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venfx · 3 years

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magnus fic roundup

as tma comes to a close, i thought i'd post some of my favorite fics to come out of this fandom. most of these are classics, listed in no particular order.

A Weather In The Flesh by @cuttoothed | 3K | S1-S4 | Jon/Martin | Complete

"There is a span of years where Jon doesn’t touch anyone other than the occasional hand shake. It’s not so bad. He’s never been someone who’s needed physical affection."

Jon has never been any good at making people want to stick around.

↳ this is such a well-done exploration of jon’s character and his relationship with touch, and i’ve re-read it at least five times. sweet and sad and phenomenally well-written.

in the chillest land and on the strangest sea by imperfectcircle, singlecrow | 20K | Safehouse, S1-S4 | Jon & Daisy, Jon/Martin | Complete

Jon remembers a statement he read years ago given by a Jesuit priest, who said that the shortest prayer he knew was, just, fuck it, as in fuck it; it's in God's hands. He takes Daisy's hand and trails on after her.

or; hope is a thing with feathers.

↳ hey, you wanna fuckin..... feel things? read this.

The Magnus Institute hires a Data Protection Officer. He sets about diligently booking in meetings, writing policy documents, and training all the staff in the importance of confidentiality. Now if only he could get hold of the Head Archivist, who seems to have vanished again...

(Jon is only trying to save the world, but apparently some people think he should still be doing his day job.)

↳ i’d be surprised to find people who haven’t read this series, but it’s the definition of “the magnus archives is a workplace comedy”. also, alasdair stuart has actually read some clips of this on Twitch, so that’s a fun bonus.

In accordance with the Ride or Die Pact of 2009, Jonathan Sims can call upon Georgie Barker at any time for aid with no strings attached. Despite their rocky history, their childhood friendship, and Jon’s barely recovered alcoholism, this pact is sacred and must be upheld.

Georgie Barker may regret this. She may regret it when she discovers that the world is full of monsters and eldritch gods and dickhead managers. She may regret it when a punk rocker who should be dead collapses on their doorstep, a teenager again who needs their help. She may regret it when her stupid ex-boyfriend starts selling his soul for knowledge and the ability to keep his new family safe.

But she probably won’t. Georgie isn’t scared of anything - not a Clown’s apocalypse, not the apocalypse that Jon is destined to begin, and not Jon’s own loss of humanity.

Maybe she should be.

↳ if you’re looking for an everyone-lives-no-one-dies-happy-ending fic that also happens to be massively chaotic, look no further.

The Reverb in These Holy Halls by @wolftraps | 98K | AU, S1-S4 | Jon/Martin | Complete

Undoing the apocalypse would have been enough for Jon, if all his people survived. Without them, Jon's only recourse is making it so it never happened in the first place. He's going to do better this time.

↳ quintessential time travel AUs. plot-wise, i feel like these can be difficult to write, but op does a fantastic job of tying things together in a way that makes sense. plus, it’s just fun to read.

jon sims v the nhs by @thoughtsbubble | 12K | Series | S3 | Complete

Joan Bright has a new patient. He's carrying an old tape recorder and is covered head to toe in scars. Jonathan Sims looks dangerous, but Dr Bright has dealt with all sorts of atypical individuals. She has no reason to be nervous.

Right?

↳ if you’ve ever thought “hey, jon should probably go to therapy”, then 1) you’re absolutely right and 2) this is... probably what would’ve happened. prior knowledge of The Bright Sessions is not required. also, apparently, this fic is written by the showrunner of The Underwood Collection? wild.

Family, Found by Dribbledscribbles | 9K | S4 | Complete

It’s Basira who catches onto it.

The collective shift that seems to come over them when heading in or out of the Institute. Not just the oppressive sensation of being observed, their every move catalogued for the voyeuristic cravings of some unseen Eye(s). That feeling remained with them even when they left the Institute these days, but it was always stronger inside its walls. That wasn’t the change. Nor was it the point.

The point was: making life worse for Jonathan Sims.

↳ i think being part of the avengers fandom circa 2012 has given me permanent found-family-trope brainrot, but you know what. jonathan sims can have a little happiness, as a treat.

n. an important moment of insight, typically one that leads to a dramatic transformation of attitude or belief

Or, in which Tim becomes an avatar for the end of all things.

↳ tim dies and then he doesn’t. there is catharsis and world building. just....read it.

Come, Change Your Ring With Me by @backofthebookshelf | 29K | S3 | Peter/Jon, Jon/Martin, Peter/Elias | Complete

The Lukases demand the Archivist marry into the family, and the Institute relies on them too much to say no. Peter is smug. Elias is fuming. Martin is suffering. Jon thinks this might be tolerable if only Peter would hurry up and leave him alone already.

OR, the soap opera we call an Archives revolves around Peter Lukas this time.

↳ superb evil-bastards-in-love content, feat. martin pining, tim being obnoxious, and jon being... well, tired, mostly. i will literally never get tired of how op writes peter.

creatures that i briefly move along by @dotsayers | 16K | Series | AU, Post-S4 | background Jon/Martin

Mr Sims was so weird, was the thing. Miss Grant always said calling people weird was rude, and Anna sort of agreed, but she didn’t know what other word to use to describe Mr Sims.

He’d only been in with the class for a few days, really, and half of that he just sat at the back listening, but that didn’t stop her from making a swift judgement. 5BG had had student teachers before, back when they were 3ST, and they’d been uniformly normal.

Mr Sims was… actually, Anna had a better adjective. He was interesting.

↳ i just.... love teacher!jon fics. this series delivers.

Once Bitten by @apatheticbutterflies | 1K | S4 | Jon & Daisy | Complete

Jon Sims has always been a jumpy kind of guy. Nervous. Twitchy. Daisy used to think it meant he was guilty. Turns out he was. Just not of what she’d thought.

Daisy learns how to peel an orange.

↳ daisy and jon’s relationship is an example of an instance where i’m happy to say “fuck what you wrote mr. jonny ‘chocolate torte of tragedy’ sims, i want them to be friends”.

pins and needles by mutterandmumble | 13K | S1-S4 | Complete

He’s got a reputation to uphold anyways; an uptight, rigid reputation that dictates the way that he interacts and functions and is such an integral part of him that he can’t let go of it anytime soon. He likes his safety nets. He likes his contingencies. He likes his privacy, and everything around this place right down to the walls seems to have ears, so he’ll stay tight-lipped up to and beyond the threat of death.

He’s good at that.

In which Jon takes up embroidery and bumbles through life the best that he can.

↳ out of all the introspective jon pieces i’ve read (and there are many), this one stands out. maybe it’s the symbolism or the characterisation, or maybe it’s the fact that i have an embroidery kit lurking in the back of my closet along with a hundred other half-pursued hyperfixations. whatever. this is excellent.

sleeping in by @ivelostmyspectacles | 5K | S2 | Jon/Tim | Complete

“Who are you trying to convince?”

Jon gives up, letting his head sag against Tim’s shoulder. “I don’t know.”

aka Elias gets tired of Jon and Tim's bickering, sends them away for a "team-building" weekend trip, and is sure to book them a room with only one bed

↳ this has everything you’d need from a “oh no there’s only one bed” fic. someone please get these men therapy.

if you try, sometimes (you get what you knead) by @ajcrawly | 3.5K | S1-S4 | Jon/Martin, Tim/Sasha | Complete

It starts with an abundance of boeuf bourguignon and ends up as a team tradition.

Food and love in uncertain times.

↳ more found family fic, this time with a diverse og!archival staff and food as a metaphor for love. hurt in all the right ways. made me hungry in the process.

#tried to keep this shortish but i might just make a part 2 #people in this fandom are crazy talented #tma #the magnus archives #tma fic recs #fic recs #long post #txt #mine

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somuchbetterthanthat · 3 years

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How to get your Archivist to relax. (Nsfwish, d/s-y undertones.)

“Look at you,” cooes Tim, squishing Jon’s cheeks together between his hands. “Taking a whole break with me --”

“Already regretting it,” Jon manages to say, but his frown is as affected as the dry tone of his voice, and Tim beams at him.

“What will I manage to do next?” he asks. “How far does my power extend? Is there even a limit? Could I even get you... Out of this office all together?”

“Now you’re being greedy,” Jon tells him, but his eyes are shining with such tenderness it actually makes Tim’s insides a little mushy.

He takes a second to reflect on that. Good lord, Timothy, he chides himself, with the combined dulcet tones of both Jon and Sasha, and then uses the very next second to lean in and press a long kiss right on Jon’s very lovely mouth.

“Am I?” he challenges Jon afterwards, delighted in the way Jon’s entire face has softened, the startled, pleased look he gives him.

It takes Jon a few beats to manage to say: “I suppose you do have compelling arguments.”

Sasha doesn’t realize how much being in the chair makes a difference until Jon comes back into his office and stops right on his track when he spots her. He blinks a few times, like he’s got a hard time processing what he’s seeing, and were it any other boss Sasha has ever had, she’d immediately feel a pang of anger, fear, and defiance.

The pang in her stomach right now is absolutely none of those things. She has to resist the urge to cross her legs immediately. Instead, she grins. “Jonathan,” she says, with her best serious voice.

“Yes,” says Jon, still frozen, eyes a little too wide, before seemingly coming back to himself. “Is... there... anything you needed?” he asks, and, god; it sounds so professional, coming off him. If she started to talk about a statement, right now, he’d go with it and not question this further at all. Head right back into work.

It’s almost six pm, however, and Sasha has no question about anything related to work.

“Come here,” she says; commands.

Jon does. Leaves the stack of papers he was holding on at the edge of his desk, and moves closer until their knees bump into each other. There he wavers on his feet, looking down at her as if waiting for further instructions, and the heat in her stomach grows almost unbearable. She tugs at his shirt, pulls him until he’s, slightly awkwardly, straddling her lap, and she let her fingers run over the back of his neck. He’s warm and flushed, which is quite rewarding.

“This is highly inappropriate,” he tells her. but his voice is fond and soft; almost shy.

“Feel free to fill the appropriate form next week then,” Sasha retorts, and when Jon snorts she suddenly grasps his hair, enjoying the small noise that comes off him, before guiding him down and kissing him properly.

“Will you stop hovering?” Jon asks.

“I’m not hovering, I’m making sure you’re actually eating.”

“That’s literally what hovering is --”

“I swear to god, if you keep stalling I am actually going to feed you myself--”

Martin flushes the minute the words are out of his mouth, but it’s too late to go back on it. Jon’s expression is frozen into something sweet and startled, like he cannot believe Martin would go to such a length, like he cannot believe Martin would care, and just for that Martin is itching to forego any embarrassment and pick up the fork in front of Jon and make good on his threat.

The best part is, he thinks, a little bit giddily, brain a little fried and heart beating way too fast, Jon might actually let him. Jon might frown, pretending to be exasperated and a little bit amused, but if Martin does it he’ll open his mouth obediently, and it’ll probably won’t take any more than a few bites for his expression to melt into something gentle and soft --

Jon sighs, cutting Martin’s fantasy out unwillingly, makes a show of taking his fork and mutters: “Fine, then; if this must be done --”

“You’re acting like i’m torturing you!” Martin protests.

Jon doesn’t dignify that with an answer, swallowing his food instead, then stares at him with raised eyebrows. Martin feels an incredulous laughter bubble up his throat.

“What?” he goes. “D’you expect a reward or something?”

“As a matter of fact--” Jon starts primly, and he’s so impossible and adorable that Martin can’t help leaning sideway, grabbing Jon’s chin, and kissing him soundly on the lips.

“Good job,” he says, happy to realize it’s really all he needs to say to get Jon’s shoulders to drop a little, his eyes a little dazed and so, so very sweet. “Let’s keep going like that, alright?”

“You’re a menace,” Jon murmurs, but it’s so tender it makes Martin almost forget to be smug when Jon takes another bite.

#the magnus archives #i could not help it #each time i read a fic from primamazing i need to write the assistants kissing jon in season 1; i am helpless faced with this curse #nswish #tma stories #totally unread because i need to go to bed and my cat is begging for affection right now

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flywolfwriting · 3 years

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Take My Hand, Hold On Forever - Ch. 2

Tim spent the next several days thinking about Marie, and how easy it had been to fall into friendly banter with her. He’d made an ass of himself, and Sasha had predictably teased him mercilessly for it, but Marie had rolled with it. Kate’s timing had not been ideal, though Tim probably deserved the extra dose of embarrassment. He hadn’t really wanted to leave; he wanted to talk longer, keep making her laugh.

It was probably wishful thinking, but he thought maybe she hadn’t wanted him to go, either.

“Oh for God’s sake, Tim, just take her bloody umbrella back and ask her out already,” Sasha said.

Tim started, then frowned at her. “What?”

“You’re getting that dewy-eyed look again,” she leaned back in her seat and folded her arms with a mild scowl on her face. “I’ve never seen you like this.”

“I do not go dewy-eyed-”

“Sasha’s right, Tim.” Martin said, appearing around the corner with a stack of books. “You do.”

Fate must hate Tim because right at that moment Jon emerged from his office with a book in hand. He took one look at his assistants and sighed. “Is Tim mooning over that girl again?”

“‘That girl’ has got a name, and it’s Marie, and I do not moon, thank you,” Tim snapped.

“I thought you were with those two records people at the police station,” Jon said, waving a hand vaguely.

“Not really,” Tim shrugged. “It was more a… temporary arrangement, if you know what I mean.”

Jon shook his head in exasperation. “Just get back to work, please, there’s lots to do. Martin, put this book away for me please.” He set the volume he’d been holding on the corner of Martin’s desk and turned to go back into his office when Elias appeared at the bottom of the stairs.

“Jon, good. Come upstairs. I want you to take a statement.”

Jon’s brow furrowed. “Who?”

“Dr. Lionel Elliott, from King’s College. Do try and be… how did you put it? ‘More lovely’? He is a fellow academic, after all.” Elias disappeared back up the stairs.

“Not as if I don’t already have enough to do…” Jon grumbled, following their boss.

“A live statement? That’s exciting!” Martin said, staring after the other men.

“We have more important things to discuss,” Sasha said, rounding on Tim with glittering eyes. “So?”

“What?”

“Are you going to go ask her out, or what?”

“Look, I was just a guy who walked her home, sat awkwardly in her living room for half an hour, and took her umbrella. She’s not going to want to go out with me,” Tim reasoned.

“Methinks the man dost protest too much.”

Tim hmphed and spun his chair to face away from her, only to be confronted by Martin’s smug expression. “What?”

“Oh, nothing,” Martin said, dragging Jon’s book across his desk and examining it. “It’s just funny, seeing you lost for words for once. The tables have turned, hm?”

Tim’s eyes narrowed, a blush creeping up the back of his neck. No, damnit, stop that, he scolded himself. “You still haven’t told us who you like,” he said.

The jibe worked. Color tinged Martin’s cheeks and he quickly buried himself in his work while Tim just grinned. He was still curious of course; if it was him, he was sure Martin would have said something by now. He had made it clear he was receptive. He wasn’t sure about Sasha, still, but who else…

A wad of paper hit the back of his head and he spun back around. “Don’t get distracted, Tim,” Sasha said. “You’ve never been this juvenile about asking someone out. You’re Mr. Confidence. What’s the deal?”

“Do you usually make a fool of yourself?”

“I must be special then.”

“Tim?”

Tim blinked and focussed on Sasha, who was now giving him an almost concerned look. Maybe more confused. “There’s a lot of ‘not usually’ with her,” he admitted.

“So what are you going to do about it?”

Tim sighed, glanced at the umbrella on his desk - he’d been carrying it around the whole weekend - and thought about what he’d do with anyone else he was wooing.

Ask them out for drinks .

“Take her umbrella back,” he said, grabbing it and standing. It was sunny out today, as befit July, so he didn’t need his jacket, but he’d brought it anyway.

“Right now?” Martin asked.

Tim glanced at his watch. “It’s close enough to lunchtime for me to run to the pub. It’s not far.”

“What if she’s not working?” Sasha prodded, leaning back in her chair and kicking one heel up onto her desk.

“I’ll figure something out.” He flashed his friend one of his toothy, confident smiles. “I always do!”

Sasha hummed skeptically but waved him away.

“Good luck!” Martin called after him.

Tim spun around, walking backwards long enough to give Martin a double finger-gun. “Don’t need it.”

He hoped.

The walk was only about fifteen minutes, but it seemed both too long and far too short.

Just ask her out for drinks, he thought, repeating this mantra like it would make a difference. Something in him said no. Still, it was what he was used to, familiar ground. Drinks were safe.

And then he was outside the pub. The sign hung beneath an old-style gas streetlight lending the pub its name, with an arrow pointing at the small set of stairs leading down to its entrance. The black door was propped open, allowing the smell of food and beer to waft into the walk.

Tim stepped down, the sound of traffic fading into the quiet din of the pub as he ducked inside. It wasn’t terribly busy; a couple tables were taken, and only two men sat at the bar, chatting amiably and eating chips. The bartender looked up and saw him, eyes narrowing.

Tim smiled and strode across the room - careful not to hit his head on any of the fans hanging from the dangerously low ceiling - and stopped beside the counter. “Hello,” he said brightly.

“What d’ you want?” the bartender said gruffly. The two men looked at them curiously. “Had to close early on Friday because of the scene you made,” the bartender added, ignoring their audience.

“Don’t worry, I don’t plan on staying. I’m just looking for - there you are! Just who I was hoping to see.” His smile widened.

Marie had just emerged from the back, cheeks pink. “Hey, Tim,” she said quietly.

“Hey, Marie,” he replied, voice softening. “Got a minute?”

She glanced at her boss, who waved her away with a grumble. “Just don’t take too long.”

Marie nodded and beckoned Tim to follow her before heading to the corner booth, as far from the bar as they could get. “What are you doing here?” she whispered as soon as they were sat facing each other. “He blames you for missing out on a whole night’s revenue, you know.”

“I gathered,” he said, “but I didn’t start any fights.”

“Kate says a couple guys picked a fight with that table because you called attention to them grabbing me,” Marie said. “That’s why the pub closed and she was home so early.”

Tim hummed, eyes drifting to the bartender, who was furiously wiping down the counter, before settling back on Marie’s earnest face. He propped his chin on his hand and smiled lazily. “Can’t say I’m sorry.”

Marie sighed. “You didn’t say what you’re doing here.”

“Oh yeah. I wanted to return your umbrella,” he said, holding up the object in question.

Marie’s eyebrows rose. “I did tell you to keep it,” she said.

Tim shrugged. “Well, it was a good excuse to come back here. God knows the food isn’t worth it.”

Marie’s lips pressed together, but her eyes sparkled.

“Actually,” Tim said, trying for casual as he leaned back and draped one arm over the back of the booth’s seat, “I was hoping you might come to lunch with me.”

He was just as surprised as she clearly was; he was going to ask her to drinks, drinks, not lunch! Why did he say-

“Okay.”

Tim blinked. “What?”

A shy grin was slowly creeping across Marie’s face. “Okay, yeah. I’d like to get lunch. Is, ahh… is Friday okay? I don’t have class until two.”

“Yeah, Friday works great,” he said, and he knew his stupid grin was back.

Marie glanced over at the bar, where her boss was now glowering at her. “I better get back to work before Jim gets too mad, but I can give you my number?”

“Of course,” Tim said without hesitation, sliding his phone across the table.

She quickly tapped in her number, handed it back, and stood. “I’ll… see you Friday?”

Tim stood with her. “Yeah. Talk to you later?”

She smiled and nodded, then waved as she returned to work, checking on her tables on her way back to the bar.

Jim scowled at him and Tim responded with the cockiest grin he could muster before leaving, a spring in his step.

He didn’t realize he still had the umbrella in hand until he was back at the Institute and Sasha was ribbing him for it.

------

“So?” Kate asked from her perch on the counter, “what did he want?”

“He said he wanted to return my umbrella,” Marie said. “If Jim catches you up there, you’re in for a world of trouble.”

Kate shrugged but hopped down. “Good, we haven’t got another. Where is it?”

Marie grinned. “He took it with him.”

“ Marie, we need that umbrella!” Kate whined. “You can’t go insisting he keep it when- why are you grinning like that?”

“Oh, no reason,” Marie said calmly, tucking her water bottle back under the sink and making for the front of the house. “Unrelated, I’ll be out Friday afternoon.”

Kate zipped around in front of her, trying to block her path. “Uh-uh, you don’t get to drop that and leave! He asked you out!”

“We’re doing lunch,” Marie said, dodging around her best friend.

Kate followed, pausing to shout into the kitchen. “Karim! Marie’s got a date!”

“With the tall guy?” Karim replied. His words were nearly drowned by a couple loud whoops from the rest of the kitchen staff.

