences between Sasha and Not!Sasha when Not!Sasha suddenly had a boyfriend (besides you know the reason that Stranger Rules that says only one person usually notices the difference).

- Jon doesn't like coffee black coffee but drinks it anyways mostly because he has always been told "if you add sugar and/or creamer to your coffee then you don't like coffee you like sugar and creamer" so to keep appearances and insisting he does like coffee, he never adds anything unless he's sure no one will see. Really, he likes black coffee with a bit of sugar because the sweetness gives the flavors something to travel on so he can appreciate them more because otherwise they're overpowered by bitterness. He doesn't like tea because drinking it feels like he's just rubbed tea leaves all over the inside of his mouth and it leaves behind a dry feeling that he hates.

- Martin's pure lonely domain wouldve been a rainy, foggy moorsland kind of environment where its very pretty but you feel like you're walking over the same hills and you feel like you see houses in the distance but you never get any closer to the chimney smoke you see peeking above the fog. You're also always damp and the air feels heavy, and you don't have an umbrella. But for just those moments when youre standing on tops of the hills, looking out to the rest of the environment though, you wonder why you'd ever want to leave somewhere so pretty, even if it is rather lonely, and far too quiet. It's a reminiscent kind of quiet, where you reflect on why you're walking alone here in the first place and not inside one of those houses in the distance with the chimney smoke... and then you keep walking because maybe if you make it there, they'll be kind and let you inside, and you can shake off all of this chilly dampness by their fireplace and company.

- Danny is Tim's best kept secret after he dies. Tim stops talking about his family after that, gets really quiet when the topic is brought up in conversation, but he's still careful not to look upset even if his shoulders tense a bit when he smiles and says something along the lines of "Nah, I don't have much family anymore" when he's asked. Their parents passed away some time after Danny was gone (by natural causes), and Tim never forgave himself for not being able to get back at whatever killed him before they passed, so he doesn't feel it's right to be allowed to talk about them until he does, like some kind of mission he has to finish before he can let himself grieve properly.

- Peter and Elias either are or were married, but with the way they act its very hard to tell if they are actually divorced or just on the brink of it because of how they interact with one another, leading to the rumor that they keep divorcing and getting remarried frequently spreading around the office. Elias knows it frustrates Peter to have attention on them like that so he doesn't stop the rumors, and sometimes actively encourages them when they're in another one of their "divorced" periods. Peter doesn't actually ever fully leave though because he considers the relationship more transactional and useful, than anything nearing "love". They have their soft moments together though, brief little moments of understanding, very privately, and never discussed again after they happen. Elias misses him after he dies, even if Peter was trying to get him killed.

- Tim could've gone Desolation if the idea of serving an entity didn't disgust him. Choosing to serve an entity is a choice that you have to make, and Tim could see in Jon what doing that does to a person, and what people serving the Stranger did to his brother (even if he didnt know exactly what it was). Even if Jon didn't really start accepting being The Archivist until after his coma, Tim was alive before then and knew that it had changed him. Plus experiencing some of the other entities (being attacked by "worms", being in the tunnels, being in Michael's hallways, dealing with Jon's paranoia and stalking, being in the unknowing and seeing what happened to Danny), he has seen what kinds of effects these entities have on people. The Desolation likely did call out to him in that moment of the explosion, and he spat in its face because he'd literally rather die than ever give himself to something like that.

- Personally, I like big but short Martin who is a bit stronger than he looks because of hefting around file boxes in the archives. I imagine "the stacks" being a bunch of shelves sort of like a library but instead of books, there are boxes that fit in, with the files inside of them, but they're left a bit open and uncovered because air flow and climate controlled environment. I don't know if that's how it works bit that's how I imagine it. And then there's a lot of file boxes sort of stacked on top of one another on the ground and stacks of files also on the ground because that archive is an unrealistic mess and sort of ridiculous. But yeah. Big but short Martin who has some hidden muscle.

- Honestly if I imagine them all standing next to each other, Tim is the tallest, Sasha is only an inch or 2 inches shorter, Jon is a bit shorter than Sasha, like up to her shoulder, and Martin is the shortest and needs help getting things off the top shelves from the other three because he wobbles too much on the step ladder and it makes him nervous (another reason Jon likely finds him a bit irritating in the beginning).

- Jon's hair starts off short and very proper but grows out a bit in season 2 because he's too busy being paranoid to take care of himself. He gets a haircut when staying with Georgie in S3, and then his hair grows out a bit again while he's kidnapped, and he doesn't cut it again before The Unknowning. It grows to his shoulders during his coma. He doesn't take that good of care of it leaves it long until the Buried, where he has to cut it all off. He doesn't cut it again and he takes à bit better care of it after being rejected by Martin. It grows abnormally quickly leading to it being past his shoulders and with some natural curl by the time he and Martin do actually run away to the safe house. He wears it up most of the time during S5.

- Martin's hair is loosely curly and a ginger orange or strawberry blonde but fades to white as he gets pulled further into the Lonely by Peter Lukas. When hes working in the office under Peter and Jon asks him to run away together, its very washed out but not fully white, and when Jon rescues him from Peter's Lonely, it is pure white, and slowly fades back to its natural color once they are together and they get to the safe house, though a patch of it remains pure white up in the front of his hair, as if he had Poliosis. In his s5 domain when he's talking to himself, Lonely!Martin continues to have fully white hair.

- I have more but this is already pretty long so I'll stop here and if people care about this I'll answer asks or do another one.

[late-to-the-magnus-archives]

Vast!Jon Au - time for some REVEALS

Oh, oh, oh, there are some BIG CLUES as to what's going on in this scene.

Fair warning: We don't know no stinking timeline. I am back on my self-indulgent bullshit, y'all, and that means it's ALL going in the pot.

Martin/Jon Childhood Friends

Vast!Jon, professional photographer

Lonely!Martin, YouTube baker

A plane crash! Angst! Drama!

Old guys playing dice with the universe!

Stoker brothers! Archivist Sasha!

Agnes Montague?

Mike Crew???

Nothing is sacred here.

And now... phase two.

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

A week of nothing is good for them all, surely.

Jon and Martin text constantly, but Jon will not show his face, or say what he’s doing. So that’s fine.

Sasha swears she’s okay, and shows up for dinner with the Stokers. She won’t talk about Jon. So that’s fine.

Martin is sure none of this is fine.

But he’s in a holding pattern until Friday, which is when he must be at the top of his game. He spends some of his waning bank account on a haircut and a manicure, ensures his clothing and makeup are on point, and prepares for the show of his life.

Not one job application he's sent out has gotten a nibble.

This Lukas thing, whatever it is, has to work.

#

Tim calls it The Martin Effect.

Danny calls it a little bit spooky.

Martin calls it working the room, and considers it an easy performance. Even when performing for a bunch of weirdos.

The Lukas family is… more than a little bit weird, actually?

They’re all tall and freakishly pale, which has to be genetic. Eyes like ice, all of them. They stand in a cluster, watching their guests, like freaky gods made of stone and misanthropy.

Oh, their smiles are friendly, and their handshakes are good, but Martin is skilled at reading people and knows damn well not one of them is actually friendly at all.

But they sure do have a fancy as fuck house.

They'd invited him to their manor, in Kent - which is nearly eighty miles from London, and would have been an automatic no (Martin has seen horror movies) - except that they prefaced the invite by explaining it had to be on a certain date because others’ schedules weren’t very flexible.

Those others were several people like him (nobodies) and several of those YouTubers mentioned in the note (nobodies who’d made good).

The Lukases even sent a car to get him. With drinks.

Fancy. 

Also weirdly lonely, because there was a divider so he couldn’t even speak to the driver, and the car wasn’t a limo but it was too big, and Martin sat in the back and played on his phone and felt severely out of place.

He’s still doing this.

The Mooreland House came looming out of an unseasonable fog like something in a ghost story. Huge, all gray stone, somehow both absurdly posh and weirdly featureless, it does not feel welcoming.

Martin arrived at the same time as everyone else, coordinated. 

Then it was awkward-as-fuck meetup time, which is fine by him.

“No, that’s completely reasonable,” he says to his fellow nobody’s absolute rant about comment misbehavior. “It feels very personal, really.”

His fellow nobody beams like Martin gave them a prize.

Martin doesn’t mean a word because the rant is stupid. They’re internet comments. Yes, humans make them, but it’s humans on the other side of a screen, faceless, nameless, person-less.

Which is how they view you, even though they have your face and name, he thinks, but outwardly commiserates with BabyBrian (whose makeup isn’t very good, but Martin won’t tell them that), then moves on to meet the next nobody in line.

He’s spent time with nearly all the nobodies now. It’s horribly familiar; same as moving every few months and first trying to make friends, then moving every few months and just trying to make peace, same as not mattering and nobody mattering and sinking slowly into himself and his mum not caring, until they came to Bournemouth, when he was six, and his father walked away, and mum didn’t want to move again.

And Martin found Jon.

And for the first time in his life, felt seen.

He remembers that. Even though he was young, he remembers meeting Jon, more clearly than he recalls his father’s face.

But that doesn’t matter, because none of these people are Jon. 

It’s so damn fake. Martin’s good at fake. He knows how to stammer just so, when to drop his eyes, how to smile. 

Just keep it together, he tells himself, because he doubts very highly that the Lukas family (who is watching all of this with unreadable expressions) is going to give them all the golden ticket.

It’s obviously some kind of competition, though to what criteria, he doesn’t know. 

So. He’s himself.

The part of himself that doesn’t have Jon, that is.

There are two nobodies left to talk to in this group, and lucky him, they’re standing together, making it easy. “Hello!” says Martin brightly as he walks over.

So, two things immediately jump out at him.

One: they are absolutely nothing alike, but when they turn as one to look at him, he feels in his core that they are absolutely the same.

Two: that something same is whatever horror now lives in Jon.

It damn near throws him.

They’re connected. They’re serving evil gods. He’s certain.

Martin smiles more brightly to cover his spike of terror and offers his hand. “Martin. I bake muffins.”

The guy responds first, smiling just as brightly and shaking his hand. “Mike. I do optical illusions.”

“Oh, I’ve seen those!” says Martin brightly. “I recognize your voice. CrewsClues, right?” It is a hell of a channel. Obviously, it must be camera tricks, some kind of manipulation, but no one’s ever figured out how he does it.

For the first time, Martin is afraid that maybe it isn’t technical prowess behind those tricks.

This guy can livestream, and while livestreaming, twist a road into spirals, or make it seem like the building he’s walking by has just rusted itself to holes and timber, to mold and curling paint. Fascinating stuff.

Mike also does gross food stuff, but Martin loves food, and won't think about that.

However, he wonders why the hell this guy isn’t on camera.

Mike is fucking hot. Fit, toned, tanned; nearly white hair, shocking blue eyes - and, intriguingly, the branches of some kind of lightning-scar peeking above his shirt to kiss his throat.

Maybe he doesn’t go on camera because his smile is as fake as Martin’s.

Something in the eyes…

Mike Crew is not a friendly person, and Martin logs him away as dangerous.

“That’s me,” says Mike. “This is Agnes.”

Agnes is… Well. Intense is one way to put it. She is unblinking, still as a sheathed knife, and does not smile. Her hair is long and auburn, her eyes seem almost orange, and she’s nearly as tall as Martin.

She also doesn’t shake hands, apparently. “Hello.”

“She’s got that It All Burns channel,” says Mike.

“Oh! Oh, that’s… wow. Fascinating,” says Martin, looking fascinated, internally terrified.

It All Burns somehow combines an unnerving, visceral fear of the dark - of what’s in the dark, unseen - with sudden and violent flame, and there’s never any way to know just what she’s going to set on fire.

Martin hadn't even know the channel was run by a she. The host never speaks.

Of course, it isn’t real, say the comments, because it’s illegal, the things she burns - from as small as fancy men’s watches to entire derelict flats. Because someone would have caught her if she were actually doing arson, and besides - no matter what she’s burning, the flame she sets always looks the same.

It’s white. 

The last time Martin glanced at her comments, speculation was still rife as just what she was doing to make flame white, regardless of fuel.

He stopped checking after that. Agnes’s videos disturb him.

Agnes disturbs him more.

Now that he knows monsters are real… “It’s great to meet you,” he chirps, smiling brightly. “Hey, can I refill your drinks?”

“Naw, I’m about to bail,” says Mike with a shrug that stretches his half-buttoned shirt (white, to make his tanned skin more interesting). “I don’t think this is for me, anyway. I was curious, but I don’t really need the help.”

“Lucky you,” Martin laughs. “Well, I’m glad I got to meet you.”

“Yeah,” says Mike, with an unexpected and appreciative look. “You’re cuter than on your videos. Maybe we should collab, sometime.”

Martin laughs like that wasn’t absolutely audacious flirting. “I don’t really know what baking and illusions could do together.”

“Could do a test. See what happens to muffins over time.”

Mike had a couple of live feeds constantly monitoring food allowed to rot.

Martin pushes those out of his head, because they’re gross. There are maggots.

Why the fuck live feeds like that had an audience, he has no idea, but he’s not letting anything like that near his muffins. “Not a bad idea. Let’s chat about it sometime, okay?”

Mike knows.

He knows he just turned Martin’s stomach.

Mike's smile is cruel.

Martin’s is sweet and sunlight and fresh-found honey.

“See you,” says Mike, and leaves.

“So that was - ” Martin starts, but Agnes is leaving, too. Did they come together? “Not for you, either, huh?” says Martin.

“It’s a trap,” says Agnes.

Martin can’t quite hide this reaction. His eyes go wide, and he goes too still, just for a moment. “What?”

“I like you. I hope you lose,” says Agnes, coat donned, hair pulled free from her collar. She meets his eyes, pinning him again. “Good luck.” And she leaves.

“But what are you - ”

Nope. She’s not going to tell him what the trap is. She’s gone.

Oh, Ariana, we’re really in it now, he thinks hysterically, and sips his drink to cover it.

So does he leave?

He has no other options. He tried to get a job. He tried to get a loan. He has to do this.

He can’t take his mother into his closet-sized flat. Not only would her hospital equipment not fit, they would definitely kill each other within a week.

Jon…

He knows Jon would take him in.

He knows Jon would spend his own money to care for Martin’s mother.

Martin will not do that. He’s refused the offer before. He won’t.

He doesn’t even know why, but he won't.

“Excuse me, everyone,” says a cheerful voice, and Martin turns to find yet another Lukas has joined the fray.

This one’s different, though. He’s not so pale. His smile reaches his eyes. “Thank you all for coming! My name’s Evan. I guess you all know why you’re here, so I won’t drag it out. Leave the long speeches to the old guys, right?”

And it’s not really funny, but his delivery is so charming, and so personable, that Martin finds himself chuckling with the rest of them. 

“It’s time for your individual interviews. Now, I need to stress this: just be yourself. A front isn’t something anyone can maintain forever, and we’re looking for genuine above all else here. As I’m sure you’ve guessed, only one of you is going to get the sponsorship this quarter.”

Yeah, they’d all guessed. A few people sip drinks, nervously.

Martin is not one of them.

“We’re going in alphabetical order,” says Evan. “And hey - there isn’t anything to be afraid of, all right? In fact, we’re giving you all financial compensation for spending the day with us so nobody feels like we wasted their time. Right! Martin Blackwood?”

Oh good, I’m the guinea pig, he thinks, and raises his hand and smiles. “Present and accounted for!”

“Come on dooooown,” says Evan.

Martin snorts. Only one other person in the room seems to get the extremely dated Price is Right reference - the sea captain, Peter Lukas.

Everyone else's looks are just... stone.

“Follow my aunt Susie.” Evan shakes Martin’s hand. “Love your muffins, by the way. They’re great for parties.”

“Right? Thank you,” Martin says, feeling like this is the first time he’s smiled for real all day, and follows aunt Susie down the hall.

[gerrydelano]

DANNY GOING 💥 ANON HERE. HEWWO. I AM SO GLAD THIS ISN'T CANON

this is perhaps??? the 8th time im rewriting this??????????? but i keep coming back to it. you're one of my favourite authors period so i HAD to just fuckging. absorb all of this so i could process it correctly.

okay okay so

1. widower tim breaks my fucking heart. like really there is no way to properly convey this to you over the screen. like. his whole thing is love, right? it's why he's the witness in literally every iteration of the gtcu. so for him to have to actually Witness gerry's death and be the most broken i have seen him across three aus where the world ends in every one of them breaks me. beyond belief. you and ren made him my favourite (next to danny) and then some. waugh

1b. 'a spire in the fog' A LIGHTHOUSE WITHOUT A LIGHT, YOU COULD SAY?

1c. i don't remember the ronologue it was exactly but it said that marriage wasn't a serious consideration but wife is a nickname that gerry loves?

2. pink is jon's honesty colour. he is wearing a pink kurta. i am going to sob.

2b. the description of the sunny day that gerry died on makes me wail.

3. MELANIE'S EVERYTHING. I LOVE HER SO MUCH. I LOVE LOVE LOVE THE IDEA OF HER MAKING A MEMORIAL VIDEO FOR GERRY FEATURING ALL THE STATEMENT GIVERS WHO WE HELPED. TIMOTHY HODGE. CAROLINE. CALLUM.

4. divishah and the cocoa. god. actually rewinding a little to say that i made it to 'no more estrogen' before crying. sasha did lose a sister!!!! HER BROTHER DIED AND SO DID HER SISTER. FUCK

4b. okay back to the cocoa. that was really kind of her to come all the way down to the archives just to bring them all a treat i love her so much.

4c. SASHA LIKE. REVERSE WITNESSING TIM? IDK HOW TO EXPLAIN IT BUT GOD. GOD GOD GOD /pos

4c(i) sasha and tim's sections ending the same then danny's ending as the inverse of that. they are the siblings 4ever.

5. DANNY. DANNY!

5b. okay i am really fucking pleased because i think i figured out a through line here. I will put it in a second ask because i need to back (9th time now!) to make sure i am correct so i will leave my miscellaneous observations here

danny only names himself in his dialogue once he recalls coming back when gerry can't

he calls himself the bull and Martin the tamer like how the contortionist did

tim standing in the doorway and blocking him out reminds me of hlm when danny comes to tims house the first time and tim refers the black out curtains he had to get bc of jon's stalking? that's like. the loosest connection ever lmao but it's a parallel and it hurts. (warm and solid vs cold and intangible...)

seconding this by the description of tim's eyes being the same way as the 'nothing. and nothing hurt' that keeps popping up in rtd.

also thanking you for letting danny cry? that sounds weird but it's nice to see a moc that just. is allowed to let it out. i am rotating him (all of them really) in my head

BOOM ANOOOON i'm so glad to see you! you really did just Infiltrate My Brain with that ask and i got completely overtaken and it feels like it's been more than 5 days ngl. thank you So much for the inspiration, i did have a lot of fun with this exercise, it was a challenge to kill my favorite LOL.

cracks knuckles here we go

1. widower tim breaks MY heart! "his whole thing is love, right?" you GET IT! his whole thing IS love! i can't see him as anything other than the witness at this point, even if pbr!witness is extremely different and Much Wetter than the original rtd!witness. him witnessing gerry's death in here is actually just fucking awful because he'd subsist on it in a very specific way; the arrangement renders it a suicide just as much as a murder. writing him this broken was so painful but so satisfying djhfkjdf tim is a worthy favorite to have! he's always been my favorite of the original archives crew, if it wasn't Blatantly Obvious by how much we center him LMAO.

1b. a lighthouse without a light.... you're krilling me, boom anon. shrimply krilling me.

1c. i believe it was the one about gerry being a transfem gay man!

2. pink! is the jon honesty color! yes!!!! he's been quite forthright this whole time i think, they're all really just. wondering what the point would be in anything else.

2b. i neeeeded that anachronism there so badly, just. it's a bright summer day! it's never actually raining or dreary when things like this happen (unless you recall that it was raining in venice when tim was drowned. that time it rained.) but generally, the world goes on. i think... i also just wanted that sunny day to be a little reminder of the kind of person gerry was at his core. symbolism etc etc.

3. i was SOOOO STUMPED ON MELANIE for a WHILE before i remembered she was a youtuber and then i exploded on the spot. her video is titled "the long overdue absolution of gerard keay" and she works for six months to make it perfect and it gets a lot of bad attention and skeptics but mostly condolences and maybe even a few people who had their own experiences but didn't recognize who he was until they saw a picture of him smiling. she'd include selfies they'd taken together as proof of her knowing him. i'm crying a little.

4. sasha losing a sister is a phrase i had a hard time with because there are so many ways to read it, like. that was her best friend's wife, and so kind of her sister that way, but also just. a sister. no more estrogen. no more joy.

4b. divshah is a sweet and thoughtful little bee girl and i am so sorry to her forever because people definitely make fun of her but GERRY NEVER DID! GERRY NEVER DID!

4c. sasha reverse witnessing tim GUHHHH yep! yep! her whole corruption thing is about grief, too, it crosses lines! they all have to do with loss in one way or another!

4c(i). YES YOU NOTICED THE INVERSE YESSSS my work here is complete

5. DANNY INDEED! FUCK!

5b. 9 times jhbfkjnfkjn wildman! i'm crying again!

observations:

YES I AM SO GLAD YOU NOTICED THAT TOO i didn't want him to name himself much in his pov section but i needed to use it there and GUH. you are the most observant and you made my night jdfhbdk

always comes back to the bullfighter and the bleeding man dunnit

that's a fun connection to make tbh!!!! i was saying to ren today "you know what'd Suck the most? if tim didn't even let him in the house and they just talked in the doorway" and they were like "then you have to do it. if it sucks the most that's what you have to do." and YEP! it sucks the most to me!!!! for precisely that reason!

tim's eyes also hurt me like hi mr. spooky man maybe work on that a little bit please g-d you're gonna scare a small child like that. very good connection to rtd though you are NAILING IT and i am over the MOON.

danny crying is extremely important to me for that reason too yes g-d. like. all the other men cried in this, too (especially tim YIKES, MAN) but something about letting danny just weep openly and in such a human way felt like. g-d he's needed this for such a long time. so much longer than anybody is able to count. he needed to let that out and be held through it and he needed to accept that comfort and it's not the first time, really! i try not to be too restrained with letting characters cry because there are a thousand reasons that somebody might like, feel good about seeing it just play out naturally and without shame.

thank you so much for your observations and your enthusiasm and just, everything, jfhbkjnfkjn gosh WOW thank you!

[iceeckos12]

A time travel au. angst and h/c. inspired by this post

Warnings: jon’s very low self-esteem

“What do you think of him?” Jon suddenly asks, staring blankly at the wall of the breakroom.

Tim pauses in the middle of chewing his sandwich to give him a long, considering look.

He’s mostly decided to suspend his disbelief until further notice, simply to keep from losing his mind. What else is one supposed to do when future versions of Jon and Martin, who are also apparently dating, tell you that your workplace is currently involved in a plot to end the world? Ideally he would’ve processed one big revelation at a time, but apparently they don’t have time for that, so goodbye grip on reality, it was nice knowing you. I’ll hit the restart button as soon as things start making sense again.

Tim wipes his hand across his mouth, swallows, and asks, “You mean Jon II?”

Jon rolls his eyes, like Tim’s being obtuse on purpose just to annoy him. “Yes, I mean...him. Me. Jon II.” Then his nose wrinkles amusingly, the same way it always does whenever he says the moniker. He’s hated it since the beginning, but it was a battle he quickly lost, what with all three of his assistants opposing him.

Normally, Tim wouldn’t have thought twice about shrugging and answering, but...Jon’s been uncharacteristically quiet lately. Oh sure, he’d blushed up a storm upon learning that his future self and Martin were dating, and he’d expressed his own misgivings at the beginning, but...since then he’s been eerily, silently watchful. In Tim’s experience, when presented with this sort of puzzle Jon generally buries himself in research, and doesn’t emerge until he’s good and ready to do so.

There’s something else on his mind.

So Tim puts down his sandwich and gives himself a moment to think carefully through his response. “I mean...he’s a lot like you, obviously. But he seems…” What’s a polite way to say, the trauma and the boyfriend seems to have made him a little more easygoing? He certainly smiles more freely than he ever has, which...honestly, makes Tim want to cry sometimes. How horrible, that so much abject cruelty had just made him more kind. “...tired. A little less high-strung?”

“I see,” Jon says, turning his mulish gaze to his curry, dragging his spoon through the thick sauce.

Tim waits a beat longer, but when nothing else seems forthcoming he prompts, “Why do you ask?”

Jon’s reaction is only to press his lips into a thin, tight line. Tim knows this mood; he’s weighing how insecure he’ll look if he says whatever’s actually bothering him out loud, versus how much he wants someone else to hear it. Pushing him now will only make him clam up, so Tim just waits.

Tim’s patience is rewarded when Jon blurts, “But you like him. You...you all do.”

“Yes,” Tim says slowly, because it’s true. Martin’s so enamoured with a Jon that actually likes him that he keeps bringing him tea just to get another glimpse of that gentle, thankful smile, just to strike up another conversation about nothing. Sasha has decided that he’s the most interesting thing that’s ever happened to her, and insists on consulting him whenever she reads a new true statement.

Tim’s personally a little unnerved by the awful, sad way future Jon looks at him sometimes, or the way he flinches back whenever someone tries to touch him without warning. But he’d taken Tim aside and quietly explained everything he knew about what happened to Danny, so.

Oh, Tim thinks, feeling like an idiot for not realizing it sooner. Jon may be an old hand at fooling others with his grumpy persona, but Tim knows that he’s just using it to hide his massive inferiority complex. “Wait, are you jealous?”

Jon ducks his head, and his ears darken. Gotcha, Tim thinks. 

“Jon, you know that that’s still you, right?” he explains gently, quietly relieved that it’s not something more complicated. “We like him just as much as we like you, because you’re the same person.”

