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janekfan · 3 years

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Saw you were looking for some Jon Tim prompts so here's a few! :D 1) Tim decides to stalk Jon to show him what it feels like. Jon is satisfyingly frazzled; then a fear shows up. 2) Jon protects Tim from the Distortion Michael. Tim's confused. 3) Jon get lost in the tunnels. Perhaps Tim can hear him from the trap door and ends up pulling him out. They're both in bad shape and Martin is ticked. 4) Tim finds Jon after he gets stabbed by Michael. Happy Prompt Hunting!

I went with number 4! :D All are very good though

https://archiveofourown.org/works/28436451

Jon was being shifty again.

Not like that was anything new, and Tim had caught wind of a bread knife rumor?

But whatever. It was no concern of his and he’d rather go the day withouth seeing him if he could. Avoid the hot spike of poisonous anger that followed after every infuriating interaction and seeped, staining, into all other aspects of his life. Better to leave him be. Let Basira and Daisy and Melanie and Martin deal with him and leave Tim to work on his high scores.

So of course it would just be the two of them in the office today. Martin dropped off Jon’s tea like clockwork and strode bitterly out of the Archives without so much as glancing at Tim. He’d delivered his warnings earlier when he’d been assigned this field research and Tim would follow the instructions to leave him be to the letter.

“He’s exhausted, Tim.”

“Don’t care.”

“I. I know. What I’m trying to say is don’t make things worse.” Tim scoffed at that. Yes, he would be the ones making it all worse. Because it wasn’t worse already. Sasha wasn’t gone, they weren’t trapped here because of Jon who definitely hadn’t turned into some paranoid stalker armed with evil powers.

But yeah. He wouldn’t make things worse.

The makeshift pad of gauze and bandaging was soaked through with his own bright blood and staring at it brought a wash of dizziness over him and flooded his mouth with salt. Before he could faint dead away he reached for his dwindling supplies and prepared to change the dressing. If it didn’t stop this time, he’d have no choice but to ask for help.

If they’d spare any.

Jon hissed through his teeth when removing the compress served only to break the clot, pouring a hot runnel over his skin that caught and welled and spilled over the ladder of his ribs. Blacked at the edges, his vision tunneled, and nausea coiled sour in his stomach. It hurt. It hurt to breathe, to think, to move, deep, deep, deep and aching in the very core of him. Graceless and bumbling, Jon struggled to cover the surprisingly small incision and wrap himself tight enough to please, please stop bleeding. Holding himself close and careful, Jon staggered to his feet only to knock his hip hard against the desk as he went woozy.

He’d stood for something. Risked toppling over for something but the pounding of his pulse in his temples made everything that much harder and the room was spinning around and around and he nearly joined it, teetering a half turn before lurching to a stop, pressing his arm against his throbbing side.

It hurt.

One of them must have painkillers of some sort. Sash--

She. He.

How could he’d have forgotten? A bolt of fresh sorrow struck him so hard in the chest it stole his breath away with it and he sagged beneath its gravity, gripping the cool metal of the door handle painfully for support, looking down and seeing it as though it were the first time.

Where…? He needed something. Needed...because it hurt. He hurt and he needed help.

“Jesus, Jon!” Tim’s whole body flinched violently when he realized Jon was hovering near his desk like a wraith, sallow and with shadows like bruises lining the sharp planes of his face. “What?” His silence was petrol on the fire of Tim’s always simmering anger and it flared brightly, blinding, such that Jon staggered a step back, lifting a trembling hand only to drop it back to his side.

“T’Tim.” He swallowed with a click, and Tim watched his throat work, lashes fluttering like moth’s wings, brows knit together in effort and confusion.

“Out with it!”

“D’you‘ave pa, para…?” Even with his tripped up tongue, the compulsion found a way to thread through the question and Tim saw the fear fill up Jon’s glassy eyes when he realized a beat later what he’d done. Resisting was painful, the static filled up his ears, his head, his blood with its continuous hiss, rising higher and higher as he tried his damndest not to answer what really was a simple question. It wasn’t about that though. It wasn’t alright for Jon to take like that, to use whatever the hell this was to pull what he wanted to know from the inside of them without a thought. To hurt them just to Know.

In the end, he had no choice and coughed up his elucidation like a mouthful of razors, slamming his fist against his desk and using the leverage to stand and confront him.

“S’sorry. Din’t...” slurred and barely intelligible, the empty apologies only made Tim angrier and for one awful moment, he wanted to hit him. Give back just a fraction of the pain he’d caused all of them with his selfish ignorance. He wrestled it down with difficulty, clenched his teeth against the residual ache of Jon’s power.

“What’d you do to yourself?” Because the man looked hungover, sweaty and sick, paler by the minute and he wouldn’t blame him for crawling into a bottle. Might even be inclined to join him if he ever extended an offer.

“H’hur’s.” Jon’s overture broke open in a sob, his clawing, grasping fingers twisted in his dark jumper over his stomach and it looked as though he was considering lurching for the bin.

“Are you pisse--whoa!” Instead, Jon stumbled into him and reflexively, Tim shoved him away, like he was something disgusting, watching him trip over clumsy feet and land hard on his side in a sprawl of uncoordinated limbs. Tim yanked him up roughly, ignoring the sharp intake of breath, and tugged him back to his office by a bony elbow, muttering unkindly, “just sober up or whatever.”

The door slammed behind Jon and reverberated into his aching bones. He’d forgotten what he needed and the pain was so bad now it had removed any remaining will he had to stay awake. After Tim pushed him and he hit the ground, (clumsy, stupid, can’t even walk on your own) it was like being stabbed by Michael all over again; a burst of bright white twisting, turning, contorting agony that wasn’t easing so much as it was spreading all the way to the tips of his fingers.

Maybe if he sat down, got off his feet, he’d not feel so ill. Yes...yes that would be good. It would be nice to rest for a moment, just close his burning eyes, just for a little while. Then he could get back to work, finish up those statements he was working on. He was working on statements? When he went to step forward a sharp pain rocked through him hard enough that he had to brace himself on the unforgiving hard wood of the desk.

What--

Suddenly weak in the knees, Jon all but collapsed into his chair, curling into himself, every harsh and hollow gasp of breath like the bite of a knife.

Half five and Jon still hadn't emerged a second time from his office. Tim was the only one left besides him and despite how adamantly he refused to care he does not want to draw Martin’s temper. This had nothing to do with his own concern and armed with the distance that afforded him, Tim knocked loudly, obnoxiously, rudely.

There was no response.

“Oi, Jon!” Shouldering open the door, he’s got a rant on the tip of his tongue and is looking forward to using it. “Drunk at work, whatever will Marto say? The scandal…” With no reaction forthcoming, no moaning or groaning or yelling Tim took a second to actually look at him, lying collapsed over his desk, cheek pillowed on one folded arm. He’s passed clean out, and Tim touched his forehead only to find it cold and clammy. Something was far from alright if Jon’s rapid, shallow breathing and nearly grey lips were anything to go by. “Boss?” He was slack and loose when Tim shook him none too gently, mouth falling open with an almost inaudible whine. Alarm bells were ringing, red flags cropping up the longer stayed in here with him and the weighty feeling of being watched made him shiver. Very suddenly he wanted out of there but when he pulled Jon upright his eyelids barely shifted and what little color remained drained from his face so quickly Tim barely got the bin in place for him to lose what little he had in his stomach, no more than a little tea really. If the moisture hadn’t glinted in the low light coming in from the other room, Tim wouldn’t have noticed the dark wet blotch blending with the fibers of Jon’s jumper or the red and rust staining his trousers halfway down his thigh.

“Jon!” He wasn’t awake, not really, body reacting with wretched whimpers and the sluggish shifting of his arms when Tim eased him out of the chair and onto the ground. “Shit. Shit!” 999. 999 and following their explicit instructions; elevate his legs, keep him warm, don’t let him aspirate on his own sick. He lifted the sopping and soaked fabric of his borrowed clothing and his hand flew to cover his mouth when he saw the damage and he thought back to Jon’s plea for paracetamol, the apparently accidental compulsion.

“H’hur’s.”

His whole flank was black with the blood pooled beneath his skin and smeared with crimson above and when Tim applied his own crumpled up button down over top of the drenched bundle of gauze Jon cried out, writhing weakly under his punishing hands, eyes rolling wildly under bruised lids.

God. What was the point of being angry with Jon for not being honest, for not reaching out, if this is what happened when he did? If Tim was going to be rough with him, accuse him of being soused when really--

When really he was bleeding to death behind the closed door Tim put him behind so he didn’t have to look at him.

“T…”

“Hey, hey buddy.

“Hur’hurting me…” Slicked with weals of blood, Jon’s thin fingers slipped against Tim’s wrists, no strength to shift him, to stop what was happening, to stop him from hurting him like everybody else had hurt him, even though he was trying to save him. Jon didn’t understand, couldn’t, and he sobbed helplessly, keening cry lancing through Tim like the sharpest spear as yet again he was at the mercy of someone with more power. Catching up his hands, holding both in just one of his own, the hot blood was a painful contrast with Jon’s icy skin.

“Hush, I’m sorry, you’re okay, you’re okay, you’re okay. I’ve got you, Jon.”

“Nngh…ah!” Tim lifted his hands to his chest, cradled them there in all their scarred roughness and fragility, deadweight and limp.

“Soon now, just stay awake, bud. Stay with me.”

“T’T…” rapid breaths choked him off, left him gasping, fingers spasming in his hold.

Pulled gently away by unfamiliar hands.

Strangers’ voices muffled in his ears.

Jon’s half-lidded dull brown eyes filled with sharp fear.

All so slow Tim wasn’t sure any of it was happening at all until suddenly, a dawning of crystal clarity. Numbers and instructions and bodies, shouting, changing, moving.

Jon begging them to stop, stop--

“Stop hurting him!”

A firm grip pulled him to the side, forced him to look away from the red, red, red rising like a tide in his eyes until he couldn’t see anything else.

“We’re going to help him, but you need to let us.”

“...Y’yeah…”

“Are you coming?”

“Hm?”

“Sir?” Tim took in the sight of Jon’s blood still wet on the tile, the papers and folders in disarray and stained with drops like poppy petals plotting a course of ache and agony he didn’t want to travel.

And then Jon. Strapped down, held in place, fluids being forced into his collapsing veins. Face grey and lined with pain and streaked with red and--

“N’no. No.” The paramedics were already hurrying away. “I’ll. Someone will be there.”

It didn’t deserve to be him.

“Martin.”

“Tim, I swear to god--”

“Martin.”

“--get a hold of yourself for pity’s sake--”

“Martin!”

“What?!” An irritated huff passed over the line. “If this is just--”

“Jon’s in hospital, i’in surgery.” Stony silence run through with the vaguest hum of static fell between them.

“Tim--”

“I. I. I don’t think it was a bread knife.” Tim’s fingers were clenched around his phone so hard he thought it might crack as he kneeled beside the stain Jon left behind. Say nothing of Martin’s implication that this was his fault. That he’d done this to Jon.

But hadn’t he driven him to it?

Hadn’t he driven Jon to keep his pain and terror and sadness and secrets to himself when he turned on him? When he blamed him? When he came to him today, tried to reach for him, to reach for help, and was again denied?

“Tim!”

“M--”

“Where?”

“Wh’happen’...?”

“Jon?” This wasn’t the first time he’d been awake but it was the first time he’d done more than weep with confusion. Perfectly normal, Martin had been assured, between the anesthesia, the medication for pain, the massive internal hemorrhage they’d had to go in and repair, somehow saving his spleen of all things.

“Mmartin?” The effort to speak was dragging him back out to sea with exhaustion, heavy lashes struggling to part under the weight of it and only offering glimpses of glassy brown.

“Shh, go back to sleep.” Gently, Martin brushed back through his curls taking note of the too-cool temperature of his skin and the ink-dark bruises like kohl under his eyes. “It’s alright, I’m right here.”

“I, I…” Somewhere between his protest and a damp sob, Jon dropped off the edge of the precipice and Martin thumbed away the tears lining his cheeks before taking up his hand to resume his attempts at rubbing the warmth back into it.

“You should go home.” Tim was quieter than he’d ever heard him before, still likely cowed from their earlier conversation where the only thing Martin could look at was the copper embedded under his fingernails, smeared across his wrists and gone dark with oxidation. “He’s in good hands.”

“And how would you know that, Tim?” Bitter. Frustrated. Angry. Jon should have been in good hands before. Trusted hands. Hands that may well be spiteful, resentful, but hands that wouldn’t let Jon slip through the cracks regardless.

“I just meant.” Martin wasn’t able to look at him, afraid of what he might say next, afraid that he might physically throw the other man from the room for daring to deny Jon the slightest support.

“Last time I left you with him, he ended up here.”

“That’s--” Voice raised, shouting, and even down deep Jon flinched, arms shifting in an attempt to protect his face. Martin was livid, settling Jon with a few whispered words before turning to confront Tim.

“I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to be here.”

“I didn’t…” Tim was small, folding into himself and sharp at his corners, bristling and contrite.

“I’ll text you with an update if there is one.”

“I. I’m sorry, Martin.” But he neither needed nor wanted an apology. He wasn’t the one Tim wronged today.

A week later saw Martin helping Jon up the narrow steps to his flat, concerned by his pallor and the trembling in his limbs and when he finally dropped him onto the lumpy sofa, saw that he was sweating.

“I’ll make some tea.” He’d purchased a few essentials to go along with his prescriptions. It wouldn’t do if he made himself ill on an empty stomach. If he listened closely he could just hear Jon’s panting, making certain to bring water along with the mug and a few chocolate digestives to offset the loss of blood still exacerbating his fatigue.

“M’quite alright, Martin.” He had yet to sit up, still laying back among the cushions, one scarred forearm laid above his nose. “Don’have to coddle me.” Martin didn’t rise to his bait, instead ignoring him in favor of sitting beside where his greater weight tipped Jon gently into his side. He didn’t resist, instead embracing his vulnerability and sinking deeper into the warm wool of his jumper with a sullen hum.

“I’m not “coddling” you, Jon.” Steeped to his preferences, Martin pressed the tea into his hands, lingering to be certain he could hold it on his own before tucking a biscuit between his forefinger and the porcelain and then another when he polished it off, probably not thinking about it.

“Have you heard from Tim?” Barely audible over the rim of his mug, Jon kept his eyes downcast and Martin couldn’t see under his long lashes from the angle he was at. He’d asked a few times, understanding his disappointment was aimed at Tim and not at Jon, at least not this time. They’d discussed the incident and Martin got the sense that he wanted no part in a repeat performance though he’d explained his attempt at asking for help was the last time he was cognizant enough to think in a somewhat straight line. After that it was pain and cold and shadow and Tim crushing him into the floor and he didn’t understand.

“Yeah.” Martin sipped on his own tea, encouraged Jon to do the same, but he was a dog with a bone.

“Is he. Uh. Cross? With. With me?” He looked up, tired eyes wide and round. “I mean, more than, than the usual?”

“Jon.”

“I know! I.” Falling silent, Jon nibbled absentmindedly on the last biscuit and accepted the tablets to swallow with the dregs of his tea. He’d be out like a light soon with that painkiller and Martin tugged him up when he hissed through his teeth at the agony of trying to move and caught him when he listed on his feet. Rather than hovering, Martin decided instead to keep an ear out as he put away the groceries and filled a glass of water for his nightstand, meeting Jon back at the sofa where he held a stack of bedding topped with pillows.

“I know.” He swallowed, “you’re here out of, of obligation? Kindness? But. But I’ll be fine on my own--you don’t have to stay.” Martin shook his head, a sad smile spreading over his lips as he relieved Jon of his bundle, longing to pull him into an embrace and relieve him of the invisible burden he carried alone. Compromising, he settled for cupping a slim shoulder, not missing how he melted under the soft touch.

“I’m here because we’re friends, Jon.” Unexpected tears welled in his eyes, spilling over as his staid expression crumpled. “Oh, oh, Jon, come here. It’s alright.” Spent, Jon let his forehead collide with his chest, crying silently, and Martin abandoned the duvet in favor of folding him up. “It’s alright.”

“S’sorry...just.” But he couldn’t get any more words out and Martin ran a hand up and down his taut back, rubbing circles over the sharp blades of his shoulders.

“You don’t have to be.” In a few moments the energy began to ooze out of Jon’s bones, the meds kicking in full force and taking his strength with it. “Okay, time for bed.” With a bit of cautious manhandling, Martin was able to get him tucked in between the sheets, meeting eyes blinking slow like those of a cat. “Comfy?”

“Mmyeah…” slipping out on an exhale and it brought a grin back to Martin’s face to see him so relaxed and more than a little loopy. “Hey Martin?” Graceless, Jon’s clumsy fingers tangled with his. “Thank you.” Cross eyed with the effort of sincerely conveying his gratitude, he spoke earnestly, if marble-mouthed and Martin felt his own cheeks flush hot in the velvet dark. He allowed himself to tuck stray and greying flyaways behind Jon ear before sweeping a thumb over the bone of his cheek and watching him drift under. Martin slipped away, keeping the door open in case something happened, and made up his own bed, listening to Jon’s soft and sleepy sounds.

“Good night, Jon.”

#TMA #the magnus archives #jon sims #tim stoker #martin blackwood #stabbed #hurt comfort #fluff #pining #blood #internal bleeding #crying #tears

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ieattaperecorders · 4 years

Text

Chrysalis

How much would Martin be willing to turn his back on in order to keep the one he loves? One possible outcome of Jon's will-he-won't-he (become an eldritch abomination) arc. A bit longer, probably easier to read on Ao3. Spoilers up to MAG 163.

Read it on Ao3.

Things like day and night didn’t really exist anymore, Martin knew that. But the quality of light from the sky -- slate-gray, cold and impenetrable -- made it feel like early dawn, which seemed as good a time as any to set out.

He shifted the lightweight bag on his shoulders. It was kind of nice that they didn’t need to load up on food, he supposed. Made the packing easier. Jon stood nearby, staring up at the endless gray with a blank expression on his face. There was a second bag slung over his shoulder beside the one Martin had packed, holding the tapes and statements. He’d refused to leave them behind.

Martin took out the safehouse keys and paused, hand halfway to the door, as he realized what he was doing.

“You know, I was just about to lock up,” he said, turning to Jon with a wry smile. “Isn’t that ridiculous? What am I worried about, someone coming in to rob our creepy cabin that eats people? Steal the silverware that’s probably alive and evil?”

Jon turned from the sky and smiled fondly at him. “If anyone did break in, they’d likely just settle inside and never leave.”

“Yeah.” Martin sighed, looking back at the cabin. “Shame burning didn’t work. You were right about that one.”

“It’s not made of wood and stone anymore.” Jon said. “It’s a part of this world, now. It doesn’t need to worry about fire.”

“I know it’s just just one place out of countless others and all. . . still wish there was something we could do. I mean, someone could stumble across it, couldn’t they?”

“I don’t know, Martin. I don’t know if anyone’s likely to be in a state to make it here.” Jon said. “But if someone did, they’d probably know not to trust anything that looks like safety.”

“Very cheerful.”

“Sorry. I did mean for that to be reassuring.” Jon mumbled. Something silver-bright flashed in his gaze for a moment. “At any rate, I - I don’t think you have to worry. It’s not for anyone else.”

“It’s not . . . sorry, what?”

“It’s our nightmare.” Jon said quietly, looking at it as if seeing it for the first time. He walked to the door and placed a hand flat against it. “My fear of losing you turned into a cloying lie of protection. Your fear of watching me . . . .” his voice went quiet. “. . . Decay. In my despair, in that room. The love we have for each other no longer something in which either of us can take comfort.”

He lowered his hand and turned back to Martin conclusively. “It’s for us. It’s what the safehouse was for us in our darkest moments. I don’t think anyone else would even see it.”

“You’re talking like it was made for us.” Martin said after a moment of silence.

“It was, in a sense. Shaped around us. Like mold growing over an old mask, taking the form of a human face.”

Jon turned away from the cabin and walked towards the path. On impulse Martin put a hand on his arm, stopping him.

“I’m scared too,” Martin said. “But we have a plan, and we have each other.”

Jon smiled sadly at him, needing only the barest prompting to nestle himself into Martin’s arms. He held him for a while, breathing deeply.

“I’m not afraid of anything out there.” Jon said softly. “Not directly. I’m just . . . scared I’ll lose you to it.”

“You won’t.” Martin said, and it felt like the truth. “I know, I know, there’s untold dangers and horrors the likes of which I can’t imagine, etcetera. But you’ll be there when I have to sleep, and I’ll be with you the rest of the time. And if something separates us, then we’ll just have to fight until we get back to one another.”

Jon nodded, then glanced back at the unchanged sky. “And. . .if I. . .lose myself?”

Martin was quiet for a while, unsure how to answer that. Then he gave Jon’s hand a squeeze, and smiled.

“If you do, I’ll come and find you. Bring you back,” he said. “Just like you did when I was lost.”

And oh, the smile on Jon’s face when he said that. It gave off a warmth that spread and spread until it covered Martin like a ray of real sunlight. If he could still make Jon smile like that, he could do anything.

“You know what I really want to see?” Martin asked.

“. . .What?”

“The look on Elias’s face when we kick down his door.”

Jon laughed, a sharp, loud noise of surprise and genuine mirth, and grinned. “Oh yes. I’m looking forward to that one as well.”

Martin kissed Jon’s hand and lowered it to his side, fingers twining with his. The two of them turned with purpose toward a path that once led to a village, which once had people, in what once was the world.

* * *

The journey would be the journey, according to Jon. Martin could accept that . . . mostly. He at least accepted that walking was the only way to get there. Even if he had been planning to dig his heels in on that, he’d have changed his mind after that road with all the abandoned cars. Too many of them had teeth.

It was just . . . the Beholding had never given Jon useful information before. No warnings about people who were coming after him, or knowledge about what happened to Sasha. Certainly not anything about what Elias was really up to. But it wouldn’t have given him that, would it? No. It would have hid that information, just like it hid the way to quit the Institute. So what did that say about the fact it was now telling him how to reach the tower? Either it wanted them there or . . . maybe it wanted them to go through everything in between. Throw themselves at all this horror, for its own pleasures and purposes.

Martin didn’t suggest turning around, though. A chance to confront Elias and find a way back was worth the risk of feeding the Eye, and besides, where else would they go? Regardless of the sinister force behind it, Jon’s insight continued to guide them across one nightmare after another.

It was while they were were traveling one of the empty spaces between when Jon stopped in his tracks, inhaling sharply. Martin stopped a pace later.

“What is it?”

Jon hesitated, swallowed and shook his head. “It’s. I’m all right.”

“Jon.”

“It’s just . . . a lot. Loud.” Jon muttered. “It will get worse the closer we go to what once was London . . . there were fewer people in the countryside.”

“Do you need a minute?” Martin frowned, concern edging into his voice.

“Yes. No.” Jon shook his head and resumed walking. “I think it’s better to keep moving. Standing in place just makes the moment longer, you know?”

“Just pace yourself, all right?” Martin followed.

Jon shrugged at him. “It’s not really something I can stop.”

They continued on, through forests of mirrors that they knew better than to let themselves reflect in. Through storms that went from rain to ice to shards of glass. Through tunnels they found themselves in after open countryside with no transition, like travel in a dream. They held hands and navigated the darkness by touch and by each others voices, and walked on.

* * *

Their bodies didn’t tire in the same way, but rest was still needed if only as respite from everything else. They tried to pick spots that were quiet and gave them room to run. At one point they settled in an empty place beside a road they’d been walking down. When Martin tried letting go of Jon’s hand to remove his jacket, Jon’s grip on him tightened.

“Don’t let go of me. Please,” he muttered. “Not while we’re stopped here.”

Martin paused. “Is switching hands okay?”

Jon nodded. Martin took the strap off his right shoulder, then took Jon’s right hand before shrugging off the left strap, slipping the bag off without breaking contact. He moved Jon’s hand to his knee while he removed his coat and folded it into the bag. As long as there was some physical connection, Jon seemed all right with it.

“What’s different about here?” Martin asked as he did this.

Jon frowned. “Don’t look directly at it, but. . . to your left. Have you noticed?”

Martin continued looking straight ahead, but let a little attention drift to his periphery. A few yards away from them there was something . . . off. He couldn’t tell if it was the color of the sky, or something about the ground, or the few bits of plant life that grew there, but something was wrong in an undefinable way. If there was one thing he could identify it was that the crooked, leafless tree near the horizon was the same one he’d been seeing in the corner of his eye for hours, and their distance from it hadn’t changed. The landscape was following them.

“I’ve noticed . . . something,” he said. “Didn’t really make note of it, I guess. Because there’s always something?”

“The Unknowing is strong there.” Jon said. “We may have to go through it eventually, but for now it’s keeping its distance. Oh. Try not to think directly at it either.”

“What does ‘think directly’ m--oh, dammit.” Martin winced as a wave of disorientation his his mind, momentarily blurring his thoughts and making his pulse race. “Jon. . .you know that when you tell someone not to think about something--”

“They immediately think about it.” Jon grimaced. “I’m sorry, I should’ve thought--”

“It’s all right, it’s all right. . .I’m fine, really.”

Don’t think about pink elephants. Martin told himself, and images of pink elephants tumbled into his mind. He focused on not thinking about that for a while, only half-considering the landscape to the left as he did so.

“So . . . should we be staying here?” he asked. “Is it -- well, I won’t ask if it’s dangerous, but do you think it’s more dangerous than everything else is? Or about the same?’

“The latter, most likely.” Jon said. “I just don’t want to lose sight of you. It’s still something of a . . . blind spot for me. I don’t want to risk not being able to find you if anything separates us.”

Martin wondered if Jon was being overprotective in thinking that an instant without constant physical contact could result in something swooping in to pull him away, or if Martin was being complacent in thinking that wouldn’t happen. He supposed it didn’t matter. Either way, he didn’t mind.

“Are you all right here?” Martin frowned. “I mean, if the Unknowing is, ah, bad for you . . . .”

“It’s sort of a relief, actually.” Jon’s brow knit. “I think it’s having some dampening effect on the Watcher. It makes everything softer. Quieter.”

“Really . . . .�� Martin resisted the impulse to look or think closer at what they were talking about. They weren’t talking about anything. Not anything other than pink elephants, which he was still steadily avoiding thoughts of. “Should we try skirting a little closer to it? I mean, if it’s not more dangerous than any other place . . . maybe being near it would actually be good?”

A breeze blew in from Martin’s left, carrying noise on the wind. He heard the faint groan of a calliope and two whispering voices. They didn’t sound entirely like Tim and Sasha. But they also didn’t sound unlike them enough. He could tell from the expression on Jon’s face that he was hearing them too.

“Let’s not.” Jon said.

Martin nodded. “Yeah. Let’s not.”

* * *

There were close calls. They’d been prepared for danger, but preparation only gives you so much. When one fell the other could grab them and dig in their heels, they could run from waves of screaming flesh or burn back things that slithered from behind walls. But there was always more, and the dangers were never simple. And every time something got too near or gripped too hard for Martin to pull away, Jon was quick to put himself in front of it. He’d pin it with an unnatural gaze, eyes wide, teeth grinding in concentration and pain until something intangible was ripped away and they could resume running.

Martin should have been more afraid for himself. He knew he was vulnerable in a way Jon wasn’t. When the grass beneath their feet twisted into patterns so mesmerizing that Martin didn’t notice it was winding around him, Jon kept him walking. When something made Martin forget the world had ended, forget that they weren’t back in London during a time when everything seemed gentler, Jon shouted the truth at him until Martin believed it. Jon saw which parts of the ground were real and which ones shouldn’t be stepped on. Even the things that jumped out of the shadows with teeth and claws seemed to have more interest in Martin.

But he knew Jon was vulnerable too, in a different way. He was always ready to use his power to protect Martin, but it wasn’t really his power, was it? He directed and channeled it, sure. But it was the Watcher that was reaching through him, and Martin didn’t forget that.

One frightened morsel of humanity probably didn’t mean much to the Eye in a world that was nothing but food. Though Martin wasn’t safe from it, he doubted it had any special interest in him. But it had intent where Jon was concerned. It wanted something from him. Even after everything it had taken from the man Martin loved, Beholding was still hungry for more. Each time Jon drew on it, Martin swore he took a little bit longer to look back at him. He was certain the hollows in Jon’s face had been getting darker, and he couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen him blink.

So he did what he could. He kept the axe close and used it as best as he was able. He stayed alert. When something with long, ropey limbs and a face like an inside-out deer emerged from the hillside and wrapped itself around him, he tried not to panic. And when Jon jumped in and stilled it with a look Martin wriggled out of its tendrils, grabbed Jon around the waist, and ducked through a crevice in the rock wall.

With a loud scraping noise, the stone slid closed behind them - trapping the monster outside but plunging them into darkness. Martin groaned internally. Leaping from one danger into the teeth of another was starting to get so commonplace as to be tedious. He could feel Jon’s hands gripping his arm tight enough that he was sure there’d be bruises later, though he stayed completely silent.

Martin yanked the torch out of his backpack pocket and clicked it on, mentally crossing his fingers. The batteries were just lumps of matter - the torch worked when it wanted to, didn’t when it didn’t. But today it was cooperating, and its beam lit up the cavern around them. It was small, but not quite ‘pressing down from all sides’ small, which was good. It seemed for the moment that they were alone, which was also good. It also seemed that there was no way in or out, which was not as good. Martin tried to ignore the tight feeling in his chest, as if the air wasn’t quite enough to fill it.

“Okay. Well. I don’t think it can get in here. . . .” Martin said, flicking the light around the chamber. “Maybe we--”

The beam passed across Jon’s face. His eyes reflected it like a cat’s, which barely even registered as ‘weird’ anymore. But for a moment in the dark of the cave, there were more than two lights looking back. At least a dozen eyes glinted from the shadows around Jon, and Martin’s arm jumped in surprise. When the light returned it was just Jon’s own eyes watching him, blinking and squinting in the flashlight’s beam.

“S-sorry.” Martin angled the torch back towards the cave wall.

“Mmmhmm.” Jon rubbed his eyes. “Are you all right?”

“I’m all right. Are you?”

“Yes. . .I think so.” Jon looked around the chamber. “I don’t see anything else in here. . .”

“You mean see, or see?” Martin asked, trying to make it sound like a joke.

“Either.”

“Hmm.” Martin moved the light around more methodically, in case he’d missed an exit or a tunnel the first time. Nothing. “Doesn’t look like there’s any way out. At least I’m not claustrophobic.”

The second he said that, he could feel the chamber shrink a little around him.

“Had to say it, didn’t you?” Jon smiled ruefully.

Martin winced. “I should just stop talking.”

“I wouldn’t like that.” Jon said.

“Are you okay?” Martin frowned. “I mean. . .after the coffin. I wouldn’t be surprised if this was getting to you. . . .”

“There isn’t a fear I’m not marked by in some way.” Jon’s voice was grim. “That was the whole point. But I’m not panicking yet.”

Martin nodded and sat against the chamber wall. He could feel exhaustion sinking in. That last burst of adrenaline burned through his reserves, which had been low for a while.

“I think . . . I might need to sleep again soon,” he said.

“Well. At the risk of provoking another change . . . there doesn’t seem to be any immediate danger here.” Jon said.

They both paused and braced themselves, waiting for a reaction. None came, and Jon continued.

“We could rest a while, find our way out when you wake,” he finished, sitting down beside him.

“As long as you’ll be okay here.” Martin said.

“I’ll be all right. Besides, we are here now regardless of how we feel about it.” He leaned against the wall beside Martin. “Thank you for pulling me away. I think that I was . . . . Well, anyway, thank you.”

“Of course.” Martin put a hand on his. “. . . Thank you for protecting me.”

“I always will.” Jon whispered, a intensity in his voice that thundered against the cave walls.

“Not unless you have to, all right?” Martin swallowed. “I don’t know if it’s smart to . . . you know. Use its ‘gifts’ too much.”

“I’m not going to let something take you if I have the power to stop it--” Jon began.

“I’m not asking you to.” Martin said. “Just . . . be careful? I can get away on my own sometimes too, you know,” he added the last in a teasing tone. As if this was all about Jon not giving him enough credit.

“Right . . . of course.” Jon spoke reluctantly, as if someone was reminding him of the health risks posed by cigarettes. Not disagreeing, but at the same time. . . well. “Of course you can. I’ll be careful.”

Martin pulled Jon a little closer and kissed him. It was a reminder, and it was gratitude, and it was also just a kiss. Then he passed the torch to Jon. They both tensed for a moment when it clicked off, but there was no awful sound of rock walls suddenly shifting. Martin’s eyes adjusted to the dark, which meant this was the sort of dark that eyes could adjust to, and as far as he could tell the chamber had remained the same size. They placed their bags around them and used coats as padding against the hard stone.

Jon settled Martin’s head in his lap and kissed his forehead, obviously trying to hide the dread. Martin felt it too. He told himself that the next thing he’d remember would be waking with only the ghost of terror he couldn’t recall gnawing at him. But deep down he knew that wasn’t how it worked. He’d likely forget his dreams, but he’d still have to endure them first.

Sleep was going to come whether he was ready or not, and there was no point in fighting it. He closed his eyes and tried to focus on the soothing feeling of Jon’s fingers in his hair, until he couldn’t feel them anymore.

* * *

He woke gasping, pushing himself off the cave floor. His last cry still echoed in the cave around him, and his breathing was ragged. Martin felt around himself. . . even in his state of disorientation he could tell something was very, very wrong. Then it hit him - Jon wasn’t there. He wasn’t sitting beside him, wasn’t stroking his hair or squeezing his hand or wrapped around him and murmuring soothing words in his ear. For the first time since the world had ended, Jon wasn’t holding him when he woke.

“Jon!?” he called in alarm, eyes still adjusting to the dark.

Jon didn’t call back, but Martin could hear something coming from the other side of the cave. He felt around until his hand closed over the torch and he clicked it on. It lit up a silhouette on the other side of the chamber, sat facing away. It looked like Jon from behind, but Martin was immediately wary. He couldn’t see the figure’s face. Why hadn’t he replied when Martin called out? Why wasn’t he turning now?

Martin shone the light around the rest of the cave and found it empty, so he got to his feet and slowly approached. As he got closer, he heard what definitely sounded like Jon’s voice coming from the figure, whispering something indistinct.

“Jon?” Martin asked quietly. The figure didn’t respond. Hesitatingly, Martin moved to its side so he could see its face.

The figure didn’t spin violently around to reveal black pits for eyes and a maw full of fangs, nor did it fall over revealing a dessicated corpse, or dissolve into insects, or any of the other countless things that ran through Martin’s mind as he got closer. Its face was just Jon’s face. It was Jon. He was staring at the cave wall, apparently entranced.

He didn’t seem to see Martin. Whatever he was watching, Martin suspected it was well past the actual boundaries of the cave. His face was fixed in an expression somewhere between fear and wonder, and there were tears in his eyes. But as Martin watched, a smile slowly spread across his face and his mouth formed the shape of the word ‘beautiful.’

“Jon. . . .”

Martin might have gripped his shoulder a little harder than he needed to, shaken it a little more than necessary, but it snapped Jon back to reality. The smile fell away completely and he glanced around in startled confusion.

“Mh. . .” Jon began to mouth his name, then trailed off. Horror seemed to be settling on him.

“. . . What did you see?” Martin whispered.

Jon stared for a moment, then closed his eyes tightly and shook his head. “Terrible things.”

A thousand questions, a thousand more concerns were running through Martin’s mind. But like an idiot, all he thought to say was, “you weren’t there.”

