#and he smiles a little bit knowing that i don't lie alone in agony anymore | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

janekfan · 4 years

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omg you're taking prompts?? best day EVER!!! i was thinking. season 2, where jon is complaining about some kind of illness/pain that's actually worse than he's letting on? maybe elias sends jon, tim, and martin on some kind of gay little errand and jon's either really ill or already hurt, and he keeps trying to communicate that he really wants to go back to the hotel and lie down, but they're so angry with him that they assume the worst? then, comfort :) if you don't like this i can try again!

@taylortut :D I hope you like it!

6 hours and 47 minutes.

The average amount of time it took the train to travel from the London station to Edinburgh.

And that being if they didn’t run into some sort of delay. Or hit a cow. Rupture the fuel line and be trapped on the tracks for the rest of the day.

Jon massaged his temples, shifting uncomfortably on the hard cushion that honestly might as well not exist for how much good it was doing him. Barely back from their mandatory thirty days leave after the Prentiss, Elias, the prat, sent them away to investigate the vaults beneath the city regarding the murders committed by Burke and Hare nigh 200 years ago.

And Jon really, really didn’t want to.

He’d been looking forward to sitting in the dark of his office and going through statements at a snail's pace and possibly, possibly skiving off early because he hurt and hadn’t been sleeping well because of it. The injuries left behind had been deep and damaging and he'd walked out of the hospital with a brand new cane. Leaning against the window and easing the weight off his left side, Jon tried to let the scenery slipping by lull him at least a little bit. Tim and Martin were spending the majority of their time in the dining car sampling the assortment courtesy of Elias’ generous travel budget and that was fine by him. While Martin may be better at hiding it, both of them were quite angry with him and he wasn’t exactly looking forward to the next week spent in their company.

Pain exploded in his bones, waking him from his nap and he whacked his head against the window blinking hard, breathing shallow, as he gathered his wits about him and took in Martin sitting across from him.

“Tim,” he admonished, setting a cup of tea down in front of Jon and turning the handle toward him. “Should perk you up a bit; you look tired.”

“Yeah, Boss.” Tim mocked him, prodded a particularly sore spot on his side. “Drink your tea.” Jon chose to ignore him.

“Th’thank you, Martin.” He spoke low, shrinking away, into himself, and holding the warmth close to his chest, checking his watch: two hours and change. Surely it wouldn’t be this awkward between them the whole week?

Jon was often wrong and this experience would prove no different as he pushed himself as fast as possible following Tim and Martin, the tip of his cane clacking unevenly on the cobblestones. It was dark and he had no desire to be caught alone on the streets at night, sure that whatever else had complaints with them wouldn’t hesitate.

“Tim, slow down.”

“Ah, sorry, Marto.” Jon looked away, feeling the heavy weight of Tim’s gaze press down across his shoulders and he almost stumbled beneath it, catching himself and thankful he’d chosen a backpack instead of luggage. “Tired from the train?”

“I happen to be, yes.” Authoritative, eyes cast pointedly forward. “Besides, it’s a nice night. Let me enjoy being away from the Archives for a moment, won’t you?” Tim laughed, pounding Martin on the back, and the two discussed going out for drinks at the various pubs they passed along the way. While grateful for the decreased pace, Jon was isolated and alone, throat closing up so tight it was like choking, face turning hot, but he refused to cry.

He’d dug this grave. He’d have to lie in it.

Unable to stand one moment more after climbing the stairs to their room, Jon collapsed heavily to the couch, digging his knuckles into his thigh in an attempt to stop the awful seizing in his muscles. His whole body was trembling with fatigue and when Tim suggested it was the perfect time to head into the Vaults he could have kissed Martin for insisting he was too tired tonight because he knew he was only saying it for Jon’s benefit and he didn’t understand why. How could he...after all. He hated him and he still--

“Well, I call rooming with Martin and there’s just one bed. That leaves the couch for your skinny arse, Boss.” He batted big dark eyelashes at Martin, making the other man blush furiously and sputter and despite himself Jon smiled, just a little, bidding them a quiet good night neither of them would hear through the door between them.

He could tell already he wouldn’t be getting much sleep, if any at all. The pain wasn’t anything sharp anymore, just a low level throb impossible to ignore, and no amount of adjusting or staying still or squeezing his fists so tight crescent moons were bit into his palms would change that. So he laid there, in the dark of an unfamiliar room, in an unfamiliar city, filled with unfamiliar sounds and listened to the deep and even synchrony of his employees’ breath. More street lights kicked on, the glow pleasant if only because he could see, transforming eerie shadows into shapes he could identify. Jon nibbled his bottom lip, shifted, pushed his feet into the cushions to exert pressure? Release pressure? He wasn’t sure exactly what he was trying to accomplish other than keeping himself quiet.