“But he’s not the same, is he?” Jon protests. “Look at the scars on his neck, on his hand. And he has panic attacks, and he flinches at loud noises, and, and—”

He breaks off, biting down hard on his lip, threading a hand through his hair.

Tim stares at him, feeling off-kilter, like he missed a step coming down the stairs. That doesn’t sound like jealousy. “...Jon?”

Jon shakes his head, his breath escaping him in thready, devastated gasps.

He can’t tell what’s going on in Jon’s head, and it’s starting to scare him. “I can’t help you if you don’t tell me what’s wrong.”

Jon just sits there for a moment long, tugging at his hair, staring sightlessly at the middle distance. Tim gently untangles his fingers, giving him something a little more solid to hold onto.

“You all like him,” he says at last. “You all...he’s so kind, and he’s funny, and you like him, because someone hurt him first. He’s different—we’re different—because someone cut our throat and burned our hand, and you like him better.”

Tim’s horrified. “Jon—”

“Should I accept that?” he continues, the words flooding from him like a dam finally exploding in a shower of groaning wood and weathered stone. “Do I—how do I carry on knowing that I could be the person I want to become, if only I give myself to monstrosity, if only I let myself be hurt like that?”

“Of course we’re not going to let that happen to you!” Tim interrupts, voice higher and more frightened than he meant it to be. He’s applying duct tape to a raging river. He has no fucking idea how to fix this. “You don’t deserve—”

“Don’t I?” Jon demands, whirling on him, eyes flashing. “Don’t I deserve to be happy? Or am I unworthy of even this kind of improvement? Am I doomed to be like this forever?” Tears well in his eyes, spill over. “Don’t I deserve it?”

And then he slowly, inevitably, dissolves into tears, his slim shoulders shaking as he curls over and buries his face in his elbow. Tim drapes an arm across his back, angling his body so he can gently tuck Jon’s head against his shoulder. He doesn’t know what else he’s supposed to do. Even if Jon were in any shape to hear it, he has no idea how to fix this.

Tim could tell him that he and Martin and Sasha all think that he’s fine the way he is, and it’s the stress of an apparently eldritch job that’s causing him to push people away, but he doubts Jon would believe it. Words mean nothing when actions have been screaming something entirely different all this time, and Jon’s always been more observant than they give him credit for.

“Oh, Jon,” he whispers when the tears finally start to slow, dropping a kiss onto silver and black hair. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know that you felt that way.”

Jon pulls away and shrugs, averting his reddened eyes. Tim squeezes his elbow to prevent him from retreating entirely. They sit like that for a moment, Jon going very still and very tense under Tim’s hand, settling into the vulnerability like an open wound.

“I’m sorry,” Jon says finally, sniffing heavily. He’s aiming for his usual brusque, dry tone, but his voice is shaking, and he’s not fooling anyone. “That was unprofessional of me.”

Before Tim can stop himself, an incredulous laugh rips out of him. “Jon,” he says quickly, “We’re well beyond professional. You know that, right? You don’t have to hide from me.”

Jon flushes. “Yes, well—it was unfair for me to put this on you, as your fr—as…” His expression goes all fragile and uncertain, and Tim’s heart aches.

“It’s not unfair,” Tim corrects gently. “As your friend,” and here he pauses for emphasis, “I want to know when you’re feeling like this.”

“Oh,” Jon murmurs, then straightens and scrubs the teartracks from his cheeks. “Oh.”

Tim nods reassuringly, takes a deep breath, and makes an educated guess. “I know you’re scared, Jon. We all are. This place is...horrible, and seeing what you went through is...terrifying. I can’t imagine how that must be for you.” He lets his eyes flicker up. Jon’s still watching him, rapt, and good, good. I haven’t lost him. “I won’t deny that he’s getting along with Sasha and Martin quite well, but...but that’s not because of what he—you—went through. It’s because….right now, you’re pushing people away because you’re scared, but he’s already done that. He knows that pushing people away just means you end up alone. It doesn’t mean he’s a better person, just that he’s a little wiser.”

“But how can you be sure?” Jon asks, leaning forward, eyes big and desperate.

“I mean, I wouldn’t have become your friend if I didn’t like you,” Tim admits unashamedly.

His bold honesty is rewarded by Jon flushing and ducking his head.

“But even so,” he continues, sobering, “Even if you were the worst person on the planet—and you’re not—you wouldn’t deserve to be hurt like that, no matter what the outcome. Does that make sense?”

Jon looks thoughtful as he says, “I—yes. Yes, that makes sense.”

He can tell though, that Jon doesn’t quite believe him. That’s okay—honestly, it’s what he was expecting. Tim’s been running headfirst into the wall that is Jon’s terrible self-esteem for as long as they’ve been friends. This problem is going to take more than one half-assed pep talk.

That’s okay, though. Jon’s worth the effort.

[captaincravatthecapricious]

After the Circus- Part 3

@janekfan

cw: strained friendships, arguing, fainting, dizziness, trauma, references to Jon's getting covered in lotion, disassociation, food mention, mentions of panic attacks (none in the story), canon typical season three Tim headspace (although he's being less mean!)

After his kidnapping, Jon continues to have a rough time

The next time Jon wakes up, he is actually able to sit up.  He’s alone on the cot.  For a moment, he almost panics, looking for Martin in the darkened room.  

It’s hard to see.  The only light is from the hallway, oozing in because the door isn’t entirely closed.  He doesn’t have his glasses on.  He doesn’t know where those are.  

Does he just have to resign himself blurry vision and the headaches?  Not as if he doesn’t get enough of those.  He sighs.  He can’t even remember when he last had them.  Did he have them when he was kidnapped?  Did he have them when he got back?  

He makes out Martin’s blurry form sitting slumped in front of the cot.  Leaning against it and the wall.  Asleep.  

Guilt pools in the bottom of Jon’s empty stomach.  He doesn’t know what time it is.  But Martin has, presumably, been here for hours.  Jon doesn’t know how many, sliping in and out of lucidity too quickly to get a firm sense on space and time.  Martin should be at home, forgetting all this supernatural shit as often as he can, for as long as he can.  Not worrying about Jon.  Christ, certainly not worrying about Jon constantly since Prentiss.  

All those times Martin dragged him to lunch, or provided tea when he still treated Martin like shit.  

Jon can’t look at him.  

He wishes he could get Martin onto the cot and let him get some proper rest, but even in top health, he couldn’t lift Martin, let alone do it without waking him.  Best to just drape a blanket over him and let him rest.  

Jon… well he needs to get up.  Get to the loo, get a jumper, get some water or food if he can manage it.  He isn’t sure.  There’s still a good chance he’ll just end up on the floor again.  Especially without his cane.  

At least he doesn’t have to worry about Georgie.  He was leaving her place anyhow.  She wouldn’t have expected a call.  Probably.  

Standing isn’t great, but he manages his first two tasks.  Leaning on the wall is the best he can manage, but he makes the way to the break room, drowning in an oversized hoodie.  And finds Tim.  

Tim is on his phone.  He looks… tired.  He’s still wearing that familiar scowl, but it’s softer.  If Jon didn’t know better, he’d say Tim was looking worried.  If Jon didn’t know better, he’d think Tim might be worried about him.  

He’d think about that more, if his vision wasn’t starting to darken.  He takes a rather abrupt seat on the floor, in hopes of staving off another faint.  

Jon, essentially slamming into the floor makes Tim look up.  There is a long moment where he is caught between sitting still and rushing over.  (See if he’s still awake, if he’s hurt himself, if he’s hit his head, get him some salt and a sports drink.  The routine still ingrained.)  But.  He doesn’t know.  

He finds himself half standing, phone halfway on the table, screen still on, game chirping at him angrily as he loses.  

He finds himself hesitating for a long moment, before he walks over to Jon.  Slowly.  

Jon’s conscious, but looks he’s contemplating if he’s going to stay that way.  

Does Tim want to help?  

Does Jon even want his help?

If he touches Jon, will he scream again?  

If Jon screams, will Martin wake up?  

He does care if Martin wakes up.  Martin hasn’t gotten much sleep… in months, but especially not in the last couple days looking after Jon, and making sure Jon got enough water, and any meager amount of sustenance that he can manage.  

Tim wouldn’t stay for Jon, but he is staying for Martin.  

He stands there, looming over Jon.  Jon shrinks away.  Instead of making Tim feel vindicated, he just feels empty.  

He should help Jon.  So Martin doesn’t lose even more sleep making sure Tim doesn’t follow the impulse to yell and kick and argue, or simply run away.  That won’t help anything.  He’s been fighting the impulse to hurt Jon for a while.  But… but he can’t muster that anger, not now.  

Not when Jon’s wearing a jumper that Tim left at Jon’s flat back in Research.  

Not when Jon looks small and tired and sick and beaten.  

And, Tim knows, he’s had his place in this.  Much as he wants to blame the circus…  

And that’s another thing, isn’t it?  

This should bind them together, right?  Even more so than the years of friendship before everything went to shit.  This shared trauma.  Even more so than the worms?  That was a one-and-done day, and yeah, there was stuff leading up to it.  Yeah, it left a hell of a mark.  But it didn’t really change Tim’s life the same way the Circus had.  Yeah, there was pain and pt and permanent scars, but the worms didn’t take Jon for a month, they didn’t kill Sasha and Danny.  

Fuck, he doesn’t know.  It all sucks.  

The Worm trauma should have brought the three of them together (four, if Sasha had made it out, but that wasn’t the worms, now was it?  Well, if not for the worms, maybe she wouldn’t have been taken.  HE DOESN’T KNOW.)  The more Tim thinks about this, the more half finished, nonsense bullshit he thinks up for himself.  

None of what he’s trying to tell himself makes sense, and the confusion and anger sit heavily in his gut as he just stands there, like a moron.  

Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.  

He drags his hands through his hair.  Greasy and coated in days old gel.  He needs some sleep.  He needs a shower.  

He should get Jon something to eat.  

“I’m going to touch you, ‘kay?”  

Jon looks too tired to argue.  Good.  He doesn’t think he can deal with Jon’s waffling or guilt or any of that bullshit.  The ‘oh no I’m just grand why am I on the floor? no reason, let me just stalk you it’s fine.’  

Not now, Tim.  

Too tired for proper anger, and even if he wasn’t… Jon looks just pitiful, and the fight that he’s itching for won’t be satisfying if Jon passes out or cries on him.  

Jon mumbles out, “‘kay.”

Good.  

Tim scoops him up, just about effortlessly.  And Tim doesn’t know if that’s the months of pt and vigorous workouts, or that Jon has dropped maybe 5 kilos that he didn’t have to spare.  Or both.  

Tim’s gotten his muscle mass back, maybe even more than he had to start with… all that extra rage funneled into gym time.  Not particularly healthy, but better than drinking himself into a stupor every morning.  Just… you know, most mornings.  As you do.  

The change of position is enough to knock Jon out the rest of the way.  Head lolling against Tim’s chest.  

Something flickers deep in Tim’s chest.  His first impulse is to crush the feeling, but… he doesn’t.  Jon isn’t okay.  Tim isn’t okay.  

He wants his friend from Research back.  

Which… He doesn’t know if that’s possible.  Not with broken trust and hair-trigger tempers.  But, he’s just so tired.  

He dumps Jon on the couch.  Not too gently, but he props his feet up and goes to get him some lucozade and heat up a can of soup.  

Jon’s starting to come around again by the time he gets back.  The soup is… lukewarm at best.  They ought to harass Elias into getting them a better microwave…  In any case, it’s full of salt and it isn’t cold.  So… that’s something.  A little more substance than water and lucozade.  So.  It’s better than nothing.  Try to get Jon up to eating an actual meal, but Martin had pointed out that he isn’t sure when Jon last ate solid food, since he was kidnapped by plastic bastards who apparently don’t really know how humans-or vaguely nonhuman monster bosses work and how often to water or feed them, so they should take it easy on Jon’s system for now.  Which will make it easier on all of them.  

Jon struggles to sit up, and Tim doesn’t know if he wants to help.  Instead he holds the food and drink and …looms.  Jon sits up and tucks his feet up, so the blood doesn’t pool, Tim’s memory supplies.  Not particularly monstrous.  …It’s painfully familiar.  

“Small sips, then a little bit of soup.”

Jon nods, squinting up at him.  

Probably not a good sign that Jon, apparently, couldn’t find the glasses folded on the box next to the cot with another glass of water.  One Martin instructed Tim to keep constantly full.  Should he be worried that Jon is still so out of it?  Maybe?  

But he’s heard what the Circus can do to people, and he doesn’t have any clue what they did to Jon.  All he knows is, Jon is even more shy about touch than he has been.  Not that Tim really noticed.  But… he isn’t blind.  Jon’s been waking up screaming more often than not when someone touches him.  He seems okay when you go slow, or wakes up with Martin holding him, but an unexpected, or sudden, or moving at all hand, starts him into a panic attack.  

How much does Jon even remember of those?  How many has Martin talked him through?  How many did Jon lose consciousness during?  A lot of the last variety.  But he doesn’t know the numbers.  

Jon’s looking dizzy again by the time Martin rushes in.  Tim had just helped ease Jon back down.  Martin is trailing the blanket that Tim had been pretty sure Jon had been draped in last time Tim had actually been in the room and not playing on his phone.  That besotted fool, Jon, must have put it over Martin before getting up.  

“Where is he, Tim!”

“Martin, Martin.  Stay calm, would you?  Keep your voice down.”  Tim is not used to being the one trying to deescalate.  But Jon looks about half asleep.  Barely registers the shouting.  “Relax.  I didn’t hurt him.  Think he got up for the loo or for something, nearly fainted in here.  Got him some soup and everything.”

Martin drops heavily into the nearest chair, with what Tim figures must be a hell of an adrenaline crash.  

“He’s okay, Martin.  Didn’t hurt him.  I… I don’t think I want to hurt him.  Not sure if I did in the past…I sure wasn’t helping.  But I don’t think I do now.”

Martin doesn’t respond.  

“He… he looks so… fragile.  I… miss him.  And I miss you.”  

Tim looks down at Jon, and almost wants to tuck his hair back.  That frizzy and tangled hair that Jon usually keeps… well not neat.  But clean.  It’s been scrubbed within an inch of its life.  It’s dry and sad, and Tim almost …almost wants to fix it.   But he isn’t ready for that.  

Christ, he’s tired.  

He joins Martin at the table, not quite ready to meet Martin’s eye.  Not ready to see what Martin might say in return.  

“I miss you too.”

[rosy-cheekx]

Aesthetic prompt- song: "in hell i'll be in good company" by the dead south; vibe: steam off a warm drink, heavy rain on windows; color: cool gray, bronze, red :)

Took me long enough! This fic is months in the making, but I am so excited to finally be able to answer this prompt. This is chapter 1 of probably 3!

A Phoenix Razed

Chapter 1- Rebirth

---

3 days since Great Yarmouth

Tim’s hands encircled the paper cup in his lap. The cup was small, he noted; he could clasp his fingers together easily. Or maybe his hands were just big. The tea was dark, way over-steeped, and the herbal scent bloomed out in waves alongside the rising steam. There was no sugar, no milk, none of the usual accoutrement Tim used to take tea. Just harsh, bitter, black.

It’s what you deserve.

Tim rolled his eyes at his internal monologue, drama queen, and sipped the beverage. Agh, still hot? He sucked in air through his teeth, startling Martin, who he’d forgotten was beside him.

“Tim?” He snapped his eyes up from where they had been resting on the book, lips moving to form words Tim hadn’t been listening to. “You alright?”

“Hmm? Oh. Yeah, burnt my tongue.” Tim’s words sounded like a shrug, slumped and uninterested, now out of his reverie.

Silence stretched between him and Martin. Or, Tim wished it was silence. The only sound was the low static of the EEG, a rainbow of wires between the machine and Jonathan Sims’ scalp, shaved to accommodate the electrodes. What Tim wouldn’t give for any level of sound other than what they experienced right now. Any less, and there would be an answer to the question, “Will Jon ever wake up?”, and more would mean his heart was working, or lungs, or any other number of body parts to which machines were attached, waiting for any sign of response.

It’s your fault he’s like this.

It should have been you.

Tim exhaled and sipped the tea again, more careful this time. It was still hot—he was pretty sure the burn on his tongue made it feel even hotter—but he tempered his expectations and swallowed a sip of the bitter liquid, letting the raw flavor coat his throat.

“-there’s not much point to this, huh?” Martin asked, slipping a tattered bookmark between the pages of the book he had been reading—he was hoping to annoy Jon with poetry into waking up with Tennyson’s Ulysses—and letting it slip from his lap to the bed, green cover stark against the yellowish-white of the thin blanket.

“I don’t know, Marto, doctors said he might be able to hear us. Maybe dear Alfie will bore Jon back to life,” but Tim’s words lacked the bite and humor that was meant to be there.

“Don’t-” Martin warned softly, shaking his head and pushing his reading glasses through his fringe of curls. “He’s not…he’s still alive. He’s just lost.”

“You’re right,” Tim nodded, placing a hand on Martin’s shoulder lightly before pulling it away as he felt the round of Martin’s shoulder twinge under his touch. “You know what I mean.” He rubbed at the bandages that wound around his abdomen, letting himself indulge in the ache of raw skin and muscle and fat, the hiss of pain atonement for his sins.

Martin sighed, a slow, burdensome sound. “Yeah, I do.” At his words, Martin’s phone rang, and he looked at the caller ID before shoving the phone deep in his pocket, ignoring the call as he did so. “Listen, Tim, you know I’d stay longer if I could-”

“No, I get it, Martin.” Tim stood as Martin did, grabbing the IV bag by his chair for support. “Duty calls. I must away, my love.”

Martin scoffed, the pale sound muffled and diminished by the emptiness of the room. “I’ll be back tomorrow. Try to go on without me.” His voice dropped the light in it as he placed a hand on Tim’s. His hands were freezing, Jesus. “Seriously, Tim, if you need me…”

“I’ll call.” Tim waggled the phone in the pockets of the linen pants the hospital had provided. “Promise.”

--

“I hear the Great Grimaldi’s in town.”

“That’s not funny.”

“I know.”

He wished the moments after were fuzzy. He wished he could chalk his memories up to delirium or carbon monoxide poisoning. There was the detonator, small and squat in his hands. There was Grimaldi, or Nikola, or whatever that thing was. And there was Jon, kneeling, eyes piercing him in a way he had never experienced before. A moment of true lucidity amongst the madness of the Unknowing.

Tim had pressed the button, resigning this to be his final image, his final memory. The things in the world he hated most, all splayed out in front of him, with the promise of all the things he loved waiting for him. A win-win, really. Go out with a bang, leave a mark on the Stranger, cause some errant destruction, and finally see Danny again. The Stranger would never forget the Stoker brothers, that would have been for sure.

But the combustion and the flames had swept over him like a hot wind. He felt the flames lick the sides of his face, felt smoke choke his lungs, felt impossibly hot ash and air swirl around him in a tango. The building had crumbled around him and Tim had been unable to move, forced to witness every last nanosecond of the chaos he had caused.

And he reveled in it. He had won; he had beaten the Stranger. To know he had avenged the deaths of Danny and Sasha was prize enough.

None of it made any sense. He shouldn’t have survived.

How had he survived?

-

5 Days After Great Yarmouth

“Tim.”

Basira was in Tim’s room, wheelchair parked in the corner and sitting in a visitor’s chair. Her body was tense and still, reminiscent of a panther in some documentary he had watched with Jon. Ready to strike? Or run?

“Basira.” Tim’s voice was careful. “Martin said you weren’t up for visitors today. Glad to see you’re okay.”

“Save it.” Basira’s hands were fisted in her robe, the white and yellow one matching Tim’s, declaring them both as patients under observation. Tim frowned, pulling his IV behind him to sit on his bed, wincing as he bent and adjusted himself. “Daisy’s gone, Jon is…whatever he is. I survived because I was smart.”

Her voice was low and sharp, accusing him of…something. Tim felt blood boiling under his skin, as he waffled somewhere between furious and confused. “Excuse me?” He said pointedly, voice measured, squeezing tight the paper cup of tea in his hand.

“Tim, how are you not dead?” Basira gestured with her hand. “Your burns were all superficial. You broke your arm in the collapse, but you managed to survive the fire.” She shook her head and smoothed the fabric that lay there with her hand. “You and I both know you shouldn’t be alive right now.”

Tim took a steadying breath, though it did little to conceal his frustration. “So what, you think I’m fucking magical or something?” He could feel the heat and pitch rise in his voice. “You think I’m like...like those freaks we read about in the statements? Like-like Jon or Elias or like fucking Nikola?”

Basira opened her mouth to speak but Tim cut her off. “You know why I was there, Basira. For Danny. For Sasha. You bloody well know none of this was supposed to happen.” He gestured in the general direction of where Jon lay, dead to the world. “The audacity to assume I-”

“Tim!” Basira cut in, interrupting his increasingly desperate tone. “Look!” She pointed down. Following her gaze, Tim saw the paper cup he was holding. The cup of tea was steaming. No, it was boiling. He could hear the roil of the water, see the bubbles blossoming on the surface. On instinct, he yelped, tossing the cup of bitter black tea across the room, hitting the sink on the far side of the wall squarely. He winced as the liquid splashed across the mirror, the cup rolling to a stop in the basin.

“What the fuck?” He wiped his hands on his robe. “How the hell did that happen?”

“Did it burn you?” Basira asked, eyes passing over him studiously.

“Ah…” Tim turned his right hand over, checking for any splash marks or blisters on his palm. “No.”

“Are you sure?” Basira asked, raising her eyebrow. At Tim’s irritated roll of his eyes, she folded her fingers together.

“You know that’s not normal, right?” It wasn’t a question.

Tim nodded, voice stolen from him as he processed her words. “Are you trying to say I’m fireproof or something?”

Basira shrugged. “I dunno. Sounds weird enough to be right. I’d say ask Jon about it, but obviously…that’s not happening quite yet.”

“This is so fucked,” Tim mumbled, scrubbing a hand down his face in exhaustion. “I hate this job.”

--

Tim was walking in a black room. Kind of. It wasn’t black, really, nor a room—just the concept of space, devoid of color or light.

Tim was somewhere and it was dark.

He picked a direction and walked. The space he was in was hot, a dry stale heat pressing in on him from all sides. It was like that prickling heat from being too close to a campfire, where the heat should singe your leg hairs. It should have been painful. He should have been sweating. But he felt…good. Great, even. He felt alive and awake and ready.

He walked for what felt like hours in this dreamscape, not knowing where he was going. He had realized he was dreaming around the point where he noticed he was more floating than walking, being guided like a character in a low-res video game. There was something in the back of his mind nudging him forward, coaxing him along some predetermined route.

Suddenly, he stopped. There was something in front of him, maybe four meters away. He couldn’t see it, but he could sense it. This spot in space was the source of all the heat in this room, the warmth surrounding him that was more accosting than comforting. The feeling surrounding him was all-consuming and it made him feel…all sorts of things. Righteousness, anger, betrayal, pain. They were all the emotions he had been feeling at Great Yarmouth, built up upon each other, each idolized in their own way. They were the feelings he had chosen to worship when Jon had stopped being his friend and started being his enemy, when Sasha had been discovered to have never been, when he had looked Nikola in its eyeless face and pressed the detonator. It all felt good to feel.

All of a sudden Tim was struck with a sudden knowledge. If he accepted this heat, this painful destruction, he would never need to worry about being hurt again. He could protect himself, the loved ones he had left (if he still had any), and burn the hearts out of anyone who dared hurt him or his ilk. No one would ever leave him again except on his terms. He understood what the Lightless Flame meant, what it promised, what it could give him in return. He would be able to live on the destruction of those he deemed unworthy of the love of the pyre, those who had so much to lose. Like he had had, once. Like Danny had had. Like Sasha. They had had the world before them, and it was stripped away. The Stranger had the potential to take over the world and he had destroyed every last bit of success it had. And it felt good. He could chase that feeling again and again and again with a family that knew what it was like to love and lose and destroy.

All he had to do was take it in.

-

7 Days After Great Yarmouth

Tim woke up gasping for air. He could feel an icy hand on the back of his neck, colder than anything he knew, dragging him back into reality. He opened his eyes, wincing at the harsh light of his hospital room and yes, he was in his hospital room, not a great expanse of nothing nothing nothing, searching for answers. He reached a hand to the back of his head and felt a frozen rag, dripping icy water down the back of his neck, down his spine.

A nurse was at his bedside, a thin woman with dark blonde hair, checking his vitals with a delicate hand. “Welcome back, Mr. Stoker. You gave us a scare, there.”

“Wha-”

“Your monitor was beeping like mad last night. Said you had a fever of 42, but the machine was probably broken. Thermometer put you more at 40, but still, concerningly high. Gave you some fever reducers and a cool rag, kept an eye on you. Are you feeling any better?”

Tim rolled his neck, hearing his joints crack as he did so. “Uh-” He took stock of his faculties. He felt great, actually. No pain, no stiffness, just a tingling warmth spread throughout his body. Something about that felt...right. But he wasn’t sure why. “Yeah, fine.” He pulled the rag out from under his neck and noticed, for the first time, he was naked.

“Sorry,” she smiled apologetically at the flush that spread across his face and neck. “First rule of fevers: tight clothing comes off. It seemed to have done its job though. You were out for a whole day. According to our thermometers, your temperature’s gone back to normal, but we’d like to keep an eye on you a bit longer, especially with your injuries. They don't seem to be infected, so the fever might have been a latent trauma response to the explosion.” The woman shrugged, her smile light. “Our bodies do crazy things to keep us safe. Even when it hurts.”

“A-apparently so,” Tim nodded softly, squeezing his hands into fists, feeling the nails dig into his palms. At least this wasn’t a dream. He rested his head against the pillows propped behind him and sighed heavily.