“ Kate,” Marie admonished, face heating up again. Everyone at the pub had gotten much friendlier with her since Friday’s incident, and had even invited her to a team dinner scheduled in a few weeks.

“Yep!” Kate called back, grinning wickedly.

Karim finally appeared in the doorway, covered in pot roast sauce. Marie’s nose wrinkled, but he was talking before she could say anything. “I told you he’d be back. Nothing woos a man quite like demanding he strip in your living room.”

Marie was definitely blushing now. “That’s not how it happened!” she protested, but he and Kate were too busy laughing to pay her any mind. “You guys are children,” she grumbled, turning away to go check on her tables again. There wasn’t much else she could do when it was this slow anyway.

I’ve got a date, she hummed to herself, and this thought carried her through the rest of her shift in a chipper mood that even Jim couldn’t ruin. When she finally got off work, there were four new texts waiting for her.

>This is Tim.

>Sorry, I forgot to actually give you your umbrella.

>I look forward to seeing you Friday. Where would you like to go?

>Let me know when you get home so I know you’re safe, please.

She smiled at her screen.

<Don’t worry, Kate’s with me this time.

Tim immediately responded. > Have I been replaced as the dashing hero-cop?

“What are you laughing at?” Kate asked, pulling her jacket on.

“Nothing. Let’s go,” Marie said, stuffing her phone in her pocket and herding Kate out the staff door.

When they got home and Marie was settling into bed, she shot one last message back to Tim.

< Made it home, no heroes needed, dashing or otherwise.

She tried to quell her disappointment when a response was not immediately forthcoming; it was nearing midnight and Tim was probably in bed. She plugged her phone in, turned out the light, and rolled over to go to sleep.

------

Tim stood outside the King’s College administration building. He took another moment to review his notes; a group of students with filler names, an apple with teeth… Jon was skeptical, of course, but he was doing his due diligence. Tim wondered how much of that was to keep Elias off his back.

At least there were no worms here.

Tucking his phone away, Tim strode through the double doors and up to the first desk he saw. The man behind it was small and wore a nametag that read “Alec.”

“Excuse me,” Tim said, “I’m looking for an Elena Bower. I called earlier.”

The man blinked at him, then glanced at his computer. “She should still be in her office. I’ll call her.”

“Thanks.” Tim drummed his fingers on the counter while he waited.

“Ms. Bower? There’s a man here for you.” He looked up.

“Timothy Stoker,” Tim said helpfully.

Alec repeated this into the phone, then said, I’ll send him up,” before returning the phone to its cradle. “She’s expecting you. Third floor, room 321.”

“Thank you,” Tim said again, waving as he went. The stairs were easy to find, and it didn’t take long to arrive at Ms. Elena Bower’s door.

“Come in,” she called, standing and smiling as Tim entered. “Lovely to meet you, Mr. Stoker. Please have a seat.”

“Tim is fine,” he said, sitting and glancing around the room. It was oddly office-like for the admin. He would have expected something more like Alec’s setup. Then again, he hadn’t spent a lot of time in the admin building at Trinity.

“Then I insist you call me Elena,” she said as she returned to her own seat. “What can I do for you? On the phone you said you had some questions about one of the anatomy classes?”

“Yeah,” Tim said, and if he hadn’t spent so much time since Danny’s death lying, he would have felt guilty.

Well, he did feel guilty, but he was used to it by now.

“Are you looking to enroll? I can put you in touch with the registrar’s office if you’d like.”

“I actually have a few questions about one class in particular- taught by Dr. Elliot, last year?”

Elena frowned. “Dr. Eliott? He…” she trailed off.

Tim flashed her a bright smile, the one he knew usually dazzled whoever was on the receiving end of it. It clearly worked, as a hint of color crept into her face. “I know it’s a bit unusual, but I was hoping you could just give me a bit of info? Maybe the student roster?” He asked, leaning his elbows on the desk.

“That’s not really the sort of records we can give out,” Elena said.

“I’d just like to verify if the class existed. Dr. Elliott’s account was…”

Elena smiled sympathetically. “He did have an anatomy class last autumn that rather put him off teaching for a while.”

“I’m just following up,” Tim hedged. Normally by now he’d have been laying on the flirting, using his good looks and excellent charisma to get what he wanted. But today it felt… wrong. He kept thinking of Marie, and he couldn’t muster the will to lay on the charm today.

That was a first.

“Well…” she hesitated. “I’ll get you the names at least. I do know which class you’re referring to. They were an odd bunch. Showed up to class even when he wasn’t there to teach.”

Tim smiled again. “Thank you so much.”

“Yes, well,” she said, flustered, and turned to her computer. “Where did you say you work?”

This was always the challenging part. “The Magnus Institute.”

She glanced at him, eyebrows raised. “Isn’t that-” she caught herself and offered an apologetic smile. “The Magnus Institute is well known in these circles.”

Tim said nothing, just kept smiling. There was a reason Jon sent him to do these things instead of coming himself or sending one of the others. Sasha got defensive and Martin… was Martin. Who knew how he’d reacted in a given situation.

Besides, Martin didn’t really leave the archives anymore.

Elena pulled him out of his thoughts with a confused hum. “That’s odd.”

“What?”

“The records are gone,” she said, leaning in to squint at her screen.

“What?” Tim said again, but in a very different tone.

“They’re gone.” Elena looked up at him, brow creased. “I remember that class, and assigning them to Dr. Elliott - he was very unhappy to have to teach, you see - but the records are just… gone.”

Tim pursed his lips. “Do you remember any of their names? What they looked like?”

Elena shook her head. “They were really weird, specifically because of how unmemorable they were. Just off-putting, really, and Dr. Elliott was ever so upset.”

Tim sighed. “Yeah, makes sense. Well, thank you for your time, Elena,” he said as he stood.

She quickly followed suit. “Oh, is that all? Can I help you with anything else?”

“Regrettably, not today.” Tim took her hand and shook it again. “I’ll be sure to call if I think of anything.”

“Oh, alright,” she said, sounding disappointed. “It was good to meet you! Do come again.”

Tim nodded amiably.

Once back outside he paused to check his phone. One new message from Sasha, asking if he’d found anything. He told her he hadn’t found much and set off to hail a cab.

His phone buzzed again as he was reaching the Institute.

> There’s a cafe not far from my flat that serves really good sandwiches, if you’d like to meet there.

Tim smiled.

< That sounds great. What’s it called?

The response was not long in coming.

> It’s called Star Bean. Have you been?

“Tim!”

He glanced up to see Sasha waving at him from down the walk. He quickly replied ‘no,’ tucked his phone away, and walked with Sasha into the Institute.

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

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bibliocratic · 4 years

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Aspec Martin Week – Day 4

Martin's first Pride ft. OG Archive Crew. Set sometime during S1.

Martin hangs close to Sasha near a stand selling gaudy accessories and spinning fans while Tim bounds off, shoving cheerfully through the mass of people, promising to search out somewhere that might have something approaching alcohol.

He's been gone a while now, and Martin's been anxiously adjusting his scratchy, over-loose bow-tie to try and distract himself, feeling sweaty and visible and uncomfortable. Sasha and Tim, in their early morning marshalling of their small group, had convinced him to paint his nails in some gauche glittery material that ripples rainbow when the light strikes it. He doesn't like the colour, and he's half ruined it anyway with his picking and fussing. Someone hasn't adjusted the volume controls on whatever system they've set up, and the next song blares out screaming-loud before someone lowers it, and Martin winces at how much it all it, every time someone gets hold of a garbling microphone and hollers something in the distance that gets muffled by a feedback whine.

He keeps checking his phone to make sure his mum hasn't called. He still isn't sure what excuse he'd try.

“What do you think?” Sasha angles her neck up to half-shout in Martin's ear. “For your first one?”

She's better dressed for the day, that's for sure, a flowing cotton summer dress with sewn-on streamers like some particularly striking maypole. She has a fake flower crown and it makes her look like a wispy fae creature. Her earrings dangle and chime, and Martin's glad he's not here on his own.

“Loud,” Martin complains back, and he thinks she laughs and nods in agreement before he's glancing around again at the masses of people. “Are you sure Tim's ok, I really think he should have been back by – ”

“Oy, over here!” comes the shout, and from the assembled gaggle, Tim emerges, looking delighted and smug and red-faced, his cheeks and the top of his nose having caught the sun. He adjusts his cap from where it's been jauntily knocked, and he's somehow gained the most tacky pair of rainbow sunglasses and at least five new roughly slapped on stickers since he vanished.

“Finally!” Sasha shouts back to him. “Took your time!”

“OK!” Tim says, clearly having not heard her or chosen not to. “Firstly, very important, on the alcohol front, ta-dah!” he gestures at his now bulging backpack. “Who's the man, huh, who delivers on his promises?”

“Like some sort of boozy Santa,” Sasha agrees, and unzips the bag to get a better look. “Someone's had a few on the job already!”

Tim makes a face. “Only one!”

“Tim, are you thirteen, what you doing buying us this shite!” Sasha rootles around, pushing the Heineken cans out of the way and pulling half-out the three litre bottle of Frosty Jack's.

“They don't sell White Lightning any more!”

“For good reason!”

“C'mon, it'll be a reminder of old times! A misspent youth...”

“Not all of us hung about the parks getting wankered off cheap cider, Timothy.”

Martin's letting the rhythm of their conversation wash over him. Someone gave him a big beaming grin two minutes ago as they passed, an easy and appreciative look-over, and the heat of that interaction hasn't quite left his cheeks.

“And secondly, if I can be allowed to get a word in edgeways – ”

“You may.”

“A kindness, m' lady.”

“Get on with it, serf.”

“Secondly, guys, look, they were giving them out for free!”

Tim presents his snaffled haul, his palms full of colours and patterns. A collection of cheaply-made paper flags, clearly printed and folded over and stuck onto cocktail sticks. There's a good number of them Martin doesn't recognise, but he doesn't want to feel ignorant by asking, so he keeps quiet.

“Sash, Sash, Sash,” Tim sing-songs at her.

“Tim, Tim, Tim,” she warbles back in a faux operatic voice.

“Got this one 'specially.”

“Charmer,” she smiles, but she allows Tim to stretch up to the height she's achieved with some seriously fuck-off heels, to plant the little flag behind her ear like a flower. She makes a show of preening, twirling it dramatically so the blue, white and pink of the stripes blur together for a moment. “It's acceptable.”

“You're too gracious,” Tim gives a mock bow. He's already stuck his blue, purple and pink flag into one of the belt loops of his jeans, the corner of it already bent slightly at the rough treatment.

He then turns to Martin.

“Let's spruce you up then Marto!”

Martin's in half a mind to refuse. It took a lot for him to even come here, and he's still not quite gotten rid of the tension that's strung across his shoulders. But he sets his jaw and knows he can always pocket them so no-one can see later.

He shyly grabs a multicolour pride flag from Tim's open hands. Then, daring, almost surprising himself, he grabs a second flag.

Sasha gives him an elbow nudge and a smile. Tim gives a whoop and a cheer and attempts to crush them both into a poorly aimed hug, before he shoves the rest of his haul into his trouser pockets.

Martin doesn't stick his own flags anywhere. He holds them fisted in his palm all day, over-aware of them, doing his best to protect them from the tides of people even though they eventually get a bit bashed and crumpled.

Tim's all for spending the night out on the town. But they spend most of the afternoon baking and hot, covered in glitter and day-drinking, finding a park along the way and casting themselves limblessly on the grass, so it's early yet when they start away from the street parties and thumping dance music. Tim ends the day with one cheek striped blue, one pink and his forehead purple, with some face-paint he's somehow gotten somewhere, waxing effusive about someone he danced to Taylor Swift with and didn't get her number: 'stunning, honestly, Martin, she was like one of those hot 1940's Hollywood people.'

“Didn't know you were into grandmas, Tim,” Sasha mumbles, half the words directed into Martin's ruin of hair. She's taken off her heels – which Tim is now holding, having tried and failed to get them to fit – and as the most sober one, Martin's carrying her on his back as she half dozes, sleepy and headachy from the music.

Martin hasn't checked his phone in hours. He's still got the little flags crushed in his grip. Tim keeps trying to hide a bear pride flag on Martin when he's not looking, and giving a giggling squawking protestation whenever he gets caught.

It's been a good day. Martin's head is buzzy on shit cider, and he's lost his bowtie, but he keeps looking at his little flags and smiling.

It's been a really good day, he thinks.

Restored from their dramatic hangovers, Monday comes. Martin arrives huffing and delayed from the Tube to see Tim's stuck his flag so it stands battered and proud over the lid of his laptop. Sasha's made her small desk teddy bear hold hers. And it's the memory of the day, the sun and the heat and the wild dizzying lack of expectations of it all, that gives him the courage to bring the flags he carefully preserved in on Tuesday, to put them jutting out of the mug on his desk that holds his stationery.

Honestly, he doesn't expect anyone to comment on them. It's not like anyone else comes down to their offices anyway.

So it's a surprise when Jon, striding past their desks, stops. Looks at the multicolour flag with its bent edging. Its sister flag, the stripes of grey, white and purple only a little sun-faded.

Tim has been lost to Archive Storage for hours now, Sasha hard cross-referencing over at another department. Martin always feels like he's failed some sort of test he didn't know he was taking, when he's in the room with Jon alone.

Martin stiffens but Jon just looks for moment.

“Where did you get them?” he asks briskly, gesturing.

“Oh!” Martin says, relieved that Jon's not stopped to tell him how poor his filing skills are again. “It was, erm, Pride? At the weekend. Tim, he got some for all of us.”

“Hm,” Jon nods. Still staring at Martin's flags. Especially the one Martin had hesitated over, held that bit tighter in his grip. He has an expression on his face, but Martin doesn't know what it is. He rarely knows how to read Jon.

“I think Tim might still have some!” Martin says, anxious to add something in this interaction he doesn't quite know how to navigate. “If you – you wanted any of your own?”

Jon pauses, gives Martin a sharp look as though annoyed he'd mentioned it, but then his face softens, and he looks at the flags again.

“I'll ask him,” he says, giving a short, hard nod. “No need to disrupt him when he's doing something productive.”

“Right,” Martin says weakly.

Jon gives him another nod, and then he vanishes back into his office, leaving Martin unsure of what's just happened.

(Later that week, Martin sees the flags struck into the soil of Jon's beleaguered desk cactus. The blue, pink and purple flag like Tim's. The grey, purple and white flag like Martin's. He doesn't comment, doesn't think Jon would like the attention. But he smile to see it nonetheless).

#AspecMartinWeek #martin blackwood #tma #the magnus archives #og archive crew #ace!Martin #ace!Jon #bi legend Tim #trans!Sasha #minor mentions of Martin's mum #ask to tag

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jaysworlds · 3 years

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T4TMA Day Five - Community

“How’s it going, Miss. James?”

Sasha carefully avoids looking up, pretending to focus on her paperwork. “Something the matter, Mr. Stoker?”

Tim laughs, pushing the stack of papers (extra work from Jon; punishment for something that had been entirely Tim’s fault) to the side so he can sit down. “I was just thinking…”

“Funny that, me too.”

“Oh? Care to share?”

“Yes, actually. I was thinking that whatever you’re planning is a terrible idea.”

“I have great ideas.” Sasha finally looks up, fixing him with a glare that she hopes is suitably withering. “I’m still dealing with the fallout from your last ‘great idea.’”

“Alright, alright, I can admit that one was flawed.” He runs a hand through his hair, seemingly unbothered by her best glare. Maybe she should work on that.

Maybe she should work on making him fear her a little more, though she has a suspicion that any attempt would probably start a prank war, and she is not looking to get fired any time soon.

“But this new one is great!”

Sasha groans. “I don’t suppose you could just leave me alone? I haven’t forgiven you yet.”

“You haven’t forgiven me? Me, your best pal?”

“Yes. You.”

Tim sighs, dramatic and long-suffering. “What cruelty. Do you want to hear my idea or not?”

Sasha groans again, smacking her head into her paperwork. She can’t admit she’s interested, though her curiosity is going to be the death of her one day.

“Fine.”

“Perfect!”

“So? Hit me.”

“Archival pride trip!”

Sasha sits up, staring at him. “Are you actually serious?”

“Yeah! London Pride is in a couple of weeks, and it would be a great bonding experience, don’t you think?”

“I think you’re mad if you think Jon will agree to that.”

Tim flaps his hand around. “I see no reason why he wouldn’t. It’s a bonding experience!”

“You said.”

“God, you’re boring. Wouldn’t it be fun, though? Just you, me, Jon, and Martin. Maybe they’d even kiss!”

Sasha snorts. “Tim, you’re living in a fantasy world.”

“Maybe we’d kiss.” He waggles his eyebrows at her, and she can’t quite supress a smile.

“How about this,” she says, because she can’t deny she’d like to watch Tim get shot out of the sky by Jon telling him going to pride would be ‘unprofessional’ or something. “If Jon says yes to us going to pride then I’ll kiss you there, alright?”

Tim grins and throws his arms around her shoulders, nearly knocking them both onto the ground. “I knew you had it in you. I’m going to get that kiss, mark my words.”

Sasha laughs and shoves him off. “I don’t think so.”

Someone clears their throat from behind them and Sasha freezes. It’s Jon, she knows it’s Jon, and if he gives her more paperwork she is going to murder Timothy Stoker.

“Hey, boss!” Tim says, standing up and brushing himself down. Sasha turns around in her chair to watch.

“You’re not on a break, Tim,” Jon says, giving him a disapproving look. Theirs is even worse than Sasha’s, and unsurprisingly Tim does not cower. “Please stop harassing Sasha. I’m sure you both have enough work to be getting on with.”

“Sure,” Tim says, wandering over and slinging an arm around their shoulders. Sasha cringes a little, but surprisingly enough Jon doesn’t shove him off. Just sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose.

“What is it?”

“I’ve had a wonderful idea for a group bonding exercise,” he says, steering Jon towards their office. “I’d love to talk to you about it.”

“You have five minutes,” Jon says, and then the door to his office bangs shut.

Sasha snorts. There’s no way in hell that Jon is going to agree to this.

“Hi, Sasha.”

“Hi, Martin,” Sasha says, leaning back against her desk and grinning at him. “You’re never going to guess what Tim’s trying to arrange.”

“Oh dear,” Martin says, brow furrowing. “Is it a prank war? I’m really not any good at pranks, you know. I would put salt in people’s tea, but that just seems really predictable, you know?”

Sasha laughs. “Oh, god no. I don’t think he’d announce that, just start … filling Jon’s office with plastic spiders or something. No, it’s not that.”

“Bar crawl?”

“Nope.”

“Some sort of competition?”

“Nope. I told you, you’ll never guess.”

“Fine. Tell me.”

“Archival pride trip.”

Martin laughs, almost nervously. “Jon’s never going to agree to that. Right?”

“I hope not. I’ll have to kiss Tim if he does.”

“Oh, really?” Martin frowns, getting a look in his eye that Sasha doesn’t completely like.

“Yes. What’s that look for?”

Martin gives her a little smile that she really doesn’t like. “Oh, nothing. Is Tim talking to them now?”

“Yes,” Sasha says, narrowing her eyes. “Martin Blackwood, what are you planning?”

“Nothing!” Martin says, and he’s such a bad liar. “I’m just going to, um, take Jon their cup of tea, alright?”

“Don’t encourage Tim,” Sasha says warningly, as Martin starts backing towards the office. “I mean it! You’ll make an enemy for life!”

Martin just laughs and disappears into Jon’s office.

God, why had she told him about her crush on Tim? He’s going to use that knowledge against her, she knows it.

She growls to herself and turns back to her paperwork. Might as well get something done, right?

“Sasha!” Tim announces, almost five minutes later, and she can tell by his tone of voice that he’s won. Somehow. “You’ll never guess what we, as an archive, are going to do next week.”

She groans and turns around slowly, not wanting to see the smug grin on his face. “Oh, I couldn’t guess. Please, enlighten me.”

“Our wonderful boss has decided that it will be a fantastic bonding experience if we all go to pride.”

Sasha shakes her head, turning to give Martin, just emerging from Jon’s office, her withering glare. Unlike Tim he actually shrinks a little, giving her a smile that might be apologetic, from a certain angle.

“Did you encourage him?” she growls, and Martin laughs nervously.

“I just suggested it, that’s all.”

“You are the worst,” she tells him. “I’m never trusting you again.”

Tim laughs, triumphant. “He’s my partner in crime!”

“He’s going to be your partner in suffering for this.”

“Oh, stop it. We all know you want to kiss me so bad it makes you look stupid.”

“The thought makes me feel violently ill.”

“Shame, because these lips are going to be on yours in two weeks’ time.”