“Wh--wha--”

“When I woke up.” Martin explained. “You weren’t . . . you were just staring . . . .”

“Oh. . .oh,” Jon reached for him, speaking emphatically. “I’m so sorry, Martin.”

“No, it’s - - it’s all right, that isn’t what I mean, I just - -”

How could he explain it? Yes, okay, he was a little needy when he woke, and yes Jon not being there had been . . . upsetting. But he wasn’t frightened right now because of how much it meant to him that Jon was there when he woke up. It was how much he knew being there when he woke meant to Jon. It was the fact that Jon had never left his side while he slept. Except tonight he had. Something had moved him away and kept him from hearing his voice. And that scared Martin more even than waking alone in the dark had.

Regardless, Jon was pulling him into an embrace he didn’t feel like resisting. So he reached out his arms and held back, tight as he could without crushing him. He heard Jon mutter apologies, soothing things and reassurances. But the fear didn’t leave this time.

They huddled together for a while, neither eager to break the hold. Eventually Martin shifted them into a more comfortable position, leaning himself against the cave wall and Jon against him.

“. . . I’m worried about you.” Martin said, after a while of silence.

Jon didn’t seem to have any reassurances in him for that. He just squeezed Martin’s hand very, very hard. Martin reached up and bushed his fingers over Jon’s temples, tenderly. Jon closed his eyes.

Even in the barely-there light of the cave, he could see the deep lines under Jon’s eyes. Between that and the gray that had taken over his hair, he was beginning to resemble the old man he always used to act like. Martin fondly ran his thumb over the little crow-foot wrinkles extending from the corners of Jon’s eyes. Then he stopped suddenly, taking a closer look.

They weren’t wrinkles. They were cracks.

* * *

Everything about the place screamed “leave.” Scorched scrap walls, doors ripped off their hinges, murals smeared with blood and ash. But things were bad in all directions, and Jon insisted this was the path they had to take.

Martin avoided taking in details as they walked, scarf over his face to keep from breathing in ash, which saturated the air. He didn’t speculate on what terrible fate had befallen this place, but it did seem strange that a settlement like this existed at all. It looked like it had been built after the world had changed, and it had time to build itself well. The shacks weren’t slapped together, they’d been reinforced and decorated. Woven blankets, curtains of beads and other possessions lay shredded in the empty doorways. There were the beginnings of farms and communal areas broken among the ruins. Had that much time really passed? Maybe time was just that malleable now. Or maybe this place had come into being already built up, already ruined.

Thinking about that kept Martin from thinking too hard about the bodies lying huddled on the ground. It wasn’t just sorrow or horror at the story those charred husks told that kept Martin from letting his gaze settle on them. They were the first people he’d seen that looked truly, truly dead.

Fates worse than death were one thing. He’d seen plenty of those, and yes, they were terrifying. But Jon had guided him back from the Lonely, and Martin had given him voices to follow out of the Buried. As long as they were both alive, there was a chance. Awful as being trapped in a three by three foot box or shrouded in an aching, numbing mist or wracked with fevers for eternity might be, they could hope to find their way out of it. Death was different. Martin was fairly sure that was still true.

He tried not to think about it. Kept walking.

Unfortunately, and in retrospect predictably, the settlement was a maze. The farther in they went, the more it began to grow and stretch out around them. Martin quietly cursed when he realized what was happening. He should have been used to the nightmare logic that was now natural law, but it seemed there was nothing to do now but press on.

At one point Martin realized that Jon wasn’t next to him. There was a moment of panic before he turned to find that he’d only stopped a few paces back. He was staring at a ruined fence, face slack. Martin exhaled and walked back to him.

“Jon, come on,” he tugged at his arm. “We can’t stay here.”

It took a moment for Jon to register Martin’s touch. He blinked at him, eyes slightly glazed, breathing heavily. His eyes were red, but Martin didn’t see any tears.

“Here. . . .”

Martin put an arm around Jon and gently turned him until his face was completely hidden in Martin’s jumper.

“Don’t look at it. Just hold onto me and keep moving.”

Jon didn’t respond, but Martin felt his arms reach around him and grip firmly. They began walking again, slower now so that Jon didn’t stumble. Martin kept his hand on the back of Jon’s head and they got some distance that way, Jon’s arms occasionally tightening a notch more, then relaxing, then tightening again. Martin didn’t want to guess what he was seeing.

Very suddenly, that grip tightened enough to squeeze the breath from Martin, and Jon’s face pulled free from his jumper with a gasp.

“. . .They’re still here,” he whispered, eyes wide.

Martin didn’t ask ‘who’ because it didn’t matter, the fear in Jon’s voice told him everything he needed to know. He felt the wind pick up, ash swirling in the air around them. In the distance, Martin was sure that he saw figures gathering.

“Shit.” Martin squinted at the distant forms. Some were close enough for him to make out details, twisted masses of scorched skin and scar tissue. Not human in shape, but made of human shapes - limbs and backs and screaming faces.

“This. . . .” his thoughts from earlier bubbled up with the rising tide of fear. “This one wants to kill us. Doesn’t it?”

“It won’t kill us.” Jon said with certainty.

“That’s something, at least,” he swallowed.

“It’s Desolation,” Jon continued, voice small. “It’ll kill one of us, leave the other alive to mourn. Like it did with them,” he pointed an unsteady hand to one of the figures.

Martin’s arms tightened around Jon. “Okay. Running? Running sound good? Can you, uh, See a way out of here?”

“I’m trying, but. . . ” Jon grit his teeth, pressing the heel of one hand against his forehead. “It’s all too much. The -- the loss, the anguish. I - - I can’t see anything past it, I- - ” his hand began to shake.

“Okay.” Martin looked around. Right or left, fifty fifty chance, right? Or it would be in world where the cardinal directions stayed where they were. “Hold my hand, and just - - just tell me if you see an exit.”

Jon nodded weakly, and they ran. But it was hard. The rows between the ruins were narrow, and ash obscured Martin’s vision. Worst of all, Jon couldn’t seem to keep his legs under him. Usually he was the faster of the two, but now he kept turning back, slowing and stumbling until Martin was almost dragging him along. Finally Martin gave up, grabbed Jon around the waist and threw him over his shoulder.

The figures were drawing closer, gathering together to form one mass - a towering thing with a choir of screaming mouths. How could something that big move so fast? It was catching up, and with Jon’s weight Martin was tiring already. Then one foot landed in a way that it shouldn’t have, his legs turned under him and they both went down, rolling away from each other on the soot choked ground. Martin immediately pushed himself up again. No time to stop, no room to catch his breath. Jon was a few feet away, curled around himself and shaking violently. His eyes were completely glazed over.

When Martin reached to help him up, Jon gripped his hand and looked at him pleadingly.

“Run,” he whispered. “Just run.”

Not a chance, Martin thought, but then the ground shook and the thing drew in on them. He had only a split second - it was here and it was close too close and there wasn’t time. But the things in this world were always more interested in him, weren’t they? If he did run, maybe he could lead it away. By himself he might be fast enough to lose it and come back around.

There was no time to weigh the options. He chose what seemed like a chance for escape over holding Jon and waiting for death. Martin ran.

There was a moment of relief when he looked back and saw there was some distance between him and it. Then confusion when he realized it wasn’t running after him at all. It was still in place, twisting and screaming, but not coming closer to him or Jon. Behind it, Jon was standing up.

Jon looked at the creature and his gaze was as eerie and intense as ever. But something was different this time. Martin found himself thinking he’s crying. And then, no. . .those aren’t tears.

With a terrible sound, Jon’s body split with cracks. They curled around scar tissue, opened the lines of his face and opened him. But what came out from inside him wasn’t blood and flesh and bone. It was dark and alive with movement, like television static. And inside that shifting haze, countless eyes peered back.

The cracks spread outwards from Jon. They split the sky, opened tears in reality. And where the sky was rent, Martin saw the merciless gaze of the Ceaseless Watcher. It was a hungering brightness at the center of everything. It was as impersonal as a surveillance state, yet as intimate as a face breathing into yours while you slept, horrible to see but impossible to turn away from. And the fullness of its stare was focused on that mound of flesh and sorrow and pain.

The things’ scream gave Martin the jolt he needed to tear himself away. He covered his face with his arms and huddled until the noise was abruptly cut off. In the silence that followed, Martin waited a good, long moment, then he lifted his head and opened his eyes.

The creature was. . .empty. That was the only word for it. It had fallen apart on the ground, lumps of flesh twitching and hissing, but with nothing at all inside them. Not dead. Not physically hollowed, but empty. Jon stood in the middle of it all. The cracks in the sky had closed, thankfully, but they still twisted across Jon’s back, warping his form.

“. . . Jon?” Martin said uncertainly.

Jon’s head snapped in his direction, and there was nothing in his eyes that Martin recognized. Only a piercing and terrible hunger.

Martin stumbled backwards as Jon made a beeline for him. Something caught his foot and he went down hard, landing sprawled on the ground. When he looked up Jon stood over him, and Martin was a frog open on a dissection table. He was an insect pinned under a child’s thumb. He was a secret caught in a blinding light, and every instinct in his brain was screaming at him to hide, but there was no place for him to go.

He was afraid of losing himself. Martin thought. He was afraid of losing himself, and I kept saying we had to go and now he’s gone he’s gone he’s gone and there’s nothing - -

The Archivist reached down, placing a hand on each side of Martin’s face and holding his head still. Martin should have been running, or screaming for him to stop, or socking him in the face. But all he could do was stare numbly back and wait for whatever would come.

“I’m sorry. . .” Martin said, anguish in his voice. “I’m so, so, sorry. . . .”

The figure in front of him lowered its forehead, pressing it against Martin’s. And suddenly, Martin Knew that Jon loved him.

It was immutable and certain as gravity had once seemed. He didn’t simply trust that Jon loved him, didn’t just understand it to be true because of the way he behaved and the things he said. Martin Knew it to his core. Jon loved him, he loved him so, so much. He had loved him for a long time now, and in that moment Jon loved him no less than he ever had.

The full weight of that love settled in him, the warmth and the brightness of it filled his mind and for a moment it overwhelmed everything else. He forgot the settlement, forgot the cracks in the sky. There was nothing but him and this one, perfect truth. He would never forget it, never deny it, never be able to doubt it. There was only one other thing Martin had ever Known so deeply, and he had spent most of his days since then trying not to think much about it.

Then the moment passed. The feeling faded from an all-consuming understanding to a gentle, quiet certainty. When he came back to himself his face was streaked with tears. Jon had taken a step back, giving him room to breathe, and now stood silently in front of him.

“Jon . . . ?” Martin asked, softly, hopefully. “Is it still you?”

Jon opened his mouth and the sound of crackling static came out. He reached for Martin, who drew back without thinking. Jon paused and lowered his hand. He patted himself on the left side of his coat, just over the pocket. Martin reached into his own pocket, feeling the shape of the object inside. When he realized what it was, he laughed. He couldn’t help it. The tape recorder clicked on as soon as he removed it.

“I think so.” Jon’s voice came out of the recorder, slightly distorted by the hiss of playback. “Though . . . I suppose I don’t know how one tells that sort of thing?”

“Okaaay. . .” Martin exhaled, looking from the recorder in his lap back to Jon. “Okay. This is new. Sort of weird, but could be worse?”

Jon took a careful step closer, testing to see if Martin would draw back again. He didn’t, and Jon sat on the ground beside him. The cracks in his body were slowly closing, the blur of static and Watching getting smaller between them. Martin set down the recorder, which continued to play Jon’s voice.

“Are you all right?” Martin asked. “You were looking pretty, uh . . . .”

“. . . Terrifying?” Jon tilted his head in Martin’s direction.

“Well . . . .” Martin didn’t want to use that word, but all the other words he could think of were just synonyms for it.

“Monstrous?” Jon supplied.

“As long as it’s still you, I don’t care.” Martin said emphatically.

“It is.” Jon said, with a little more confidence. “I’m - - I’m still me. Just.” He held up an arm and watched as the lines running through it slowly sealed themselves. “. . . With some some changes.”

The cracks now resembled long, twisting scars more than anything else, though in his periphery Martin swore he kept seeing things open and blink on Jon’s body. His gaze was still piercing, but with the panic passed Martin could also see there was affection and recognition in those uncanny eyes.

Okay, he thought to himself. Take a breath. Check in. It’s not as bad as you thought but this is obviously a . . . new challenge. See how he’s handling it.

“What exactly happened back there?” he asked.

Jon took a deep breath, and a sigh came from the recorder.

“It was overwhelming. It had been bad before, but . . . all those people.” He turned to stare at the sky. “They thought they had a safe haven. They built up walls and invented wards and believed they’d found tricks to keep the nightmares out. But it was all just so they’d have more to lose. So they’d build and love and cherish things that could be torn away from them. Just fattening them up.”

Jon moved his head and gestured while he talked, pantomiming his own speech. It was somewhere between unsettling and comical at first, but soon it began to feel natural and Martin noticed it less and less.

“An entire town,” Jon shook his head. “Silently screaming their stories of terror and agony and despair at me. I was wrapped in it all, and I couldn’t see out.”

“I’m sorry . . . ” Martin squeezed Jon’s hand, mindful of the wide, curling scar that covered his palm. “I can’t even imagine what that’s like.”

“But it’s all right. I’m all right now,” Jon turned back. “Better than all right. It doesn’t hurt anymore, Martin.”

In the back of Martin’s mind, a tiny noise began to sound. Like a distant, muffled alarm. “I’m . . . not sure what you mean? What doesn’t hurt anymore?”

“Any of it.” Jon smiled. “The fear and anguish, the things the Watcher feeds me, none of it hurts at all. Something happened back there . . . I was trapped in the heart of their pain. There was nothing outside of it - I didn’t remember you were there, or who I was, or why we were here. There was only the collective suffering of a thousand terrified souls, and it hurt more than anything I have ever known. And in the depths of it all, I realized that it didn’t have to hurt.”

There was a strange giddiness rising in Jon’s voice, and the alarm in Martin’s head rang louder.

“I could choose to stop letting it hurt me. I could finally stop tormenting myself, open my mind and drink everything in. And I did. And it was wonderful,” Jon stared out into the distant sky. “And all I wanted was more.”

“So. . . .” The alarm bell was reaching a crescendo now, and Martin struggled to keep his tone even. “What happened back there. . . what you did to it . . . .”

“I was greedy.” Jon smiled behind his hand, his tone sheepish but without regret. “I needed every drop.”

“Jesus, Jon.” Martin muttered.

“. . . And then I heard you!” Jon continued, unmindful of Martin’s tone. “And I remembered. And I realized that it was dead, and you were safe, and we were still together.”

Jon took Martin by the shoulders, gripping him with an manic energy that was startling, yes, frightening even, but still familiar, still so much like Jon, too much like him to be anything else.

“It was going to separate us, but I stopped it. It didn’t stand a chance against me. I don’t know if anything can anymore. I’ve gained so much . . .” he continued, eyes bright and alive. “I can feel my mind expanding to fill every corner of this dreadful world. I am burning, and drowning, and weeping, and writhing, and falling and dying and it is--” he closed his eyes, head tilted back in an expression of pleasure. “--Glorious.”

Martin looked at him grimly. “This is what you were afraid would happen. Isn’t it?”

“Not quite.” Jon smiled. “I was afraid of giving in, yes. I was afraid, and it feels ridiculous to say this now, but I was afraid there’d be a time when the things that I see would only ever feel right and leave me only with satisfaction. But what scared me the most was the thought that, if that happened, it would mean I could no longer love you. That you would just be something for me to watch, to know, and ultimately to discard,” he sighed, a sound of great relief. “But that didn’t happen. You Know that now, don’t you?”

Martin nodded, as there was no point denying it. In the corner of his mind, the image of the thing he had seen beyond the sky still lingered, and Martin wondered if it was capable of laughter. If it was laughing at them right now.

“This was. . . .” Martin pulled away from Jon, curling his knees up to his chest. “This was what it wanted too, wasn’t it? Why it let you know about the tower. It wanted us to keep throwing ourselves at the nightmares until one of them finally made you break,” he laughed once, a mirthless, choking noise. “I was an idiot to think that there’d be a reset button. A way to fix everything if we just went back. . . .”

“Martin . . . that’s not true at all.” Jon put a hand on his shoulder. “A way back does exist. I know what it is now. You were right all along. I was wrong.”

“Wh- wait . . . really?” Martin blinked.

Jon nodded. “The Ritual that brought about this world is still ongoing. It will go on for all eternity, never stopping, never, ever finished. But if it were to finish, if it were stopped or interrupted. . . .” He trailed off expectantly, leaving Martin room to fill in the blanks.

“Would everything really go back?” Martin looked around at the ruins - the charred wood, the whirlwinds of ash, the lumps of flesh that were first people and then things and then nothing. “Is that even possible now?”

“The world might have a few scars. One or two spots that don’t come back all the way. A few unfortunate souls who retain memories, plenty of bad dreams. I can’t say what state humanity would be in if it happened after eons had passed.” Jon tapped his knee thoughtfully. “But if it were done now, or soon? I think there’d barely be any damage at all.”

Guarding his heart was futile, hope pushed its stubborn way in whether Martin wished for it or not. They could go back to a world that yes, was often frightening and often cruel but was also gentle and kind and infinite things that this world wasn’t. All those people trapped in endless nightmares could just go back to their lives, they wouldn’t even know what had happened. It was too great a hope to keep down.

And if the old world came back . . . Martin didn’t know what that would mean for Jon now, truly. But if all of this could be undone, there was a chance for anything, wasn’t there?

“. . . There’s a catch.” Martin said. It wasn’t a question.

“Obviously.” Jon smiled sardonically. “The way back is very simple. Not easy, but simple. I suppose that’s the way of these things. Do you want me to show you?”

“I mean. . . yes.” Martin could faintly hear the alarm starting up again, but it didn’t change his mind. Whatever the catch was, they’d face it together. “I do.”

Jon looked at him for a moment, smiling sadly, then shook his head.

“No,” he brought his hand to Martin’s temple, “you really don’t.”

As soon as the hand touched him, Martin had his answer. It wasn’t a bone-deep Knowing like before, it was just information. No different than if he’d read it somewhere, save that it was given to him all in an instant.

Gertrude had said it herself. Jon was the ritual. He’d become it the moment he took on the role of Archivist, and now he had reached his apotheosis. While he continued, the ritual would continue as well. The only way to end it was to end him. No magic circles or ancient artifacts or complicated chants were necessary, just the sort of implements one would expect for such a task. The only truly difficult part was that being the linchpin of the apocalypse had made Jon very resilient to damage. Not invulnerable, just resilient. Killing him would take patience and determination. First the eyes, then the voice box. Then fire. . . .

There were other steps but Martin was trying very hard not to think about them. He curled up on the ground, arms wrapped around himself, shaking his head. Numbly, he felt Jon gather him up. His top half was tugged into Jon’s lap, and his head gently settled against his chest.

“I’m sorry, Martin.” Jon whispered.

“That’s not fair.” Martin groaned, tears in his eyes.

“I fear fairness rarely has anything to do with these matters.” Jon sighed, nestling Martin closer and stroking the back of his head. ”. . . It’s going to be all right.”

But that calm, resigned tone only filled Martin with anger, anger he didn’t want. Of course Jon was all right with this. Jon had been wanting to punish himself ever since he read that statement, and now he had the perfect justification for it. What was one person, after all, against the suffering of billions? You couldn’t argue with the math of it, no one could.

But when that one person is the world to you, what then? How do you save a world that takes that person away? Jon couldn’t tell him it would be all right, because he wouldn’t have to lose anyone. He wouldn’t have to go on afterwards, alone.

“It isn’t, though.” Martin said through gritted teeth.

“It is. I promise.” Jon said, tone still soothing.

“It’s really, really, not, Jon.”

“But it is.” Jon bent down and kissed the top of Martin’s head. “Because I won’t let you do it.”

It took a moment for the words to sink in, and even then Martin wasn’t sure he heard right. “. . . What . . . do you mean?”

“I won’t let you kill me to save the world,” he explained. “Even if you believe you have to. If you think that you have no choice but to put the fate of world first, I still won’t let you do it.”

Jon smiled affectionately as he spoke. “And you can’t sneak up on me, not anymore. There’s no plan you can concoct no matter how brave or brilliant that I won’t see coming. You can’t just overpower me, either, I’d stop you if I had to. Not the way Jonah did--” he added quickly. “I’d be gentler than that. But I would stop you.”

Martin blinked, disbelieving, as Jon continued to stroke his head, voice soft and serious.

“You won’t ever have to make that choice,” he finished. “Between me and the world. Because I’ve made that choice already, and there’s nothing you can do.”

The whole picture was beginning to fill itself in for Martin. He realized what Jon was trying to do and he pulled back, breaking contact.

“So it’s not my fault,” Martin said, voice grim. “If the worlds stays the way it is. Because I can’t stop you.”

“That’s one way of looking at it.”

“That’s not how it works.” Martin said. “That’s not how . . . responsibility works.”

“Why not? You deserve this.” Jon insisted. “We deserve this, Martin.”

“I’m not sure we do, though?” Martin ran a hand through his hair, “and besides, I mean . . . this?” He gestured vaguely to the scene around them. The ruined flesh and burned homes and devastation that may as well have served as a map for everything else.

“No, you’ll see--” Jon leaned forward. “Everything is going to be different now. It isn’t just the Beholding. I am the single point of terrible knowledge around which this world turns. I can shield you from everything in it now. Even the fear. Even the dreams. You won’t ever have to suffer through those again, I promise!”

Jon clasped Martin’s hands, lit up with excitement.

“No more nightmares. No more guilt. No more playing those tapes over and over just to make myself suffer. We can go anywhere! This world is ours to explore and take of for all eternity. The things we’ll see, Martin,” his gaze was distant, rapturous. “Such horrible wonders. . . .”

He must have noticed Martin’s expression, because his own face sobered and he added, “but . . . you won’t have to see them. Not if you don’t want to. I can protect you from that too.”

“You’ll hurt people.” Martin said flatly.

“I was already hurting people.” Jon said. “Everything the Watcher fed me magnified the suffering of its victims a hundredfold. It’s no different now.”

“You didn’t have a choice then.”

“I don’t have a choice now.” Jon said, gesturing towards the sky. “It’s going to continue, the endless stream of fear and anguish. I couldn’t stop it if I wanted to.”

“But you used to want to.” Martin insisted. “And that means something. It means something that you didn’t want this.”

“Would you rather I go back to being miserable?” There was reproach in Jon’s voice. “You said yourself that it hurt you to see me wallowing. And it did! I was hurting you. And I was hurting myself, too.” He frowned. “Do you know what I would have done back then, if I’d known how to stop the ritual?”

Martin realized Jon was reaching towards his temple again and he jumped, pulling violently away.

“Don’t!” he shouted. Jon flinched, hand still halfway in the air. “Don’t- don’t show me. I don’t want to see it.”

Jon’s face softened. He lowered his hand and nodded. “I won’t.”

“Jon. . .you’re scaring me.” Martin said.

“. . . I know.” Jon’s voice was quiet. “I can see your fear. It’s rolling off you like ripples on a pond.” He tilted his head and leaned closer, something like wonder in his voice. “I wasn’t sure at first, but- -”

“Jon.”

Martin’s voice was firm with a chastising edge, and Jon seemed to snap out of it. He blinked sheepishly and looked down, folding his hands. “Sorry, sorry,” he said. “That was, ah . . . sorry.”

“I- I don’t know.” Martin took a long, shuddering breath. Everything was roiling inside him. “I don’t know what to think. . . .”

He found himself remembering the woman who’d seen Jon in the cafe. The shock and disbelief that he’d felt when she talked about what he’d done. . .and Martin’s first reaction had been denial, hadn’t it? Not denying the truth of her statement, just denying that it could really be Jon. It could be instinct or addiction or mind control. There could even be the devastating possibility that it just wasn’t him anymore, that he was lost and there was only the Archivist. But as frightening as that thought had been, Martin found himself wondering if there had been a reason he’d considered that possibility but not a third one. That it was still Jon, and that he’d been in control, and he’d still done it.

Martin wondered what he would have done if the end of the world hadn’t happened. If they’d somehow escaped that but not the Eye, and it was a question of Jon either feeding on peoples’ traumas or growing slowly weaker, willingly starving until there was nothing left. Would Martin have changed his mind then? Would he have seen that third possibility as more palatable?

He supposed if it had actually come to that, there would still have been the Institute’s gory retirement policy. But they were well past that point now.

Jon still loved him, and Martin knew he still loved Jon. If he needed any proof of that, the way he felt at the thought of losing him removed all uncertainty. But love didn’t always mean safety. Sometimes it meant the exact opposite, and there was no kindness in the Watcher’s gaze. If Jon had truly embraced the Eye and was content to let the world suffer so that he could watch, did love make a difference in the end? If Martin rejected Jon now, if he disappointed him, if his own love wasn’t enough, would Jon turn on him?

“Never.” Jon said adamantly, speaking as soon as the thought entered Martin’s mind. “Not if you broke my heart, or told me you never wanted to see me again, or tried to burn me alive. I promise.”

A laugh came out of Martin. It was probably the wrong reaction, but he couldn’t help it. The pleading intensity of Jon’s voice combined with him just casually reading his mind. It was too much.

“I guess privacy’s not going to be a thing anymore, huh?” he asked.

Jon smiled weakly. “Is that a joke?”

“Not intentionally.”

Jon started to reach for his hand, then hesitated. “I understand if you’re scared. It’s . . . well, it’s probably only natural. But I promise you are safe with me. I’m not going to hurt you or . . . feed on you. I know this has changed me, and maybe not all those changes have been for the better. But it has also clarified me. There are things I understand so much more now.”

Martin was quiet. Carefully, giving him time to pull away, Jon reached out to place a hand on his shoulder.

“I will never hurt you.” Jon said softly. “I will never reject you. I will never change my mind and stop loving you. You don’t ever again have to be afraid that I only stay with you because I don’t truly see your flaws. That I don’t know the real you. That you’ll one day show me something that’s too soft, too needy, too unlovely and my feelings will sour. Because I see every part of you now. I know you totally and completely.”

Martin inhaled sharply, but those inhuman eyes held his gaze.

“I see every ugly, petty thought you’ve ever had.” Jon continued. “Every shame, every regret, every embarrassing secret. All the parts of yourself you wanted to hide because you were afraid they’d make others hate you, I know them all. And I only love you more. The joy of knowing you is the most wonderful thing, Martin.”

He smiled warmly, reaching to stroke Martin’s cheek. “Even now, I see a part of you still thinking I’m a monster who needs to be destroyed for the greater good, and I love that you care so much about this world. At the same time I feel that resolve begin to crumble, and I love that you care so much about me.”

There was no denying the truth of it what Martin was hearing. Those words resonated with the sure and steady certainty that Jon had placed in his mind, and he felt weak.

He was telling the truth about something else, too. That resolve in Martin was slowly, quietly crumbling. As he thought that, Jon leaned forward and kissed him once, tenderly. Then rested his forehead against Martin’s and sighed with contentment.

“There’s something else I need you to know.” Jon said, quietly. “The way I am now, I know that. . .well, there’s a difference in power. And I want you to stay with me, more than anything. But I also won’t make you a prisoner.”

He pulled back to look at Martin. “If you didn’t want this, if you didn’t want me . . . it would break my heart, but I wouldn’t stop you from leaving. I would still keep you safe even if I had to do it from a distance, and nothing in this world would hurt you. You could go wherever you wished. You could find other people and try to help them, or ease their suffering. You could even try to stop the ritual.” Jon smiled at him fondly. “Raise up an army against me. I wouldn’t let you succeed, but I wouldn’t stop you from trying. If that was what you wanted.”

It didn’t escape Martin’s notice that Jon had begun speaking in the hypothetical, and he was fairly sure he knew why. If Jon saw as much as he said he did then he knew Martin’s decision had already been made. Probably just saying his piece now. He always did like to talk.

Jon’s smile became a little sheepish, and he shrugged. “I do mean it.”

“I know.” Martin said.

It was funny, he thought, how people changed. Sometimes it was dramatic and revelatory, sometimes it was a profound realization. And sometimes it was just a matter of quietly cutting off all excuses. Blocking off one path after another until the one you were always going to follow is, in fact, the only one left.

“If we find them. . .Melanie, and Basira, and the others,” Martin asked. “Can you protect them too?”

“Yes.” Jon said without hesitation. “And it won’t be long. I can find them much more easily now. Even Daisy . . . oh, you should see her now, Martin. She’s so beautiful,” he held his hand halfway to Martin’s face, eyes lively and glinting. “. . .Would you like to?”

“I’ll see her when we find her.” Martin said after a pause.

Jon nodded. He stood and offered Martin his hand. As he took it Martin saw tears, real tears, just brimming in his eyes. For a moment he wondered if it was a good sign that Jon was still human enough to cry. Then he wondered what made him think crying was a humans-only thing.

“Promise me one thing.” Martin said.

“Of course.”

“If you know what I’d have done if you’d. . .left me that choice. Put it in my hands whether or not to stop the ritual.” He paused. “Don’t ever tell me. Don’t ever show me. I don’t want to know.”

Jon looked at him, and Martin saw nothing but love in his eyes. He brought Martin’s hand to his face and kissed it.

“I never will,” he promised.

* * *

The plastic knob on the kettle clicked off, a cloud of steam pouring into the kitchen. Martin was rummaging through the cabinet, selecting a pair of mugs. He paused by the window. It had stopped raining recently and the warmth of the sun made steam rise off of London’s streets. Martin leaned out and breathed deeply, taking in the afternoon air.

Petrichor, he thought, smiling.

Years ago he’d made an offhand comment about liking the smell of rain, and Jon had gone off for minutes about soil and scent-producing bacteria. At the time it had been . . . pretty annoying, actually? Because Martin had known what petrichor was. Couldn’t have told you where he’d heard it, the internet probably, but he’d known it and he was a little irritated that Jon assumed he didn’t. Back then Martin had taken the presumption and Jon’s lecturing tone as more evidence that his new boss thought very little of him. But in hindsight it just filled Martin with affection. Recognizing Jon’s tendency to ramble on about something that he was excited to know without really noticing he was doing it.

Martin glanced at the dark figure in the corner of his kitchen, then went to pour the tea. He took his time, enjoying the mundane ritual of tea, strainer, and hot water. He filled his cup, added milk, then paused.

He sensed something, a feeling on the back of his neck, and when he turned the figure was standing behind him. Martin had neither seen nor heard it move. It stood perfectly still, and it was all eyes.

“What do you think, Jon?” he asked. “Sugar, or no sugar?”

Jon didn’t say anything. He never did in dreams. Martin wasn’t sure why, truth be told he hadn’t asked. There were so many things he’d come to file under “spooky Jon stuff” these days that he just accepted a lot of it. But Martin still liked talking to him. Felt sort of rude to just ignore him. Whatever Jon was doing - standing there, unmoving, unblinking, gaze fixed intently on him - it kept the nightmares away, and Martin was glad for that.

“Good point,” Martin said, stirring in the sugar. “May as well live a little, right?”

The tea smelled like tea. The countertop was solid, cool and felt just as it should. There were no uncanny dimensions to the kitchen, nothing out of place or subtly wrong about it. But he always knew that it wasn’t real. He couldn’t forget that the dream was a dream, or fully lose himself in it as he had in dreams before. That was one thing that Jon couldn’t give him, apparently.

Back in the world, Jon would be holding his sleeping body. Maybe resting Martin’s head in his lap, or curled around him in a mimicry of sleep himself. Part of him was there, part of him was here in the dream. And another part would be stretching itself outward, taking in the countless horrors that surrounded them in every direction.

After their time in the cabin Martin’s nesting instinct had been pretty well diminished, so he didn’t have much inclination to settle anyplace in particular. And Jon didn’t seem to care where they went as long as they kept moving, giving him new things to see. So he tried to find places that would be pleasant for Martin.

For the last. . .well, for a while, anyway, they’d been in a deep forest. The trees stretched higher than should be possible, some wider around than an office building. Shadows pooled deeply between them, and sometimes he saw massive, primordial shapes moving in the distance. But none of those creatures ever came near Martin. The colorful creeping vines that moved of their own volition never tried to wrap themselves around his limbs, nor did the shining clouds of iridescent insects ever cover him in a swarm.

Martin had to admit, when you had the privilege of safety from them, even nightmares could be beautiful. He’d walked with Jon down roads that had twisted into impossible knots without ever getting lost, without even getting dizzy. They’d traveled through a darkness so deep and silent that it swallowed the sound of Martin’s breathing, but he never lost sight of Jon and so it held no fear for him.

Once, he’d caught Jon looking curiously at a distant gray shore before glancing back at Martin, shaking his head and turning in the opposite direction. He hadn’t objected to avoiding that place, but later Martin found himself wondering what it would have felt like. To walk through the Lonely hand in hand with Jon, knowing he was loved and that the man who loved him was keeping the fog from reaching him. There was honestly some appeal to that.

Sometimes, very rarely, Martin heard screams in the distance. But Jon didn’t need to be close to get what he needed, and he generally made sure any sounds were too far away to notice.

Martin made a second cup of tea for Jon. He left it on the counter like a private joke, then went into the sitting room. The fluffy gray cat that had been napping in the corner lifted his head with interest when he entered and padded over, winding around Martin’s legs. He reached down to scratch behind his ears.

He had only met the Admiral once, the day they found Georgie and Melanie. Given how that meeting had gone, he knew he wasn’t likely to ever see the cat again. But Jon put him in all of Martin’s dreams since then. All things considered, Melanie and Georgie had been doing well. Which is to say they were exhausted, beaten down and traumatized, but still alive and with one another. The Entities didn’t have much interest in Georgie, but that didn’t mean she was safe. Not as long as Melanie was afraid of losing her.

Well . . . she was safe now. They both were. They had Jon’s protection even if they didn’t want it, and Martin felt some petty satisfaction at that thought.

The Admiral pulled away mid-pet, attention diverted by what was either a fly or a piece of lint floating in the air. He stalked towards it, head lowered, tail twitching in predatory anticipation.

Finding Daisy had been easy. Apparently Jon hadn’t even needed her exact location. just went to a place that he said “suited her now” and waited for her to find them. When she emerged all muscle and teeth and knives in the dark, Martin had nearly made the mistake of running. But Jon spoke in a reverberating voice and she was forced to answer back, settling down once he’d had her talking for a while. She did maul him a bit afterwards -- apparently not happy about being compelled. But it healed quickly and Jon admitted he may have deserved it.

She started traveling with them after that. Hard to say how long they’d been together with the way time was anymore, but it was long enough that Martin had gotten used to having her around. He was surprised how much he actually liked Daisy? She was good to talk to once you got past certain quirks, and he even missed her when she went off on long hunts.

He knew Jon was glad to have her near. There was something complicated that ran between those two. They liked each other, and they took a quiet comfort in each other’s presence. But there was also an unspoken sadness whenever they looked at one another. Martin wasn’t sure he fully understood what passed between them in those moments, but their friendship seemed good for Jon. Had there ever been even a slight chance of Martin feeling jealous or cut out seeing a deep, mysterious, bond between them it simply wasn’t a concern anymore. He felt Jon’s love for him deep in his soul. It was a single point of terrible knowledge around which the world turned. Nothing could shake that from him.

And if Martin occasionally caught Daisy eyeing his legs like she was deciding which tendon to cut, well. He’d gotten used to creepy looks lately.

“There you are, Jon.”

