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nat-20s · 3 years

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Part 5 of Wonderful! Au. *boyband voice* banter’s back alright!

Also on AO3

~*~

Jon: Hello everyone, and welcome back to our regular format. If my husband being horribly soppy-

Martin:-hey!-

Jon: -turned you off the how, this should be a refreshing return to formula, though I can’t guarantee there won’t be further horrible soppiness-

Martin, performatively under his breath: -most people thought it was charming-

Jon: -as that tends to happen when one is recording with the love of their life. If last week’s episode is the only one that you like, too bad, I’m back in full form, and should be at least through the rest of the season.

Martin: This show doesn’t have seasons? Due to the whole lack of a narrative thing?

Jon: I was referring to spring.

Martin: Oh, right.

[A beat passes.]

Martin, flatly: Oh. Great goof hon.

Jon, smug: Thank you.

Jon, sincere: Also, before we get properly started, I did want to actually thank everyone who sent well wishes.

M artin: Yes! We got positively inundated with lovely messages, it definitely brightened both of our days. I would even say it was wonderful.

[Jon groans.]

Jon: I am..not proud of the energy we’ve created for this episode so far, and we haven’t even hit the small wonders. Speaking of, do you have a small wonder this week?

Martin: Mine’s bad action movies.

Jon: Really? I had no idea you even liked them, let alone consider them wonderful.

Martin: Okay, so, saying I like them is a bit of a misnomer? It’s more that I like what they can do more than the movies themselves?

Jon: Elaborate?

Martin: It probably comes as a surprise to no one that I’ve tried my hand at a fair amount of mindfulness and mediation techniques. I’ve found poetry and journaling have been helpful for actually processing life events and whatnot, but when it comes to giving your brain a hard wipe and reset, nothing is half as quick and effective as a shitty shoot-em-up. Somethings about 2 hours of cartoonish, pg-13 violence held together with the absolute loosest of plots brings me to a state of mental blankness that would make a monk jealous.

Jon: How have I never witnessed you doing this? When are you sneaking off to go see Micheal Tarantino or who ever films?

M artin: That’s definitely not the right name.

Jon: Martin, dear, I don’t care. And you’re dodging the question.

Martin, fond: I’m not dodging anything. Since apparently we’re getting into it, you haven’t caught me cavorting with a movie involving more explosions than character development lately because I haven’t been. Haven’t needed it, in recent years. Turns out when you’re not crushingly lonely and working a literal nightmare of job, there’s less of a drive to try and escape your own thoughts. Shocker, I know. Still, to anyone out there that feels like their brain is on fire, go try watching a fast and furious. Any of ‘em, it doesn’t matter. Or even better, Chronicles of Riddick. I can’t remember a single goddamn detail of that movie, which makes it perfect for what I’m talking about.

Jon: I have the strong feeling that th is is a “mileage may vary” scenario.

Martin: Well, yeah, that’s this whole podcast. Plus, I imagine that movies like this would cause more stress to someone who cares about, say, world-building or rules consistency.

Jon: I wonder who you could possibly be referring to.

Martin: It’s a purely hypothetical person, love, don’t worry about it. Any small wonders?

Jon: Yes! Particularly relevant to the last week, my small wonder is stripping the sheets from your bed when it’s been too long between washes.

Martin: How very specific. M ost people would just say ‘clean sheets’.

Jon: Well, for one, I’m fairly certain that we’ve already covered clean sheets-

Martin: Shit, have we? Thank god other people keep track of this, otherwise this show would be unbearably repetitive.

Jon: Christ, yes. I typically check the website a good three times while prepping, and every about one out of those three times I find I’m trying to do an topic we did 30 episodes again. Anyway, um, it’s just nice, I think. When you’ve been too busy or sick or away for awhile, tossing the sheets in the wash makes a room instantly seem nicer. Of all the chores out there, this one, at least for me, has the highest reward to effort ratio.

Martin: Hard agree. Especially when the y have that slight funk of having been around to long, getting rid of that is such a relief. Speaking of, we need to change our sheets soon.

Jon: We can do it after the episode. Who goes first this week?

Martin: Considering last week was only me talking, I’m gonna say it’s you.

Jon: Alright, then. My first thing this week is Martin K. Blackwood.

Martin: Absolutely not!

Jon: Oh, you can do a whole episode on me, but I can’t do one little segment on my husband, whom I love very dearly?

Martin: Not while I’m sat here, no!

Jon: So you’re saying you don’t want me to tell the internet that your resolve to be kind even in the face of indescribable cruelty is one of the mot breathtaking things I’ve ever witnessed, or how I find it incredibly endearing when you get so emotional that your voice comes out as a squeak, or even that, on a more base level, you’re very physically attractive, and I could lose entire days thinking about your arms alone?

Martin, audibly blushing, voice the aforementioned squeak: Oh my god, Jon!

Jon, laughing: Then it’s probably for the best that my actual first thing is best friends.

Martin, peaking the audio levels: Oh you absolute bastard! Do you enjoy this? Do you get some sort of perverse sense of entertainment from riling me up?

Jon: Oh, don’t you start. As if you’re not as bad as I am. Maybe even worse.

Martin: That’s not…

Jon: Yes?

Martin: Okay. Maybe it’s slightly true. Really, what is romance for if not flustering your partner with compliments?

Jon, teasing: I certainly can’t think of anything.

Martin: Hush, you.

Jon: No, I don’t think I will.

Martin: Fine. I suppose you can tell our delightful audience about the power of friendship or whatever.

Jon: I would’ve assumed more enthusiasm, considering this segment is still, indirectly, about you.

Martin: In what way?

Jon: In the way that, to the shock of all, you’re my best friend.

Martin, pleased: Oh, is that what I am?

Jon, exasperated: Yes, dearest husband, I wouldn’t have married you otherwise. Though, upon reflection, I knew you were my best friend before I knew I held romantic feelings for you.

Martin: When was that?

Jon, letting out a breath that vibrates his lips: God it was...2016? I think it might’ve literally been the day after you told me about your CV.

Martin: That early? Huh. I wonder if that’s what people were picking up when they said they we were close.

Jon: What people?

Martin: I don’t know specifically, that’s just what Daisy told me.

Jon: Daisy? When the hell-?

Martin: It...was when she was interrogating me? And, because sometimes I have to be a parody of myself, pretty much my only take away from that interrogation was “people think me and Jon are close”.

Jon: Well then. It’s not like they were wrong.

Martin, smug: No, no they weren’t.

Martin, sincere: And you’re my best friend, too.

Jon: I was certainly hoping that you’re in this relationship for more than my good looks and incredible fortune, both in the monetary and luck sense.

Martin: You say that as if you aren’t good looking, which we all know is patently untrue.

Jon: You’re biased. You’d say I was good looking if I were nothing more than some primordial ooze with thoughts about its station.

Martin: I’m being completely objective. If you were primordial ooze with thoughts above its station, you’d be the cutest ooze of them all. That’s just scientific fact.

Jon: I’m starting to think we might be insufferable.

Martin: Starting to? Might be?

Jon:…

[Jon clears his throat]

Jon: What I find wonderful about the concept of best friends is, to me, they’re the closest thing real life has to soulmates. I don’t personally believe that there’s some..grand mystic force that drives people to be tied together in the manner that narrative typical soulmates are, and if there was I don’t think it would necessarily be the kind of emotional, heartfelt bond one would hope for, but I do believe that there’s individuals that get to know one another, and because of that knowledge, they chose to stick with one another. It doesn’t have to be a romantic, which is why I say best friend rather than specifically ‘spouse’, but I would argue that the basis of a strong romance like you and I have, is very much rooted in that connection. A true best friendship is an equal partnership, and there’s a sense of..matched sensibilities and understanding that can be utterly incandescent when it happens.

I also think that having one or more best friends makes living life on a day to day basis both better and just flat easier. The dark times aren’t as dark, and the bright times shine even more. I know from my own personal experience there are events that I..that I don’t know how I would’ve made it through without you. Hell, last week my..recovery period would’ve taken much longer if you hadn’t been there.

It’s an amazing thing to have someone to share things with, both triumphs and burdens. Um, also, according to Dictionary.com, the term best friends in English has been around since the 1200s. Something about that delights me, like, yes, we’ve had this casual way of referring to a Favorite Person for roughly 800 years. That makes it a hold-out from early Middle English. I dunno, it’s one of those things that make me feel overall very charmed by humanity.

Martin, audibly smiling: No, yeah, hard agree.

Jon: What’s that look for?

Martin: Nothing. Just. I love you a whole lot, you know that?

Jon, voice soft: I may have heard you say that once or twice. Per hour.

Martin: Only that often? I really need to be more diligent about that.

[There’s a bet of silence, presumably where they’re making doe eyes at each other.]

Jon: What’s your first thing?

Martin: Oh, um, right. Rats!

Jon: The expression or the animal?