Sasha turns to glare at Martin again, only to find that he’s already disappeared. Probably wise, really. Maybe she should instigate a prank war.

Tim actually brings flags into the archive over the next two weeks, and the worst part is that Jon actually lets him hang them up. She’s considering going into his office and demanding to know who’s stolen him and replaced him with a boss who actually lets Tim carry out his dumb ideas.

She has to admit it’s kind of nice, though, having the flags around. Tim has bought himself and Jon bi flags, Martin several little rainbow pins, and an enormous trans flag for all four of them that he’s somehow managed to tape to the ceiling. There’s even an ace flag on Jon’s door, and she’s considering letting him bring her a pan flag. Considering.

(She lets him, in the end. It’s not like she doesn’t have one at home, but it’s her home flag, and having one on her desk is nice, actually.)

She still doesn’t understand how he convinced Jon to let him do this, but she has a suspicion that he bribed them, though what with she isn’t sure. Maybe the flags are the bribe.

The morning of pride is … exciting, actually. Jon’s given them all the whole day off work (she thinks he must have bribed Elias. Maybe with whatever Tim bribed him with) and they’re planning to meet at Trafalgar Square. Maybe she goes a little overboard with getting dressed, but what’s the point of pride if you’re not going overboard?

Tim has gone even more overboard than she has, to be honest. He’s painted his whole face blue, purple and pink like he’s going to a gay football game, and he’s wearing a trans flag as a cape, complete with a he/him broach. It’s kind of cool, really. Not that she’d tell him that.

Martin has, predictably, gone pretty simple, just a few badges on his shirt (which reads ‘come to the gay side, we have rainbows.’ Sasha’s certain Tim bought it for him) and a little paper flag.

Jon, to her surprise, isn’t quite as straight-laced (ha) as they usually are. They’re wearing a skirt which wouldn’t meet the institute dress code and honest-to-god fishnet stockings.

“Looking good, boss!” Tim calls, when they arrive, and they give him a small, almost embarrassed smile.

“Thank you, Tim,” they say. “You too.”

Martin is, predictably, staring, and Sasha elbows him gently. As cross as she is that this is at least partially his fault she doesn’t want him to embarrass himself.

It’s a good day, actually. A really good day. Tim has brought a polaroid camera, and he insists on documenting everything. Martin has to keep the photos safe, as the only person who’s brought bag, but Tim doesn’t seem to mind.

“Right!” he says, after a few hours, and hands the camera off to Martin. “One of you owes me a kiss.”

Sasha rolls her eyes and walks over to him, perhaps a little more eagerly than normal. “I’ll try not to be sick.”

“Like you haven’t been looking forward to this for the past two weeks.”

“Talking to yourself?”

Tim laughs, pulling her closer. “Shut up and kiss me.”

And she does. He’s a good kisser, actually, and it’s nice. It’s really nice.

“See?” he says, when he pulls away. “That wasn’t so bad.”

She rolls her eyes and kisses him on the cheek. “There. That’s all you get.”

“What do I have to do to get a date as well?”

She huffs, glancing over at Martin. He grins and waves a fresh photo at her.

“I’ll think about it,” she says, finally. “Come on, let’s go.”

“That’s not a no,” Tim says, gleefully.

“Come on,” Jon says, rolling his eyes, though Sasha imagines it’s rather fond. “We can’t stand around here all day.”

“Coming, boss,” Tim says, and grins at Sasha.

And if she reaches out to link her fingers through his, then that’s nobody’s business but her own.

#t4tma #tma #timsasha #timothy stoker #sasha james #jon sims #martin blackwood #theyre ALL TRANS you cant change my mind #bi jon #bi tim #pan sasha #gay martin #i do love aro sasha but i wanted to write timsasha so shes pan now #under a cut because its long whoops #pride #the gang goes to pride #honestly this makes me happy i love it #i miss the season one gang

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moodykylo · 3 years

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TMA prompts you say??? i am here!!! if you don't like this, let me know and i can try again, but!! what about Jon in a VERY bad mood, and the assistants are angry with him about it, but it turns out Elias is burying him in work even though he's already sick :( if you'd like me to try again, let me know!!

Hi! Thanks for the prompt! I apologize if this is OOC at all? I feel like it is, but! I hope you enjoy regardless!

Warning! There are slight spoilers for around season 2?

Tim was not happy with Jon right now. Well, nowadays, he was never happy with his boss, but today he was fuming. Jon was more irritable and pissed off than usual, and Tim didn’t even think that was possible, it seemed to him that the other always had a perpetual stick up his ass.

Today, Jon was insufferable. Tim had gone to give Jon his research, only for him to snap at him for entering before knocking, Tim of course, scoffed and made a remark, Jon, who usually rolled his eyes and shook his head instead yelled at him again, snatching the work out of his hand and immediately dismissing him.

Tim marched out of Jon’s office and sat at his desk with a huff of anger. Martin looked over to him, brows furrowed in concern and question. Tim looked over to Jon’s office scowling. “He’s being a dick.” He sighed, slumping in his chair.

Martin frowned, gaze shifting between the closed door to Jon’s office and to Tim typing angrily on his computer. He sighed, hoping that he could figure out what was wrong when he brought Jon his morning tea. Speaking of, what time was it? Martin checked the time on his computer, immediately getting out of his seat upon seeing he was running late already.

He went to the breakroom and put water in the kettle, letting it boil as he set up 4 separate mugs, one for Tim, another for Sasha, then Jon, and then himself. He knew the way everyone liked their tea, he’d learned after trying to provide comfort in small ways, mostly because Jon wouldn’t accept any other gesture of concern.

Martin hummed a half-remembered tune as he poured the hot water over the tea bags, starting the handoff, saving Jon’s office for last. When Martin gave Tim his tea, the other man stopped him before he could even step foot towards the archivist’s office.

“I’m warning you he’s in a horrid mood,” Tim said voice low and serious. “Good luck in the lion’s den.” He said sardonically, resuming his typing on the computer.

Martin just shook his head strolling over to the heavy door that was engraved with “Head Archivist” in silver lettering. He knocked timidly, before entering. Immediately freezing under Jon’s gaze. His eyes were narrowed in scrutiny, his brown eyes appearing almost icy and glare sharp. If looks could kill Martin would be dead where he stood.

Martin was now regretting not listening to Tim. He couldn’t remember a time he’d ever seen Jon look so angry. Martin tried not to maintain eye contact, but he’d noticed something else in Jon’s glower; pure exhaustion.

Martin should’ve known better than to poke the sleeping bear with a stick, but his tongue betrayed him and before he knew it, he was asking “Jon? You alright? You look absolutely spent.”

Jon’s scowl only deepened at this. “What do you want Martin?” Jon spat, each syllable filled with venom, his jaw tight and clenched. His hand was hovering over his tape recorder, the pause button pushed down.

Martin swallowed, chest now tight with anxiety. “Oh r-right, um, I brought you t-tea?” He stammered, hands shaking as he put the mug on Jon’s desk. As he did so his eyes scanned the stacks of papers and statements scattered haphazardly around the small office.

“Next time don’t interrupt me, I’m rather busy. Now, if you’ll excuse me.” Jon replied bitterly, glaring daggers at Martin, grabbing the statement he was working on.

“Right. Sorry.” Martin replied timidly, rushing out of the office, the door closing in time with the click of the play button on the tape recorder. The deep timbre of Jon’s voice resuming, taking on the edge that it usually did when he read statements. If Martin hadn’t been so freaked out he might’ve noticed the slight raspiness in the words.

Tim looked over to where Martin was standing, shaking his head with a sigh. “I told you he was in a mood,” Tim remarked. Martin only shook his head.

“I’ve never seen him like that. He was…” Martin paused, searching for the right word to explain the pure fury he’d seen in the other man’s eyes. “Seething.” he completed.

Tim only sighed. “He’s just an ass. What I wouldn’t do to give him a piece of my mind.” Tim scoffed.

“I-I don’t know why but I’m worried about him.” Martin stuttered. “There was something else there… exhaustion maybe? I-I don’t know but I think he’s working too hard.” He fretted.

Tim only laughed at this. “You worry too much Marto, the new position’s probably just gotten to his head,” Tim snarked. “You’ve got it bad for him don’t you.” he teased, grinning when Martin flushed in embarrassment.

“I-I do not! He... I just... I-” Martin rambled.

“Relax! I’m just pulling your leg.” Tim laughed. “I’m just pissed at him. Who does he think is? Yelling at all of us. Pompous idiot.” He rolled his eyes. “Elias should’ve never given him that position.” Tim explained.

“Excuse me, Mr. Stoker?” Elias’ voice suddenly broke out, and Tim felt himself pale.

“Oh, boss! What are you doing down here?” Tim stammered, no longer suave.

“Just coming to deliver more statements to the head archivist, or rather the man “I should’ve never given this position to.” Isn’t that right?” Elias replied smugly.

Martin shifted uncomfortably on his feet, clearing his throat before speaking. “S-sorry! Um.” Martin squeaked.

Tim’s confidence returned as quickly as it had disappeared. “Well, he can’t seem to keep his ego in check, yelling at us over the smallest of errors.” Tim grumbled.

Elias hummed in response. “Well, perhaps you should keep your judgment to yourself, Timothy.” Elias chastised.

“Sure thing.” Tim replied, unafraid. He resumed typing on his computer as Elias walked over to Jon’s office.

Martin sat back at his desk anxiously, keeping an eye on the small window of Jon’s office, trying to see what was going on.

Elias knocked on the office door and walked in, a complacent smile on his face. He was testing his archivist, pushing him beyond his limits. He had been piling more and more work onto Jon, seeing how he would respond, how his work would be affected. Call him cruel, but he was just trying to unlock Jon’s potential. So far, he was becoming more successful than Gertrude.

Jon looked up at the door, expecting another interruption from Martin, he quickly paused the tape recorder on his desk, scolding words already at the tip of his tongue. When he saw that it was in fact, not Martin at his door but Elias Bouchard, his stomach dropped. Elias had more statements, fuck. Jon ran a hand through his greying hair. He just wanted to go home, it was getting harder to concentrate on the words etched in ink on the parchment.

“Hello, Jon,” Elias spoke, his voice holding a sinister edge. “How are the statements coming along?” His smug smile did not falter for a moment.

Jon swallowed thickly as Elias’ gaze burned right through him. “Elias,” Jon acknowledged the greeting. “They’re uh- excuse me-” Jon stopped mid-sentence to cough painfully into his arm. He cleared his throat before speaking again. “Apologies, I’m about halfway through the stack.” he rasped pitifully.

Elias made a hum of understanding. “Good. I do hope you’ll complete these before you leave for the day.”

Jon sighed. “Of course,” he replied weakly, clearing his throat again.

Elias looked Jon over again, the Cheshire grin on his face never falling. “Oh, and Jon?” he said, walking over to the door.

Jon looked at him expectantly, eyes half-lidded, with an eyebrow raised.

“You have quite the fever, do be sure to keep it under control.” Elias said nonchalantly before leaving the small office, leaving Jon alone, mouth agape.

Jon had known of Elias’ omniscience, but not that it was at the level. God, he needed a lie down.

#sickfics #the magnus archives #TMA #tma spoilers #tma jon #tma martin #tma tim #fanfic #tma fanfic

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supercasey · 3 years

Text

TMA PMV Idea “The Dreamland Archives”

Fuck it, TMA ended so now I’m gonna post my draft sheet for a PMV I desperately wish to make, but don’t have the skills to do so. If anyone wants to use it, go ahead, but I’d like to at least know about it beforehand because I am INVESTED in this idea. (Spoilers for seasons 1-4)

(Credits/intro plays before the vocals begin)

Song: Dreamland by Glass Animals

All characters belong to Rusty Quill

*Insert list of PMV participants*

Supertheodore presents: The Dreamland Archives

Pullin' down backstreets, deep in your head [Camera is focused on the door to the archives, which opens by itself after the word “backstreets”] Slippin' through dreamland like a tourist [Camera shows the archives empty, and then filled with all of Jon's assistants after the word “dreamland” (including OG!Sasha, though her and Tim appear to be ghosts), all of them appearing happy and hard at work] Pullin' down backstreets, deep in your head [A photograph of Jon with all of the S1 assistants + Elias, everyone smiling; after the word “backstreets” it’s the S3 crew, everyone appearing upset/angry, save for Jon, who’s crying and covering his face with his hands, and Elias, who’s still smiling and has his hands on both of Jon’s shoulders] Slippin' through dreamland like a tourist [Jon is on his knees as he looks through a filing cabinet, clearly frustrated; after the word “dreamland” a ghost of Gertrude appears behind him, her arms crossed as she stands behind him, appearing disappointed]

That first friend you had, that worst thing you said [Martin is bringing a very tired Jon, who has his head in his hands, a cup of tea; Jon looks up and snaps at him after the word “had”, causing Martin to startle] That perfect moment, that last tear you shed [Tim, Martin, and even Jon are laughing at a joke that Sasha said, all three of them surrounding her desk; after the word “moment” Sasha is gone, and the others are left crying/upset] All you've done in bed, all on Memorex [Martin is alone in the archive’s storage room bed, wide awake and holding a corkscrew for dear life; after the word “bed” it cuts to Tim, who is angrily throwing a tape recorder against the nearest wall] All 'round-'round your head, all 'round-'round your head [Camera pans down from a single light-bulb to focus on Jon, who's silently crying in his office chair and surrounded by tape recorders splattered with blood (all in the shape of eyes, all staring at him)]

Pullin' down backstreets, deep in your head [Jon is traveling the tunnels alone as he uses a flashlight to light his way; after the word “backstreets” it's a similar shot, but now he's running for his life from Not!Sasha] Slippin’ through dreamland like a tourist [Jon is sitting in front of Jurgen Leitner as Jurgen explains what’s really going on to him; after the word “dreamland” Jurgen is bloodied up and dead, with Jon looking horrified, a bloody pipe rests on the table between them] Pullin' down backstreets, deep in your head [Martin and Tim run into Michael in the tunnels; after the word “backstreets” they find themselves in the realm of the Spiral] Slippin' through dreamland like a tourist [Martin and Tim are both shocked upon finding Jurgen Leitner's body; Tim becomes angry while Martin becomes worried after the word “dreamland”]

You've had too much of the digital love [Jon is sitting on the floor of Georgie's apartment, one hand holding a tape recorder, the other holding his head; after the word “much” the Admiral crawls into his lap, making Jon smile slightly] You want everything live, you want things you can touch [Jon is sitting across from Jude Perry at a cafe, looking nervous while she gives him a mischievous grin; after the word “live” it cuts to Jon free falling through the sky with Mike Crew, Mike seemingly unbothered by the whole thing while Jon looks terrified] Make it feel like a movie you saw in your youth [Shows the scene of Jon, at 8 years old, following his childhood bully to Mr. Spider’s house; the door opens and several spiders legs come out and take the bully after the word “movie”, leaving Jon terrified and covering his mouth to keep back a scream] Make it feel like that song that just unopened you [Camera is focused on Jon tied up and gagged in a chair as Nikola Orsinov brags into his tape recorder about having kidnapped him, her back turned to him the entire time; however, Michael and his door appear beside Jon after the word “song”, Jon looking very surprised/scared to see him] You were ten years old, holdin' hands in the classroom [Tim is helping Jon limp through the tunnels under the institute, the two of them looking pretty beat up; their holds tighten on each other after the word “old”, with Jon pressing his face into Tim’s shirt. Even though they’re scared, they still have each other’s backs] He had a gun on the first day of high school [Tim has his back to the camera and is facing a burning circus, triumphantly holding the detonation switch over his head; after the word “the” he presses it, causing the circus to explode, with Tim being lost to the explosion after the word “of”] ((This line and the one before it are the reasons why this stupid idea exists)) You want something bizarre, old conceptual cars [Helen is standing in the doorway of the Spiral, grinning at the camera; after the word "bizarre” Peter Lukas is standing at the frontmost part of the Tundra, smoking a pipe with one hand while the other is in his coat pocket] You want girls dressed in drag, you want boys with guitars [Melanie slashes at the camera with a knife, her eyes glowing red; after the word “drag” we see Gerry as ghost levitating in the air and lying on his back, his arms behind his head and a content smile on his face while Jon’s panicking right next to him (and wearing a tacky “I <3 NY” t-shirt ‘cus I said so)]

Pullin' down backstreets, deep in your head [Jon is lying in a hospital bed during his coma, fast asleep, with Elias sitting in a chair beside him, reading a statement aloud; Elias lays a hand on Jon’s forehead after the word “backstreets”] Slippin' through dreamland like a tourist [Oliver comes to visit Jon at the hospital, and is leaned over Jon (from Jon’s POV for the camera angle); after the word “dreamland” it cuts to him having his back to Jon, hands up in surrender as he faces a suspicious Georgie] Pullin' down backstreets, deep in your head [Jon looks incredibly stressed in a shot of the archives, looking around for Martin; after the word “backstreets” Martin shows up in a cloud of fog behind him, visibly sad] Slippin' through dreamland like a tourist [Jon is crawling through the Buried, looking for Daisy, who he finds as a disheveled mess after the word “dreamland”]

You see Kodachrome, you see pink and gold [Melanie is laughing while sitting on Jon’s desk facing Basira after recording a statement; after the word “Kodachrome” it’s the same scene, but her and Jon are standing up, and she’s hugging Jon before she’s about to go and blind herself] You see Mulholland glow, you see in airplane mode [Jon and Daisy are sprawled out together on the floor of the archives, listening to the Archers and laughing; after the word “glow” it’s Basira and Daisy kneeling in the same spot, Basira trying to hold onto Daisy and keep her from giving into the Hunt as she begins to change into a werewolf] All 'round-'round your head, all 'round-'round your head [Jon and Basira are interrogating Manuela about the location of the dark sun; after the first use of the word “head” it cuts to Jon seeing the dark sun with his own eyes, tears running down his face as he smiles at it] All 'round-'round your head, all 'round-'round your head [Martin and Peter are navigating the tunnels together, Martin looking frustrated while Peter smiles; after the first use of the word “head” it cuts to Martin discovering the body of Jonah Magnus, his expression one of terror]

You float in the pool where the soundtrack is canned [Jon is searching the Lonely for Martin, calling out for him through the fog; after the word “pool” a smug looking Peter appears behind him, causing Jon to jolt in surprise] You go ask your questions like, “What makes a man?” [Jon confronts Peter, screaming at him from a few feet away; after the word “like” his eyes begin to glow green, and several glowing green eyes surround him and Peter, with Peter bending forward and clutching his head in pain] Oh, it's 2020, so it's time to change that [Jon is facing Martin in the Lonely, pleading with him face to face with his hands on his cheeks; after the word “2020” Martin’s eyes light up as he finally breaks free of the Lonely’s influence] So you go make an album and call it Dreamland [Jon and Martin are seen hugging each other for dear life; after the word “album” the scene cuts to them walking out of the Lonely together, hand in hand with their backs to the camera; the camera zooms in on their hands holding onto each other at the word “Dreamland”]

((I’m open to a few changes, but I will die before I let go of the Tim & Jon scene, which lives in my brain rent free))

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cuttoothed · 5 years

Note

JonMartin: In A Bar, A Bet 👀

OKAY I KNOW A DARE AND A BET ARE NOT THE SAME THING BUT I WOULD LIKE IT ON THE RECORD THAT MY HEART WAS IN THE RIGHT PLACE. 💖

Sasha’s birthday comes around about a month after Martin moves into the Archives. Martin remembers it, of course, because he makes it his business to remember when people’s birthdays are, regardless of whether he’s being menaced by supernatural worm creatures. He goes out and gets her a carrot cake, because it’s her favorite, and walks a card around all the different departments to collect greetings from everyone that Sasha’s friends with. He brings it to Jon last of all, who scribbles his name hastily in the small amount of white space left, frowning.

“I’m sure you have better things to be doing with your time, Martin,” he says. “Don’t you still have the research on the Regan case to do?”

Martin doesn’t rise to the bait, because he’s well ahead on the Regan case, and also he almost died in the line of duty, thank you. Martin’s not letting that one go for at least as long as he’s stuck living in this musty basement. He just snaps the card shut and leaves Jon to his tapes.

Sasha is delighted with the card and the cake, and that evening they go for a drink at the Thistle, which is just around the corner from the Institute and does a curry night on Wednesdays. Tim orders the hottest vindaloo with extra spice, waggling his eyebrows suggestively at the barman. The rest of them order normally and Jon magnanimously gets the first round of drinks in. A few of the Research and Artifact Storage lot pop in for a drink and some happy returns, but after a while it’s just the four of them. Martin’s well into his third flirtini, so he’s too slow to react when Tim declares:

“We should play Truth Or Dare!”

“No, we shouldn’t,” Jon says at the exact same time that Sasha says: “Oh, fun!” and really, what choice do they have at that point?