Jon was barely a foot away, eyes locked on him as always. Martin smiled. He never saw Jon move in dreams, but he was never far. Totally still, expression unchanging, no more responsive than a piece of furniture. Martin considered the sweater on the back of a chair and thought about draping it over one of Jon’s arms like he was a coat rack. He’d done it once before. They both laughed about it after he woke up.

This time he didn’t. Instead he sat in a chair by the window, setting his tea down beside him. Noticing that there was now available lap space, the Admiral stopped toying with his prey and leaped onto Martin’s lap, purring noisily.

They’d seek out Basira next. He and Jon had actually found her once already, before Daisy joined them. She’d been wary of them both and wasn’t exactly warm, but had been glad to accept Jon’s offer of protection. There was apparently some concern about a promise she’d made, but Jon seemed confident she’d come around. She just needed a little more time, he assured Martin, then they would bring Daisy to her. And then there would be four of them.

Martin glanced up to find Jon had moved again, now watching from the corner. Martin nodded to him and picked up the book of poetry he’d been thumbing through, one hand still idly petting the Admiral. He went from page to page, reading a little then flipping ahead, back and forth in a relaxed half-focus. The end of one poem in particular caught his attention.

Oh stars and dreams and gentle night

Oh night and stars return

And hide me from the hostile light

That does not warm, but burn

That drains the blood of suffering men

Drinks tears instead of dew

Let me sleep through his blinding reign

And only wake with you

Martin closed the book and turned to the window, to a London that was long and forever gone. Afternoon light trailed over sidewalks, spilled around the people going by. Families were walking their dogs, kids returning from school. A group of teenagers passed beneath his window, laughing and teasing one another.

A knot of sorrow, sudden and heavy, pulled at the pit of Martin’s stomach and a sob rose out of him. He covered his mouth as a second one emerged. Alerted to the sudden change, the Admiral lifted his head. He sniffed at Martin’s face and kneaded his shirtfront with tender paws.

Martin breathed deeply, body shuddering. He stroked the cat that wasn’t real, and looked out at a beautiful world that would never exist again.

And everything was wrong. And everything was terrible. And Martin was loved.

And everything was going to be all right.

#tma #tma spoilers #tma fanfic #jonmartin #this one is pretty self indulgent guys #bad ending but gay

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haberdashing · 3 years

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No Puppet Strings Can Hold Me Down (17/17)

The Magnus Archives fanfic. An AU that diverges from canon between episodes 159 and 160, in which Peter Lukas’ statement that “he got you” takes on a different meaning.

on AO3

Jon hadn’t seen it coming.

In hindsight, it made sense that he wouldn’t have--if there had been any warning, any way of him knowing what was about to happen, then Jonah would have known of it as well, and the plan would thus have been ruined before it could even begin.

That didn’t make it any easier, though, when Jon woke up in the middle of the night to a sharp pain in his left eye.

It was difficult to see in the dark, and not just because, as Jon quickly realized, his field of vision wasn’t quite what it normally was, his sight on his left side now entirely gone. It took a few seconds for the darkness and silhouettes to coalesce into a clearer image, but once it did, Jon could feel his heart racing.

Martin was standing over him with a knife, a knife that was dripping blood onto the couch below.

The pieces fit together in Jon’s mind quickly enough after that.

Unfortunately, it seemed that the same was true for Jonah as Jon’s body began to move of its own accord, throwing off the blankets that had been on top of him and reaching up for Martin, trying to wrestle the knife away from him.

(Jon was glad, now, that he had was now in such poor physical shape. It would help Martin’s odds in the fight, after all.)

His nails scratched against flesh, his elbows jabbed and blocked Martin’s moves, the sting of his eye was matched by aches across his body, and Jon could do nothing but watch the fight unfold...

Wait.

That wasn’t entirely true, was it? Jon knew one thing he could do, at least, something that had incapacitated Jonah once before...

Jon had spent so long keeping the door in his mind shut, doing everything he could to prevent the Eye from seeping through.

It was all too easy to let it open wide.

(If Martin achieved his goal with the other eye, Jon figured he’d be freed soon enough, and his giving in to the Eye would become a non-issue. If Martin didn’t... well, Jon hadn’t been able to do much anyway, so how much would really be lost in the end?)

The information poured into Jon’s mind, a tidal wave of knowledge that overwhelmed his mind and his senses.

It has been eleven days since Georgie Barker last ate Hungarian food. Less than fifty people have contracted full-blown rabies and lived to tell the tale. The true identity of Dan Cooper, popularly but incorrectly known as D.B. Cooper, was a member of the Fairchild family. Michael Malloy had multiple murder attempts on his life fail in part because his heavy drinking prevented damage from methanol and ethylene glycol poisoning.

Jon felt a stabbing pain in his arm, looked to see that both Martin’s hands and his own were on the knife, struggling to gain control over its trajectory.

This is the fifth time that this couch has been stained by liquid damage and the third time that it has had blood on it. The bacteria that cause staph infections are commonly present on the skin, only causing infection upon entering the interior of the body. Mike Crew’s great-uncle, Jeremiah Crew, died in a flash flood. The singular form of the word data is datum.

Jon could see the soft gleam of the metal as it approached his face.

Holding your breath before diving underwater can cause drowning by shallow water blackout. Manuela Dominguez is still trapped within Helen’s corridors. Clefairy, not Pikachu, was originally meant to be Pokemon’s mascot. Blind spots are caused by the lack of light-detecting cells in the area where the optic nerve passes through the optic disc. The Admiral is currently-

The rush of information suddenly stopped, and Jon’s senses rose up to fill the void of stimulation--all senses, that is, except for one. Jon’s vision was entirely gone now, leaving him with nothing but a field of darkness and burning pain where his eyes had been.

At least he could hear himself think now, even if it was difficult to keep up a coherent stream of thought when he was in such agony.

And, as Jon focused on his own breathing, which was fast and heavy now, he found that he could control it, slowly but surely calming his breathing down.

There was blood trickling down his face, but Jon didn’t dare try to wipe it away for fear of touching his fresh wounds and making the pain that much worse.

“...Martin?”

A rustle of movement behind him, a few footsteps, then: “Jon? Is that you?”

Jon let out a laugh, shaky and hysterical, not caring that it made his chest ache. “Yes, it’s me. You- you did it.”

Martin hesitated for a moment. “...can you prove it?”

“...probably not.” Another shaky laugh, not quite as boisterous as the first. “I didn’t- we’ve barely talked since I- since the Unknowing, and so much has changed since then. I don’t know if I was human before it, but now... well, now I might be human again, I suppose, but I’m not sure if that helps either. You haven’t known me when I was- was fully human, after all, have you, you’ve only ever known me as the Archivist, and now... now I’m not sure what I am, really...”

“Yeah, alright, good enough. Now just sit still, Jon, I’ve got some towels to help with the bleeding-”

“Wh- that didn’t prove anything! That was the whole point!”

“Nobody can pull off an existential crisis quite like you can, Jon. Especially not Jonah Magnus.” Jon could feel the warm air as Martin let out a soft snort. “Now just- here, does that help?”

Soft fabric was pressed against his face, and pressure pushing it down, pressure that made the pain go from bad to worse at first before it died down.

“It does, yes. Thank you, Martin.”

“Least I could do.” Another huff of warm air. “Seriously, when I- I’m the one who-”

“You don’t have to say it.”

“I’m so sorry, Jon. I didn’t want to hurt you, especially since you couldn’t do anything about it, but it- it seemed like the only way out-”

“You don’t need to apologize.” Jon started to shake his head, stopped with a wince when it made the pain flare up again.

“I said stay still.”

“I get that now...” Jon sighed softly. “But I- I did tell you it was okay, before, when I could. Whatever the price for taking down Jonah Magnus, I knew it’d be worth it. You have nothing to apologize for.”

“Still, I...” A pause. “...you can’t see my gesturing, can you?”

“Not even slightly. Which is, I believe, rather the point?”

“Right, yeah. I have some supplies, but we should- I know hospitals are probably a no-go at the moment, but you need medical help, and I know this woman in the village who’s a nurse, she can help you better than I can.”

Jon suddenly knew, then--lower-case knew, but with no less certainty--that Martin had befriended the village’s nurse with a scenario like this one, or perhaps even worse ones, in mind. He’d planned ahead, made sure he wouldn’t risk the worst happening, even after having to take drastic measures to free Jon from his imprisonment.

God, Jon loved him.

“Sounds like a plan.” Jon hesitated. “...I just hope the worst is over now.”

“I mean, isn’t it? It’s over now, it’s ended, right?”

“Even if we got rid of Jonah Magnus for good, which I’m not sure of-”

“His bloody eyes are on the ground, there’s not much more proof you can get than that-”

“There’s more out there. Daisy, the other hunters, the mess back at the Institute... not all of it can end here.”

“...maybe you’re right. Maybe this isn’t the end. But you know what?” Martin squeezed Jon’s arm, gently, and Jon noticed that Martin’s hand was warmer than it had been for some time now. “It doesn’t have to be. We can turn it into a new beginning, the start of a better life than the one we had back in London.”

“Not a high bar, that one.”

“Agreed.” Martin let out a low whistle. “Can you stand up? I’d really rather not just carry you all the way to the car-”

“What, you don’t fancy a bridal carry? Carrying me over the threshold?” Jon’s voice was teasing, but he felt Martin sway slightly, and he wished he could see the look on Martin’s face.

“I mean, I can do it if I have to, I suppose, but-”

“No, no, let me at least try.” Jon moved one arm to keep his towels pressed against his eye sockets, brushing against Martin’s arm in the process, and used the other to push himself off of the couch. It was slow and shaky and probably not a pretty sight, but he got up and stayed up, and that was what mattered.

“Alright, now, the front door isn’t too far, just over there-”

“Still can’t see your gesturing.”

“Right. Of course. It’s, it’s on your right, after you cross the room--do you think you can make it to the car alright?”

Despite the pain that still plagued him, Jon broke out into a wide smile. “Only if you lead the way.”

Martin took Jon’s hand, and side by side, the two made their way forward.

#tma #tma au #tma fic #tma fanfic #the magnus archives #the magnus archives au #the magnus archives fic #the magnus archives fanfic #personal #my writing

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ts1989fanatic · 3 years

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Every Taylor Swift Album Ranked

We revisited each of the singer’s original studio albums and ranked them from best to worst.

FEATURESEvery Taylor Swift Album Ranked

We revisited each of the singer’s original studio albums and ranked them from best to worst.

By Slant Staff on July 6, 2021

Taylor Swift started off as a country artist at a time when the genre was both less respectful and accommodating of the voices of women than at any other point in its storied history. The singer’s first four albums barely scan as country music in a meaningful way, instead embracing her preternatural gifts for pop conventions, and her output has gotten stronger the more openly she’s embraced those skills. In the 15 years since the single “Tim McGraw” launched Swift to country stardom, she’s jettisoned the genre’s ill-fitting signifiers and overcome the limitations of her early recordings—improvements captured in her “Taylor’s Version” re-recordings of those albums as a powerful statement of artistic agency.

As Swift takes an apparent break from new music to re-record those early releases, including Fearless (Taylor’s Version) and this fall’s highly anticipated Red redux, we revisited each of her original studio albums and ranked them from best to worst.

9. Taylor Swift (2006)

Though she was praised for her songwriting right out of the gate, what Swift’s self-titled debut truly shows in hindsight is how diligently she’s worked to hone her craft over the years. Some of her trademarks—her gift for melody, her third-act POV reversals—were already present here, but there’s a sloppiness to the writing that she’s long since cleaned up. Whether that’s emphasizing the wrong syllables of words because she hadn’t quite mastered the meter of language (most notable on “Teardrops on My Guitar”) or mixing metaphors (on “Picture to Burn” and the otherwise catchy “Our Song”), there’s a lack of polish and editing on Taylor Swift

8. Fearless (2008)

Nearly every track on Swift’s sophomore effort, Fearless, builds to a massive pop hook. But while her grasp of song structure at this point in her career suggested an innate talent for how to develop a melody, Fearless also highlights Swift’s then-limited repertoire and lack of creativity in constructing her narratives of doe-eyed infatuations and first loves gone wrong. It’s admirable that she tries to incorporate more sophisticated elements into a few of the songs here, but dancing with or kissing someone in the rain is a default image that crops up with nearly the same distracting frequency as references to princesses, angels, and fairy tales. Fearless, however, just as strongly made the case that Swift had the goods for a long, rich career. The bridge to “Fifteen” includes a great, revealing line about a friend’s lost innocence (“And Abigail gave everything/She had to a boy/Who changed his mind/And we both cried”), while the playful melody of “Hey Stephen” captures the essence of what makes for indelible teen-pop.

7. Speak Now (2010)

Swift’s third album, Speak Now, is problematic in precisely the same ways that its predecessors are, but there isn’t a song here that isn’t an absolute wonder of technical construction. Perhaps even more impressive is Swift’s mastery of song structure. Consider how the instrumentation drops out during the last two words of the hook in “Last Kiss,” allowing the singer’s breathy vocal delivery to bear the entirety of the song’s emotional weight, or how a simple acoustic guitar figure on “Enchanted” slowly crescendos behind each repetition of the line “I was enchanted to meet you.” Unfortunately, the greater complexity and range found in Swift’s sound and in her song constructions doesn’t necessarily translate to her songwriting. Her narrators often seem to lack insight because Swift writes with the point of view that hers is the only story to be told, which makes songs like “Dear John” and “Better Than Revenge” come across as shallow and shortsighted. And though she does vary her phrasing in ways that attempt to mask her limited voice, Swift is still noticeably off-pitch at least once on every song on the album.

6. Red (2012)

Considering that Swift’s previous material was almost always better when she tossed the ill-fitting country signifiers and focused on her uncanny gift for writing pop hooks, Red was a smart, if overdue, move for the singer. The album plays as a survey course in contemporary pop, and Swift is game to try just about anything, from the uninhibited dance-pop of standout “Starlight” to the thundering heartland rock of “Holy Ground.” The tracks that work best are those on which the production is creative and modern in ways that are in service to Swift’s songwriting. The distorted vocal effects and shifts in dynamics on “I Knew You Were Trouble” heighten the sense of frustration that drives the song, and the driving rhythm section on “Holy Ground” reflects Swift’s reminiscence of a lover who “took off faster than a green light, go.” Not all of the songs here are so keenly observed—“State of Grace” and “I Almost Do” lack the specificity that’s one of Swift’s songwriting trademarks, while the title track underwhelms with its train of pedestrian similes and metaphors—but if Red is ultimately too uneven to be a truly great pop album, its highlights were career-best work for Swift at the time.

5. Lover (2019)

Swift’s seventh album, Lover, lacks a unified sonic aesthetic, ostensibly from trying to be something to everyone. The title track, whose lilting rhythm and reverb-soaked drums and vocals are reminiscent of Mazzy Star’s ‘90s gem “Fade Into You,” and the acoustic “Soon You’ll Get Better,” a tribute to Swift’s mother, hark back to the singer’s pre-pop days, while “I Think He Knows” and “False God” evoke Carly Rae Jepsen’s brand of ‘80s R&B-inflected electro-pop. When it comes to things other than boys, though, Swift has always preferred to dip her toes in rather than get soaking wet; her transformation from country teen to pop queen was, after all, a decade in the making. Less gradual was Swift’s shift from political agnostic to liberal advocate. Her once apolitical music is, on Lover, peppered with references to America’s current state of affairs, both thinly veiled (“Death by a Thousand Cuts”) and more overt (“You Need to Calm Down”). “Miss Americana & the Heartbreak Prince,” however, is her stock in trade, a richly painted narrative punctuated by cool synth washes and pep-rally chants, while “The Archer” is quintessential Swift: wistful, minimalist dream pop that displays her willingness to acknowledge and dismantle her own flaws, triggers, and neuroses.

4. Reputation (2017)

In the run-up to the release of her sixth album, Reputation, Swift was excoriated by fans and foes alike for too often playing the victim. The album’s lyrics only serve to bolster that perception: Swift comes off like a frazzled stay-at-home mom scolding her disobedient children on “Look What You Made Me Do” and “This Is Why We Can’t Have Nice Things.” But it’s her willingness to portray herself not as a victim, but the villain of her own story that makes Reputation such a fascinatingly thorny glimpse inside the mind of pop’s reigning princess. Swift has proven herself capable of laughing at herself, thereby defusing the criticisms often levied at her, but with Reputation she created a larger-than-life caricature of the petty, vindictive snake she’s been made out to be. By album’s end, Swift assesses her crumbling empire and tattered reputation, discovering redemption in love—only Reputation isn’t so much a rebirth as it is a retreat inward. It marks a shift from the retro-minded pop-rock of 2014’s 1989 toward a harder, more urban aesthetic, and Swift wears the stiff, clattering beats of songs like “…Ready for It?” like body armor.

3. Evermore (2020)

Evermore is at once as confident and complete a statement as Folklore. Certainly, it matters that the two albums were born of the protracted isolation of the Covid-19 pandemic and that collaborators like Bon Iver and the National’s Aaron Dessner figure prominently on both. But Evermore finds Swift digging further into her explorations of narrative voice and shifting points of view, taking bigger risks in trying to discover how the newfound breadth of her songwriting could possibly reconcile with the arc of her career. What makes Evermore an essential addition to her catalog is her willingness to tell others’ stories with the same insight and compassion with which she’s always told her own. And on this album, in particular, the stories she tells are about how her narrators’ choices impact others, often in ways that cause irreparable harm.

2. 1989 (2014)

Swift’s 1989 severed whatever vestiges of her country roots remained on 2012’s Red, replacing acoustic guitars and pedal steel with multi-layered synthscapes, drum machines, and densely packed vocal tracking. Swift, of course, got her start writing astutely observed country ballads, and these songs bolster her trademark knack for lyric-crafting with maximalist, blown-out pop production courtesy of collaborators Max Martin and Jack Antonoff. The album’s standout tracks retain the narrative detail and clever metaphor-building that distinguished Swift’s early songs, even amid the diversions wrought by the aggressive studio production on display throughout. Songs like “I Know Places” ride a reggae swagger and trap-influenced snare beats before launching into a soaring, Pat Benatar-esque chorus. It’s an effortless fusion that, like much of 1989, displays Swift’s willingness to venture outside her comfort zone without much of a safety net, and test out an array of sonic experiments that feel both retro and of the moment.

1. Folklore (2020)

Folklore is neither a culmination of Swift’s career to date nor a pivot in a new direction. She’s doing exactly what she’s always done: offering a collection of incisive, often provocative songs that incorporate authentic, first-person details and leaving others to argue over specific genre signifiers. Song for song, the album finds Swift at a new peak in her command of language. While tracks like “Cardigan” and “Invisible Strings” hinge on protracted metaphors, “Mad Woman” and “Peace” are blunt and plainspoken. In every instance, what’s noteworthy is Swift’s precision in communicating her exact intent. That she employs her long-established songwriting tropes in novel ways is truly the most significant development here. She’s mined this type of melancholy tone before, but never for the full length of an album and certainly never with such a range of perspectives. It isn’t the weight of the subject matter alone that makes Folklore feel so vital—it’s the exemplary caliber of her writing. The album finds Swift living up to all of the praise she earned for her songwriting earlier in career.

ts1989fanatic not sure I 100% agree with their ranking order and some of the snark on reputation is a little OTT but overall it’s not bad

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that-one-girl-behind-you · 4 years

Text

Illicio 10/?

Part 9

Bit of a content warning for the first section because Martin's Lonely thoughts are starting to feel a little like suicidal ideation, just in case.

"What part of 'don't antagonize Martin' translated into 'go and lie to his landlady to break into his house' to you?" Jon asks that evening. The bus is nearly empty, and Gerry's arm is a comforting weight across his shoulders, a nice contrast against the hard plastic seat.

"I knew he'd tattle," Gerry rolls his eyes. "Go figure, pull a guy out of the Lonely with a nice cup of tea and some good conversation, and the first thing he does is go tell on you with his crush.

Martin bundles himself a little tighter in his coat, as he waits for the kettle to boil. The worst thing about the Lonely is definitely the bone-deep chill that follows wherever you go, no matter how many layers you wear, or how high you crank up the heater. The cold is inside you, and Martin is starting to run out of ways to chase it out.

The kitchenette attached to Peter's office is smaller than the one at the Archives' break room, but also much better equipped; it has a high end coffeemaker and all sorts of coffee and tea sorted in delicately crafted tins. Martin has the thought that he would've been excited to try them all before, but now he just cracks the tin open and pulls out a bag at random. This is just... something else he's supposed to do, like eating, like breathing. It doesn't matter that they don't bring any satisfaction, because nothing really does anymore, when he's like this.

He goes to pour the hot water into a single mug, and drops the bag inside, watching it sink and bob with a curious sense of detachment. It smells like nothing, and it tastes like nothing when he takes a sip. His hands barely even register the warmth of the cup, and Martin places it back at the countertop. He'd expected it would make him feel something, but there goes that hope.

The only spark of emotion comes when he finally listens to the prickle of unease in his chest, and goes to close the small room's exit where it connects with Peter's office. Standing alone behind two locked doors, he almost feels at ease. Nobody can find him here- or they wouldn't, if anyone was looking for him of course. Jon hasn't come to him since the last time they met before the coffin, and Gerard seems to have a supernatural sense to know when Martin just finished an Extinction statement to come pester it out of him.

It's a bit pathetic, that Jon's- that Gerard is the only one who seeks him out, and even then it's only out of necessity. The Lonely likes it, and it likes even more that Martin doesn't feel any special way about it.

Outside, someone walks past the door to Peter's office, and Martin's stomach clenches. The room around him loses a little more color. Maybe… maybe he'll go home early today. Peter won't care; he would probably encourage it, now that Martin thinks about it. Just... it'll be easier there. More quiet. Calmer.

Martin leans his head back, and the room around him begins to dissolve.

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

"Feels good, doesn't it?" Gerry asks with a smile, and Melanie nods, entranced.

"We should find another," she declares. The Flesh book -aptly titled just 'Guts'- burns nicely in a metallic garbage bin between the two of them.

"I knew there was a reason I liked you." Gerry snorts. "I've been hearing some rumours about the Desolation. Some weird fires around the city; might be worth taking a look at."

Melanie squirts some more lighter fluid onto the book, delighting when the fire roars and flares up.

"How is it different?" she asks, the question popping suddenly into her mind.

"Sorry?" Gerry arches an eyebrow.

"I know the Desolation is destruction, and Slaughter is violence." It's odd, to talk so freely about the entity that would've claimed her soul; like mentioning someone you knew in passing, one of those who were impossibly important once, but now are just a memory you're not sure how you feel about. "But I wanted to destroy too, when I was- you know."

"I know." Gerry lets out a careful huff, running a hand through his hair. "They tend to bleed into each other, some more than others. Some care about the end result only, like the Desolation, some care about the process, like the Slaughter or the Hunt. Smirke had a good idea with the list, but sometimes I think he oversimplified."

"So what's your take on it?"

"Colors," Gerry shrugs, then adds with a small smile, "if colors hated you."

Melanie has no idea what that's supposed to mean, but his tone makes it fairly clear that it's got something to do with Jon, and she rolls her eyes. Ridiculous, but apparently something she'll have to get used to, considering the sneak peeks she's gotten through the Institute's windows in the past week.

"How's Georgie?" Gerry asks after a moment, once the flames have started dying down. "You've been going out more lately, right?"

"Yes. I'm-" Melanie feels her body tense, and takes a deep breath, until it relaxes again. This- she can tell Gerry this. It's not a big deal. They're- they might be friends, now. "She takes me to therapy. I've been feeling- I added an extra day. I feel like it's working."

Gerry gives her a quick look and a quicker smile, before focusing on the remnants of the burning book again. "That's good. I tried therapy once, but it turns out there is just no way to work 'my mother accidentally framed me for her gruesome murder and then came back to life and continued to stalk me until I handed her over to an old woman to be destroyed' into a credible lie. Not that you would know the difference, of course," he adds with a wink over his shoulder.

"I'll have you know my therapist doesn't suspect a thing, so I'm clearly not as bad of a liar as you think." Melanie rolls her eyes, smiling. There's a certain giddiness to her chest, a kind of light-heartedness she'd almost forgotten.

"Mmmm nah, you're very bad." Gerry reaches a hand towards her, and she passes him the bottle of lighter fluid. He squirts the rest of it in the trash can, unflinching when the flames roar up again, before he turns back to look at Melanie. "But I'm glad it's helping. I'm guessing the after-session dates with your girlfriend are nothing to scoff at either, are they?"

"They help," Melanie's smile turns a little smug. It may be sappy, but she's allowed a bit of happiness, thank you very much.

"I can imagine," Gerry rests his closed fist against her shoulder and gives her a little shove. Melanie kicks at his boot, rolling her eyes.

This is... comfortable. Life is far from perfect, and the number of things that make Melanie happy are still in the single digits but this- this might be one of them.

"Actually, I wanted to ask you something..." Melanie starts after the fire has died down again and the relaxed silence has stretched for a few minutes, making her voice as casual as possible. "Remember when you told us that you fed on Jon's voice? Recharging a battery, kind of?"

"I... do?" Gerry looks down at her with an arched eyebrow.

"Okay. And remember that other time you told me there was nothing going on with Jon, but you let me believe that so I didn't find out you were leeching on him to survive?"

"Ah." Gerry averts his eyes, and the line of his shoulders stiffens. Melanie frowns, puzzled; it's been a while since she's had any friends to joke with, but this is most definitely not the mood she was trying to set up. "I didn't want any trouble, Melanie. You and Basira were very on board with killing me that first day because you thought I wasn't human, and I was just- well, I knew if you got actual confirmation of that, then-"

"Oh- oh no, that's not what I'm talking about," Melanie shakes her head, rolling her eyes. "I get why you did that. You were right, too, I would've killed you," she shrugs.

Gerry turns to look at her again, amused and confused in equal measure. "Okay? So what's this about then?"

"I just wanted to ask," Melanie struggles a little to keep her face blank now that she's put them back on track. "Do you also feed on holding hands with Jon, or is that just so he doesn't get lost into another entity when you're on your way from the bus stop?"

Gerry freezes when her words register in his mind, his face a carefully blank mask whose only emotion lies in the slight panic brewing behind his eyes.

"I-"

"Yes?" Melanie lifts her eyebrows, nodding along with pursed lips. The flush starting to darken his cheekbones is fascinating to watch, a much deeper hue than would correspond to his skin tone, probably on account of the ink that runs through his veins.

"Have you been- listen, we have- the fires." Gerry turns abruptly to start walking away from the smoldering can, and Melanie smirks. "We should look into it, could be a new avatar."

"Mhm. Alright. Just a little question I had, don't let it keep you up at night." Melanie follows, not even angry that she has to trot to keep up with him.

"I won't."

"Good, good."

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

"You're far too early. Nothing to find today?" Jon looks up when the door to his office is pushed open, a smile already on his lips. Gerry shrugs, taking his jacket off. Jon's gaze trails over the burn-smooth skin of Gerry's arms, the tattooed eyes at his elbows seeming to almost look at him when Gerry's muscles contract and stretch as he moves to hang the jacket by Jon's coat.

"Hello there?" Gerry asks, and Jon's eyes snap up his face. He's got an amused smile and a raised eyebrow, and Jon whips his burning face back down to his statement. "Melanie's busy today, so I did some recon by myself, but there's nothing tangible asides from Rayner's freaks."

"This is- yes, alright." He's not terribly worried about the Church of the Divine Host, he thinks, his fist clenching tightly around the pen he's using to make annotations on the statement; they cannot come into his Archives, because they won't risk being Seen. It still irks him that they dare come this close to the Institute, like a taunt to-

"What are you working on?" Gerry's long, black hair curtains down by the side of Jon's face, and all thoughts of Seeing the Darkness into oblivion evaporate from his mind.

"I just- I'm going over old statements," Jon clears his throat. "I'm trying to find anything that feels like the Extinction."

"I see... Found anything yet?" Gerry leans closer to look at the paper on the desk, and Jon freezes at the warmth at his back.

"I don't-" this is where Jon admits he hasn't been able to focus for the past three hours, isn't it? "Martin left early yesterday. And he didn't come to work today."

"Ah," Gerry sighs, before retreating to go sit across the desk. His eyes are soft and sympathetic, because it's just Jon's luck to be surrounded by good, caring people that he doesn't deserve. "How did you-"

"I just Knew it. I think- I think it was too much today." Jon averts his gaze again; Gerry's gentle concern is too much to deal with, what with everything that's been tumbling around in his head. "Which is why I'm looking into this, but the Watcher doesn't seem to be too interested in the new competitor." Jon scowls down at his desk. No helpful tidbits from the Eye either when picking out statements to revisit, or when going over things he already knew.

"Hey." Gerry slides a warm, heavy hand on top of Jon's, and Jon, because he's a selfish coward, doesn't move away. "You're doing what you can. We all are, Martin too."

Jon nods slowly, after a moment. Martin is- Martin knows what he's doing. He's far from stupid or weak, Jon knows that now. Even though he's still human, Martin moves through this world of fears with a sense of cunning and determination that Jon couldn't even begin to emulate, despite being a key player himself.

"I must admit, I... it's nice that you have changed your mind about him." Gerry hasn't told him what brought on the change, but Jon finds that he doesn't care. It's just one less thing to be worried about.

Gerry shrugs, giving his hand a squeeze. "Turns out we have a few things in common."

"You do." Jon nods; that much has been clear to him for a while. A fatal flaw that bears his name and his face.

Gerry's gaze is heavy on him, far from the usual playfulness in their interactions, and Jon feels his heartbeat start racing.

"Jon, we-"

"Jon?" the door opens again, and Daisy pokes her head through. "Oh. Sorry."

"No, it's- do you need anything, Daisy?" Jon asks, extricating his hand from Gerry's in the softest movement he can manage.

"I can come back later," Daisy shrugs.

"Actually, let's trade." Gerry pushes off his chair, and onto his feet. "You stay here. I'll see you when it's time to go home." He doesn't seek Jon's eyes when he says this, moving instead to grab his jacket and shove his arms through the sleeves.

"Careful," Jon mutters quietly.

Gerry stops at the door, his shoulders dropping in what might be a sigh, and he turns to look at him over his shoulder, his eyes softening just the slightest amount. "...Yeah. Yeah, you too."

And he's gone.

Daisy comes in once the sound of Gerry's boots stomping against the Institute's polished floors fades from earshot. "That was very dramatic."

Jon crosses his arms over his chest. "No, it wasn't."

Daisy rolls her eyes. "You're making this too big of a deal, just like the monster thing."

"I- excuse me?" Jon's face goes slack in disbelief, but Daisy merely leans a hip against his desk, looking down at him with her arms crossed over her chest.

"Poor, poor Jon, with these two men who lo-"

"Daisy! We don't- there's no-" Jon sputters, as it becomes increasingly clear he doesn't have anything to say, and just wanted to stop her from finishing the thought. "What did you need?"

Daisy shrugs. "Basira went to see Elias, and Melanie's out too."

"I see..." Jon sighs; the only reasons he's able to brave being alone are both the fact that recording statements keeps the walls from closing in, and the terrifying knowledge that Gerry would stay in the office just to keep him company if he asked. "Well I- it's good that you came. I need your opinion on something."

As soon as it becomes clear that she's wanted here, Daisy's entire body relaxes; Jon smiles to himself as she goes to take the seat Gerry left. Daisy deserves some kindness, she's just... another victim. He's the only one who chose this.

"Sure, what is it?"

"Did yo- have you seen Martin lately?" Jon reaches into a desk drawer for a tape recorder that wasn't there a minute ago. This one, he Knows, will contain Martin's recording on the Extinction.

"Not really. Where is he?" Daisy frowns.

Jon's eyes fall to the recorder in his hand. He doesn't know if he feels guiltier for Knowing about Martin, or for not going to him after what he found out.

"Taking a break from all of this, hopefully."

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

"-tin Blackwood? Yes, he lives here. We haven't seen him in a few weeks, though." The woman's eyes narrow in suspicion. "Did he die?"

Gerry snorts. God forbid landlords have any tact. He thinks back at one of the many things he learned about Martin while trying to Know the address to his flat.

"No, he's fine. But he had to go out of town for a while, because his mother passed away." He closes his eyes for a moment, trying to look solemn. "I'm going to go stay with him for a few days, but he wanted me to pick up his phone and some other things for him."

"I see... and who are you again?" The woman asks; the mistrust is a fair response, honestly, considering what Gerry's here to do.

"Well, you know..." he gives her a little smile and a non-committal gesture, pointing at himself and an imaginary Martin by his side. Whatever, it worked with Melanie and Basira, it'll fool a random landlady.

"Ah. Huh." The woman runs her eyes over him, evaluating him under the light of the new revelation; Gerry probably -hopefully- doesn't look anything like a self deprecating mop that specializes in giving off mixed signals and avoiding necessary conversations, but this woman clearly doesn't know Martin enough to know his tastes, because she just shrugs. "Then don't you have a key already?"

"Oh yes, I have one,' Gerry hurries to say. "He just wanted me to tell you that he's, you know, coming back and-" and here he crosses a leg over the other, bringing a knee up against the desk with enough force that the landlady's mug topples over the edge and spills its contents on her lap. "Oh shit, I'm sorry! Did you-"

"I'm alright," the woman says through gritted teeth, her skirt dripping lukewarm coffee on the carpeted floor when she climbs to her feet.

"I'm really sorry," Gerry apologizes again, but the woman is already heading towards the door without sparing him a glance. Good.

He Knows she keeps the spare keys in the bottom left drawer of the desk, and it only takes him a couple seconds lto find the one labeled with the number to Martin's flat, before unhooking it from the ring and pushing the drawer closed again.

By the time the woman comes back, patting at her damp lap with a towel, Gerry's already sitting back on his chair, sporting his best apprehensive look. "Did you need anything else?" she snaps.

"No, I'm just-"

"Sorry, yes. Thank you, could you leave?" the landlady's lips are pursed into a tense line. "I need to change."

"Yes! Sorry, I'll just-" he hops to his feet, crossing the office hurriedly. "Sorry!" Gerry apologises again before she closes the office door in his face, and he smiles. That's one less thing to worry about.

Martin's door opens easily enough with the key, and fog spills out like some sort of cheap haunted house trick. Not great, Gerry decides. The interior is freezing cold, and he bundles a bit tighter in his jacket, before closing the door behind him. There's a picture of a woman on a small table by the door, right behind the key bowl, and Gerry remembers the tape he listened to, with Elias' cruel, mocking voice and Martin's pained, choked back sobs.

It's a little selfish, but it's nice to know that Gerry's not the only one who can't bring himself to get rid of the memory of a mother who never loved him.

"Martin?" he calls out, bundling himself tighter in his clothes. "Are you-"

"What are you doing in my flat?!" Martin says by his side, where Gerry's pretty sure he wasn't a second ago. "How did you get in here?"

"It was open," Gerry shrugs. Martin looks... gray. His eyes, his hair, even his skin seems desaturated, blending in against the muted hues of his lightless flat.

"No it wasn't." Martin says firmly, and a bit of green starts seeping back into his eyes. Gerry lets out a relieved exhale. He's not too far gone, yet. "In fact, I made sure it was locked, because I've been being stalked lately."

"That sounds terrible," Gerry says, and because it seems like Martin is gaining more and more color the more exasperated he grows, he walks past him into what turns out to be the kitchen. "Want me to beat them up for you? I'll do it, just point me at 'em. Do you have coffee here? I'm not much for tea."

"I don't- why are you here?!" Martin sputters angrily, closing the cupboard doors Gerry purposefully leaves open as he moves down the room. "I'm not exactly going to record Extinction statements at home!"