The nurse left eventually, when there were no more monitors to check and Tim had promised eight ways to Sunday to press his call button if he needed anything. He settled back into his pillow, listening to the steady beep of his heart amplified on the monitor. The TV droned low in the background, newscasters revisiting today’s tragedies. Had they been on the news when it happened? Tim huffed and shook his head. Not if Elias had a say in it. Probably chalked it up to a gas main.

He grabbed the remote strapped to his bed, and flipped through the channels aimlessly, looking for something interesting…or at least to lull him back to sleep. Kids programming, soap operas, more news, interior design—wait. Tim flipped back to the news channel. Demolition of an old primary school. The reporter spoke to a heated young woman, round cheeks framed by wild curls, who spoke to the camera about the memories and traditions the school represented, how unfair it was to lose such an important monument to the history of her town.

“A shame, isn’t it?”

Tim started at the voice, whipping his head to the door, gripping the remote tight in his hand. The woman standing in the doorway of his room was short and wide, hair cropped close. She wore a grey tank top and black shorts, revealing tattoos of flames licking up the backs and sides of her calves. Something about her face was odd. A little too smooth? The grin on her face seemed wider than normal smiles were meant to be, drooping a little too low.

“Pardon?” Tim managed, grip on the call button tight, even if there was…something keeping him from pressing it.

“About the school.” She pointed to the television as she crossed the threshold, crossing her legs as she sat in the cushy visitor’s chair next to his bed. “So many childhood memories, so many job opportunities, so many opportunities for self-improvement-” She spat the word with malice. “Truly some of my favorite forms of destruction.”

Tim stared at her dumbly. “Do…am I supposed to know who you are?” Her returned chuckle burned him from the inside.

“Oh,” she crooned, more to herself than to Tim. “For keepers of the Eye, you are all so stupid. I am Jude Perry and I serve the Lightless Flame. And, if I’m right, you do too.”

[misterghostfrog]

A list of TMA headcanons in no particular order

(some of these got very long and a bit rambly)

Elias pre-Magnus hadn’t eaten citrus since he was a small child. As he hated the taste and it ‘made his mouth hurt’. This turned out to be an allergy that grew worse as he aged that never got put on his medical records. Leading to Jonah Magnus making a very unfortunate visit to the emergency room several weeks after taking over his body.

Daisy hates watching those cheesy bbc mystery shows. Because she always tries to guess the killer fist go and is always wrong. Except for the time she watched murder on the orient express.

Basira likes watching cheesy bbc mystery shows, she almost always figures out who the killer is before the episode is over. Except for the time she watched murder on the orient express.

Jon is actually mildly allergic to cats, this has never once deterred him.

Martin was actually a catch-all backup for Magnus’s plans. If his archivist died Martin was easily manipulated emotionally and would be pretty easy to push towards the other entities, and he didn’t have enough family to be missed if Jonah needed a new host. 

Jon was one of those kids that was really small  until middle school and then hit 5′4 super fast and everyone assumed was going to be ridiculously tall, but never grew past that. 

If Tim had survived the unknowing I think he would have had a quiet camaraderie with post-coffin daisy. He wouldn’t be back to his jokey self, he never would be I think, not really. And she had done some scary and kinda unforgivable stuff, but he would still sit with her and help her with exercises.

On that same thread, if he survived the unknowing he would have done as Melanie did and quit. His arrangements would have been different, he wouldn’t be close to anyone outside the institute anymore, and inside the institute he wouldn’t really trust anyone. But he’d make solo arrangements and quit, probably start working on publishing again, or at least try to. The others would visit from time to time to make sure he’s doing alright, he would be pretty aimless though until he gets a guide dog. It’s Melanie’s suggestion, since he doesn’t have anyone to help him out he should get a guide dog to help. It’s expensive of course, but the institute paid out the ass in ‘accident compensation’ so he has the funds.

He considers naming it after Sasha or Danny, but then again reminding himself of two people he couldn’t save every time he needs to call his dog doesn’t seem like the best idea. So he names it spooky instead. Jon hates the word and he’s still mad at him, (though he doesn’t have the energy to hate him anymore.) and it feels fitting.

Spooky ends up being emotional support as well as a guide dog, helping ground him when things get too much. Because things do get too much, often. He’s lost everything, almost everyone he’s ever really considered a friend left or died or ran off or betrayed him and he’s just there. Trying to pick up the pieces.

But he’s free. And sure maybe everything fell apart but he’s done with the supernatural. It’s out of his life forever. And if that’s all he’s got then he’ll take it.

Jon is a sleep-clinger, and Martin is one of those people who always ends up taking up the whole bed when they sleep. Not because he’s big but because he spreads out. He also always kicks off the blankets no matter how cold it is. So safehouse mornings always found them in a weird sort of position of Martin starfished over most of the bed, and Jon curled up wherever happened to be warmest when the blankets vanished.

Sasha tried to knit once and ended up hating it, and gave all her supplies to Tim. Who is absolutely atrocious at it but he loves doing it. He loves to threaten to knit Sasha a scarf one day.

[supercasey]

Dumb thoughts on the Child Avatars AU

I dunno, just some dumb ideas I’ve had since I started talking about the AU online/brainstorming about it. (Putting it under a readmore for everyone’s sake)

The “Daisy kidnaps Jon” situation in this AU is Daisy riding her bike to Simon Fairchild’s mansion, holding a water-gun up to both Mike and Jon’s heads, and ordering them to ride with her to the grocery store to buy soda and hang out at a nearby playground for the day. Cue Elias flipping tf out when Jon isn’t at Simon’s place when he goes to pick him up later, Simon being half asleep because he was napping while the kids hung out, and Mike getting soaked by Daisy before he agrees to go with her, and since this happens in, like, late fall or early winter, he gets pneumonia afterwards and can’t hang out for awhile, leading to the kids jokingly saying he’s dead. Btw the only reason the trio was found is because Basira was invited after they made it to the park, and she convinced Daisy to let the boys go home. Daisy literally only kidnapped them because she wanted to play with someone.

Also the Buried!Daisy arc is Daisy getting eaten by a Buried controlled sandbox and Jon jumping in after her. The rest of the kids, who thankfully witnessed this, spent the next three hours digging for them, with Breekon & Hope eventually joining in to help since they were in the area. Daisy and Jon form a trauma bond afterwards and are now best friends.

Jon keeps getting marked by shit and it’s stressing Elias out because hE’S NOT READY FOR THE WATCHER’S CROWN YET!!! He needs more time to prepare, but his son is literally getting marked faster than fucking Sonic.

Speaking of Sonic, seeing as the “Console Wars” (Sega vs Nintendo) are happening during this time period, the kids take the rivalry Very Seriously. The biggest arguments are had between Sasha, Daisy, Julia, and Mike, who are all on Team Sega, and Jon, Martin, Tim, and Danny, who are all on Team Nintendo.

Sasha, close to tears she’s so angry: “Sega DO what NintenDON’T, Tim!!!”

When Martin was born, he only had one thick clump of curly hair that was white, but as he’s grown older and entered the Lonely multiple times, more of his hair has begun to turn white. As of the time of the AU “starting” (so when he’s 8 years old), he looks like he has white highlights in his hair.

Trevor isn’t a fully-fledged Hunt avatar yet, but the girls more or less are, so if you’ve ever watched Wolf Children, that’s pretty much the situation Trevor is currently trapped in. His daughters keeping changing into wolf pups and running wild as he frantically tries to hide their powers from anyone who isn’t Gerry.

(All of the kids secretly know already, even Basira.)

Basira is pretty much the only “normal” kid of the avatar children, save MAYBE for Tim, but he’s been deeply marked by the circus and has a few tiny powers (think S3 Jon as he was figuring out some of his powers, but wasn’t a full-on Archivist just yet).

The season 1 gang (including Danny) are the closest group of friends in the AU, save for Daisy and Basira’s friendship, and they hang out a lot at each other’s homes on the weekends.

Adelard usually brings Jane with him for his “trips” away from the institute, so it’s not unusual for her to be gone for long periods of time. But she always sends postcards and gifts to the institute for everyone!

Helen is three years old, so theoretically she should be able to talk, but she rarely does so, preferring to communicate via giggles and laughter. Only Jon, the Stoker brothers, and Michael can understand her, and they take turns translating for everyone else.

Whenever she’s brought to the institute, Helen takes to toddling around after Jon and Martin, giggling up a storm the whole time. Jon finds it a bit annoying while Martin is endlessly amused by her antics.

A list of the guardian’s/adult’s ages before I fucking forget (as of when the AU “starts” in 1994): Gertrude Robinson - 62, Elias Bouchard “Jonah Magnus” - 51 (200+), Peter Lukas - 55, Simon Fairchild - 83 (300+), Gerard “Gerry” Keay - 30, Michael Shelley - 32, Alfred Grifter - Unknown, Adelard Dekker - 48, Nikola Orsinov - 30ish (100+), Annabelle Cane - 34 (Unknown), Trevor Herbert - 47, Agnes Montague - 25ish (60+), Jude Perry - 35, Jared Hopworth - 29, The Admiral - 10.

The “good” parents all keep trying to set up some kind of PTA meeting so they can actually talk about how to raise these supernatural kids properly, but it keeps going horribly wrong; last time they tried, Alfred Grifter and his band showed up and nearly made Simon go deaf, so no one wants to initiate the next attempt at a meeting.

Tbh, at this point the Fear rituals are more successful than Elias’s shitty attempts at forming a PTA.

At some point in the AU Gerry, Michael, and Trevor all pitch in to buy a decently big house together, which leads to some serious Shenanigans now that Melanie is around Michael and Trevor’s kids/wards... let’s just say there’s gonna be a lot of knife related accidents.

Gerry taught Melanie how to fight when he took her in and it is the single worst decision he’s ever made in his short, goth life, even if he’ll never admit it. Melanie can now beat the shit out of everyone but Julia and Daisy, and it’s pure chaos every time. Tim puts up a decent fight, but he’s been spoiled on easy wins over his brother all his life. Jon tries and fails to so much as push her. Martin runs away crying before Melanie even throws the first punch. Needless to say, the other kids are very cautious about playing with Melanie now.

None of the kids have an education of any kind except for Mike. I’m serious; the only kid who’s decently educated is being raised by Foxy Grandpa Off His Shits McGee! Julia and Daisy have had some public education but not much, Elias refuses to do anything but home-school Jon yet he sucks shit at math, Tim and Danny don’t even know what a school fucking looks like, Melanie and Jane were too young to go to school when they became avatars, Martin has only recently been allowed near other kids so fuck public school (Peter can do math but Nothing Else), Annabelle fucking forgot to give Sasha any kind of an education outside of Web stuff, and Helen is still a very small child. None of these kids have gone to school for more than a few years at most and dear g-d is that gonna suck for them later down the line.

As a result of this, Basira has taught the other kids a few things when she’s come over and insisted on playing “school” with everyone, but she’s still just a kid and can’t always get them to pay attention during her lessons.

Because of this Rosie, Gerry, Michael, and Gertrude have all started making an effort to more or less home-school all of the kids, which has gone... well enough, I suppose. However, things have recently taken a weird turn since Jon keeps giving everyone the answers to assignments/tests via telepathy.

Jon: Whoa, you can make tea all by yourself, Martin!? Martin: Yeah, I’ve been doing it by myself since I was a toddler. I can also do laundry, mop floors, vacuum, and cook a few things, too! Tim: Wow, that’s really cool, Martin! I wish I could do stuff like that. Gertrude, off to the side: *Gives Peter a horrified look* I’m sorry, but did Martin just say he’s been making tea on his own since he was a toddler? Peter:  ╮(╯ _╰ )╭  Unfortunately, I’m severely depressed.

Yeeeeeeeah, Martin’s in a similar childhood situation to his canon one, but at least there are people actually willing to help him out of it in this universe. Also, Peter will clean himself up at some point here, he’s just still dealing with more or less disowning himself from his family and learning hoe to not be so lonely.

Speaking Of Which, the Lukas family are pretty big antagonists in this AU, primarily through Peter’s mother (I’ll come up with a name for her later if I can’t find it on the wiki), who is trying to kidnap Martin and more or less feed him to the Lonely so Peter will get over his “childish feelings” and return to being her favorite child.

And yes, she DOES accidentally kidnap Jon instead at some point... this kid can literally not avoid getting kidnapped.

I like to think Mike and Julia are really good friends in this AU, being the closest in age and all. They hang out a lot since their dads are both so chill and won’t get upset about it, the two of them mostly just playing video games, watching movies, and biking around their respective neighborhoods together.

(Also they may or may not be responsible for a statement that involves a woman seeing a “flying wolf” passing over London... they’ve yet to confess to it, but Elias is dead certain they’re behind the incident.)

The worms incident is 100% Jane’s secret worm collection getting fucking loose... she was keeping them in the walls “for safe keeping” and No One Fucking Knew, not even Elias, until Jon saw a spider, punched the wall, and Revealed them.

Jon and Tim got their scars because Jane lost control of the worms and they burrowed into the kids. Cue a very panicked 999 call from someone in the institute and Child Services almost getting involved, but Elias managed to cover it up.

Afterwards, Jon is incredibly self-conscious about his worm scars, but Martin tells him “now we both have freckles!” and it honestly makes him feel a little better about the whole thing.

Also Adelard makes an effort to track down a child psychologist/counselor with institute ties so he can get Jane some therapy/help controlling her powers. He loves her to the moon and back, and he’s terrified of her getting traumatized by what she accidentally did.

During the incident, a Notthem gets loose from Artifact Storage and attacks Sasha, but seeing as Sasha is of the Web and the Notthem is connected to a Web artifact, it only manages to really hurt her, but thankfully not kill her. She ends up hospitalized for a few weeks, but comes out fine later on. The table mysteriously disappears afterwards, and no one knows if it was Gertrude or Annabelle’s doing, but either way, the kids never have to deal with a Notthem again.

At some point I wanna get into Jon’s paranoia in season 2 for this AU, but I’m considering changing it from being because of the Jane Prentiss issue to be because of Mr. Spider almost killing him. I dunno how exactly it’ll play out, but I think it has a lot of potential!

Okay, before I end this post full of weird rambling ideas for the AU, I wanna make a list of the powers that the kids have at the time of the story “starting”/the ones they develop down the line because Jonny Sims himself said that all avatars have different powers, and I really wanna infodump on my thoughts for the kids!

Current powers of Jonathan Sims-Bouchard: Can simply know things whenever he wants to (so long as the Eye lets him, but the Eye sometimes keeps him from knowing anything he isn’t mature enough to handle), can compel people to tell him things (the other kids are better at resisting it, and so are other people touched by the Eye), can survive on very little food if he’s fed mostly statements/other people’s trauma, can non-consensually feel the pain and emotions of the people around him, has some weak telepathy powers, and he can subconsciously summon tape recorders.

Future powers of Jonathan Sims-Bouchard: Increased healing abilities, can know most anything if he tries, ability to resist other Eye avatars’ compulsions, can survive purely off of statements/other people’s trauma, can choose whether or not to feel the pain and emotions of the people around him, has much stronger telepathy powers than before, can force himself into people’s minds and read their thoughts, and he can summon tape recorders at will (though some still show up without his knowledge sometimes).

Current powers of Martin Blackwood-Lukas: Can disappear into the Fog for several hours at a time (he cannot be seen by anyone but other Lonely avatars while in the fog), can summon clouds of fog that he can momentarily hide things in (including people), can “banish” most anyone into the fog, and has “Sea Captain Eyes” (he knows where the Tundra is at all times, and can lead someone to it without a map or compass).

Future powers of Martin Blackwood-Lukas: Can change his hair color at will (only to red, white, and a mix of the two colors), can see much better in the Fog and can find anyone he’s pushed into it, can more or less teleport using the Fog, and he has what’s more or less a pocket dimension of fog for storage/hiding his friends from danger (think the inside of Gems in Steven Universe).

Current powers of Tim Stoker-Orsinov: Can make small bipedal toys “come to life” for a few minutes at a time (they can’t talk or communicate; only move around and perform small tasks/dances), can tell when a Notthem is masquerading as someone else, is supernaturally talented at gymnastics, and can dance alongside the creatures of the Stranger without being fully corrupted by them.

Future powers of Tim Stoker-Orsinov: Better control over the powers he already has as well as a high tolerance for the Spiral.

Current powers of Danny Stoker-Orsinov: Can order around creatures of the Stranger against their will, can tell when a Notthem is masquerading as someone else, can dance alongside the creatures of the Stranger without being fully corrupted by them, is supernaturally talented at gymnastics, and can change his voice to anything he likes (not always intentionally, though).

Future powers of Danny Stoker-Orsinov: Can more or less “teleport” to other circus locations by walking into theaters, can now change his voice to whatever he likes with his knowledge and consent, can take over as the Stranger’s ringmaster if necessary, can trigger a mesmerizing dance whenever he’d like, and has a high tolerance for the Spiral.

Current powers of Sasha James-Cane: Can communicate with spiders and have them send messages to other Web avatars, can read minds if she tries really hard, can “trap“ other entities in large webs that she can summon (takes a lot of energy), and she has Spider-Man-like abilities (can walk on walls and ceilings, can carry much more than her weight should allow, etc).

Future powers of Sasha James-Cane: Can now read minds without too much effort, can navigate almost any area that’s being controlled/influenced by the Web, can create webs without nearly as much effort as before, can transform her body to have more arms, legs, and eyes, and she now has venomous fangs (which can thankfully be controlled and/or hidden).

Current powers of Alice “Daisy” Tonner: Can turn into a wolf at will/when she’s especially emotional, can smell blood from several miles away, and has supernatural senses/physical abilities.

Future powers of Alice “Daisy” Tonner: Can now track most any monster she’s hunting once she gets at least one good look at them, can communicate with other Hunters via howling, and can navigate the Buried if needed (though this is very triggering for her and will cause her to pass out afterwards).

Current powers of Julia Montauk: Can turn into a wolf at will/when she’s especially emotional, can smell blood from several miles away, has supernatural senses/physical abilities, can track most any monster if she knows their name, can communicate with other Hunters via howling, and she can shift into a bipedal werewolf when she feels like she’s in danger.

Future powers of Julia Montauk: All of her previous powers have drastically improved, plus she has better control of them now.

Current powers of Basira Hussain: She has common fucking sense, something almost none of the other children have.

Future powers of Basira Hussain: She common sense AND she has a werewolf GF now. :) ((No dating for the babies, not until they’re at least teenagers))

Current powers of Melanie King-Grifter: Can listen to Grifter’s Bone without being damaged in any way, the music of Grifter’s Bone makes her powers exemplified for a period of time after she listens to it, the smell of blood triggers her to become violent, she can summon sharp weapons (knives, swords, etc) from thin air, and she can see a red aura around other people who have been marked by the Slaughter.

Future powers of Melanie King-Grifter: She has much better control of her abilities now, she can perform Grifter’s Bone songs for people and keep them from dying/going feral, and she can now also summon other weapons from thin air (guns, baseball bats, etc).

Current powers of Oliver Banks: Can see people’s deaths a week in advance via his dreams, he sees dark tentacles around people who are going to die soon, can see but not talk to ghosts, and he can smell death on anyone who’s undead/controlling other people’s bodies.

Future powers of Oliver Banks: Can raise the dead and control them to do his bidding (takes a lot of energy), can speak cat (not End related; Admiral related), and he can cause people to die within the week if he touches them in his dreams.

Current powers of Georgie Barker: Can see a “death countdown” over people who are going to die within the next thirty days, doesn’t feel any fear whatsoever, can see but not talk to ghosts, and she sees a dark sludge staining the clothes of people who have been marked by the End.

Future powers of Georgie Barker: Can bring people back to life for a minute or so by touching them (think Pushing Daisies type powers), can speak cat (not End related; Admiral is best cat dad), and she can communicate with ghosts much better now.

Current powers of Jane Prentiss-Dekker: Can summon bugs of most kinds from her mouth and under her fingernails, can communicate with bugs, and can fight off most diseases without any trouble.

Future powers of Jane Prentiss-Dekker: Can now completely control bugs via a hive mind effect, can summon bugs from anywhere on her body, has much stronger healing abilities than Jon, and she can see invisible bugs crawling on the skin of those who the Corruption wants her to get rid of (it’s hard for her not to give in to it’s desires).

Current powers of Mike Crew-Fairchild: Can levitate/fly at will, can summon clouds of any kind (rain, thunder, snow, etc) in any conditions, has much higher resistance to the weather/temperature, and he can “banish” people into the Vast at will.

Future powers of Mike Crew-Fairchild: Same as before, but with slightly better control than he had as a teenager.

Current powers for Helen Richardson-Shelley: Can change the world around her to be more like the Spiral (adding more doors, changing the colors of things, causing hallucinations, etc), can change any door into a doorway into the Spiral, and she can amplify her voice (very hard to control as a baby).

Future powers for Helen Richardson-Shelley: Can now summon doors that lead to the Spiral from thin air, has much better control over her powers and abilities than before, can morph her body to be longer and sharper at will, and she can “banish” people into the endless hallways of the Spiral.

((Holy shit, that took awhile))

Anyways, here’s a playlist I made for the AU, feel free to scream at me for my very weird taste in music: Pinky Swear That You Won’t Go Changing

[ollieofthebeholder]

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

Read from the beginning on Tumblr || Also on AO3

Chapter 55: Assorted statements of the Magnus Institute archival staff and sundry associated, prior to their departure for Great Yarmouth.

[CLICK]

PAST ARCHIVIST

Statement of Jonathan Sims, Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute, London. Regarding the upcoming…operation. Fourth April, 2017. Recorded direct from subject. Statement begins.

I-I wanted to get some thoughts down before…well, everything. We all should, actually. I’ll—I suppose I’ll mention it to them.

(sigh) God, I hate that I can’t just record my thoughts these days. I have to make it a statement anymore.

It looks like we’re all set. We hammered out the last of our plans last night, went over it to make sure we have everything timed as precisely as we can. Myself, Daisy, Basira, Tim…we’re all going to be heading off to this House of Wax. Sneak in as best we can. Daisy will set the charges while the rest of us run interference, then we’ll set them off once the ritual begins. All the research, both ours and Gertrude’s, shows that this is our only chance. Anything we do before the ritual can be easily repaired. But once it’s underway, if we stop it, it will be centuries before the Stranger can try again.

Of course, we know damn well it won’t succeed. If we let it play out, it will collapse on its own. The trouble is, we don’t know what that collapse will look like. Would that be anything more than a simple delay, as far as they’re concerned? Would the Stranger simply try again, in a year, two years, five years? Even if we destroy Nikola Orsinov—“the Dancer,” Gertrude called her—surely she can be rebuilt easily enough. And all the other players…no. It’s too great a risk to simply let it fold in on itself. The Stranger has been collecting skins for ten years. We owe it to them to put what’s left of them to rest.

Daisy’s made it clear that she thinks her best chance is to go in alone, and honestly, I struggle to disagree. But I have to go. Not because Elias is making me, or because I feel compelled to, but…(sigh) Tim. I can justify this operation all I like, but the truth of the matter is that we’re largely doing it for Tim. This…this ritual is the reason his brother died. The Circus, the Stranger, it stole his brother’s skin.

God. I’m the only one of us without…without a dog in this fight, I suppose? No, that’s not the right way of phrasing it. But Danny is undoubtedly going to be part of the Dance, however much we want to believe otherwise. And Gertrude…of course Orsinov is going to, how did she put it with me, “wear her to dance the world new.” Tim’s brother, Martin’s grandmother…

I’m, I’m almost tempted to look up my grandmother’s grave, or my father’s, and find out if they’ve been disturbed. I have to assume it’s been too many years, but I have no idea how long they’ve been collecting these skins, so what if—no. No, that’s not—it wouldn’t work like that. They only dug up Gertrude because they wanted her power. Everyone else, it appears, they took…alive. I don’t know enough about taxidermy to know how long a thing can be dead before its skin can’t be preserved, and frankly I don’t want to.

It’s enough to know what I know. Enough to be doing what I’m doing.

It has to be.

[CLICK]

———

[CLICK]

SASHA

Statement of Sasha James, Archival Assistant at the Magnus Institute, regarding what I did not study Classics well enough to understand why it has been termed Operation Janus. Recorded by subject, fourth April, 2017.

I know why I’m staying back. I get it. It wasn’t the original plan, but I get why Jon gave in to it. He’s right, the more people go, the more dangerous it gets. It doesn’t take eight people to push a button. And with my uncle being back, I don’t—I owe it to him to stick around. Staying back here is going to be safer. Probably.

Still…I have to admit I’m a little jealous that I don’t get to go.

I’m curious. That’s the problem. Curious and excited in ways I shouldn’t be. The description of the last attempt at the Unknowing fascinates me, and I want to see the ways this one will be different. I want to see if I can stand in the face of the Stranger and come out on top. And…well, the Stranger is our antithesis, after all. We know and it conceals. It’s one of the few secrets I can’t just pluck from the air, and that excites me and infuriates me in equal measures.

I want to know.

(short laugh) God, that’s probably the other reason everyone got immediately on board with the whole “stay behind, Sasha” thing. They know I’m the most likely to be a…rogue element. They know that as much as I want this to work and want everyone to come home safe, I’d be the most likely to go poking around in places I shouldn’t, sneaking around trying to ferret out secrets, tape recorder in hand and eyes wide open. The chances of me doing something—incredibly stupid and getting caught in the middle of the Unknowing is high.

I would, too. I’d be the one that would screw everything up for everyone. Not on purpose. I know how much this means to Tim…and because it means a lot to Tim, it means a lot to Jon and Martin, too. We’ve put a lot of work into this and I don’t want to blow it.