In her defense, Martin thinks afterwards, she did have several rounds of tequila bought for her by well-meaning colleagues who each thought they were the first one to have the idea of shots for the birthday girl. Sasha can’t really be blamed.

It’s all simple at first. Martin truthfully answers Sasha’s question about the first person he snogged, and then Tim answers his question about the weirdest place he’s ever woken up, and then...and then Tim looks at Jon and says:

“Truth or dare?”

“Truth,” Jon says firmly. Tim grins.

“If you had to pick one person from the Institute to shag, who would it be?”

Jon’s face goes crimson and he looks away.

“That’s hardly - hardly appropriate, Tim. I am still your manager.”

“I’m flattered, boss, but I know it’s not me. I’d be able to tell if we had...sexual chemistry.” Tim waggles his eyebrows again and Jon goes even redder.

“That’s not what I - ” he mutters, and Martin’s about to tell Tim to lay off him when Jon huffs out a breath and says:

“Fine. Dare.”

“Oh…” Tim muses, tapping a finger against his chin. His eyes slide over to meet Martin’s, glinting with mischief, and before Martin can silently plead no, Tim, he continues:

“I dare you to snog Martin.”

Martin’s heart stops. Fuck you, Stoker, he thinks viciously, and shoots Tim a glare that Tim answers with a smug grin. Martin curses himself for ever letting Tim drag out the truth of his inconvenient interest - purely aesthetic interest, he hastens to add - in their arsehole of a boss. It’s humiliating, because Jon is stuffy and superior and really rather unpleasant at times, but he’s also broodingly good looking in a way that makes Martin’s knees weak, and his voice is probably a sin in several religions.

He is also, almost certainly, tragically straight, because that’s the sort of luck Martin tends to have. It would certainly explain the almost frantic expression on Jon’s face at Tim’s words. His mouth works soundlessly for a few moments, his face going redder and redder, and eventually Martin has to put him out of his misery.

“It’s okay!” he says. “Tim, give him another dare, that one wasn’t fair.”

“A dare’s a dare,” Tim says folding his arms and looking incredibly self-satisfied. Martin has never wanted to strangle someone more than he does right in this moment.

“Go on, Jon!” Sasha cheers, slurring just a little bit. Not her fault, Martin reminds himself, she’s been plied with tequila. Jon hunches his shoulders up and scowls, and the expression really should not be so endearing but it reminds Martin of nothing so much as an affronted cat. Jon sighs.

“Fine,” he says. “Fine, as long as this doesn’t end up in a complaint to HR. Martin, is it okay with you?”

“Err, what? Yeah, I - yeah,” Martin says intelligently, feeling his face go hot. Tim gives him a thumbs up.

“I don’t think we have an HR department,” Sasha notes, frowning.

“Well, just don’t let it get back to Elias then,” Jon says, and shuffles down the bench seat towards Martin. Up close, his brown eyes are framed by incredibly thick lashes, and he smells faintly of some earthy, spicy scent. His Cupid’s bow is possibly the most perfect shape Martin’s ever seen. His gaze meets Martin’s, and for a moment it’s just the two of them in the world, close and intimate.

“Okay?” Jon asks in a gentle tone that Martin’s never heard before, and Martin nods, his breath catching in his throat. Then Jon is leaning in and brushing his lips against Martin’s, and Martin’s heart is hammering in his chest as their mouths move carefully together. There’s the briefest instant when he feels Jon’s mouth open under his, soft and hot, and then it’s gone, and Jon’s pulling away. Jon’s cheeks are red, and he clears his throat awkwardly, glaring at Tim.

“There,” he says. “Happy?”

“Very!” Tim says, and then mouths an extremely unsubtle you’re welcome at Martin. Martin considers sliding underneath the table and army crawling his way out of this situation. His heart is still fluttering frantically behind his ribs.

“Okay Jon!” Sasha says, clapping her hands together. “You get to ask me now.”

“I, uh, I think I’ll just go for a quick cigarette,” Jon says, getting up hastily. “You - you lot keep playing, I’ll be back.”

He practically sprints out of the pub, and Martin watches the tense line of his shoulders as he goes. That inconvenient attraction is still swirling in his stomach, joined now by a sudden surge of guilt, and that terrible need he has to take care of anyone in distress. He sighs, and gets up.

“I’ll get the next round,” he says, and ignores Tim’s eloquent eyebrows as he heads towards the door.

Jon is outside, fortunately, not bolted off into the night without his coat or phone. He’s smoking a cigarette viciously, as if it’s done something to insult him, and Martin clears his throat to catch his attention. Jon’s shoulders sag minutely at the sight of him, and Martin can’t tell if that’s relief or disappointment.

“What brings you out here, Martin?” Jon asks, his tone strained. “I hope you haven’t taken up smoking?”

“Look, Jon,” Martin says. “Don’t pay any attention to Tim. It’s just a - a stupid game. He was trying to embarrass you.”

“He’s rather good at it.” Jon barks a humorless laugh. His shoulders hunch up again.

“Yeah, he is,” Martin sighs. “I’m - I’m sorry, I know it was awkward.”

“How are you doing, Martin?” Jon asks suddenly, apropos of nothing. Martin gapes, startled.

“Sorry?”

“It’s been almost a month, hasn’t it? Since you’re been staying at the Archives. I know it’s the safest place, right now, but it can’t be very...well, I never really thought to ask. How are you?”

Jon’s eyes meet his, serious and dark, and Martin can’t tear his gaze away. He feels himself flushing again, and he knows this is incredibly inappropriate, because Jon is his boss, and probably straight (although maybe not so much, judging by that kiss?) and in any case definitely not interested in Martin in that way. But Jon is also asking him how he’s doing, solemn and sincere, the same tone he used when he told Martin he’d be staying in the Archives for safety, and it makes something warm bloom in Martin’s chest. Something more than just aesthetic interest.

“I’m, umm, I’m fine,” he says. “It’s not great, obviously, and I’m - I’m a bit scared. We all are. But, I’m okay.”

“That’s good,” Jon nods. “I’m not always as...observant, as I could be. So, if you need something, or - or something’s wrong, just, uh, let me know, all right?”

“I - I will,” Martin says. “Thanks, Jon.”

Jon nods to him, and then stubs out his cigarette in the ashtray.

“Right,” he says, “Let’s go and get the drinks in, and plan out what incredibly embarrassing thing you can ask our Mister Stoker on your next turn.”

He gives a small, sly grin that makes Martin’s stomach flip over slowly, and Martin grins in return.

“Sounds good.”

#the magnus archives #tma #my fic #jonmartin #writing prompts

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that-one-girl-behind-you · 4 years

Text

Illicio 16/?

Part 15

"Compel me, then. Ask." Martin looks at him in the eye, and Jon averts his gaze almost immediately.

"I wouldn't. Not to you," he mumbles.

"Then you'll have to take me at my word, I suppose." Martin gestures to the door. "Please."

"...Martin, I'm so sorry."

Stab the knife in. Twist it. Anything it takes.

"I'm not." Martin's heart aches, but it feels cold and far away, like everything else.

XVI

Gerry closes the door to Jon's office with a pleased smile, pushing his hair back into place.

"I must admit-" Tim says, immediately souring Gerry's mood. He's sitting behind a desk with his feet up on it, looking at him with a thoughtful frown. "I've known him for seven years, and I never thought I'd see the day he'd have a make out session in his office."

"Well, you never finish getting to know people. Did you need anything?" Gerry arches an eyebrow.

"Is Melanie going out with you today?" Tim asks, and Gerry scowls.

"How is that any of your business?"

Tim rolls his eyes, swinging his legs off the desk and climbing to his feet. "Apparently it's my business because Martin had to save your sorry ass from the hunters the other day, and now we have to have a buddy system, so thank you for that."

Oh. Oh, no.

It suddenly makes a lot of sense, why Jon pulled him back for a last, heavier kiss. Gerry feels like he's been had, and he somehow knows if he were to march back into the office to ask for an explanation, he would find an empty room.

"I don't need a babysitter, Stoker, and I definitely don't want you around meddling in my investigations." Gerry turns to head for the door, gritting his teeth when Tim comes to stand before him again. "Did Jon put you up to this? Because-"

"Don't be stupid." Tim snorts. "I couldn't care less about him-"

Gerry rolls his eyes. "Why don't you try selling that one to someone who didn't see you vaporize Manuela Domínguez?"

"-but Martin cares that you don't get killed, for some reason." Tim speaks louder to cover Gerry's words. "So you're going to have to suck it up, because I'm coming with you whether you like it or not."

Gerry crosses his arms over his chest, leaning back against Melanie's desk. "You have no idea how close I am to killing you every time you speak, Stoker."

"Why don't you try selling that to someone who doesn't know how whipped you are, Keay?" Tim's grin turns smug and he leans forward. "You can't touch me."

Gerry has to remind himself really quickly that decking him in the face wouldn't even bring the satisfaction of breaking something, and worse: it would make both Martin and Jon angry at him. It should be a relief, really, that Martin has a friend as dedicated to him as Tim.

It probably would be, if said friend wasn't this much of an asshole.

"Oh, they know you. They'll forgive me." Gerry narrows his eyes. "I just need to find a good excuse."

"So! Where are we going today, pal?"

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

The door to the office opens silently, and Jon has a spare moment to be impressed at Daisy’s handiwork again.

The room is both empty and silent, and Jon feels a pang of pain when he realizes Martin isn't... Gerry has been by the flat a couple times -much to Tim’s annoyance-, but there’s no sign of him other than the thick fog that seems to linger in any space Martin has claimed as his own.

“Martin?” he calls out softly; the fog swirls in tantalizing spirals, disturbed both by the open door and his passage through it and gathered more thickly around the imposing mahogany desk. “A- are you here?”

There is no answer; the dense fog drifts away from the desk like pushed by an unseen wind. Jon sighs. He could- he could call on the Eye. Nothing should be hidden from him, here at his place of power. He could See Martin, no matter how tight a grasp the Lonely has on him.

“But you don’t want me to See you, do you?” he mutters, more to himself than to the flaky idea of Martin’s presence. “This is- It wouldn’t be fair to intervene just because I miss you. I- I trust you’ll let me know if you need me.”

He turns away then, because Martin’s memory bites at his core like a rabid dog.

It feels like he last saw him was an eternity ago, instead of just two months or so. It has occurred to Jon before that they don’t work on the same time as the rest of the world anymore. Theirs is a time measured not in minutes, but in losses.

“Enough. I- that’s enough.” A tape recorder clicks to life somewhere in the office, and Jon smiles, grateful. “Yes, thank you. Just… just a slip.”

He feels like a magnet that is facing the wrong pole, as he begins moving across the office.

Something in his chest pulls at him when he takes a step in a direction it doesn’t like; the desk calls at him, no doubt full of statements and tapes the Eye considers inoffensive. When he moves towards the stationary cabinet by the corner of the room, it feels like his feet weigh a ton each, like the floor has become sticky and viscous and unwilling to let him go. Jon closes his eyes; maybe it’ll help if he doesn’t see where he’s going?

When he opens them again he’s standing at the threshold, facing the corridor.

“Harder than I thought…” Jon mutters under his breath, before turning to the office. At least he knows he’s on the right track now.

‘What are you looking for?’

“What am I looking for?” Jon mutters to himself, before he turns towards the cabinet again. “It’s there, isn’t it? The thing you don’t want me to see.”

‘There’s nothing in there. Just old papers, and some tapes.’

Jon nods. “Yes. Yes, that’s what I need.” Or that’s what the Eye doesn’t want him to have, and if Gerry’s right, that’s exactly what he should be trying to get.

It feels like a year before Jon takes the last of the ten steps that separate the door from the cabinet, and he pulls the doors open like they weigh a ton each. They slide noiselessly on their hinges, revealing the filing boxes full of yellowed paper, and a single cardboard box bull of shiny black tapes.

Jon’s hand hovers over them for an eternity before he shoves it in with a clatter of plastic against plastic. It comes back out with a tape held tightly in its grip, and for a moment Jon thinks of fishing birds, diving in from hundreds of feet in the air to catch unsuspecting prey.

’Is that what you wanted?’

“Yes. This- this is the one I wanted. The one I need.” Jon feels a surge of dark triumph looking at the unassuming tape. Whatever could be so important that the Watcher is so desperate to keep from-

The tape slips from Jon’s left hand, but his right comes to catch it awkwardly; his burned fingers twitching and spasming as his whole hand cramps in pain, and for a moment Jon is afraid he’s going to drop it in the pile again and lose it forever.

The doors to the cabinet swing closed with a slam.

Jon jumps back a little, giving the room another once-over. It looks just as empty as before, swirling fog and unfinished paperwork on the desk.

“...Martin?” he asks again, a little more hopeful this time. Maybe the office was never empty, maybe… He takes a step towards the desk. Is he imagining the scent of tea, the sound of rustling footsteps echoing his own? “Martin, are you here?”

’You need to leave, Jon.’

He does, doesn’t he? His hands want to let go of the tape, to chuck it out the window and hope a car runs over it and turns it into a million pieces. Whatever it contains, it’s dangerous, and he needs to hear it. The faster he does it, the better.

Before he closes the door behind himself, he gives the desk another look. He could swear there’s a figure profiled in the fog, but then again his wistful thinking has gotten the best of him before.

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

"You must be Martin then," says a clearly amused voice as he closes the door to the office, without locking it, because apparently that's as unnecessary as it is useless. "I must say, Peter definitely wasn't exaggerating."

Martin heaves a long-suffering sigh. He shouldn't have come today. The thought that Tim or Gerry would look for him at the flat was really the only thing that kept him from staying there.

Jon's visit last morning left him shaken, and he's been trying to call the Lonely back ever since without great results to speak of. It's a bit impressive how loving can complicate things so much, even when Martin is only faintly aware of what loving means anymore. A little like watching trees shake under a stiff breeze, but not feeling anything against his skin.

"Well, there's no need for that." The man chuckles when Martin finally lifts his gaze to him. He's old, is the first thing Martin thinks. Wrinkled and either extremely short or hunched over by age, the only thing suggestive of life is the glint of mischief in his sky-blue eyes. "I'm merely visiting, I'll let you go back to trying to drown in your own misery in just a minute, see?"

"Who are you again?" Martin arches an eyebrow. Manners are an effort he's not willing to make right now.

"Ah, of course. I forgot, my apologies." The man extends a small, wrinkly hand that Martin looks at pointedly for a few moments, before it's retracted. "Should've known, I suppose. Simon Fairchild, I trust you've heard of me?"

Martin has, a lot. Perhaps in the past the name would've been enough to scare him. Now he just stares at him warily, and feels the fog curl around him almost protectively.

"What are you doing here?" Martin asks. "I told Peter I didn't need any more convincing. I believe him."

"Do you?" Simon's eyes spark with something that reminds Martin of years ago, when Sasha -not Sasha, never Sasha, probably- teased him about a crush over the rim of a cup of coffee.

"Does it matter?"

"I rather think that's up to you, don't you?" Simon leans against the wall across from him, tapping his cane against his thigh. His entire posture is like a tightly coiled spring, ready to bounce into action at any moment with an energy disproportionate to his age. "But no. I was brought in as an impartial judge, so to speak. Wagers can get messy, between those two."

Martin sighs again, feeling the start of a migraine blossoming behind his eyes and yearning for the cool, soft embrace of the fog. "Listen, I have no idea what you're talking about. Please just say your piece and go."

"Hmmm I suppose that was it, if you look at it purely in terms of what Peter asked. You're well and truly taken, aren't you?" The man's fingers tap impatiently against the length of the polished cane. "Humor an old man, if you will. Since you're apparently convinced of Peter's little theory, what do you make of it?"

"I didn't take you for someone who'd care." Martin thinks back at the paperwork he's been completely useless at finishing ever since Jon stumbled in yesterday, and he's suddenly struck by the futility of it. Will anyone even mind if he doesn't finish it? If he fades away and leaves behind only the slight scent of humidity and salt on the half filled forms?

"Oh, I don't. Not really." Simon grins when Martin looks up at him again. "But it makes for good conversation, and I find that corralling you lonely folk into idle chat is very amusing."

"Hm. What do you want to hear, then?" Martin shrugs. "There is another fear, and it's apparently bigger and meaner than the ones we already have, because that's just what we need it seems."

"That just about covers it."

"I guess my only question is... why is Peter the only one that seems interested in stopping it?" Martin scowls. The question has been fluttering around in his mind for a while now, a remnant of his connection to the Eye probably. "I get that Elias doesn't believe him, but you apparently do. Why don't you care?"

"I'm afraid I don't really care for anything at all, lad, not really." Simon shrugs with an unapologetic smile. "Nothing, no one really matters in the end, does it? We're merely... pieces. Insignificant in the face of the great, grand everything."

"That's a very lonely way of thinking."

"The overlap again, I suppose. Our patrons aren't really that different, don't you think Martin?"

"My question stands. If the Lonely wants to stop this new fear-"

"You're presuming an awful lot there." Simon gives him a knowing grin."I hardly think the Lonely wants to stop anything. This is all Peter's endeavor. And yours, of course."

"Mine." Martin sighs.

"Don't think the irony's lost on me, by the way. Two followers of the Forsaken, trying to save the world? You can't write a joke like that."

Martin arches an eyebrow. "What's the punchline?"

"Why, that no matter how much your entire existence is based around not caring, you very much do, it seems."

Martin rolls his eyes, shaking his head. "I used to." And he did, didn't he? Simon is not entirely wrong, it's a dark, bitter joke that Martin chose to sacrifice his humanity out of love. Is he still doing this for that reason, or is he just going along with it now because there's really nothing else to do anymore? With the fog wrapped so tightly around him that he can't see further than a step ahead, is there even a path to deviate from anymore?

"Martin?" Gerry's voice washes over him like a pail of cold water, and Martin flinches. The man is frozen at the end of the corridor, no doubt on his way to the office to try and wrest him out of the Forsaken again. His eyes are narrowed in suspicion as they jump from him to Simon, and Martin tenses a bit more. "Everything alright?"

"And you must be Peter's little headache." Simon's face lights up in delight.

"Simon Fairchild." Gerry doesn't really ask, stepping up to the two of them with steady, confident footsteps. Martin remembers quite abruptly that he too is a creature of the Eye, and this is very much his home turf. "What are you here for?"

"You're not the slightest bit intimidated, are you?" Simon chuckles. Martin's ears pop, and he focuses on Gerry's hand squeezing his arm to ignore the sudden nausea. "I can see why Peter is so annoyed with you."

"I'm flattered." Gerry says dryly. "Need me to show you the way out? I'm sure Martin needs to get back to work."

"Hm… I was planning on just leaving, but I suppose it's always good to stockpile on favors." Simon's eyes glint mischievously again as he pushes off the wall. It's sudden reminder that he's not merely a kooky old man having fun at Martin's expense.

"I'm sure Simon can find the exit by himself, actually." Martin says firmly, taking a step forward. Whatever is Gery thinking anyways, squaring up to Simon Fairchild himself? He has to have heard of him, he has to know how insanely dangerous he is. "And I think we're done with our chat, too."

Simon being on Peter's side probably means he will not hurt Martin, but he somehow doubts Gerry will be granted the same courtesy.

"See what I mean?" Simon chuckles. "Can't write a joke like that."

Martin rolls his eyes, but at least the man is focused on him. He takes another step to position himself firmly between the two of them. "You've seen whatever it was Peter wanted you to see, haven't you?"

"And a bit more too. Just a delightful conversation, if I do say so myself." The tip of the cane taps against the polished hardwood floors, one, two, three. "Hope to have another one soon. Have a nice evening, Martin."

He walks away then without sparing them another look, with the familiarity of one who's traversed these corridors countless times.

"Don't forget to close the window." Gerry says in a low grunt, and Martin rounds on him.

"Shut up." Martin snaps. "What were you thinking?"

Gerry arches a pierced eyebrow, his eyes unimpressed. "Unbelievably stupid, huh? Just up and having a chat with an avatar of the Vast. Can't think why anyone would-"

"Oh, cut it." Martin rolls his eyes. "What do you want?"

It takes a moment, but Gerry seems to deflate. "I wanted to check on you. Maybe ask you to call Tim off."

"Yes, because this really convinced me you don't need someone to keep you out of trouble."

"Implying Tim is not trouble." Gerry snorts. His lips remain curled in something that can't quite be called a smile, but almost the suggestion of one. "You're looking a bit more like yourself."

"...I guess I am." Martin sighs; his hands look a bit less blurred, and he guesses the rest of him does too. "That's not necessarily a good thing."

"It is in my books." Gerry shrugs. "Do you- should I leave?"

Martin arches an eyebrow. "Are you really asking for my opinion on the matter?"