"Well, I'm not here for that." Gerry gives him another look. He looks mostly solid now, enough that it might be a good time to let him know. "Jon was worried about you, so I came to check how you were."

"...Oh." Martin's flustered face goes slack at the news, and Gerry snorts. These two are the freaking same. "I- does he know?"

"That you're trying to save the world?" Gerry arches an eyebrow. "Or that you're doing it for him?" that has Martin's face regaining the color it was lacking.

"Both, I guess," Martin mutters, bringing a hand to rub at his arm nervously. "...I think I do have coffee, but it's- I don't drink it, I just had it for when Sasha- for when friends came over. I don't know if it's any good."

"I've probably had worse." Gerry knows what it's like to be alone. He's been that way for most of his life, but it's... he chose to live like that, it was never a burden for him. Here, as Martin talks of friends ripped from him by a world that feeds on despair, he feels a pang of sadness for this man who clearly didn't. "I have an hour before I have to go get Jon."

"Alright," Martin lets out a noise between a sigh and a groa, before he finally moves towards the cupboards again, and starts pulling out mugs and tins and spoons. "But you have to tell me how you got in."

"I'll let you guess," Gerry smirks as he sits at the breakfast table.

"How is he?" comes Martin's voice amidst the clinking of metal and porcelain. There's a careful quality to it, like he thinks he's not allowed to ask, and Gerry sighs.

"He's alright. Very defensive when we talk about his rib-related choices."

The sound of a mug dropped on the countertop, and Martin spins around. "Excuse me, his what?"

Gerry arches an eyebrow. "I hadn't told you? Could've sworn I mentioned it when we spoke about the marks." He wipes a hand under his nose, but it comes away ink-free. Edging around the topic is okay then, good to know.

"I don't- you didn't mention any ribs," Martin's voice is this close to a groan, Gerry notes with a smile. "What did he do now?"

"You better finish making that tea, you're going to need it."

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

The door to the cell slams shut, and Elias rolls his eyes. Frankly... he'd known Peter wasn't in the best of moods, but this is childish.

"I'm afraid you're going to have to either calm down or leave."

"How are you doing it?" Peter lands heavily on the chair across the table, blue eyes stormy with badly concealed rage and a muscle twitching on his jaw. Elias tries, he really does, but he can't hold back a snort. "Elias!"

"I'm sorry, sorry," Elias chuckles. "It's just amusing, really, that you seem to think I have the power to stop your puppeteering from in here. You mistake me for the Web's own, Peter."

He gives him the smile he knows Peter despises, just the slightest curve to his lips, and a single arched eyebrow.

"Don't play coy with me, Elias. Martin was progressing incredibly well, and all of a sudden he's stuck? Don't pretend you had nothing to do with it."

"Oh, but I didn't!" Elias reaches over to pull out the scotch bottle and the two tumblers, and Peter's hand closes around his wrist with bruising strength. "I'm afraid I did warn you the Watcher wouldn't let its own go so easily."

"How?" Peter's eyes narrow as his grip tightens even more. "I will not ask again, Elias."

Elias laughs, amused. Peter is awfully easy to rile up- if you know how to play him, and Elias has had decades to learn.

"Tell me something Peter... what do you know of Gertrude's last ill-fated assistant?"

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

There's a person standing across the street from the Institute. They're wearing dark clothes, and over their chest rests a pendant fashioned to look like a closed eye. It's a ridiculous notion, to come to the tower of the Ceaseless Watcher, and believe their god will protect them here.

Jon comes to a stop before the Institute's doors, the taste of Markus Burnett's encounter with the End still fresh in his mind, and considers crossing the street towards them. It would certainly send a message to the rest of-

"Jon?" the voice is puzzled and soft, and it feels like a curtain is lifted from Jon's mind, as he sees the person scurry away; he turns to find Martin looking down at him in concern. "Are you alright? Oh- your... your eyes."

"Ah- yes I just- it's-" Jon gestures vaguely towards the spot where his would-be victim was just standing.

"Oh. That's- that's not good, is it?" Martin frowns. "It's probably good you didn't-"

"I wasn't going to. Or- I hope I wasn't," Jon scowls as well. He definitely wanted to. He can still feel Martin's eyes on him, but for all that he's fantasized about this encounter, he can't think of anything to say. "You look better."

"I guess." Martin's frown melts into a mask of dry resignation. "Gerard broke into my flat two days ago. He won't tell me how he did it."

Of course, the Eye chooses that moment to let him Know exactly how Gerry got a key to Martin's flat, and Jon feels his face grow warm. It's a bit of a whiplash mood, to go from preparing to Behold a person to thinking about- yes, okay.

"I- yes. He does that," Jon clears his throat, "keep him away from your sofa."

"I'll keep that in mind. Just-" Martin gives a nervous look around, and Jon frowns.

"He's not around." Jon says, the static rising in his ears as he Sees both what Martin wants, and the answer to it. It still feels odd to use his powers willingly, but he'll do it for Martin anytime. "He's on his way back from meeting Elias."

"Oh- okay?" Martin blinks. "Thanks. I- he can't do that, Jon."

"Peter-?"

"Gerard." Martin's face grows pained, serious. "Peter is- he's happy I'm going along with his plan. If Gerard keeps trying to meddle in... I made a deal, and I have to keep it. Please tell him to leave me alone."

"Martin, you don't have to-"

"But I am," Martin sighs. "You said you'd respect that."

And he does, he really does respect the sacrifice Martin is making, but- but watching him hurt himself is just too much. This is the first time Martin has looked like himself in months, and Jon is suddenly confronted with just how much he's missed him.

"I'll talk to him." Jon says, before anything else can get out. "I'm- I'm sorry, Martin."

Martin nods wordlessly, before turning back to walk into the Institute. Jon watches him go, a million things he should've said running across his mind now that they're utterly, completely useless.

I dreamt of you in the Buried. Thank you for the tapes. You don't have to be strong all the time, please let me help you. I miss you so much it scares me, but it's a kind of fear I want to feel, the kind of fear I'd dedicate my life to.

None of it matters, because by the time Jon walks in after him, all that's left of Martin are a couple wisps of fog.

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

"I knew he'd tattle," Gerry rolls his eyes. "Go figure, pull a guy out of the Lonely with a nice cup of tea and some good conversation, and the first thing he does is go tell on you with his crush. You didn't tell him I had the key, did you? I don't want him to change the locks."

"I did not." Jon rolls his eyes. "But you can't- Gerry, I promised I'd leave him alone."

"And you did. Very respectful of his boundaries."

"And you should do so too. We're- we agreed we'd investigate about the Extinction so he didn't have to do everything on his own, not that we'd intrude on his plan."

"It's not a great plan, if you ask me."

"I didn't ask." Jon slaps lightly at Gerry's thigh with the back of his hand. "Listen, I trust Martin-"

"And I trust him too, sure. But I'm not going to- I can't just leave it alone, Jon." Gerry turns to look at him, and Jon -as he often does- finds himself distracted by the lights of the street outside gleaming off the metallic rings and beads on his face. "I'm not going to let them win. Not if I can help it, especially with someone they seem as hell-bent on getting as Martin."

Jon sighs. Of course he won't; Gerry's far too stubborn, far too-

"Just- Martin knows what he's doing."

"And I know what I'm doing too." Gerry shrugs, his shoulders set and his brow furrowed. "I'm not- I can't exactly stop him from aligning with the Lonely if that's what he wants. I'm just slowing it down. Getting us more time."

"And what happens when Peter Lukas finds out you're breaking into his flat to sit him down for tea?"

"Well, he doesn't have to find out," Gerry says, smirking. The gesture leaves the ring on his lower lip just the slightest bit off-center, Jon realizes. He runs his tongue over his own bottom lip, that feels too dry all of a sudde. "As far as anyone knows, it was just a very considerate man looking out for his partner."

"You can't possibly believe that was anywhere close to a good lie," Jon hisses, trying his best to ignore the fact that he doesn't know if he's annoyed or just embarrassed by the ruse.

"It's not unbelievable. Anyone could be my boyfriend," Gerry shrugs. "Martin could have good taste."

"I very much think he doesn't." Jon grumbles.

"I think he does, actually," Gerry's arm gives his shoulders a squeeze that has Jon's face burning, "besides, the position is open."

Jon coughs. "This is our stop," he says, ignoring the way Gerry rolls his eyes before climbing to his feet.

The conversation is pretty much over after that, but Jon finds -as he usually does, lately- that he has to let go of Gerry's hand to pull the keys out of his pocket.

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

"Did you do your exercises today?"

Daisy exhales slowly, her hands on her stomach and her gaze nailed to the ceiling. The cot she shares with Basira feels small at the best of times, but now under her too-heavy stare, it's like laying on a coffin, waiting for the lid to be slammed down again.

"They won't work."

"What?" Basira doesn't come closer, doesn't sit by the edge of the cot, and Daisy feels more and more like a disgusting, wasted carcass of her old self.

"The exercises. I- it's not going to work." The truth of her words weighs on her, the call of her blood begging her to follow, to lose herself again. "The only way I'm going to get better is if I hunt again, and I don't- I'm not doing that."

In the long silence that follows, Daisy darts a quick look at Basira. She's standing by the door, her white-knuckled hand shaking around the crumpled edge of a bag of Daisy's favorite takeout.

"There has to be another way," she says in the end. "What are we supposed to do, just wait for you to die?"

"I don't know. Why don't you ask Elias?" Daisy shrugs. There's a dark pang of delight in her stomach when Basira stiffens, and she sighs. Not exactly a chase, but the Hunt will feed wherever it can. "I'm sorry."

"Do you think I haven't?" Basira's voice is tense and hurt. "Do you think I haven't spent every waking moment since you came out trying to find a way to make you-"

"Back to how I was?" Daisy says quietly, and the way it's enough to stop Basira's rising tirade really says a lot.

"That is not what I want," Basira forces through gritted teeth.

"But it's what you need, isn't it?" After a moment's hesitation, Daisy pushes up into a sitting position, and turns to face Basira. "You were there when I needed you, and now I can't do that for you."

"This is not- I don't keep a tally, Daisy." Basira finally takes a firm step forward and then another and another, until she's standing so close Daisy could reach her if she stretched her arm. She doesn't. "I don't have- I'm just trying to keep everyone from dying, or-"

Basira's voice breaks, and Daisy flinches, eyes wide. In their years working together, she can count on one hand the times she's seen her lose control.

"You were gone," she snaps, "you were dead, I mourned you. I had to- there was no one else. Everyone was dead, Melanie was more and more unstable, and Martin was doing his secretive bullshit. What was I supposed to do? I was the only one. If I gave up, then it was like letting Elias win, and I was not going to let that happen."

"Basira-"

"Of course I wanted you back. As soon as that lying worm told me there might be a way to pull you out, I-"

"I heard your voice in the Buried."

Basira freezes. She looks- Daisy has been her partner for years, and the thing with her is, Basira always knows what to do. Even when she doesn't, she knows what should be done next. Never a second guess or a moment of doubt, or anything less than cold, hard certainty. Now Basira looks lost, and Daisy can only wonder what that means for her, who's always depended on Basira's solidity to ground herself.

"I'm- I want to be here for you. I want to help, Basira, but I can't- I don't want to go back to the Hunt. Or rather, I want it too much, and I know I won't-" Daisy groans. She's never been good with words, one would think spending an eternity with the Archivist would've helped, but apparently it's too much to wish for. "I just want to be myself, for however long I can. I'm- sorry it's not what you-"

Basira crashes against her, and Daisy feels her breath leave her all at once, as they topple over onto the cot, the crumpled falafel bag landing on the floor to be forgotten.

"I'll figure something out," Basira's breath is hot against her shoulder. Daisy can smell her coconut shampoo through her headscarf, and it's all she can do to hold her tighter, because they live in a world in which these moments are fleeting and fragile, and all the more precious for it. "For this. For you."

Daisy nods furiously, her eyes shut tight and her blood singing an entirely different song.

"Basira," she says, the only word she knows, the only word that matters.

Basira nods like she understands, and Daisy can't bring herself to care about anything else.

#jongerrymartin #vit writes #illicio

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shuttymcshutfuck · 4 years

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“Feel my body falling away”

Fandom: The Magnus Archives

Relationships: Martin Blackwood & Jonathan Sims (pre-relationship)

Type: Angst (has kind of a happy ending)

Word count: 581

TW: character death (canon), grief, dissociation, crying

Ao3 link / Fanfic Masterpost

Martin coping (not really) after MAG 159

Martin had sat in the hospital room for hours, just watching Jon. Waiting for him to complain about something or even look at him. But he just lay there, the only sign of life being the beeping of the monitor and the rise and fall of his chest. It was only when a nurse came in and talked to him that he found out how long he’d actually been there. He had sat there in silence for almost 7 hours. His mind was reeling over everything so he barely caught on to the nurse saying he should go home. Martin just shrugged then got up, kissed Jon on the forehead then left without a word.

I get up on my feet

Give her one last hug

He didn’t head home though, he couldn’t. With so many people gone the archives were practically empty, someone had to make sure everything was okay. He went through to the break room and made himself some tea, having to stop himself pulling out two more mugs. Martin wandered round the archives, it was so cold that he kept shivering but it made him feel present. It was on his second lap past the break room that Melanie stopped him.

They're all waiting for me

I wish that was enough

There was worry in her eyes but Martin just waved her off. He thinks he heard her say something about taking some time off but he couldn’t concentrate on her words. She guided him over to the couch and it was only then he realised here were tears flowing down his cheeks. He numbly wiped them away with his sleeve and just sat there. It felt wrong to make noise. The archives always had noise but there was no one left to make any.

She said she's here if I ever need someone to talk to

But all I ever wanna talk about is you

Martin vaguely remembers a hand on his shoulder then watched as Melanie left, giving Martin a scrap of paper with her number on it. He ended up wandering over to Jon’s office, thankfully it was unlocked. He took one step in before feeling the tears run down his face again, this time doing nothing to stop them. Jon’s office was messy as usual so He spent a little bit of time tidying up, moving dirty mugs and putting stationary back in his pen mug. He didn’t know how long he spent cleaning but it was starting to get light outside as he finished. He grabbed the cardigan Jon had left on his chair and headed up to the roof.

Think I zoned out again

But I still tried my best

Martin loved watching the sunrise over London. There was something eerie but comforting about it. The bitter chill kept him awake enough to watch the whole thing as Jon’s cardigan and his jumper did little to keep him warm. He sat there alone watching the sky, thinking about everything. While he stayed and burned statements, everyone had risked their lives and now Tim was gone, Daisy was gone and Jon… Everyone was gone. He was alone. Martin pulled himself from his seat and took himself back down the stairs, walking back to archives. He started to pull himself together for the day, putting on the kettle and spoke out loud:

Just tryin' to buy more time

When as she'd go she'd say

With one regretful smile

I'll see you again someday

#tma #tma fic #the magnus archives #martin blackwood #jonmartin #jonathan sims #tma angst #martin blackwood angst #my writing

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podcasts-stole-my-gender · 4 years

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Power Imbalance in ep169

Okay, here me out. It was definitely not a coincidence that Jon and Martin had that particular argument right before a statement about home and evil landlords.

To start, I'm definitely not trying to say that Jon was wrong for killing Jude, or that she was somehow right with her whole "you're no better than me" spiel because I wholeheartedly believe in the difference between killing Innocents and killing those who hurt others. I'm specifically talking about the situation as it relates to Jon and Martin's relationship.

Comparison:

Jon has significant power over Martin in this situation seeing as he knows where he's going and Martin doesn't. As well as being an all-powerful avatar.

Landlords have an obvious power over their tenants seeing as people need spaces to live, spaces that grow to be their home.

Jon makes the decision to go into a place where he knows that Martin is going to be terrified just so he can kill Jude Perry, despite definitely knowing that it's not going to help anyway. (This is the first time Jon has actively sought out to kill someone, even with Peter Lukas he didn't really have a choice if he wanted to save Martin.)

Landlords make awful decisions just to save a little money, knowing that it is only a benefit to themselves and could actively endanger others.

Jon literally talks about something or someone coming into your home and making it not feel as safe after actively choosing his revenge over Martin's comfort.

And note, I'm not trying to paint Jon as evil, but we've all seen where revenge quests can go, and I think that Jonny is trying to draw our attention and Jon's to how bad things could get if it continues this way.

Further Thoughts:

I guess another way to put it is that even knowing that not!Sasha killed one of his close friends, he didn't even try to kill her until she came at him and mocked him for it. And now he's gone out of his way to kill someone who, while yes is definitely an awful, horrifying avatar, only burned his hand. In the span of 7 episodes, that's a huge turn.

And it's not like Martin can just walk away. No matter what happens, the only way he's gonna survive is if he follows Jon. And even then, his life isn't guaranteed. That is probably the BIGGEST power imbalance a relationship can have.

But of course, this is the apocalypse, so everything feels more high stakes. Let's make this a bit more domestic. (This isn't the best metaphor, but stick with me)

Say Jon and Martin are driving down a motorway. Jon's in the driver seat. While Martin takes a quick nap, Jon decides to go down an exit that goes through the countryside at night because he wanted to find some food. Martin wakes up, and oh no he's absolutely terrified of the strange quiet darkness of the area. Sure, it's possible that nothing bad might happen, but alone in a dark place? You never know. But what's he supposed to do? Get out of the car? So the argument happens. "Why aren't we still on the motorway?" "Because I'm hungry" "Well this is really scary and I don't like it" "Do you want me to turn around?"

But the thing is, Jon's the one in the driver seat. Martin, ultimately, has no say in what happens. It's a nice gesture to offer him a "choice", but in the end he has to follow whatever Jon does. End metaphor

Martin doesn't feel like he has a choice because in all honesty, he's powerless. He has no choice but to trust Jon because if he can't, then what does he have?

This is getting way longer than I thought it'd be so, final thought, if Jon continues to actively seek out revenge, Martin will almost definitely get caught in the crossfire. So I really hope they talk about how this was NOT a healthy decision. Because as fun as it is hearing Jude get what she deserves, it should have never been put over Martin's safety. That is what Jon promised him at the beginning of this season, and he really risked it with this.

#i am really enjoying the themes this season is presenting #it's a lot of heartbreaking fun to dissect it all #the magnus archives #rusty quill #tma spoilers #the magnus archives spoilers #this episode is probably the hardest hitting of tma for me

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screeching-painter-witch · 2 years

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you know what gets me?? it's the fact that jon canonically has so much love in his heart??

yes he's a prick in season 1 yes he has trust issues but he is absolutely ride or die for the people he cares about. he went into the coffin for daisy, he reached out to martin emotionally as early as their "heart to heart thing" in season 1!!! and then in s4 he kept trying to talk to martin, telling him he missed him!

and don't get me started on tim!! i still think about that "i am NOT losing you too" and "i'm still me" tim HATED him and jon never held that against him!! even with melanie, their relationship was mostly based on arguing and yelling at each other but he still risked getting attacked by her to remove the bullet!!

and we make fun of his attachment to gerry a lot bc he only knew gerry from statement mentions and he still thought of him fondly as "our gerard"! he risked his life to burn gerry's page! he didn't even bring him back ONCE to ask him any questions! not only would julia and trevor have killed him if they found out, but he also had NO IDEA if burning the page would have any repercussions on his health! it would have been fully logical to assume burning the page might kill him and to refuse to do it but no!! he did it with the only motive of wanting gerry to finally rest!!

#this man does not know how to emote or make friends but when he cares about someone he would do anything for them no questions asked #and i think that's beautiful #tma #the magnus archives #jon jarchivist sims #the archivist #he's my blorbo he's my girlfriend he's me #one of the most relatable characters i have ever seen (to me)#i'm still at s4 but doesn't he also consider destroying a possibly infinite amount of other worlds in order to save martin??#i am achieving self love through the other (jon) on this fine day

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ollieofthebeholder · 3 years

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

[1] [2] [3] [4] [5] [6] [7] [8] [9] [10] [11] [12] [13] [14] [15] Also on AO3

Chapter 16: Sasha

There’s a long silence after the door shuts behind Jon Prime. Sasha stares at Martin Prime for a long moment, several possible things to say next running through her head. How did we actually die wars with how much of that really happened and a slight humorous side trip into I don’t think I’ll ever wear this shirt again, because of course she’s wearing her favorite shirt today, as well as what words did Jon say in that memory and if he was in the other fourteen why did you talk like it was an unknown subject.

What actually comes out of her mouth at last is, “Wickie?”

Martin Prime sighs heavily. “It’s…an old name for a lighthouse keeper. Comes from trimming the wicks to keep the light burning.”

“M-my—” Martin rubs his temples hard, almost like he’s trying to manually turn the wheels in his brain. “Dad used to call…us that. I’d forgotten…” He looks up at Martin Prime, and Sasha is a little taken aback at the anguish in his eyes. “Is—was it a coincidence or—?”

“No. The Keeper is…he’s part of the Lonely, and maybe a little of the Spiral. The loneliness of distance. Not just being separated from someone you care about, but the specific loneliness that comes when you know exactly where they are but can’t get to them, either because there’s a physical barrier or because you just…can’t. The fear that if you reach out to them, they won’t reach back.” Martin Prime closes his eyes for a brief moment. “So the Keeper just…knows those sorts of nicknames. A name given to you by someone you miss…or someone who misses you. Someone you can’t reach, anyway. In this case, though…he knew it because he is the one who gave it.”

Tim’s eyes widen. “Wait, seriously? Does that mean you’re—”

“He made a deal to keep me—us—safe,” Martin Prime interrupts. “It’s why he left in the first place. I can tell you the story some other time, but…maybe not today?”

“No,” Martin agrees in a very small voice. “Not today.”

Tim drapes his arm around Martin’s shoulders and nods. Sasha is more inclined to press, but she swallows down on the urge. Curiosity is all well and good, but she shouldn’t sate it at the expense of her friends, so if they say no to a topic, she’s going to respect that. For now, anyway. Time to pick one of the other avenues of discussion.

She wants to ask about the pictures, get more details about what came before those moments, but something tells her that’s a discussion that needs to happen with the Jons in the room. Also, that’s going to hurt Tim, probably, so she starts running through her other options, looking for the least volatile one.

Tim beats her to it, which is probably a good thing. “So that was the first time…your Jon found out about all that? You didn’t, like, give him a taste last night?”

“No. That…I knew he’d need it. Like I said, he hasn’t had a statement since he got back. Sitting in on your—our, I guess—statements from last night…all that did was take the edge off of things. I knew what I went through was big enough that it’ll keep him going for a bit.”

“Right, but why not at least lay the groundwork? Warn him that it was going to be…bad?”

Martin Prime hesitates, turning in the direction of the door briefly before saying in a low voice, “He can’t always…the hungrier he gets for a statement, the harder it is for him to control himself. The last few months before the world ended? I found out, sort of by accident, that he’d been going out and…pouncing random people for their statements. One of them complained to the Institute and I had to stage an intervention. He’s doing better about it, but I didn’t want to risk tempting him. He’d never forgive himself.”

“For falling off the wagon?” Sasha cocks her head.

Martin Prime turns to look at her, and really, it’s a little unnerving now that she knows he’s blind. It explains why he always looks like he’s looking through her, but it’s still creepy. “It’s a lot more painful when he takes a statement by force. Even if I was going to offer it to him anyway, if he…pounced on it like that, it’d be more intense. He hates it enough when it’s strangers, but if it’s—someone he knows…” He trails off.

“Will that happen to our Jon?” Martin asks. His voice shakes a little when he asks. Sasha wonders how much of that is residual from hearing Martin Prime’s statement and how much of it is actually about Jon.

Martin Prime doesn’t answer for a long moment. “I don’t know,” he says at last. “Probably not so quickly, anyway. Gertrude Robinson…I don’t know if she just never got as bad or if she just could control it better. You can ask Jon later.”

“He won’t pass out if we do, will he?” Tim glances towards the door. Sasha suppresses a smile at the obvious concern on his face. Honestly, Tim fusses just as much as Martin does at times. He’s the consummate big brother, while Martin is something of a mother hen.

“No. What just happened was…he pushed too hard, against the wrong subject. He can’t Know what’s going on inside the Eye. Really, trying to Know anything about any of the entities directly is beyond him, and he knows that.” Martin Prime’s voice sharpens into censure for a moment before he visibly forces himself to relax. “Usually he’s pretty good at knowing his limits.”

“So why did he do that?” Tim asks. “If he knew it would hurt him, why would he push? He’s not that…masochistic usually. That’s your job.”

“Hey,” Martin mumbles, but without any real heat behind it.

“He’s not wrong,” Sasha points out. She’s watched Martin push himself, break himself into smaller and smaller pieces, trying to be what everyone needs him to be, always putting everyone else first.

“I think part of it is that it was something he genuinely wanted to know the answer to,” Martin Prime says. “We’ve never known for sure how much the Beholding can see on its own and how much it needs its…agents to give it. It for sure can watch us at the Institute, but in a very real way, the Institute is part of the Beholding, or vice versa. Honestly, it’s not something we think about much. But knowing Jon, once he had the question in his mind, he had to see if he could find out the answer to it, despite knowing it was a dangerous idea. Part of it might have been that he was so tired, too. The longer he goes without a statement, the worse his decision-making skills get.”

“Oh, brilliant. They’re so amazing most of the time,” Tim drawls. “God knows Jon never makes poor life choices.”

Martin Prime actually laughs. “I mean, not like we can throw stones here.”

Tim laughs, too, and Martin manages a smile. Sasha wants to ask if Martin Prime considers her one of Tim’s “poor life choices” or if he even knows they slept together, but just in case he doesn’t, she doesn’t want to drag that out into the open just now. Again, she’s fond of unearthing others’ secrets, but very close-mouthed about her own; it’s probably unfair, but there you are. Lest Tim bring it up, she starts looking for the next thread to pull on.

“That was Jon, right?” she asks at last. “In the…last gallery you were talking about. Those pictures. They were all of Jon?”

That fast, Martin Prime’s smile disappears. “Yeah. Most of them haven’t happened…obviously. And one of them for sure won’t now.”

“The third one,” Sasha guesses. “That was—when Jane Prentiss attacked you all?”

Martin Prime nods. “It was the middle of the day. Jon’s the one that accidentally went through the wall—there was a spider he was trying to take out—”

“The Web toying with him?” Martin asks. He sounds a little calmer than before, but still shaken.

“Honestly, I’ve never been altogether sure about that. It might’ve actually just been a spider, but…the balance of probability is on it being the Web, yes. Anyway, Jon accidentally broke the wall, the worms got in—our Sasha and I ended up having to drag him into that storage room, but he’d already been bitten a few times, he couldn’t walk. Our Tim was at lunch at the time, he came back and—Sasha went out to save him, they got separated, and Tim wound up in the walls. He came through the wall in that storage room and convinced Jon and me to come out with him. We got separated in the tunnels, just like you all did, but Tim and Jon found the trap door and I, well, I found Gertrude. Eventually. But yeah, when Jon and Tim came out in the Archives, Jane Prentiss was there and she attacked them. They were pretty bad off before…Elias finally set off the CO2 system.”

Tim looks down at his hands—or more accurately, Sasha realizes, at one of his hands, since his other arm is still draped around Martin’s shoulders. She wonders if it’s to comfort Martin or to reassure himself. “Are we lucky, then?”

“Yes,” Martin mutters. “Extremely.”

“You’re lucky, too,” Martin Prime says. “Trust me. It wasn’t…Jon’s right, just because I didn’t come away with physical scars doesn’t mean I got off unhurt. And that was when things started going bad for us all.”

“So how do we stop the rest?” Sasha asks. “Are you all going to tell us what happened so we can avoid it?”

“Yes, I think so, but I’d really like to only have to go over it once?” Martin Prime glances in the direction of the door again. “And most of them I wasn’t there for. He’s told me about them, but…I wasn’t there.”

“But what were they?” Sasha persists. “Just how he got hurt? How he got the scars?”

Martin Prime takes a deep breath and curls his hands into tight fists. “Broadly, yes, they’re how he was scarred. They’re…they were the encounters with the Fears that marked him.”

Sasha tilts her head to one side. “Like what Michael said about you—that you’d been marked?”

Martin Prime nods. “To be marked by a Fear is to feel it, all the way through to your soul. Sometimes it’s physical, sometimes not. Mine aren’t…at least, not really.” He runs a hand through his hair, seemingly without noticing. It’s the first time Sasha realizes how much grey is streaked through his curls.

Martin swallows audibly. “How…how many fears have marked you?”

“Four, I think. Three for sure. I’m not altogether sure about whether or not the Stranger actually marked me or not.” Martin Prime tilts his head to one side. “You’ve only been marked by two, though, and…I never got the mark of the Corruption. My others were the Lonely and the Spiral, and of course the Beholding.”

“What about us?” Sasha asks. “In your timeline, I mean. How many were we marked by?”

Martin Prime hesitates. “Tim…I think he was four as well. The Beholding, obviously, we were all marked by that one as soon as we set foot in the Archives. At least I—I think that’s how that worked. Or at least as soon as we put our voices on those tapes. Then the Corruption—Jane Prentiss’ attack—and he was with me when I got tricked into entering the Spiral’s domain, so it marked him too. And I’m pretty sure he was marked by the Stranger. I can’t say when, but I’m fairly sure he had been.”

Sasha waits, then prompts, “And me?”

Martin Prime takes a deep breath. “I honestly don’t know, Sasha. If I had to guess, I’d say two. Three at most, but I don’t know if your encounter with Michael really counts as a mark. Honestly, I wouldn’t have known the Corruption had actually marked you if you hadn’t mentioned that you could hear the worms singing.”

Sasha huffs. “I’m not sure what surprises me more—that I didn’t get more marks, or that you didn’t.”

“I spent more time at the Institute than I did actually tracking things down,” Martin Prime replies. “Someone had to keep the Archives running properly, and, well, that fell on me. Our Tim was…he had a project of his own he was focusing on.”

“And me?” Sasha asks again.

Martin Prime looks in her direction for a long moment. His face is tight with pain. “You’re really going to make me say it,” he says flatly.

“Sash—” Tim begins.

“Yes,” Sasha says over whatever it is Tim’s going to protest. “Whatever reason I avoided all that…don’t I deserve to know?”

“You died, Sasha,” Martin Prime says sharply. “You didn’t get marked by more entities because you died. You were torn to pieces by a—a thing that took your place, replaced you in our memories so that we didn’t even know you were gone. We spent almost a year believing that it was you, and finding out that it wasn’t nearly destroyed all three of us. Worse was finding out that Elias knew all along and didn’t tell us because he wanted to see what it would do to Jon, and damn the effect on Tim or me.”

Okay. Sasha really should have known that. She heard him describe the painting, after all, she even thought about not wearing her favorite shirt again because of it. She knew she was dead, and Tim too; it’s obviously why they didn’t come back with Martin Prime and Jon Prime. But something in her wanted to hear Martin Prime say it out loud, and she’s not sure she likes what that says about her. She bites down hard on her tongue to keep from asking about Tim’s death. That’s not hers to ask, and she’s almost sure its going to be something the Jons need to be there for too.

After a moment of awkward silence, Tim gets up from the sofa. “I’m getting us all tea,” he says, his voice unusually subdued. “I think we’re going to need it.”

“Do you…need a hand?” Martin pushes himself to a standing position.

Tim looks like he’s going to refuse, then nods. “Sure, c’mon.”

Sasha watches them go. Martin is walking well enough, if a little stiffly, but Tim still hovers just behind him, not touching but there to catch him if he falls. It’s almost funny how flustered Martin gets when Tim looks after him, too. For a moment, Sasha is tempted to ask Martin Prime about that—if it’s Tim he has the crush on—but that feels a little bit like a betrayal of Martin, to take away his choice to tell her. And she’s still stinging a bit from the way Martin Prime flung the answer to her last question at her.

After a moment of silence, Martin Prime sighs heavily. “I’m sorry for saying it like that.”

“I shouldn’t have pushed,” Sasha replies. “Not like I didn’t know the answer. I—I don’t know why I had to make you say it when I knew I’d died during your attack on the Institute.”

“I’m beginning to see why Gertrude Robinson expected you’d be appointed Archivist after her. You’re…a lot like she was. That’s not necessarily an insult, mind, but that’s not necessarily a compliment either.”

From what Sasha remembers of Gertrude Robinson—which isn’t much—she can understand that. They sit in silence for a while, listening to the clattering of mugs from the kitchen, before she finally says, “Can I ask you something?”

“Sure, but I reserve the right not to answer.”

“What’s it like? Being blind, I mean.”

Martin Prime tilts his head to one side. “Are you asking me in clinical terms or in more general ‘how does it feel’ terms?”

“Both?”

Martin Prime smiles, briefly. “Fair enough.” He pauses for a moment, as if considering his options. “In the strictly literal sense…it’s like being in a room with really thick blackout curtains over the window. Sometimes there are…textures, maybe, to the darkness? Only if there’s a really bright light. For the most part, though, it’s just…darkness.” He takes off his glasses and holds them out to Sasha. “Here, take a look.”

Curious, Sasha does. She holds Martin Prime’s glasses up to the light, then removes her own and slides on Martin Prime’s. The strength of the prescription knocks her backwards against the sofa and makes her head swim. She takes them off, blinking, and puts them back in Martin Prime’s outstretched hand. “In other words, you were basically blind before all this.”

“It’s just that the glasses don’t help anymore,” Martin Prime confirms. He settles them back on his face anyway, which Sasha understands. They’ve got to be a comfort. “Not being able to see…I can work with that. It’s just the added layer of there not even being blurry shapes in front of me, and, well, Mum was a light sleeper, so I kind of got used to moving carefully and without turning on any lights when I was growing up. Moving around I can do, although I’m sure you noticed me running into things a lot over the last couple weeks because I don’t know there’s a table or a stack of books between me and where I’m trying to get. But it’s…it’s disconcerting to not know if someone’s in the room, or be able to see what they’re doing when there’s a silence. I can’t read faces or see hand gestures. I can still tell when someone is looking at me, but I can’t tell who, or even what direction it’s coming from. And there’s—there’s so much I took for granted that I won’t ever see again. Tim’s smile, Jon’s eyes, the sunlight sparkling on the Thames, the moon rising over the city.” He’s silent for a moment. “I didn’t even remember what you looked like. The—the Not-Sasha? It looked different, it sounded different. It had to, because whenever it takes someone’s place, there’s always one or two people who—who remember the person as they were before, only no one believes them.”

“Which is how it feeds its patron’s fear,” Sasha guesses. “The Stranger?”

“Mmm-hmm.” Martin Prime nods. “I recognized your voice when I got back, only because we—we had a few recordings you were in from before. Your statement, your teasing Jon about the pronunciation of ‘calliope’, the recording Tim did on Jon’s birthday…a couple more you were on. But even having seen that—painting or whatever, I still couldn’t put a face to the voice. I only knew what you looked like in shadow and the most terrified you’d ever been in your life. I knew the Not-Sasha wasn’t what you looked like, but…I had to get Jon to describe you last night.”

Sasha glances in the direction of the kitchen, to make sure Tim and Martin aren’t coming back, but she hasn’t heard the kettle yet. “What did—it look like? The Not-Me? What did it make you think I looked like?”

“She—it—was…well, for starters, it was short. Petite, I think, is the right word. At least a head shorter than Jon and scrawny on top of it. Blonde hair in a shag cut, green eyes. No glasses.” Martin Prime pauses. “Only drank green tea.”

Sasha, who admittedly has a serious caffeine addiction, pulls a face. “How’d she drink it?”