Martin: Jon, have you ever once heard me say “rats” as an expression? Obviously I’m referring to the animal.

Jon: Ah. Should’ve known, considering that what, a third?, of all your segments have been on animals.

Martin: Yeah? And? You got a problem with critters? With creatures? With lil guys?

Jon, laughing: No, no, it’s very sweet. I’m just surprised you never became a vet.

Martin: Oh believe me, I wanted to. But then I learned that it was not, in fact, a job composed entirely of getting paid to play with other people’s pets.

Jon: You had that job, though, didn’t you? I thought I remembered you mentioning a month long stint at a doggie day care.

Martin, sighing dreamily: Best job I ever had. Too bad that place was shut down after it was revealed to be a money laundering front.

Jon: Good lord.

Jon: Martin did you...did you know it was a money laundering front at the time?

Martin:

Martin: Would it make you feel better if I said no?

Jon: Martin!

Martin: I figured it out like a week in, but, like, who cares? The pay was decent and the floor was super easy to clean, which is very much a plus for even a front of a doggie day care.

Jon: That’s...rather a lot. How about instead of getting into that any further, you tell me about rodents.

Martin: I would love to. But first, we have a shoutout!

Jon: Ooo, a shoutout. Does it specify who should read?

Martin: Let me check. It...does...not…..

...

Jon: Martin?

[A beat.]

Martin: Right! Sorry, um. This week’s shoutout is from Tim, to Danny. It says, “Danny! My favorite person who shares genetic material with me! I wanted to say thank you for your podcast obsession from 4 months ago, and specifically for telling me about these marrieds. They’ve gotten me through many a dull hour at the publishing house. Also, with this shoutout, I’ve officially gotten ahead on the Superior [Last Name Redacted] Brother scoreboard, so suck it. Love you lots, and looking forward to your visit next month, Tim.”

Jon: Oh.

Jon: Um. That’s very..sweet? I think? Mostly?

Martin: Yeah, I’d say so. Uh. We have to take a quick break because, uh, someone is..at our front door! Be back with you all in, from your side of things, just a moment.

#wonderful! au #jonmartin #jon sims #martin blackwood #>:3 #shoutouts are their versions of jumbotrons btw

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somuchbetterthanthat · 3 years

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Happy Birthday @acemartinblackwood!! It’s really not a lot, and it was written a bit in a rush and late at night, but I still hope you enjoy it <3. Some nice martinelias in season 4 for you ;)

“Stupid, senseless, and so-incredibly-unhelpful! I don’t, I don’t even know what i thought he’d said, but I hoped -- well I didn’t hope but I, I expected something more than this, and now here you are, and you knew, didn’t you?”

Elias raised an eyebrow, but did not bother to open his mouth, as Martin was back to glaring at him, vaguely pointing his finger at him.

“Of course you knew! Peter knew, and you’ve got, you’ve got your all-so-scary eye powers, and I bet -- I bet you’ve been enjoying him doing... doing all... this -- What happened to you?”

The question was quite abrupt, after having to sit through ten -- or was it fifteen by now? -- minutes of Martin talking in circles about Peter, and Jon, and Peter again, but Elias was not one to show any sort of surprise, and merely leaned back against the uncomfortable chair of the room, indulging in the fantasy he was back in his office, and he could smell the rich, heavy smell of leather everywhere around him.

“Basira paid a visit,” he told Martin mildly. “She was, ah, also quite unhappy about Jon’s... after-hours activities.”

“Why would she come to you?” Martin asked with a frown.

“Did you think you were my only visitor this past few months, Martin?” Elias asked back, lips curling up with amusement. It was, truly, quite a treat to see some colors come back up Martin’s pale face, the rosy flush going all the way from his neck to his ears. “Basira and I were doing business, and she seemed to think I... was being purposefully unhelpful by keeping some things to myself.”

Martin snorted. “Had she met you?”

“Should I be offended?”

Martin’s stare, this time, was much more grounded and unimpressed than it’d been until now. Elias couldn’t deny it: it truly had some sort of charm to it. Perhaps he’d been spending too much time in Jon’s head -- or god forbid, Peter’s -- but he had the unfortunate thought that he’d rather like Martin to keep looking at him like that a bit longer. Just long enough, that is, for Elias to play his cards proper, grasp all that Martin Blackwood was and absorb the knowledge until there was nothing left to see --

“Did nobody do anything?”

Ah; right. The conversation was not over. Prison was starting to have some unfortunate effects on his psyche. He really needed to push Peter into acting faster.

“Pardon?”

“The guards,” Martin said. He was fidgeting now. “Didn’t they -- intervene or something?”

“How quaint,” Elias grinned. “Is that worry I hear in your voice?”

“No it’s not,” Martin sputtered. “It’s just even if you’re evil, proper evil, the guards probably don’t know that, so they should have a, a code of honour or something --”

“Well, I’m afraid most of that honor is spent being loyal to fellow agents of the law,” Elias said indulgently. “But please, let me reassure you: I’m quite fine.”

“Your face is half-blue.”

“Yes, quite the astute observation.”

“Don’t you ever get tired of playing clever?”

“Absolutely not.”

“You --” Martin sighed, frustrated. “You’re the -- the worst. You know that? You’re worst than Peter.”

“Oh, am I? What was it you were saying, last week--”

Martin’s mouth on his was not exactly the most shocking thing that had happened this week. In fact, it was not even that much of a novelty by now. Still, Elias made the appropriate gasping noise, and reached as far as he could with his tied hands to grasp Martin’s forearm, nails digging into his soft, frozen skin right as Martin started biting his lips.

Martin’s kisses were still clumsy, sometimes. Too many feelings. Elias was not going to complain too much about this, of course -- he was rather hoping Martin would still feel for at the very least a few months, just enough to ensure Jonah’s body risked nothing.

“Ah,” he decided to say, once they parted again, a few minutes later. “You really are my favourite visitor.”

“Shut up,” Martin snapped, even as his fingers traced Elias’ injuries with a tenderness that was almost enough to reach Elias’ heart.

“Of course,” Elias said, as pleasantly as ever. “Do you wish to rant about anything else, then?”

“I -- no,” Martin stood up again abruptly, arms curling tight over himself. “I should go. I shouldn’t even have come here.”

“So you often say,” Elias nodded, although he felt a shiver of dissatisfaction as fog clouded Martin’s eyes once more. “Pleasure doing business with you, as usual, Martin. Do say hello to Peter for me, will you?”

He wouldn’t, of course. Martin hadn’t told a soul about visiting Elias. Martin hadn’t had anyone to tell anything in months. This was how Elias knew he’d be back soon. Terrible, sentimental boy, finding anchors in the most awful places, even when he thought he was done with them all.

Martin didn’t answer; left without a word, already more ghost than man. Elias sighed and closed his eyes, to open them back at the Institute. That nice little interlude was over, and there was much left to oversee.

#martinelias #as ever i show my inability to close off a scene #i hope you enjoy it sorry it's so rushed #the magnus archives #tma stories

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nyctolovian · 3 years

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Summary: Where Jon and Martin get to grow old together and live out the rest of their lives in a village. Told from the POV of a 7-year-old girl, Trish, who just moved in next door.

Written in preparation for the emotional trainwreck that would be the finale of TMA :”)

Trish peeked out from behind the bushes to look at the cottage. She was new in the neighbourhood, but she had already heard all sorts of stories about it from the other kids she played with. There was a ghost in there, or a wizard, and anyone who stepped foot into its boundaries would be cursed and get kidnapped by a giant clown with claws for hands.

If you asked Trish, she’d tell you she didn’t believe in stupid fairytales and ghost stories like this. While the other kids still believed in Santa Claus, she already knew that it was just her parents sneaking treats into her Christmas socks. There was no way there was some sort of cursed monster living at the bottom of the hill.

Still, as she stood outside it’s fences, wiping her sweaty palms against her skirt, she gulped nervously. The way the other kids acted as they told her to get the ball because “you were the one who kicked it there!” still scared her. What if there was a bad guy in the house? She was only seven! What could she do?

She ran through several possible scenarios. She’d run. If she couldn’t, she’d kick the bad guy as hard as she could; her aunt had always said she had a good kick. If not, she’ll bite as hard as she can. Or she could–

“Excuse me. What are you doing in front of my house?” came a low voice.

Trish leapt backwards in fright with a squeak.

Standing behind her was an old man with a stubble in a long yellow dress (woman?), carrying several bags of groceries on her left arm. With her other hand, she wielded a cane. There were pale scars all over her dark skin and Trish wondered if this old lady might have been a pirate. Her dark eyes seemed to stare into Trish's soul as her lips were set in a downwards curl. Her eyebrows were thick and tightly knitted in a permanent-looking scowl. She reminded Trish of Mdm Taylor from school, except older and grumpier.

"I… Uh, I…" Trish shifted from foot to foot, her palms growing even sweatier. "I… My ball…" She pointed towards the ball in the lawn.