Gerry's smile comes in full now, and it's blinding. It's easy to see why Jon fell in love with him; they deserve each other.

"I had to at least pretend, didn't I?"

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

"Is that the same tape you've been staring at since yesterday?" Helen asks, her voice echoing curiously from somewhere in Jon's desk.

His mouth twitches into a smile, and he pulls the drawer open to see Helen's face peeking out from the bottom-turned-door. "Have you been watching me?"

Helen gives him a sharp smile, all fractured, amused angles. "Isn't that what one does here?"

"I suppose." Jon nods simply. There is not much that can be done to stop Helen from popping in wherever she wants to, really. One just has to deal with her; at least she's noticeably less prone to stabbing than her predecessor.

"Well, why haven't you listened to it?"

"Someone doesn't want me to, I think."

"Which one?" Helen asks, and Jon gives it a moment's thought.

He doesn't not want to listen to the tape, which probably takes the Mother of Puppets off the equation. Instead, it feels like every particle in his body -a body that he's very aware was kept from death by the Beholding- is recoiling at the idea of pressing that button. Perhaps it would be easier, Jon thinks, if he hadn't allowed himself to change this far.

"The Eye, I think. Whatever's in there, it doesn't particularly want me to know."

"I thought the tapes were yours." Helen hums thoughtfully; it's several frequencies and rhythms at the same time, and Jon feels the beginnings of a headache start to pound at his temples.

"They are," Jon says. 'But I am the Eye's,' he doesn't add. It's not something he wants to declare. Not something he wants to call. His patron already has much too tight a grip on him without him declaring allegiance.

"Hm. Well, you only had to ask, dear." Helen grins.

A long fingered hand climbs its way out of the drawer like a flesh-colored spider, and Jon can't help but to snort in amusement. This is probably the only thing the entities could never plan ahead for.

"Thank you, Helen," he says as a too-sharp finger presses down on the play button, before the hand retreats back into the drawer.

"My pleasure." Helen's laughter echoes around the inside of the drawer as it slides shut on its own.

'Right. No use putting it off further.' Gertrude's voice is dry and businesslike as usual, and something in Jon immediately screams for him to throw himself against the tape, stop it.

This is the traitor, who never called herself the Archivist but used their powers to her own gain. The one that sought knowledge not to add to the Archives but to destroy the delicate balance of the entities, to sow war and destruction under the banner of the Eye in hopes of painting a target at its core. This is the one that hurt his Gerry, left him behind like a broken toy, bound into painful non-existence. This is the Enemy, turn it off!

Jon doesn't. Instead, he focuses on his predecessor's words to fend off the Eye's insidious whispers.

'And so Eric Delano ended.'

Oh.

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

Click.

"Oh. Hi." Martin lifts the stack of papers to reveal the tape recorder waiting underneath. "You know? I've always wanted to catch one of you on the move. I put those papers there ten minutes ago and you weren't under them." He taps the tape recorder like one would boop a cat's nose, and the device clicks contentedly.

It's been... an odd week. Between Jon's visit, having to actually speak to Tim to convince him of keeping an eye on Gerry, and then Gerry himself coming to try and pick a fight with Simon, he's feeling like he's standing with a foot on each side of the line.

The Lonely still has its hooks in him, enough so that Martin wants it back, but not enough that he can actually walk in and out of it like he did when the Hunters were threatening Gerry.

"Is that what you're here for? Do you want me to talk about my state?" he asks the recorder. "That's really the only thing I've got now. No new statements, no-"

A suspicion starts taking shape in his mind, and he narrows his eyes. "Peter? Are you-" The door to the office flies open, and Martin jumps back and to his feet, heart hammering in his chest. "Who-?!"

"Martin?" Jon all but trips his way to the desk, and Martin takes him in with a concerned look. His face looks ashen, his lips almost white; his hair is a mess, like he's been running his hands through it, and his hands themselves are shaking. His eyes are wide and frantic, halfway through going back to his natural color and swimming with something as he looks up at Martin. "I- it's great you're here, I-"

"If you're going to break into my office on the regular, I preferred the other way." Martin snaps; his heart's still racing, and he can feel the Lonely trying to pull him back.

"The other- oh. So you were here. I- I thought I heard your voice, I- I followed it instead of the Eye."

"Jon-"

"Right. Right, I- sorry for startling you. It wasn't my intention." He looks a bit lost now, like the wind has been taken from under his sails, like he hadn't planned as far as finding him here. His gaze has always held weight, but as his eyes run over his face Martin feels like he's standing under a spotlight. "I- I've missed you."

Martin winces, the three words imbued with a meaning he doesn't know how to process.

"Jon-"

His eyes burn on Martin's skin. Is this how his victims feel, or is the fear of being wanted different from the fear of being known?

Jon reaches a still shaky hand towards him. "I'm- I know what you said, I- I trust you. I know you know what you're doing and Martin, you-"

"Jon, what do you want?" This way is easier. It hurts, but he has to send him away. For his own good; for everyone's.

His hand drops, but Jon's eyes are still glued to his face like Jon's afraid if he stops looking for a single second, Martin will fade away.

"I think I found a way for us to leave the Institute."

"...What?" is all Martin can force out, his brain screeching to a halt. "Jon, what-"

"Gerry's father, he- he quit the Institute Martin. We could do it too." Jon sidesteps the desk, unsteady on his feet, just unsteady in general. Martin's mind is still trying to process the words.

"I- Gerry's father used to work here?"

"Martin, you're not listening!" Jon's hands clamp around his wrists, and Martin's mouth clips shut so fast he nearly bites his tongue off. "We could- we could leave."

"But- Jon, how?" The Beholding is not like the Lonely, you can't keep it at bay by being around other people, if anything that makes it worse. There will always be fear and suffering around, and as long as you can see it-

Oh. Oh, shit.

"...You're joking," Martin breathes out. It's the only thing that makes sense, because otherwise Jon would be suggesting-

"It's... I realize it's pretty drastic, but-"

"It is! Have you- did you tell the others or-"

"Uhm... n- not really." Jon's grip falters, like the breath has been punched out of him. "You're the first."

"I'm- why?" Martin asks. Perhaps the fact that he thinks he knows the answer is the scariest thing of them all.

"I thought-" just like that, Jon's hands drop from his wrists. "We could leave here, Martin."

"I- this is too much, where- Gerry, where is he?" Martin stutters out. He'll know if this is real, if it would work. He's been in this world for far longer than any of them and-

"He's by St. Paul's, with Melanie" Jon responds almost immediately, and even just the thought of Gerry seems to be enough to ground him a little. "They haven't found the Corruption book yet. They're- they're coming back now, but they're thinking of stopping for food."

"Stopping for- Jon he doesn't know?!" Martin runs a hand through his hair. All the fog is gone from the room, and dear lord, how he misses it. "Jon, what were you thinking?! Gouge your eyes out and just leave him to find you?"

"I haven't- he wasn't here," Jon mutters, averting his gaze. "Martin, it doesn't- Gerry's not tied to the Institute, he's tied to me-"

"Yes, by the Eye!" Martin snaps. "What, you think it's going to let you keep him after you do this?!"

"I-"

"A-and then what? Is he just- what is he going to do? Just... take care of two blind men for the rest of his life? That isn't fair, not without asking him!"

"What is the alternative, then?" Jon cuts in, and when Martin finally looks down at him, he looks positively devastated, the eyes of a drowning man that sees a ship take the wrong turn. "What are we going to do, Martin?"

"... Don't do this, Jon," Martin sighs, and Jon flinches back like he's been slapped. "I can't- don't make it my choice. I can't choose for- for you, for him."

"Martin-"

"Could you even survive at this point? Because- because if you die, he dies too. Have you thought about it?"

And what if he did? What if Jon did think about it, and he decided he'd rather be free, even if it meant not living? If everything Martin has done is for nothing, because saving the world has absolutely no meaning if Jon's not in it? If-

"Martin?" Jon's voice has a broken quality to it when it reaches him, and Martin opens his eyes -when did he close them?- to find that oh, the fog is back. "Martin, don't- please don't go."

"Please leave, Jon."

"I- What?"

Yes. This... this feels better. Even the heartbreak is numbed. What does it matter if Jon leaves him behind, if he's always been alone? If he wants to be?

"Peter is bound to come back soon, Jon. I'd much rather he doesn't find you here." Martin exhales, and mist breezes past his lips.

"I don't care. Martin, please- come and talk to Gerry with me. We can- we'll figure something out, we will."

"You made me a promise, Jon." Martin looks towards the door. "You said you trusted me."

"A- and I do! You know that, but Martin, I- we could go. Together, please-"

"I don't think it's something I want anymore." Martin shrugs. "And you need to respect that. I thought you'd moved on with him, I thought you'd leave me alone."

"Is- I don't believe it. I can't believe that's what you want." Jon's voice is soft like the caress of the fog on Martin's skin. This is it. This is- he could make him leave. Maybe forever, and if this crazy self-mutilation plan of his is right, maybe, just maybe, he will be safe.

"Compel me, then. Ask." Martin looks at him in the eye, and Jon averts his gaze almost immediately.

"I wouldn't. Not to you," he mumbles.

"Then you'll have to take me at my word, I suppose." Martin gestures to the door. "Please."

"...Martin, I'm so sorry."

Stab the knife in. Twist it. Anything it takes.

"I'm not." Martin's heart aches, but it feels cold and far away, like everything else.

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

Jon is antsy.

It would be obvious even if Gerry couldn’t taste the anxiety in the quiet 'Thank you' that Jon gives after he helps him out of his coat. They usually talk on the way home, but this evening went by with Gerry narrating his and Melanie's hunt for the Corruption book to a mostly silent Jon.

It's... it's alright, he decides as he goes into the bathroom for a shower. Jon promised not to lie to him; if it's something he needs to know, then he trusts he will tell him. He's pretty much forgotten about it by the time he comes out in a cloud of steam, his hair still pinned up on a loose bun to keep it out of the way and wearing a loose t-shirt comfortable enough to sleep in.

Still, his stomach falls to the ground when a pair of arms come to wrap around his middle as he stands before the kitchen counter, brewing himself a cup of coffee.

"I'm here," Gerry says before Jon can even voice a question, because that's what matters. Anything else they can fix together. "What's bothering you? Did- is everything alright with Martin?"

Jon's forehead comes to rest between his shoulder blades, and Gerry lays a hand over Jon's tangled fingers on his stomach.

"Nothing is alright with Martin. But this- I- this is not about him."

"Then?" Gerry asks, even though he's got pretty clear feeling of who it is about. Jon shifts behind him to reach up and press a kiss on the back of his neck. "Jon-"

"I stole a tape from the Institute."

Gerry scowls. "I hardly think you can steal something that's yours, Jon."

"I'm- this one is not mine." Jon's arms tighten around him, and Gerry runs soothing circles with his thumb over the burn-smooth knuckles. "I- I think you should listen to it."

"Is it about me?" Is it about someone he couldn't save?

Jon steps back, and waits until Gerry's turned to face him to tentatively brush a hand against his.

"It's- it's a Gertrude tape." Oh. Well, those are never easy. Gertrude is still a can of worms Gerry doesn't dare look too deeply into, she- "She's calling your father from the book."

Gerry freezes.

The words echo around in his mind as he tries to connect them in a way he can process, in a way that he can deal with. How come his chest feels so heavy when there's not a heart in there?

"I'm- s- so he was in there after all," he says. His voice sounds strained, and he clears his throat, his gaze stubbornly fixed on Jon's collarbone. "I always wondered."

Jon says nothing, simply looks over to the little breakfast table tucked in against a corner. A single tape recorder waits there, like a miniature coffin containing the only remains of a man he never knew.

"How did you find it?" Gerry asks, and fuck, his voice is hoarse again. "I- did it come to you?"

"The- I went into Martin's office yesterday after you left. It- I was looking for things the Eye didn't want me to see." Jon's free hand comes to rest at Gerry's hip, and Gerry can feel his gaze on him, trying to catch his eye. "You don't have to listen to it if you don't- I can tell you what he-"

"No," Gerry blurts out so suddenly it startles even himself. "I'm- I'll do it. "

"Would- I can leave if you want me to. I'll wait at the living room, or- please look at me?" Jon's voice sounds thin, almost begging, and Gerry shuts his eyes for a second just to get his bearings, before opening them again.

"I'll- stay. Please."

Jon nods once, firmly. Gerry can't help but to marvel at the thought that all he needed to do was ask for what he wanted for Jon to do it. That Jon won't think he's weak for it.

The tape recorder still looks deceptively harmless when they come to sit at the table. Gerry lifts a hand to it, and is quietly surprised at how steady it is; is all the chaos confined only to his head?

"I'm here," Jon whispers by his side when he hesitates over the button. Gerry nods. It's- that's all that matters.

Click.

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

His father sounds like him, is all Gerry can think for the first few minutes.

Not- not exactly like him of course, but enough that if you heard them talk closely after the one another, you'd know they were related. There's a similar cadence to their words, a rhythm in the way they start their sentences, and- Jon's hand wraps around his again, and Gerry abruptly remembers to pay attention to the actual words being said.

'You should've seen what she did to my body afterwards.'

Ah.

It's... he's known she killed him for a long time, but the confirmation still hurts a little. Would his life have been any different if he'd found the page himself? Maybe a little less lonely.

'So why did she give me to you?'

'I- I don't know. She seemed to think it was a gift.'

Gerry doesn't think he ever heard Gertrude sound so dubious, so lost. Not the woman that strolled into Pinhole Books and single-handedly got rid of his mother, the one who took him around the globe with her, hunting avatars, stoping rituals.

He misses her, he thinks with a full sort of ache in his chest. What is it that Eric -his father- just said? Aware of the heartbreak, but not really feeling it.

'So? What did they not want me to know?' Gertrude asks in the tape, and Gerry's lips curl into a bitter smirk. Of course she wouldn't like to be kept in the dark. It's poetic, really.

'I quit.'

Everything in Gerry's mind comes to a screeching halt at those words. It's- you can't quit the Institute, he Knows that. The Beholding has its chosen tied to its place of power more tightly than any other entity.

But... but then why was the Eye so determined to not let Jon find this tape? If- if there's a way to get him out, to get Melanie and Martin out-

'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.'

...Oh.

"Turn it- turn it off," he blurts just as Gertrude concedes that he might be useful. "Jon-"

"Ger- are you alright?" The tape clicks to a sudden stop, and Gerry realizes he's closed his eyes only when he has to open them again to look at Jon. "I'm-"

"Gertrude knew." The words weigh like two lead blocks placed over his chest. He takes as deep a breath as he can, though it comes in shaky as he pushes his chair away from the table and leans on his knees, burying his face in his hands. "All that time- she knew what happened to him. And she never told me."

What else is new? She moved him across a board she never allowed him to see. You're not supposed to ask questions, Gerard, you don't want to lean more into the Beholding than you already are, do you?

"Gerry, I'm-" Jon chair screeches against the floor when he stands from it to crouch before him, his face framed by the long black curtains of Gerry's hair. His hands stop a few inches short of reaching him; Jon hasn't hesitated to touch him for a while now, but teetering on the edge of a breakdown would do it, Gerry guesses. "Gertrude-"

"Don't. Please don't talk about her," Gerry interrupts, because he's not sure if Jon's words will be attacking or excusing Gertrude, and he can't for the life of him work out which he'd rather hear less.

"I won't, I'm- sorry." Jon's hands finally come to rest at his knees and he stays there immobile, just staring up at him like Gerry's all that's ever existed. He gets the odd, dispassionate thought that not many beings have been looked at this intensely by an Archivist and felt reassured instead of terrified. "I'm- I'm here."

"She never- I knew she'd known my father. I found a photograph of her old team, with Michael and Emma and h- but she never-" Gerry tries for another deep breath, but it feels like no air is actually going into his lungs, and he shoots to his feet so abruptly Jon almost topples back. "She was the last person to see him. She- she went to find me because he asked her to."

It's infuriating, to feel gratitude towards a man he never knew. To grieve a voice in a tape without the slightest hint of what Eric- what his father was really like.

He's aware he's been pacing the room only when he stops, his back thumping harshly against the wall because at least physical pain is something he knows how to deal with. Jon comes to sit by his side when he slides down to the floor, like that day at the Institute so long ago when Jon got marked by the Flesh.

"He loved her." Gerry's voice is heavy and slow, like a drunk man trying to sort out through the hazy memories of past nights. "Even- she did all those things to him, and he still loved my mother."

"Did- did you notice?" Jon's voice is just a weak murmur, no Archivist here, just a man that cares for him, hard as it may be to believe.

"What?" Gerry darts a sideways look at him, tired. Jon's hands are stretched the slightest bit towards him, like he wants to touch him but doesn't dare to; his face is a mask of empathy, as sad for him as Gerry has never seen him look for himself.

"He- Eric... your father called you Gerry." Jon's lips curl into a small, careful smile, and Gerry breaks.

Surely he's too old an adult to crumble down in tears for the ghost of a man he never knew, but Jon clumsily reaches to wrap his arms around him, and Gerry thinks that maybe, just maybe he can be weak for once, in this hug that feels like home.

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

"We don't- you don't have to listen to the rest of it, if you don't want to." Jon's voice is almost too quiet, like he's afraid to break the silence they've fallen into.

Gerry looks up at him from where he's resting his head on Jon's lap; the kitchen floor is unforgiving on his back and shoulders, but the slight discomfort helps in keeping him grounded. "Is it true?"

"Hm?" Jon pushes a lock of hair away from his face, and Gerry leans his cheek into his palm.

"Is there a way to quit?" Gerry asks. The shock of piercing, migraine-like pain that strikes his mind is enough of an answer.

"I- apparently. It's not- I don't know if- I might be too far gone."

"What do you have to do?" It's on the tape, he knows, but he can't- maybe one day he'll be able to listen to the whole thing, but for now all he can think of is this pained ghost that only wanted to make sure his son was alright.

Jon exhales slowly through his teeth, before bringing his free hand up to his face and making a plucking motion with index and thumb just an inch from his eye.

"Oh." It makes sense, Gerry guesses. No eyes to behold with, problem solved. "Will you do it?"

"I'm- I can't leave Martin there." Jon sighs again, a bit more defeated this time. "I'm sorry, just-'

"I get it." Gerry shrugs, tangling his fingers with Jon's over his cheek. It's no good. Either all three get out, or no one does. "is that what happened then? He said no?"

Jon nods once, slowly. "I think it was too much for him, in his state. He- he was worried about you, though."

Huh. That's- logically, Gerry knows Martin has worried about him before. It's been twice now that Martin steps between him and an avatar with bad intentions. Still, it comes as a pleasant surprise that Martin cares not only when in the heat of the moment.

"About me?" he asks, because it's a bit easier than to make heads or tails of everything he's feeling right now. "I'm not an Institute empl- oh. Huh. I guess it is very likely that I'd die if you quit."

Jon scoffs. "I didn't- it's stupid, but I forgot all about that in the moment. I just- you're mine, you're not tied to the Institute. I forgot the Eye-"

Gerry snorts when Jon cuts himself abruptly. "What was that?"

"I'm- I didn't-" Jon sputters, his face growing red. "I didn't mean it that way, I'm-"

Gerry laughs, delighted.

It still hurts, the not-quite memory of the father that was ripped from him. The chain around all of them, and the terrible condition to break it off. The fact that Martin is keeping them at arm's length to try and save the world, when they'd much rather save him.

But it all looks a lot less grim when watching Jon try to regain his composure after the slip. When he remembers that for once, he's fighting not just to harm the entities, but to keep the ones he cares for from them. When he thinks about how for the first time in his life, other people are interested in protecting him for a change.

"Stop laughing!" Jon snaps, smacking softly at Gerry's shoulder. "I didn't mean-"

"It's alright. You could've." Gerry catches his struggling wrist, and brings it up to his lips to lay a kiss on the palm of his hand. "I kind of am yours."

"I- what?" Jon freezes.

The problem with these things, Gerry decides, is that they're often painted as the culmination of a whole journey. The last thing you say before the credits roll, the last words on a final page.

He doesn't want that, a tale of hardship with the suggestion of happiness at the very end. He wants his story to be a promise, a challenge to a world that, no matter how hard it tries, can't take this from him.

"I love you."

#jongerrymartin #vit writes #illicio #jgm

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queenofcats17 · 4 years

Text

Petty Revenge

@nonbinarywithaknife had this great post and I wanted to write it. Because I live for pettiness.

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

There wasn’t a lot that Jonathan Sims could conceivably do to get revenge on the man who had essentially ruined his life. Jonah Magnus was rather hard to kill, as Melanie had discovered. But Jon wasn’t completely powerless when it came to vengeance.