But I—I know myself. If I were to go, there’d be that niggling little voice in the back of my head telling me that it doesn’t matter, that what we do won’t change the course of the world. That this ritual is doomed to fail anyway, so who cares if they can’t blow it up because I’m up there trying to watch it?

The trouble is that I wouldn’t tell them I was going. I’d just…slip off. Find a good vantage point to watch it all from. They’d never know I was up there and Tim would press that button and…

Anyway, I’m needed here. They’re right about that. This part of the plan needs all the people it can get. The more, the merrier, all that. And there are enough parts of it that I don’t know about—or don’t know the purpose of—that it’s built up my curiosity. It’s going to be pretty interesting, and I’ll get to be there to see it. I hope. And it’s not like I can’t get all the details out of the others easily enough afterwards.

It’s fine. It’ll be fine.

[CLICK]

———

[CLICK]

BASIRA

Statement of Basira Hussain, fourth April, 2017, at the request of Jonathan Sims.

I don’t have any idea why I’m doing this. I mean, I’m not talking about the actual…mission. I’m not talking about what we’ll be doing come Thursday. I know why I’m doing that. I don’t know why I’m doing this, except that Jon asked me to. Asked us all to, really. And Sasha passed me off the recorder, so…here I am.

I don’t want to be part of this. I never did. I never made a secret of the fact that I wanted nothing more to do with all this…paranormal and supernatural stuff. When I was done with the police, I was done with Section Thirty-One and all that entailed. And then I let myself get dragged back into it like I’d never left. I know what we’re likely to be up against and I’m doing it anyway.

Maybe that’s part of the reason why. I can’t let them go into this alone.

Let’s be honest. I’m not helping out because I want to save the world. Not even because I think this thing is all that dangerous. I’ve helped out up to this point because of Sasha. I’m going because of Daisy.

I’ll admit, I’m…torn. I want to be there for Daisy. She was always there for me. She’s…dependable. Solid. You know where you stand when you’re with her. I know the others don’t trust her all the way, but really, she’s always been a good partner to me. Maybe her methods weren’t always the greatest, but she knew what she was doing and why she was doing it. It’s easier to see the way straight with her. You go in, you blow things to hell, you get out. You stop the monsters. You fix the problems. Simple.

At the same time, I—I feel like I ought to be here. To help Sasha. She keeps telling me she’ll be fine, that it would be a lot more suspicious if I stayed than if I go, since I don’t work at the Institute. There’s no reason for me to be hanging around here. I know she’ll have Melanie and…I know she’ll be okay. Logically, I know that. But still…

I don’t trust Elias. I mean, shocker, nobody trusts Elias. Just thought it might be useful for someone to know that it’s not just people who work here who don’t trust him. I’ve met him all of twice and I felt like I had to go take an immediate shower every time. But I feel like Sasha’s—the part of the plan Sasha is helping with has a lot more potential to go wrong. It relies too much on Elias Bouchard acting the way they’re predicting, and I don’t know about that. I think there’s going to be trouble.

Then again, I don’t know that it’s the kind of trouble I can help with, or if I need to be there to make sure Daisy doesn’t get in a sticky spot.

(deep breath) God, just make a decision, Basira.

I think I have to go. I think…they’re not going to have the kind of help Daisy might need if I don’t go. Sasha will—she’ll be okay. She’s got backup here. It’s going to be fine.

It’s fine.

[CLICK]

———

[CLICK]

MELANIE

Melanie King, fifth of April, 2017, 8:21am.

All right, Jon, let’s make this clear: I’m still not doing this for you. I’m doing it because Martin asked me to.

Everyone’s leaving tomorrow. Everyone except those of us who are sticking around to deal with Elias. Um, I’m not sure what time everyone’s leaving. They’re going to let us know before they do and we’re all going to meet up at the Institute if we’re not already here, but I think there’s a lot of “if we don’t say when we’re leaving exactly, it’s harder for people to track us down” going on. Even though apparently Rosie booked them into a B&B, so it’s not like they can’t be traced.

I mean. I know what they’re doing is mostly superfluous. They’re not—it’s not going to make a difference if the Unknowing gets pushed back, ‘cause it won’t work. They can blow what’s left up after and it’ll still be fine. But I’m kind of worried that they’ll get caught ahead of time and…I don’t know how this stupid Dance is actually supposed to work.

My dad gave me this book of Hans Christian Andersen’s stories when I was a kid. Fake leather binding, gorgeous artwork. It had a picture of Kay asleep in the Snow Queen’s sleigh on the front and full-color plates in it. My favorite story was “The Red Shoes”. I don’t know why I liked that one so much, but I used to ask my dad to read it to me, over and over, and he always did the same voices and everything. Every time someone mentions the Dancer, or the Dance, I hear his voice, pretending to be the angel in the churchyard.

“Dance you shall,” said he, “dance in your red shoes till you are pale and cold, till your skin shrivels up and you are a skeleton! Dance you shall, from door to door, and where proud and wicked children live you shall knock, so that they may hear you and fear you! Dance you shall, dance—!”

It didn’t end happily, that story. Or it did, depending on how you look at it. She repented and got forgiven in the end, but then died immediately. Dad always said Andersen had to end it that way because he knew if she didn’t die right away, she’d fall right back into her old ways. I don’t know if that’s the parallel I’m thinking of with this…creepy puppet person or if I’m just thinking about it because of the dancing bit.

I think it helps that I got all that stuff about India off my chest already. I didn’t—there are universes where I didn’t talk about it and I was just so angry all the time. I’m always angry, let’s be honest. That hasn’t changed. But I didn’t let it…fester. There’s some things festering, sure, but not all of it, and I’m really glad of that, I think.

I can do this. We can do this. And (heh) I like this plan a lot. Don’t know much about it, but I know how it’s going to end, and I am completely on board with that.

Oh, and Martin—if you’re listening to this…you’ve got a deal. After everything is over, I’ll get Jon Prime to get that bullet out. I promise.

[CLICK]

———

[CLICK]

TIM

Jon, Martin, if you’re listening to this before we leave…don’t. Please just don’t. You can listen to this later. After. Not now. I can’t say this if I know you’re going to listen to it before. And whatever else you are, whatever put these recorders here, I—if you tell them, I will find some way of making your existence miserable for all time. Don’t test me. I’ll manage it somehow.

I…I don’t know what to say. I don’t know how to…you know what, no. It works when the others do it, so…what the hell.

Statement of Timothy Stoker, Archival Assistant at the Magnus Institute, London, involving conclusions and endings. Given directly, fifth August, 2017. Statement begins.

I know I’m not coming back from this. I realized that a couple weeks ago. It’s been…not as hard as it should be, actually, to sit with them and smile and joke and be…me. I should feel worse about it. I should regret it more, mourn more for what I’m not getting, you know? There should have been more hesitancy. More melancholy.

It should’ve been harder for me to hide it from them.

But…it’s not. It’s like Jon’s dad said in his statement. Regretting the life you won’t get just means you waste the life you do. So even knowing I won’t live past…tomorrow, I’ve been making memories. For them if not for me. Charlie especially, he doesn’t need to…he’s lost enough in his life. Better for him not to dwell on it. But for all of them, I don’t want their memories of these last few days to be…tainted with knowing I’m going to die. Or with knowing that I knew I was going to die.

I—I need to do this. It’s not like it used to be. It used to be all revenge. Even a year ago, I would have gone full red rum on this museum and started hacking up waxworks to punish them for what they, it, did to Danny. It’s not the same now. I don’t have that burning hatred, that thirst for revenge…plus, you know, it might be kind of hard to swing an axe with one hand in a cast, so that’s out. Don’t get me wrong, I want to pay them back for skinning my brother. I want to pay them back for threatening Martin and torturing Jon. For what they did in that—that other universe to Sasha, to Jon Prime, and, well, maybe a little to me. I do want revenge for all of that.

It’s just that now it’s—I can get revenge just by watching it collapse. Don’t have to blow it all up for that. The best revenge might be seeing the look on Nikola Orsinov’s plastic face when she discovers that she hasn’t danced the world new after all. That it’s still the same old world and she hasn’t won a damn thing. Might be worth it for that.

But it won’t be. I have to—if we just let it collapse, they might still be able to try again. Who knows who else might be hurt, might be killed, because the Stranger has so much power just…swirling around? Whereas if we blow it up, we can disrupt all of that. We can keep anyone else from finding their brother’s skin pulled off like a tablecloth, or from being chased by a monster pretending to wear someone else’s skin, or from spending two weeks tied to a chair and being basted like a turkey. I can’t let the Stranger go near them again. I can’t let them be hurt.

So. Plastic explosives it is.

And I’m not—I know it’s not as easy as we want it to be. I talked to Daisy. I know what the range on that detonator is. Even if I know when the ritual starts, I won’t be able to clear the building completely before pushing the trigger or I’ll be too far away from the charges and they won’t blow. The only way to be sure they all go off is to still be underneath the building, right in the middle of everything. I might be able to run for it and get out in time, but it’d be touch and go. Daisy’s opinion is that I’ll have a better chance of survival if I stay put and hope the building collapses in such a way that I survive, but I don’t need freaky Eye powers to know she doesn’t think my chances are good either way.

Even before knowing that, though, I didn’t think I was going to live through this. And I’m—(small laugh) I’m not okay with that. I’m not! But I’ve come to terms with it, I guess. I don’t want to die, but if I have to…you know. As long as Jon and Martin are safe, it’s worth it.

(deep breath) That…that actually did help. Got it all out without stumbling over myself. So…thanks for that, I guess.

Oh, uh…Jon, Martin, there’s a file in the bottom drawer in the living room. It’s all my insurance paperwork. I, uh, I had my policy updated a couple weeks ago. It’s not much, but…it should at least help with the house payments. You know.

I know it’s not—if it’s not enough, it should at least be something.

And…I’m sorry.

[CLICK]

———

[CLICK]

PAST MARTIN

(small sigh) Statement of Martin Blackwood, Archival Assistant at the Magnus Institute, regarding his final thoughts. Recorded direct from subject, fifth of August, 2017.

It’s almost the end of the day. We’ve already closed down everything, buttoned everything up. We’re just waiting for—Elias—to come down and confirm the arrangements like he threatened, and then we’ll leave. I think. I don’t think we’re planning to stay here overnight. Actually, I know we aren’t, because Jon just shoved the recorder and the tape everyone’s been putting their final thoughts on into my hands and pointed me at the War Room and asked me to please just get mine on here already.

I’m scared. I don’t think that’s a big secret. This might be it. This might be…when it’s all said and done, this tape might actually be everyone’s last words. Well, not everyone’s, but…well, maybe. We all pretend to think the people who are staying behind are going to be safer than the ones who go, but that’s not necessarily accurate. I mean, the first face of the plan is the one about Great Yarmouth and the House of Wax and blowing up the Stranger, which, you know, explosives and the Stranger. We know that’s going to be dangerous. But the other face is the one that’s going to be…

It’s going to be just as dangerous, I think. Maybe more. Because it’s about taking down Elias Bouchard.

It’s about taking down Jonah Magnus.

We don’t know all the details. Jon Prime has a plan, he seems pretty confident it’ll work, but he’s not telling us all the specifics. I don’t know if it’s because we can’t accidentally reveal what we don’t know or because he’s trying to protect us. Either way, he hasn’t told us any more beyond what it is he needs us to do. After that, he just said, “Leave it to me.”

I—I trust him. I do. I believe he has a plan, I believe that it’ll work. I’m sure everything is going to work out there. But if it goes wrong…

Something’s going to go wrong. I’m almost sure of it. It’s, it’s, my luck cannot be this good. There’s no way we come out of this all right. Something’s going to go wrong and, and we’re not going to succeed, or someone’s going to get badly hurt, or—

I can’t lose them now. I can’t.

God there’s—there’s so much I want to say. So much I should say. Jon, Tim, if you’re listening to this and—I-I’m sorry. I want to say it, but…but at the same time, I refuse to have the first time I tell you be on tape. It’s going to be in person or not at all. (heh) Maybe I’ll get the nerve up to say something tonight, but I doubt it. Don’t want to make you guys uncomfortable, just in case…just in case it’s just me that feels this way.

B-but, but you’re both smart. You can probably guess what I’m not saying. So if you’re listening to this, and I’m not…there, and I didn’t say anything before…yeah. I do. Both of you. Really and truly, from the bottom of my heart.

(sigh) I just need them to be safe. I can handle anything as long as they’re safe.

Wh—okay, okay, Elias is coming. I need to go.

Right, this is it. Here we go.

Good luck to all of us. I think we’re going to need it.

[CLICK]

———

[CLICK]

ARCHIVIST

Right, I know you don’t expect me to say anything here, but…I’m having trouble settling down, and I’m hoping getting my thoughts out will help with that. So.

Statement of Jonathan Sims Prime, the Archivist, regarding…round two. Recorded direct from subject, fifth April, 2017…barely. Statement begins.

I am ready. I know I am ready. I will never be more ready. All our plans are laid, and this will be the best opportunity I have, we have, to carry them out. I also know this may be my only chance.

(sigh) That’s not quite true. It may be—it will be my only chance to take out Elias Bouchard, not Jonah Magnus. I don’t need the Eye’s power to know that. If he knows I’m here, if he knows I’m planning to destroy him, he’ll run. He’ll find someone he deems worthy to be his successor and take their place. Elias Bouchard’s body will be found…somewhere, and there will be another running around with Jonah Magnus’ eyes, someone I won’t recognize. He’ll find somewhere else to build up as the Eye’s new pedestal, find a new Archivist, someone to be a new linchpin for his plan. And the whole thing will start again.

There’s—there is a part of me that thinks, well, that won’t be so bad. As long as all of the others survive…as long as I haven’t failed them…it’s not the worst thing in the world. Certainly Jonah won’t try with anyone at the Institute again. It could take years for him to build up enough strength to attempt his ritual, to—to find a willing vessel, or at least a pliant one. Certainly I could try to hunt him down. With Tim’s ability to See marks, and with everyone else’s ability to Know and get answers—

No. No, I can’t think like this. I-I have to stay positive. We have a plan. It’s a good plan. It’s going to work.

If I’m honest, I am far more worried about the team heading to Great Yarmouth than I am about the ones staying here. I know I can protect the ones here. Jonah will threaten, he’ll torture, but he won’t risk trying to actually physically harm them or, God forbid, kill them. Not until they’re closer to where we’re going to spring the trap, and at that point, I’ll be there. No, Jonah isn’t the danger, not right now. Not…today, I guess. The danger is in the Unknowing.

I know what they face. I know what the risks are. I—God, sometimes I still think I can hear that music, see those…horrible dancers. I would have said it was the worst experience of my life, until…later. Until I had to face the possibility of losing Martin before I told him how I felt. But even so…it was terrifying, and dangerous, and so much more than we had ever expected.

And it cost us Tim.

I cannot, will not, pay that cost again. I didn’t—I wasn’t in a good place then, and I didn’t realize how much he might have meant to me, but…we were friends, once, even if we weren’t as close as he and Sasha were.  And it hurt me dreadfully to lose him. It was worse on Martin—God, poor Martin. He so very nearly lost us both, left alone with two people who never fully trusted him, who bonded with each other and excluded him, even when he was still trying to be a part of things…

That cannot happen. They have to be all right. All of them. They’ll—it’s going to be fine. I know what to warn them about. I know what they have to be aware of. They have all the tools they need. They will go in, set the charges, get out, detonate them, and collapse for a good night’s sleep. They’ll all be home tomorrow. It’s going to be fine.

This time tomorrow, it will all be over. Much of the Stranger’s power will be dissolved, the Unknowing a pile of rubble. Jonah Magnus will be gone for good. The world will be safe.

The team will be safe.

They have to be. I can’t let myself believe anything less.

[CLICK]

———

[CLICK]

MARTIN

(haltingly) Statement of Martin Blackwood Prime, on the morning of his friends’ departure, again. Taken direct from subject, sixth April, 2017.

…

God. I—I didn’t realize that actually meant anything when I said it. Even back then. Even just me, just with the little I was doing…I guess I did actually manage to get enough of the Eye’s attention that it, it did a little, anyway. Not enough that I could get a coherent statement out of anyone else, o-or maybe it was by the time they left, but…it was enough.

I can’t feel it now. Not even a little bit. There’s—there’s nothing. I’m cut off from the Eye well and proper, which, I mean, that’s what we wanted, but…

Well. Except for the parts I let it have back.

So that’s why I’m awake doing this. I had the nightmare again. I’ve—I’ve had it a lot, especially lately. Reliving that gallery of horrors, the one I passed through on my trip back in time. I didn’t at first, and I think we both thought—we all thought—that I still had enough of a connection to the Eye not to satisfy it with my fear. But that’s not the case. I think it was just at first that Past Jon wasn’t strong enough to dream about me, and the others definitely weren’t, and the Eye didn’t quite know what to do with Jon. Then, um, then he took the doctor’s statement, and I-I think that woke the Eye up.

It’s only been since Christmas that I—that Jon and I, really—have been having that nightmare. Wasn’t until tonight that I figured it out. See, Jon and I sleep during the day most of the time, and then we’re up most of the night. So I’m the only one Jon can usually relive, because the other live statements he took this time around—he’s normally awake while they’re sleeping and vice versa. But then there’s me.

I still wouldn’t have figured it out, actually, except that I saw the others in my dream tonight, too. Past Jon and Tim and Sasha and Past Me, they were—they were all there, all watching. First time I’ve been asleep while they were. No idea how long they’ve been dreaming, but here we are.

Anyway, yeah. Woke up from that, Jon’s still asleep, so I slipped up here to add my voice to this tape. I’m assuming this is the right one, since it was, you know, sitting out invitingly and all. If I’m ruining another statement, um, sorry.

Okay. Anyway.

It doesn’t feel as hard, staying behind this time. If I’m being honest, a big part of why I hated staying back was because I didn’t want to let Jon go without me. I wasn’t…I hadn’t admitted how I felt. I mean, it’s not like nobody knew about my crush—I think just about everyone in the Institute except Jon knew about that—but I-I don’t think even Elias knew it was more than that. And I hadn’t said anything to Jon. I kept telling myself there’d be another chance, there’d be time later, but—even back then, I didn’t believe it. I didn’t believe the universe would let me be happy.

Now I know I was wrong.

I had to work for it. I had to fight for it. But I got that second chance. I am loved, and I am in love. (heh) I’m engaged, and it’s the first time I’ve really thought about the future in…years. Maybe the universe doesn’t want to let me be happy, but I am happy, so—so suck it, Cosmic Entities.

But yeah. I’m staying here…obviously, I wouldn’t be any use at the Unknowing, and I have a pretty crucial part to play in Jon’s plan. But more importantly, Jon—my Jon—will be here, too. I can—I know he’ll be all right. I know I’ll be here for him if anything goes wrong.

He tried to find a way around me being involved. Wanted me to, I don’t know, stay in our room, stay out of it, stay safe. I wouldn’t let him. Not anymore. Not again. Even if there’s not a lot I can do…I can at least do something to help him. And even if I couldn’t, I’d at least be there for him. He’s not doing this alone. We do this together, or not at all. That’s the deal.

That’s always been the deal.

All right, that’s…I think those are all my thoughts on the matter. Going to go back down and curl up with Jon for a little while longer, at least until it’s time to get things moving. It might be our last chance. But then again, every time we get to do this might be our last chance. You never know what’s coming. So if you treat every moment you get to spend with the one you love as though it’s the last one you’ll spend together…well, it makes every moment special. A-and it, it kind of makes the next moment better, because it’s a moment you didn’t know you’d have.

Yeah, okay, I’m done being sappy and maudlin for now. Gonna go lie down.

Good luck, you lot. I know you can do it.

Oh, wait, one more thing. Jon, Tim, Martin…if you three haven’t said out loud that you’re in love with each other? For fuck’s sake, do it now. Whatever happens today, you don’t want to come out the other side wishing you hadn’t left something unsaid.

And it’s a lot easier to survive if you know someone who loves you is counting on it.

[CLICK]

[that-one-girl-behind-you]

Illicio 19/?

Part 18

CWs for this chapter: -Depression -Parental neglect -Past implied suicidal ideation (These are present in the very first POV, and are related to Martin's past. Please feel free to skip it if the topics make you uncomfortable) -Canon character death

----

Gerry's never been to the Lonely before, though he's felt its grip on him many times in his life.

It has loomed over him ever since he was a child, alone and confused and fearing and craving his mother's hugs in equal measure. Back when he first started learning about the fears he did wonder why it never struck, why it never pulled him in to devour him whole. It was only later that he understood what made him so resistant to this particular fear.

You defeat the Lonely with love, and Gerry has never been short of that.

XIX

Martin is seven years old the first time he realizes how utterly and completely alone he is. Back then he still goes by a name that isn't his, and he doesn't yet have the words to describe why it feels wrong.

He looks around at all the children in his classroom; their clothes look clean and smell good, and their mothers not only pick them up from school, but they look happy when doing so. He asks mum once why she never smiles, does something hurt? Maybe the doctor can give her more pills?

Mum doesn't respond. She merely gives Martin that long, serious look that always makes Martin think he said something dumb, and goes to her room, leaving Martin alone with his cold supper and a slow gathering fog that he can't see.

Martin is fourteen years old when he first understands he's unwanted. He's begun to figure out who he is, and his clothes are ill-fitting, just like he himself is, bouncing around between groups of people that aren't really his peers, and merely accept his presence like one would any other part of the scenery.

Mum is no longer subtle, and the look isn't serious as much as it is distasteful, no matter how hard Martin tries. He would like to tell someone about this, but when he thinks of reaching out he remembers the only messages in his old school notebooks are those of well-meaning teachers, wishing him luck and praising a potential that Martin knows isn't there.

He's sixteen years old, when Martin comes to the conclusion that he's perhaps meant to be alone forever. Mum's illness has gotten so bad that Martin has to drop off school to work and care for her. She doesn't look at him anymore, not even when Martin finally shows up looking like he's always wanted to. He doesn't know exactly how to feel about this, because as much as he didn't want a fight, it's yet another proof that his existence is irrelevant in her life.

He tries to tell himself this is just his poor self esteem. Of course his mother loves him, she's his mother. She kept him alive, she cared for him, she's just... ill. And she's always been strong-willed. To a child it might've looked like irritation, but Martin is an adult now and he's learned life is not at all like in Hallmark movies, and if he sat down to cry every time mum didn't say 'I love you' back, he'd seldom have time to do anything else.

Martin is twenty two when he accepts he's exhausted. Of this life, of his mother, of himself. He wants to do something about it, but the pill bottles behind the bathroom mirror scare him just as much as the University pamphlets he hides under his pillow.

He strides up to the imposing looking building by the river with his forged CV in hand because he doesn't know what else to do. He gets the job, but as the Head of the Institute shakes his hand to dismiss him, Martin looks at Elias Bouchard's bright green eyes, and knows that he knows. That somehow this man has realized he's an impostor, that he's gotten this far only by convincing people he's far more capable than he actually is.

But he needs the money, and this job is far less demanding than anything else he could've gotten with his lack of credentials. He signs the contract, and he doesn't notice the jealous cling of the fog around him, as the Eye turns its gaze on him.

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

"What is this place?" Tim asks when they come into the cavernous chamber.

Basira looks around, nailed in place by the unsettling feeling of relief she's experiencing. The cells are empty behind their rusted bars, but Basira can See the outlines of the prisoners where they died when they were Known by a power they couldn't even begin to understand.

"It's- it's a place of Beholding," she mutters. She hates it here, hates how comfortable she feels in this place that's so permeated with death. It's another reminder of what she is, of all the shit she let pass; it's a bit of a bad joke, that after looking the other way for so long she's now become something that can't look away. "Jon's up there. And Martin too."

"What about Gerry?" Tim asks.

"I dropped him there. Not sure where he went after." They whip around at the new voice, and sure enough the entrance to the passageway they came through is now a very large version of Helen's door, with the Distortion herself swinging too-long legs as she sits on an enlarged doorknob. "He was in quite a fit about Martin, though."

"Well, better late than never, I guess." Tim grunts.

Basira rolls her eyes, because of course Tim has been so lost on his personal drama of whether or not he wants to forgive Jon that he hasn't noticed anything else. Still, her mouth twitches; it's a good distraction from the constant wondering about Daisy. She cups her hands around her mouth, taking a tentative step forward.

"Jon? Did you find them?" she calls out. No one responds, and Basira gets a muted pang of surprise at the way her stomach drops with worry. Maybe she did care after all. "Get ready. Elias was here. And Lukas too."

"That's comforting," she hears Tim grumble behind her as he follows her lead. It feels... it's different.

It's not Daisy. It will probably never be Daisy again, but it feels good to have a team at her back.

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

The Lonely smells like tears.

It's a deceptively simple smell, building up like bad memories and a knot at the back of your throat.

Much like in the Dark, there's no colors here. Unlike the Dark, there is nothing here, not even fear, or the certainty that there is something waiting for you to give up and consume you.

The Lonely doesn't care about you.

No one does, or you wouldn't have ended here. Do you care about this? You have always cared so much. It was exhausting, and it did nothing but cause trouble to you and the ones you thought you loved.

Isn't this a lot easier? You don't have to feel anything, here. You can't hurt anyone here.

"-on? Can you hear me?"

The scent of lavender hits softly like a memory, and Jon blinks until he can distinguish between the cold inside him and the cold around him.

"Gerry?" he asks, but his hand closes around nothing.

"-m here." Gerry's voice reaches him from far away, even though Jon is sure they were holding on to each other when they entered.

"I- I can't see you."

"-ou feel me?"

He can, Jon finds. A thread of white-hot steel pulling at the left side of his chest, the ghastly feeling of lips on his own.

"Yes. Yes, I can." A love that is felt but not seen, just like-

"-ind Martin," Gerry says from his corner of the Lonely, which could be an inch or a mile away. "-ocus on that."