The woman with the beard followed her gaze to the bright pink ball beside the front door. "Ah," she said, sighing loudly. She walked to the front gate.

With her hands full, she had to fumble with the latch for a good minute before pushing the gate open. "There we are," she said. "Get your ball."

Trish blinked. It was that easy?

She ran past the lady with the beard and picked up her ball. She hugged it close to her chest and looked back up at the old lady, half-expecting her to declare that there was a price for taking the ball back, or that she was trapped here forever.

However, instead the old lady just hobbled through the gate. Some of her grocery bags got caught between the gate and she let out a groan. Trish's eyes darted between the old lady and the bags before she placed her ball back down, stepped forward and took some of the groceries from the lady with the beard.

"Oh, um," she said. "Thank you."

"It's okay," Trish replied, lifting the bags and walking towards the front door of the cottage. "I help my Ma take the groceries all the time."

The lady with the beard followed after and reached into the pockets of her dress (which were very deep pockets, Trish enviously noticed). As soon as she unlocked the door, Trish lugged the grocery bags into the house.

It was a clean house, and it smelled a lot like her Gramma's house. Old people smell, she reckoned.

"Where's your kitchen?"

"Over here."

Trish followed after her into the kitchen and she placed the groceries down where she was told.

"What's your name?" the old lady asked.

Trish froze. Her mother told her not to trust strangers and not to tell strangers her name. But perhaps she had already broken some of the rules since she just walked into a stranger's house. But she wasn't kidnapped yet so it was probably safe.

"I'm Trish."

"Ah, thank you so much, Trish. You have been of tremendous help." The lady with the beard began to pack her groceries away. "Usually, my husband would help me with all this."

"What happened to your husband?"

"He's in the hospital."

Trish gasped.

"He's going to be fine. Don't worry. It's just his knee. He'll be back in a week."

"Phew!" Trish dragged her hand across her forehead. "That's good. What's your name by the way?"

"Oh. My name's Jon."

"Jon?!" Trish shouted. "But that's a boy's name!"

The old lady looked confused. "I… yes? It is a masculine name, I suppose?"

"Are you a boy?"

Jon's eyes widened. "I see. Well… I'm neither a boy or a girl. But I am a he. As in, um, for example, 'his name is Jon and he likes eating peaches.'"

"How are you both not a boy or a girl though?"

Jon frowned in thought. "I just am. It just happens sometimes for people. Some people aren't a boy or a girl."

"Then, what are you?"

Jon frowned. "I'm nonbinary."

"Non…"

"Non-bi-na-ry," Jon repeated, slower, and Trish followed after. He smiled. "It can be a difficult word to pronounce."

"It's not that hard. I can do it," Trish said, rolling her eyes. Adults always made it seem like everything was too hard for her to do. "Nonbinary! See!"

Jon smiled. It was a small one, but Trish spotted it anyway.

She puffed up her chest and announced, “I need to go now. Bye bye!"

"Bye," Jon replied, waving his hand.

On the way out, Trish picked up her ball and made sure to close the doors behind her.

***

When Trish next spotted Jon, she was at the market with her father. As soon as she sees him, she tugs her dad's shirt and whispers loudly, "That's Jon at the fruit place. He lives in the cottage at the bottom of the hill."

Her father hummed absently as he picked out the vegetables. "Why don't you go say hi, sweetheart?"

With a nod, Trish headed over to the fruit stand where Jon was. He spotted her before she reached him and gave her a little wave. Today, he is in a button-up shirt and black pants.

"Hello, Trish," he greeted. "Helping your mother out?"

"Nope. My Da's shopping this time." She points to her father, who was still engrossed in examining the vegetables. She peered into Jon's basket and saw that in it, there were apples, mangoes and peaches. "Is your husband back yet?"

"Hm? Yes, he is. But he's resting at home. The surgery did a number on him."

"Surgery?!" Trish screeched. Jon winced at the shout and she muttered an apology.

Forgivingly, Jon shook his head. "Sometimes, when you get old, your joints will get a bit painful so the doctors have to replace it with an implant. He's on the road to recovery now so no worries."

“Implant…?”

Jon took time to explain what that meant. Trish had a million questions swirling around her head and she continued to press him for answers. Unlike a lot of adults, Jon took time to answer her questions to the best of his abilities.

Trish was about to ask how on earth someone can survive being cut open by another person when someone interrupted them. "Retired to teach primary school children, eh, Jon?" the fruit seller said, folding her arms. "Didn't know you were taking in new students."

Jon scowled. "You know full well—"

"Enough of you," the fruit seller brushed him aside in favour of leaning over her counter to look at Trish. "Heya, pipsqueak. Haven't seen you before."

"I’m not his student… My Ma and Da and me moved in last last week. My Da's there," she said, pointing.

It was also then that her father seemed to have settled the payment for vegetables and came over. “Trish, there you are. Where’s your friend? I thought you went to talk to him.”

Trish tugged Jon’s shirt. “Here.”

Da's eyes widened. “Oh! You’re Jon?” He quickly schooled his expression into a friendly smile. “Sorry, I didn’t mean anything by that. The way she talked about you… I just thought she was talking about her classmate so I was…”

“Expecting a seven-year-old and not a seventy-year-old,” Jon replied, raising an eyebrow. “That’s understandable. I’m Jonathan Blackwood-Sims. Nice to meet you.”

“Nathan Fujisaki. I’m Trish’s dad. Nice to meet you too.”

Jon’s phone began to ring and his brow furrowed. “Apologies,” he muttered as he placed his grocery bag on the stand before fumbling out his phone. He frowned as soon as he saw the caller-ID and picked it up immediately. “Martin, what’s wrong?” His eyes darted from side to side before he cupped a hand over the receiver and turned away from the rest of them to whisper into the phone.

“His husband,” the fruit seller said. “The two of them fuss over each other a lot.”

"Is that so?"

The fruit seller's eyes lit up with glee at the opportunity to gossip a little. "Yeah. When they first moved in, I was, like, 15? It's a lot better now but back then, the two of them were hardly ever apart. He taught me for a year, you know? And I don't know what arrangement they had with the school but they were practically glued to the hip anytime outside of class."

"So he is a teacher!" Trish exclaimed. "He reminded me of Mdm Taylor so I thought he might be a teacher."

"Yeah, he does have that vibe about him, doesn't he?" the fruit seller said. "Cross about everything and anything. He had that even when he was my teacher. And he was pretty scary back in the day too. Nothing seemed to get past him."

"If you truly believed that, you would know better than to gossip about me," Jon countered as he returned to pick up his grocery bag.

"How is he?" Trish asked.

Jon winced. "It's… better now. But I should head back as soon as I can." He began to make his move and said, "Take care."

"Would you like a lift?" Da offered. "It's on the way."

"I…" Jon glanced down at his cane before he let out a sigh. "Yes, please. I would appreciate that."

It didn't take very long to fetch Jon to his house. Da gave Jon his contact number in case he and his husband needed any help. Jon stared openly, expression unreadable for a moment, before he gave a brief nod and rushed into the house.

On the way home, Da was frowning. "He seems familiar…" he muttered when Trish asked. "Like I've seen him somewhere before."

***

Stupid Da. Stupid Ma.

They weren't listening to her. In a fit of anger, she ran out of the house and to the first place she could think of. It wasn't fair, she thought. Trish's lower lip wobbled as she curled harder into herself.

Suddenly, the door to the cottage at the bottom of the hill opened. A large old man with a thick beard wearing a pair of boxers and a singlet emerged and his eyes fell upon the small girl who had squished herself into a corner of the porch. "Oh my god!" squeaked the old man. "Wh-What are you doing out here? Where are your parents?"

Trish glared up through the tears in her eyes. "You're not Jon," she said, her voice rough from crying.

"Oh, he's… he's out right now," the man said, smiling apologetically. "Would you like to come in and wait for him? Or, uh, or not. We can wait for him outside."

Trish nodded.

"Feel free to sit in the chair there.”

Trish shook her head.

“Okay. Would you like something to drink then? We have tea, and milk."

"Milk."

With a gentle smile, the man went back into the house and came out, dressed in a knee-length skirt and a loose shirt. He had also brought out a cup of milk, which he placed in Trish's hand. He went back inside for a moment, before returning with a piping hot cup of tea for himself.

The man limped over to a rocking chair and sat down heavily with a sigh. As he placed his own cup down on the table beside himself, Trish noticed the massive scar on his left leg that ran from his mid-calf up to his knee. "Are you Jon's husband?" she asked. "Martin?"

The man's eyes practically lit up. "Oh yes!" He drummed his fingers against his belly delightfully. "I'm guessing that you're Trish then?"

She nodded.

"Jon's told me a bit about you," he said.

"Are you also non… nonbinary," she said the word slowly to make sure she got it right.