Because, as an avatar of the Beholding, he had access to the sort of knowledge that Elias likely didn’t want him to know. Specifically, everything that annoyed or inconvenienced him. And so, Jon had decided to get his revenge by being as passive-aggressively petty as he possibly could.

He’d told the others first so that they wouldn’t be caught off guard when he started doing this, of course.

“I’m not going to ask you to join me in this,” he said after explaining his plan. “But I also won’t stop you if you do want to participate.”

“Are you kidding?” Melanie asked. “There’s no way I’m missing out on the chance to make that prick squirm.” She had the biggest and most malicious grin Jon had ever seen.

This grin was echoed on Tim’s face. “Let’s give him Hell.”

Basira and Daisy exchanged a look, both nodding. The barest hint of a smile appeared on both of their faces.

“We’re in,” Basira said.

“Martin?” Jon looked over at Martin.

Martin was silent for a moment or two before also smiling. It was the smile of someone who was going to take great glee in being as annoying as possible.

“I would love to.”

Jon and the other Archives staff started showing up wearing clothing in the one shade of yellow that made Elias’ eyes twitch. Shirts, pants, skirts, dresses, headscarves. Every time Elias saw one of them he had the urge to claw his eyes out. Perhaps that was a bit of an overreaction, but he hated that shade of yellow. He could tolerate it when only seeing for brief flashes. When his whole archival team was wearing it, though? He could not stand that. And he knew they were doing it on purpose. He knew. He didn’t need his Beholding powers to know that. The smirks on their faces were proof enough.

Tim had even asked, “Something wrong, boss?” With the biggest shit-eating grin on his face.

He and Melanie had come into work wearing matching yellow button-ups.

“I’m alright. I was just...a bit caught off guard by that color,” Elias replied through gritted teeth. “It’s a rather bright shade of yellow, isn’t it?”

“Is it?” Tim’s grin widened. “I hadn’t noticed.”

“I just thought it’s a great color,” Melanie said, hooking an arm around Tim’s shoulder.

Elias bit back the desire to say that they looked like a pair of mustard bottles.

“Is it giving you a headache? Maybe you should lay down,” Martin suggested innocently. He looked the perfect picture of concern, but Elias could feel the smug satisfaction beneath that concern.

“You know, I think I will.” Elias smiled tightly, turning to leave. “If you need me, I’ll be in my office.”

As he left the Archives, he passed by Basira, who was wearing a bright yellow headscarf. She didn’t even notice him, her nose buried in a book, but the sight of her headscarf made Elias walk faster.

Elias would have rather liked to dress code them. Except that they weren’t breaking the dress code, and it wasn’t as though he’d enforced the dress code with them before. They weren’t technically doing anything wrong, they were simply being nuisances.

So, he simply stewed in his annoyance, trying to ignore the yellow garments whenever they popped up.

Then they escalated things.

Jon and the others began to order takeout from a number of places that the original Elias had loved to go to. The scent of the heavily fried food made his mouth water, but Jonah Magnus did NOT eat fried food. Besides, it was far from professional for him to be seen eating that sort of food.

He tried to ignore it the first few times it happened. But it kept happening. The archival team kept ordering food from various fast food places night after night after night until Elias couldn’t take it anymore.

“What on Earth is going on here?” He’d demanded, storming down as soon as he’d smelled the food. He’d tried to keep himself as calm and professional as he usually did, but part of him had been furious at these continued attempts to irritate him.

The assembled archival staff looked up from their food. It was burgers and fries from a local burger joint. It had been in business since the original Elias had been young. In fact, it had been one of the original Elias’ favorite spots to get food.

“I thought it would be fair to order some food since we’re going to have another late night,” Jon replied calmly. “Is there a problem with that?”

Elias could feel the smirk hiding behind Jon’s placid expression, the silent taunt daring Elias to do something, to admit that he was bothered by this. Melanie maintained eye contact with him while she took a big bite of her burger.

“You want one?” Daisy asked, holding a burger out to Elias.

Instinctively, Elias’ mouth began to water. He knew exactly what that burger would taste like. He remembered the feeling of the grease running down his chin while he lost himself in the salt and oil. Or, Elias’ body remembered it. Jonah Magnus simply cleared his throat and straightened his tie.

“I think I’ll pass,” he said, smiling tightly. “But thank you for the offer.”

“Your loss.” Basira shrugged and turned back to her fries.

Elias turned on his heel, storming back to his office. Peter was waiting for him, leaned against his desk with a huge grin on his face.

“Not a word,” Elias snapped, sitting down at his desk.

“Quite an interesting little game your employees are playing here,” Peter said, turning to lean toward Elias.

“I believe I told you not to say anything.” Elias regarded him coolly.

“First the clothes, now the food. It’s driving you crazy, isn’t it?” Peter looked absolutely delighted.

“Peter, I am not in the mood.”

“Do you think your little Archivist used his powers for this? Can’t think of how he’d know otherwise.”

Elias closed his eyes and began to take deep breaths, massaging his temples. He knew his employees were talking as well. Everyone in the Institute had noticed the archival little team’s war against Elias. And they were all rooting against him. No one else joined the archival team in their war, since they lacked the protection afforded to the Archives, but they were certainly in support of them.

Elias may have been able to force people to experience traumatic truths, but Jon could make him hear music too faint to make out but close enough that it disrupted his concentration. So, it balanced out a bit.

#the magnus archives #fanfiction #tma spoilers #jonathan sims #elias bouchard #jonah magnus #martin blackwood #melanie king #daisy tonner #basira hussain #peter lukas #tim stoker

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yellowocaballero · 4 years

Text

written in 2 hours for $5

my friend: so, in your story, you say that Jon went to see a doctor who DIDN’T diagnose him with anything, despite him thinking all of his employees were trying to kill him...I will give you $5 to write this conversation

me: what’s your venmo.

under a readmore as to not traumatize Bukowski with sloppy depictions of therapy.

Okay, that ordeal was over with. Jon hated health services. He never went to the doctor if he could help it. It was easy to avoid it, since Elias gave as little healthcare as physically possible, and Jon was of the personal opinion that he never got sick, anyway. Sickness was a state of mind, and Jon’s mind was not in that state. What was a cold but your body temporarily acting funny before going back to normal? Absolutely nothing, no matter what Martin wrung his hands and insisted about. If Jon got the flu, he threw up in the toilet and then went back to work. RIP to the influenza virus but he was different.

Jon sat anxiously in the waiting room of the counseling clinic, struggling to recall if his mother was depressed or not.

Like, Jon would personally be very depressed, if he had given birth to Jon. He hesitantly wrote it in, then scratched it out, then scowled at the very nuclear family centric medical history section of the patient chart, then went through the usual rigamarole of feeling self-pity over being an orphan. Finally, he settled on just writing in a big question mark in the mother and father sections. He wrote into the side that his Grandfather and two of his Uncles had schizophrenia, which had to be useful in some sort of way.

The waiting room for the clinic wasn’t empty, even if that would have made Jon feel better. A tired looking Hispanic woman clutching her purse sat on one couch, an elderly man clutching a cane sitting in an armchair with his wife browsing a magazine beside him. Boring, banal, bothersome. Jon wasn’t like these losers. He wasn’t a weak-willed person who…accused all of his coworkers of murder plots…to the extent where one of his subordinates threatened him into going to a therapist. That hadn’t happened. To him.

For the record, it wouldn’t have worked if Martin hadn’t been so good at disguising what a manipulative bastard he was. Jon didn’t know people could make their eyes that big. Or that people could be so talented at gathering evidence of workplace harassment, enough that even Elias would be forced to exact some sort of disciplinary action against him. Had Martin always been so terrifying? His ranking on the ‘Possibly Wants To Kill Me’ scale jumped a few notches, but was forced to drop down a few notches due to Jon admitting that someone who wanted to kill him probably wouldn’t blackmail him into therapy.

Probably.

He briefly detailed his diagnostic history (none), detailed his list of previous surgeries and health conditions (none, save the anemia in uni), and briefly gave a list of childhood trauma (none that anyone would believe, although he found himself hesitantly writing down ‘Foster system, parental incarceration, orphaned’, as if that was a real trauma or something instead of stuff that just happened to him that had no effect on his brain whatsoever).

He finally got to the difficult section, the one that always tripped him up and made him sweat. He breezed through the demo questions (Black, male last time he checked, younger than he looked) but stared for an uncomfortably long time at the sexuality questions. His pen hovered over heterosexual, but his Mental Georgie (meaner than the actual Georgie) yelled at him until his pen hovered over bisexual instead. But that wasn’t quite right either, was it? Bad memories of scrolling desperately and shamefully through AVEN at 2am last year flashed through his mind, but asexual wasn’t on the list. He marked in bisexual, although he didn’t think it counted if he’d never had any…relations with male presenting people, although it didn’t quite fit.

Under alcohol use he very proudly put none, feeling both smug and embarrassed over being smug over it. Under drug use he also was proud to put none. Then it asked for his history and, like, whatever. He hated this list. It sucked. Jon didn’t like admitting to the coke he only did three times. Or was it four? That he could remember.

Under the ‘Have you ever been hospitalized’ question he put yes, then he remembered that they had technically diagnosed him with alcoholism and depression so he had to go back and put that down in his diagnoses, then he had to put down that he had attempted suicide a few times. Jon felt uncomfortable about nameless strangers knowing this, when he had never told anybody and had never been planning on it. It was a secret he would take to his grave, but he was telling this piece of paper, apparently. Hopefully nobody looked at this.

Under the section for ‘why he came in’, Jon decided honestly was the best policy. He wrote down carefully, in precise letters, ‘I do not need to come in but my subordinate (who may be plotting murder against me) blackmailed me into it’. There. Honesty was the best policy.

Finally the accursed intake form was over, Jon was able to hand it to the nurse he suddenly imagined looked very judgmental, and he was able to flip aimlessly through the three year old magazines on the glass tabletop flanking a piece of calming abstract art. He would never admit it to literally anybody in his life, but he enjoyed the voyeurism of celebrity gossip. He loved learning things about people that were supposed to be private, that nobody was supposed to know. It wasn’t a real secret if he learned it off TMZ, but it felt like one, and that was good enough. It was none of his business who was dating who or who had cheated on who, but that was part of the fun. Jon’s thirst for knowledge was absolute. But, still, nobody could ever know about this. Georgie had laughed at him for a week when she found out.

Still, the magazine was wrong. The pop star wasn’t cheating on her boyfriend with her bodyguard. She was cheating on her boyfriend with her college roommate. Jon didn’t remember exactly where he had read it, but he knew it was true. Must have caught it on a reddit thread or something. Jon snorted. They should really polish up on their fact checking.

After what felt like hours, but in fact was twenty-two minutes and forty seconds exactly, the nurse called Jon in. They took his height (still too tall), took his weight (ugh….), and took his blood pressure, which seemed to alarm the nurse, who asked him if he had a family history of hypertension. He just explained that his job was very high stress.

“Ah,” the nurse said, and made a note on his clipboard.

“The previous holder of my position was murdered,” Jon said helpfully, “and I think one of my employees did it. Either that or my boss. That, or various supernatural entities, but generally I’ve been doing a pretty good job of holding those off.”

“That’s so interesting,” the nurse said, making another note on the clipboard.

Then he was directed into the actual therapist’s office. Not his therapist, or at least he didn’t think so – the way they explained it to him, and the way the twenty internet sites he’d compulsively researched said it worked, was that he would get an intake with a trainee, who would then refer him to a therapist that worked for him in the building. It made sense, although very little about this entire process really did. Jon hated doctors. What were therapists, but doctors who made less sense, and did not respect science?

The intake therapist’s office was overly calming. There was an incense diffuser in the corner, a tea station set up in another corner, and a comfortable looking couch facing a chair. There was a coffee table in the center filled with fidget toys and candy, along with some stuffed animals and other comfort items with some books, and Jon awkwardly shook the hand of the young woman who opened the door for him and sat down on the far corner of the couch.

She introduced herself as Angela and had a bright white smile. Jon wondered if she had ever killed anybody. Her hair was glossy and black, she seemed to be Hispanic or thereabouts, and exuded a trustworthy and competent yet friendly air. Jon did not trust her.

“So, Jon,” Angela said, once they both settled down. “I’m just going to give you a quick run-down of this process. I’ll interview you based on your intake form, we’ll come up with a case formulation, and I’ll refer you to a therapist with our clinic who can help you out. You indicated that this is your first time seeing a counselor?”

“Uh, yes.” Jon clasped his hands, then his knees, then sat up very straight, then slouched. He now understood why the fidget toys were there. “But I really don’t want to see a therapist. I just told someone I’d come in here, so here I am. I can leave right after this.”

“Who asked you to come in?”

“Martin. Uh. My employee.”

She made a note in her notebook. “Does he only know you from work?”

“Yes.”

“So your employees have been noticing some behavior from you at work that lead them to ask you to come?” Angela asked delicately.

“Uh. Yeah.”

“What kind of behavior?”

Well, sure, make him think about it. Jon clenched his trousers a little. “I’ve been…well, according to Tim, I’ve been stalking them a bit. Which, perhaps, from a certain point of view, I’m willing to admit to. Also going through their desks. Some verbal accusations. Apparently, I’ve been difficult to work with lately.”

Scribble scribble scribble. “What sort of accusations?”

“Someone’s trying to kill me,” Jon said firmly. “I’m just trying to find out who. I’m exploring every option. Nobody is above suspicion. I know it seems…I know it doesn’t seem very usual, but that’s the situation.”

“Have you talked to the police?”

God, has he ever. “They’re willing to collaborate with me, but there’s only so much they can do,” Jon said seriously. Even if they had confidentiality, which they had explained to him as he came in, he could hardly admit to Basira doing something illegal for him. “But we are working on it together. At least some officers on the force take murder investigations seriously.”

“Alright. If you don��t mind, I’m going to refer back to some questions that we asked you on the sheet. Just a little more detail on them.” Angela looked down at what he had to assume was a print-out of his answers on the intake questionnaire. “It says here that you have a family history of schizophrenia?”

“Yeah,” Jon said blankly, “what does that have to do with anything?”

She looked further down the list. “And…a history of alcoholism and drug abuse?”

“Yes, technically.”

“Alright.” She leaned backwards and opened a file cabinet, rifling through it before withdrawing a piece of paper and passing it to Jon. Jon hesitantly took it, scanning the paper. “Can you fill this out for me quickly, please?”

Jon read the questions.

Do you ever hear or see things that others cannot?

Well, yes, Jon experienced many supernatural phenomena that others could not perceive. He checked off yes.

Do you ever struggle to trust that what you are thinking is real?

Frequently. He just knew his mind was being manipulated by the mysterious Watcher. Plus there was that business with Sasha. Something’s off about her.

Do you ever get the sense that others are controlling your thoughts and emotions?

That occurred in dozens of Statements, plus his own life. Yes.

Do you struggle to keep up with daily living tasks?

Tim did tell him that he didn’t shower enough…

Do you feel that you have powers that others cannot understand or appreciate?

Jon thought blankly of all those times that he asked people questions and they almost…had to answer. He checked yes for that too.

Etc, etc, etc.

Jon looked up from this test. “Are you under the impression I’m schizophrenic?”

“I can’t make a diagnosis yet,” the therapist said delicately. “Why don’t we talk after you finish the screening.”

Jon silently passed it back to her, after checking yes on almost everything. She scanned it quickly.

“Hm.”

“Look,” Jon said awkwardly, knowing that this probably looked bad, “I know that I may come off as a paranoid lunatic, but the supernatural is out there and is targeting me personally. I think I may work for it, honestly? Do you ever feel like an accountant for evil in your day to day life, or is that just me?” Jon paused a beat, and found that his hands were shaking. He was scared. Why was he scared? “I always feel something watching me. Something – something in the walls. I’m sitting at my desk, it’s late at night, and nobody’s around, but sometimes when I do my work…I feel something looking over my shoulder. It hates me. It wants to hurt me. I don’t know why I know it, I just do. Something invisible in the walls is looking at me, and nobody believes me when I say it’s there but I know it is.” He found himself speaking faster, almost as if he was begging her to understand. “When you look at a – at this couch, you know it’s there, right? How would you feel if everybody started telling you that it wasn’t there? That what your eyes and ears and body was telling you was fake? You’d feel like it was everybody else who was crazy, not you. Even if your eyes were closed, if you reached out your hand you could feel it. No matter what you might tell yourself, or what other people might tell you, it’s real. It’s there. You can’t deny it. I’m not crazy. It’s there. Something is watching me. You don’t – you don’t have to believe me. But I’m right. And you’re wrong, if you think it’s not.”

Angela stared at him.

Then she stood up, clutching her mobile. Jon realized for the first time that it was ringing. “I’ll be right back.”

She left the room, holding the phone to her ear. Jon felt it was somewhat unprofessional for a therapist to walk out in the middle of a session for a phone call. Maybe it was important? Her husband was in the hospital or something? It was none of his business.

Jon tapped his toes. Stared at the wall. There was a poster with a sloth on it that said ‘Hang In There!’. He was hanging in there, all right.

He wondered if he was crazy. If it even mattered.

Jon had always had nobody but himself to rely on. Well, maybe Georgie, once upon a time, but he had burned that bridge. At the end of the day, it had always been him. In that gutter where he had almost drowned in his own vomit, it had just been him.

If he couldn’t trust his own mind, who could he trust? If even his own faculties left him, he had nothing. No friends, no family, no support. Just him. If Jon lost his mind, if he went completely crazy, then there was nobody to pick up the pieces ever again. For the first time since coming in, Jon found himself scared. Would he have to take medication? Would it make him dumb? Jon would rather be crazy then dumb.

The door opened, and Angela returned. But there was something just a little different about her, something Jon picked up immediately. Her eyes were – almost glassy, almost not present. She had been such an attentive, active listener before, but now she seemed far away. Her gait was a little stiffer than it had been previously.

“Bad news?” Jon breached awkwardly.

“Nothing to worry about,” Angela smiled. But it didn’t reach her eyes. How strange. She sat back down in her chair, posture perfect and prim. “Well, I took a look at your sheet, and I have some good news for you.”

“You – you do?” Jon asked, thrown off. Doctors never had good news for him. They always seemed to think he was a medical freak of nature who was alive only through an act of spite against god.

“Of course. You don’t seem to have any kind of mental illness. Honestly, I just think your problem is that you’re stressed at work.”

“I – so you don’t think I’m schizophrenic? Despite answering yes to almost every question on that test? And having family members with schizophrenia? And being a black male in my late twenties, the highest risk group?”

“Yes.” Angela smiled prettily at him. “I think it’s just a matter of adjustment. You’re a transitionary phase in your life, Jon. You’re moving from one role to another. I think all you have to do is accept your new role in life, and your problems will sort themselves out.”

“I – yes. Yes, of course.” It was like a huge weight had been taken off his chest. Jon felt so relieved. Nothing was wrong with him. His mind was still his own. He wasn’t crazy! “You’re right. I’m just stressed. Thank you so much, doctor. I feel a lot better about this now. I knew Martin was just overreacting.”

“Martin’s always overreacting!” Angela laughed. She stood up from her chair, clearly signifying the interview was over despite him only being there for less than ten minutes. “Have a great day, Jon. You deserve it.”

“Thanks, doctor. I promise I’ll work on – just calming down a bit. Wow. What a relief.” Jon stood up too, wiping his sweaty palms on his trousers before shaking her hand. “I knew I wasn’t crazy.”

“What’s crazy,” Angela said, “but a state of mind? The world is already so bizarre and usual, Jon, it’s strangest to be sane.”

“I – okay?”

Jon left the doctor’s appointment feeling very good about everything. Maybe the doctor’s had been a good idea. He would have to thank Martin.

Wow. Now that was a crazy thought. Thanking Martin! Hah!

Jon went home, feeling very good about his life and his trajectory in it.

For the very last time.

#takes place in bbc verse but can be read independently if you want #actually secretly contains spoilers for that story but you can't really tell #tma #the magnus archives fanfiction #my writing #the magnus archives

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minteacutiewrites · 4 years

Text

Silly Man- The Magnus Archives

Just finished Season 3 of The Magnus Archives. I’m sad, and maybe a little in denial...so have some cute Tim/Sasha that I’m using to cope with these feelings. There will probably be a part 2 so look out for that.

Sasha looked up from her research when she heard a soft knock on her door, “Oh, hey Jon, did you need something?” She asked.

Jon lingered in the doorway, shifting uncomfortably, “Look, I usually wouldn’t ask you to do this, but…I need you to tell Tim to go home.”

“That’s specific.” Sasha snorted, “Is he really causing you that much trouble?” She teased

“That’s not-look he’s sick, probably managed to catch whatever bugs going around the office.” He explained, fidgeting awkwardly.