Dragging his bag over he dug blindly through it for the bottle of paracetamol settled at the bottom, fighting with the child safety cap and tipping too many pills into his hand. It didn’t matter. It wouldn’t touch it. Not really. But hoping for a placebo effect was better than writhing in agony and Jon swallowed them dry because getting up wasn’t an option. Rigid, shivering, he pulled up the blanket, trying to take comfort in its weight and the sun was coming up by the time heavy lashes fell shut over tired, burning eyes.

“Wakey, wakey, Boss!” Jon jerked violently awake, whole body thrumming in panic and pain before he had the sense to realize what was happening and by then Tim was gone.

“Sorry Jon, I tried to distract him.” Sheepish, Martin offered up a small smile and a cup of tea, setting it on the low table beside the couch. “You alright?” He’d relaxed back into the cushions, trying to gain back any of the soft, drifting nothingness he’d finally succumbed to and failing miserably. Good lord, he wasn’t well.

“Just fine, Martin.” Rubbing away the remnants of sleep, Jon struggled upright and took a sip. “Thank you.” Strong and dark and perfect, the caffeine would help. “When, what time are we investigating the Vaults?”

“Midnight or so? There will be fewer people on the streets then.” Silence broken only by Tim’s puttering in the room settled between them. “We’re hoping to sight see, be proper tourists for the day.”

“Ah.” He hid his disappointment behind the rim of his cup. Of course they would. Of course and they deserved it. “That sounds like a fine idea.” It didn’t. He wouldn’t make it, surely. Almost choking on his tea when his jacket came down over his head, Jon sputtered and coughed, catching a glimpse of Tim slipping on his trainers.

“And you’re not getting out of it.” Martin reacted to Jon's sigh with exasperation and hurt.

"Look, Jon. I know you'd rather be anywhere than with the two of us, but try to enjoy yourself?" And while that wasn't entirely true Jon was unfortunately too much a coward to refute it.

Which is how he found himself here, now. Nauseated, Jon sipped carefully on some juice, sitting stock still in his chair and watching Martin and Tim sample almost everything on the menu. He’d been dragged through the city and while he’d enjoyed some of the history and honestly their company, the pain cast a dark pall over the day. It was only on his third try asking for a break that they passed a pub and Martin suggested supper, and not a moment too soon. Even with the cane and Jon's white knuckle grip on his self control, his leg felt ready to give way.

“Come on,” Tim cajoled, tongue loose and on his third pint. “Don’t you want to waste Elias’ money with us?”

“Not that hungry I’m afraid, but go on. Looks good and you mustn't forget dessert.”

"Martin! You heard the boss-man!" After sitting in the low light, resting for a bit, Jon felt up to a drink, enjoying how it blurred everything at the edges and dulled the worst of it so quickly on an empty stomach.

When they returned to the room for a nap prior to their excursion, Jon barely remembered passing out on the couch.

It was cold, the jacket completely useless against the underground chill and his exposed fingers were numb on the handle of his cane, on the torch. Long after this happened, Jon asked for a reprieve. They’d been down here for hours already and they had all week so with no leads they could come back another night, couldn't they? It had fallen on deaf ears and when he tried to speak up again, this time because he’d fallen more than a few steps behind, it was clear he just needed to tough it out. Obviously, he was supposed to be handling this better and he was only embarrassing himself by being overly dramatic. Gritting his teeth, Jon pushed himself faster, catching back up only to lose ground seconds later.

“I’m. I’m sorry. I.” Why was this so hard? Asking for help, for a break, to go back and just please stop standing up. “Could we. Could we take a moment? Just. I mean--”

“Spit it out!” Tim’s frustration echoed painfully in the enclosed space, bouncing off walls and striking Jon from all angles like a series of blows. “We don’t have time for whatever you’re on about.”

We don’t have time.

“Leave off, Tim.” Something caught Martin’s eye and he veered away from the pair of them.

We don’t have time for you.

Stop it.

Stop being a child.

“Of course. Yes. Push on.”