From the look of it, she had because Martin smiled again. "Nope. I'm a man. Just one who finds skirts incredibly comfortable."

"I don't like skirts," Trish said frankly. "They're too wooshy and swishy."

"Perfectly understandable." Martin nodded.

"Where's Jon?"

"He's doing groceries."

Trish stuck her lower lip out. "He's always doing groceries."

Something between a laugh and a sigh escaped Martin's chest. "He is, isn't he? My poor husband just can't sit still. He has to go to the market once a day or he'll get cranky. Or crankier than usual."

Trish nodded as she took a sip from her cup.

"So, what are you doing here?"

Trish lowered her cup. "I don't know."

"Did something happen to make you cry?" Martin asked.

Curling in harder into herself, she muttered, "I'm not telling."

"Oh, um… Sure."

"Does it hurt?"

"Hm?" Martin followed her gaze to his knee. "Oh, you mean my knee? It was hurting really badly before I went to the hospital. I mean, it's still hurting a bit now because I'm recovering so I take a bit of painkiller to deal with that. It'll get better soon."

"Does it hurt when they do it on you?"

"Mm… not really? They give you an injection that makes you sleep through the entire surgery. It's kind of when you wake up that you start feeling the pain."

Trish frowned. It sounded a bit unrealistic. How could you sleep through being cut open? She didn’t get the opportunity to ask Martin anything though because, in the distance, a small figure could be seen hobbling towards the house. Martin immediately straightened up. "There he is," he said, before waving.

Trish followed suit with a big wave of her own, putting her entire arm into it.

“You have a little visitor,” Martin said as soon as Jon stepped past the gate.

“I can see that very well,” Jon said, rolling his eyes. He made a small detour to their side of the porch to give Martin’s forehead a kiss. Then, he looked at Trish and probably noticed her red-rimmed eyes. "Did something happen?"

Trish frowned. "Ma and Da won't let me have a birthday party. They said it's a waste of time and I'll forget it anyway."

"Oh…" Jon pursed his lips. "Do they know you're here now?"

"No. And I don't want them to."

"They must be worried sick," Martin remarked with a small frown.

Shrinking into herself, Trish muttered sourly, "Let them."

“I know you’re angry at them and you don’t want to see them right now but it is quite unkind to cause them needless worry,” Jon reasoned gently. “I shall give them a call, okay? Just to let them know you’re here. I promise I’ll let you stay here until you’re ready to talk to them again. But you wouldn't want them to think you're in danger, right?”

Trish pouted hard, but eventually nodded.

“Right,” Jon said with a nod before heading into the house. He came back out after about 5 minutes with some cut fruits. “We have permission for you to stay until dinner,” he said as he sat down in the other chair with a low grunt. “Now, I hope you didn’t have to suffer Martin’s nagging for too long while I was away.”

“Nagging?!” Martin shot back with an offended voice. “And don’t you think I suffer when you insist on leaving a trail of cups all over the house? Do you think you’re Gretel or something?”

“Actually,” Jon said, knowing full well what he was doing, “Hansel was the one who left the trails.”

Martin groaned comically and Trish giggled a little.

***

“You know what?” Trish yelled as she threw the door open. From the kitchen, Martin made a weird squeaky noise.

“It would be polite to knock. Martin’s already got a weak enough heart already,” Jon chided as he stood up from his sofa and went to the entrance.

“Oh… Um...” She gently closed the door again before knocking. Then, she patiently waited as the sound of Jon’s shuffling slippers got closer.

“Trish,” Jon said exasperatedly as he opened the door. “You don’t have to close the door again if you’re already inside. We know you’re here.”

“Oh, okay,” Trish said, walking in.

Martin came into view and he was laughing a little. “God, you sound like such a curmudgeon.”

Frowning, Trish asked, “Cur…?”

“A grumpy old person,” Martin explained. “You know, like Jon.”

Teasingly, Jon poked Martin’s rib. “Oh yeah? Is that resentment in your voice, Mr Blackwood-Sims?”

Martin grabbed the offending hand. “Oh, absolutely not. You’re my curmudgeon. I’m not resenting you anytime soon.”

“Sap,” Jon muttered, covering his mouth with his hand, but that did nothing to hide the smile in his voice.

Trish rolled her eyes. “Aaaaanyway,” she said, putting her hands on her hips, “I’m here to announce something.”

“Yes, yes, announce away,” Jon said.

But he was making goo-goo eyes at Martin so Trish decided she’d leave the very important announcement of her birthday party for another day.

***

Having chicken pox and being forced to stay in her room for an entire week was already bad enough. But then, it just had to be on the week of her birthday. What’s worse was that Trish had gone and scratched at her skin, and even though it was healed, she had some scars on her arms and face. And she really did not appreciate scars as a birthday present.

Ma chided her for not listening and handed her a bottle of cream to apply over the scars. “If you properly apply it, then maybe it’ll get rid of those scars,” she said.

Not wanting any of the scars to remain, Trish religiously applied the cream every night. But they didn’t seem to be going away anytime soon.

“It isn’t the end of the world if it does leave scars anyway. Look at the both of us! We have scars and we’re doing fine,” Jon comforted her, which wasn’t very comforting.

“It’s okay if you two have scars. You’re old people anyway,” Trish said, popping one of Martin’s freshly baked cookies into her mouth.

“Ouch!” Martin said, sitting down beside Jon at the dining table. “That’s a bit mean, Trish.”

Wincing, she muttered, “Sorry.”

“Apology accepted,” Jon said. He peered over at her arm. "I think it's fading. It's just a bit slow so be patient with it."

Trish nodded. However, even as she sat there talking with them, her index finger kept returning to rub over the most prominent scar on her forearm. The tiny bump of the scar annoyed her and she wished she could tear it out, but she knew that would likely only make the scar worse.

"You know, Trish," Martin said, "it's normal for kids to get scars. We all get scars from at your age too."

"Jon too?"

"I…" Jon frowned. "I don't recall much of when I was young unfortunately."

"How come?"

"Complicated stuff," Jon said, making a vague gesture. "It'd be too long a story to explain."

"Well," Martin interjected, "he doesn't remember his. But I do." He lifted his arm to show the pale jagged patch on his elbow. "This one I got from when I fell off a tree outside my house. I got a kite snagged onto the branches so I had to get it down. It's a bit faded now actually."

"Yeah, but that's a cool scar. Mine is just from stupid chicken pox," Trish grumbled. Then, she lifted her head. "What about those though? The dot-dot ones both you and Jon have? They're not from chicken pox too, right? They're really big."

"Oh, these?" Martin said, running his hand over the pockmark scars on his face and arms.

"Yeah. How did the both of you get it? It looks really bad…" Trish frowned. "What kind is it?"

"Um… yeah," Jon said. "It... It was a… bad disease."

Martin sighed. "It was an office-wide infection. From when Jon and I worked in the same place." He then switched the subject by showing a long scar he had on his finger. "Oh, Trish, look at this one. Guess how I got this one? It was kind of dumb. I got it when I was, I think, 5 years old? I stuck my finger into the fan."

Trish scrunched her face. "Why did you do that?!" she shouted. "What if it got chopped off?"

"I don't know to be honest. I was five, Trish. I wasn't a very smart five-year-old."

"Five-year-olds generally aren't very smart," she assured Martin, who threw his head back and laughed.

They continued to talk about scars and dumb injuries for the rest of the afternoon. And by the time Trish went home, she realised that even if the scars remained in the end, she wouldn't be that upset.

***

As Martin’s knee got better, he began to join Jon’s grocery trips more often. The marketplace got a little bit more noisy on the days Martin went with Jon.

Firstly, Martin and the fruit seller seemed to have this bit that involved making fun of Jon, even though Trish didn’t necessarily understand most of the jokes. (For some reason, Martin likes to make fun of Jon for liking peaches.)

Then, Martin had what Jon called “itchy fingers'', which meant that Martin liked touching things he wasn’t supposed to. There was this one time when Martin had decided to poke something pink on the side of a carton, which turned out to be used gum. “You’d think you’d grow out of touching things unnecessarily, Martin,” Jon reprimanded as he dragged his husband to the toilet to wash his hands.

Trish just thought they were quite funny.

Sometimes, she would be with Da for groceries when she bumped into them. On those days, Da would talk to them about grown-up stuff that Trish had no hope of understanding. But it was fine since, with Martin at the front seat most of the time, this meant that Trish can lean to her side and whisper to Jon.

Sometimes, Trish would see Jon and Martin walking around together in the neighbourhood. More often than not, Martin joined Jon on his daily trips to the market, and they would slowly walk hand-in-hand. It was during those times that Jon most often had a smile on his face, and at times bursting into uproarious laughter.

Sometimes, Trish would dash over to greet them. People often told Trish that she was a bit too chatty for her own good. But around those two, she felt that maybe it was alright to talk a bit more because Martin would always smile warmly at Trish as she talked about the frog she found on the side of the road or about her stupid homework assignment. Jon, on the other hand, often had something to add to whatever Trish was saying, be it with questions or a weird trivia of his own.