“Any reason, in particular, you can’t do it, boss?” Sasha asked, resting her chin on her hands, quirking an eyebrow up, smiling.

“Martin and I have already tried telling him, and you know Elias is hardly any help,” Jon started to explain, rambling a bit, “and you two seem to be close, so I thought maybe you’d get a better response from him.”

Sasha shrugged, “Fair enough, I’ll go see if I can work my magic, but I won’t guarantee anything.”

Sasha went to go find Tim, stopping by the staff area, making him a mug of tea to bring as a peace offering.

Walking into the room, however, she could see what Jon was talking about. Tim looked terrible, hunched over his some paperwork, brow furrowed, a heavy flush on his cheeks.

He rubbed his forehead, a headache settling there if the crease in his brow was any indication.

She sat across from him, pushing the mug of tea towards him, “So Mr. Stoker, someone told me that you’re stubborn.” Sasha told him, earning a sharp glare from Tim. “What's with the sour look?”She asked, “Am I wrong?”

“Jon sent you, did he?” Tim croaked, rolling his eyes, “Tell him I’m fine and to leave me alone.”

“That’s funny you don’t look fine to me.” Sasha said, combing her fingers through Tim’s unruly hair with a hand feeling him relax a little into her touch. “In fact, I think you’re running a little fever.” She said, gently resting the back of her hand to his forehead.

“It’s just a cold, s’not even that bad,” Tim mumbled, closing his eyes, leaning into her cold touch, “and there are only a few more hours left, I’ll take some medicine and be good as new by tomorrow.”

“Or you could just go home now and get a head start.” Sasha countered playfully in a weak attempt to get Tim to go home.

“Eager, aren’t we.” Tim answered a bit too sly for her liking, wearing that cheeky grin on his smug face.

“Fine, do what you want, I told Jon not to expect a miracle.” Sasha huffed, throwing up her hands, leaving.

“Hey, Sasha, have you seen Tim?” Martin poked his head into the break room, “ I need to do some fact-checking with him, and I haven’t been able to find him.”

Sasha looked up at him from whatever dull document she was reading, shrugging, “Haven’t seen him since this morning.” She told him. “Have you asked Jon?” She asked.

Martin’s face wrinkled, “I tried, he’s in the middle of reading a statement, and you know how he gets.” He explained with a wave of his hand.

Sasha could feel anxiety creep into her chest as she thought back to how Tim had looked this morning. She couldn’t help but wonder if he’d gotten worst and was collapsed in some dark corner of the archives.

This place was enormous; he could be anywhere.

She shook these thoughts off quickly, clearing her throat, “I’ll help you find him, he’s probably off somewhere slacking off or something.” Sasha told him, getting up from her seat, “Two heads are better than one after all.

It took a bit of searching before Sasha found Tim, relief washing over her.

Tim was lying in one of the lesser-used rooms, on an old beat-up couch, fast asleep his congested snores the only sound permeating the silence.

Sasha rolled her eyes, finding this absolutely ridiculous. She should have woken up and told him to go home, but instead, she ducked out of the room, snagging a thick duvet from one of the cots, draping it over him.

She was pretty sure it belonged to Martin, but she knew he wouldn’t mind.

Hesitating for a moment, Sasha knelt down, combing his damp bangs away from his forehead, pressing her lips to the warm skin there.

Tim snorted, shifting, and her heart nearly leaped out of her chest as she quickly pulled away. He rolled over onto his side, coughing a little before his breath evened out once more.

Sasha got up, letting her eyes scan Tim’s sleeping form just for a moment before turning to leave. She just had to tell Martin that he’d have to pester Tim later.

“Hey, why is Tim wandering around the archives wearing my duvet?” Martin poked his head in to ask, not really upset, just confused.

“Oh, he’s just stubborn, he sick and he won't go home.” Sasha replied, looking up from her work, “I hope you don’t mind.”

“Oh no, not at all.” Martin said, putting hands up, “I was just wondering if there was a reason, I think it’s getting on Jon’s nerves.”

“Don’t tell him that, it’ll just feed his ego,” Sasha told Martin, rolling her eyes, getting up, “I’ll go see if I can go talk him into going home, again.”

Sasha was on the search once again for Tim, wondering just how a man wearing duvet was so hard to find when she stopped in her tracks outside the bathroom hearing something.

She listened silently, hearing what she was sure was a sneeze, sighing pushing the door open to the bathroom. Not particularly caring that it was the men's restroom, glad that Tim at least had the foresight not to drag Martin’s poor duvet in here with him.

Tim was blowing his nose into a paper towel, muffling a cough afterward. He didn’t notice Sasha until she cleared her throat, looking a little like a deer in the headlights, “Fancy meeting you here.” He croaked, “In the men's restroom…”

“Ready to give up and go home yet?” Sasha asked, crossing her arms over her chest.

“Why would I do th-that?” Tim shot back, his breath snagging as sniffled liquidly, pressing a knuckle under his nose.

“Come on, Tim, give up this ridiculous charade; you’re clearly miserable.” She told him, poking him in the chest, “Go home and call in sick Stoker.”

Tim brushed her hand away, “Mind your own business, James.” He answered pointedly. “I told you I’m fine, leave me alone.” He grouched, turning around leaving. Pausing momentarily, in the doorway, his breath snagging, “Huh’HUHISSHhiew!” He bent nearly in half, with a harsh sneeze.

He spun around, facing her, “That doesn’t prove anything.” Tim said, pointing at her backing out of the room.

It wasn’t long after that encounter that she found herself sipping tea on the couch in the break room.

Tim stumbled in flopping down next to her, head slumping onto her shoulder, his body radiating a stifling heat.

“I changed my mind,” He croaked his voice, sounding wrecked, “I feel like I’m dying.”

Sasha sighed, setting her tea aside, facing him, “I know, let's get you home.” She said, smoothing his hair back from his face, “I’ll call you a cab.”

It didn’t take long for the cab to get here. Sasha helped Tim up, stumbling a little under his weight as he leaned on her for support, half carrying him out to the cab.

Sasha then went around to the other side, getting into the cab. Tim huffed a breathy laugh this, rolling his flushed face to look at Sasha with a dopey grin, “ Ha, I always knew you couldn’t resist me." He teased, winking at her, dissolving into a harsh fit of coughing.

She rubbed his back rolling her eyes, “You’re ridiculous, you know that right.” Sasha said, letting Tim lean against her, with a weak groan.

“I try my best.” Tim croaked, letting his eyes slip closed exhausted.

“Take a nap, you need, we’ll be back at your place soon.” Sasha told him, feeling Tim relax a little next to him as he started to nod off.

#the magnus archives #tim/sasha #timothy stoker #god I love Timothy Stoker #Sasha James #Sasha James deserved better #Jonathan Sims #Jon can't people #martin blackwood #Martins trying his best but he's so confused #sick!Tim #caring!Sasha

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smallmediumproblems · 4 years

Link

Summary: The Magnus Institute budget waits for no eldritch entity, and there are only two archival staff with enough patience left to answer Elias' questions.

Note: I missed the deadline to submit this to a contest ages ago, and kinda forgot about it...? but, it’s finished now, so, here y’go! Takes place sometime mid-season-3.

. . .

BASIRA: Do you think he's going to notice?

MARTIN (tense): I think there's not a whole lot we can do if he does. Not much he can do to us, either. I mean, who else is willing to put up with paperwork for him?

BASIRA: I'm a little surprised he still trusts you. With anything.

MARTIN (more tense, looking for an excuse to lash out): It's almost like I try to be helpful and cooperative all the time so people know they can rely on me.

BASIRA (not sure about the method, but approves of the results): Huh. Sneaky.

MARTIN (has snapped): Nothing about this is sneaky! We're literally asking him to finance his own-

MARTIN (CONT'D, lowers his voice, reminds himself that they’re not supposed to talk about Secret Plans): You know.

BASIRA: Fun, right?

MARTIN: You're totally sure we got everything on the list?

BASIRA: I checked with Daisy just this morning. She’s not happy about it, but she was very thorough. Melanie's, erm, needs , are pretty straightforward. Tim is being actively unhelpful.

MARTIN: He seemed pretty enthusiastic.

BASIRA: Doesn’t make him helpful. Anyway, you said it yourself. It’s too late to worry about it now. What’s the worst he’s gonna do to us for a little light subterfuge?

[Cut to several minutes later. BASIRA and MARTIN are sitting in ELIAS' office. BASIRA has her game face on, and her confidence is infectious. MARTIN has calmed down a bit. But only a bit.]

ELIAS: First and foremost, I’d like to thank you for meeting with me today. I know that our working relationship is a bit… strained, at the moment, and I appreciate the degree of professionalism this demonstrates in both of you.

MARTIN: That might be the nicest thing you've ever said to me.

BASIRA: I just didn't want to leave him alone with you.

ELIAS: I believe you two were in charge of drafting the archive’s most recent budget request, is that correct?

BASIRA: That’s right.

ELIAS: I had some concerns to discuss with you before I filed everything.

BASIRA (somewhat defensive): This is the pared down version. We had to make some hard choices for what to cut.

ELIAS: I would be interested to hear what you decided to forego in favor of…

[Very brief beat as ELIAS flips through the budget, which he has printed out for the express purpose of quoting at them disapprovingly]

ELIAS (CONT’D): ...four dozen assorted hunting knives.

MARTIN: Mostly, it was just more knives.

BASIRA: Daisy goes through them pretty quickly these days. We figured it might be good to have a few stashed around the archive. For safety.

ELIAS: I hardly feel safe giving you easy access to weaponry, considering Melanie’s new hobby. Not to mention your collective history of emotional outbursts.

BASIRA (trying to pretend that she cares, not trying very hard): Oh, your safety. Yeah, that makes sense.

ELIAS: On the subject of safety, I see that you've opted to restock with what I can only call an excess of fire extinguishers. Hardly necessary now that Jane Prentiss is deceased, but I understand your concern.

MARTIN (eagerly): No, you’d think that, but they’re really good for a lot of things. I mean, we ARE dealing with a fire cult. The archive’s enough of a hazard already. Loose paper, old electrical sockets...

BASIRA (supportive): They’re great for self-defense.

ELIAS: I suppose it is a better alternative to knives.

ELIAS (CONT’D, continuing to flip through papers): Speaking of excess, you appear to have ordered twice as many supplies as you normally need for the breakroom. Would you care to explain why?

MARTIN: We’re not the ones who hired a bunch more people. We barely had enough for four of us, and now we've got five! Six if you count Daisy. She’s mostly in and out, but I’m not going to tell her she can’t have a cup of tea while she’s waiting for Basira.

ELIAS: You’re certain it has nothing to do with stocking a second meeting space that you’ve decided to assemble at without my knowledge?

MARTIN (carefully): ...no?

BASIRA (more casually; no plans here, Vader, just a diplomatic mission to Alderaan): Sounds kind of far-fetched.

MARTIN (deciding to roll with it): Should we do that? It could be a good team-builder.

ELIAS: My main concern is that you’ve listed a frozen margarita machine among the requested furnishings.

MARTIN (oh! that’s all it was): Oh-

BASIRA (to Martin, confused but not upset): I thought you took that out.

MARTIN (annoyed): Tim must have snuck it back in. That- that’s an honest mistake, we didn’t mean to submit that.

ELIAS: Then we’re in agreement that it doesn’t constitute a reasonable business expense?

[MARTIN makes a doubtful noise.]

BASIRA (also doubtful): I mean...

MARTIN: I wouldn't say that.

BASIRA: Have you talked to Tim lately?

ELIAS: Hmm. Point taken. Still, I can't spend Institute funds on it in good conscience.

[ELIAS scratches out the line item and continues to page through the budget intermittently as he talks.]

ELIAS (CONT'D): Let's move on to some of the miscellanea. Cassette tapes are entirely understandable, but are you certain you need this many?

BASIRA: The tape recorders follow Jon around, yeah? I figure, if he doesn’t come back, they’re going to stop showing up on their own. We need to plan ahead.

MARTIN (angrily; clearly they have argued about this before.): That is not why.

BASIRA (conceding, more amused than apologetic): And it makes more sense for each of us to have our own supply instead of ransacking Jon's office whenever we run out. That’s what Martin keeps telling me.

MARTIN: She won't stop stealing his pens!

BASIRA (frustrated. This is also something they've argued about before.): I need them. You never gave me any office supplies.

MARTIN: You were supposed to put that in with the budget.

BASIRA: Hard choices, Martin. This was one of them.

ELIAS: Is that why you’ve ordered nearly a gross of glow sticks?

BASIRA: Oh, no. That’s for research.

[Beat as ELIAS waits for BASIRA to elaborate. She does not.]

ELIAS (forcing a patient tone): What kind of research?

BASIRA (condescending, as if this should be obvious): Spooky research.

BASIRA (CONT’D): I’m not convinced the People’s Church is as dormant as we thought. I’m toying around with defensive strategies- redundant light sources, stuff like that.

MARTIN: It’s been very festive!

ELIAS: Would that also explain the assorted sports equipment?

BASIRA (it would not): Research.

ELIAS: The smart-home device and speaker system.

BASIRA (definitely not research): Research.

ELIAS: And is this a miniature zeppelin?

MARTIN (pleased with himself for contributing): Ooh, that one's me. Er, yeah. Research.

ELIAS: Is it meant to resemble a shark?

MARTIN (yes, it is): I… hadn't noticed.

ELIAS: What about the petrol?

BASIRA (Smugly. She knows that ELIAS knows exactly what she wants to use petrol for.): Definitely research.

ELIAS: I think not. I already cannot trust you with sharp objects. I don’t see how accelerants are a possibility.

MARTIN: We did also ask for a lot of fire extinguishers. You've got to look at the whole thing in context. There's a system here.

ELIAS (crossing out several lines): Regardless. That will also not be making the final list. One other item in particular drew my attention simply because of the price. What do you need a GPS tracker for?

BASIRA (immediately): Jon.

MARTIN (disappointed): Yeah.

ELIAS: Out of the question.

MARTIN: What if he goes missing again?

ELIAS: A tracker is an optimistic but unfeasible solution. The things that have an interest in Jon are likely to take him somewhere he cannot be tracked.

BASIRA: Plan A was to give him a bunch of knives, but you shot that one down.

ELIAS: In any case, the only way this would work is if he wore it every minute he was outside the Institute. Don’t you think that’s a bit invasive of his privacy?

[MARTIN begins trying not to laugh, and is quite unable to do anything else for a few seconds as the conversation continues.]

ELIAS (icy): Something you'd like to share with us?

MARTIN: I’m sorry, I- I can’t tell if you’re being serious.

BASIRA (trying to ignore him): We did talk to Jon about it. It’s not like we were going to stalk him.

MARTIN (would be sarcastic if he wasn’t still laughing): Who would do such a thing?

ELIAS: Do we need to postpone this?

MARTIN (managing to calm down): Nope, yep. I’m good. Hmmmmmkay. Where- where were we?

ELIAS: I believe we were at the start of a very serious human resources inquiry.

MARTIN (feigning interest): Ohh! Whose is that?

BASIRA (tired): GPS unit is a no, that’s fine. I’ll get him one of those kid-leashes out of pocket. Elias, was there anything else?

ELIAS: The rest of the budget looks to be in order. If I could discuss one other issue with you, I have some similar concerns with your reimbursement requests. I take it this list is similarly ‘pared down’?

BASIRA: Yeah, I didn’t do that.

MARTIN (alarmed): What?!

BASIRA (unmoved): Yep. Just put everything in a list and printed it out.

MARTIN (rapidly cycling through the five stages of grief): Why??

BASIRA: Because we all have massively more important things to do.

ELIAS: Perhaps if you had taken the time to edit the list, this meeting would have been much shorter.

BASIRA (smug that she’s managed to make this ELIAS’ problem, not hers): Misery loves company.

ELIAS: Indeed. You mentioned Tim’s instability earlier. He’s put down several months of a gym membership and listed the explanation as ‘vengeance’.

MARTIN (uncomfortable, unhappy about TIM’s state in general but unwilling to show it here, of all places): Yeah, that’s… been a thing.

ELIAS (dismissive): I don’t suppose he’s intending to punch the Unknowing out of existence?

BASIRA: We haven’t actually sorted out who he’s planning vengeance against. Could be Jon. I don’t think he’d punch you, but I don’t know him too well.

MARTIN: Honestly, it’s been a good way to keep him busy. I won’t say it puts him in a better mood, exactly? He’s not less angry, just, erm, distracted. I think it helps. He thinks it helps, that’s what matters.

ELIAS: It is at least easier to rationalize than the margarita machine.

ELIAS (CONT'D, flips a couple more pages): One last thing… Ah. I also wanted to discuss some of Jon's travel expenses.

BASIRA: Is this from when you framed him for murder?

ELIAS: I think you’ll find that my involvement led to him being found innocent, but yes. This would be his absence during your investigation with Officer Tonner.

BASIRA (resigned): Alright. What’d he do, now?

[ELIAS slides a piece of paper across the table.]

ELIAS: Is this a typographical error, or did he really try to request this much compensation for ‘emotional damages’?

[BASIRA makes an interested noise as she reads the figure.]

BASIRA: Sounds about right.

ELIAS (stern, disapproving): We have an entirely separate form for that. It hardly counts as a travel expense.

MARTIN (did not know this. stunned, distant, half to himself): We have a whole form for emotional damages…

BASIRA: I think he just wanted to pay back his friend. Rent, groceries- I think Orsinov did some property damage, even?

ELIAS: Ahh. I see. We should be able to provide for that, if he can acquire some itemized receipts.

MARTIN (muttering to himself): What else do we have forms for?

ELIAS (darkly): A great many things, Mr Blackwood. Let us hope that you never find yourself in a position to discover them.

MARTIN (refuses to be disturbed by whatever the hell that’s supposed to mean): So, like, a sabbatical program? Have we got educational incentives?

ELIAS (perhaps a bit annoyed that Martin isn’t playing along): Don’t you already have a degree?

MARTIN (defensively): Maybe I want another one.

ELIAS: Then I suggest we have that discussion in a separate meeting. I doubt that Basira needs to know the details of your plans for personal growth.

BASIRA: Depends on the kind. Daisy might be in the market for a new gym partner.

MARTIN (terrified, dead sure that’s a euphemism for something violent): Oh wow! That’s. Great, Basira!

ELIAS: If you two are quite finished, I have other things I need to accomplish today.

BASIRA (sarcastically): Good luck with that!

BASIRA (CONT'D): I’m heading out, see you two on Monday.

MARTIN: Basira, it’s not even lunchtime. On Wednesday.

BASIRA (referring to Elias): What, is he gonna fire me?

[beat]

ELIAS (disgruntled): Enjoy your weekend, detective.

[Door opens and closes as BASIRA leaves.]

ELIAS (ominous): ...while you still can.

MARTIN: Do you do that every time someone leaves the room?

ELIAS (oh for- what now , MARTIN): Do what?

MARTIN: Say ominous stuff while no one's listening.

ELIAS (chuckles. If there was a camera, he'd be grinning directly at it): I can assure you, Martin, someone is always listening.

#the magnus archives #tma spoilers #fanfiction #smallsays

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bluejayblueskies · 4 years

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shattered glass

Part 28 of Whumptober 2020

Fandom: The Magnus Archives Characters: Jonathan Sims, Martin Blackwood Tags: Whump, Graphic Depictions of Violence, Eye Trauma, Blood/Gore, Hurt/Comfort

Read on Ao3

Jonah’s dead, when the dust finally clears and the eyes on Jon’s skin finally wink closed and he reduces, once again, from the Archivist to Jonathan Sims—or, at least, as close as he can get anymore. Jonah’s eyes—eyes that have stolen so many bodies that didn’t belong to them and that have, for so long, watched suffering with sickening indifference—are now reduced to ash, crumbling under the gaze of the monster they created. Jon thinks he should probably be more surprised when the dust settles on a world unchanged, that he Knows has not noticed the loss of such a small man as Jonah Magnus. But he always knew, in the end. That killing Jonah wouldn’t change anything. But it had felt…

It had felt like a final retribution for everything lost. For Sasha, and Tim, and a world full of those who had had even less of a choice in their transformation and consumption than Jon.

Martin, at least, will be glad to finally see Jonah dead, Jon thinks as he sighs and turns away from the broken man who thought himself a king. Martin, who was used by Jonah just as much as he had been. Martin, who had sacrificed so much to bring about every step on their way here, every small victory dwarfed by immeasurable pain and loss. Martin, who…

Who is slumped against the wall, blood running in twin trickles from the corners of his eyes, and who is lying very, very still.