Sick with exhaustion and shaking from pain, Jon was falling further and further behind, the torch losing its effectiveness as the dark closed in, heavy, tight, suffocating. He couldn’t call out. They wouldn’t. He. They’d made how they felt clear and asking again would only be shameful. But his cane wasn’t enough anymore and it dropped from his ennervated fingers, clattering to the ground while he held onto the wall with both hands. He’d be lost here, buried here, in the oppressive black, his body saved by the End for experimentation and dissected by medical students and he didn't think he cared about being forgotten but the thought of it felt far too real. He sobbed. It echoed. And he clapped his hands over his mouth and let the tears glance off them as he slid to the ground.

He’d just hide here. In the dark behind his eyelids, stifling the pathetic sounds forcing their way up his throat and between his teeth. If he was quiet he wouldn’t be found, nothing could find him if he was quiet. Not the things scuttling around in the black, not the pain doing its level best to gnaw its way through his skin, not the overwhelming weariness clawing open his chest, between his ribs.

“Jon!” He flinched. He hurt. He curled tighter despite it. He didn’t want to be found. He didn’t want anyone to see him like this. “J--Christ, Jon.” Martin’s heavy footsteps slowed to a stop on the stone in front of him, shifted nervously. “Hey, what’s. Jon? What’s wrong?”

“M’.” But it was so much more than that and he didn’t know how to explain, so he didn’t and Martin’s voice came from above him.

“Why didn’t you say anything? Why didn't you say it was this bad? ” But he had. He had tried. Hadn’t he? After being ignored he thought he was just being needy and dramatic. Annoying. Tim had similar injuries and he was fine. Jon ducked his head into folded arms, shoulders hitching with a shaky breath. He didn’t know what to say or how to justify how bad off he was.

“S’sorry.” He’d have to stand in a moment. To continue the investigation and even the thought made him want to cry. “Just need a. N’need.” But it hurt so much and when the next breath he reached for broke open he heard Martin sigh heavily, shoes scuffing the ground and this time his words were at his level.

“I’m sorry, Jon. You. You did tell us. We just didn’t listen. Thought you were cross at being sent here with us.” A warm palm enveloped his forearm. “What do you need?”

“N’nothing. Just.” Deep breath. Relax. You’re alright. “I’ll be ready in, in a m’moment.” Thick and hoarse, he didn’t want Martin to see his face. He didn’t want to see the disgust in his. “You, you go on. Tim shouldn’t be alone.”

“And you should?”

Yes.

Yes, because he’d be fine. He was always fine.

Before he had the chance to answer he heard Tim coming back, steps angry if there was such a thing, and calling through the tunnels.

“I see, just abandon me to the spooky vaults, serve me up on a platter next time, it’ll be faster!” Jon risked a look and saw Tim staring down at him. “What the hell, Martin? Jon, sure, but you too?” And that hurt, cutting to the quick of him deep enough that he almost checked for blood. Tim didn’t really think he’d abandon him, did he? “What’s with the secret meeting?”

“We need to go back to the room.”

“What?! We’ve barely started anything!”

“Jon needs a break.”

“Of course.” Scoffed, Jon could practically see him rolling his eyes

“Tim--! No, Jon’s been. He’s tried to ask a few times and I know we’ve got work to do but--”

“It’s alright, Martin. I can. Keep going.” The crease between Martin’s eyebrows deepened. “O’or stay here until you get back.”

“No,” Martin spoke sternly, “Tim, help me get him up.” Jon didn’t think he’d ever seen such a scathing look on his face before but it was enough to shift Tim. They lifted him together and as everything stiff stretched back out fire bled into his bones and he couldn’t help but cry out, trying to collapse back to the ground and into himself. “Oh, okay, Jon. Okay.”

“Ah, it’s.”

“If you say “fine” I’ll drop you right here.” Tim adjusted his grip, tried to take more of his weight and Jon was ashamed that he let him but--

"Good lord, Jon. You're so pale." When had Martin gotten so close to him? “I’m, I’m sorry.”

“S’alright.” The shaking started up again when he tried to take a step and Martin had to catch him before he collapsed all over again. This was so stupid. Why was he like this? Why did he hurt so bad?

“You can’t walk like this.”

“No! No, I can! I just…nngh.” His teeth were chattering, he was shivering. Just leave him here. This was mortifying and he all but gave up, following their soft directions until he was draped across Martin’s broad back and suffering through the strain of forcing his leg far enough forward for him to get his hand under it to lift him. Off his feet and pressed against a veritable wall of warmth, Jon lost his grip on the frayed threads holding the last of him together. They unspooled, slipped from his hands, and tears soaked the back of Martin’s collar.