Of course, there were days where Trish was far too busy to call out to them. It was highly impractical to rush out to them during a game of Hide-and-Seek.

Sometimes though, the two of them would walk especially close to each other, and they’d be whispering, or at least, one of them would be. There were times when Martin looked greyer than usual, and his gaze would be distant even as he ran his fingers along railings, fences, or any surface available. Other times, Jon would look rattled, his eyes darting about and breaths shallow. The non-cane-wielding hand would not be holding Martin’s on those days, instead, it would be tracing the scar over his neck, or twisting his hair in a quiet frenzy.

And then, sometimes, they would sit together on the park bench, holding hands and whispering and chuckling to themselves.

Those were the days when Trish knew better than to disturb them.

#tma #the magnus archives #magpod #jonmartin #jonathan sims #martin blackwood #nb jon #fanfic #my writing #canon divergent #cos ofc theyll grow old tgt after the apocalypse #im not in denial ;-;

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captaincravatthecapricious · 4 years

Text

Crutches- Prompt Fill

cw broken bones, food, internalized ableism, dizziness, headaches

Card by the wonderful @celosiaa! I am still accepting bingo prompts! Please send me more because the starred ones are back written already! Send me a prompt and a character and let me know if you want a drawing or writing!

Navigating the London underground on crutches had been trying to say the least. But, Jon has gotten very good at navigating it with his cane, so out of sheer spite, he managed it without incident.

He is still clumsy on them, and by the time he reaches the university, he is more than out of breath, having to stop and use his inhaler before he can reach his classroom. (He will not be sharing that information with Martin, no way. He is Fine, and that would only cause worry, and Martin has enough to worry about being an EMT).

Of course the annoying thing is that he broke his Good leg.

Of course he manages to break his one more functional leg. What a very Jonathan Sims thing to do.

He sighs. He does not want to explain this to his students. (And he certainly doesn’t want to explain this to Tim and Sasha, but of course they are coming over for dinner. Actually… he’s grateful that they don’t already know. Somehow he actually managed to calm Martin down and talk him out of calling them. Jon leaned hard into the look I’m fine! It’s a clean break! It hardly hurts! It’s fine! I’ve had much worse, please don’t fuss! I’m still conscious and everything! Thing.)

Frankly, it’s embarrassing.

He misses the days where he would just… heal.

He might still. Well, he certainly would the old fashion way, but his recovery might be faster than normal. Physical injuries are still a little aided by his connection to the Eye, however weakened that connection might be. Doesn’t do Shit for illnesses, but as much as his EDS causes him to bruise, the bruises don’t stick around for too long.

Just have to wait and see.

His students stare.

Jon shivers.

He tries not to think about the Institute. He tries not to think about the prickle on the back of his neck… the feeling of eyes on him when there was no one around. Don’t be daft, Jonathan, you can see the students right there. You can see their eyes. You are just their odd professor who looks even more haggard and beat up than usual.

He Feels much more haggard than usual. And he’s shaking from the albuterol.

“Professor, what happened?” One of his students ask as he maneuvers the podium so he can drop his bag.

He curses at the lack of chair in the lecture hall. He’s asked for one. Repeatedly. And he’s dragged his office chair in with him before, but… he doesn’t exactly have the hands to do it.

He has to balance on one leg to dig is computer out so he can connect it to the projector.

“I’m fine,” he answers automatically. He was. He is. Just tripped like the idiot he is, and broke his good leg. His bad leg had been throbbing since he got on the tube.

He ignores it.

His students eye him with clear suspicion. Which… Jon would have worried about if… they weren’t perfectly justified.

They had seen him faint many times, pop his hip back in place, watched him dislocate and relocate his arm, and there was the time he had the concussion, and the time he had a migraine and had fainted when someone tapped him on the shoulder, and the time when he had come to class feverish.

These students have called Martin so many times by now.

He deserves those cautions glances. These kids (not really kids, but sue him, they look like kids in his eyes) are ready to call him on his bullshit.

“I fell the other day. I’ll be fine. Just a broken tibia. I’ll be fine in couple months. Let’s get on with the lesson.”

One kid raises their hand, and Jon calls on them. “Yes?”

“Professor Blackwood-Sims, isn’t that your good leg?”

Damn these overly observant students. If only they payed that much attention to his lectures. (No, that’s not fair, they are all good students. The ones who struggle, have good reason to, and Jon has managed to get them to all come talk to him and tell him what they need to do better).

Jon smiles tightly. “Well… it was. Okay, on with the lecture.”

His leg hurts. The not broken one. The broken one… well that hurts a little too, but not nearly as much as the one full of holes. (They are both full of holes, but one was wormed much more thoroughly and hasn’t been the same since.)

Balancing on one leg proves difficult as he’s hit by dizziness. He’s been standing too long. Too long on his bad leg, and the tension and pain have given him a headache bad enough that he’s had one of his students turn off the lights. He can’t face the light of the projector, so he gives the lecture angling away from it.

One of his students offers to run the PowerPoint so he can sit in one of the desks as he teaches, but he turns her down. There are only a few minutes left. He can make it. Then he can get home and take some painkillers and shower before Tim and Sasha come to dinner.

He knows he can cancel, but he doesn’t want to. He’s more dreading having explain what happened.

He reaches the flat quickly enough. He should have time to shower and cook. He hopes.

He swallows some painkillers dry (just a few so he can still take more before bed and not worry Martin by pushing the recommended doses too far) and works his way out of his work clothes while sitting on the bed. It isn’t fun.

He swallows his pride and uses the shower seat. He hates it. He hates that he needs it, yes, but honestly it’s more an issue with the textured plastic under his naked skin. It feels… wrong. Both because it reminds him of the circus, and because it’s just a bad texture. It also feels gross… as in unclean. He cleans it vigorously often, but it still doesn’t feel clean to him.

Between the headache, and the dizziness from the hot water and several nights of poor sleep (from nightmares and trying to sleep with a cast on which gave him More nightmares), and the pain in both his legs, Jon fights back the darkness around the edges of his vision.

He will Not pass out now.

No.

Will not happen. No thank you. No.

He fights to keep upright and conscious. And, surprisingly, wins that battle. He sits on the bed again while dressing, and while braiding his hair.

It takes him a long time. There is a lot of hair to work with, and his scalp hurts with the intensity of his headache. He also dallies, the more time this takes, the longer he can sit. He should consider dragging a chair in front of the counter and a chair in front of the stove. That could make cooking less painful.

Well, in some ways.

The unnatural angles are hell on his wrists when chopping.

Lesser of two evils, however, he supposes.

Shit. He isn’t going to have time to finish dinner by the time Tim and Sasha arrive.

And Martin isn’t going to be home for another hour. He knows, he knows (not Knows, though), that they won’t mind. Tim might even Help him cook, but… he doesn’t like being a bother. He wants… well frankly he wants to erase the years of hurt with food (Christ, Martin has worn off on him. Not that he minds. He loves Martin).

The sauce is almost done, but he hasn’t even started the pasta by the time Tim’s voice drifts through the door. Sing-song and loud. No knocking (thankfully).

Jon hates that he needs the crutches to get to the door. He hates that his vision is swimming by then too. The painkillers took the edge off the pain, but can’t do much about the other stresses on Jon’s mortal frame.

“Be there in a moment, or you can just let yourself in,” Jon calls back. He has to pause and lean on the wall. This is all very irritating.

Apparently, Tim had already been halfway through unlocking the door, because he’s in before Jon can even finish the sentence.

“Jesus, Jon, what did you do this time?” Sasha exclaims, quickly, but gracefully pulling off her coat, hanging it on one of the hooks by the door. It’s less a question than a statement.

“Hello Sasha, Tim. Dinner isn’t quite ready, but it’s not too far away. In the meantime there’s wine. Martin will be here soon, but his shift isn’t over yet.” His eyes are closed. Head tilted back against the wall. The room finally stops spinning around him.

“What did you even do?” Tim this time.

Jon… doesn’t meet his eyes. He knows he is blushing, but there isn’t much to be done about that. He mumbles. He doesn’t know why. He knows it won’t work. Shoving out the words too fast to be understood.

“What was that Jonny?” That is a cackle. Tim is cackling. Tim, is very irritating… but he does love him, even when he’s teasing.

“Tripped over my cane.” Jon says as quickly and quietly as possible.

“Only you, buddy. Only You, could do something like that. Now PLEASE SIT DOWN BEFORE YOU FALL OVER. I can finish making dinner!” Tim herds him to a chair. In the kitchen, because Jon knows that Tim knows Jon won’t actually relax on the couch or the bed if he’s told to.