That- that makes sense. Martin is still human, he's the most at risk here. Once they find him, they can get out, and the other will follow. Should follow.

"Okay, I- be careful." Jon tries to add something else, but the words that Gerry uttered so easily on the kitchen floor that night feel impossible to push out.

"-ove you," Gerry whispers, before his presence fades away.

'Me too,' Jon thinks fiercely, desperately and futilely. 'Me too, and I will find the two of you if I have to Know every inch of the Lonely, until it can't keep you from me.'

The Beholding purrs in delight at the declaration. It doesn't care why the Archivist uses it as long as he does. Jon should probably care about that a little more than he does, but the only thing in his mind now is Martin, and the need to get him out of here before he can't distinguish between it and himself.

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

"Can you see the entry?" Tim asks, stepping away from the dry corpse in the center of the room.

"Not really," Basira shrugs. "I can see where their trails end, but- we can't go in, Tim."

And that's that, he supposes. She says it with such finality, with such certainty, that Tim has no choice but to accept it as fact.

Martin is gone.

Martin, the last of them, the only one untouched by all this shit. Martin who brewed them tea and pretended he wasn't making cow eyes at Jon even though he behaved like an absolute ass. Martin who found Tim at his living room with fire in his veins and offered him the same unconditional friendship they'd shared before everything began to go south.

He warned them about this. He warned both of them and the worst part is he can't even be angry at Jon about it, because Jon is gone too, and because he himself wasn't able to keep Martin here, he wasn't enough.

This is- he's the only one left. They're all gone, and they slipped through his fingers even after he got a second chance, one after the other, Danny, Sasha, J-

"I wouldn't touch him right now if I were you," Helen says somewhere in the room, and it's only when he opens them that Tim realizes he's shut his eyes; he looks in time to see Basira's hand retreating from his shoulder, as Helen speaks again. "Should I go get Melanie?"

"No," Basira says immediately. "She's out. We don't- we don't go to Melanie unless there's no other choice. We have to-"

"We have to what?" Tim snaps. He's so tired of this, of losing people- he liked it much better when he'd just woken up and all he could feel was rage. "Let's just pop your eyes out too, so I can blow the fucking place up." And himself too, if he's lucky.

"Could you stop moping around already?!" Basira whips around to face him. Her eyes are burning with intensity, and her fists are clenched and shaking by her sides. "You've seen him walk from worse, you've walked from worse. Now- now we have to- I don't know what happened here, but if Elias walked out of jail exactly today, then it's got to have something to do with Martin, or-"

"Or Jon's marks." The answer hits Tim like a slap to the face.

'You're just missing one, aren't you?'

'The Lonely, yes.'

'How convenient isn't it? Martin's sudden promotion.'

'I'm well aware it's my fault, Tim, thank you.'

What else could it be? Whatever Elias is planning-

He turns to her, and in her eyes he finds the same understanding, the same clicking of pieces he just went through. The fourteen marks were deliberate, orchestrated; Annabelle Cane's statement was nothing short of a confession.

It doesn't change anything, not really, everything that happened, everything Jon did is still there, a wound that scarred badly and that still aches when pulled at, but-

"We have to get them away," Basira says.

But at least for now, Tim has a purpose again.

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

Gerry's never been to the Lonely before, though he's felt its grip on him many times in his life.

It has loomed over him ever since he was a child, alone and confused and fearing and craving his mother's hugs in equal measure. Back when he first started learning about the fears he did wonder why it never struck, why it never pulled him in to devour him whole. It was only later that he understood what made him so resistant to this particular fear.

You defeat the Lonely with love, and Gerry has never been short of that.

Whether or not it's been paid in kind is another matter entirely, but he loved his mother, and he loved Gertrude, and he loved every soul he helped save from a fate worse than death. It has to be enough now, and if it isn't... well, Gerry's always been good at making round pegs fit into square holes, and this won't be the exception. He won't let Martin be the exception.

He wanders across the Lonely for what feels like hours, when he spies a figure hunched on the floor. There's no heart to race in his chest, but Gerry hurries his steps when he recognizes the muted black of Martin's hair, the tired curve to his shoulders.

"Martin? Martin!" Gerry exclaims, falling to his knees across from him, and swatting away at the thick fog that lays around the man like a cloak. "Fuck, I- it's so good to see you. What the hell were you thinking?!"

Martin doesn't look at him, doesn't even look up, and when Gerry lays his hands on his shoulders there's a thin layer of cool dampness that he wipes away hurriedly.

"Huh. I didn't expect you'd be here," Martin's voice echoes oddly, like it's carrying across water. "I thought they'd stop if I let them put me here. Did they send you here too?"

"I- n- no, Martin." Gerry tries to crouch lower to enter his field of vision, before he carefully lays a hand on Martin's round cheek to softly pull his face up. "No, we- Jon brought me in. We came here for you.

"Jon." Martin's grey eyed focus on him, and Gerry feels like he's been punched in the gut. He can't taste the emotion in Martin's voice like he can with Jon's, but he doesn't need to. He's heard the kind of sorrow poured in those three letters.

"Yes, he- he's here too. Now that I got you, we just need to-"

"You should go to him."

"I mean, yes, we both need to-"

"I think it's better if I stay here, Gerry."

"...What?" Gerry scowls, then feels his eyes widening in terror when his hand starts going through Martin's cheek. "Shit- Martin no! We need-"

"I really loved him, you know?" Martin's silhouette is growing harder to see, like a mirror fogging up.

"Of course I know, you- Martin you pretty much only tolerated me because of him, I know you love him."

Martin lets out a chuckle; it's a low, sad sound that makes Gerry's stomach churn.

"At first, I suppose." He shrugs, and his contour grows a bit fainter. The only thing Gerry can see clearly is his sad little smile, like some twisted version of the Cheshire cat. "I was sad at first that you- but you turned out to be so amazing, in the end. I was happy he found you."

Fuck. Fuck, fuck- Gerry tries to grab at him again, but his hand just goes clean through.

"Martin, it's- it's not over. We're not done, he wants you, he still-"

"I think it's time to go now-"

"Martin Blackwood you're not going anywhere," Gerry snaps. This can't- this is not going to end like this. He won't let it. They were supposed to sit down and talk about the future, there was going to be a future to talk about, for fuck's sake! "I will follow you to the end of the Lonely if I have to, you're not going to shake me off this easily."

"I really liked that about you too. You made me feel wanted."

"That's because I do, you idiot!"

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

"They're safe, see? At least for now." The voice is insidious, frustrating. It gives off the feeling of practiced politeness, empty pleasantries that mean even less than cold, uncaring silence. "It's very heartwarming, if ultimately futile, of course."

"I take it you're the reason I can't reach them?" Jon asks coldly. He can feel the Forsaken rearranging itself as they speak, the space between his and the two silhouettes hunched over in the distance growing wider and wider, so that every step he takes towards then moves him ten steps back.

"Does it really matter?" Peter asks. "They don't need you there, and it's only a matter of time before they give up."

"I will find them first," Jon says simply; there is no other choice, no scenario where they don't come out of this together. He'll make sure of it.

Peter laughs, and the sound echoes oddly around Jon, like only the ghost of it was reaching his ears.

"I doubt so. But you're welcome to keep trying."

"Why don't you come speak face to face, Lukas?" The fog around him takes on a sickly green hue where the glow of his eyes illuminate it, and the Lonely curls more thickly around him, hiding Peter from his Sight, from his reach. "Afraid of being seen?"

"I've dealt with your kind before, Archivist."

"So that's a yes, then."

"Fooling around with that toy of yours really have you some undeserved bravado, didn't it?" He sounds a bit disgruntled now, Jon notices with a muted, dark amusement. "Since he's not human, I'm not sure if he can even be consumed here, you know? I wonder if he'll just walk around forever until he shuts down."

"I'm not his only anchor," Jon scowls. That much is true, isn't it? Melanie-

"Please. Do you really believe he'll walk away without you? Both of you? Anchors are very effective, Archivist, as long as you aren't tied to a sinking one." Peter's smirk is palpable in his voice, and Jon grits his teeth. That's- it's not entirely wrong. Gerry's far too selfless, far too dedicated to putting others before himself.

"He'll do it for Martin," Jon says with far more vigour than he feels. That was the plan, and Gerry's not stupid in the least. Out of the three of them, Jon's the one that has a highest chance of survival here. If he has a chance to at least pull Martin out-

"Oh, but Martin doesn't want to go." Peter chuckles. "You let him fly too close, Archivist. This is his place now."

Silence stretches over them for a moment, the echo of Jon's breathing the only sound for miles.

"...You brought him in here, though." That's what Gerry said, what the Eye confirmed. Martin chose to come willingly, but it was Peter who opened the door. "You can kick him out. Both of them."

Peter doesn't respond immediately, and Jon focuses on the two silhouettes that he can see, but will never reach, not as long as the Lonely keeps pushing them apart.

"I could. For a price."

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

It feels like his words resonate around them for an eternity, before the odd dissonance of the Lonely takes it away completely.

Martin is still there, barely visible and barely tangible under his bruising grip, the only sound between them is Gerry's agitated breathing.

"Martin?" Gerry asks carefully. While Martin has stopped fading away into the fog, he doesn't seem to be getting better either. But if his words kept him here, then- then maybe there's still a chance. "I'm- I know I'm not Jon, but- but I came here for you, alright? I wanted to come for you."

But it doesn't work that way, does it? You can be the most desired, the most loved person in the world and still be alone.

"Why?" Martin asks. His eyes fix on Gerry's, grey and empty of any and all emotion, but it has to mean something, that he hasn't left, that he still wants to know.

"We need you," Gerry answers truthfully. He doesn't know too well what it means, but it's been a while since this was just about Jon.

"You know that's a lie, Gerry." The corner of Martin's lips twitches into a humorless smile.

"It's not, it's-"

"I think I want to stay. Nothing hurts in here. It feels... quiet. We can all be happy, like this." There's a longing in his voice when he says it, a soft wistfulness that Gerry doesn't trust right now.

"Martin, I'm- listen to me," Gerry asks, nearly begs. He shouldn't have been the one to find him, he realizes with a start. It has to be someone he loves, he remembers telling Melanie so long ago. And still the fact remains that Gerry's the only one here, and if he's not enough, then he'll have to remind him of the one who might just be. "Think of why you did this, think-

"...What?"

"Martin, who is your reason?"

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

"You want me to stay in their place." Jon says quietly, clenching a fist in the fabric of his jumper as the realization dawns on him. "Why?"

Peter stalks around him, watching him under the cover provided by his patron. He can feel the Eye searching for him, but its intensity is growing fainter by the second, as the Archivist begins to bend under the weight of his own doubt.

"Trust me, Jon, the Eye has given me plenty of reasons. But I must admit I'm simply not too happy with Elias at the moment and I'm very curious to see what he'll do if you don't make it out of here." Bit of an understatement, honestly.

"I-"

"That's the offer," Peter interrupts. "What do you say, Archivist?"

The desolate questioning in Jon's face is an absolute delight to behold.

"Take your time. Though I feel like the choice should be easy. Or are you hesitating because your pet undead will die without you anyways? You can't have everything, Jon." Peter tuts consolingly. "Either he dies out there, or the three of you stay in here."

"You said- you know Elias is planning something. He-"

"Oh, he'll try to get you back of course." Too much invested in this one, years of orchestrating his marks and survival. Elias won't just start over, Peter isn't even sure he could start over, without the Mother's webs that drape over this one's shoulder as a blessing. "Granted, I'm not sure how much of you there'll be left by the time he works his way back into my good graces.But that's not necessarily a bad thing in your books, is it?"

"...It isn't." The thrum of the Eye in the air fades a little more, when Jon lets his head drop.

Peter isn't terribly surprised. He might not be Martin, whose entire core calls to the Forsaken like they are one and the same, bit Jonathan Sims is still am incredibly lonely man.

It's about regret, in his case. Peter can feel all the mistimed connections that haunt him, when he reached out only to find it was far too late and he'd pushed way too far. The memory of waking up alone in a hospital room, and knowing he was neither expected nor wanted back.

"I thought so. Your friends will be much safer without you, Jon. You know that." He's not sure how much more convincing Jon actually needs, but it can't hurt to double down, he decides as he stops his pacing by his side and leans in to whisper in his ear. "You can't hurt anyone here."

"I... I suppose so."

"You know so." And Peter does too. Won't it be poetic, to keep Elias' pet in here as revenge for his own sabotaged ritual? Not much he can do, if there's no one to wear the crown. "It's all up to you, Jon. What do you want?"

Peter has dealt with beholders before, far more than he should, actually. He knows how they work, how for all they preach omniscience, they home in on a purpose, and become blind to everything else. Gertrude wanted war, Elias wants power, and this sad, broken man wishes uselessly for redemption, and if he can't have it, he'll have immolation.

"So? What will it be?" he asks.

Jon's head tilts up slowly, and Peter freezes at the intense neon green of his eyes, and the downward curve of his tightly pressed lips.

"A statement, I think," he says, and all around him the Watcher's eyes burn holes through the fog, pinning Peter in place like stakes, their focus so heavy it stings.

He tries to remain calm, to keep his fear from the Eye. This is his domain, and he can't be harmed here, not even by Elias' trained dog-

"Peter Lukas, you will give me your story."

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

His reason.

Did he have one?

Was it saving the world, or did he just want to look good while killing himself? Was it revenge against these things that took all the ones he loved, or spite at not being taken himself?

This place makes it hard to think. All you can do is sit and feel the emptiness inside you, smell the tears and listen to the silence. Was that his reason, finding a place to escape to? Maybe he just wanted to rest, for once, forever.

He's so tired.

There's a man before him. His hands are heavy on Martin's shoulder and face, but so careful, like he's made of glass or secrets. The man's eyes are beautiful, desperate mix of greens and blues, and his lips curl around words that barely reach him, words Martin doesn't know if he wants to hear.

He did have a reason, didn't he? It had a name and a face, a lopsided smile and eyes swimming with sadness.

Didn't he hate Martin? That's what they had in common, isn't it? Before the worms, before the fear.

Where is he now?

Martin remembers him, dead in all but name, laid on a hospital bed like a broken doll. His hand is limp in Martin's own, l and every time he presses it to his lips Martin swears it's grown colder.

Was that his reason? What was he more afraid back then, the thought that he wouldn't wake up, or that he might?

The man before him speaks again, and his hands on him feel heavier, warmer.

He doesn't like him, Martin remembers. How easily he stepped into the Archives, how well they fit together. Martin looks at him, and he doesn't know if he wants to tell him to go away or ask him what took him so long, why couldn't he have come before Martin gave up on his future for a chance at saving Jon's?

Martin tries to recall the man's name; maybe it'll help him figure out why he's here. It's a good name, he's sure, because he's a good man. A simple name, the kind you say with a smile. An incredibly, absolutely, undeniably mulish and irritating name, what on Earth is he doing here?!

Martin came here to keep him safe, because even knowing this was a trap for Jon, it was the only way to get Elias to stop hurting him, why would this idiot follow him in?!

Now all the work he did will be for nothing, because Martin knows as sure as the sky is blue that Gerry won't go away, won't let him fade into the grey. He'll find Martin again and again and again, until he answers his question, or the Lonely consumes them both.

This was a gamble he took to try and protect him, and now both of them are here and Jon is lost in here too, and Martin wants to scream at the absurdity of it all.

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

"Did you pack-"

"I packed the first things I saw, Basira, if they don't like it they're going to have to suck it up."

"That's fair."

"Where are they going?"

"North. Daisy had- she has a place. A cottage on the countryside."

"Oh, Martin will eat that stuff right up."

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

"-tin come on." Gerry tries again. Martin is still there, still tangible under his hands, but he still won't talk, won't look at him, the only sign of life to him is the slight furrowing of his brow. "Think- think of him, he's coming for you, we both did. Tim would've come too if he'd been there I'm sure, he's a prick but he loves you. So many people care, Martin, but we need you to care too, we-"

It's alright, he tells himself with just the slightest edge of panic. He's got time, and he'll keep going until the Lonely steals his last breath from his lungs, they are not going to lose Martin.

"Just- you have to- Martin I know you have what you need to break it, but you need to remember it yourself. You need-"

"I need you-" Martin's voice rings out clear and firm, without the ringing of the Lonely, and Gerry freezes. Martin's eyes are bright and green and burning with righteous indignation as he scowls down at him. "-to stop being so incredibly infuriating!"

And then Martin is collapsing against him, and it's all Gerry can do to hold him steady as a wave of relief washes over him.

"I'm- sorry?" He asks, his voice tinged with confusion.

"No you're not," comes Martin's sullen voice, muffled against his shoulder.

Gerry lets out a bark of somewhat hysterical laughter, tightening his grip around Martin's frame. He feels solid, and growing warmer by the second, and Gerry feels a little like he did when Jon opened his eyes after so much begging.

"No, I'm not."

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

The man gasps in exhaustion and pain, as the last of his tale tumbles out of his lips.

The Archivist watches, adds the story to his archive with the same delight with which one would enjoy a feast.

It's a pathetic, hilarious joke that Peter Lukas ultimately dies protecting the Pupil's secrets, when the Archivist demands the truth.

The Eye hums in delight, and the Forsaken shies away from its unblinking gaze, from the power of its chosen, from the future this promises.

It knows with glorious certainty that when the Archive speaks next, the world will listen.

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

Martin feels the Lonely break around them like something being ripped from his chest.

He misses it immediately, the pungent smell of salt and humidity, and the emptiness inside him. The arms around his shoulders, the scent of lavender and ink under his nose, the warmth of another body pressed tightly against his is overwhelming.

"-'re back!" He hears Basira scream somewhere, and the sound of echoing steps coming closer.

"Hey there," Gerry whispers somewhere close to his ear. "I have someone for you."

And Martin's heart drops, because he knows who that is, and he knows what he said the last time he saw him. How could he forgive him for that? For turning him away when he came to him with a promise of freedom, of a future together? Of-

"Martin?" Jon says his name like a prayer, like he doesn't know if he's more afraid of his silence or his response, and when Martin lifts his face from Gerry's shoulder, he finds that he looks much the same, his teeth worrying nervously at his bottom lip as his dark eyes search Martin's face for... for what?

"Jon." Martin's own voice is a pitiful, exhausted thing, but the name sounds just right in his lips, like a memory, like an answer to a question he can't bear to think right now.

It's like Jon's strings have been cut, and he goes down on his knees by their side, slotting himself right under the arm Gerry lifts for him. Martin has a spare second to think of how well they fit together, before Jon buries his face in his chest and it hits Martin that he's here too, held between them like he belongs, like they were waiting for him.

"I'm sorry I didn't find you," Jon whispers into his chest. He feels nothing like Martin imagined, and is somehow much more real for that. "I'm sorry I let it get this far."

What could he possibly say to that? That it's not Jon's fault that Martin wanted to die? That he's sorry too, because now Jon has all the marks and nobody knows what that means, but it can't be good?

Objectively speaking, Martin knows it would've been much better for them -maybe even for the whole world, who knows what Elias is thinking?- if they'd let him in the Lonely.

It's tough to voice that aloud however, with Gerry's arms around him and Jon tucked so perfectly under his chin. Their presence hurts, but Martin hasn't felt this much like himself ever since Tim first came, and he knows he needs them here precisely for this reason. Without the Lonely's overbearing, suffocating presence all around him, it's all too easy to see just how close he came to losing himself.

"...I've missed you," Martin says in the end, probably long past the time they've stopped waiting for an answer. Still, it's the truth, and Martin's spent so long denying it that it feels almost like another lie. He tightens his arms around Jon, partly to check if he's allowed, but mostly to confirm he's actually real and there.

Gerry clears his throat a little. "Would you like me to leave you two alone?" he asks quietly.

'You found me,' Martin wants to say. 'You found me, and you didn't let go, why would I want you to leave?'

Words are still difficult though, especially with the fog still trying to pull at him, yelling at him from all sides that he doesn't matter, that they saved him out of some misguided sense of heroism, and not any particular interest for him. That it is he who is intruding, that they could've lost each other, and it would've been his fault.

Martin shakes his head and shifts to lean a bit more comfortably on his shoulder. His neck is already starting to smart from bending down, but even the pain is a blessing, a reminder that he's alive, that he's human and can feel things, good and bad.

The faint scent of lavender drifting up from Gerry's hair and Jon's comforting weight in his arms are grounding. Soothing.

"Martin?!" Tim's arrival is heralded by the room growing warmer, as if to chase away the remnants of the fog that clings to Martin's tired bones. "Fuck. You're- are you alright?"

"Right as rain," Martin rasps out, cracking an eye open -when did he close them?- to look up at him. Even splashed in blood and dirt, Tim's a sight for sore eyes, the concern in his gaze so simple and sincere not even the Lonely can twist it into loathing. "What are the bags for?"

"Management said you had too many vacation days saved up," Tim croaks with a laugh just this side of hysterical. "We booked you a holiday."

And Martin would like to respond to the joke, he really would, but his eyelids are growing heavy with exhaustion, and it's all he can do to aim a smile -who knew he could still do that?- his way, before he lets go.

"You have to get away before he comes back-" is the last he hears Basira say.

It's not over, he remembers, they're not done. But for the time being, they're all together and they're safe, and Martin is here because they want him to; it still feels like a lie, but nothing else makes sense and he has to allow the tentative, absurd hope that it might be true.

Martin decides that, maybe for once, the rest can wait.

[patriciasage]

blocks and repetitions

Author: Patricia_Sage

Fandom: The Magnus Archives

Summary: 

"Don't worry, Jon, I'm just as annoyed by you as I am by all the rest of these nerds." Tim sits on a nearby box, indicating for Jon to do the same. He looks affronted when Tim picks up the mug again, but visibly stops himself from commenting on the code violation. "My brother had a stutter. Not as bad as yours. But I went to a few of his speech therapy appointments and picked up on a few things."

[season 3 spoilers]

read the full story under the break, or visit me on AO3

"When he introduces himself, don't fucking interrupt him," Tim says cheerfully before opening the door to the haggard-looking young woman.

She frowns, her chapped lips opening into a question. She's interrupted by Jon snarling from his desk. "I t-told you to ssstop doing that, T-T-Tim."

"Doing what?" Tim asks innocently. Jon rolls his eyes and dismisses him with a gesture of his dark hand. Tim closes the door with a dazzling smile that quickly falls. Sure, Jon being his boss had settled strangely in his stomach, but Tim found that his frustration could be balanced with a generous amount of irritating the hell out of Jon.

Jon's voice comes low and muffled through the door. "My name is J-J-J-Jonathan Sssims, Head Archivist."

"Oh," the woman says in delayed understanding.

Jon sighs. "Yes. Your ssstatement?"

Tim knows his anger is misplaced. It's not Jon's fault that Elias chose wrong. But he will always be on Sasha's side and seeing her hide her disappointment when she speaks with Jon in the break room makes Tim want to lash out.

So his heart wars with its defence of Sasha and its protection of Jon. Because no matter how mad he is, Tim can't help but see a brother in Jon. His brother.

******

"Yyyou don't in...terrupt me."

Tim looks up from the coffee cup in his hand to see Jonathan Sims looking at him from the other side of the shelf, his perpetual frown visible through the spaces between the boxes. Jon had started working in the Research Department only last week, but he had probably been twice as productive as Tim in the past two months.

"Why would I?" Tim responds, quickly placing his coffee on a nearby shelf before continuing to pretend to sort through folders.

"You... do fffor everyone else."

"Do I?"

"Yes!"

The sound of cane on concrete accompanies Jon's route around the stacks and soon he's glaring up at Tim properly. Tim suppresses a smile.

"Don't worry, Jon, I'm just as annoyed by you as I am by all the rest of these nerds." Tim sits on a nearby box, indicating for Jon to do the same. He looks affronted when Tim picks up the mug again, but visibly stops himself from commenting on the code violation. "My brother had a stutter. Not as bad as yours. But I went to a few of his speech therapy appointments and picked up on a few things."

He doesn't want Jon to ask about Danny. It hurts him to say the strategically boring story he's made while imagining the circus in his mind. He redirects. "Did you ever get speech?"

"Yyyes, b-b-believe it or not."

Tim chuckles. Jon's shoulders relax.

"When I was yyyoung, I-." He takes a breath and something awful and familiar clouds his expression before he collects himself. "I-I lived with my g...grandmother." When he gets stuck on a sound, his face freezes in a wince. Danny was blonde and fair-skinned and different from Jon in basically every way, but in that moment Tim can't help but recognize his brother. His chest feels warm. Jon continues, "Shhhe didn't have t-t-time for it."

Jon is awkward, as if he's not accustomed to sitting and talking with a friend.

Tim offers him a sip of his coffee. Jon declines in affronted disgust. Sasha finds them soon after, Tim nearly tipping over, laughing, while Jon flails and shouts at him about spilling coffee in the Archives.

******

Martin has a crush on Jon.

It took a bit of deduction, but Tim finally figured it out. Now that he knows, it's painfully obvious. Sasha had been aghast that he had missed it.

Tim watches Martin watch Jon and, for a second, tries to imagine them as a couple. Martin is big and soft and bright. Jon is small and sharp and dark. They would be cute together in a cartoonish way.

But Martin needs to stop fussing.

Jon is fragile, physically and mentally, but he won't admit it and he definitely doesn't want others to address it. And Martin is a caregiver to his bones. When Jon shivers, he lends him a scarf. When Jon forgets his cane in the break room, he brings it to him. When Jon stumbles on the stairs, he steadies him. Even when Jon snarls in response, defensive and proud.

Sasha had been reading a book on "love languages" last month. Martin is the king of acts of service.

Tim isn't particularly invested in Jon's happiness and he's only just met Martin. But he's bored and it would be way more entertaining to watch Martin succeed than to watch him get snapped at.