“Oh, god,” Jon says, and his voice cracks around the words. Then, he’s kneeling on the ground, one hand pressed against Martin’s face and the other against the side of his neck, feeling desperately for a pulse. “Oh, god, Martin, I- I didn’t—”

A heartbeat flutters against Jon’s fingers, faint but there. Relief floods through him, nearly eliciting a giddy laugh before it’s overshadowed almost immediately by guilt.

“I did this,” he says, barely audible to his own ears. When… when had it been? When he’d compelled every last half-truth out of Jonah, and the foundations of the Panopticon had started to tremble under their weight? When he’d begun to incant, knowing that in this place of fear, favor and fortune and loyalty meant nothing to that which only wished to witness a world suffer? When the room had begun to crumble and fracture under the strain of a thousand eyes, and he had begun to fracture as well, his body becoming a mirror for that which looked upon him and through him and burned the Sight out of a man who thought himself immortal and protected, up here in his ivory tower.

How long had Martin been here, hurting and broken and alone because of Jon, before he’d finally thought to look?

It makes Jon sick to think of it. He allows himself one more moment of nauseating guilt before he pushes it all down, deep within, and focuses on the heartbeat.

“It… it’s okay,” Jon says, even as it’s not, even as a thumb gently pushes one of Martin’s eyelids up to reveal nothing but slick red. His hand jerks away like’s he’s been burned. “It… it’s going to be—”

A slight intake of breath is the only warning Jon gets before Martin coughs, once, a wet and broken sound that has terror curling in Jon’s stomach again, heavy and ice cold.

“Martin!” Jon says, and his hand goes to support the back of Martin’s head even as the cough subsides into ragged breathing, hindered by the rattle of liquid in lungs. “God, Martin, I- I’m so sorry, I- can you, can you breathe? It- it’s okay, I- I’ve got you. You’re going to be okay.”

Martin’s eyelids twitch, like they’re trying very hard to open but are glued in place, and it seems to take Martin several agonizing tries before he manages to say, in a hoarse voice barely louder than a whisper, “Jon?”

“Yes, I- I’m here.” Jon tries to stay calm, tries to smile reassuringly, even though Martin won’t be able to see it. That thought shatters through his resolve like a bullet through glass, and a small, hitched sob escapes him.

Martin’s forehead crumples in concern, and he moves as if to sit up, but the effort draws a small cry of pain from him. “No, don’t- just, just don’t move,” Jon says, at the same time as Martin says, “Is- what’s going on?”

It’s quiet for a moment, an excruciating silence that coats Jon’s tongue with acid the longer he fails to fill it. Then, in the manner of someone who is preparing themselves for a tragedy they already know has befallen them, Martin says, “My… my eyes. They’re- they’re gone, aren’t they. That’s why I- why I can’t—”

He breaks off, breaths beginning to come in labored bursts, and Jon brings a hand to Martin’s cheek again and tries, despite the lack of it within himself, to restore calm to an increasingly panicked man. The guilt emerges yet again, sharper and more cutting than before, and Jon can’t quite keep it from his voice when he says, “Yes. I… I just, I didn’t… I turned around and you were…”

A small, hiccupping laugh turns abruptly into another cough. “Of- of course,” Martin says, once the coughs have subsided. “I- I looked, of course I looked, I- I wanted to see the, the moment that smug look was—” He coughs again, and Jon’s hand rubs large, soothing circles on his back. “Knew I shouldn’t have,” Martin croaks. “Stupid. But… but when I saw the, the fear in his face, it- well, it didn’t make it worth it, but… you know.” He takes a moment to breathe, to let some of the tension leave his chest. “He’s… he’s dead?”

“Yes,” Jon says quietly. Then, because it feels necessary: “But, Martin, you should- you should know that the world, it’s- it’s not—”

“It’s not any better?” The small frown that finds its way to Martin’s lips is unsurprised. “Yeah, I- I know. I‘ve known for a while, actually. You’re- you’re not as subtle as you think you are, Jon. All those hints, about how removing one person from the equation doesn’t change anything—yeah, I- I got it.”

“Martin, I- I’m so sorry.” Jon looks at the ground, his stomach twisting. “I wasn’t careful enough, I- I hurt you—”

“No, Jon, it’s not your fault,” Martin says, conviction giving strength to his voice.

“But I did hurt you,” Jon says. “Accident or not, it- it was my doing.”

Martin draws in a shuddering breath, and slowly raises a hand, skimming it up Jon’s arm until it comes to rest on the side of his neck, fingers pushing into the hair at the base of his scalp and a thumb brushing lightly against his jawline. “Maybe,” Martin says, in a voice that leaves no room for protest. “Maybe not. Either way, I- I won’t let you blame yourself for this. That’s not- that’s not going to help.”

“Martin,” Jon says in a voice just shy of breaking, “tell me what you want me to do. Tell- tell me how to help.”

Martin’s eyelids twitch again, a long-ingrained instinct still making itself known, and a ripple of pain flashes across Martin’s face. His breath hitches in his chest, and the fingers carding through Jon’s hair curl and stiffen as they’re overcome with a wave of agony that Jon knows, despite Martin’s protestations, is his burden to bear. In a voice tight with pain, Martin says, “Just- just hold me? Please? Just- just for a bit.”

“Oh, Martin,” Jon says, and he folds Martin into his arms. He grips the back of Martin’s jacket tightly, and Martin buries his face in the crook of Jon’s neck, and they both breathe in the scent of iron and salt.

Martin’s chest is shaking slightly, and though Jon can’t feel the wet slide of tears against his neck, he knows that Martin’s crying. “It… it hurts,” Martin says, barely more than a whisper, like a secret told only to himself.

Jon holds Martin tighter, and tries very hard not to Know what it feels like to have sight removed by that which craves it. The memory of melted nerves as that which was not meant to do so observes all that has ever been in the space of a blink comes to him anyway, in a prickle, in a shudder, in a screaming wave of agony and terror and pleading for respite that carves a deep, aching hole within him.

“I know,” he says, and wishes so desperately it were a lie.

#whumptober2020 #no.28 #accidents #the magnus archives #fic #blood tw #eye trauma tw

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bibliocratic · 4 years

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TMA jonmartin fics

Organising these, mostly so I can keep track to be honest. All some flavour of jonmartin, predominantly fluff or angst. cws in original tags.

Updated as of June 2020

If you'd like to send any prompts, feel free! All of these are also bundled together on A03.

Martin tries to rescue Jon from Elias, post-160

JONAH MAGNUS Oh, but, look. Look at him, Martin. Isn’t my Archive magnificent?

MARTIN [whispered, almost fearful] Yes.

Martin feels the pull of the Lonely. Jon draws a bath.

“Come on,” Jon says, enfolding their hands together. His voice is kind, and that’s never died, no matter how the world bricked it up and starved it of sunlight. Jon’s kind to his bones, and it wells up from the deep down of him.

Jon pulls the way, and Martin follows behind.

Even after Jon stops being the Archivist, they aren’t safe. (parent!AU)

“I would like to propose an idea,” Martin says. Softer now. More tired. “and I-I want you to hear me out.”

“OK.”

“Whatever it is.”

“You’re not exactly inspiring confidence.”

Martin gives him a Look.

“OK,” Jon says, rubbing his thumb over Martin’s knuckles. “OK, I promise. Whatever it is, I-I’ll at least listen.”

Martin's nightmares never quite leave him

Martin feels the question form there, at the centre, the tentative journey it traverses before he hears 'Can I…. I mean, do you want to…?’

The question isn’t fully born before he’s heaving great waves of sobs into the chest he’s pillowed on. Like clockwork, the arms come round, always an inch too tight a grip, and somehow that makes this easier to bear.

Things were always going to catch up with them eventually

He’s a light sleeper, and they knew he would be. Didn’t want him to wake too soon, to be denied a proper welcome. Jon shifts and stretches and burrows as he slips dazedly into consciousness, nestling tighter against the body next to him still fast-asleep before the thick weight of sleep is dropped and he jolt up, a punched out breath of shock escaping them.

And finally they are witnessed. They watch his expressions free-fall from understanding to despair.

Local Man cheats at card games, Local Avatar is smitten

Martin likes playing, not necessarily competitively, but where he does excel is in cheating. Jon catches him swapping out a three for a queen out of the corner of his eye – well, Martin wants him to catch him – and his smile is wide and shocked and gleeful in his own way –you cheat! How could you?!

soulmate-identifying marks, or: fuck yeah tattoos

“The Archivist?” Peter Lukas asks. His voice isn’t mocking. Martin isn’t sure what it it.

He hates the tone of it.

“Do you want something?” Martin responds curtly. Frosty. Tugging his sleeves back down pointedly. Peter’s expression is ever so proud.

Something is wrong. Martin just can't put his finger on it.

“Sorry,” Jon says, without sounding sorry in the slightest, almost cheeky. He bestows another kiss that is not a kiss to Martin’s neck, scraping a little with his teeth.

“Sleep,” Martin repeats, groggy but firm, and traps the soft, unblemished skin of Jon’s hands in his own.

Martin has certain standards

Jon feels a wide smile begin on his face (still so rare, still hard-won, but Martin teases them out of him with the smallest things these days).

“You hipster!” he says with delight, secretly pleased he’s found something he can tease Martin about. “Have you thrown out my teabags just to make a point?”

Jon wakes up and finds Martin gone

– Something is absent from us. –

Jon opens his blinking, feeble human eyes. Feels around with his finger tips, feels the cool sheet next to him, the unoccupied imprint on the pillow.

Martin is not next to him.

Jon strikes a bargain to save Martin

Martin is blinking away the sediment build-up of unshed tears and they roll down his face, shrivelling in the strict grip of the cold.

“I thought,” he says thinly, “I thought I was going to die alone.”

“You aren’t going to die,” Jon bites out, and it only has the ghost of a furious intensity but the sentiment soaks in it. He feels the Loneliness recede, with a slowness that’s impartially mocking. “You aren’t going to die. I won’t let you.”

Martin showing normal, genuine human anger, feat. Blackwood Snr.

“Right,” comes the short response. “I am – you know I am trying here.”

Martin’s voice goes low and flat and judgemental.

“And how long until you lose interest this time?”

MLM solidarity front, or: Tim and Martin go drinking

“I mean – I – I’d like to. If you – if you still want.”

Tim grins, and his cocksure manner is on display like a theatre curtain lifted. He stands up, doing a stupid little bow like he’s trying to make Martin laugh.

“t'would be my honour to lead you astray, Master Blackwood.”

Back-and-forth early morning teasing

“It’s a bit late to tell me you’re a dog person,” Jon chides instead. “I’m afraid I might have to call this whole thing off, if that’s the case.”

Martin looks up at him with his face squashed into his ‘you are not, and have never been funny, Jonathan’ face.

Martin hides an injury. Jon is freaking out in his own way.

He can taste grit and dirt in his mouth and there’s a stinging dampness on his upper lip. He blinks, coming to terms slowly, and it’s then that he realises, just from a brief glance, that Jon is absolutely fuming.

Jon is getting better at expressing what he wants

Jon reaches out, and like setting fingers to the board of a violin, delicately fits his hand against Martin’s. Like he’s memorised exactly the places where they go, the coves and shorelines where their islands can align.

Martin’s grip has never been as careful. His fingers engulf Jon’s smaller size, cushioning them in a sturdy grip.

How to proposal to your boyfriend during an apocalypse, and definitely how not to.

Jon tries to write vows.

Domesticity and going on holiday, post Watcher's Crown

“Jon!” Martin is shouting with his head shoved in the under-stairs closet. “You got your raincoat?”

“I won’t need it,” comes the low response from the kitchen.

“The weather said it might rain.”

“It’ll be fine,” Jon replies, only half listening really, with a willfully misplaced confidence in the weather.

“I’ll pack it anyway,” Martin calls back, kicking something else with his foot that sounds like the hoover. “In case.”

Jon does not react well to ending the world. Martin puts together the pieces.

Under the watch of that terrible sky, Jon crumples like something demolished.

Martin catches him. He always will, he remembers thinking.

In the Lonely, Jon hugs Martin (set mid-159)

Jon’s arms go around him, and there is nothing tentative, soft-shoed, there is no awkward displacement holding him slightly at a distance. Jon’s arms go around him, and he – his body unfolds against Martin’s. There is much too much of him, a surge of all-at-once motion and Martin feels like splintering.

Martin's not the only one susceptible to the Lonely

He hears the wash of mile-distant waves, as though behind the shelves to the front of the shop, and thinks not here, not here.

He tries to shake his head loose of the fog beginning to bind it like cobwebbing wisps. But the world has such terrors in it, and the Archive keeps record of them all. And that’s what Jon is, in the end.

The day-to-day ramifications of being a record of ceaseless terror

In the dark, under the covers, the sound is the shift of grave soil, of pressing earth, but it is also Martin, ensconced in warm empty dreams, Jon trying to breath through his nose and not wake him up, and it can be all of these things at once.

Supportive Martin and the Eye-based horror his boyfriend sometimes turns into.

“Stop.”

The rats stop. So does Martin. The scream bubbles un-made and unvoiced in his chest and he can’t blink the blood out of his eyes. He can’t see Jon, but he doesn’t expect to. It’s not Jon that’s here with them any more.

'I'll stay right here, ok?”

“The ambulance will be here s – ” Martin starts, trying to be gentle, but Jon tightens his grip ever so kindly, shakes his head.

“I don’t think I’ll be waiting around for that,” he says, and it’s almost light-hearted in the face of what they both know is now inevitable.

Patron swap, Lonely!Jon, Beholding!Martin

It is a surprise to no one that upon taking over the Institute, Peter Lukas turns his hand at trying to steer Jonathan Sims to the Lonely.

In the days after the end of the world, Jon finds Martin a gift

“Woss, what’s wrong?” Martin starts, but Jon’s pressing something into his hands firmly, so self-satisfied, joyous and smug with a mysterious success, and he feels his own grin start to blossom in kind, wanting to take part in the same delight. “What is it?”

sleep doesn't look pleasant, spoilers for 161

Martin won’t wake up. Eyes clenched closed, breathing laboured, and for a long while, Jon’s world gets quieter as his own immediate louder fear rises like gall in his throat. He tries compelling him even.

Jon doesn’t know that this will happen every time Martin dreams.

Jon is admitted to hospital. Martin frets.

Jon nearly died today, his brain keeps reminding him. You nearly lost him, you nearly weren’t fast enough.

Trans!Jon, Trans!Martin, intimate rituals

Jon’s hair is getting long.

Morning rituals, Jon admiring the view.

But he much prefers this slow and lazy unwinding of a day because he gets to study Martin. He puts his elbows on the wooden table off to the side of their pokey kitchen, and enjoys watching an artless, intimate one-man performance just for him, as he acclimatises to the day.

Scottish honeymoon, soft get-together

Martin wonders why Jon didn’t go upstairs. Take the bed. The cottage is an old crofter’s place, two small and utilitarian bedrooms where they discarded their meagre belongings on arrival.

Martin looks at the tea. Feels the scarf under his head, the heavy coats weighing him down.

Thinks he might know why.

Monster!Jon, AU S5

“What the fuck are you?” she says. She does not lower her weapon. The guard to her left has raised her own.

All of its eyes blink out of rhythm as its unseen mouth moves with that croaking, piteous whisper. “He’s, he’s human, he’s hurt and he needs – he’ll die, please.” The man it is carrying looks human. Painted with dirt and filth, the slick of insects broken over his skin. His breathing is starting to rattle.

Tim is mildly cursed, S1 shenanigans

Whoever is closest, but usually Sasha, will give a sarcastic cheer. To which Tim – cradling his injury, glowering with a fire-starter expression at whatever file or paper or fragment dealt the blow – will reply: “Piss off, right, it’s not funny, I’m cursed. This is a curse.”

OG Archive crew sad hours

There could have been a day, when they’d all just talked.

Martin struggles to readjust to the world, post 159

Some days though, when the tempest around has dropped from squalling, Martin feels brave enough to look over at Jon.

Jon and Martin’s post-s5 wish list

“Martin?”

“Hmm?”

“After all this, after we’ve – what do you want to do? If we manage to – ”

“When we manage to.”

“Fine, when all this goes back to the way it was, what do you want to do?”

Safehouse drabble

Jon doesn’t sleep but this rest is as close to peace as this world allows him.

AU S3, Breekon and Hope take Martin, not Jon.

Tim always thought Martin was reliable. Unshakeable.

That he was always going to be there.

Martin’s daemon is a spider. People have mixed feelings about this.

“Aron,” Martin says slowly. He keeps his hands folded on his lap but his fingers twitch to reach out. “This is – we’ve settled, haven’t we?”

Aron can’t nod. His form can’t allow for such an expression. But he brings his legs in closer, pebbles up and won’t look at Martin, and that’s answer enough.

Aspec Martin Week - Daemon!AU

Martin has always liked watching Emer. The flash of gossamer-white wings circling Jon’s head or sat on his wrist like an overly-extravagant watch while he read statements.

“Stop looking,” he used to hiss at the moving lump under his shirt, poking many orb-like eyes over his collar to stare even when Martin stopped. “It’s rude.”

Aspec Martin Week - Martin’s first Pride

Restored from their dramatic hangovers, Monday comes. Martin arrives huffing and delayed from the Tube to see Tim’s stuck his flag so it stands battered and proud over the lid of his laptop. Sasha’s made her small desk teddy bear hold hers. And it’s the memory of the day, the sun and the heat and the wild dizzying lack of expectations of it all, that gives him the courage to bring the flags he carefully preserved in on Tuesday, to put them jutting out of the mug on his desk that holds his stationery.

Honestly, he doesn’t expect anyone to comment on them. It’s not like anyone else comes down to their offices anyway.

Aspec Martin Week - Martin comes out (with help)

You surge against his lips again so he can’t see your nerves, you stupid, unfounded, calcifying anxieties, the barriers you keep putting up yourself because you are so terrified of being happy.

“Maybe… not tonight?” you mumble into your shared air. If he pushed, if he asked again, you would. He dragged you from the shoreline, out of the fog, this is the least you can give him. You’d lie on your back, or you’d cover him with your shape, and you’d try so hard to make him happy so he wouldn’t notice you not sharing the same. “’m a bit tired.”

Tricky, is what you are. Perjurious. Prevaricating. Two-faced.

Martin is a massive fan of Jon’s multitude of eyes

“I just want to see,” Martin mimics petulance and Jon huffs a smirk.

“They are my eyeballs,” he responds primly, putting down a dry mug and picking up a plate to towel off.

“What’s the point of having horror-bestowed physical improvements if you don’t show them off?”

Martin worries about being a father

That’s not – ” Martin says, stops. Pulls his hands away from his face, his eyes puffy.

He takes Jon’s hand, still perched on his knee, laces their fingers together. Over the baby monitor, Jon can hear the soft untroubled in-and-out of their son breathing.

“I sounded like my dad,” Martin confesses finally. Fat tears well up and stagger down his tear-prickled cheeks. “I sounded exactly like him.”

Martin and Jon get wine drunk

Jon sticks out his tongue. Martin tries to poke it with his finger, and Jon reels back with another one of those wine-laden expressions, earnest and open as a window.

“I want to know everything about you,” he says, struggling with finding the opening at the top of the pack, before he pauses, dutifully following up with a no-less sincere and concessionary: “But not if you don’t want to.”

There’s nothing sexier than open and honest communication (post-166)

“I fucking hate the Buried,” Jon says into Martin’s shoulder.

“It sucks,” Martin agrees. “You er – you have any more poetry this time?”

Martin feels Jon’s ‘no’ like an earth tremor over his breastbone.

“Worms,” comes the reply muffled shapeless into his coat.

“Like…normal worms?”

“People worms.”

“Rrright. Less fun then.”

Martin has some thoughts about the Web

Martin does not think about spiders.

(Except he does.)

Did you feel, Jon had proposed delicately, like she was influencing your mind at all?

Jon’s world has no certainties. No maps, boundaries, no promises that can remain unquestioned.

Martin has the edges of his world now. He has to be able to trust in them.

Jon gets hurt and doesn’t tell Martin

Jon burns when Martin puts a hand to his forehead, and he won’t wake, not for Martin’s calls and shakes, not for anything. When Martin goes to check, the wound on his leg has rooted from ankle to thigh, festering rot-black branches of something sludgy and swollen and varicose tracing the same lines as his veins.

The Corruption wars with Beholding upon the battleground of its Archive, and there is nothing Martin can do.

Martin still struggles with his mental health

It was easier, Martin thinks sometimes, when he could blame it on the Lonely.

Episode 170 could have gone so many different ways

This is your house, we whisper to him.

You have always been here alone, we promise.

We recite to our beloved that he has never been loved, and our winds, our walls, our winding mists tell him so often that eventually he believes us.

#tma #long post #jonmartin #the magnus archives #fic #prompt fills #jonathan sims #martin blackwood

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