“Okay, Jon, what’s left to do… No buts! This smells amazing and I can’t fuck up pasta, probably. At least I assume you planned pasta, because there is a box on the counter.” Sasha says this brandishing aforementioned pasta.

Sasha makes him tea. Tim makes the pasta. (Tim is absolutely the chief between the two of them.)

“When did you last have painkillers?” Tim asks.

“Not too long ago. Really I’m fine.”

Tim hmmms.

Jon finds himself nodding off at the table by the time Martin comes home.

He knows he’s being talked about.

“Hey, sweetheart. Hey?”

Jon sleepily raises his head from the table. “Sorry, I went to work.”

“Love, I thought you were going to Zoom in today.” Martin doesn’t sound Angry. But he doesn’t sound happy about this. In Jon’s defense, he did say he would see how he felt, and he felt fine in the morning.

Jon whines, he hates disappointing Martin.

“We can talk about that tomorrow.” Martin presses a kiss to his forehead.

“Hey! No sleeping until we eat!” Tim. Mock serious. Although he will be very serious if Jon tries to skive off to sleep without some food.

“Dinner, then I vote we cuddle Jon until he gets some rest!” Sasha this time.

Just like old times.

He knows he will be teased for How he broke his leg. He knows he and Martin will have a serious chat about him pushing himself.

But for now there is food, and cheer, and his loved ones.

#the magnus archives #tma #jonmartin #timsasha #jonathan sims #martin blackwood #sasha james #tim stoker #timothy stoker #cw internalized ableism #cw food #cw injury #my writing #my words #my art #my fic #fic

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fanaticit · 3 years

Text

Nobody Heard Him

Preview: "But it was more than Loneliness, wasn't it, Martin? It was terror, too. Don't you remember how that terror felt? Feel it again. Feed on it."Or, Peter Lukas imposes the Lonely onto Martin.

Pairing: Implied Jonathan Sims/Martin Blackwood (Jonmartin)

Genre/themes: Hurt, angst, loneliness

CW's: Using power over somebody in a harmful way, being trapped in a bad situation, nobody can hear/see you, psychological and emotional abuse, manipulation, loneliness, etc. Be safe, please!

Word Count: 1627

Martin was drifting through the Archives with every care in the world resting on his sagged shoulders. He stepped on each marble tile, remembering that he didn't have to worry about stepping on the grouting between the tiles anymore. "Step on a crack, break your mother's back." He used to remember that every time he walked on pavement or tiles, but it didn't much matter anymore, did it?

He reached out a hand to open the door to his office. The knob had been black-painted metal, but years of use had made most of it metallic, reminding Martin of several statues he saw in Scottish streets a while back.

His pale hand passed through the doorknob.

It took him a moment. He tried again, and then again to open the door, to feel that cold smooth metal under his palm. Because clearly, that'd been his mind playing tricks on him. He hadn't slept well recently, or it was a trick of the light. When his hand went through the door, he screamed. Someone patted his shoulder.

"Ah, hello there Martin. Having a rough one, are you?" asked Peter with a genuine grin.

Martin shook his head in disbelief. "Peter, what just happened? My hand, it... it went through the door? But-- but you could touch me! You did, just now. What just happened?" he stammered, staring at his hand, which seemed to be growing less opaque to his eyes.

"Yes, that does happen eventually to most of us. Nothing to be alarmed about, I assure you." Peter assured triumphantly. "In fact, this is wonderful progress. How long has this been going on? I'm proud of you, Martin."

"I-- I can't open the door," Martin murmured to himself. "But I've seen you open doors. You walk around and pick things up, I've seen it. Peter, what's going on?"

Peter contemplated for a second. "I guess it's time for a discussion on the Lonely, Martin. Would you care to step inside?" He opened the door to Martin's office. Martin stepped inside, numb.

The Avatar of the Lonely looked at the wall while he spoke. "To truly harness the power of the Lonely, you must understand its power, its potential, its effect. Let me tell you some stories of people I knew of, Martin. There are so many factors in Loneliness. I can't list them to you, it's bigger than that. It's always too big to summarize, so I'll do some storytelling."

"A woman who worked up the courage to confess to someone she loved, only to be shut down and cast out like waste in front of a laughing crowd. How she cried in the bathroom, how she wanted to sink into the ground or disappear instead of being embarrassed in front of others. Humiliation and rejection are symptoms of the Lonely."

"There was a teen I knew of who associated with sad fools that glorified loneliness. They loved the pain inflicted on them, boasting about their latest tragedy until they couldn't separate grief from joy. They infused Loneliness into themselves eagerly, for the story they could tell later. The glorification of tragedy is Loneliness."

"Some old man who once had a name, but nobody remembered it anymore. Loneliness from age, from the grief of losing everyone close to yourself."

"Two siblings vying for a parents' affection, only for one to be left alone when the parent was forced to choose between the two. Being abandoned."

"A successful lawyer choosing to stay late at work again instead of seeing his family, falling asleep in his office instead of in his home. A priority that lets Loneliness win."

"Loneliness no matter how many people are close. Pushing them away, feeling like they don't care. Anxiety and depression, loneliness despite a crowd around you."

"Oh, there are so many shapes and sizes of Loneliness, Martin. The feeling of being Lonely is similar to the true understanding of it-- overwhelming in every way. It's incredible, isn't it? I can tell in your eyes-- you feel it. You felt the Loneliness of every poor soul I described. Isn't it liberating, Martin? Knowing that you understand the lock, but not the key? Understanding the underlying terror of everyone leaving you behind, understanding why they all assume nothing will improve."

"It's marvelous, don't you think, Martin?" announced Peter, feeling the emotion of his novice.

Martin's face shook. "It's... it's terrible. I hate it. I want no part in this, Peter. I can't do this. I can't feed on their grief. It's wrong!"

He stumbled out of his office, his face grey and hands shaking. Jon. He needed him, Jon would know what to do, how to help him out of this. Where was he?

There-- in his office, the door wide open and a tape recorder going. His head was rested on his arms, and he was silently staring at the spinning tape. There was something haunting about his expression. Martin sped into the room in a panic.

"Jon, oh thank god, I need your help. I did something really stupid, and Peter's chasing me, and I need your help. Please, I can explain it all later, but he's gonna be here any minute, Jon. I don't want to disappear. He wants me to feed on their pain, but I can't do it. I don't want others to be hurting. Come on, we've only got a moment. Why aren't you listening to me? Jon!" Martin ranted, only then looking up at noticing that Jon hadn't moved.

"Jon, listen to me. Please, why aren't you getting it? Peter's going to be here any second and--."

"I'm already here, Martin," Peter announced from behind him in the doorway. He sauntered in, taking a place by Martin's side, staring at the Archivist with no emotion. "He can't hear you, you know."

"Stop playing games, Peter. Not with Jon. You said you'd leave him out of it," Martin stammered, looking between the two others in the room with worry and terror.

"I'm not," Peter said, matter-of-factly. "It's all you, Martin. I'm proud, really. You're making incredible progress."

"Stop it! I don't want any part of it. You're the one doing this, aren't you? Just another one of your sick mind games!" yelled Martin, no longer worried about being overheard, because nobody could hear him.

"This was all you, Martin. I didn't have to do this for you, you figured it all out on your own. Of course, I chose well. You were the perfect candidate for the Lonely right from the beginning. I didn't even have to work it into you, it was already there."

"Shut up!"

"The employee surrounded by superior minds, the eternally jealous and awestruck novice. The friend-to-all with no friends at all. The one ruled by emotion over logic, trapped in a room alone with their terrors locking on the door."

"Stop talking, Peter."

"Were you Lonely when you were trapped in your apartment while the worms tried their hardest to enter and dissect you? Were you Lonely when you faked your way into your job? Were you Lonely when you lost your companions in the tunnels and wandered about on your own until you stumbled upon a corpse?"

"I said shut up!"

"But it was more than Loneliness, wasn't it, Martin? It was terror, too. Don't you remember how that terror felt? Feel it again. Feed on it."

Martin had stopped talking. He went rigid and curled up into a ball instead, sinking to the floor and cradling his knees.

"You're the outcast, Martin. Why else would their only use for you be to bring tea? And they didn't even ask for that, either. Maybe they just didn't want you around at all. Is that why you faced Elias's terror all alone? And then so many of them died because you were too useless, too cowardly, too foolish to act. You're fixated on the one you love, but your death would be inconsequential to him. Everybody you've burdened with your problems was exasperated, so why do you even bother?"

The ringing in Martin's ears was intense, but Peter's words were more so. He stared at Jon, who hadn't moved. He was staring at the tape, oblivious to the scene in front of him.

"They all assume you're nothing, and you'll never have the strength or the resolve to even try to prove them wrong. You felt the Lonely when you lost your mother, too, but you felt it even more when she was here. Do you remember what her last words to you were? Grief seems like second nature to you now, but it never gets better, does it? All the little things you keep seeing. The little reminders."