Tim sends an email and Martin's computer chimes in acknowledgement, startling the man out of his wistful look. Jon also glances up at the noise and catches an unsuspecting Martin's eye, making the large man blush. It's impressive how such a large man can shrink himself down. Tim rolls his eyes.

Jon puts the textbook he had been reading on the couch next to him. His glasses perch forgotten among the dark curls on top of his head. "Is that the S-" he gets stuck on the sound and Martin swoops in. Jon suppresses an irritated sigh.

"The Sarabande case? Let me check - no, it's from Tim."

Tim's betrayed glare is lost on Martin, who is too busy watching Jon. The Head Archivist notices Tim, though.

"G...get to wwwork!" Jon demands, standing. Tim mock salutes him.

Sasha chooses that moment to appear in the doorway with a tray of Starbucks coffees. "I couldn't remember your order, Martin-" She nearly runs into Jon. "Oh."

"Oh!" Jon spits back. He gestures to the drinks. "Ssstop wa-wa-waste-" Jon cuts himself off with a growl and storms down the hall to his office.

"Whoops," Tim says as the door slams.

Sasha smirks at him. "What did you do?"

"Nothing! God. This is what I get for trying to help Martin's love life. I'm never being nice again."

Martin turns red. "What?" He frowns suspiciously at his computer screen.

"Did you set up a dating profile for him or something?" Sasha places the drink on Martin's desk as he begins to sputter.

Tim leans back in his chair with a groan. "Just read it, Martin, for fuck's sake."

Sasha leans against Tim's desk. Tim grabs for the caffeine and sends a thankful kiss through the air to her. She winks. Tim no longer feels irritated.

"Oh." Martin says softly. He's reading through the website Tim sent him with a thoughtful and guilty look. He doesn't even freak out at his coworkers knowing about his crush on their boss.

Sasha raises an eyebrow and Tim turns his computer screen to her in response, the link still open in his browser.

tips for speaking with someone who stutters

She nods approvingly before sitting at her desk.

Martin may sometimes have trouble with research, but he's an expert at kindness. Tim is surprised at how much it impacts his interactions with Jon.

Their boss seeks out Martin at lunch, excitedly talking about their shared interest in ancient history. He smiles when Martin brings him tea. He's concerned when Martin calls in sick. Tim even saw him blush once when Martin lent him a cardigan for the train ride home.

Tim's quite proud of himself. If only his relationship with Sasha could change by reading one article.

******

Jon doesn't stutter when he's reading a statement.

Tim knows that sometimes reading can help a person speak more fluently, but it has never had this much of an impact on Jon. It's those statements, the ones that can only be recorded on tape, the ones that feel chillingly real.

Tim listens to Jon's voice, droning and smooth, and he shudders.

******

Tim stands in front of Nikola Orsinov, the thing responsible for killing the two people he's loved the most. The detonator feels warm in his hand.

"T-T-Tim!"

"It's okay, Danny."

He presses the button.

[wolftraps]

As always

Another extra from The Reverb in These Holy Halls. Just because Sasha’s a fear monster now doesn’t mean she’s going to let Tim stop being her friend. But also, Sasha “in this house we love and support Jon Sims” James isn’t here for Tim’s grudges.

—

Three months or so after the Unknowing. After they’d all gotten pizza and got mostly drunk and pretended for the night that they were all friends and everything was fine. After Tim had handed in his resignation and closed a chapter in his life he was beginning to think would never end with a strong determination never to reopen it. Three months after all that, Tim comes home to find her in his flat.

She smiles at him, in such a familiar way, and it should make him angry, he thinks, like he was with the thing that took Danny. Angry and afraid. He’s not though. Mostly he’s just tired. Tired and sad. He drops his wallet and keys on the side table and locks the door behind him. It’s not like this thing uses normal entrances.

He purposely doesn’t look at her and she sighs. “Tim—”

“Don’t,” he snaps. “Don’t tell me you’re her, because you’re not.”

“I’m not… not her,” she hedges.

Incredulity forces him to face her. “That… that doesn’t even make any sense!”

“Yes, that’s… kind of the point.”

“Of what?” He really shouldn’t ask. He really should know better.

“Me? I guess? Whatever I am. Sense is meant to be… twisted, and coiled, and looped back on itself. For me.” Her fingers twist around themselves, and Tim can’t watch too long without getting dizzy. He shuts his eyes.

“I can’t tell if I’m pissed off or just confused.”

“Both, probably. I just… We were never going to be what you wanted us to be. But I couldn’t just let you… mourn me, and pretend I’m not here. I didn’t kill Sasha, Tim. Sasha became me.”

Tim scoffs. “Yeah, like Jon became that thing he is now. ‘The Archivist’.”

“Y— Well, yes? And also no. Jon’s change was more gradual—”

“The hell it was! Maybe for him, but he’s not the Jon I worked with. That I was friends with. That Jon was just— overwritten.”

“Is it really overwriting,” she asks, “if they were the same person to that point? Does it matter, if the Jon you’re talking about would’ve have gone through the next four years in the exact same manner as this Jon did? Jon became what he is because that’s where he was pushed. You’re blaming him for being changed by his experiences.”

“I’m no—”

“You are. You feel personally betrayed because the end result of his trauma isn’t who you remember from before it. If this Jon hadn’t come back, we’d both be dead by now. And you’d have hated him all the same.” Her voice is sharp but annoyingly level. That’s always…

“... aren’t you not supposed to make sense?” he grumbles.

“Well, if I don’t knock some into you, who’s going to? Jon?” She sighs, picking at her fingers. “I am… less Sasha, than the Archivist is Jon. But Jon’s change happened without his understanding. As Sasha, I chose this, knowing what I was doing.”

“You could be lying,” Tim says, swallowing down the bitter taste in his mouth.

“I could,” she agrees with a grin. “If I was, you might never know. I’m very good at it.”

“Not exactly the answer I was looking for.”

“Yes, but if I told you that, it would be a lie.” There’s a slight ringing in his ears, like the chuckle she’s trying to contain behind that smile can’t help but seep through. Part of him wants to laugh as well, the other part is trying to remember that trick to get rid of tinnitus.

Eventually he drops himself into a chair and lets the force expel the air from his lungs. Not quite a sigh. Not quite resignation. Not quite a roll of his eyes. “Alright, fine. Then why?”

“That’s hard to explain rationally. I made a statement about it,” she says brightly. “Two actually! You could listen to them if you want, I don’t mind.”

“I’m not going back to that place. Just… try.” She positions herself on the sofa, not so much sitting in it as draping herself over it, her legs just happening to end up curled on the cushions. And Tim knows that furrowed brow, that slight, contemplative frown. He doesn’t push. Sasha always… she’d always needed time to order her thoughts before she spoke. Never one to stutter through.

“Fear, I suppose.” Her whole head seems to roll with her eyes when he snorts, though it never actually moves. “Yes, I know, but… there’s no good way to describe it. No other word that fits so well. There were so very many feelings that led me to the decision. So many thoughts and rationalizations and doubts. But underneath it all, it was fear. Fear of never seeing Jon again; fear of him being hurt; fear of finding him too late, yes. But also fear of my own helplessness; fear of how easy it would be to be a victim— just another unfortunate statement-giver, and fear of not having the power to help when the time came. Fear that, in a job like that, the End would find me too soon. Fear of losing myself. Fear of being too afraid to risk it. Fear of my own stubbornness keeping me from adapting like I needed to. Fear of what it would mean, once I figured it all out. Fear that I never would, and it would eat away at me. Fear that, underneath it all, I didn’t want to figure it all out. Fear of how that desperation to just be lost pulled at me, and fear of what I’d be if I didn’t answer it.” The words come faster and faster until it’s hard to distinguish what she’s saying, though the sentiment still gets through. She takes a breath and sits back from where she’d starting leaning toward him. It’s painfully familiar.

“I was so full of contradictory fears, and it kept chipping away at me, at my reason. And then Michael told me he was going to kill Jon, and for just a moment it all stopped and it all hit me at once. And I thought ‘Can I really do this?’ and I knew I could. I wanted to. Maybe there were better ways— ways that kept me more me— but this was the one before me. This was the quickest, the most decisive, the most useful, and if I hesitated, there was no guarantee I’d get another chance. So I took it.”

“Not to be a self-centered ass, but what about me?” His voice is thick, trying to catch in his throat. “Did you even consider what it would do to me, to see this happen to you?”

“Yes. Of course. You’re my best friend.” He scoffs through the tears, and she smacks his arm, chiding, like she always did, though she should be too far to be able. “You are. Jon, Martin… they’re my family now. There’s a bond there that I don’t think even Jon could describe. But I think… you’re why I’m still Sasha.”

“Sorry, what? No—”

“Yes. Do you know how easy it would’ve been? To just let myself go? To become just a- a dye on the yarn, rather than a strand in the braid?” It should be rhetorical, but she just waits, and Tim thinks she’s been around Martin too long. Though maybe Martin got it from her, rather than the other way around. It’s been years now, Tim can barely remember what mannerisms she had before the Archives.

“Easy, I assume?”

“So easy, Tim! So. Easy. But I didn’t! I stayed mostly me!” Sasha pauses and tilts her head slightly. “Well… partly. At least half!”

“And you think that’s good enough?” Tim still can’t shake that bitter taste… or is it sour?

“I hope it is.” The words sound flat. Not without emotion but… without that unnatural reverberation that makes the world tilt. They sound… human. They sound like Sasha. “I really, really hope it is.”

It fucking hurts. It hurts that she’s gone. It hurts that she left him behind. It hurts that there is something sitting in his flat, with her face, asking— if he’s reading it right— to be friends. It hurts that it’s not really her. And it hurts that it is. There are differences. Countless differences. But the way she talks, moves, smiles… it’s all Sasha, turned up to eleven. It hurts how much he wants this. And he’s so, so sick of that bitter taste.

“I can’t just go back to how things were,” he chokes out. “I can’t just pretend you’re the same person I knew before.”

“No,” she agrees. “No, of course not. We could start small, though, maybe? Get lunch sometime? Make awkward conversation over and over until it eventually becomes natural?”

“Do you even eat anymore?” Tim has to ask.

“I… ate the pizza?” This seems like the sort of thing she should’ve thought about earlier, but he supposes she has had other things on her mind. “And I still like coffee. So… probably? I don’t need it, but I think I can still enjoy it. Maybe. I’m really curious to find out now.”

Of course she is. And that thought is what decides him.

“Okay,” he says. “Lunch then. On Thursday.”

Sasha perks up and grins. “Really?! Oh! That’s great! Lunch on Thursday! Right. I’ll- I’ll let you be, then, and see you Thursday. I’d give you a hug, but—”

“Please don’t.” Her laugh still makes him flinch, but she doesn’t try to contain it this time.

What she does can’t be called standing so much as unfolding, but whatever she does, she gets up from his couch and goes to a yellow door on his outer wall that definitely shouldn’t be there. Tim drops his head to his hands and rubs his temples.

“… Thank you, Tim,” she says, but doesn’t seem to mind that he doesn’t respond as the door swings open with an eerie creak. Just before she steps fully inside, she stops. “Oh… Tim?”

“Yes,” he asks, trying to remember if he still has any paracetamol anywhere.

“When is Thursday?”

[schmokschmok]

witches are real, and you think this is just a funny fic title

Fandom: The Magnus Archives

Relationship: Martin K. Blackwood x Tim Stoker

Characters: Martin K. Blackwood, Tim Stoker, Sasha James, Danny Stoker

Wordcount: 12,166

Freeform:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence

No Fear Entities

Supernatural Elements

Witch & HOH Tim Stoker

Danny Stoker Lives

Halloween

Tim Stoker Deserves Nice Things And I’m Giving Them To Him

Summary:

Martin fakes his way into the Magnus Institute, a research and archiving facility for magical and supernatural (or as Elias Bouchard likes to call it paranormal) encounters. He expects the people working for the institute to be kind of weird but Tim Stoker takes his commitment for a spooky aesthetic to a whole new level.

Read on AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27070366

#1

The thing is: Martin knows what to do with crooked smiles and superficial, flattering words. He knows how to smile politely and stumble through a thank you when someone compliments the jumper he’s wearing, not knowing that he made it himself. He knows how to accept an absentminded nod as gratitude for the tea he’s making every day for the whole archival staff. He knows how to get through a wide array of flirty remarks that concern his appearance, dignity mostly intact. He knows how to smile through a detachedly welcoming nod of a co-worker for years that answers his greeting by name.

The thing he can’t handle, under any circumstances, however, is kindness. Never been good at it, not even as a kid.

He knows his mother had been kind when he had been a child, had brushed and braided his hair every single night and told him fairy tales and stories, she had stayed up with him after nightmares and during thunder storms, had told him she loved him even when he was angry with her. And she hadn’t expected him to love her back, is the thing, hadn’t wanted him to brush her hair or hold her hand or meet every of her stories with one of his own. Maybe that’s why he gives back now, loves her even if she doesn’t love him back, brushes and braids her hair even if she doesn’t want to look at him, tells her stories of his work and the friends he doesn’t have but fabricates just to maybe ease her mind. (And if she doesn’t want him coming back, then he will stop. Kindness, sometimes, is about the things you’re willing to give up for the ones that you love. – On some days she calls him cruel for coming back and coming back and coming back, but she doesn’t tell him to leave, doesn’t tell him to stay away. So, he returns like a record broken, jumping on the same syllable until she stops the needle digging into him.)

His father had been kind, too, he thinks. Had to be to be loved by a woman like his mother once had been. Martin doesn’t remember anymore.

Mostly, the kindness directed his way is about bargaining favours and weighing the things he does against sweet spoken words. Which is alright, he thinks, because giving his last shirt for a sincere thank you has been his modus operandi since his father left. He wants to give and give and if that leaves him curled up on his bed on a Wednesday evening at eight o’clock then it’s just because he’s not strong enough to carry the weight of his own thoughts.

  #2

It starts like this: Martin takes up work in the institute with no real credentials to support his curriculum vitae or his claim of knowledge about anything, really, but he’s tired of working minimal wage, of cooking mediocre food late at night for his mother who wants to move out desperately to stop being all on her own in their empty flat, of working three shifts in a row in two different jobs and still struggling to meet ends. Martin’s tired of burning on a borrowed flame, shovelling hollow coals on a dying candle.

So, he’s faking CVs, so many that he loses count of them. He sends them to every job listing he finds, twisting and tweaking the details, staying up late at night on his battered laptop that takes almost five minutes to boot. He shows up to as many interviews as he can manage but he never gets called back in. Until Elias Bouchard phones him on a cloudy day and tells him that he can start working in the library, if he’s able to move to London in the next month that is. He accepts, of course he does. His mother would never forgive him declining the only job offer that would get them to pay their bills on time and pave the way to a nice nursing home where his mother doesn’t have to be alone anymore.

Martin moves to London. His mother doesn’t.

He starts working in the Magnus Library which is a capital L kind of library as he gets told on his very first day. It’s a joke, he thinks, a library science master’s joke that he doesn’t get but laughs about anyway. (It’s a Magnus Institute’s joke, but Martin doesn’t know that yet. His hands are full juggling the Dewey Decimal and his customer service smile while looking at the impatient faces of half of the faculty members trying to loan basic material books he hasn’t ever heard the titles of.)

It’s not a secret that he’s incompetent, Martin thinks, they all know it, and no one says anything to his face which is probably meant as kindness but feels like cruelty. Because Martin isn’t daft, Martin isn’t incapable of learning, Martin isn’t unwilling to put every last ounce of himself into being better. But nobody seems to think that he’s important enough to be corrected. They see his misfiled loaning records and his misplaced books, and they say it’s not a problem, don’t worry and they take care of it without offering to teach him any better. And Martin, well, Martin is too embarrassed to ask them how to handle it in the future. He will figure it out, he thinks, in time.

(He’s right, but he doesn’t know that yet. It takes almost a year for him to memorise the layout of the library with its seemingly everchanging bookshelves and corridors. It takes almost one and a half for him to get to know every Library staff member and their preferred way to drink tea. It takes almost two years for him to remember the faces of the faculty members that don’t visit the library regularly. It takes almost three years for him to know that it’s Research and Archives and Library and Artefacts but human resources and accounting and information technology. It’s around the same time that he feels like maybe he’s part of the team now; the same time that his co-workers stop looking at him like he’s a bumbling fool without any skills; the same time that he stops calling his mother every three days or so even though she hasn’t picked up in a long time.)

The very first week that he works in the library is filled with many apologies, too many to keep record, a much and much of awkward apologeticness. A few conversations are held, he gets to know Rosie „the heart of the institute” Martinez and Lydia „from HR” Yılmaz. They are good people and talking to them makes the muscles in his back relax just the tiniest bit, although the panic never stops flaring up in his stomach that, somehow, they will know that he’s a fraud.

It’s the first day of his second week and he feels slightly more prepared because he used every minute of the weekend to pull up every article ever written about the institute and its library. He tried reading published papers, too, but without the institute’s access they’re securely locked behind a paywall he can’t get through without a credit card and loads and loads of money to spare. He snacked on canned peaches while reading about filing systems, but in the end he’s none the wiser.

So, he comes in an hour early and unlocks the front entrance of the institute with his key card. It’s eerily quiet in the dark lobby and hallways leading into the back of the building. The noisiness of the street and the embankment gets swallowed by the thick walls and the closing door behind him and the only thing he can hear is the tapping of his own shoes on the marble floor. It’s a mixture of unsettling and peaceful, but he’s not sure which takes precedence in his sleep addled mind. The unfamiliarity of the cream-coloured walls and the polished, almost black floor makes every shadow move in a way Martin can’t comprehend and he turns to look at them a few times only to realise they’re potted plants or laminated notes hung up next to different door frames. He passes a few glowing exit signs and the door to the stairwell that leads up to the second floor.

When he approaches the entrance to the library, a weight gets lifted from his stomach at the prospect of a light switch he can use to chase out the darkness that slowly gets more unnerving than comforting. Spinning the key card in his hand to keep busy and hold his anxiety at bay, he rounds the last corner and stops dead in his tracks. Because sitting right in front of the door is a person only illuminated by the harsh, cold light of their phone. Right the second Martin loses hold of his key card and it meets the floor with an echoing plasticky sound, their eyes snap up and fixate on Martin.

“Oh, lovely, you’re here,” they say, standing up from their hunched-up position without even touching the floor with their hands. (Martin takes a moment to envy that movement because every time he thinks about sitting down on the floor he has to either make sure something’s in close proximity to help him lift himself up or the ground’s not too dirty, so he doesn’t have to wash his hands right the second he stands upright again.) “I was starting to get worried I’d have to wait another hour for someone to open up.”

“Uh–,” is everything Martin gets out before the stranger picks up his key card and hands it over to him. They smile at him, slightly deranged but without a doubt handsome in a way that makes Martin’s breath catch in his chest. While Martin reaches out carefully to grab the offered card, they say: “Sorry for dropping in unexpectedly and unannounced but Veronica will have my arse if I don’t hand in this follow up today.”

Silence falls over them when Martin doesn’t react in any way and just continues staring at the stranger who keeps staring at him as if Martin should know who Veronica is and how important it is for them to do their follow up. (As if Martin should know what a follow up even is.)

“Tim,” the stranger provides when Martin doesn’t show the slightest inclination to do anything other than, well, stare at them. “I’m working upstairs in Research in Veronica’s team.” They wait for an agonising moment for Martin to return the introduction – which he fails to do, still trying to process that he’s really in an actual conversation with another human being before seven a.m.

“As lovely as it is standing here with you, …” Tim continues, allowing Martin once again to submit his name. Which he fails to do, again, because his mouth feels so dry he’s afraid if he opens it now there won’t come out anything else than a pathetic cough. Tim doesn’t seem too stressed about it. „I really need to go in there,” Tim gestures over their shoulder to the library, “and cross-reference a few things and brush up a few of my foot-notes before it’s time to clock in again. Veronica is really adamant about this follow up laying on her desk at eight thirty sharp.” The manila folder in Tim’s hand gets lifted for emphasis and apparently that’s all Martin needed to get it together and finally move. Without him intending to do so, his lips form a customer service smile that’s been ingrained into his very being from years upon years of working in ice cream shops and pizza restaurants and a movie theatre that’s long gone now.

“Yeah, uh, yeah no problem!”

He steps around Tim and presses his key card against the sensor underneath the door handle. After the soft opening click of the lock, he steps aside to let Tim enter the room behind him and he searches for the light switch with his outstretched arm because he’s pretty sure that one has to be on the wall to his left.

“Thank you, really, you’re doing me a favour, mate,” Tim says and legitimately bows with the biggest grin before he’s off into the depth of the library, swallowed by a shelf Martin could swear hadn’t stood there on Friday when he left.

Finally, he lets go of the door and gets closer to the wall to search with both hands for the switch, until the little finger of his right hand bumps against the hard plastic shell of a set of light switches.

“Gonna be bright for a second,” he warns loudly, unsure if Tim’s even able to hear him or not. Then, after a few seconds, he presses the switch and the lights above his head sputter and blink to life with the solid snugness of old halogen lamps.

His eyes take a moment to adjust to the brightness, then he treads over to the counter, rounds it and closes his eyes for just a heartbeat or two. He’s got this. Tim wandering somewhere, hidden behind shelfs, is not going to change the fact that Martin’s got this. His brain, heart and stomach just need to be convinced, that’s okay, he can handle a wee bit anxiety and nervousness.

Without further ado, he pins his name tag to his monochrome button-down (because that’s what adults wear at work) and starts to open the various drawers underneath the counter to catalogue the innards.

There's probably a system, stapler and pen and pencils in one drawer, neatly arranged in a compartment next to sticky notes and paper squares in bright colours and an uncountable amount of paper clips. In the drawer underneath, he finds envelopes, more paper in various shapes and forms and sizes. Another drawer reveals the minute book in which Martin should document Tim’s presence. (Probably? He’s not entirely sure if the minute book is for every research assistant or students only.) Right next to the minute book, Martin can see the keys for every terminal in the library, and a few personal items of his co-workers which should not be in there as far as Martin’s been informed. The last two drawers contain RFID tags, barcodes and printed ID cards. The space reserved for lost and found is surprisingly empty. (Martin thinks he remembers Janette taking everything back into the small storage room in the back on Friday afternoon.)

It takes almost fifteen minutes for him to open and close every drawer (multiple times) and he's still not sure if he memorised the most important things. It's quarter past seven, however, and he couldn’t find a single position plan, which is why Martin steps around the counter and starts to make his way through the maze that is this library. Clipboard and pencil in hand, he outlines the approximate layout of the outer walls and tries to draw in the shelfs he passes, marking them with things like Local History A—V and Ghosts (general) J—Z, scribbling down letters and numbers of the signatures that seem important to him. (He's got a run down last week but the library uses the most arbitrary synthesis of Dewey Decimal and an intern system that the first library staff must have implemented before trying to shove the Dewey Decimal into the small space left.)

Martin's good at making maps, if he's allowed to say so. He can read a map, he can draw a map. (It wouldn't hold up against a professional map but his always worked fine enough.) So, he feels righteous indignation when someone steps into his space, throws a glance on his makeshift map and says: “This isn't accurate, sorry.”

Martin furrows his brow, but the customer service smile is on his lips again before he’s able to will it away.

“Why wouldn't it be?” Martin asks even though he doesn't want to know what Tim has to say. “I mean, yeah, you couldn't do an accurate projection, but it's not meant to be. It's about the order of the shelfs, the signatures.”

“As much as I hate to disappoint you,” Tim says and lets his finger hover half a centimetre above Martin's map, “but the ghost section is three shelfs down to the right next to Russian literature. I walked past it a few seconds ago.”

“Well, the only reason this map says ghost is because I walked past the ghost section,” Martin retorts (and feels very brave about it). The desire to snatch the map away from Tim's finger and hold it close to his chest so that Tim can't spare another look is strong but Martin also knows it's childish and he shouldn't indulge in such impulses.

“Well, Martin,” Tim must have seen Martin's name tag, which is nice because Tim says his name with an exasperated fondness that Martin shouldn't have earned yet and it spares Martin from the mortifying ordeal of introducing himself after his fauxpas this morning, “I don't know if nobody told you but this Library is like the rest of the institute: A big pile of magical bullshit.”

Tim grins and the skin next to their eyes crinkle with mischief as if they're sharing an inside joke with Martin, as if Martin should understand. (And like every other time someone implies or references something Martin doesn't understand or jokes about something Martin doesn't know, he gets this violent urge to scream into the knowingly smiling face in front of him. But he chokes it down, more or less successfully.) And he smiles.

“Don't beat yourself up,” Tim continues, unaware of the wee bit of hatred Martin feels in this very second, “a map won't help but soon enough you'll get the hang of it.” Tim winks. “When I first started using the Library, I swear to you, every single shelf I walked up to was sporting the cryptid selection. Every single one. I stood between two shelfs and it didn't matter in which direction I turned, there it was: The cryptid section.” Tim's eyes don't leave Martin's face for a second, which is kind of unnerving but at the same time strangely reassuring. As if Tim's more than just aware who they're talking to. “This Library is more a Feeling than an organised space.”

Tim laughs again and Martin tries to join in, but it gets caught in his throat. Tim's flittering fingers and Tim's sing-songed “spooky!” only elevate the closed up feeling in Martin's chest and the knuckles on his hand that still holds onto his clipboard turn white in their effort to not drop it.

A quick glance to the watch on Martin's wrist puts a stop to Tim's easy posture and they say: “Fuck, I should really get going. Veronica's still waiting.” Then Tim hesitates and smiles at Martin again. “It was nice to make acquaintance with you, Martin. This won't be the last you'll see of me, but if you every think about going for a drink after work, hit me up. Sam or Rosie should have given you access to the institute's instant messaging system. I think you would get along well with Sasha — she's also in Research — and me.”