“With cream,” Martin Prime answers. He takes a deep breath. “Don’t tell Jon, but…actually, there was a little part of me that was kind of relieved when we found out it wasn’t really, well, you. The first day we were back in the Archives after the attack, it was just the two of us, and…I made a cup of tea for both of us, we were both stressed out, so I thought it would help. I thought I made it like I always did, but…when I gave it to her, she took a sip, all but winced, and asked me if I’d made it for Jon or Tim. That’s when she ‘reminded’ me that she only drank green tea with cream. It—it threw me. Badly. I spent the next three months second-guessing myself at every turn, about the stupidest things, because if I could forget something like how one of my friends like their tea, what else was I forgetting? What else was I doing wrong?” He shakes his head. “Honestly, it was hard to shake that even after we knew it wasn’t our Sasha, but at least I could convince myself that there was no good reason for me to know how it would like tea. Even though, supposedly, it replaced all our memories of her—you—with the ones it wanted us to have.”

Sasha hears the unspoken question and considers leaving it, or forcing him to actually say it aloud, but honestly, she’s put him through enough already this morning. “I can’t stand green tea. I’m more one for coffee, actually, but when I do drink tea, it’s black with lots of sugar. Tim suggested once that you just heat up a cup of syrup and call it a day.”

Martin Prime’s face lights up at that. “I did remember it right then! Christ, thank you. You have no idea…it’s been eating away at me for ages. I know it’s ridiculous in the grand scheme of things, but…”

But a big part of Martin’s identity is wrapped up in his ability to care for others, and naturally thinking he got it wrong would set him atilt. “Why leave you that, though?” Sasha asks curiously. “If you couldn’t remember anything else about—me—why remember just how I like my tea?”

“Well…I mean, I worked with you every day, if I’d remembered all about you, I’d have gone to Jon straightaway, or—probably not to Elias, but maybe. I didn’t…know I shouldn’t trust him then. If I’d laid down Amy Patel’s statement in front of Jon and pointed out the parallels, there’s a chance he’d have believed me, which would’ve ruined everything for it. So the one person it chose to remember you as you really were was someone who didn’t see you every day, or at least didn’t work with you closely enough to be suspicious. And—” Martin Prime swallows. “Part of the Stranger is that fear that you—you don’t know someone as well as you ought to. So what better way to make me afraid than to make me doubt such a fundamental part of our interaction? I-I mean, it wasn’t human. It might not have liked tea at all. Maybe it just picked something at random that was so different from what you liked that it would throw me off-balance.”

Suddenly, Sasha gets it. “That’s why you said you might have been marked by the Stranger! You don’t think that counts? If it made you that…paranoid and afraid?”

“Maybe? It was worse for Jon. It made him so paranoid he thought one of us was trying to kill him, and that didn’t count as his mark, if we’re going by the paintings.”

“Oh, please.” Sasha waves a hand. “Jon’s probably paranoid because of finding Gertrude’s shot-up body in the tunnels. That’s not a supernatural death, that’s something provable and possibly human. Was I—or the Not-Me—his top suspect?”

“No?” Martin Prime’s forehead puckers in a frown. “Actually, you—it—was the one he suspected least. At least at first. That doesn’t mean he trusted you, mind, but he did at least think you the least likely suspect.”

“Then the Not-Me didn’t mark him because it wasn’t what made him paranoid,” Sasha says. “If he’d been in his right mind, he’d have suspected me most of all because I put in for the Archivist position, so the logical conclusion would have been that I killed Gertrude Robinson in hopes of getting it and then might be out to kill him so I could take the job from him. He was on edge because of what happened, and what I’m guessing was the general atmosphere of mistrust and tension in the Archives at the time probably made it worse—but it wasn’t the Not-Me’s doing. You, on the other hand, were directly targeted by it, so any paranoia you felt was because of it. Hence the mark.”

Martin Prime blinks in her direction. “That…God, you’re right. I never thought of that before.” He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. “Do me a favor?”

“Don’t mention that to Jon, either?”

“Don’t—yeah. He’s got by all this time by reassuring himself that he wouldn’t have acted like that if the Not-Sasha hadn’t been there, but…” Martin Prime sighs and looks up at her. “I will tell him. It’s not fair not to. But just…let me do it?”

“Of course,” Sasha promises. “Despite how I’ve been acting tonight, I can keep my mouth shut.”

“I know. You knew I’d lied on my CV and never said anything.”

The kettle whistles from the kitchen, making Martin Prime flinch slightly. Sasha looks briefly over her shoulder. “They’ll be out in a few minutes.”

Martin Prime hums in acknowledgment. “Anything else you want to ask me while it’s just the two of us?”

Sasha can’t help but laugh. “Are you sure you don’t remember me?”

“Hey, I didn’t say the Not-Sasha was completely different from you, necessarily. It just looked and sounded different.”

“Fair point.” Sasha considers. She looks in the direction of the kitchen again and thinks of the paintings Martin Prime described. She looks back at Martin Prime and says softly, “Did we suffer? Either of us?”

Martin Prime swallows hard. “You, yes. The—the Not-Sasha bragged about how much it hurt you. Tim…I don’t know. The actual moment of his death might have been quick, but he was definitely suffering beforehand. Maybe not physically, but still, he was hurting and neither Jon nor I could do anything to fix it. Believe me, I tried.”

Sasha bites her lip and nods before remembering he can’t see it. “If you couldn’t fix it…I don’t think it was something that could be fixed.”

Martin Prime smiles. “Thanks, Sasha.”

A moment later, Tim pokes his head in the living room and announces, “Here we come. Tea’s up.”

He and Martin come into the room, Martin concentrating hard on holding onto a mug with each hand and Tim carrying two in each hand like it’s no big deal. He sets them down on the coffee table, then picks one up and hands it to Sasha with an overdramatic flourish. “Your hummingbird food, milady.”

“Why, thank you, kind sir,” Sasha drawls, accepting the mug. It’s not the one she had her coffee in earlier, thank God, but she does wonder just how many mugs Tim has.

Martin sets down one of his mugs, then sits on the sofa with the other carefully cradled in his bandaged hands. Tim picks up the other mug and presents it to Martin Prime. “And here, this one’s yours. We picked a mug with a sculpted handle, so you should be able to tell it apart from the others if you set it down.”

“Oh, thank you.” Martin Prime reaches out hesitantly. Tim meets him halfway, settling the cup on his palm and turning it slightly so that it brushes his fingers and he’s able to wrap them around the handle. “As long as you’re not making me drink out of a horse’s ass.”

It’s probably a combination of the fact that it’s a joke at just the right time and the unexpectedness of Martin Prime using a profanity, even a mild and correctly-applied one, but the heavy mood shatters like spun sugar. Sasha and Martin both burst into giggles at Tim’s exaggerated expression of shock as his eyes go back and forth from Martin Prime to the white mug with a sculpted face and painted horn on one side and a sweeping, rainbow-colored tail for a handle on the other.

#ollie writes fanfic #leaves too high to touch (roots too strong to fall)#tma #the magnus archives

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soveryanon · 4 years

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Reviewing time for MAG162!

- I was feeling The Lack Of Tim (And Sasha) in season 4, the lack of mourning and/or plain… things making me feel that these characters had been in the series before? And I am spoiled rotten by this season so far <3

More duos, more… dead people. MAG161 had the birthday party, which, at least, featured Elias (who is still (?) sadly around somewhere, alive and kicking) and Jon&Martin, but overall, so many dead people: Tim&Sasha amongst the group of MAG161 and starring for themselves in MAG162, Gertrude&Leitner in MAG161, Gertrude&Gerry in MAG162. Gertrude was the only character to die-die before the start of the show, Gerry being an intermediary case – we’ve lost so many people? Sasha, Leitner, Gerry-as-the-memory-in-the-book, Tim… I don’t know if we’ll get many more tapes with glimpses from the past, under-Jon’s-radar moments, but I really appreciated what we got to begin the season with? It’s indeed anchoring, a reminder of what has been lost, what led to this?

(Jon mentioned “a few of them” tapes in MAG161, so there could be more, or no, and I’d be fine with it! But if more: Agnes? Gertrude&og!Elias? Gertrude&James Wright? Gertrude&Elias just after Jonah had taken over his body, since Gertrude mentioned this is when she understood what was up? Gertrude&Adelard, if they’ve found the right VA since the Q&A? Gertrude&Jan Kilbride about The Vast and The Buried, since she had apparently interrupted his written statement? Gertrude&Emma? Gertrude&Jon, since we know that Jon had met her? Elias&Jon, when Jon was hired at the Institute or offered the Head Archivist position? Elias&Martin for roughly the same? Sasha&Melanie’s discussion about haunted pubs? Melanie&Tim, since Elias had mentioned that they had been talking in season 3?)

- It… was only the second time we were hearing Gerry, but it was the first time we were hearing him caught on tape while he was… still alive. There was no reverse-echo to his sppech. He was there! The real Gerry when he was alive… ;_;

We more or less know when Gertrude&Gerry’s scene happened given that their collaboration was short-lived (ha): Mary gave Gertrude Eric’s page on the 3rd of July 2008 (MAG062); Gertrude used the page on the 21st of July 2008 (MAG154), promising that she would look after Gerry… which she proceeded to not do. Mary bound herself to the book in late September 2008 (MAG004), then proceeded to haunt Gerry for five years before Gertrude made contact and freed him from Mary (MAG111), marking the beginning of their collaboration. Gerry was still alive by the 9th of October 2014 (MAG137), but would die soon after during their trip in America.

(MAG062) GERTRUDE: And do you have any proof of this? Your… “magic book”. MARY: Yeah. [PAPER RUSTLING] You can keep this page. I made sure it was in English. GERTRUDE: Go– Who… who is it? MARY: A surprise, dear. Just make sure you’re alone when you read it.

(MAG154) ERIC: Fine! I… I want two things. GERTRUDE: I’m listening. ERIC: I want you to find my son. If Mary is… if she’s gone, or worse… I want you to make sure he’s alright. GERTRUDE: [HUFF] I’m not exactly a mother figure. ERIC: You could hardly do worse than her. GERTRUDE: Fine. But I don’t know what growing up with Mary has done to him. If he’s… gone rotten, I can’t promise anything. ERIC: I understand. GERTRUDE: I suppose he might be useful. ERIC: Oh, sentimental as ever.

(MAG004, Dominic Swain) “Typing in their names I don’t know what sort of thing it was that I expected to find, but it certainly wasn’t a news article from 2008 about Mary Keay’s murder. Police had broken in late September […].”

(MAG111) GERRY: For the next five years she haunted my life. I did what she asked, but whenever her form faded for a few days, I would take what little revenge I could: I burned books, I covered leads. I occasionally fled to somewhere I thought it’d be hard for her to follow. In the end it was Gertrude who saved me. She came to me when I was desperate, nowhere to go, and she offered to help. […] I think you know the rest. I joined Gertrude’s work for a few years. Didn’t realise how ill I was until it finally caught up with me. Then I died.

(MAG137) GERTRUDE: We still have Dekker’s back-up plan, of course, but… it’s very risky. To be sure, I–I think the detonation would need to happen from within The Unknowing, while it was going on. Gerard may have a connection to The Eye, but I’m not convinced it will be enough. And I will admit I’ve grown… fond of the boy. I wonder, if I told him about Eric – whether he’d follow in his father’s footsteps. Still, that’s not like it kept Eric safe in The End.

Which means this scene happened in 2013–2014.

It’s so weird to think that… since he had been working at the Institute since at least 2012 (maybe 2011), Jon was inside of the building around the time of Gertrude&Gerry’s discussion? He was so close to that world, so close to Gerry?

(Sadly:

(MAG162) GERTRUDE: Eh! [INHALE] You can probably burn it in the back courtyard, if you’re careful. GERRY: Yeah, will do! GERTRUDE: And for goodness’s sake, make sure no one sees you. The last thing we need is a letter to Elias about book-burnings. GERRY: Look, if you have somewhere better to burn these books, then–

… no meet-cute possible in the courtyard while Gerry was burning a book and Jon was there on a smoke break, since Jon had stopped smoking roughly at the time his grandmother died and he joined the Institute. Unless Jon bullshitted about that and kept telling himself and everyone that he had been quit for those five years, while he was actually still smoking a pack or two every week.

But gosh, Jon was probably sneaking his cigarettes in that same courtyard during season 2? It’s probably where he went while Leitner was being pipe-murdered? And Gertrude’s comment… implies that the Institute has neighbours, who could complain about shady things to Elias, I’m love it. They probably saw Jon at his worst in the same courtyard Gerry was regularly burning stuff. Am Emotions.)

- I think just hearing Gerry is doomed to make you feel hopeful about things, because, YES, he died, no, he wasn’t perfect, but he was also one of the most positive characters we encountered in the series, saving a few random people in early statements or begrudgingly giving them tips? So hearing him alive and inquiring and still kicking is Pure Serotonin.

He was hilarious in MAG111 (“I’m a BOOK.” “Dead serious.”), I’m having Feelings again with:

(MAG162) GERTRUDE: They might even stop death entirely, deny us the one last escape; keeping us… alive and afraid – forever. [SILENCE] GERRY: [DEFLATING SIGH] … And taxes? GERTRUDE: Eh! Taxes, I imagine, will continue.

Press F to pay respect to Elias Bouchard, who might still have to pay taxes during the apocalypse.

- I’m crying a bit about Gertrude&Gerry’s exchange because:

(MAG162) GERTRUDE: Wait. Surely, you didn’t bring it here?! GERRY: Well, yeah – I, uh… GERTRUDE: Gerard! We’ve talked about this. Bringing unvetted artefacts or books into the Archive is incredibly dangerous…! GERRY: It’s locked away! GERTRUDE: And I’m sure the lock is very sturdy. But that doesn’t stop it being an unnecessary risk. GERRY: … Yeah, I’m sorry… GERTRUDE: This is exactly the sort of thing that will get you killed. GERRY: I said I was sorry! [SILENCE] GERTRUDE: [SIGH] Then, we’ll say no more about it. [FLIPPING OF PAPERS] I don’t enjoy being hard on you, but I really would rather you stayed broadly intact.

1°) … Gerry shrinking when scolded is a remnant of Mary, uh……………………

2°) Yeaaaaah, Gertrude had mentioned not being a “mother figure” to Eric (MAG154: “I’m not exactly a mother figure.” “You could hardly do worse than her.”)… And Gertrude isn’t, indeed, but it was nearly impossible for Gerry to not feel that she was a bit like Mary, uh? Gerry had acknowledged it to Jon:

(MAG111) ARCHIVIST: Kind of sounds like you didn’t… trust her. GERRY: Yeah, I didn’t. I wanted to, I really did, but it was always the work. Sometimes she just reminded me of my mum. … Did you ever meet her, my mum?

3°) Gerry’s casual mix of respect and irreverence to Gertrude was… reminiscent of Eric’s snark towards her ;_; Gosh, Gerry!!! You took after your dad…

(MAG154) GERTRUDE: Fine. But I don’t know what growing up with Mary has done to him. If he’s… gone rotten, I can’t promise anything. ERIC: I understand. GERTRUDE: I suppose he might be useful. ERIC: Oh, sentimental as ever.

(MAG162) GERRY: I’m touched! You’re going soft in your old age. GERTRUDE: Hm! You are, occasionally, useful. Despite your foolishness. GERRY: Flatterer.

Down to the little bit of reminding Gertrude of her age…

(MAG154) GERTRUDE: Well, it’s… good to see you, I suppose. ERIC: You too. … You got old. GERTRUDE: Better than being dead. ERIC: [HUFF] Fair enough.

(MAG162) GERTRUDE: I rather hope I would have found them by now. I like to think I’m not a complete incompetent. GERRY: Until dementia hits~ GERTRUDE: Given my choice to confide in you, I rather suspect it already has. [FLIPPING OF PAPER] Go burn your book.

I love that small domesticity/casualness? Gertrude had admitted that she had grown “rather fond” of “Gerard” in MAG137 (and she called him “Gerard” still in MAG162: so no, Gerry never regarded her as a friend like he did with Jon), and we could feel it? She was firm and scolding, yet allowing them to talk, explaining how she was proceeding to him, what she thought would happen with a successful apocalypse, warning him against tying himself to the Institute – and yet, not being entirely honest with him, hiding the tunnels&Leitner from him, and… not even telling him about Eric’s page (Gerry had mentioned in MAG111 that he had hoped to find his father’s page in the book, but that there wasn’t any… so he didn’t know that there used to be one but that it had been given to Gertrude, uh?).

It also breaks me a bit how… youthful Gerry sounded? Bantering and impertinent, bold and daring (taking a look into Gertrude’s stuff behind her back!), a bit laid-back, a bit insecure (“What happens if we fail?”), and asking Gertrude for answers that he couldn’t provide, couldn’t fathom, as if she had the infinite knowledge… By this time, Gerry was almost or around 30, I think? And yet he still sounds like an adolescent, and it makes so much sense given how he grew up…

4°) The awkward offer of burning more stuff for Gertrude…

(MAG162) GERRY: You, uh… need anything else burning? GERTRUDE: No, no…! Not right now. [INHALE] I think I’m alright, thank you for the offer.

You polite kid…

5°) I wonder if:

(MAG162) GERRY: What happens if we fail? [FLIPPING OF PAPER] [WOOD CREAKS] GERTRUDE: In… what sense? GERRY: If we miss a ritual, you know. If one of them works. GERTRUDE: Been losing sleep, have you? GERRY: Mh, something like that.

The possible lack of sleep/tiredness/concerns might have been partially linked to Gerry’s cancer developing without him noticing – but his body beginning to let him down a bit…

- I’m laughing hard that the possibility of Gerry getting tied to the Institute was raised:

(MAG162) GERRY: So, do I get to hear them? GERTRUDE: Perhaps. If you live long enough. But somehow I doubt Elias would look favourably on your application. And if I’m being quite honest… GERRY: Yeah – I know, I know. A–and I don’t want your job. GERTRUDE: Believe me, the perks aren’t worth the shackles.

Since… oh boy, Elias really didn’t like this effing family, uh.

(MAG062) GERTRUDE: Why are you here? MARY: To make my statement, of course. I know the Institute and me haven’t always seen eye to eye, as it were, but I thought it was the least I could do. […] Well, they don’t understand up there. They don’t know what this place is. You do, though, don’t you? We’re on the same side, really, even if Elias disagrees. GERTRUDE: If you say so.

(MAG158) ELIAS: And how exactly were you planning on achieving that while you’re still bound to the… ha. Oh, I see. Very clever. [CHUCKLE] I thought Eric was the only one to figure that little morsel out.

Gerry was the son of Friggin’ Mary Keay, and of Eric-The-One-That-Got-Away. No wonder that Elias would not “look favourably” on his application.

… And it’s getting even more hysterical when remembering that Gerry is descended from the VON CLOSEN, ALBRECHT’S FAMILY. ALBRECHT WHOM JONAH HAD SCREWED OVER.

(With the suspicious things about the genealogy: Mary didn’t descend from Albrecht, but from Wilhelm, Albrecht’s nephew… officially. Because there is still the matter that Carla&Albrecht couldn’t have any children in 1816 (MAG023), but Albrecht had two sons by 1831 (MAG127), of age to go to boarding school. Which means they were roughly conceived after MAG023’s events, when Jonah visited to get the books. While Carla hadn’t been able to have any children until then. What I mean is, there is still a little small possibility that Albrecht’s children were adopted by Wilhelm’s branch after his death, and that Gerry is a direct descendant of Albrecht…………… or of Jonah. Because the “can’t have children with my wife, but she got pregnant around the time you visited” is incredibly suspicious. And because it makes me laugh and laugh and laugh to think that Gerry could be Jonah’s biological descendant, the AWKWARDNESS.)

- What Leitner was it about, and what powers?

(MAG162) GERRY: Yeah, yeah. [FLIPPING OF PAPERS] … So, what’s the verdict? GERTRUDE: Hm? GERRY: On The Travels! GERTRUDE: Oh. [RUSTLING OF PAPER] Burn it, I think. You said Mr Hampton was dead? GERRY: Yup! And not peacefully. GERTRUDE: But you hadn’t seen its powers? GERRY: Not directly. GERTRUDE: Well… Given the themes of the original, I doubt it has anything that would be worth the danger.

Gulliver’s? Marco Polo’s? Spiral, Lonely, Vast things?

- Given that Gertrude raised the danger of bringing items to the Archives:

(MAG162) GERTRUDE: Gerard! We’ve talked about this. Bringing unvetted artefacts or books into the Archive is incredibly dangerous…! GERRY: It’s locked away! GERTRUDE: And I’m sure the lock is very sturdy. But that doesn’t stop it being an unnecessary risk.

I still wonder about how they proceed in Artefact Storage? Sasha said it was bad, we know that the original Elias started there, the calliope was stored there (until it was stolen), Jon gave them the Coffin during season 4… what means of protection do they use?

(Accidents still happen, if Salesa’s letter from MAG115 is any indication, but it’s impressive that the Institute is still standing while containing so many dangerous things?)

- Gotta love how Gertrude’s arson streak has been put to the foreground this season:

(MAG161) GERTRUDE: Paper burns well. [GURGLING LIQUID] Petrol burns… better. LEITNER: Aha! I always forget about your pyromaniac streak. GERTRUDE: Mm. Remind me to tell you about Agnes, sometime…!

(MAG162) GERRY: And when in doubt… GERTRUDE: Well, quite. [FLIPPING OF PAPER] GERRY: Can I use your wastepaper bin? […] GERTRUDE: You can probably burn it in the back courtyard, if you’re careful. GERRY: Yeah, will do! GERTRUDE: And for goodness’s sake, make sure no one sees you. The last thing we need is a letter to Elias about book-burnings. […] GERRY: You, uh… need anything else burning?

And Gerry didn’t know what she had in store for The Stranger (the plastic explosive) but had described how she had looked while thinking about it and:

(MAG111) ARCHIVIST: But you don’t know what it is? GERRY: No. When I asked her she said she’d show me when we got back to London. Mind you, she had this weird look in her eyes, like it was some kind of a joke. ARCHIVIST: I mean… it wasn’t, w–was it? A–A joke. GERRY: I don’t think so. Gertrude didn’t make jokes.

Gerry is the same as Martin when it comes to Just Little Archivist Jokes, uh.

- Regarding how Gerry was planning to burn his book, would it involve the lighter with the Eye that was described in MAG012?

(MAG012, Lesere Saraki) “the younger man had only a Zippo lighter with an eye design on it similar to the one tattooed all over him and an old passport that identified him as Gerard Keay.”

We still don’t know what happened to that one… Plus, Gerry had lost a few items around that time too, and we never learned if they had been destroyed in his fight against Diego Molina nor what they were supposed to do:

(MAG012, Lesere Saraki) “After a few seconds of awkward silence, Gerard spoke. He asked me if the paramedics had brought any items in with them. Specifically, he was after a small book bound in red leather and a brass pendant he had been wearing. He didn’t say what design had been on the pendant but I guessed it had been an eye. I told him that neither of those things had been brought in with him, and he was quiet for a long time.”

(The book was Diego’s, we know from Basira. Regarding the pendant, I’m still wondering if it was a gift from Eric, but it was never mentioned again…)

- NO WONDER that Jon starts rewinding the tape to listen again and again to Gertrude saying that she didn’t think there was a way to revert an apocalypse…

(MAG162) GERRY: Could it be undone? [SILENCE] [WOOD CREAKS] GERTRUDE: [SIGH] … No. I don’t think so. Once an entity… fully manifested, I doubt it would be keen to relinquish its grip on realit– [CLICK.] [APOCALYPSE SOUNDSCAPING] [FIREPLACE CRACKLING IN THE BACKGROUND] [WOODEN CREAKING SOUND] [TAPE IS REWOUND] [CLICK–] GERTRUDE: … No. I don’t think so. Once an– [CLICK.] [APOCALYPSE SOUNDSCAPING] [FIREPLACE CRACKLING IN THE BACKGROUND] [TAPE IS REWOUND] [CLICK–] GERTRUDE: No. I don’t think so. [CLICK.] [APOCALYPSE SOUNDSCAPING] [FIREPLACE CRACKLING IN THE BACKGROUND] [TAPE IS REWOUND] [CLICK–] GERTRUDE: I don’t think so. [CLICK.] [APOCALYPSE SOUNDSCAPING] [FIREPLACE CRACKLING IN THE BACKGROUND] [LONG WOODEN CREAKING SOUND] [CLICK–] GERTRUDE: Once an entity… fully manifested, I doubt it would be keen to relinquish its grip on reality. And as for those unlucky enough to survive its rule… I don’t think they would be in a state to do anything about it.

[…] MARTIN: Do you think it’ll do anything? Confronting Elias? ARCHIVIST: [INHALE] I… [SIGH] Maybe? MARTIN: No, I’m serious. Do we… [PAUSE IN THE PACKING SOUNDS] Is there a chance that we can undo this? ARCHIVIST: [LONG INHALE] Gertrude didn’t think so. [WOODEN CREAKING SOUND] MARTIN: … Right. ARCHIVIST: [SOFT] But she’s dead. [FIRMER] Let’s find out for ourselves.

… Since she had just lied through her teeth to Gerry about the tunnels.

(MAG162) GERRY: Look, if you have somewhere better to burn these books, then– GERTRUDE: Of course, Gerard…! I just happened not to mention the network of sinister tunnels that snake beneath the Archive, where I keep all my darkest secrets…! GERRY: I mean, you joke, but there could be. It’s that kind of place! GERTRUDE: I rather hope I would have found them by now. I like to think I’m not a complete incompetent. GERRY: Until dementia hits~ GERTRUDE: Given my choice to confide in you, I rather suspect it already has.

The scene happened in 2013-2014. However, she was already collaborating with Leitner (who had been using the tunnels following the destruction of his library) since around 2011, and we know that she did burn books down there at some point:

(MAG080) ARCHIVIST: And why was Gertrude helping you? LEITNER: Aside from my knowledge about the books? I think she was lonely. I didn’t meet her until about six years ago, after she’d lost the last of her own assistants. She would mention them sometimes. I believe she missed having someone to talk to on occasion.

(MAG004, Dominic Swain) “The only thing I found that looked even remotely relevant was a listing on eBay from 2007. The auction was titled “Key of Solomon 1863 owned by MacGregor Mathers and Jurgen Leitner” and had been won for just over £1200 by a deactivated user – grbookworm1818.”

(MAG080) ARCHIVIST: Like The Key of Solomon? LEITNER: That one was a mistake. I thought that, in the tunnels, there might be the stability to examine it properly, learn something of the forces arrayed against us. But it went wrong. We had to destroy it. I should have known, really. It was one of the few volumes that contained elements of several different powers.

(MAG070) ARCHIVIST: But, shortly after I started exploring the second level, I found something. It was a room, empty except for three wooden chairs. It looked like there had previously been more, but they had been smashed. Based on the scorch marks in the corner, I think I know what they were used for. The ashes were old, impossible to tell what they might have been before they were burned, except for the small scraps of old paper dotted around the floor. I think someone tore up a book and then burned it. There was only one scrap large enough to decipher anything legible: “They have for adversaries the Satariel, or concealers, the Demons of absurdity, of intellectual inertia, and of Mystery.” That answers the question of what happened to the copy of The Key of Solomon that Gertrude bought. But if she only bought it to destroy it, why down there? There seemed no especial significance to the room, except that it contained some old wooden furniture.

(We don’t know if she had burned books down there before Gerry’s suggestion… but eh, it’s Gertrude, she just LIED TO HIS FACE about the tunnels under the Institute, it was probably a habit already.)

It makes sense for Gerry to think tunnels sound reasonable, since he had experience with them (he knew things about Smirke, he had been there during the rediscovery of the tunnels under Pall Mall in MAG035); it makes sense for Gertrude to prevent Leitner and Gerry from interacting, since Gerry had a Grudge (and beat him up without being convinced that it was him)… I’m just laughing so hard again that GERTRUDE did Gertrude things and just lied so blatantly and fiercely.

It sounds, after the rewinding, like Jon thinks that she was being truthful about her opinions on the impossibility of reversing the apocalypse, given what he told Martin afterwards – was he trying to use his powers to detect a lie? Personally, I’m not convinced that Gertrude thought that it couldn’t be undone, or that she didn’t have any idea for a back-up plan if necessary, since… anyway, she was shown lying. And even Elias seemed to think that she might have an idea against The Dark:

(MAG160, Jonah Magnus) “When I saw that she was making no preparations whatsoever to stop it, I realised she was putting into practice a theory – and one she couldn’t afford to be wrong. She was going to wait, and see if the unopposed ritual succeeded, or if it collapsed under its own strain, as mine had all those years ago. Knowing Gertrude, I’m sure she had a backup plan if she had miscalculated; but she had not. The ritual failed.”

(MAG161) GERTRUDE: If my guess is right, the Church’s ritual should be collapsing at any time now, so… immediately. LEITNER: And if you’re wrong? GERTRUDE: Then a bit of gas will be the least of our worries.

So they could still find something left shortly before her death, about the seed of an idea. Maybe not! I’d be fully satisfied if the tonality of the end of MAG162 is to be taken this way: that no, Gertrude didn’t think there was a way, but that Jon&Martin are leaving her shadow and pushing further, and will find something, since they are still alive and can still discover and invent things. It might not be what they expect, it might make things worse; it will still be them trying and doing something that Gertrude couldn’t have done.

- … Gertrude made excellent guesses as to how the apocalypse would probably unravel, since it’s… what Jon&Martin seem to be experiencing:

(MAG162) GERTRUDE: … If we are lucky, then that failure will also mean our deaths. GERRY: You don’t think they can reach us after death? GERTRUDE: I suppose that depends on your religious beliefs. [WOOD CREAKS] Personally, I suspect death puts us beyond their power; either because we find ourselves in… some kind of afterlife, or because we simply… “cease to be”. GERRY: … Yeah, I guess. GERTRUDE: And I am certain that either scenario is preferable to lingering in a world they control. [INHALE] They’re… already able to circumvent physics, and suspend natural laws. If one were to – genuinely – press through, I suspect they would rewrite them wholesale; most likely making them… utterly incomprehensible to any survivors. They, they might still need us human enough to be afraid, but beyond that… Let’s just surmise that petty rules like space or time would be unlikely to factor into the proceedings. They might even stop death entirely, deny us the one last escape; keeping us… alive and afraid – forever. […] Once an entity… fully manifested, I doubt it would be keen to relinquish its grip on reality. And as for those unlucky enough to survive its rule… I don’t think they would be in a state to do anything about it.

1°) Time and space have indeed been affected (the statement number cases are still a succession of #, the cabin stopped being neutral, Martin’s impression of Jon about the maps highlighted that space isn’t objective anymore either); humans are indeed kept alive without needing to eat, people outside seem to not be dying:

(Season 5 trailer) MARTIN: How are you feeling today? ARCHIVIST: [LONG INHALE] Define… “today”. [CREAKING SOUND] MARTIN: “How are you feeling in general”, then? ARCHIVIST: … Unchanged. [PAUSE] I don’t know if it’ll ever change again…! [MIRTHLESS CHUCKLE]

(MAG161) MARTIN: You should get some sleep. [CREAKING SOUND] ARCHIVIST: I… [SIGH] can’t. I–I–I can’t, I–I don’t think I do anymore… “Sleep”. [EXHALE] How long’s it been, now? MARTIN: I don’t know. It’s not like there are days to count anymore. All the clocks have stopped, and… [DISTANT HOWL] ARCHIVIST: Well, I haven’t yet. I get… tired, but it doesn’t feel the same. [WOODEN CREAKING SOUND] Probably for the best. Sleep doesn’t look… pleasant. MARTIN: Nnno, it’s… it’s not. […] What about food? ARCHIVIST: What about it? When’s the last time you thought to eat, o–or even felt hungry? MARTIN: [FAINT] What…? Wha… Uh… I don’t know. ARCHIVIST: No. Whatever is sustaining us now doesn’t need us to eat. MARTIN: That… that can’t be possible– ARCHIVIST: It’s a new world, Martin, the natural laws are whatever they want them to be. And I suspect they don’t much care to keep humanity fed and watered.

(MAG162) ARCHIVIST: “The land outside is warped and twisted by the touch of those things that feed on your suffering, and behind those rough wooden planks, [WOODEN CREAKING SOUND] it seems they cannot reach you. […] If you had need to eat, no doubt there would be food; if you had need to sleep, no doubt the beds would be welcoming. [WOODEN CREAKING SOUND] But you have need of neither […] Heavy drops fall, ice-cold and laced with salt; tears of voyeuristic delight from The Eyes that see and drink in all – it sinks into the dry cracked ground, and from the mud faces struggle to push themselves free and breathe. They cannot breach the surface, as the slick soil flows down their throats. […] Throw another log on the fire and curl up close. There are always more logs for the fire here.” […] MARTIN: And, I found some rope in the attic, and I packed that with the maps. ARCHIVIST: [CHUCKLING] Uh, Martin, I… MARTIN: No, no; I, I know what you’re going to say. [RUMMAGING] “What good are maps when the very Earth has…” and blah blah blah… ARCHIVIST: W– Uh, yes– MARTIN: But I’ve, I’ve packed them anyway because you never know. ARCHIVIST: Martin, I… MARTIN: I, I actually, eh! I actually found a stash of tea under the kitchen sink– ARCHIVIST: [FOND CHUCKLE] MARTIN: I–I realise, we don’t need to eat or – whatever, but, you know, that doesn’t mean that we won’t… ARCHIVIST: Yes – yes, yes…! It’s… alright. Alright.

The only thing Gertrude doesn’t seem to have factored in is about the Archivist themselves (“making [the law of physics]… utterly incomprehensible to any survivors. […] as for those unlucky enough to survive its rule… I don’t think they would be in a state to do anything about it.”): Jon was able to see through the thing-that-wasn’t-tea’s deceit in the trailer, and through the cabin’s in this episode – deconstructing the way the cabin was functioning… to free himself from its influence. That was a very Beholding thing, matching Jane Prentiss’s rant about The Eye (MAG032: “I see now why the hive hates you. You can see it and log it and note its every detail but you can never understand it. You rob it of its fear even though your weak words have no right to do so.”). There is at least one person who has the potential “to do [something] about it”, and probably more (what about Georgie? What about plain mundane non-main characters?).

- OUFFTTT, once again, that Gertrude was very conscious that the Powers subject people to a fate worse than death… and would still make the choice of binding Gerry to the book, even though she also knew from Eric that it was an awful state of (not-)being.

(MAG154) GERTRUDE: … What’s it like? Being… bound to the book. ERIC: I don’t know how to describe it…! Never was great with words. Bad. It feels… bad. All the time. I know that I’m not really “Eric”, I’m just a… memory someone wrote down. It hurts, most of the time. I don’t like it.

(MAG111) GERRY: It hurts. Being like this. And it’s not like any pain you can feel when you’re alive. It’s… it hurts to exist. To be dead and still here.

The big irony that Gerry should have died “naturally”, and was ready to cease to exist… and that Gertrude, of all people, forbade him to do so. Technically, there is still the mystery of why… Gertrude did it and left him behind in America, as Gerry pointed out:

(MAG111) GERRY: I think… I think I finally understand why she brought me back. I just don’t understand why she left me behind.