"Just leave-- me-- ALONE!" screamed Martin out of the blue. He made eye contact, forcing Peter to look away.

"I really am proud of you. If being Lonely is what you wish, then I've succeeded already, haven't I?" Peter murmured. "You'll be able to become visible over time, though it will take effort. Although who's to say that you're really not visible?"

"...Maybe they all don't see you because they don't want to. Just something to think about. I'll see you tomorrow, Martin." Peter let out a sigh, then walked out of the door and vanished from sight.

Martin collapsed against the wall, suddenly exhausted. He stared at Jon, who was still staring at that tape recorder. The Archivist paused, then looked at the door. "Martin... where are you?" he whispered to himself, then rubbed his eyes and stared at the tea he'd made himself. "I miss you."

"I wish I could explain, Jon" mumbled Martin. "I miss you." He muttered it to himself under his breath, Loneliness taking him under again.

Nobody heard him.

AN: Stay safe, it's a crazy world out there. Have a good night. --fanaticit

#the magnus archives #tma #martin blackwood #jonathan sims #peter lukas #the lonely #angst #fanfic #the magnus archives fanfic

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smallmediumproblems · 4 years

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The first sign that Jon’s plan was working was the sunlight. It was thin, cloudy, London sunlight, but it was the second-most beautiful thing he’d seen in his entire life. He let it wash over him along with the sounds of the city. The passing cars and babble of tourists and, god, just the sound of people being happy. The second sign was that he had no idea what day it was. He reached for the information from something beyond himself, but it was like trying to flex wings that he didn’t have. He was blissfully alone in his head. The Eye was gone. As he glanced down at himself, he found that the rest of the fear had gone with it. The scar on his hand rested stubbornly on the surface of his skin and went no deeper. The rest were the same.

The third sign was that he was able to hail a cab from Hilltop Road to Millbank. He didn’t think he could handle being underground just yet, and it gave him an excuse to have a conversation. Any conversation. Yes, he did live in London. From Kilbride, is that so? He’d spent his honeymoon up North (sort of), lovely place. Spectacular cows. He was here on business, actually, since he supposed he didn’t work where he was going anymore. Damned glad to be free of the place. Why, yes, Jon thought so too- a job was really all about the people. The people had always been good.

The Magnus Institute was as squat and imposing as he remembered it. Perhaps it was Jon’s imagination, but it looked smaller than when he’d last seen it. The shadows clung a little closer, shying away from his flimsy sunlight. He could almost hear Tim and Sasha arguing inside, could picture the way they smiled and laughed at each other. Martin would be…

No. No, he couldn’t think about that, that was a sacrifice he had already decided to make. It’s not like Martin would know, anyway.

“Sir?” Rosie’s voice stopped him from heading straight down to the Archives. He pulled to a halt, taking a second to bask in the normalcy of it. “Can I help you?”

“Err, yes,” he stammered, “Hello. I’m- I’m here to see the Archivist?”

“He’s got a visitor right now, but...” Rosie informed him. She glanced down towards the stairwell, and returned her attention to Jon with a sympathetic half-smile. “You’re here for a statement? Why don’t you wait downstairs. I’m sure he’ll be happy to see you.”

It had been too much to hope that Gertrude was still alive. Apparently, it had been too much to hope for Sasha to be her successor, either. Tim, maybe? He’d been marked by the Stranger, something Elias would surely have noticed and took advantage of. He thanked Rosie, and as he made his way downstairs, a very different argument than what he’d been expecting drifted up through the walls.

“...got time for this. I don’t know how to make that any more clear. I don’t care.”

“That’s just what I love about our conversations.”

The doors were closed. All except for his own at the end of the hall. Tentatively, Jon knocked on Tim’s office door. No answer. Then Sasha. Then Martin. Nothing. Even the break room was silent.

“Look, even if I didn’t think you were a waste of my time, I’m already spoken for. What you’re talking about just isn’t possible. Not after what happened.”

“Can you really know that?”

Jon rounded the corner to see Martin sitting at his desk, just in time to hear him let out a laugh that was far too sharp and far too dark.

“Knowing’s what I do,” said Martin Blackwood, the Archivist. “That, and babysitting, since you’re still-”

Martin’s eyes lit up very abruptly, and he leaned around Peter Lukas to look at Jon. “Jonathan! Come in, we were just finishing up.”

There was a moment of vertigo as Jon realized that Martin didn’t actually recognize him. He just Knew him. He felt an uncomfortable pressure at the back of his neck, as though something had grabbed hold of him to keep him from struggling.

Martin’s attention flickered briefly back to Peter, the stark annoyance returning to his voice. “Leave. I’d tell you to come back later, but honestly, don’t.”

“Same time tomorrow, then,” said Peter. He nodded cheerfully at Jon on his way out, and Martin rounded the desk to greet him.

“Here for a statement?” Martin asked eagerly. “Please, sit down, I’ll get you some tea.”

Jon nodded and collapsed faintly into the guest chair. Martin had apparently moved the entire tea station into his office, and opened a storage cabinet in the corner to reveal an electric kettle next to a mismatched selection of boxes and loose paper packets. Without so much as a look backwards, he began making a cup exactly the way Jon liked it, as well as one for himself. He even used Jon's favorite cat mug. Jon wondered if Martin Knew he liked it specifically because it was the one Martin always used to bring him.

“Sorry you had to see that,” Martin said idly. “Office politics, you know. Doesn’t even work here, and he thinks he can waltz right in and give me more stuff to do.”

“I can imagine,” said Jon. “Isn’t there anyone else to help you?”

Martin laughed again, that light little chirp that he reserved for when something was wrong and he didn’t want to talk about it. “Just me. I’ve got some assistants, somewhere, but they’re kept nice and busy.”

He turned to face Jon as he spoke, and the effect was perhaps less reassuring than he’d intended. For the first time in years, Jon was reminded that Martin's demeanor was the only thing stopping him from being intimidating as well as just very big. He looked older than he should have been. Jon had never seen him loom before, but he was proving to be quite good at it. There was a scar across his left jaw, two parallel lines that could have been from claws. His smile was, inexplicably, the same as ever, which almost made the whole picture worse. It was still more beautiful than the sunlight outside. His eyes went startlingly glassy for a moment, and he looked surprised at something.

“Wow. You’ve got quite a story, haven’t you?” he commented.

“I’m much more interested in yours,” said Jon. Martin sighed.

“Of course you are,” he said. “What is it this time... You know, I can't get a clear look at you, that's funny. Are you from the Spiral? You don’t reeeeally strike me as the spidery type.”

“No, I’m- I’m human,” said Jon. “I’m not here for the Archivist, Martin. I came to find you.”

Martin’s smile withered away into an almost childish dissatisfaction. He didn't tense up, or seem particularly more ready to deal with any impending danger. It was with an uneasy sinking feeling that Jon understood this was because his guard had been raised the whole time. Jon had been a threat from the moment he walked in the door. Martin was just sure he could deal with whatever that threat was.

“Cool," he said tersely, "Love it when strangers know who I am. Let's start from the top. Who exactly are you?"

"I'm Jon. Jonathan Sims," Jon answered, his whole being laid out precisely by the question. He could not help but feel a little thrill of joy at not being anything else. "I suppose I’m not anybody. I’m from a different world, one that I, ah… Kind of mucked up. I came here because I thought it would be better off without me."

Martin frowned.

He smiled.

He laughed, and it was as cold and terrible as before.

"Alright," he said. "That’s, um. Total nonsense. First things first-"

Martin turned to retrieve the tea and slid Jon's cup across the table to him. He even gave him a coaster.

"We're going to play a game," Martin said pleasantly. "Here's how it goes: I'm going to pop your head open like an advent calendar, and if I don't like what I find, I get to eat all the little chocolates inside. Now might be a good time to leave if that doesn't sound like a fun game to you."

"And abandon my tea?" Jon said, aghast. Martin lifted his cup, and they clinked glasses. From the look in Martin's eyes, they might as well have been crossing swords.

"Alright then!" said Martin. "Let's have that statement, Mr Jonathan Sims who isn’t anybody. The very first one. About how you worked here."

And with that, the whole world fell away, an excruciating practice in focus and captivity. Jon had expected it to feel like being in a spotlight. Perhaps like performing to a massive, leering audience. This was more personal. This was an exam that he'd spent his whole life studying for and not absorbed a single piece of worthwhile information towards. An essay prompt that he was brimming with words to answer, but could never have enough time to do it justice.

"Well, I was the Archivist," he started, taking a sip of his tea. "I was good at it. Not at first, of course. I wasn't a good anything, at first. I had some assistants who tolerated me. There was Sasha. And Tim. And you. I managed to ruin everything almost immediately, for everyone. I let Sasha die. Didn't even notice when it happened. Then, I brought Tim with me on a dangerous mission, knowing he would die too, which he did. I made your life hell, and the moment things started to change for the better, I left you.