"You're warm." Empty, sitting limp on the edge of the couch, Jon leaned into Martin’s hand on his forehead. “Are you sick?”

“No…” Clumsy fingers clawed open the bottle of paracetamol, irrationally angry when Martin only allowed him double the dose.

“Jon.” Tone firm, Jon looked up at him without lifting his head. Didn’t think he could if he wanted.

“S’mm.” He pulled in half a lungful of air with difficulty. “When it. When it hur’s like this.” The next breath strangled him and he thought he saw Tim and Martin exchange a look, one he couldn’t interpret and didn’t care to if it just meant they were leaving him here to go back to the vaults. He didn’t bother worrying about the new moisture dripping off his chin. He just wanted to disappear.

“Jon?” There was a packet of digestives being thrust under his nose and his stomach turned. "I haven't seen you eat at all today, or yesterday for that matter. I'm not going to let you take all those pills without at least a little something."

“Mm.” He forced one down his throat and pushed insistent hands away, swallowing the medicine with some lukewarm water Tim helped him hold, gasping when they manhandled him down to the cushions, sighing when something cold eased the fire in his hip.

“Ice, should help, okay?” And Jon concurred, new tears slipped between closed lids in relief, in weariness.

“Try and sleep, Boss.”

Quiet voices tugged him up through layers of cotton. Martin. Tim. Talking. Hushed.

“...shouldn’t have pushed so far.”

“So stupid...didn’t think…”

“Shh.” Caught eavesdropping. Jon swallowed. Everything they were saying about him was true, he wouldn't cry over it.

“Hey, Jon. How’re you feeling?” Sore. Foolish. Like he wanted the couch to open up and drag him down to wherever loose change went.

“Better.” When he made to sit up Martin stopped him. “Really, m’fine.” He stayed put.

“I need to apologize, Jon. I, I was so stupid. I didn’t even think about. Well, your injuries. Caught up in myself, I suppose.”

“No! I. Martin, it, it isn’t your fault. This,” he gestured to himself and laughed humorlessly. “This isn’t your fault.”

“We should have listened.” Now Tim was sat on the arm nearest his feet. His elevated feet and his face must have shown his confusion. “Did some googling. But we shouldn’t have let it go so far.”

“It’s--” he stopped abruptly at their combined frowns. “It’s. Um. Thank you, for taking care of me.”

“How is it?” Jon looked at his folded hands, guilty.

“I’d. If I could stay here today?” He closed his eyes, waiting for the frustration, the disappointment. “Not because I don’t want to, to, I want to. I enjoy your company! I’m.” He was botching this, just speak your mind, Sims. “I’m just. I’m very tired. Haven’t been, uh, sleeping much.” Opened them again when Martin cupped his shoulder and saw understanding reflected back.

“Sure. Of course you can.”

“We’ll make a day of it.” Tim flashed the company card. “Back soon, gents.”

The day was spent watching bad daytime television and Jon dozed on and off between being plied with sugary snacks and tea and watching Martin scold Tim for throwing wrappers at the worst of the actors.

“I’d clean it up, Marto, but,” he gestured to Jon’s feet where he’d tugged them over his lap. “I’m trapped, clearly.” It was so much like old times, away from the pressure of the Archives and Elias that Jon couldn’t help but smile. Maybe this could be fixed after all. Maybe it wasn’t all lost.

In the end, they’d discovered nothing new. No evidence to back up the statement givers that inspired this whole excursion in the first place.

6 hours. 47 minutes.

It didn’t seem such a long time on the way back.

#TMA #the magnus archives #prompt #jon sims #martin blackwood #tim stoker #strained friendships #pain #chronic pain #bad coping mechanisms

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neoculturetechxgot7 · 5 years

Text

WayV// The Flight Journal:

|| Lucas ||

gang!au (can't tell yet but it's coming in the next chapters:)

pairing: Lucas × Reader

words: around 2k

warnings: suggestive, language

summary: Lucas left lovebites on your neck and bruises on your heart.

[00:02 AM]

Your cheek lays flat against his back, the leather jacket cold and rough, infused with his dark aura and musky scent. Lucas' red Ducati rolls smoothly on asphalt to have spring wind lick at your skin and leave a trace of midnight behind as your hands stay wrapped around his torso.

"Why can't I come with you?" He catches your sulky tone but absolutely misses to see the little shards of hurt in your voice.