Was it to leave a trail of breadcrumbs for her successor? Was she fearing that, if she were to die (by Elias’s hand or someone else’s), Elias would get his hands on the page and destroy it if it was kept at the Institute? (And why did Gertrude allow Gerry so close to her while he was covered in eyes? She knew about Jonah’s trick already (Eric knew about it from when they were working together), and Elias knew that Gerry&Gertrude had worked together (as he was keeping MAG102’s statement and gave it to Jon only when Jon revealed that he now “knew” about their collaboration). Gertrude accused Gerry of taking risks, yet she took… so many, with him…)

- With the description of the people buried alive outside of the cabin, and Gerry&Gertrude’s talk about death being denied in the world of fear… that puts The End on the foreground again, too. Does that aspect of the blob of terrors get its fill with the agony of not dying, and with the fear of living without being able to die? Or did it draw the shorter straw in the new world?

- YYYYYYYYAAAYYYY, I was suspecting it but! Finally, confirmation about Gertrude’s use of the tape recorders, when she was and wasn’t using them! Jon had wondered for so long!

(MAG041) ARCHIVIST: Even when the police finally found Gertrude’s body, they took it, chair and all, as well as all the tapes. “Evidence”, they said, and they might be right, though I don’t envy them the task of going through all of them. There must have been hundreds. … No. I suppose in some way I do envy them. They are an insight into my predecessor’s time here; something I desperately want to know more about. Whatever’s on them, it must be important, because… either she chose to hide them down here or… whoever killed her did.

(MAG044) ARCHIVIST: I will admit to some disappointment it doesn’t address any of my more… pressing questions about Gertrude’s tapes. Why did she begin recording them, and why stop? If she’d been doing so right up until her death, she would have likely gotten through much of the archive […].

(MAG087) ARCHIVIST: I had assumed Gertrude had recorded to tape for a while and then stopped, but it seems she was recording them right up until the end. But if they did span decades of working at the Institute, why aren’t there more? And what decided which statements she transferred?

(MAG162) GERTRUDE: [CHUCKLES] Well. You’re not going to find many dark secrets in the stationery cupboard. [DRAWER OR DOOR CLOSES] GERRY: Just the recorded confession of your evil plans, then. [WOOD CREAKS] GERTRUDE: I’d be something of a fool to leave that one in the recorder. GERRY: I’ve never really seen you use it. GERTRUDE: Hm! It’s generally only for those statements I think might be useful to my successor. Or, the occasional interview. GERRY: So, do I get to hear them? GERTRUDE: Perhaps. If you live long enough.

That’s why there were technically so few, and so many of them seemed related to the rituals! It was supposed to be practical, useful information in case she were to die, she was actually much more prepared than Jon had assumed, they were supposed to be heard by her successor! (MAG137: “Anyway. Point is, you can probably discount The Slaughter. It had its chance.”)

- … Squint because, with how Gertrude had lied re:Leitner…

(MAG162) GERTRUDE: [CHUCKLES] Well. You’re not going to find many dark secrets in the stationery cupboard. […] Oh, and… Gerard. GERRY: Hm? [WOOD CREAKING] GERTRUDE: Don’t go rifling through my things in future. It could end… badly, for you.

… It definitely sounds like there was/is something in the stationery cupboard.

- First time we’re hearing Gerry alive, and first time hearing him while discussing with Gertrude… and almost the first time we hear Tim&Sasha together. Technically, they had already been heard together, although for a very brief moment, in MAG039 (when Sasha tackled him to save him), and last episode was the first time we heard them in the same room for more than a few seconds… AND I WOULD HAVE NEVER EXPECTED THEM TO BE HEARD TOGETHER, TALKING TOGETHER, TALKING ABOUT THEMSELVES AND EACH OTHER… ;___;

(Sasha/Tim was already one of my fav ships as a “potential” and “I like pain apparently??” since the end of season 1 and the fact that hey! last time Tim had seen Sasha before she got Not!Them’d, it was because she had saved his life! I’m fine!, I’ve been screaming for a week.)

- Context was apparently when Jon had very recently been promoted to Head Archivist, so second half of 2015 (since MAG123’s statement was handed on August 1st 2015 and Jon had mentioned that it was shortly after Gertrude’s disappearance, without any mention of his own tenure, so… he wasn’t in place by then), apparently shortly before MAG001 and his recordings since… Tim was apparently searching for a tape recorder?

(MAG162) [CLICK–] [RUMMAGING SOUNDS] TIM: [SIGH] SASHA: This it? TIM: Oh, thank God! I thought I was seeing things. SASHA: Glad I could help. TIM: I didn’t know he was actually gonna ask me to get it for him, I just… mentioned it ‘cause he was talking about recording. SASHA: Well, I’m sure he’s waiting…! TIM: Hm, he can wait a bit longer.

Which would put the scene in the storage room, given that Jon had already mentioned a few things about his very first tape recorder:

(SPIDERRRRSSSS.) So psssh, Jon, it wasn’t YOU who found it, but Tim, with Sasha’s help!

(And I’m SOBBING??? That Tim had spotted it first??? And had wanted to record Jon’s birthday party with one??? Although he would grow to hate the tape recorders so much by season 3???)

- I’m sobbing over the fact that there can only be ONE qualified Archives Team member per generation.

(MAG154) ERIC: So when I finished my Master’s in Library Science and saw a vacancy at the Magnus Institute, of all places, I jumped at the chance. The chance to pursue my passion and my career at the same time seemed like too good an opportunity to pass up! It was only an “assistant archivist” position, of course, but that was fine. A good entry position, I’d, “I’d soon move on,” I told myself. [HUFF] Yeah…

(MAG162) TIM: If only there had been someone more qualified…! [STAPLING] SASHA: Tim. TIM: Sasha. [RUSTLING OF PAPER] SASHA: It’s Elias’s decision. […] Mm, Tim… I’ve been in academia for what, ten years now? TIM: Mm. SASHA: I know how this goes! I didn’t get the job. If I kick up a stink, I’ll just get blackballed.

And at the same time, ezusdjezds. Sasha was a Disaster like Jon archiving-wise, uh.

(MAG162) SASHA: Fantastic! [RUSTLING OF PAPER] Good of you to volunteer to help me. TIM: Uh! I, er, didn’t actually… SASHA: Grab a stapler. TIM: [SIGH] … Fine. [STAPLING] What are we doing? [RUSTLING OF PAPER] SASHA: Jon’s been getting frustrated with all the loose statement sheets around. [STAPLING] I’m going box by box, collating and stapling them. And now? So are you.

Sasha STAPLING UNIQUE, ORIGINAL DOCUMENTS, INTRODUCING A NEW MATTER SUBJECTING THEM TO POTENTIAL RUST, and Jon “Put a Post-It on the tapes or something” were the Same Kind Of People.

- If Sasha has been in academia for ten years, it means she is at the very least 28 at this point (if she’s counting her studies as “academia” — even older if not). Tim had worked for five years after his own diploma, before joining the Institute around 2013, so… not canon-canon, but more tiny bits of proof leaning towards the idea that Old Millenial Jon was actually the Archives’ youngest <3

- I randomly love the little detail that Tim would blame Elias’s choice on sexism, because it does make a lot of sense given what he knew, because to his eyes (and Sasha’s), Elias had chosen an underqualified man over a qualified woman?

(MAG162) SASHA: It’s Elias’s decision. TIM: [SIGH] It’s some sexist bullshit, is what it is…! [RUSTLING OF PAPER] SASHA: I mean… probably.

And yet, no, it wasn’t sexism (or not only sexism), since Jonah had previously chosen Gertrude, as James Wright or as his predecessor. But Tim couldn’t know!

- I! Love! That Tim was the one to point out and insist that the situation is unfair to Sasha…

(MAG162) TIM: Look, it should have been you, and you just know if you had called him out, the little weasel would start talking about “traditions” and “the values of our esteemed founder, Jimmy Magma.” […] Ah! I’m serious though. You should say something.

Because it matches with what we saw of him, as someone who was very conscious of what is and isn’t a healthy workplace environment? (Like, yeah, he does make jokes, and there is the Infamous April Fool’s 2016, and Jon’s surprise birthday party! But when things are truly messed up, he points it out.)

(MAG048) ELIAS: Martin and Tim have both approached me. Apparently, you’ve been spying on them. ARCHIVIST: Spying on them…?! Of course not! No, it’s just… I– I’ve been… worried about their mental health following Prentiss’s attack, so I’ve been… keeping a closer eye on them than usual. ELIAS: Tim says you were watching his house. ARCHIVIST: Ah, it, w– that’s just not true. ELIAS: Well, what matters is your team thinks that it could be.

(MAG065) ARCHIVIST: Well, Elias clearly thought that– TIM: Elias should have fired you weeks ago. ARCHIVIST: What?! TIM: After everything you’ve pulled, you should be gone. But no. Instead, we all get to talk about how you’re feeling, because we’re worried about our stalker boss!

It showed that he worked for long (five years) in another company before The Magnus Institute?

- I really really hope that Elias was Watching and grinding his teeth because:

(MAG162) TIM: Look, it should have been you, and you just know if you had called him out, the little weasel would start talking about “traditions” and “the values of our esteemed founder, Jimmy Magma.” SASHA: [LAUGHS] [RUSTLING OF PAPER] TIM: Johnny… Magnum? SASHA: Closer. TIM: Jack Magnet. SASHA: That’s the one!

The lack of respect… Tim, I love you so much…

1°) The way Tim parodied Elias, it sounds like Elias was quite often raving about “traditions” and “the values of our esteemed founder”??? ELIAS………. (“I heard that Jonah Magnus had an eight pack.”)

2°) So, “little weasel” according to Tim and “weird little freak” according to Daisy in MAG082: is Elias… not very tall. (While Peter big–)

3°) I love that TMI Tim from The Magnus Institute (pretended that he?) couldn’t remember the name of the founder. Hey, at least, he didn’t suggest “Jonathan Magnus”.

4°) I LOVE HOW SASHA LAUGHED AND WAS HAVING FUN, TOO!!! Gods, Tim&Sasha were too damn cute together…

- Things that really, really didn’t age well: Tim mentioning murder.

(MAG162) TIM: Ah… yeah. [RUSTLING OF PAPER] … What if we kill him? SASHA: [CHUCKLING] What, Elias? [RUSTLING OF PAPER] TIM: No. Big Boss Sims! Cut the brakes on his office chair, no one would ever know! SASHA: [LAUGHS] TIM: Swap in a poisoned teabag, pin it on Martin – the perfect crime.

(MAG058) TIM: Look, I tried talking to Elias about it, but it doesn’t seem to do any good! MARTIN: He’s just under a lot of pressure. You know how messed up he’s been since Prentiss. TIM: How messed up he’s been?! MARTIN: Of course, I’m sorry – sorry, I didn’t mean that you weren’t, just– TIM: No! Because I didn’t start stalking my co-workers! MARTIN: Maybe try talking to him. TIM: Sure. Like he doesn’t already look at me like I’m a murderer.

(MAG065) ARCHIVIST: I said there’s no need for the attitude; I know things have been difficult, but– TIM: Oh? They have, have they? “Things” have been difficult. You spent a month staring at that footage, double-checking every moment, timing every tea break, looking at me like I somehow staged it – but no, you’re right! Things have been difficult. […] Shut up! Just stop talking. I’m sick of this, I’m sick of you! We didn’t kill Gertrude, and no one wants to kill you, you pompous idiot!

Lucky that this tape didn’t end up in Jon’s hands during season 2, uh… (But at the same time, it had the original Sasha’s voice on it… so same question as in MAG161: who had kept the tapes for so long, and had managed to avoid that Jon would listen to them before he understood what was happening with the Not!Them?)

- Something doesn’t work in Tim’s “Cut the brakes on his office chair”: Jon’s chair scrapes on the floor, we’ve heard it plenty! It doesn’t have wheels! So maybe it was the case back when they were in research? (Or Tim broke it between this recording and MAG001.)

- TIM IS A MAN OF CULTURE!

(MAG162) SASHA: [CHUCKLES] And how do you know that you won’t be the one that gets it? That boy makes a lot of tea. TIM: Oh, it’s okay, I spent the last few years building up an immunity to iocane powder. SASHA: Urgh! TIM: [PROUD SNORT]

And given Sasha’s reaction, she understood the Princess Bride reference!! (… And now that I think about it, their exchange had a bit of the Buttercup-Westley dynamic…)

- I’m not okay I’m very okay, Tim&Sasha… had canonically fucked…

(MAG162) TIM: I can’t believe you’d just abandon our intense [STAPLING] “Will-They-Won’t-They” storyline like that! [RUSTLING OF PAPER] SASHA: Hum… I’m pretty sure we established it’s very much “Won’t-They”. TIM: No-no-no-no. See, we had the ill-advised hook-up; the awkward aftermath; and the gradually rebuilt friendship. [STAPLING] But… that’s all season two stuff. We’ve got like five more seasons before we get the heart-warming epilogue that makes it canon~ [RUSTLING OF PAPER] SASHA: I know it’s hard to hear, mate! But you’re not the love interest. [STAPLING] I think you might be the character they drop after the pilot! TIM: Uh– W–Wow! [RUSTLING OF PAPER] You are vicious today! SASHA: Sorry, Tim! I can’t hear you over all this stapling.

And I LOVE what we’re seeing of their relationship? With Tim joking around and Sasha able to be savage but not cruel either – we could feel that they had that kind of relationship where they can be a bit pushy and mean as part of their inside jokes?

I was shipping them already!! I love what we’re hearing of their actual relationship, how comfortable they were around each other as friends-who-have-slept-together-in-the-past!! I totally get why Tim seemed to love Sasha gdi.

I love how we had tiny glimpses that Tim had lost someone precious with her, and now… we can feel how much it was the case:

(MAG026) ARCHIVIST: Are you sure you’re all right to do this now? You can take a few days off to recover if you need. SASHA: No, it’s fine. Tim’s getting me a coffee, and I’d rather get this down while it’s still fresh in my mind.

(MAG161) TIM: What, does someone need to change their password again! ARCHIVIST: I… what? TIM: [LAUGHS] ARCHIVIST: Sasha, have you been going through my computer– SASHA: Definitely not! No idea what he’s talking about. TIM: ‘Course not! SASHA & TIM: [LAUGHS]

(MAG039) SASHA: What is he doing? No, Tim, just run! Leave it alone! MARTIN: Oh no, no, no, no… SASHA: Turn around. Just turn around. MARTIN: Oh god. There she is, there she is. ARCHIVIST: [MUTTERING] There’s nothing we can do. SASHA: Ah, screw this. ARCHIVIST: What, Sasha, NO! [DOOR OPENS] SASHA: Tim, look out! […] ARCHIVIST: I need you to describe what’s going on. For the record. MARTIN: Ah, yeah. Sure. So, um, Sasha tackled Tim and there was kind of a struggle, but she made it out of the Archives. That, that was about two minutes ago and she’s gone to get help. P–probably. I mean, she, she couldn’t… she wouldn’t just run so…

(MAG065) TIM: And the worst thing? The actual worst thing is that no one here has my back. With any of it! Elias doesn’t care; Martin just wants a tea party; and Sasha… god, and you!

(MAG079) TIM: What the hell was that? MARTIN: It… er... It looked… It kinda looked… TIM: Oh don’t say it. MARTIN: It did, though, didn’t it? TIM: That wasn’t Sasha. MARTIN: No. No, no, it wasn’t. You don’t… you don’t think– TIM: He told her to go home. Like us! MARTIN: Yeah. TIM: And she did. […] MARTIN: I didn’t hear anything. Why, do you think it was the Sasha-thing? TIM: Will you shut up about that. It wasn’t anything like her.

(MAG082) MARTIN: Maybe they said something about Sasha, y’know? TIM: She’s dead, Martin. Come on! Even you’re not that blind. He got her too. MARTIN: Don’t you say that. Don’t you dare say that! […] I don’t know who that old man was, but Jon would never hurt Sasha. TIM: Fine. If it wasn’t him, it must have been that thing we saw. MARTIN: It was only for a second. And what with that weird finger guy, and the door… I mean, it d–didn’t look like her. TIM: It did. You know it did. Maybe it ate her. Maybe it was her. Maybe she was always some messed up mutant and we just never noticed. Could have been “Michael”. I mean, it basically told us it was working with Jon. When you disappear and there are more than three different ways you might be dea– … Look, I’m sorry. It’s just this place. [SIGH] Bad things happen and eventually you don’t come back. MARTIN: T–Tim… TIM: I’m going to go lie down.

(MAG086) TIM: Wait. Tell me about the two Sashas. […] What did she look like? MELANIE: What? Sorry? TIM: The first Sasha. What… What was she like? MELANIE: Uh, she was… um… I don’t, er… maybe I’m… I’m getting it wrong. I just… okay, I can’t, er– TIM: No. I… think I understand. MELANIE: Well, can you explain? TIM: … Who am I even sad for? MELANIE: I… I’m, I’m sorry… I don’t, er… TIM: Um… I’m, I’m going to lie down…

(MAG114) TIM: You know how long that thing pretended to be Sasha? ARCHIVIST: Oh god… TIM: And I had no idea? I knew Sasha for years, we… I don’t know Martin as well as I knew her; I barely know what Melanie and Basira look like, or that weird murder-cop.

When The Unknowing came, Tim only mentioned Danny and avenging him – he probably didn’t remember anything about the real Sasha, only that someone had been there and wasn’t anymore?

- Kudos to the soundscaping this ep, because the timing of when the stapling sounds happened was just On Point (hammering words in/adding a bit of a playfully threatening feeling).

- ………….. Sasha had considered leaving…………… even before MAG001…

(MAG162) TIM: So, what are you gonna do? SASHA: … I don’t know, really. Might just get another job. [RUSTLING OF PAPER] TIM: What…? Seriously, just jump ship? SASHA: Yeah, I guess so! I mean… [STAPLING] There’s not much out there at the moment, but I’ve got a few alerts set up. […] I guess it’s just… I just don’t have anything keeping me here. You’ve got your brother… TIM: … yeah… SASHA: … Sorry. And, Martin can’t go anywhere that’ll look too hard at his CV. […] Don’t worry, I just– I mean… I kind of just… ended up here. And I like it! Li–liked it. But if I’m bashing my head against the glass ceiling, it’s time to go. TIM: Well… [RUSTLING OF PAPER] I’ll miss you. SASHA: Yeah. [STAPLING] You will.

1°) In canon, Sasha had been the first one to mention the option of quitting:

(MAG026) SASHA: I should really quit, you know. We, we all should. I don’t think this a normal job. I, I don’t think this is a safe job. ARCHIVIST: You’re probably right. Do you want to quit? SASHA: No. I’m just… I’m just too damned curious, I suppose. You? ARCHIVIST: No. Whatever’s going on, I… need to know.

… and rejected it for the same reasons as Jon. But it’s interesting that with Tim, she identified that she didn’t have anything to make her stay back then, while we know of Tim’s and Martin’s reasons. Jon said that Sasha had always had an interest in the paranormal:

(MAG048) ARCHIVIST: Of course, it is becoming rapidly apparent in my investigation that I can trust nobody. But of all of them, Sasha seemed the least suspicious. I can’t find any evidence she ever even met Gertrude, and her working here seems the natural progression of her lifelong interest in the paranormal. She’s been doing her work with the same diligence as before the Prentiss incident and, indeed, of all of them, seems to have been the least affected.

… So was that part the Not!Them rewriting her history to “make sense” of Sasha working at the Institute, or something genuinely pre-existent?

2°) When it comes to Tim: he had pointed out that he had grown “comfortable” in research and that Danny had stopped being so much of a priority (MAG104), I… wonder if Sasha had anything to do with that. Did Tim accept Jon’s offer to transfer to the Archives because he knew that Sasha would go there…?

3°) I’m sad again for Martin, since Sasha pointed out that leaving the Institute wasn’t really an option for him. And remembering Martin’s wording at the end of season 1:

(MAG039) ARCHIVIST: Why are you here Martin? MARTIN: Well, well, Prentiss is out there and you can’t run so– ARCHIVIST: I mean at the Archive in general. Why haven’t you quit? MARTIN: Are you giving me my review now? ARCHIVIST: No… We’re clearly doing a whole heart-to-heart thing and, truth be told, the question’s been bothering me. You’ve been living in the Archives for four months, constant threat of… this. Sleeping with a fire extinguisher and a corkscrew. Even you must be aware that that’s not normal for an archiving job? Why are you still here? MARTIN: [CONSIDERING] Don’t really know. I just am. It didn’t feel right to just leave. I’ve typed up a few resignation letters, but I just couldn’t bring myself to hand them in. I’m trapped here. It’s like I can’t… move on and the more I struggle, the more I’m stuck.

It feels like, technically, Martin constructed his own trap through his lies. (Though, at this point he could have left the Institute and changed his CV, claiming an experience he now indeed had and scraping the fake diplomas. But then, the Institute isn’t seen favourably, so…)

- I REALLY WOULD HAVE NEVER EXPECTED TO LEARN that Sasha knew about Danny, oh GODS…

(MAG162) SASHA: [SIGH] … I guess it’s just… I just don’t have anything keeping me here. You’ve got your brother… TIM: … yeah… SASHA: … Sorry.

Tim’s small broken voice when she reminded him of it ;_;

And in the same way, I! Can’t! Believe! That! Martin! Had! Told! Tim! About! His! CV!

(MAG162) SASHA: … Sorry. And, Martin can’t go anywhere that’ll look too hard at his CV. TIM: … Wait. How do you know about that? SASHA: It’s all on the system. Our digital security is shocking, by the way. Besides, it’s not even a good lie. [RUSTLING OF PAPER] TIM: Okay, but seriously, you cannot let Martin know. He’ll think I told you, and I swore to keep schtum. SASHA: Hey. Don’t worry, I just– I mean… I kind of just… ended up here.

1°) It’s absolutely hilarious that disaster!paranoid!stalker!season2!Jon… turned out to have been the last one of the original team to find out about Martin’s secret.

(MAG042) ARCHIVIST: There are a few pieces I feel could almost have been affecting if his style wasn’t so obviously enamoured with Keats, but there is an unfinished letter, addressed to his mother in Devon, in which he mentions that he is worried about “the others finding out I’ve been lying”. It may be nothing, some… inconsequential deception or other – after all, it is ostensibly written to his mother – but if it was actually to be sent to someone else… I will keep my eye on Martin.

(MAG056) MARTIN: I… … I lied on my CV. ARCHIVIST: … What? MARTIN: I don’t have a Master’s in parapsychology, I don’t even have a degree. When I was 17, my mom, she… had… she had some problems, and I ended up dropping out of school, t– trying to support us. I tried everything, but no one was hiring. So I… I just kinda started to lie on my applications, sending them out to just about anywhere. For some reason, my lie about parapsychology got me an interview with Elias and, and then a job here. M– most of my employment details are made up, I’m only 29! ARCHIVIST: Right, I… uh… I believe you! MARTIN: Why are you smiling…? ARCHIVIST: Yes, I just… hum… I won’t mention it to Elias. Just between us. MARTIN: So you… don’t… mind? ARCHIVIST: To be quite honest, Martin, I’m… I’m really rather relieved.

Sasha made her own research by hacking through the Institute system (pfTTR, take that Elias), and probably crosschecked Martin’s claims?, while Tim… knew because Martin had confided in him. Meanwhile, Jon spiralled around a misunderstanding, until he confronted Martin quite violently.

2°) I’m ;; emotional over the fact that Tim & Sasha didn’t know that the other knew, but kept Martin’s secret, even from Jon. Sasha had been a bit savage towards Martin in season 1:

(MAG026) SASHA: Right. Well, I’m sure you know I was sceptical about how dangerous this Jane Prentiss was when you first suggested Martin stay in the archive. I mean, it’s not that I didn’t believe him about what happened, it just seemed… Well, Martin is a great researcher, but his self-preservation instincts are not the strongest, and to be frank I thought that if this Prentiss were a danger everyone seemed to think, then he’d almost certainly be dead.

… Or at least condescending, but the fact that she knew about his CV is adding another dimension to these words: she knew he didn’t have the qualifications, and had still avoided to put the blame on his lack of competency (“Martin is a great researcher”). Tim and Sasha were casually protecting Martin in their own way, uh…

3°) Ouffftttt, it’s highlighting something mean about Martin&Tim’s dynamic… Tim had acknowledged that he was closer to Sasha than Martin:

Martin had told Tim about his secret (the lies on his CV)… yet Tim hadn’t told him about Danny, which Martin would learn about in MAG104, while Sasha… knew. Had she discovered it by herself (police reports regarding the disappearance of Tim’s brother), or did Tim tell her? At least, they shared that secret.

- Tim was incredibly SAVAGE about Jon in this episode, but technically… he had still accepted Jon’s offer to go to the Archives – you wouldn’t do that for someone you truly despise and hate? But ;; that there was such heavy resentment towards the fact that Sasha had been robbed of the position… It’s fair, and he identified the genuine culprit (Elias), but wooooft, those were very harsh words towards Jon, still. (And at the same time: fair, when we remember what Jon was like in season 1.)

- I… love how that tape contributed both to Sasha and Tim as characters? It was a nice move to have them pointing out people’s misconceptions or “flattening” of their personalities, in a moment that was “outside” of the show’s formula (season 1, until the climax, was solely statements, work-related discussions being overall accidental):

(MAG162) TIM: Oh, for god’s sake! [RUSTLING OF PAPER] “Oh, Tim’s so hard to talk to, seriously, he won’t stop making jokes and references, not like Sasha!” They’ve got no idea. SASHA: And they never will. TIM: Seriously, though. [STAPLING] Everyone thinks you’re just this “reliable down-to-earth nerd”… [RUSTLING OF PAPER] SASHA: And what makes you think they’re wrong? TIM: So what? Actually I’m the one who doesn’t get to see the real you? [STAPLING] SASHA: No such thing. TIM: As what? SASHA: [SCOFF] A “real you”. TIM: [GROAN] SASHA: I don’t think so, at least. It’s all just masks. TIM: Alright, Stanislavski. SASHA: You know what I mean. TIM: You really believe that? [RUSTLING OF PAPER] SASHA: Kind of! I mean… TIM: [CHUCKLE] SASHA: … Who knows why we do what we do? TIM: I do. SASHA: No. [STAPLING] All you know is what your brain does to justify what you do. [RUSTLING OF PAPER] It’s no more “reason” than the face you put on for Jon. [STAPLING] The only real you is the actions you take. TIM: Hey! I’ll have you know, I have a rich inner life. SASHA: How nice for you. [RUSTLING OF PAPER] But hurry up with your outer one: you’re falling behind, and I’m not saving you any staples.

(And it was! So appropriate, to have Sasha point out that Gertrude was faking the old senile woman persona in the same exchange.)

1°) I love that Tim was aware that he was perceived as the One Making Jokes (and self-conscious about it? Or aware that some people were finding it off-putting and an obstacle to forming a meaningful bond with him?), while Sasha showed that she was a bit meaner than we had been led to assume (and indeed, “reliable” was the perfect way to describe her in season 1… through Jon’s eyes).

2°) Tim is a theatre kid confirmed, he knows his classics. (Stanislavski)

3°) Okay, so obviously, Sasha’s speech about how people appear/who they are, and the jokes about being forgotten are AOUCH considering what happened with the Not!Them:

(MAG162) TIM: What possible reason could she have for being criminally incompetent in a manky old archive? SASHA: No idea. And honestly, it kind of worries me. [RUSTLING OF PAPER] TIM: Well… Tell you what. If you get eaten alive [STAPLING] by improperly filed statements? Me and Martin will avenge you. SASHA: Myeah, aren’t you sweet. TIM: I mean it! We’ll burn this place to the ground, it’ll be all like, “Sashaaa! Saaashaaaa!” SASHA: And what about Jon? [RUSTLING OF PAPER] TIM: Well! “Given the incoherence of this statement, I find it hard to believe it ever occurred!” SASHA: [LAUGHS] TIM: “In fact, based on the evidence, I find it highly unlikely this Sasha ever even existed at all.” SASHA: No! You took it too far. I’m unforgettable!

But the first part of her argument reminded me mostly of The Web: how actions and intentions often don’t match, what is the essence of oneself amongst what is influencing you. The idea that intentions are posterior to action was very reminiscent of how Trevor had described The Web’s effects on him (MAG056), so… Mm.

I wonder if there is something about the fact that… all this irony about Sasha getting Stranger’d and forgotten, about Jon wishing for “quiet” and that the others would “go away”, is not… fabricated somehow? I don’t think the tapes could have been tampered with; it’s mainly that there was so much dramatic irony that it feels like Sasha’s fate had been engineered, somehow, to transform her words from the past into a sort of dramatic self-fulfilling prediction…? I mean, The Web was interested in story-telling (MAG123), and Sasha got attacked when coming near a Web artefact…

- I!! Love!! That Sasha!! Had been able to see through Gertrude!

(MAG162) TIM: Yeah, yeah! … I still can’t believe Gertrude was allowed to let this place get into such a state! SASHA: Mm. [STAPLING] I just want to know why. TIM: What do you mean, “why”? [RUSTLING OF PAPER] You saw her, she’s like a hundred years old and more cardigan than woman! She just started to lose it. Sad, but it happens. SASHA: You never talked to her, did you? [STAPLING] TIM: Well, I mean… I must’ve, at some point. SASHA: Eh! You’d remember. [RUSTLING OF PAPER] TIM: Why? What was she like? SASHA: Stone. Cold. Bitch. TIM: Sasha! SASHA: And sharper than you. [STAPLING] No way this is accidental. TIM: [CHUCKLING] Oh, yeah, this is all a big geriatric conspiracy…! [SILENCE] Wait, seriously? SASHA: Mm–hmm.

(“Stone cold bitch” is… indeed the best way to describe Gertrude.)

Sasha had also been the first one to point out how shady Elias could be:

(MAG039) SASHA: … Did I ever tell you I first joined the Institute as a practical researcher? I had to analyse and investigate all the stuff in here. Take notes after sleeping in the rusted chair, write in the memory book, all that sort of thing. I transferred after three months. Would’ve quit, but couldn’t afford to back then. Never understood why they keep this stuff secret. I mean, we’ve, we’ve enough here to send any sceptic packing, but it’s just locked away. I… I asked Elias about it once, but he just muttered something about funding and mission statements. He’s good at changing the subject, isn’t he?

She was clever! Elias presented her death as a (useful) accident in MAG160, but it still feels like he casually did his best to make sure she wouldn’t stay around for long during the worms attack – how fast would she have understood about The Eye…?

- CURIOUSLY, Sasha told Tim that he would have remembered if he had spoken with Gertrude… but Jon did, and didn’t seem to feel much about it:

(MAG043) ARCHIVIST: I only ever spoke to Gertrude once or twice during her time as archivist. I… I was very new. I don’t remember what her voice sounded like.

… is there something that made Jon forget a few things, or already not pay attention to some things back before he become the Archivist…? (Since we already had the thing about Jon forgetting the ice cream outing last episode…)

- Tim blamed Sasha being passed over for a promotion on sexism, Elias mentioned that the fact Jon had been marked by The Web made him pick him… but technically, why not Tim, who had already encountered The Stranger?

(MAG104) TIM: You were watching then? ELIAS: Most of it. TIM: Surprised you didn’t know it already. That’s your thing, isn’t it? ELIAS: I knew there was some trauma that drew you to us, but I can’t say I ever thought to look much deeper. An oversight, perhaps, but I’m looking now.

… Was it because, unlike Jon who had nobody by the beginning of season 1, Tim&Sasha… were at least close to each other?

- More pressing concerns: did Tim&Sasha ever bang in the Archives.

(MAG162) TIM: [CHUCKLES] Alright. He fires you because of all the drugs and the wild orgies on Archive property. [RUSTLING OF PAPER] SASHA: Yeah, that’s fair! Now: get back to work.

Did orgies happen in the Archives.

- … That’s a LOT of references to fire in only two episodes, and four tapes which had been sent to Jon pre-apocalypse by someone/something who isn’t necessarily Elias.

(MAG161) TIM: … Oh, goodness! [SHAKES A BOX OF MATCHES] A source of ignition? In the Archives? […] Oh? Woops! [A MATCH IS LIT] Sorry; my hand slipped. And again. [CRACKLE OF A BIRTHDAY CANDLE WICK] And again. And… a couple more times, here – I’m so clumsy today; that is a lot of fire! ARCHIVIST: I’m really not comfortable with– SASHA: So blow them out, then. ARCHIVIST: Oh. [FIRE CRACKLING] … Right, yeah–

(MAG162) TIM: Well… Tell you what. If you get eaten alive [STAPLING] by improperly filed statements? Me and Martin will avenge you. SASHA: Myeah, aren’t you sweet. TIM: I mean it! We’ll burn this place to the ground, it’ll be all like, “Sashaaa! Saaashaaaa!”

So. Really really unlikely that it was Elias sending them to “gloat”, as Martin assumed, since it feels too pointed. I’m still banking on The Web, but not necessarily as an indication of what Martin&Jon should do – more like a rubbing-in-your-face that they had all the keys back then, that Jon had been given the lighter, that the spiders had showed him in season 2 the gas main that Leitner had moved… and that they didn’t do anything. Or, burning the Archives is a necessarily step in The Web’s plan, The Web is trying to push into that direction by using Jon&Martin’s resentment towards Elias, and burning the Archives (if it doesn’t end up burning Jon-the-Archive himself) will make things worse somehow.

(Given how burning Gerry’s page had been so difficult (because knowledge and because the things Gerry could still tell him) and painful (he was sobbing in pain when he finally did it) for Jon in MAG117, I wonder how much worse it would be to burn The Eye’s Archives?)

And now, confirmation that Jon still has the lighter on him, it had been a while! And we might be getting closer to an answer about it, since… it was Martin mentioning it – Martin had been the one to receive that delivery.

(MAG035) MARTIN: I’m sorry, are you two meant– BREEKON: Won’t take up your time. HOPE: Just got a delivery. MARTIN: Look, you really can’t actually– BREEKON: Package for Jonathan Sims. HOPE: Says right here. MARTIN: Well, I don’t really know where he– HOPE: We’ll just leave it with you. BREEKON: Be sure he gets it.

(MAG036) TIM: Oh, ah, nothing urgent, um, it’s just Elias was asking a couple questions about the delivery. […] Um, apparently Martin, uh, took delivery of a couple of items last week addressed to you. Did he not mention it? ARCHIVIST: No, he… Oh, yes, actually. I completely forgot. He said he put it in my desk draw, hold on. [SOUND OF PACKAGE BEING RETRIEVED AND OPENED] TIM: Er, what is it? ARCHIVIST: A lighter. An old Zippo. TIM: You smoke? ARCHIVIST: No. And I don’t allow ignition sources in my archive! TIM: Okay. Is there anything unusual about it? ARCHIVIST: Not really. Just a sort of spider web design on the front. Doesn’t mean anything to me. You?

(MAG037) ARCHIVIST: I just want a record. To make sure I have something I can check. MARTIN: Okay, fine. There were two delivery men. They were big, and they spoke with cockney accents that might have been fake, and they delivered a package for you. I don’t remember anything else about what they looked like. ARCHIVIST: Nothing at all? MARTIN: [EXASPERATED] They looked normal. Like you’d expect. They looked like two, huge, cockney delivery men. I don’t know what else you want? ARCHIVIST: What about the table? MARTIN: I didn’t see the table. I guess Rosie must have signed for it. I mean, it’s her office on the way to Artefact Storage, that makes sense.

(MAG039) ELIAS: Because there isn’t an actual fire. SASHA: Right, right. Can we set it off manually? I think Jon’s got a lighter somewhere. ELIAS: He’s not smoking again, is he?

(MAG091) DAISY: One wallet, brown leather, no cash. One packet cigarettes, Silk Cut. One lighter, gold, spiderweb design.

(MAG111) GERRY: Nice lighter. You a spider freak, then? ARCHIVIST: What? Oh! Er, no. I–I never really, uh… I never really thought of it. I–I’m Jon. I’m with the Magnus Institute.