"All while I was ruining people's lives, I continued to be a good Archivist. And an Archivist is only good for one thing. I brought ruin to everything around me one final time. An irrevocable ruin. So deep and terrible that reality shifted in the image of my abject failure. Then, when I could no longer stand to live in that world, I left you one last time. I removed myself - and my failure - from reality. And now, I'm here."

There was a heavy creak as Martin leaned back against his tea cabinet. He had looked calm, almost comfortable until that moment, and Jon remembered the way that statements tended to bottle up your emotions until they were finished if you weren't careful. Martin’s face had gone pale. At what in particular, Jon couldn't begin to guess. He could feel very keenly what Martin had seen - the litany of horrors that Jon had committed against the world, culminating in one final terror that never ceased and had no bounds. He couldn’t know what it meant to Martin, though. There was a haze growing around his memories of the apocalypse, like a nightmare his body was trying to wash away.

"You came back," Martin finished for him.

"I suppose I did," said Jon. "Martin, what happened to everyone?"

"Gone," Martin said faintly. He removed himself from the cabinet and came forward to lean on his chair instead. "They're all… dead, Jon, why did… it's just me. It's been me for so long."

That couldn’t be right. Jon was the reason they died, they should have been just fine without him.

"What about Melanie? Daisy, or Basira?" he insisted, "Or Helen, is Helen still here?"

"Helen’s gone," said Martin, "Died in the accident with Sasha. Michael left after that, too. I wasn’t supposed to be the Archivist, you know? Everyone knew that. Sasha’s the one who took over for Gertrude. After Tim got replaced by that… thing, she just… She didn't come back from the circus. I think she knew better. When Elias offered me the job, I thought- I couldn't stop thinking, if I say no, if he gets someone else, am I going to have to watch them die, too?"

"Martin, I'm so sorry," was all Jon could think to say. "I thought I could save them. If I'd just left well enough alone, if I hadn't been there, I thought that would be enough. This was my fault, all of it was meant to go away without me. I was just trying to fix what I’d done."

“And what did you do to me, huh?” asked Martin. “You said you killed everyone else.”

“I don’t want to-”

“Tell me what you did,” asked the Archivist.

“I loved you,” said Jon.

Again, he was unraveled for examination. It spared him the messy process of having to examine his feelings, but it meant that Martin was forced to go through it instead. Martin took a deep breath in and out, as though struggling to press back some reaction. Whatever he’d been through in Jon’s absence, it let him keep his expressions startlingly neutral.

“And what do you mean to do now?” he pressed.

“I suppose I’ll still love you,” said Jon. “And hope that that’s enough.”

Martin got very quiet. He started to say something, and stopped short. Thought of something better to say, then decided against that one as well. Jon momentarily wished that he could get inside his head one last time.

“What else do you do?” he finally asked.

“Mostly, I make extremely reckless decisions,” Jon admitted.

Martin considered this.

“I can work with that,” he decided, “You’re kind of from the future, right?”

“That’s not-”

“What can you tell me about the Fears?” Martin cut him off. There was a gleam in his eye that Jon recognized as the first inkling of a plan. It made Jon’s heart melt.

“Um, right. So, you’ve got Smirke’s fourteen, that’s obvious.”

“Obviously.”

“Did you talk to Leitner?”

Martin rolled his eyes. “Ugh. I haven’t seen him since he cleared out that Hunter last year. He still won’t come out of the tunnels, he’s convinced Elias is going to lop his head off.”

“He’s alive?” Jon exclaimed.

“I mean, I guess,” said Martin, not sounding too worried. “Seemed like he had things sorted.”

“He wasn’t far off the mark about Elias,” Jon said nervously.

“Yeeeah, I wouldn’t worry about that,” said Martin. “I keep him locked in a storage closet.”

This was so far outside the realm of Jon’s imagination that he actually took a moment to picture it. It was a pleasant moment.

“...and that works?” he asked.

“Sort of,” Martin shrugged. “I throw him an evil artifact once and a while to keep him busy. Took him ages to get out of that haunted coffin thing.”

“God, you’re amazing,” Jon muttered under his breath, “Err, what about Gerry?”

“How d’you think I got this?” said Martin, tracing a knuckle over the claw mark that tugged at his smug little half-smile.

Jon got the distinct feeling that they were competing at something. More importantly, Martin seemed to be winning. The tea was abandoned, pouring the last of its warmth uselessly into the air. There was a tension between them that Jon hadn’t felt since the first time they’d met. The rules for that interaction were impersonal, neutral and only tenuously agreed-upon, full of boundaries that needed pushing and limits to test. Technically speaking, they were meeting for the first time again, which meant that the same rules applied here. That memory forced a realization into Jon’s head with all the grace and delicacy of a burning freight train.

Martin wasn’t trying to beat him at anything. He was trying to impress him.

“C’mon, future guy,” said Martin, with an impatience that was clearly feigned. “Give me something useful.”

“You never mentioned what happened to Melanie,” Jon shot back.

“Melanie King,” Martin mulled over, “She came in with a statement, then she dragged Sasha off to India looking for ghosts. Sasha came back with a bullet hole in her back. Melanie joined a podcast.”

“Thank god,” Jon breathed a sigh of relief.

“Um, no?” said Martin, eyes wide. “Sasha got shot.”

“No, but- But Melanie’s fine,” Jon explained. “Honestly, I’ll take what I can get, at this point.”

Martin smirked. “Keep going.”

“Daisy and Basira.”

“They are a pair of law officers,” Martin said contemplatively, drawing the information from thin air. Jon noticed that he tilted his head up slightly whenever he Beheld something, craning his neck to get a better look. He wondered if he’d had any sort of tells like that. Martin could probably tell him. “One of whom just got probation for murdering someone. Again. Is that supposed to mean something?”

“I suppose not,” said Jon, “And you know about the rituals?”

“No, Jon, I don’t know about the rituals I’ve lost most of my friends to trying to stop in the past year,” said Martin.

“Do you know they don’t work?”

This gave Martin pause.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” he asked suspiciously.

“I mean, they don’t work,” Jon repeated. “The rituals are doomed to fail. It’s impossible to bring any one fear into the world on its own.”

“Which means that… I haven’t lost everyone trying to stop the end of the world.” Martin’s voice had started to shake. “I’ve lost everyone for… absolutely nothing.”

“There’s something else,” Jon said sharply. This was a crisis that did need dealing with, but not here or now. “One of them does work, one that you’re in a uniquely good position to stop. Your own.”

Martin pulled out the meaning of this remarkably quickly. That, or he just pulled the answer from Jon’s head. “The Archivist is a ritual,” he proposed.

“Exactly,” said Jon. “Your role is to collect the fears. All of them. They can’t be brought in one at a time, but all at once is a different matter.”

“So, no Archivist, no ritual?” Martin said quietly.

“No!” Jon cried, “That’s what I tried to do. Didn’t exactly work out. I think there’s always an Archivist. All we can do is postpone it. Gertrude did the best she could, but she didn’t tell anyone who could have carried on for her.”

“And then she died,” said Martin.

“Yes, but she also lived,” said Jon. “Right now, I think that’s the best possible thing you can do.”

“Let’s- Let me just unpack this, so you know how insane this sounds,” said Martin. “This guy I’ve never met before - who apparently loves me literally more than sunlight, don’t think I didn’t catch that - waltzes in and tells me that the solution to all my problems is just living my best life.”

Jon smiled, finally breaking the tension to take a sip of tea. “In all fairness, the sun does rather pale in comparison to you.”

Martin laughed again. This time it had just a hint of the warmth that Jon longed to see in him.

“Well. You promised you’d find me when you came back,” said Martin. “How’s that working out for you?”

Jon nearly choked on his drink. He had in fact been trying not to think about the last time he’d seen the other Martin - his Martin, who stood through the end of the world with him. He’d been trying to think of everything except the last words they’d said to each other, the last time they’d touched, the last time they would see each other again.

“You remember?” he spluttered.

“I know,” Martin corrected him, although he seemed unsure himself. “That’s different from remembering. It didn’t happen to me. It happened to someone else, who was me, who… And, and I don’t… I mean, I could. Couldn’t I?”

“Martin, I can’t read minds anymore,” Jon reminded him.

“I don’t love you,” Martin insisted. This seemed to distress him more than anything he’d pulled from Jon’s mind. “Not like he did. I don’t know how. You came all this way, and I’ve got no idea how to be the person you came looking for.”

“I know,” Jon said warmly. “I didn’t come here expecting you to. I came back to keep my promise. And I came back to help however I could.”

Martin nodded. “D’you think we could start with that whole ‘living’ thing?”

“I can’t say I’m the best at it,” said Jon, “But for you, I’ll try.”

#tma #the magnus archives #tma spoilers #fanfiction #shows up a season late with a time travel fic #hey remember when I used to write stuff #I swear I'm writing that georganie road trip fic bear with me

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