Tim shoots Martin a finger gun (which is incidentally the most obnoxious thing Martin has ever had to witness) and strides past Martin towards the library's exit.

And then he's gone like the first soft layer of frost in November after the first rays of sun.

It's quarter to eight and there's not much time until one of his colleagues will try to open up the library, but Martin uses the remaining time to lean against a shelf and stare at the ticking clock on the wall above the counter, trying to will his heart into a slower rhythm not dictated by anxiety or the sudden realisation that Tim had been close and Tim had been beautiful.

And like everything else in Martin's life: He fails.

.

This could have been the end and Martin's been sure that it would be. When the clock above the counter strikes twelve however and Martin gets ready to leave the library to go down to the in-house cafeteria, the door to the library gets shoved open and Tim stumbles in, closely followed by a no less beautiful stranger who Martin assumes could be Sasha.

“Martin!” Tim exclaims right before they're fist crashes into their chest right above their heart. “Thank the Lord, you're still here!”

The-stranger-who-could-be-Sasha-but-might-not-be rolls their eyes but smiles, before shoving Tim out of their way.

“Ignore him,” they say and turn a smile on Martin, he can't help but answer with one of his own. “He can be a bit …” They make a circle shaped gesture with their rolling wrist in clear search of the right word. So, Martin tries to jump in: “Dramatic?”

“Yes,” maybe!Sasha says at the same time Tim declares: „Oh, please, I have flair that's something entirely else.“

“You're a theatre kid,” maybe!Sasha says, ignoring the dismissive hand Tim waves into their face.

“Martin, you should ignore her,” Tim presses on before maybe!Sasha gets a chance to say anything else. “When I got back to my desk, I realised we never exchanged surnames which are crucial for the instant messenger.” Martin nods, slightly dazed and not at all sure if he understands the importance of Tim’s surname. “So, Tim Stoker.” He bows outlandishly.

“And Sasha James,” maybe-or-rather-definitely-Sasha jumps in, curtsying with the same kind of derisiveness. “Glad to be of service.” She rests her elbow on Tim’s shoulder and leans forward, just the tiniest bit, but it makes Martin feel strangely included. “You want to get lunch with us?”

The smile spreading across Martin’s face feels real, digging into his cheeks and showing dimples he kind of forgot he had. He casts a look at the clock above his head and says: “Yeah, sounds lovely.”

  #3

The thing is: Martin is a dreamer, day and night and dusk ‘til dusk ‘til dawn. He likes to think about all the possibilities he will never ever take, the wonderous things he wishes to happen but knows will always remain a fantasy.

When he was a child, he used to dream about his father coming back and apologising to his mother and explaining that it was all just a big misunderstanding, innit, he never would have left willingly, especially not without further notice. Martin would dream up every reasoning in existence, if his father would have come back Martin would have already heard his excuse. He’d just have to wait and find out which one was true.

When he was a teenager, he used to dream about mending the relationship with his mother, of sharing a smile with her instead of directing it at her disapproving or distant face. And he dreamt of a boy without a face but with calloused hands and experienced lips that would come and sweep him off his feet – literally at first, and figuratively when he hit that growth spurt in tenth class.

When he became an adult, he started dreaming about working nine to five and a two-day weekend. He dreamt about working in a café or restaurant and earning enough to sustain his mother and himself. He dreamt that one day he would open up his own place, a small restaurant or a flower shop or a shop selling something with turquoise. And he dreamt that he would meet a man, a nice and good man who would make everything just the tiniest bit more bearable; who Martin would like to be around and who would like to be around Martin. A man not merely tolerating him but seeking his presence.

Martin is a dreamer, but he’s not delusional. Or at least not anymore. The older Martin grew the simpler his dreams became. Now that his income is secure, he dreams about the domesticity of a social network and a warm body next to him when he tries to fall asleep. (And it’s the first time his dreams seem to be within his grasp. As if he can reach for them and cup them in the hollow of his hands. He just has to believe.)

  #4

It goes like this: Martin slowly grows desperate because the Magnus library doesn’t make any sense at all. One day Local Myths is on the shelf next to the counter, the next the shelf is empty, and the one after that Martin sees Vampires and Werewolves neatly arrayed on it. It doesn’t make sense, and frankly it makes Martin angry. This is a library for crying out loud, and Martin’s a librarian who can’t even fetch a monograph without getting lost. (Or is he a library assistant? Is Yvonne the only librarian? Everyone in this institute always seems to be an assistant, maybe Elias Bouchard is the only person with an actual degree in here.)

“Is something bugging you?”

A voice comes out of nowhere, causing Martin’s head to snap towards the frowning face of Tim Stoker. It’s been three weeks since their first getting acquainted, and Tim and Sasha drop by at irregular intervals to chit-chat for a bit. At this point, it’s something Martin has come to accept and look forward to but not necessarily expect to happen. Usually, they tell him about their research (it’s creepy and Martin never ever wants to enter artefacts, thank you very much) or their co-workers (including one Jon who Martin is yet to meet but who’s apparently really close with both Sasha and Tim) or the things they did on the weekend (they’re both incredibly busy all the time). But it’s not like they’re self-centered by any means, they ask about him, too. On a normal day, he hates this part of the conversation because he can’t really tell them nice stories about meeting friends and going out of town to kayak or whatever because he spends his time with his mother or home alone with knitting needles either documentaries or heteronormative romcoms queued up. And, let’s be honest, that’s not a compelling story to tell.

Today however Martin’s almost glad someone’s asking him about his mood because he does have an answer: “You were right! My map isn’t accurate. And I don’t get why!”

The startled look on Tim’s face makes Martin realise that he’s a bit loud and his tone is maybe a little aggressive. He ducks his head, heat spreading over his face, and continues in a more dignified manner: “It’s really not that bad. I’m just trying to shelve the returned books. But I can’t find the shelfmarks. It’s a little frustrating, is all.”

He tries to smile through his outburst, but he feels bad almost immediately. It’s not Tim’s responsibility or amicable duty to listen to Martin’s displeased rant, and they don’t know each other well enough for Martin to burden him with unimportant stuff like this. (The thought that Tim seems to be genuinely interested in what Martin has to say and that Tim complains all the time about uncooperative clerks and impossible to keep deadlines which likely means that he would be alright with Martin complaining a teeny-tiny bit crosses Martin’s mind but he tries not to dwell on it. He wouldn’t forgive himself if he would be mistaken.)

“You’ve been here for, what,” Tim says, his index finger tapping against his chin, a questioning look on his face, “like, a month?” Martin nods. “It’s absolutely normal to get confused. Like I told you: This Library is more a Feeling than an organised space. You can’t go about it with logic.” At this, he shrugs dismissively. “After that Cryptid incident, I literally brought my pendulum to work just to locate the sections I was looking for. And guess what, the Library didn’t care. It sent me running around the shelves nonetheless.”

Martin can’t help himself, his face scrunches up in a grimace. He should have anticipated weird antics when he first started working here, the Magnus Institute is a research and archiving facility for magical and supernatural (or as Elias Bouchard calls it paranormal) encounters. But Tim had seemed like a normal guy.

Quickly, he schools his expression into a more neutral one, before he says: “No offence, really, I hope I’m not intruding but using a pendulum seems kind of, well, esoteric?” The moment the words leave his mouth, he feels awful. Who raised Martin to be this impolite? Certainly not his mother. So he tries to backtrack: “I– I mean, I don’t want to impose or, uh, ascribe something to you or, or invalidate you.”

“It’s okay,” Tim interrupts him with a smile. He doesn’t seem mad. “I’m a witch, so everything I do is kinda esoteric. Can’t hold that against you.”

The wolfishness of Tim’s grin makes Martin think that this is an inside joke, too. Or, oh no, maybe it’s Tim’s religion and Martin’s a real jackass about it. Is witch a religious term? He has heard about wicca and druidism, but he has no idea if they call themselves witches. He doesn’t want to disrespect Tim or his belief system, but he also wants to know. Is it disrespectful to ask Tim about his religion? Martin wouldn’t do it if they didn’t know each other, but their friends (somewhat, kind of) and asking as a friend is more considerate than intrusive, right? (Or is he just rationalising and justifying his own curiosity, while masking it as attentiveness? Is Martin overthinking this?)

“So,” Martin starts and it’s an out of body experience where he sees himself driving against a wall without the chance to stop himself, “does that mean you’re wiccan?” He bites his tongue, waiting for Tim to tell him he’s an insensitive twat.

“Oh, no. I’m agnostic,” Tim replies, still wearing the same expression of content and reassurance.

For a moment, they’re both quiet. Tim leans against the counter, his elbows on the surface and his face almost in Martin’s space. It could be unpleasant, but he rather likes Tim’s complete disregard of personal space. (In part because he has seen Tim interact with Rosie who dislikes physical touch to a stark extreme in a respectful way, always keeping his distance. He knows if he ever were uncomfortable Tim would back off. And that’s reassuring in its own way.)

“Give yourself some time,” Tim says eventually. “Let the Library get to know you.”

“You talk about the library as if it were conscious.” It’s a statement, not a question.

“Yeah,” Tim chuckles. “Yeah, I do.” He sighs and straightens his back. “It’s not, though, so don’t worry.” The way Tim says it, though, makes Martin think that this is not the whole truth. That there is something Tim’s not telling him. But it’s not Martin’s place to inquire further, he thinks. There’s definitely a plausible explanation for all this, Tim just likes to pull his pigtails.

“Shouldn’t you be out today?” Martin asks to change the topic and feels incredibly rude at the same time. “Not that I’m not happy to see you, but it’s still quarter an hour to lunch.”

“Came back earlier than expected and thought I could mob you ‘til twelve and kidnap you for a lunch date,” Tim replies so nonchalantly, warmth spreads across Martin’s face and he attempts to swallow down the laugh that wants to escape – but he fails. (He has never been mobbed, and even though Tim doesn’t think of this as a date date, Martin wants to indulge in that thought. At least for a moment.)

“I think,” he says slowly, and a little bit mischievously, “I could take my break early today.”

  #5

The thing is: Even though Martin thought Sasha and Tim would grow bored of him sooner or later, they don’t. They stop at his desk when they use the library for their research, they pick him up sometimes for lunch or ask him to meet them outside if they’re doing field work. Martin gets roped into pub nights and trivia quizzes, Sasha takes him to her pottery class and Tim invites him to a poetry slam where his brother performs. (This is remarkable because of two things: First and foremost, because Martin has never been invited to meet family members of anyone except for the parents of a few classmates when he stayed for lunch. And secondly, because Tim and Danny are as close as brothers can be, and it feels like a seal of approval – or as if Tim needed Danny to approve of Martin before he could spend more time with him. Martin’s not sure which way round it is.)

  #6

It goes like this: Despite the cool September night air, Martin is way too warm in his thick knitted jumper. He runs hot, always has been, but today is not the day he wants to be soaked in sweat just by existing. (Truth be told, he never really wants to be this warm, but there are at least times where he doesn’t mind as much. Meeting Danny Stoker for the first time is not one of those times. But he’s also pretty sure that he can’t take off his jumper because he’s been too hot for too long at this point. Tonight’s going to be fun and he just needs to power through.)

Martin tries not to shift his weight from one foot to the other too often, instead he’s focusing on the way the soles of his shoes line up with the asphalt of the pavement and ground him. He counts his breaths, his hands burrowed deep inside the pockets of his trousers. He can absolutely do this, he has known Tim for a few weeks now and he doesn’t think Tim would introduce Danny and him if he’d think they wouldn’t get along. (This may be more of wishful thinking though.) 

A small part of him wishes, Sasha would come too, to ease the tension in his shoulders and uncoil the knots in his stomach. But she's with her family, celebrating the birthday of one of her cousins, and the text she sent him a few hours ago sits in their chat, mourning her absence and telling him to enjoy Danny's performance, it will likely be one of a kind. 

Right when he seriously starts contemplating to go home again and fake a stomach bug, Tim rounds the corner with a man just a few years younger than him who looks like a referenceless, free-hand drawing of Tim. Which isn't a bad thing, by any means, just noticeable in how alike they look, just different enough to not be mistaken for each other. 

When Tim's gaze falls upon Martin, his face splits into a wide grin and he waves enthusiastically, almost smacking Danny in his face in the process. This causes Danny to look directly at him, too, and his eyebrows shoot up while grinning almost half as wide as Tim. (If there had been any kind of doubt about them being brothers, now there weren’t.) Danny turns his head slightly and nudges Tim with his elbow. When Tim turns to look at him, Danny says something to him, moving his hands in unison, that makes Tim stop grinning for a second and start furrowing his brow. It doesn't last long, only three or four steps, then he looks at Martin again and his face softens. (Martin desperately wants to know what Danny said because people looking at Martin and whispering usually means something bad. And if Danny already wants to make fun of him, then Martin needs to go. Immediately.)

“You came!”

While Martin was still weighing his options, measuring staying, but anxiously against going, but anxiously, Tim and Danny have come into earshot. And Tim sounds pleasantly surprised as if he had been unsure if Martin would come. 

They come to a halt in front of Martin and Tim pulls Martin in for a quick hug, which isn't a surprise per se but still unexpected. Subsequently, he turns towards Danny and introduces them. (He says this is my friend Martin, I told you about him. He says friend, not co-worker. Which, yes. They're friends but it's still new and nice and positively overwhelming to hear him say it out loud.)

“Hey,” Danny says, his smile unwavering. He's either a good actor or doesn't hate Martin on sight; at this point, Martin gladly takes both over open hostility. "Tim told me so much about you. I'm really pleased to make your acquaintance." He pauses to make room for Martin returning the sentiment. (Which he does, thank you very much, just because he's a useless gay around beautiful men and can't handle surprise small talk at arse o'clock, doesn't mean he can't hold a conversation.) “I gotta be honest with you, mate, I need your help tonight. This is my first slam and Tim’s a shit critic. I need some real feedback.”

A reassuring smile takes over Martin's features because, of course, Danny is nervous. Martin would be, too, he supposes. The thing Danny had said had probably nothing to do with Martin per se and everything with meeting someone for the first time at his first performance. (And maybe his only if Sasha is right.) However, before he can retort in any way, Tim jumps in: “Danny, bro, Martin is probably the last person you should ask to tell you how awful your skid is. You didn't practice it once and he’s a nice guy.”

“Well,” Danny replies, mischief in his eyes and a mocking tilt in his voice, “I'm just gonna wing it.” 

“You're lucky, you're a Stoker.”

“You're just jealous because you didn't inherit that gen,” Danny shoots back before turning to Martin and stage-whispering: “Everyone always thinks that Tim is naturally gifted and everything comes to him easily. But in reality, he has to learn things and work for them. Embarrassing, right?”

Getting roped into friendly, brotherly banter. That's good! That's involvement in a good and workmanlike manner! And, actually, way out of Martin's comfort zone right now. (Is this a test? Is Danny teasing Tim in front of Martin to see if Martin jumps in and practically stabs Tim right in the back? Or does he want Martin to disagree with him and stand in solidarity with Tim? Or is Martin’s brain just overreacting like, well, always?)

“You’re embarrassing him,” Tim accuses Danny, before shoving at him and laughing. It’s obvious he doesn’t mind Danny teasing him or Martin, because it’s good natured. (Or at least Martin wants it to be. He desperately wants it to be.)

“No, I’m honest with him,” Danny retorts, before shoving Tim back which causes him to almost crash into Martin. “Someone needs to take you down a peg or two. Once in a while at least.” He grins and it’s more on the boyish side.

“I think Sasha’s doing a good job keeping Tim in check,” Martin interjects bravely. With every second in their presence, the fists in his pockets lose a speck of tension and Martin can feel his nails easing out of the heel of his hand. He feels weird being the only one neither knowing nor using sign language while talking but he’s thankful that they’re including him, talking loud enough for him to hear. (It’s a whole new side of Tim Martin has never seen before, it’s nice. Very nice, actually.)

“I love Sasha,” Danny sighs wistfully, batting his eyes. Before Tim slings his arm around Danny’s neck and pulls him in, he says: “We’ve been through this, Sasha’s way out of your league.” (And probably aro, Martin thinks, if the small pride flag pin Martin spotted on Sasha’s satchel bag is any indication.)

“Yeah,” Danny says. “True.” Then his eyes fall on the clock inside the display window of a chemist on the other side of the street. “We should head in.”

They make their way into the pub, through a small crowd consisting mostly of people in their twenties and thirties, milling and chatting in wait for the poetry slam to begin. Danny makes a beeline for a bar table, even though multiple tables with chairs and benches are empty. Martin wants to point out that he doesn’t think standing for multiple hours is something he wants to do, but right when he decides that he can at least try, Tim grabs Danny’s arm and steers him toward a round table with four chairs at the back of the room.

“You won’t make me stand through your performance,” Tim proclaims loudly, then he sits down and pats the seat of the chair next to his. Demonstratively, Danny sits down on Tim’s other side – closest to the stage – and Martin rounds the table to sit next to Tim. While Tim and Danny shrug off their coats, Martin once again regrets his choice of clothing. (Maybe a beer or two into the evening will ease his nerves enough to pull off his jumper. Now he takes a deep breath and focuses on the soft chattering of the crowd.)

Underneath their coats, matching shirts come to light. An Aegean blue with white lettering, a loopy script proclaiming bestoked with the tiny caricature of a witch with a pointy hat on a broomstick. Below that, Martin recognises small print that reads: Witches are real, and you think this is just a funny t-shirt slogan. He chuckles.

Tim makes a questioning hmm-sound and Martin points at their shirts, saying: “It’s funny.”

“Yeah,” Danny replies, exchanging looks with Tim. “Sasha made them for us.”

“Why witches?” Martin asks. Opposed to standing outside having to face both of them, sitting next to Tim puts Martin at ease. (It feels more organic sitting alongside Tim. Most of the time when they head out together, they sit on one bench with Sasha on the other side of the table. This is almost the same, Martin tries to reason, Danny is just another Sasha. A person Tim loves and wants him to like, too. No big deal.) “Isn’t Bram Stoker known for Dracula?”

“Yeah, he is,” Danny says with a shrug and Tim adds: “Our name’s Stoker and we’re witches. It’s pretty niche but most people think it’s funny.”

Martin tilts his head in confusion, he opens his mouth through an irritated smile. Before he can actually speak though, someone on the makeshift stage steps up to the microphone and welcomes the crowd to the pub’s bi-monthly poetry slam.

“First up: Gerry with their poem osedax!”

The crowd claps and their conversation is completely forgotten. They listen to Gerry describing a life under water and a life dependent on death. It’s a bit early for spooky Halloween vibes but Martin thinks it’s probably a metaphor for Gerry’s life that’s beyond Martin to understand. (He loves poetry, writes his own in his spare time, but he’s not big on interpreting poems outside of his own limited world view. He likes reading poetry, imagining the lives inspiring the words, and applying them to his own situation. Seeing someone putting their innards on display for dozens of strangers to see, is something entirely different. It feels like trespassing, somehow, trespassing into the soul of another human being. Martin decides that he hates it here.)

Gerry concludes their poem with ragged breathing and closed eyes. For a moment, the pub is silent. Then applause rings out and Tim leans toward Martin and whispers loudly: “Gerry is the one who put the bee into Danny’s bonnet that performing here would be a good idea.”

Danny shushes Tim, swatting at him without looking. Absentmindedly, he says: “It is a good idea, though.”

Martin doesn’t say anything, while watching Gerry retreat from the stage and head back to a group at the long side of the room. They congratulate Gerry, and Martin thinks (for just one measly second) how it would feel to perform one of his own poems. One about his mother or the alienation he felt his whole life. But he’s not a word magician like Gerry, he doesn’t have plausible deniability for the things he talks about. His poetry is descriptive and more of an endeavour to capture a feeling than an analogy in form of a convoluted metaphor.

Next up is someone talking about a hamster. Martin senses a theme.

Tim and Danny stare intensely at the stage, absorbing each and every word being said. And Martin’s torn between getting up and buying drinks, and waiting quietly until the poem is over. He’s unsure about the custom. If it would be impolite to talk during the performance.

In the end, however, it doesn’t matter. They end their poem and thank the audience before they leave the stage. Martin leans into Tim’s space (a bit like Tim would do with him in this situation), his shoulder lining up with Tim’s and when Tim turns around he whispers: “I’m gonna get drinks. Can I get you something?”

“We can just get a pitcher,” Tim whispers back, before checking in with Danny: “You’re not up next, right?” Danny shakes his head and Martin gets up to get them a pitcher and three glasses. (He takes the opportunity to breathe in and out a few times. He thought they would talk more. That Danny and he would have to interact more. But, apparently, Tim and Danny are really into poetry slam and don’t want to disrespect the artists. Which is, well, nice. Considerate. And, yes, he shouldn’t be surprised about that.)

Martin orders a pitcher and pays right up, then he tries to balance the three glasses and the pitcher through the crowd back to their table. He puts everything down and almost misses the staff member announcing Danny’s performance. Lost Johns’ Cave.

With a spring in his step, Danny stands up, makes his way to the stage and takes his place behind the microphone. A small smile on his lips, he clears his throat and starts speaking: “So, John was lost and so was I.”

He pauses.

“It’s a fact and everybody knows that John got lost in this cave. It’s a deep cave, a dark cave, a cave that swallowed us up like a ravenous, soft-teethed beast. It starts with a slope, grainy and wet, and there’s only one way, so it’s impossible to get lost, even though John did.”

He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath.

“John was lost and so was I. I don’t know where he went, and I didn’t come to look, but one moment Kadir and Aylin where there and the next they were not. I didn’t reach the chockstone, I didn’t reach the climb. Three hundred and seventy-five feet and I was lost as John in his cave.”

He shifts his weight from one foot to the other. While he spoke, Martin’s sure he could recognise the spelling of John, but Danny doesn’t spell Kadir or Aylin or at least Martin’s not able to spot it.

“John was lost and so was I. Seconds after minutes after hours after years, no climb in sight, just the steady flow of the stream and my hitching breath. It should stop sometime, I thought, it should give way down to his cave and I will not be a John. Because John was lost and I won’t be.”

He pauses again, a heartbeat or two longer than before.

“John was lost and so was I. No measuring of my position with a pendulum, no signal for my phone, no chance to be heard through the thick walls of the cave. The rush of the stream died down albeit the map depicting the stream and the slope correspondent.”

The air of the pub is filled with suspense and eerily quiet for a crowd as large as this one.

“John was lost and so was I. Limestone encased me and silence took over.”

Danny stops speaking, one and a half minutes gone. If Martin’s right, Danny has three minutes and fifteen seconds left. Every other contestant spoke for about five minutes, so Danny has plenty of time left. But he doesn’t say a thing. Seconds tick by and Martin gets squeamish in his seat. He glances towards Tim, but Tim seems unwound and relaxed. As if it were to be expected of Danny to pull something like this.

Danny remains silent, and Martin uses the tense atmosphere and the quiet audience to take an unnoticed look at Tim and Danny. They really do look alike. They share the same thick, expressive eyebrows, same dark brown hair and eyes, the same sharp jawlines. But Tim is soft around the edges, he doesn’t look as muscular as he is, his tummy rolling underneath his Aegean blue shirt. Up close like this, Martin can see the hearing aid Tim is wearing, and the moles that scatter across the slope of his neck. Especially the two moles that rest approximately half a centimetre wide of his tragus.

So preoccupied with Tim’s, well, beauty, Martin almost misses Danny moving on stage. He extends his right fist, before he opens it, while dropping it a few centimetres. At the same time, he mouths something that could be the word drop but Martin’s not sure because he can’t read lips. Then Danny spreads the fingers of his left hand, holding it flat and vertically aligned in a hundred-twenty-degree angle to his upper body. His right hand is spread in the same way and he moves it towards his left hand. When the pads of his fingers connect to the palm of his left hand, he lets his hand bounce back. The movements of his right hand two sides of an equilateral triangle. Again, he mouths something and if Martin would have to guess he’d say it was echo.

By minute three, Danny has been silent for one and a half minutes and has been through two repeats of the two words. (In all honesty, Martin is surprised that the crowd still watches Danny. That they hang onto his lips like a drop of water at the rim of a cup.)

Then he starts speaking again: “John was lost and so was I. I entered his cave and I got off the right path, I fell into darkness and somehow I came back. I’m not one of the Johns, I’m a Joey deep down. Because John was lost but I am found.”

A smile tugs at Danny’s lips, then, after a moment, he bows outlandishly (in an unbelievably tim-ish way) and says: “Thank you.” Then he leaves the stage in a beeline towards their table, while the audience starts to clap hesitantly.

When Danny sits down at their table again, Tim and he exchange a few quiet sentences. (In most circumstances this would make Martin’s anxiety spike up again, but to his own surprise it doesn’t. It’s just nice to see Tim interacting with his brother. Martin doesn’t have to be included to feel like he’s part of this.)

Martin takes a sip from his drink and throws a glance at the stage. After Danny there are still four people left. The performances are about existential fatigue, about childhood fears and dreams, and (in one memorable instant) about an imaginary soap opera the poetry slammer claims to watch in their head.

When the poetry slam is finally over, Danny grins at Martin and asks: “So, comments or questions?”

“Impromptu interpretation is not my strong suit,” Martin tries to escape the discussion of Danny’s depression? Outing? He’s not lying, he can’t interpret something like this in a few minutes. Especially not while looking right into Danny’s face. “I’m not sure what the cave is a metaphor for.” His tone is apologetic, but Danny laughs startled and says: “It’s not a metaphor. I literally got lost in a cave.”

“Oh,” Martin blurts out. “Well, then … I’m not an expert by any means. But I think it was pretty good, very compelling.” His ears are burning and the coldness of his drink seeps into the palms of his hands, contrasting the warmness in every fibre of his body.