(MAG136) DAISY: Spider’s sneaky like that. [PAUSE] Like that lighter you’re always using. Where’d you get that? ARCHIVIST: Mm. [STATIC] Good point. We should keep our eyes open. Anyway, how’s Basira doing?

(MAG162) MARTIN: [INHALE] Okay… [SIGH] You said this place, the–the cabin was… [WOODEN CREAKING SOUND] It, it’s feeding on us, right? ARCHIVIST: Yes… MARTIN: … So should we… destroy it, before we go? [WOODEN CREAKING SOUND, BUT LOUDER AND CONFRONTATIONAL] [DISTANT RUMBLE OF THUNDER] ARCHIVIST: I honestly don’t know if we can. MARTIN: Hm. ARCHIVIST: Besides, there’s… far worse out there. Better to try and avoid it, I think. MARTIN: We’re not even gonna try? We, we’ve got your lighter, maybe we could just– ARCHIVIST: We can’t fight the world, Martin. MARTIN: [AMUSED DEFIANT HUFF] Says you.

(This is how Web-Desolation!Martin can still win. ARSOOOOOOOON.)

Re: Jon’s lighter, and Jon constantly forgetting about it, I… am now also considering another option about what is making him forget that it has a spider design on it, that he got it in dubious circumstances (Breekon&Hope delivering it), and that it had stuck with him without Jon ever investigating about it.

What if it’s not The Web making him forget that he has it, but Beholding?

Making Jon not pay attention to it could absolutely be a Spider thing, we had a prime example with Gregory Cox (MAG123: “I haven’t given the name of this mystery client because to be honest, Greg’s never told me. I’ve asked him plenty of times, but whenever I do, he gives me this… surprised look, insists he’s told me before, and then immediately forgets and changes the subject.”), and that was my only supposition until now… but technically, we’ve already seen Beholding trying to prevent Jon from accessing information that he could use against it, too?

(MAG154) ARCHIVIST: I went back to Eli– er, Peter’s office. To that box of tapes; started rifling through. And I started to try and pay attention to the ones I… wasn’t drawn to. The tapes I instinctively wanted to discard. [SIGH] There was one, this one, that my hand… pulled back from. I–I dropped it, twice, when I went to pick it up. Even now, I’m… [AUDIBLE FORCED SMILE] struggling to press play…! I am the avatar of Awful Knowledge And Revealed Secrets… so what does it not want me to know…?

The lighter could have been The Web keeping tabs on Jon and sometimes influencing him when it needed to by making itself forgotten… But it could also be that The Web sent the lighter, that it was there, that it stuck with Jon, that it was supposed to help him burn the Archives, that Beholding couldn’t get Jon to separate from it, but could still make sure that baby!Beholdingavatar!Jon was unable to pay attention to it and making his attention slip over it like water…? (Am still banking on Web-Web doing Web stuff but. Beholding is technically an option as well.)

- Other thing that these recordings all share: a tape recorder being around and acknowledged / alluded to. In MAG161, both the birthday party and Gertrude&Leitner’s exchange had been conscious, willing recording: Tim was recording the scene as a memory, Gertrude had been recording a message to her successor in case things went badly.

In MAG162, recorders were there and acknowledged… but it’s a bit less clear whether they were supposed to be turned on or not.

(MAG162) [CLICK–] [RUMMAGING SOUNDS] [BOTTLES CLINKING] [PLASTIC RATTLING] GERRY: Hm? GERTRUDE: Find anything [ITEM FALLING ON THE GROUND] interesting– GERRY: Oh…! GERTRUDE: –back there? [DOOR CLOSES] GERRY: Yeah, sorry, I was just, hum… yeah. GERTRUDE: Curiosity is a very dangerous trait in our line of work, Gerard. GERRY: So is ignorance. GERTRUDE: [CHUCKLES] Well. You’re not going to find many dark secrets in the stationery cupboard. [DRAWER OR DOOR CLOSES] GERRY: Just the recorded confession of your evil plans, then. [WOOD CREAKS] GERTRUDE: I’d be something of a fool to leave that one in the recorder. GERRY: I’ve never really seen you use it. GERTRUDE: Hm! It’s generally only for those statements I think might be useful to my successor. Or, the occasional interview.

In both cases: the recorder was there. Gerry found it while inspecting Gertrude’s private things (and it was already recording before we heard him manipulating something plastic, most likely tape boxes); Sasha helped Tim to find (again) the tape recorder he was searching for for Jon. But in both cases, nobody mentioned they were being recorded, or that they had accidentally clicked it on. Were they turned on by accident, or were they already “autonomous” (/controlled by something else), leading to the recording? Tim had trouble finding the tape recorder again – had it… disappeared for a while? It’s still unclear whether or not they were already acting up on their own at the time…

(Something else these four tapes have in common is that the Archives were hosting… “unprofessional” activities putting a risk to documents? Jon’s birthday party (Tim even had matches), Gertrude ready to pour petrol in the Archives, and here: Gerry riffling through Gertrude’s possessions, Sasha stapling documents.)

- Overall, I loved loved loved the “statement”: it was so eerie, cruel and poetic? So insidiously cutting under the soft voice? And redfiojr I’m so happy and so mad about the fact that the cabin wasn’t neutral anymore and was feeding on Jon&Martin, because it was so obvious in retrospect! Jon spitting that there was no “comfort” anymore in the new world, but very adamant that they were “safe” and should stay there!

(MAG161) MARTIN: O–kay, we’ll just file that under… ominous, for now. … We seem safe enough in here, at least. ARCHIVIST: I suppose so. MARTIN: Bit of a hideaway? ARCHIVIST: Or a prison. MARTIN: Uh, yes. Still: better than outside. […] ARCHIVIST: It hurts. MARTIN: I know. ARCHIVIST: … I need time. MARTIN: I know. But we can’t stay in this cabin forever…! [DISTANT HOWL] ARCHIVIST: Why not? It, it’s quiet here, an–and I have you…! […] MARTIN: Well, that as may be, we can’t just stay here forever. ARCHIVIST: What could possibly be out there that you want to see? MARTIN: A way to stop this, a way to turn the world back! ARCHIVIST: [HINT OF A DISHEARTENED SMILE] … Do you really think there is one? [WOODEN CREAKING SOUND] MARTIN: Well, if there is, it’s not in here, is it? ARCHIVIST: It’s so… It’s so loud, out there? The agony, the–the terror, I can see it all so much more clearly…! MARTIN: I’m sorry. ARCHIVIST: No, it’s– [SIGH] I love you, I just… I need more time. [SILENCE] MARTIN: It’s alright. [RUSTLING OF CLOTHES] [CREAKING SOUND] ARCHIVIST: [SOFT EXHALE] MARTIN: It’s alright, I’m good at waiting.

The creaking sounds were overly present – it was because the house was a character by itself! And indeed, it was curious that Martin felt like he was “visiting” Jon, and not like… they were living in the same tiny space?

(MAG162) ARCHIVIST: … Wha…? [STATIC REACHING A PEAK] … “There is a place, deep in the heart of Fear, where you trap yourself and claim that it is safety. [STATIC DECREASES] It was once a cabin, and professes still to be such, but as with all in this new world that promises respite… it is a trap. […] If you had need to eat, no doubt there would be food; if you had need to sleep, no doubt the beds would be welcoming. […] Look closer at the rough planks that make this cabin, and see that they are warmer, softer and more yielding than the hard timber they present. Are the dimensions of this place quite what they were when you stayed here before The Change…? [WOODEN CREAKING SOUND] Or are the walls thicker, the doors heavier when they close. [LONG WOODEN CREAKING SOUND] Where the curtains always stained that dull maroon? Or has the dust of the horrific world they keep at bay dyed them so. The one you love is always near, [WOODEN CREAKING SOUND] so close that refuge sometimes feels a prison. And yet your voice does not echo when you call to them; and they find they sometimes cannot hear it.”

[…] MARTIN: And, I found some rope in the attic, and I packed that with the maps. […] I, I actually, eh! I actually found a stash of tea under the kitchen sink–

I have questions about that cabin, though, because it now feels like it was supposed to be a full house even before the Change, given the bedS (we all know that Jon&Martin used to only use one anyway during the three weeks honeymoon, uh.) and the mention of the attic. Daisy, what the heck was your safehouse, it wasn’t a tiny thing.

- Personally, cabin felt like a mix of Corruption, Buried, Lonely to me /o/

- I wasn’t expecting so much Jon&Martin, AND YET, I’m delighted:

(MAG161) ARCHIVIST: No, it’s– [SIGH] I love you, I just… I need more time. [SILENCE] MARTIN: It’s alright.

(MAG162) ARCHIVIST: The screams may linger on the distant breeze, and your eye may wander beyond the curtains from time to time, but you and the one you love are, it seems… safe. […] There within the thing that pretends to be a cabin is the one you love. You hold each other, whisper words of reassurance, but the place knows this comfort to be a lie, and laces upon it instead the awful fear of losing what you have. […] It will not let you feel the warmth of joy that this love may claim to gift – it is only a mouldy treasure to be clung to; something to fear the loss of as you hold it so tight that it withers, and warps. […] The one you love is always near, [WOODEN CREAKING SOUND] so close that refuge sometimes feels a prison. And yet your voice does not echo when you call to them; and they find they sometimes cannot hear it. […] “Stay!” the cabin says. [THUNDER CLAPPING] “Stay within my false defences; cling so close to what you desperately wish to save, and live in shaking fear of the things beyond that may take it from you. Throw another log on the fire and curl up close. There are always more logs for the fire here.””

The Eye and the cabin, sharing a bag of popcorn while Jon&Martin were being pda for an undetermined infinite amount of time.

(Yessss that one of Jon’s fears, used against him, was his fear of losing Martin… ;_;)

- SUPER GLAD that alright, they’re leaving the cabin already, Jon was in such a state partially because of supernatural influence, and snapped out of it already. It… wasn’t making me super comfortable re:Martin, because it was putting him back in the position of the caretaker of a moody, depressed person, trying to please/assuage Jon while doomed to fail, without leaving much space to Martin as a character for himself. While he was already beaming again at the end of this episode, and showing his competences for himself, so yay!

I’m surprised that they’re already going on the move – there are still 38 episodes in the season, they already have a goal (going back to the Institute, finding Elias), what will happen after they do?

- … So, I’m guessing those were the people that lived in the village:

(MAG162) ARCHIVIST: “Outside, it is raining. Heavy drops fall, ice-cold and laced with salt; tears of voyeuristic delight from The Eyes that see and drink in all – it sinks into the dry cracked ground, and from the mud faces struggle to push themselves free and breathe. [EVIL MOO / BÂÂ IN THE DISTANCE] [WOODEN CREAKING SOUND] They cannot breach the surface, as the slick soil flows down their throats.”

;; Kinda hope that we’re not heading towards “everyone is dead(/worse) or nerfed except for avatars and the MCs, and it will be like that until the end”…

(See, the themes of isolation don’t hit me badly with the current events? But the idea that Everyone Can Suffer And (Not!)Die Except A Selected Few, Mainly These Able-Bodied Male Main Characters Who Have The Tools To Suffer Less is a bit heavier for me.)

- … This bit:

(MAG162) ARCHIVIST: “Something moves outside, struggling to crawl upon a hundred reaching grasping hands. It shudders, and grips the earth, pulling itself along as nails rip free and skin scrapes loose. It is afraid of what it has become, and where it might be going.”

Reminded me of Daisy? It might have been an evil cow, but “it is afraid of what is had become” really reminds me of Daisy…

- Sound-setting wise, I wondered at some point if we weren’t precisely witnessing a reverse-engineering of the apocalypse, since… Jon was “saying” a statement talking to himself in second person (like Jonah’s in MAG160), and we began to hear the thunder in the background (just like in MAG160). Very eerie, very “oh no, something big is happening” moment.

I… am not sure re:what happened with Jon and the “statement”, but it reminded me of the Coffin and his understanding of The Lonely:

(MAG132) ARCHIVIST: Come on… Come on, where I… DAISY: Jon? ARCHIVIST: … Come on… [STATIC] [SHAKY BREATHING] DAISY: Jon? ARCHIVIST: I know… DAISY: Th–the way out? ARCHIVIST: No… I know where we are! There isn’t no out, not here. This is… this is forever deep below creation. Where the weight of existence bears down… This is The Buried, and we are alive… There isn’t even an up. … Oh god… What have I done! What have I done…

(MAG159) PETER: [DISTORTED] Just go. ARCHIVIST: Make me. … Unless you can’t. The Lonely and The Eye aren’t too far apart, are they? Not really. What good’s being alone if you don’t know how alone you truly are. Which means… well, I think you’re worried. You know I’ll find him eventually, and you know I can find you. […] [STATIC] … Or perhaps you could answer some questions. PETER: [DISTORTED] … What? ARCHIVIST: [STATIC INCREASES] I wouldn’t try to leave if I were you. I can See you now. I can find you wherever you go. PETER: Fine! It was just a thought. [STATIC DECREASES] So leave.

Being overwhelmed by a power, until his Beholding-alignment shines through and leads to an understanding of what is happening, how the Fear is operating. So I would assume that the same happened: Jon was subjected to the cabin’s influence, and finally understood what it was doing, which allowed him to gain the upper hand against it, like it had with Peter.

Interesting that the tape recorder which invited itself… chose that moment to record him, although we had mentions that Jon had listened to the tapes we hear many times before. As if the tape recorder knew that Something More would happen this time – or it caused it? (Jon had been able to feel his anchor in the Coffin once Martin had left the tape recorders around, as if they were amplifying his powers…)

- … I’m mostly concerned about why The Eye wanted Jon to come out of it because uh, Jon transforming is… not a good sign, and The Eye seems plenty satisfied with the new world… but also, has been characterised by a constant craving for more:

(MAG120) ELIAS: The Ceaseless Watcher of all that is, and all that was; the voracious, infinite hunger that tears at his soul, invoking him to discover, to observe, to experience all and everything and forever. It stares into him, and it stares out of him, and he is falling into the devouring eternity of its pupil. He wants to cry out in horror, but he cannot. He. is. whole.

(MAG162) ARCHIVIST: “Outside, it is raining. Heavy drops fall, ice-cold and laced with salt; tears of voyeuristic delight from The Eyes that see and drink in all – it sinks into the dry cracked ground, and from the mud faces struggle to push themselves free and breathe. […] This place wishes to be our tomb. But The Eye does not wish that. No. [STATIC RISES] The Eye wishes instead that it be my chrysalis. [WOODEN CREAKING SOUND] It is time that I emerge…” [STATIC REACHING A PEAK]

So. What just happened / what is meant to happen to Jon? Is there a distinction between the “you”, “us”, “I”, is this Jon “becoming” in the same vein that Elias was pushing for back in the days:

(MAG116) ELIAS: I have been doing my best to prepare you, Jon, to See. You should hopefully have it a bit easier than the others. ARCHIVIST: Another of my… powers? ELIAS: More… an aspect of your becoming. DAISY: You don’t say. ARCHIVIST: Er… right.

(Lucky that “chrysalis” means “butterfly”, because, hum, if it had been about a moth… We already had Jack Barnabas’s “I just couldn’t avoid being drawn in, like a moth to the flame.” in MAG067…)

- Also surprised by Jon’s sudden burst of “hatred” because? It would be absolutely understandable given what he did to them (+ Elias was the last human to see Sasha, in MAG039…), but it still sounded a bit uncharacteristic from Jon, and very sudden:

(MAG162) ARCHIVIST: No, no, lo–look… I, I–I was listening, and I–I was filled with this… hatred. This anger; I–I wanted to leave, and hunt down Elias, a–and…!

And I’m reminded of The Web pulling someone in a direction, and letting them rationalise why they would want to do this?

(Also, sob about Jon going back to instinctive “Elias” here. His complains about Martin using “Elias” really was the outlier in MAG161, because he was being overall insufferable, uh.)

- BIG new thing is what Jon described with the tape recorder:

(MAG162) ARCHIVIST: This cabin. [WOODEN CREAKING SOUND] It’s not right. And, when I thought that, I–I felt… It, it all poured out of me down… into the tape. MARTIN: [SIGH] ARCHIVIST: A–a–an–and it… felt good. It–it felt… right. MARTIN: Okay. [BREATHES IN] So you’re recording again? ARCHIVIST: I might need to. If we’re going to make it…! […] MARTIN: You’re… taking the recorder? ARCHIVIST: Uh, just in case I need to… vent. Again, it… [INHALE] it helps. MARTIN: [INHALE] Okay… [SIGH]

… So it feels like Jon just fed the recorder with an excess. What are they and what is Jon feeding, exactly…? (Interesting that unlike Beholding, who used to suck out energy from him in season 3 when he was reading or taking too many statements… “pouring” himself to the tape recorder made him active and functioning.)

(Also, “to vent”: Jon, you’ve been using the tape recorders as your personal therapists for three full seasons, by now.)

- Martin…

(MAG162) MARTIN: What happened? The tapes, were you– [STATIC DECREASES] ARCHIVIST: I–I was listening, and it… it was the one with… Tim an–and Sasha, uh, where they… MARTIN: Yeah, yeah. … Yeah.

… has listened to these tapes too, uh ;_;

- This was the “Characters Don’t Have Any Respect For Posh!Jon” episode, while! Technically, Tim&Martin had each already done impressions before:

(MAG162) TIM: Well! “Given the incoherence of this statement, I find it hard to believe it ever occurred!” SASHA: [LAUGHS] TIM: “In fact, based on the evidence, I find it highly unlikely this Sasha ever even existed at all.”

(MAG039) TIM: … still working? Ah, okay. Test, test. What are you doing on the floor? Huh. [IMITATES ARCHIVIST VOICE] “Statement of Joe Spooky, regarding sinister happenings in the downtown old–”

(MAG117) MARTIN: I know, I know it’s not exactly intricate, but… it felt good, weaving my own little web. OH, oh Christ, I hope Jon doesn’t actually listen to these. “Good lord, is Martin becoming some sort of spider person?” No, Jon, it’s an expression, chill out.

(MAG162) MARTIN: No, no; I, I know what you’re going to say. [RUMMAGING] “What good are maps when the very Earth has…” and blah blah blah…

Gods, I love these idiots.

- Surprised that “tea” is making its comeback! Is it linked to Jon’s state of mind or Martin’s? Is there a trick or… is it plain, mundane tea, which will remain actual tea because Martin isn’t clinging to it as comfort but just as a nice thing that he is allowed to enjoy – and Jon doing the same by extension?

(MAG162) TIM: Swap in a poisoned teabag, pin it on Martin – the perfect crime. SASHA: [CHUCKLES] And how do you know that you won’t be the one that gets it? That boy makes a lot of tea.

(MAG045) MARTIN: Hey, I-just-wanted-to-check-if-you-wanted-a-cup-of-tea? ARCHIVIST: Aaah… […] MARTIN: Right, right… D– did you want that tea? ARCHIVIST: Nnno. Thank you, Martin.

(MAG065) TIM: And the worst thing? The actual worst thing is that no one here has my back. With any of it! Elias doesn’t care; Martin just wants a tea party; and Sasha… god, and you!

(MAG069) MARTIN: … Look. Jon… when was the last time we all just… talked? Just talked, without all of this– ARCHIVIST: Thank you for the tea, Martin. MARTIN: … Oookay. Fine. [DOOR OPENS] He’s not wrong, you know. [DOOR CLOSES] ARCHIVIST: … [SIGH] [WEAKLY] I know. Statement of… Darren Harlow… [SIGH] [FIRMER] Statement of Darren Harlow regarding a failed psychology experiment at the University of Surrey.

(MAG110) BASIRA: Look, Martin. I know you care. I know you do. But caring isn’t enough. You can’t just stand next to someone with a cup of tea and hope everything’s gonna be alright. MARTIN: That's. not. fair. You don’t even know me. BASIRA: Prove it. We need to do something. Because if we just let him– MARTIN: Oh, h–hi, hey, hey Melanie! I, I, c–can I get you – a – cup – of – tea?

(MAG116) MARTIN: What, I’ll sit around drinking tea until the world ends?! Or– you, you know, it doesn’t. BASIRA: We hope.

(MAG117) MARTIN: Anyway. I guess I’m just… sick of sitting on my hands, drinking tea and hoping everyone’s okay. This way I finally get to do something. It’s gonna hurt, but… I’m ready. And I want to. Also, I get to burn some stuff, so that cool!

(MAG118) MARTIN: So what? I don’t get to be angry? I don’t get to burn things? Just, just run around, making tea, when everyone else gets to actually– have– feelings? ELIAS: Please get to the point, Martin.

(MAG122) BASIRA: Anything else? ARCHIVIST: … Water, please. BASIRA: Sure thing. [DOOR OPENS] ARCHIVIST: … Oh, or a–a cup of t– [CLOSES DOOR] ARCHIVIST: … [SIGH] [VERY QUIETLY] Okay…

(MAG137) ARCHIVIST: Everyone else is… running towards something, or running away, and I… [SIGH] I don’t know what I’m doing. [PAUSE] [SIGH] I’m just tired. Think I might go lie down for a while. Get a cup of tea [HUFF]

(Season 5 trailer) MARTIN: I brought you some tea…! ARCHIVIST: No you didn’t. MARTIN: Uh… What? Uh, y–yes I did! [NERVOUS CHUCKLE] ARCHIVIST: We ran out of tea the day before the Change, you… said the little shop in the village didn’t have any more. Ergo… that isn’t tea. MARTIN: What? No, of course it’s tea, I– [SOMETHING THAT IS NOT TEA SCUTTLES AWAY] AH, AH! AH! [THE MUG SHATTERS OF THE FLOOR] MARTIN: OH! Woah…! Oh… Wha… [HIGH-PITCHED] What, but I–, I–I made that, if– I… Wh… I thought it was– ARCHIVIST: I’m sorry, Martin. MARTIN: [PANTS] ARCHIVIST: [WITH AN EDGE] Things don’t work like that anymore…! MARTIN: Like what?! ARCHIVIST: Like normal. This is no longer a world where you can trust…! MARTIN: What, t–tea?! ARCHIVIST: … Comfort.

(MAG162) MARTIN: I, I actually, eh! I actually found a stash of tea under the kitchen sink– ARCHIVIST: [FOND CHUCKLE] MARTIN: I–I realise, we don’t need to eat or – whatever, but, you know, that doesn’t mean that we won’t… ARCHIVIST: Yes – yes, yes…! It’s… alright. Alright.

(Because if the idea is that, okay yeah, things are terrible, and drinking tea won’t help but EH, they can still have nice things if they decide to, yesss.) (If it’s not: serve it to Elias.)

- I still can’t believe how IN LOVE Jon and Martin sounded in their complicity/marvel of each other:

(MAG162) ARCHIVIST: No, no, lo–look… I, I–I was listening, and I–I was filled with this… hatred. This anger; I–I wanted to leave, and hunt down Elias, a–and…! MARTIN: W–wow, okay… […] ARCHIVIST: Martin… It’s going to be a hard journey. MARTIN: [RELIEVED EXHALE] ARCHIVIST: One– MARTIN: Yeah, yeah, yeah– ARCHIVIST: –in which we… MARTIN: –so, I’ve actually had a couple of bags packed for a while, now! [HEAVY ITEM DROPPED] ARCHIVIST: Oh! MARTIN: And, I found some rope in the attic, and I packed that with the maps. ARCHIVIST: [CHUCKLING] Uh, Martin, I… MARTIN: No, no; I, I know what you’re going to say. [RUMMAGING] “What good are maps when the very Earth has…” and blah blah blah… ARCHIVIST: W– Uh, yes– MARTIN: But I’ve, I’ve packed them anyway because you never know. ARCHIVIST: Martin, I… MARTIN: I, I actually, eh! I actually found a stash of tea under the kitchen sink– ARCHIVIST: [FOND CHUCKLE] MARTIN: I–I realise, we don’t need to eat or – whatever, but, you know, that doesn’t mean that we won’t… ARCHIVIST: Yes – yes, yes…! It’s… alright. Alright. [MOVEMENT] MARTIN: … We’ve got this. [SOUNDS OF PACKING UP AND RUMMAGING] ARCHIVIST: [FOND] Apparently so…! […] We can’t fight the world, Martin. MARTIN: [AMUSED DEFIANT HUFF] Says you. ARCHIVIST: [WITH A SMILE] Let’s go.

Jon wants to murder Elias, and Martin finds it HOT. Martin is competent, was only waiting for Jon as he said, and ready to fight the world, and Jon finds it HOT.

Bonus for arsonist!Martin on the loose:

Martin was quick to understand that the cabin was “feeding” on them, although Jon hadn’t mentioned it (just that it wasn’t right and didn’t want them to leave). So… some of Martin’s studies from season 4 showing off, uh? He’s grown to understand the Fears a bit, I’m really curious about how it will help him/them this season.

MAG163’s title makes me think of Buried, naturally, but mmMMm. Got also reminded of MAG007, which reminded me of “Joseph Rayner” and the fact that Jon mentioned that he wasn’t sure that it had been the Usual Dark!Rayner, in MAG140? Anyway, still expecting to follow Jon&Martin but the title could also work really well if we were to get a peek of how Basira and/or Georgie&Melanie are faring…

#long post/#the magnus archives #tma liveblog #tma season 5 #mag162 #tma spoilers/#that was WEIRDLY HOPEFUL and now next ep in 18 min i'm fear.

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janekfan · 4 years

Text

Cage

https://archiveofourown.org/works/26130172

Jon jerked awake, uncomfortably soaked with sweat and trembling fit to shake apart, each thought swirling into wisps of cloud between his fingers even as he tried in vain to catch them.

He couldn’t breathe.

Not with his chest so unbelievably tight, caught in a vise; there was no room. No room. There was no room.

He ached badly. The caress of the bed linens against his skin was like a brush fire and his head pounded in tandem with his pulse as it hammered loudly through his blood and Jon couldn’t hear anything but a high pitched ringing between his ears. Disoriented, the plaintive sob grated on his sore throat, swallowed up by the deep dark so black he couldn’t see, and sudden tears slipped down his face, over the bridge of his nose where he curled up against the pillow, so hot. So hot. Nerves set ablaze, the roadmap of his veins spreading the pain like an injection of battery acid.

A nightmare. That’s what this was. It had to be.

Please. Just a nightmare or else he was surely dying.

Please. It hurts.

It hurts.

And then there was nothing.

Somehow, Jon slept through his alarm for the first time in his working memory, waking groggy and aching, shaky legs barely able to hold his weight as he made his way slowly to the kitchen. He was late for work. He was never late for work.

Two firsts in one morning.

The texts were. Worried? Martin was worried. Wondering. Wondering where he was. If he was okay.

He was fine. Just. Tired. Headachy. A bit rundown, that’s all. He couldn’t recall with much clarity, but it felt like he hadn’t slept well.

When he looked down at his hands, he found himself gripping the sink for dear life. The only thing keeping him up. Ridiculous. Of course not. He was fine. Jon drank down a full glass of water and forced a piece of dry toast on himself before dragging what felt like someone else’s body to the train.

It was nearing noon when Jon was able to drop into his desk chair, covering his eyes when the lamp was enough to make them hurt and the footsteps hurrying their way towards him inspired a sinking dread in his stomach.

“Jon!”

“Keep it down, Martin.” Abandoning all pretense, Jon flicked the light back off, unwilling to worsen what was already an awful ache, an awful, unrelenting pressure in the back of his skull.

“Oh, s’sorry, of course.” A flash of guilt passed too quickly, as did the moment in time he would have taken to apologize for snapping if his thoughts weren’t processing so slowly. “I was worried. You look. Jon,” and there was no mistaking the worry there. “You don’t look well.” Just as Tim decided to pass by for a friendly jab.

“Long night at the bar, boss?” What was once an endearment now sounded like a curse and Jon repressed the physical wince though it was nothing he didn't deserve.

“Leave off, Tim.” Exasperated, Martin pushed him on his way and opened the door to his office a little wider, speaking softly for his benefit. Kind. Always so kind and Jon didn’t deserve an ounce of it, not after the wrongs he’d done. “You look like you could use a day at home.” The fragment of concerned warmth coming off of Martin was inebriating, like he’d been socked in the jaw with a sudden and excessive want.

Or, like he was seconds away from begging for any and all scraps of affection, of human connection. A touch, another kind word, heaven forbid a genuine smile. He was just so. So.

Lonely.

“Just a bit of a headache.” He swallowed with difficulty, a little nauseated, trying to put forth even a quarter of the effort Martin deserved. “Th’thank you, Martin.” He gave him a wan smile, an olive branch, maybe he could begin repairing what he’d so thoroughly broken, and was almost hysterically pleased when he received a grin in return.

“Alright. I’ll bring you some tea--”

“You don’t have--!” Jon scrambled for words, afraid he’d been found out and Martin felt some sort of obligation, or, or.

“And paracetamol.” He looked back before leaving. “Because I want to.”

The hot drink and medicine revitalized him just a bit, enough to complete a couple hours work before he began to flag. Seconds dawdled. Minutes crawled. The next hour overstayed an incredibly rude and malingering welcome and Jon’s cheek met the blotter long before he would be able to skive off in good conscience. He felt strange. Cold and clammy but uncomfortably warm. His head was pounding in earnest now, an aura taking up residence in the corner of each eye, tunneling his vision and dizzying him despite his not moving. Thankfully, he’d been left alone for the most part.

Luckily.

Because something was wrong.

Wrong.

He felt wrong.

Frustrated, because there was a better word for how unbalanced, off center? he was and he couldn’t think of it.

Time was an unexpectedly slippery thing and as each moment wheeled by Jon became more and more confused, more exhausted, to the point where gulping for air seemed useless because none of it seemed to reach where he desperately needed it to go. When he lifted his head, his vision went spotty, blacking out for a terrifying split second before he laid it back down, tears welling in his eyes.

Why was he like this? So irrational, emotional.

Overwrought. When he finally.

Finally realized what this was.

Finally realized what he'd allowed to happen.

He was sick.

He’d come to work sick, contagious. He wasn’t supposed to be around people when he was sick; it was irresponsible and selfish to put others at risk. How could. After everything he’d already done to them, and now. And now he’s done this.

He would keep them away. He could do that. He was really good at that. Even when he wasn’t capable of anything else.

Breathing harshly through his nose, he forced himself to his feet, catching himself on his desk, a filing cabinet, the wall, in order to make it to the door and depress the lock. He would keep Martin well. And Tim. And stay here until it was safe to go, to go home but the idea of sitting back in the chair was too much. He needed. Needed to lay down. Soon. Now. Just as his knees gave way at the back of his office, behind the desk, and Jon let himself sink to the floor, the inside of him trying its best to claw its way out, and curling into his guilt when the pain and heat and cold crested over him like a smothering wave and he whimpered, pressing his hot cheek against the cool linoleum and shivering.

He wanted to go home.

Crawl into bed and hide from everything.

Isolate himself like he was supposed to so he wouldn’t make anyone else sick. But he couldn’t keep lashes seemingly painted with lead apart. Could hardly remember why he should keep alone in the first place, what he was supposed to be doing. Let himself fade. Until all the misery fell away into the background and he let the rest go.

“Jon?” He jerked awake, biting down on the groan all the aches and pains returning with a sudden vengeance pulled from between his teeth. It took too long to remember where he was, only able to focus on the sticky sweat all over his skin, tacky where his face rested on the floor, his damp clothes and the chill buried in the center of him. “Jon?”

Martin.

“Y’yes?” He flopped to his back, the room split into a double image, and he closed his eyes against it, breath shallow. Panicking a little when he heard him check the handle.

“Are you alright?”

“Mm. Yes.” Forced himself to inject annoyance into his tone. Irritability. He was irritable and wanted Martin to leave him alone. Definitely didn't want any more tea or to see his face creased in something like concern or, or god forbid, he (please) touch him. Because if he came in here he would fall ill. “I’m doing.” Speaking was so hard, tongue clumsy in his mouth. “Important work.”

“With the door locked?”

“In an effort to limit disruption, Martin.” Breathe. Breathe. “If you would, please.”

“Yes, Jon.” Martin was upset with him. That was good. Good because he would stay on the other side of the door. He couldn’t get sick on the other side of the door and Jon let himself go at the sound of retreating footsteps. He’d gotten good at crying silently and did so now. His grandmother didn’t like being disturbed and he could hear her scolding voice explaining that young men weren’t supposed to cry. He doubted men his age were supposed to either. But he was scared. So scared. There were wicked things hiding in the corners, in the shadows, at the outermost edges of his unsteady vision. Flickering in the dark and he curled into himself, covering his head with his arms and pressing against the boxes containing the multitude statements that brought all these fears into being. But he would be safe here. With his eyes closed and hidden among his cardboard walls. Safe. If he was quiet. If he was quiet he would be safe and he clapped a hand over his mouth to stifle his silence.

He wanted Martin to come back. To beg him not to leave him all alone. To, to bring him tea. Would feel nice. Martin. Kind. Soft voice that didn’t hurt. Soft hands. Soft touch. Soft.

Jon burned.

Those shapes shifted, transformed into dangerous things. Mean things. Clinging in the corners of the room and coaxing fire from the very walls, unfurling wings of bone and ash and death.

It licked at his body, his skin, his clothes, and hurt, hurt, hurt.

He couldn't breathe.

Couldn't move.

Could only be consumed.

Eaten away to nothing by the creatures in the corners.

“Jon?” Martin was worried. He hadn’t seen Jon since he came in late (already cause for alarm), and his office was locked. “I’m sorry. I know you’re working, but can we talk?” He knocked again, listening hard, and was again met with only eerie quiet. No statements being read or tape recorders running. “Jon?” It was probably nothing. He’d stepped out. He’d gone home. He was ignoring him because Martin was a constant aggravation. But it didn’t seem right. Tim had a skeleton key from a while back. When things were simpler, and he found Tim in the breakroom, poking away at a game on his phone. “I need the key.”

“To what?”

“Jon’s office.”

“Ohh.” He raised an eyebrow, smirking in that knowing way of his and Martin felt himself go bright red.

“He’s not answering the door.”

“So?” He went back to his screen. “Why even bother, Martin? He’s probably just hiding from us because he thinks we’re after him or some other nonsense.”

“Please, Tim?” At least he turned back, knitting his brows at Martin’s persistence. “I think. I think something is really wrong.” With a put upon sigh, he pocketed his phone and gestured for Martin to lead the way.

It was calm and still and for a moment Martin thought Tim was right, that he’d gone home and just hadn’t been noticed.

“Jon?” It felt like he had to whisper, keep the dark undisturbed and was about ready to let it go when he heard something shift in the back of the room. He looked at Tim who just shrugged, leaving to go stand in the hall with his arms crossed. As his eyes adjusted to the dim, he caught sight of Jon’s jumper on the floor, it moved, there was a hiss of pain. “Jon?”

Dusty light from the hall filtered and fell across the figure curled up on the floor, skin ashen and pale despite his dark complexion, face dotted with sweat and dark swathes of charcoal drawn thick beneath half lidded eyes. Each breath was labored, too quick, too shallow, too uneven and Jon moaned, a pitiful, pained thing, struggling to put more room between them though he was already boxed into a corner.

“Jon,” Martin reached out, pulled back when he reacted in fear, glancing around at things only he could see.

“Nnnoo.” Voice thin and thready, barely audible as he panted, letting his temple fall back to the floor. “Mmartin. No…”

Jon, you’re not well.” He glanced back at Tim who at least looked somewhat worried now. “You need help.”