Danny grins and says: “I like him.”

“Yeah, I do, too,” Tim affirms. His smile, however, is more delicate than Danny’s. (And Martin doesn’t want to think about the possibility that Tim likes him, too. Likes likes him. He’s still trying to wrap his head around the fact that he didn’t only acquire a job three months ago but friends, too. It shouldn’t matter that Tim is nice to him, because Tim is nice to everyone. Martin isn’t special.)

  #7

The thing is: Tim is so very nice. Nice in a way no one has ever been nice to Martin. He’s nice unconditionally, doesn’t wink suggestively at Martin when he hands him a cup of tea exactly the way Martin likes, doesn’t expect Martin to do anything in turn when he lays his hand on Martin’s shoulder in a silent display of support or affection, doesn’t want him to say thank you and how much do I owe you whenever he brings lunch in that he cooked himself, enough to share it with Martin and Sasha and even Jon, if he would ever want to. Tim’s nice and considerate and most people don’t seem to see it. They take Tim’s jokes and pop-culture references as a demonstration of his whole personality, take in the beauty of his face and simmer it down to the essence of his existence.

Tim is beautiful and he is funny, Martin’s the last to argue with that. But Tim is more, Tim is beyond, Tim is the soft are you alright when Martin must step out for a second after a reprimand from an assistant, Tim is the curious no, I want to know what you think about it, Tim is the reassuring you’ve got this and the understanding and if you don’t, I’m still here. Tim is every post-it note on Martin’s desk that says delighted to see you here and you look nice today and take time for yourself.

Tim is so very nice without even trying that Martin can’t help himself but fall in love with him. Embarrassing, right?

  #8

It ends like this: Martin doesn’t argue with Tim about his insistence that he’s a witch, because: Who’s Martin to deny Tim anything at all. Yes, he would like to know more about Tim as a person and about the things he does on weekends and, yes, getting cryptic answers like hanging out with the coven is a bit frustrating, but Martin also must confess that he admires Tim dedication.

It’s almost Halloween and since the start of October, Tim has been wearing a pointy hat to work. Which is kind of ridiculous but endearing at the same time because Sasha assures Martin that Danny does it too and that they do it every year in October. (It’s not one of his finer moments, it’s true, but he couldn’t help himself asking Sasha is this is some kind of meme. A Stoker inside gag that everyone is in on, but Sasha just smiles at him and says: “Oh, Martin, love, no. It’s not a meme.”)

When Martin asks him about the hat, Tim tilts his head in mild confusion and replies: “I’m a witch, Martin. Witches wear pointy hats.”

And Martin who’s got enough practice now dealing with Tim’s antics, retorts: “No, I mean, yes, I know, I mean: You didn’t wear it in the summer, why?”

“Usually, I wear my hat to rituals and stuff because channelling energy is way easier with a hat. But in October my coven wears it to let the spirits and the fair folk know they shouldn’t fuck around with us,” Tim explains. And Martin looks him dead into his eyes and says: “Makes sense.”

.

Three days before Halloween (or Mischief Night as Tim likes to call it), Tim drops off a bottle of essential oil at Martin’s desk. Before Martin can ask about it, Tim says: “I brought you essential oils for your headache.”

“Because,” Martin starts and stops hesitantly, wondering when he mentioned his headaches in front of Tim, without coming up with an answer, “you’re a witch.”

Tim nods, adding however: “But, you know, essential oils don’t need magic to work.”

“Makes sense,” Martin says, for the simple reason that he doesn’t know what else to say. This is getting ridiculous, but he doesn’t want to be the buzzkill. He wants to be Tim’s friend (or date, despite the whole witch-thing) and friends are supportive of each other! Friends don’t judge you for your oddities.

Tim changes the topic: “Do you have anything planned for Mischief Night?” Martin shakes his head. “Then I would like to formally invite you to celebrate Mischief Night with me.”

“Wouldn’t a formal invite require an invitation card?” Martin asks back, propping his chin up on his hand, a curious tilt in his voice.

“I’ll get to that,” Tim replies, while he suppresses a smile that threatens to take over his face. “So, it’s a date?”

Martin closes his eyes, short enough to be mistaken with a blink, and says: “Yeah, it’s a date.” The aching in his chest makes him wish Tim would be a little less nice and a little more without ambiguity. Even though he wants it to be a romantic date, this is just a friendly outing with a guy claiming to be a witch.

.

Fortunately, Mischief Night (or Halloween as everyone else seems to call it) is a Saturday, which means that Tim can pick Martin up at his flat in Stockwell. Neither Tim nor Martin own a car, but Tim borrowed Danny’s well-loved VW Beetle and it’s only about thirty-seven kilometres until they reach Bocketts Farm.

Martin’s glad the midday fog has eased up, and the sun warms the skin on his forearms, since he rolled up the sleeves of his jumper. Tim is right beside him, his pointy hat decorated with probably fake cobwebs.

“I’m a bit disappointed you didn’t pick me up on your broomstick,” Martin says when they walk through the entrance of the farm. Despite the slight fear that Tim will take offence and abandon him on this farm, he feels comfortable enough to make a joke like this. He thinks he knows Tim well enough to know that Tim would tell him if he were overstepping any boundaries.

Tim’s answer is a little more defensive than Martin anticipated: “Flying is hard, okay. Usually, I ride shotgun.”

Martin gapes, for lack of a better word, and almost walks into a fencepost if it weren’t for Tim pulling him aside. Instead of letting go of Martin’s arm, Tim threads his own through and links them in the most casual way Martin has ever seen. This is nice. (Tim is nice.)

“What do you want to do first?” Tim inquires when Martin doesn’t say anything else. “I personally am inclined to start with apple-bobbing.” He points to a small group of people around a water filled barrel. Martin makes a noncommittal sound, shrugging his shoulders at the same time, and Tim steers him softly towards the event.

“Supposedly, the barrel symbolises the cauldron of rebirth,” Tim says while they walk the remaining distance. Martin casts a look in his direction. He’s a bit preoccupied with the thought that Tim wants him to stick his head into ice cold water to fish for an apple with his teeth, so he only says: “Makes sense.” Even though he’s not sure in what way rebirth is connected to divining the first letter of your future spouse’s name.

When they come to a halt in front of the barrel, it doesn’t take long until they have their turn. Tim yields to Martin and he sighs before he steps up the barrel, takes a deep breath and dives in. The water is freezing, tiny pinpricks on Martin’s skin, and it’s really, really hard to actually get his teeth on an apple because every time he touches on, it submerges and sideslips. (It’s frustrating. Like shelving books in the Magnus library is frustrating. He knows he got it right but in reality he doesn’t.)

It takes forever or at least it feels like forever, his face in cold water and his fingers in Tim’s hand. (Wait, when did Tim grab his hand? Did he grab Tim’s hand? Oh, he must have sometime between their arrival at the barrel and his endeavour to bob for an apple.) But then he catches a small one between his teeth and gets out of the water as fast as possible. Tim lets out a loud whistle and his free hand pats Martin’s shoulder in congratulation. Whereas Martin’s free hand gets rid of the water in his face and pulls the apple out of his mouth.

“This is terrible,” he says through a chuckle because he can’t be mad with the sun shining into his face like it’s late summer and not autumn. “It’s your turn.”

Martin has to let go of Tim’s hand because a member of staff hands a knife to him and he starts peeling the apple in one unbroken strip.

Apparently, Tim’s either more practiced in apple-bobbing or he’s really a witch and helped himself along with magic, because it takes him not nearly as long as Martin to catch an apple. He waits for Martin to finish peeling his apple and relieves Martin of the knife.

“You have to throw it over your left shoulder,” Tim explains earnestly. “It’s the side of the heart. It won’t work otherwise.”

“Makes sense,” Martin says, and it kind of does. Still he waits for Tim to finish peeling his own apple. Then they hand back the knife and stand side by side, throwing the peel on the count of three over their left shoulders.

“It looks like a T,” Tim says, when he catches sight of Martin’s apple peel, tapping the tip of his index finger against his chin.

Martin laughs, he's not entirely sure why but he can't stop himself. He replies: “It looks like a C, all of them look like Cs. And if they don’t, then they look like Os.” He points at Tim’s apple peel. “Look, yours looks like a C, too.”

“It’s just a tad short,” Tim retorts. “See, it started to form a small M but only came around to curve into a small N.” He laughs, too. “The apples have spoken, Martin. We’re destined for each other.”

“Well,” Martin says and he can’t shake the soft warmth that curls underneath his solar plexus, “if the apples say that, it must be right.”

.

They spend a good few hours on the farm, carving pumpkins and turnips, wandering through the maze and passing by goats and sheep and pigs, before they get to a bon fire Tim wants to sit down at to warm up a bit. The afternoon had been warm, but now that the sun has set cold creeps into their clothes and Tim complains about his between-season jacket. Martin who’s still warm despite the cold breeze gently extends his hand for Tim to hold.

For a few moments they fall quiet, only listening to the cracking of the fire.

But it doesn’t take long for Tim to reach into his pockets to fish for something and bring four conkers to light. He presents them to Martin and says: “Do you want to?” And Martin nods, only in part because Tim could ask anything of him and Martin would gladly do it.

They place their conkers in the flames respectively and when Martin’s first one cracks, Tim questions: “Did you name them?”

Martin shakes his head. Only a moment passes by, then:

“Did you name them?” Martin asks, and he doesn't look at Tim. His eyes are transfixed on the two conkers resting side by side. The left is already cracked. Tim doesn't look at Martin either, but he answers nevertheless: “I named both of them Martin. Didn't want to take the risk.”

And this, precisely, is the instant, Martin realises this could indeed be a date. A date date. A rendezvous Tim has asked him on, waiting for Martin to make a clear step towards him or not.

“Is this a date?” Martin blurts out, finally looking at Tim who ducks his head and blushes. He doesn’t want to sound incredulously, but the sheer ridiculousness of the situation sends his head spinning. A laugh bubbles out of his chest before he can stop it. “Tim, is this a date?”

“Well,” Tim starts and has the audacity to sound something akin to shy, “I thought it was a date. It was implied, I thought I explicitly said it was a date.” His gaze falls onto their joined hands. “I thought you knew we were dating.” Then he pales. “Oh, this is really awkward. I’m sorry.”

Tim attempts to let go of Martin’s hand, but Martin holds onto him.

“No, no, no, it’s okay,” Martin says, the laugh still on his tongue. His chest feels lighter than ever and he can’t keep the bright smile off his face. “I wanted this to be a date, honestly. I just didn’t think it could actually be one.”

“Oh, that’s,” Tim clears his throat, finally looking back at Martin’s face, “that’s good. Nice. Toit.”

.

“Does this have deeper cultural meaning, too?” Martin asks after sitting between stacks of hay on top of a wagon. He’s not sure if he’s a tiny bit sarcastic or if he finally accepted Tim’s commitment for his aesthetic.

“No,” Tim replies, while he sits down cross-legged next to Martin. “I just think hayrides are neat.”

“I’ve never been on a hayride before,” Martin says, before he moves closer to Tim, so that his thigh slots underneath Tim’s knee. “It’s kind of romantic.”

“Is it?” Tim teases, leaning into Martin’s space with ease. “I didn’t notice.” Then he pauses for a second, his eyes flicking down to Martin’s lips. “As soon as the tractor starts it won’t be anymore, so if you want to use the magic of hayride romanticism to kiss me, you should do it now.”

Martin moves in closer, too, now he can feel Tim’s breath on his skin. He says: “So, hayrides are magical.” But Tim doesn’t answer him. Instead he closes the remaining distance between them and kisses Martin. (And maybe, only maybe, hayrides are magic.)

Their kiss only lasts for a few seconds before the engine of the tractor starts and the hayride begins. (They’re extremely lucky or magic is involved because they’re alone. The only other option is that hayrides are typically for children and their parents and it’s too late for them to participate. At this point, Martin doesn’t care. He’s surrounded by hay and Tim kissed him.)

Martin laughs breathlessly when they break apart because he catches sight of Tim almost losing his pointy hat due to the jolt of the wagon and says: “You’re right. Romance is dead.”

“My greatest virtue and my greatest curse is always being right,” Tim replies, readjusting the hat on his head. “I’m kind of glad tomorrow is the last day and I can take this thing off afterwards.”

For a second, Martin contemplates saying that Tim doesn’t have to wear it now. That if his aesthetic gets in the way of his everyday life, it’s alright to break out. But he doesn’t. Because this is nice, and he won’t tell Tim what to do. If Tim wants to wear a pointy hat, Tim gets to wear a pointy hat.

In search of changing the topic, Martin looks around the wagon and his gaze falls onto a small lantern at the back of the wagon. It’s supposed to be lit so that crossing folks can see the wagon; like the backlights of a bicycle or car. The lid isn’t fully shut, though, and the steady breeze of the moving wagon has extinguished the flame.

Martin pats his pockets from the outside, before he turns to Tim: “Do you have a lighter?”

Unfortunately, Tim shakes his head. More unfortunately, he says: “Doesn’t matter.” Then he leans forward, opening the lid fully and reaching into the lantern. The tip of his finger connects with the wick of the candle and by the time he pulls it back, the wick ignites and a small flame flickers to life.

Martin, once again, gapes. This is magic, Tim is a witch, Tim is a witch, o my fucking god.

“What?” Tim asks as he sits back down next to Martin.

“You’re a witch,” Martin says, and to his own surprise without the exact amount of disbelief he feels. “This is magic and you’re a witch.”

Tim smiles through his irritation and ripostes: “Martin, dear, I told you I’m a witch.”

“Yeah,” Martin responds and maybe he sounds as hysterical as he is, but this is ridiculous, “I didn’t think you were serious.”

“What did you think I meant every time I told you I was out with my coven?” Tim inquires bewildered, and everything about his demeanour suggests that he’s going to burst into laughter at any given moment.

“Honest?” Martin doesn’t wait for Tim to answer. “With all the essential oils I kinda thought it was a MLM.”

Tim furrows his eyebrows, the laughter dying on his tongue. They stare at each other and Tim says slowly: “My coven is not a group of Marxists who Love Marketing.” He stops dead in his tracks. “Men Loving Marketing?” Tim screws up his eyes. “I don’t know if you’re insinuating that I love men, that I’m a comrade or part of a pyramid scheme.” Before Martin can interject something, Tim says: “I’m working for the Magnus Institute, so where’s the lie?”

He pauses, then he says: “Witches are real, and you thought this is just a funny multilevel marketing meme.”

This breaks something lose in Martin and he honest to God starts giggling: “You’re terrible. Do you know that?”

“I’m doing my best,” Tim retorts, laughing as well.

After their laughter dies away, Martin says: “Is this why you said the institute is one pile of magical bullshit?” He thinks better of it. “Is this why you said the library isn’t conscious? Is it a witch who’s rearranging the shelves?”

It takes a moment for Tim to answer: “No, it’s a ghost.”

“A ghost is rearranging the shelves,” Martin repeats. “Okay, alright, sure. A ghost. Is there something else I should know about?”

“I don’t think so. His name is Jürgen, he died in the tunnels underneath the Institute and thinks it’s really funny to fuck with us.” Tim grabs Martin’s hand again. “You can talk to him and tell him to fuck off, though. Sometimes it works.”

Martin makes a noncommittal sound and lays his head on Tim’s shoulder even though their shoulders line up and it’s incredibly uncomfortable. This is weird and this is nice and they will have to talk about this, but their ride is almost over and Martin wants to bask for a few precious minutes in Tim’s silent company before they have to get off and head back.

Tim draws nonsensical shapes on the back of Martin’s hand with his thumb, and Martin feels content and warm and perhaps a little bewitched.

Before the ride ends, Martin asks: “Do you have any plans for tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow,” Tim says hesitantly, “we’re going to celebrate All Hallow’s Day. My coven’s going to light a fire to ward off evil spirits and ghosts. The ashes of All Hallow’s fire keep calamity at bay and we use it for augury.” He sounds apologetic. “But I could come by afterwards.”

And it’s the first time, Martin doesn’t hesitate or feels that his words are tinged with an exasperated confusion when he says: “Makes sense.” So he adds after a moment: “That would be lovely.”

[overdramatic-queer-antagonist]

And They Knew

I felt very bad about this fic so, as retribution I wrote a fic twice it’s size that is pure fluff.

"Tim, I want you to know I'm never going anywhere with you again," Jon said, drying his sopping wet hair off. Of course, everyone and their mothers knew that the threat was an empty one. So Tim hardly blinked. "Whatever you say, boss," He said with a smile as he slung his arm around Sasha. "Oh, come on, Tim! I'm the only one who wasn't thrown overboard!" Sasha complained as she tried to escape his grasp. "Exactly! It's really not fair to the rest of us if only one of us is dry, now is it?" "Well, maybe if you weren't so keen on jumping out of kayaks, you wouldn't be wet." "Oh, so it's my fault that my girlfriend is so perfect I couldn't resist giving her affectio- Hey!" At some point, Martin had come up behind the pair with a bucket of water and had, graciously, poured the entire bucket on Tim's head. "You know the rules," Martin said, "no being a simp. You agreed to it, Tim." Affronted, Tim argued, "It's not my fault, I'm in love with a goddess!" Or at least that's what it sounded like he said. The moment he said the word, "love" Martin had placed the, now empty, bucket on his head. Getting a muffled laugh from the now thoroughly bucketed man. Jon had dried his hair as much as he could and was now reading. He looked up and nodded towards Tim, "If you're done being gross-" an offended gasp from the bucket went wholely ignored- "Should we check out that restaurant we saw on the way here?" Sasha shrugged, "I could eat." Jon, Sasha, and Martin walked through the beach to the parking lot wordlessly. This decision was made through ridiculous hand gestures and pointed looks and was entirely to mess with Tim. Who, even as they left the beach, was Still. Wearing. A. Bucket. On. His. Head. This wasn't much of a problem until he got into the driver's seat, still refusing to take the bucket off. "Tim, why are you driving with a bucket on your head?" Sasha asked. "Spite," Tim said, tilting his bucket to make a pointed gesture at Martin. Martin groaned, "Okay, fine! You can take it off-" "Fuck Yeah," A freed Tim exclaimed. "-If you promise not to simp." "Slightly less fuck yeah." His freedom from the bucket is all well and good, but why not just have someone else drive?" Jon asked. "Oh, you sweet summer child," Tim said, clasping a hand to his heart, "Well, since you asked so nicely. Sasha was asleep on the way here and has no idea what we're talking about. I can tell by looking at you that you drive like my Grandpa, and gay people can't drive," Tim finished out the list by gesturing to Martin, who nodded solemnly, "It's true. I'm gay, can confirm." "I drive at a perfectly fine speed, thank you very much," Jon responded. Tim was gesturing wildly at Sasha, shocked that his and Martin's joke went unmentioned. Jon paused to look at the horrified Tim and asked, "What's with that look?" Tim recovered and grinned, "Sorry boss, we're just in shock that you would tell such a bold lie to our faces," he said in a tone that could almost be mistaken as hurt, if not for the snicker at the end. Sasha made a noise of disagreement, "I don't know, Tim. Maybe he speeds like a mad man. All that pent up stress. It's better than when he took it out on Martin."   Jon stared at the ground and nodded, "I am really sorry about that, Martin." Martin gave him a soft smile. "I know you are," he whispered. "Are you two lovebirds gonna get in the car, or do I have to grab the bucket?" Tim yelled from the driver's seat. Honking the car's horn as he did. Jon rolled his eyes but acquiesced. *** The drive didn't take long in the sense of nothing ever takes long on vacation. The twenty-minutes it took was dulled into peacefulness by the knowledge that they were in no rush. Sasha and Tim were arguing about the music, and somehow Jon had suggested they listen to a band he used to be in as a compromise. The car was silent as the first song faded out. Then it exploded into excitement. "Oh, my God! Jon!" Sasha exclaimed, twisting around from the front seat to face him. "That was amazing!" "Hell yeah, it was!" Tim agreed, "Man, boss. Didn't know you could sing!" Jon, for his part, folded in on himself, half preening, half mortified. Martin was grinning at him in silent awe, and that was Not making it any better. Jon bet the others could practically feel the heat radiating off his face as Tim drove them into the parking lot. "Man, we are learning so much about each other today," Tim marveled as he parked. "We should go kayaking more often." Martin looked at him in confusion as he stepped out of the car, "We already knew you were a simp, Tim." "I meant you coming out to Jon but, okay, be like that," Tim scoffed without any actual bite, following Martin onto the asphalt. Jon looked at Tim like he'd grown an extra head as he caught up with the pair, "Martin and I have been dating for six months." Tim looked disbelievingly between the (apparently) couple. "No way! No fucking way! How? Why?" He asked. Sasha patted him lovingly on the back, "I think he's having an aneurysm." "Did you know?" He asked. Sasha shook her head and shrugged, "No. I just don't really care. All this really means is Martin'll get the Simp Bucket too." Martin shook his head at Sasha."Check your preconceptions. Last week, Jon wrote me a love song." Tim doubled over in shock and pointed an accusing finger at Jon, "Who are you, and what have you done with my friend?" he yelled. "No, really! He's quite romantic!" Martin laughed. "And you're sure he hasn't been replaced by some shapeshifter who fucked with all our memories?" "Shapeshifters don't exist, Tim," Sasha said as she placed the Simp Bucket on Jon's head with a decisive thunk. "Even if they did, why would they need to fuck with people's memories? They could just act like their victim," Jon said from the Simp Bucket. "Ahaha!" Tim yelled, getting very into the joke despite having stepped into the restaurant. "They'd keep the memories of one person to psychologically torcher them!" "Wait. Why would a shapeshifter need to gaslight someone?" Martin asked as Sasha went and got them a table. "Because they feed off of fear!" Jon looked at Tim, amused as he removed the bucket from his head. "Okay. I'm not a shapeshifter. I just got therapy. But you should write a book." "Thank you! At least someone appreciates my vision. Even if it is NotJon." *** After a meal that was not as good as they wanted it to be but still alright, the quartet made the decision to head back to their hotel (also pretty not great.) The sun was setting, and everyone else had figured that they were done for the day, everyone except Tim, that is. When Tim and his brother, Danny, were little, their parents used to take them out here, and on the last day, they'd always sleep under the stars. This was their last night, and Tim wasn't about to let that tradition die. He ignored Sasha's confused looks as he packed a hell of a lot of blankets, some flashlights, and booze. "What's up?" She asked. Tim beamed at her and said, "Come with me." as he grabbed her hand and pulled her out of their hotel room. A few seconds later, and Tim was knocking on the door of Martin and Jon's room (Suddenly making a lot more sense why they got a couple's. Wow, they weren't even trying to hide it.) Jon opened the door, blearily, as if he had been sleeping, and gave him a questioning look. "No time to explain, boss man! Just get all the blankets you've got and meet me by my truck," Tim said, excitedly turning around before he was even finished. From behind him, he heard Jon ask, "Why would we have brought our own blankets?" Followed by Martin saying, "I've got a few!" and after a pause that Tim could only imagine being filled by Jon looking at Martin confused, Martin added, "What? Bed bugs." Tim felt like a kid again as he waited in the driver's seat, tapping at the steering wheel, giddily. Sasha kept asking him what they were doing, but Tim wanted it to be a surprise, so he just promised her she'd love it. Eventually, he heard the doors to the backseat close and, after looking back to wave, Tim drove off out of the parking lot. For the car ride, Tim was mostly silent. He didn't want to ruin the surprise, but he couldn't think of anything else to say. Martin and Jon were asked him questions, which Sasha answered for him. After what felt like ages to the excited Tim, they made it to the clearing. It was the exact same clearing his family had used because if he was going to be sappy, he was going all the way. "O-kay. We're in the woods now," Martin said as the truck slowed to a stop. "Why are we in the woods, Tim?" Tim whipped around excitedly, "We're going to sleep here!" There was a pause for a second before Martin replied," You get that that's the kind of thing a serial killer would say before killing us, right?" Tim shrugged and made his out. "I meant like, in the truck bed. That's why we brought all those blankets. My family used to do it when I was a kid." "I don't really think you can fit four people in a truck bed," Jon said. "Then I guess we'll just have to cuddle!" Tim laughed as Jon groaned behind him. They did end up cuddling. They didn't actually need to, but you cuddle your homies, Steven. Through the silence and the stars, Martin had asked, "Tim? How did you find this place?" Tim stiffened and looked away from the others, towards the sky, "Danny found it. When he was ten, he never could stay still." "Danny?" Tim heard Jon's voice say. "Didn't he die." Tim heard a smack and Jon saying ow, and he laughed. "No need for violence. Yeah, he- he did" Tim's composure was quickly wavering, but he felt Sasha's hand on his, so he squeezed it tight and continued. "He was big into urban exploration. One day he went into some tunnel place alone, and he never came out." Tim felt a head lean against his. Not Sasha's. She was on his other side, still holding his hand. Jon bumped his forehead against Tim's cheek and said quietly, "Sorry for asking." But it was fine. They both knew it was good to talk. They sat in silence for the rest of the night. It wasn't oppressive like they had all dealt with far too many times. It was quiet because there didn't have to be noise. They had tomorrow to be loud. Tomorrow was for Jon and Sasha debating the pronunciation of words. For Tim making the same joke until it wasn't funny anymore. For Martin to defend spiders like they were people. For the chaos, they would create to make their boring-ass office job bearable. They didn't Know what tomorrow would bring. Hell, they didn't even know it. But they knew that they could get through it. Like they'd gotten through shitty jobs, and missing brothers, and oppressive silence. The stars didn't know they weren't alone. There was too much space between them to see it. Sometimes people are like that, as well. Too caught up in their worries that they can't see just how loved they are. But you are not ever alone. And in that truck bed, in the dark, the four knew. And they knew what a gift that knowledge was.