“No…” Fading in and out, chills made his thin frame shake, glassy eyes round and searching in the dark but not truly seeing him. “No. You.” He groaned, shaking his head back and forth. “Can’t. Can’t be here…”

“If this is some spooky shit, you should have told someone sooner.” Tim was angry and Jon winced when he spoke harshly, squeezing his eyes shut and ducking his chin.

“S’sick.”

“Yeah, I see that.”

"Tim, I think, I think he's just confused. He looks feverish."

“C’can’t.” Desperately, Jon was trying to make them understand something but he didn’t seem to have the wherewithal to elaborate, barely even conscious as it was and still distracted by whatever it was he saw in the dark. "M's'sorry. Sorry."

“I don’t understand.” Martin drew closer, pushing forward despite Jon’s frantic warnings. “It. It’s alright, I need to see.” To his horror, his breath hitched and tears rolled down his face. “Hush, it’s alright.”

“No, no. No.” He flinched, closed his eyes against Martin’s form inching closer to his tightly coiled body. “Can’t.” Wretched, small. Pleading and begging them to leave him here as if that were ever an option in any reality, let alone the one Jon was currently trapped in.

“S’alright, love.” He ignored Tim’s snort of derisive laughter.

“Not. It’s not.” Martin hushed him gently, pushing away the strands of sweat damp hair out of his face and keeping his expression and tone forcibly even despite the railroad spike of anxiety slamming straight into his stomach. Jon was burning up under his hand, hot as anything, and he stroked his head when he began to cry in earnest, speaking low.

“It’s alright, I promise, everything is alright. Let me help.” He glanced back at Tim and even through the intentional indifference could see worry in the way he bit his lip. “Can you get the paracetamol from my desk? Some water? Please.” Limp and exhausted, Jon struggled to focus, to move away, eyes fever glazed and vacant beneath damp lashes fluttering like a moth’s wing. “Shh, you’re alright.” Martin knuckled away the tears still tracing paths across Jon’s skin, shifting his shoulders despite delirious protests and rambling into his lap and folding his trembling, frozen hands into his own. “You’re alright.” He wished for a thermometer, Jon was like a brand even through both sets of clothing, but he was responsive if upset, and he’d give him another dose and see where they were in an hour or so.

“I’ll stick around for a while. Be in the office.”

“Thank you, Tim.” Martin knew a bit about what it took for him to make that decision and appreciated it, offering up a grateful smile before crushing up the pills in the bottom of Jon’s mug from earlier and filling it halfway with water. “Sit up for me, Jon. Just, there you are. Drink this down, good, good.” Praising and soft, getting as much water into him as he would take between his fits of pleading.

“Martin.” He sounded miserably undone, coughing weakly against the back of his hand.

“Still me.” Dark brown eyes, pupils blown wide in the low light, stared up at him though Martin couldn’t quite catch them. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“Martin.” He stroked light fingertips over his eyelids in response, continuing his murmuring and reassurances, at a loss in this situation where he found himself on the floor of his boss’ office with said boss half in his lap and now dead asleep. Martin let himself lean back against the shelves, listening to the slight wheeze on his breath and shoving the worry away. The medicine would work and then Martin would get him home and into bed.

“What…” Martin put down the supplementals he’d been leafing through to palm Jon’s forehead. Still high. But Jon seemed at least a bit more with it, voice stronger if still tired. “Martin?”

“How’re you feeling?”

“T’terrible?” He hadn’t seemed to realize where he was, still drifting in and out. “Gotta...go.” He sat up on his own, wavering, though Martin hovered, ready to catch him if he began to go down. “Can’t be here.” And he stood so quickly, Martin almost didn’t grab him in time when he started to collapse, blood draining from his already pallid face.

“Whoa! Okay, easy, easy, easy. Sit down.”

“S’sorry.” Bare more than an exhale, Martin was sure it was reflexive. Jon couldn’t possibly know what was going on. Not really, in the state he was in.

“I’m taking you home with me.”

“What?” Jon blinked, not really tracking or Martin was sure he’d argue harder.

“I’d hazard a guess you have few, if any supplies.” Getting him to the beat up car Martin still drove was fairly simple with Tim’s reluctant help, but even he couldn't hide his concern at the heat coming off him, going so far as to reach across and buckle him in when it became abundantly clear he didn’t have the coordination.

“Text me if you need anything.”

“Thanks, Tim.”

39.7.

Martin insisted he get a read on him first thing after he helped him stagger into the flat. Jon refused to think about how strong he was, how he probably could have carried him the whole way and blamed the fever for his inappropriate thoughts. It was bad enough Martin felt he had to supervise him.

If Jon wasn’t so very poorly, he was sure he’d be feeling much more embarrassed but as it stood, he was strung out and aching, so cold he couldn't stop shaking. Probably due for more medicine and speak of the devil, Martin handed him a cup of tea and some lemsip, setting a bottle of some sports drink he didn’t recognize on the table beside him and sitting across from him. Jon felt ridiculous dressed in Martin’s spare and well worn clothes, bundled up in a soft, plush blanket that made him feel better somehow though there was no reason for it to do so. Dutifully, he took his medicine and then hid behind the mug because he just knew Martin was going to ask and Jon had a feeling that he’d done something wrong.

“Why did you feel like you couldn’t tell us?” Martin probably thought it was because he felt better than them, better than the help they could provide. Or that he didn't trust them. He knew Tim felt that way. But really. Really. He didn’t deserve it. He’d treated them with suspicion instead of colleagues and friends and on top of that he was infectious, dirty, and needed to be isolated until he wouldn’t make people sick. They deserved at least that much from him and he couldn’t even accomplish that. So he tried again to explain.

“I’m. Sick.” Completely at a loss, and suddenly, Jon felt ashamed. It was becoming clear that his behavior had been abnormal and that at his most feverish he’d gone to harmful extremes. Martin probably thought he was a fool but he just waited patiently, adding quietly,

“I’m not angry or upset with you.”

Because he was such a good person.

“My grandmother.” Would be. Would be furious. Jon paused to turn his head away from Martin and cough harshly into his elbow. He was fumbling with words, worried that he would think. Well he wasn’t sure what he would think. “Wasn’t. I had to stay--couldn’t get anyone else sick.”

“Oh, Jon.”

“No! No, I. I thought. Thought that was what everyone did.” Martin sipped his own tea and Jon copied him. “I.” He withdrew into his borrowed blanket, weary and sick. “I’m sorry. I. Should have known better.” Martin looked upset. It wasn’t the right thing to say but he didn’t know what the right thing was and it hurt to think but thankfully he took pity on Jon’s poor aching self.

“You should get some sleep.” Jon felt small being tucked in but with being so tired it was a comfort when Martin let his hand linger on his forehead, lifted his glasses away to fold them aside and he relaxed.

“Thank you, Martin.”

Tim would laugh if he knew what Martin was thinking about. An even tinier Jon curled up in a dark room, sick and alone, and expected to stay away from everyone while he was ill. How lonely, how sad, to be isolated from any comfort when you were at your most vulnerable. No wonder Jon was so confused at the Institute today and Martin’s imagination had no trouble running wild with different worst case scenarios, so much so that he put aside the poetry he’d been attempting to work on in favor of turning in early.

Something snapped Martin awake and when he looked at his bedside clock the red numbers glared 329 and he almost turned back over to go back to sleep when he remembered who was sleeping on his couch and stepped out to check on him.

A whimper. In the pitch black of the room. He should have left a light on for him.

“H’hello?” He sounded frightened, shaky and his inquiry cracked around what sounded like tears.

“Jon?”

“Martin?” He sniffed suspiciously, voice thick and choked. “Wh’where are we?”

“You don’t remember?” He flicked the hall switch, letting enough light into the sitting room to see by and he met Jon’s wide, damp eyes, filled to the brim with fear, and he shook his head, bottom lip visibly trembling. “You’re at my flat, on the couch.”

“Wh’what?” Martin sat beside him where he was folded up onto one cushion, fever flush high in his face and a thin sheen of sweat glistening on his exposed skin. He should have known. Fevers were often worse at night.

“You’ve not been feeling well.”

“Feel.” His throat clicked with a heavy swallow, and when he closed his eyes, tears slipped down his hollow cheeks. “Feel. S’s’strange.” Martin helped him hold the bottle of sports drink, encouraging him to take at least a third and some more medicine, and when he couldn’t cajole anything else out of him, he let Jon’s forehead tipped against his chest, the heat billowing off him intense. Martin cupped the back of his head, let him cling, breath shuddering. “Thought. I thought I saw.” He broke off with a whine, burying his face in Martin and he stroked his back, counting his ribs without meaning too.

“That should help.” Jon breathed unevenly, coming down from his nightmare or panic, the whole of him shaking with chills. “You’ll feel better when your fever isn’t so high.”

“S’sorry.”

“So you keep saying.”

“You’ve d’done so much.” He nuzzled Martin’s tee, curling into him, and it was so Not Jon he thought he might combust because it was adorable, even if he was sick. “And I’ve. I’m.” Now wasn’t the time for such serious conversations. Not when Jon could barely string two words together and was still seeing things that frightened him in the shadows.

“It’s alright.” It wasn’t a hard decision to make. “Up you come, now.” And this time Martin did swing him up into his arms, tucking him close, the gasp of surprise just a puff of warm air against his throat. No wonder this illness was hitting him so hard, he weighed far too little and Martin knew he wasn’t sleeping well. Eating well. He clung to him, dizzied and reeling.

“Head hurts…ev’rythin’ hurts…”

“I know.” He tucked Jon into bed, brushing a stray strand of hair behind his ear before climbing in beside him.

“You’ll...get sick.”

“I’ll be fine.” When he tugged him close there was no resistance, all pretense and worry stripped away with exhaustion and fatigue, and Jon melted willingly into the comfort he offered, too feverish, too tired, too frightened.

“Mm.”

“Sleep, Jon. Tomorrow, everything will be better.”

It wouldn’t. But the lie was enough for now.

#TMAHCWeek #TMAHC #jonmartin #mutual pining #sickfic #fever #past child neglect #jon sims #martin blackwood #tim stoker #exhaustion #the magnus archives #tma

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backofthebookshelf · 5 years

Text

catharsis

(who, me? having a feeling?) (I think this is technically #GiveMartinHugs2k19 don’t worry there will be more and it will be even softer but this is where I’m at right now)

Martin wakes up in the middle of the night now. Not every night, but often enough, at two or three in the morning. If he's been having nightmares he doesn't remember them, he just finds himself lying there fully conscious and with a terrible lonely ache where his heart ought to be.

It isn't fair, he thinks, it was supposed to be better.

And it is better, really, in every way. When he'd found out the real details of Peter Lukas's plan he'd given up on it for good, gone down to the Archives expecting to be turned away and instead welcomed with -- well, with open arms, quite literally, Daisy wrapping him in an unexpected hug and then Jon clinging to him like a drowning man clutching at a life preserver, like someone welcoming back a loved one they thought was dead and gone. Like he'd really meant it when he'd stopped Martin in the hallway and said I miss you.

They'd talked, at last. At least he knows he can't lie to Jon (not that he ever wanted to, but that they both know he can't, that's worth something) and that means he can't lie to himself, either. Jon had kissed him, the greatest shock of his life, and he hadn't even apologized for it after. And now he gets to go home with Jon at the end of the day, gets to kiss him, gets to fall asleep in his arms, things he used to hate himself for even fantasizing about. And still, he wakes up cold and lonely sometimes. Too often.

The first time it had happened he'd looked over at Jon, peacefully asleep and wrapped in a cocoon of blankets, and had dragged himself to the sofa rather than risk waking him with his restlessness. The hurt, worried look Jon kept giving him in the morning was unbearable, though, so now he stays in bed, holding very still. He watches Jon from several inches away, the steady rise and fall of his chest, the flickering of his eyes behind their lids as he dreams. Martin reaches out as if to touch but his fingers hover a breath away from Jon's skin, a hesitation he never has during the day.

Jon's eyes flicker open and Martin jerks back, too fast to be anything other than guilty. "Martin?" Jon murmurs softly, and he reaches a hand out from his blanket nest. Martin presses his hand to his side and holds his breath.

It's too dark to see much of anything but of course Jon knows anyway; his fingers settle on Martin's jaw and with his thumb he rubs away the tears gathering at the corner of his eye. Martin's breath catches in his throat, too loud, as Jon gently strokes his cheekbone.

"Come here," Jon says.

And Martin does, closing the distance between them with a lunge and burying his face in Jon's chest. It ought to feel ridiculous, Jon is so much smaller than him and bony with it, but his arms go around Martin's shoulders and his fingers soothe through Martin's hair and it's nothing but comfort, safe and warm. Martin is crying suddenly, like he hasn't in months, not since Elias tried to destroy him to stop him burning statements. When he hadn't cried when Jon died, when his mother died, he thought maybe he'd run through all his tears and there would never be any more, but now he can't stop, choking on sobs that feel like they're coming from that bottomless place inside of him that will never, ever have enough. And through it all Jon is holding him tight, murmuring softly in his ear, "It's all right. I've got you. I've got you. It's all right. I love you."

#tma #jonmartin #my fic #martin blackwood #givemartinhugs2k19

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j-whirl44 · 4 years

Text

Before it’s forgotten or taken away.

y’all knew this was coming.

Jon and Martin own my entire life at the moment and i really wanted to get something out before 162 ruins me.

Read it on AO3! (x)

Song from (x)

NOTE: Most of the dialogue (literally like 99%) was taken straight from 161 and therefore written by Jonny Sims and not me! I take no credit!!! I just wrote around it!

ALSO: MAJOR Spoilers about 161 read at your own risk! Stay safe out there!

Enjoy!

Martin couldn’t sit by the windows anymore, the whistling winds of the terros outside were too loud and the hairs on his whole body stood straight up whenever he got too close. So he’s taken to sitting on the floor and tries to not spend his days staring at the door of the small safehouse. He wanted to do something. To make things right. For everyone. For Jon.

He shouldn’t have left Jon alone that night. It’s not like he wanted to take walks alone anyway, ever since being pulled from The Lonely he’s really not wanted to spend any time alone, but Jon needed a statement and Martin really needed tea, so he went anyway. He remembered feeling a hollow pit form in his stomach as he was in line at the shop to check out. His skin burned hot and he swore he saw the spiders crawl down the cashier’s desk and out the door. Accompanied by screams from a distance outside. He dropped everything and rushed back to the safehouse, but it was too late. He found Jon passed out on the floor, hands over his face. The skies above them seemed to open up; the clouds created a spiral shape.

That was, by Martin’s attempted count, only three weeks ago and whatever hope he had of this blowing over quickly fizzled out. As if that was ever really an option in the first place.

He read the statement before Jon could stop him and the fear and rage bubbled over in him so violently he remembers puking onto the floor. Since then he’s only thought of one thing: Killing Jonah Maguns-or Elias-whoever. He didn’t quite care at this point. As he thought about it he laughed. He supposed he already had the chance to do it, and in hindsight, if that had stopped whatever this was, had stopped Jon from hurting, he would’ve done it with only faux hesitation.

Maybe that should scare him now. His sudden willingess to murder, but maybe Peter rubbed off on him far more than he cared to admit. Or it was something else in the bitter air that now covered the atmosphere.

He didn’t remember a lot of his time inside The Lonely until now as it started to creep up on him in his dreams.

He’s been waking up freezing and his chest hollow a few times now. Each time he came to, however, he’d register the warmth of Jon’s arms around him and then he’d be grounded in whatever reality was again.

Last night, he remembered clearly how he told Jon he loved him. He blushed, wondering if Jon remembered that too. If he did, Martin was a mixture of both thankful and worried that he hadn’t brought it up.

Regardless, they were together now, that much he knew. The first night they were here Jon kissed him. It was quick and gentle and left Martin a bigger stuttering mess than usual. Jon even joked he wouldn’t do it again if that’s how he was going to react every time. Now more than ever he wished he could go back to that moment and just keep them both there.

He felt silly worrying about things like this during the end of the world. But dammit he thinks he’s earned it.

Nevertheless, he can admit Jon here with him helped. If nothing else so Martin can keep an eye on him and make sure he’s okay. It can’t exactly feel good to know you started the end of the world and Martin wants to help him in any way possible.

Though not through tea anymore, apparently.

Martin had begged him not to listen to the tapes that mysteriously came with the deceitful statement. That nothing good would come out of it and though Jon promised he wouldn’t but Martin heard him listening to them later when Jon must have assumed he was asleep. He couldn’t be mad, he didn’t have the energy to be.

But now he was still listening to them. Over and over Jon was torturing himself and Martin just couldn’t take it anymore. It’s been too long; he hasn’t heard anything from Basira since the only phone box available was outside and he was worried. The Institute was probably safe from this but the true radio silence didn’t help his nerves.

He knocked on the door as Jon finished listening to his birthday tape again.

And then it turned into another conversation of Martin trying to get Jon to sleep. He knew he hadn’t and It hurt Martin to see Jon so defeated. To hear it in his voice. See it in his face.

Then he heard Gertrude’s tape. He was shocked at first, from the mention of Sasha to the way Gertrude had it all figured out. How she seemed to have a plan that was going to work.

Except it didn’t.

If only she’d been here to help them. For a second Martin felt completely lost until he saw that same feeling echoed onto Jon’s face.

“Can you imagine,” Jon said, “if we had this-”

“But we didn’t though, did we?” Martin said back with a bite that wasn’t expected by either of them.

Jon’s shoulder dropped as he lowered his head, “no.”

“So there’s no point in dwelling,” Martin said, Jon sighed, “this isn’t healthy.”

“Healthy?” Jon said with a bitter laugh, “I am an avatar of voyeuristic terror who’s unquestioned craving for knowledge has condemned the entire world to an eternity of torment healthy it’s not-”

“Fine fine I get it,” Martin said.

They’ve had this conversation before, probably a dozen times. Martin wanted so badly to shake the self loathing and pity from Jon and get him to wake up and see that this can’t be the end. It can’t be. Martin spent so much of the past year cutting himself off from everything he loved-and he’d just gotten it back. He was in no position to wallow and accept it like Jon had and he didn’t want to. That wasn’t him anymore. It never really was.

“It’s so…” Jon started again. At this point they were sat close together. Martin held Jon’s hands in his lap and squeezed as he wordlessly pleaded with him to leave, “It’s so loud out there. The agony, the terror I can see it all so much more clearly,” he said.

Martin’s heart dropped and he squeezed their hands together a little bit tighter, “I’m sorry,” he said with all the sincerity he could muster. Martin’s head was spinning, the same tickling rage he had about killing Elias crept up inside him again.

“No it’s,” Jon said with a sigh. His eyes were shut and Martin watched him intently. Then Jon’s eyes shot open, “I love you-I just-” another breath, “I need more time.”

Martin fully believed neither of them registered what was just said. Jon was exhausted, not thinking, surely he didn’t mean to blurt it out in that way.

His rage from earlier quickly melted as he felt his heart beat pick up, but now wasn’t the time, and he had to say something of intelligence before the silence lingered too long, “It’s alright,” he said, “It’s alright I’m good at waiting,” and of course Martin meant that, his whole life had been waiting for Jon.

He watched Jon’s face to see if realization hit anywhere in it, then there it was. Jon’s eyes went just a little bit wider for a moment and the softest of smiles crept onto his exhausted face, “thank you,” he said.

Then it was back to business, back to talking about the apocalypse. Back to realizing the sentience of the tape recorders. A moment between them never lasted too long, but that made them all the more special.

They laid in the small bed later, hands held in one another’s, Martin looked over to see Jon seemingly asleep. His breathing felt steady enough at least and the constant creases that lined his face were softer than usual. So Martin took in a breath, now was as good a time as any.

“I love you too,” he whispered and then closed his eyes. He felt the hand in his squeeze slightly. Martin smiled.

#The Magnus Archives #Martin Blackwood #Jonathan Sims #i wrote this.

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haberdashing · 4 years

Text

I Am Destruction, Decay, And Desire (1/?)

Martin finds out that Jon’s going to meet with Jude Perry and acts to intervene. It goes... poorly.

Chapter 1 / Chapter 2

on AO3

Martin missed Jon.

That was what it all boiled down to, really. He could tell himself he wanted to clear Jon’s name, or that he just wanted the Archives to return to some slight semblance of normalcy, but deep down, what got Martin on the lookout for ways to reconnect with Jon was just... wanting to see him again, to talk to him again, to be with him again.

(Well, not “be with him” like that.

For one thing, “again” would imply that it had happened before, and Martin wasn’t even sure that Jon considered him a friend, let alone... anything else.

For another, he... well, he’d like that, but he was trying not to get his hopes up.

Besides, Martin’s priorities were get Jon off the hook for murder first, deal with his love life or lack thereof after.)

Martin found the opportunity he’d been looking for in a conversation with Melanie. It seemed like a normal enough conversation on the surface, just asking how you’d go about tracking down something or someone that might be in one of the statements (answer: with great difficulty, as Martin knew well from experience), but after it ended, Martin kept replaying it in his mind, and he noticed something.

When he’d asked Melanie if the person she was looking for, Jude Perry, had given a statement, he’d expected a simple yes or no answer: yes, her statement already exists, or no, she was featured in someone else’s statement if at all.

The answer he had actually gotten was a “Not yet.”

Which meant that this Jude Perry didn’t have a statement on file yet, but that, given the phrasing, there was reason to believe she would soon.

Which meant either that Melanie had some way of knowing that this Jude Perry was heading to the Institute without having any of her contact information, which seemed unlikely, or...

Or that Jon was going to try to get a statement from her in person.

(Which meant in turn that Jon had needed a contact within the Institute in the hopes of getting Ms. Perry’s information, and he’d chosen Melanie. Not Martin, not even Tim, but the new girl who Jon had only met a handful of times before, and Martin was pretty sure every one of them had ended poorly. Sure, there was a logic of sorts in that Melanie was less likely to be seen by the police as a potential accomplice, and was thus safer to contact without fear of being caught, but that didn’t mean it didn’t sting to have Jon place Melanie in such a position of trust and not him.)

He probably should have called up Basira and let her take care of it--she had just asked Martin to let her know if he had any information about where Jon was, after all--but... well, Martin was less than comfortable leaving the safety and well-being of Jonathan Sims, who was currently wanted for murder (rightly or wrongly), up to the care of the police, even if Basira’s voice had seemed to contain a measure of concern as well as suspicion when last they spoke.

Instead, Martin did his own research on one Jude Perry. Figured out where she lived, the general area in which she was likely to be spotted. Without asking Melanie and inviting a confrontation he’d much rather avoid, Martin couldn’t know exactly when and where Jon was likely to confront her, but after a long day of research, he’d managed to narrow possibilities down substantially.

All that remained was scoping the neighborhood out and hoping that he managed to catch Jon as he did so, hopefully before Jon did anything too reckless. Martin told himself that technically, it was related to his research, so it sort of counted as work for the Institute, but really, it was essentially a days-long vacation spent stalking one area of London rather than actually relaxing.

The first day, he found... nothing. Absolutely nothing. No sign of Jon, no sign of Jude Perry (he’d found a few photos of her for reference, though they didn’t seem to match up with one another as well as might be expected), no sign of anything even remotely useful. The day had been wasted, it seemed.

The second day, Martin saw a woman who might have been Jude Perry a few times out of the corner of his eye, but every time he tried to get closer, to investigate further, she’d disappear without a trace, at least as far as he could tell. No sign of Jon at all that day, either.

It was on the third day that things came to a head.

Martin was sitting outside a cafe, enjoying the meager shade provided by one of the cafe’s umbrellas as he nursed a tea, when he spotted Jude Perry once again. This time it wasn’t a maybe sighting, a sighting out of the corner of his eye, fleeting and uncertain, either. It was her, the woman he’d seen in the photographs, heading down the street towards him, unhurried and seemingly carefree.

Martin gripped the table and prepared to get up, see if he could follow her without being spotted, but instead of passing by and continuing her stroll, Jude Perry slid into the seat across from him.

Martin could feel his heartbeat pick up speed as he looked at her, wondering what she was doing, how much she knew, how deep in all this she was. At best, Jude Perry was an acquaintance of somebody who’d been traumatized by eldritch horrors. At worst, Jude Perry was one of those eldritch horrors.

And, between Jon wanting to meet her badly enough to enlist Melanie’s help and the way she’d calmly sat down beside him and the strange glint in her eyes, Martin was pretty sure he wasn’t dealing with a best case scenario here.

“Can I help you?” Martin said, trying his best to keep his voice level.

“Maybe. Are you stalking me?”

Martin panicked a little at that. Maybe he should have expected it, he knew well enough that he wasn’t the stealthiest person, but still, he felt his hand wrap around the cool metal of the cafe table, the flesh of his palm sinking in where the metal was criss-crossed with holes.

Jude smirked. “Looks like a yes. Care to share why?”

“I- no, I’m not stalking you, I-” God, he was stammering, he sounded even more nervous than he felt, he probably seemed like- like a flustered idiot who really was stalking this woman, even though he still barely knew who she was. “I’m actually looking for a friend of mine.”

“Am I your friend, then?”

Martin couldn’t quite read the look in her eyes, wasn’t quite sure what the correct response was. Say yes, and risk being accused of being too familiar with a stranger he’d been stalking? Say no, and risk being accused of dismissing her as a potential friend too easily?

Martin went for a third option.

“Well, uh, his name’s Jonathan Sims, actually, he-”

“Oh, you know the Archivist.”

And Martin’s heart sank, because his suspicions were confirmed there; he knew well enough at this point that anyone and anything referring to Jon as the Archivist was definitely some variety of bad news, even if the details remained murky.

Jude Perry leaned towards Martin, and he could feel her breath, hot and dry, against his arms, which were still pressed tightly against the table.

“Archivist got one of his little Eyes to spy on me ahead of time? I should have figured.”

“Er-” Martin wasn’t entirely sure what Jude meant by “one of his little eyes,” but he caught enough of the gist to explain himself just the same. “No, Jon didn’t put me up to this--he doesn’t even know I’m here.”

“Really.” Jude leaned back in her chair again, far enough that Martin was half-convinced the chair was going to tip backwards at any moment.

That one word from Jude, and the gleam in her eyes as she said it, was enough to make Martin realize he’d made a terrible mistake. Letting somebody who’s probably a bad guy know you came alone, and nobody else knows you’re there? Yeah, that was a good way to get yourself killed, in books and movies and probably real life now too. (Though usually that particular trope seemed to involve some secret, some information that couldn’t quite be passed on to the main characters in time, and Martin still had only the faintest idea what he was even doing here, so maybe he stood a chance of leaving this meeting alive after all...)

“Though I think he was looking for you?” Martin rushed to add. “I really am here to meet him rather than you, I swear. He’s- I don’t know how much you know, but he’s been going through a lot- we all have, really... I just wanted to see him, that’s all.”

And now he was babbling to the stranger who was probably something out of a horror story in disguise. Brilliant. Though telling this Jude that the archives staff were having a rough time right about now was pretty far from sharing a secret still.

Jude tapped her finger on the table, and something about it didn’t sound right. It wasn’t the sound of nail or flesh rapping against metal, but something softer, with what almost sounded like... squelching?

Martin looked out at the street around them, briefly, just to confirm that it was still as bustling as ever, that it hadn’t suddenly become conveniently vacated just in time for Jude to do something terrible, but no, it was as busy as always. Not that being in public would save him, necessarily, but maybe she’d hold back when they were still surrounded by witnesses.

“You remind me a little of myself, you know.” Jude said after a long moment of silence.

“Really?” Martin’s voice came out higher and more uncertain than he would have liked.

“You’re like I used to be, anyway. With a tough job, stuck in the rat race, running and running and getting nothing but exhaustion from it... burning the candle at all ends, burning yourself out because you don’t know what else to use as fuel... that sound about right?”

It did, actually. It really did. Martin was reluctant to actually say as much out loud, had a niggling feeling that doing so wouldn’t lead to anything good, but Jude’s description sounded awfully like things had been ever since Prentiss, if not before. Struggling to keep up with the chaos around him. Watching the world he thought he knew break down while he was busy getting everybody else tea. Run ragged and still pushing himself further, further, further...

How much of him being here was genuinely from wanting to see Jon, and how much was out of a bizarre feeling of obligation, of having to push himself that one step further once he knew he could, even though this was definitely not in the job description?

Even though Martin hadn’t said anything, his expression must have shown his agreement, because Jude smiled at him--not the smirk she’d worn before, but what looked to be a genuine, albeit thin, smile. “I could tell you how I solved that problem. Show you, even. Not sure it’d work quite the same for you, though.”

Martin was pretty sure by now that Jude’s solution there was some variation on becoming an eldritch monstrosity, and no, that wasn’t a solution he was terribly open to trying personally, thanks, and he was trying to think of a way to politely decline and remove himself from the conversation still intact when-

Was that Jon?

Martin looked more closely, noticing that Jude’s gaze was following his own, and yes, he was still about a block away and didn’t seem to have recognized either him or Jude, but that was definitely Jon back there. So he hadn’t been wrong about staking out the neighborhood being a good way to meet him, it seemed.

“The Archivist, I assume?” Jude made a show of wrinkling her nose. “Awfully scrawny, isn’t he?”

Jude’s words barely registered as Martin tried to take in every detail he could make out about Jon’s appearance. He looked tired, the bags under his eyes visible even at this distance, but that wasn’t new, not really. What was new was the fluffy magenta jacket he was wearing; Martin was very sure he hadn’t seen Jon with that on before. (Martin himself hadn’t bothered with a jacket, but then, he never did mind the cold that much; Jude didn’t have one either, for that matter, and she was wearing a tank top, which seemed a bit much given that proper summer was still at least a month away.)

Jon was definitely heading their way, but Martin couldn’t tell if that was because he’d noticed one or both of them, or because he’d been planning to meet Jude here anyway, or because he just happened to be walking past this cafe as part of some grand cosmic coincidence.

“Oh, you should introduce us! Though... I never really introduced myself to you, did I? Just assumed you knew, your lot usually do...” Jude leaned towards Martin--that unpleasant squelching sound came again, louder than before, as her back parted with the back of the chair--and extended her right hand. “Jude Perry, pleasure to meet you.”

“M-Martin Blackwood, and likewise.” Martin looked at Jude’s hand for a long moment, trying to figure out whether to extend his own, or whether this was some strange sort of trap.

On the one hand, she had seemed a bit overeager to suggest Martin introducing her to Jon, and Martin was pretty sure she was trying to stifle a grin of some sort. On the other hand, Sasha had shaken hands with that Michael a while back, and to hear her tell it the experience had been unpleasant but relatively forgettable, and refusing to shake Jude’s hand could come off as an insult, could lead to her carrying a grudge that couldn’t be shaken as easily.

Damned if you do, damned if you don’t...

After some contemplation, Martin took a deep breath and reached out, extending his hand until it met Jude’s own.

The moment his hand first brushed against Jude’s, feeling not the strong grip he expected but something soft and painfully hot, Martin knew that he had made a terrible mistake.

It wasn’t one he could take back, though; Jude’s grip was strong enough to ensure that much, at least. His hand sank into Jude’s slightly, and as he was still processing how much that hurt, the searing pain of his own skin submerged in what felt like molten candle wax, she pressed the flesh (was it flesh? it felt too malleable, too yielding, and above all much too hot) of her arm against his.

The world seemed to go into slow motion, almost, as the agonizing, searing pain of the burn traveled up Martin’s arm and the heat of Jude’s touch seeped into the rest of his body, which, well, Martin was pretty sure that wasn’t how burns worked normally, but normal didn’t exactly apply here, did it...

Martin screamed. He wasn’t proud of it, but he screamed as loudly as he could manage, not because he really expected that it would change anything but because it was about all he could do, as even when he finally pulled away from Jude’s grasp his flesh was still burning worse than ever.

Jude stopped hiding the wicked grin that she’d been trying to suppress earlier, and she said something to him, but Martin couldn’t hear her words over his own screaming and the sound of his flesh sizzling all around him.

Martin hadn’t been conscious of inhaling until he picked up the smell that came with the inward breath. There was smoke, clearly, a scent like that of matches and incense, but something else, too--cooking meat, like a barbecue, and Martin was all too aware that it was his body, his meat, the flesh that made him up cooking as it prepared to go up in smoke.

Jon was running towards the two of them, and his mouth was open, either in speech or in a wordless scream like Martin’s own, but he might as well have been silent for all Martin could hear.

Small patches of his body abruptly stopped hurting, and while Martin would have liked to take that as a good sign he knew better, knew that either his nerves had been burned out or he had lost those parts of his body entirely to the fire. The gentle breeze that Martin had barely noticed before felt like the gusts of a tornado against his body, and Martin was half-convinced that it was tearing off chunks of his skin with every blast. Martin tried not to look too closely at himself, but even without looking closely he could see that his flesh was warping, bubbling before his very eyes.

There was no light to the flame. (Wasn’t that something from one of the statements, the lightless flame? Some burn victim in a hospital mentioning it? Lucky sod, making it to a hospital...) Martin wasn’t sure if that made things better or worse, to have his vision remain more or less intact as his body fell apart around him, to see Jude Perry’s grinning face and Jon’s anguished one all too clearly as the fire within consumed him.

It occurred to Martin suddenly that he was dying, that this was likely to be the last scene he would ever see.

Martin didn’t want to die, of course, but that didn’t change the fact that he was dying, a fact that seemed to loom over him once he had realized it. Most people who died didn’t want it, after all. That wouldn’t save him.

Martin hated the idea that he would end up a footnote in somebody else’s story. That he would be dead, and everybody would forget about him soon enough, and life would go on as if nothing had changed.

More than that, though, Martin hated the idea that the last thing he would see was Jon despairing as he watched Martin burn alive. He would do anything, anything to wipe the despair off of Jon’s face, to be by his side again, to make things right between them.

(A little voice in the back of his head said: Anything? Even bringing others that same despair?

And Martin recoiled against the thought, his first instinct being that no, obviously other people’s pain matters too, he doesn’t want anybody to hurt like that, but-

How honest was that, really?

There were people he cared about, who he made small talk with and whose hobbies and birthdays he tried to remember, and people he Cared about, whose pain cut him to the core even more than his own. (And the ones he Cared about didn’t always Care, or even lowercase care, about Martin in turn, and Martin knew that, he did, and knowing it changed nothing, deep down.)

And then there was the rest of the world, people who were merely abstractions to him, who definitely existed but didn’t really matter to him, any care he had for them being extrapolated from what he felt towards the few he held close.

A world without suffering, without pain, would be wonderful, but Martin knew well enough that it would never happen, and he knew too that if it came down to seeing Jon hurt or seeing a stranger hurt, he’d pick the latter any day.

Anything, Martin reaffirmed.)

And then all at once those bits and pieces of Martin that weren’t hurting consumed his entire body, though he could still feel the heat clearly, feel the fire burning within him.

The breeze felt like a breeze again, not a tornado pressing against his skin, and while that skin looked a bit odd it wasn’t bubbling as he looked down at it, and-

And Martin was still here. He had burned alive, and now he was just sitting at that cafe table with Jude again, almost as if none of it had ever happened.

Almost.

But the fire that raged within him still, the hot energy that pulsed through his entire body, made it clear that something deep within him had, indeed, changed.

Jon’s expression was almost unchanged, but Jude’s grin grew even wider as she raised an eyebrow and said, “Huh. Didn’t think you had it in you.”

#tma #tma au #tma fic #tma fanfic #the magnus archives #the magnus archives au #the magnus archives fic #the magnus archives fanfic #personal #my writing #martin blackwood #graphic violence cw #420 blaze it #i literally finished this chapter today just so i could make that pun #i have my priorities in order dammit

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