He is about to disappear, again, like he's been doing ever since you met him and unknowingly dived head-first in the pit of a painful love. You hate it. Hate every cold moment without him that makes it seem like you live days in the shade of an despaired eclipse, until he comes back.

His kisses blow stars into your lungs, his touch inks maps of the universe on your body, as if he means to claim your skin to infinity. Every night with him drowns loneliness in the sea of his warmth. You're sure Lucas is the only one that can lift you up to the high heavens, a destiny carved from the same dust that stars and planets are made of.

"You just can't."

But he also crushes your heart and leaves you bleeding love and broken promises after getting a taste of his absence.

"When are you coming back?" You try to hide the slight tremble in your voice, fail nonetheless

"l don't know, baby."

You always wonder if that answer is a lie. You always wonder many things, like where he goes when ne rides that damn motorcycle and leaves a void on your bed and a knife in your chest. Each time you dare to speak that question out loud though, you are faced with a wall, thick and sturdy with his secretive nature.

You even wonder if he truly feels anything or if you're just a trophy solely to decorate his nights with breathy moans and forbidden kisses.

But the way his eyes peer into yours, lovestruck, even through the secrets, will never let you believe that.

[00:29 AM]

The bike abruptly comes to a halt on gasoline stained concrete and an indiscreet smell makes your nose twitch. Lucas swiftly takes off his helmet and jumps to the ground, his skin tainted drunken crescent from the gas station's neon sign. With eyes that seem darker than night itself, luring you to unravel the mystery behind them, he leans close and meets your impatient lips under the stars. It's a hasty peck but his softness never fails to make the blood in your veins boil, heart skiping one or two beats at the contact

As he pumps gas in the almost inaudible music coming from the store behind, you stand observing the empty country road, its faded white lines setting an uncertain melancholy in your chest. You can hear a clock ticking faintly in the back of your mind, counting crooked seconds to the moment you'll wake up alone on one side of the bed, the only remain of him being the dip his head left on an empty pillow

Thinking about it, you can never find the right words to describe your relationship.

What you have with him is indefinable. It is him texting you he's away and then shutting you off, ignoring every call, every message, as if you don't exist in this world and he's solely a memory to you. It is him showing up on your doorstep 2 weeks later later, spilling out the sweetest part of his soul and caging you in a searing embrace until your heart's wounds are all healed. It is meaningful midnight conversations and slow, passionatee goodbye kisses; you never know how long these goodbyes will last though... Dusk finds you soaked in his intoxicating scent and dawn finds tears pooling on your sheets.

It is you, giving your absolute everything and Lucas, hiding an entire life, fleeing away for days and then coming back to trap your breath in a million thirsty kisses. He never tells you anything about him, never shares more than what you're unsatisfied with, never let's you take a glimpse of what his reality is like, only makes sure yours is filled with thoughts of him and his bittersweet taste on your lips.

"What are you thinking about?" His voice pulls you back to now.

You turn on your heels and watch him lean away from the motorcycle to stand before you within a few steps.

"Nothing." You nonchalantly answer, a lie.

Eyes locking yours like he's trying to pin your spirit to his own thoughts, an endless abyss holding you captive, he sneaks one arm around your waist. Cool fingertips caress your cheek so lovingly, leaving trails of moonlight behind and for a moment you wonder if all of this is the haze of a dream

But it's not, it's real, he is real.

Tender lips brush over yours like so many forsaken times in the past, only that this once his kiss feels bitter and makes an ache arise in your chest. It means he'll leave again, you can tell by the way his tongue is desperately trying to save your taste.

A pitiful act of a lover that doesn't want to forget.

"Let's go home then." He says and you break to pieces, knowing the irony behind this one sentence.

[02:39 AM]

Your bare back is flush against his chest hearing Lucas' heartbeat and feeling every breath as the pad of his finger paints a little masterpiece on your stomach with soft strokes. The air is steaming with the fumes of late night and whatever's left of your love making, sheets damp and heavy over your exhausted bodies.

He leaves a golden kiss on your shoulder, something precious, and you turn on your side to find his gaze skim your body with icy touches and him, biting a plump lip like a sinner.

"I could do this forever." He says and your response comes out as a genuine chuckle.

"You sounded like an asshole."

Lucas sprinkles two gentle pecks on your forehead and you can feel his smile on your skin, making you delirious.

"I wasn't talking about sex." His eyes are deep, the nest of all the angelic grace. "I meant laying here, with you."

Maybe he lit a fire on your sheets with those words or maybe the heat of the moment is unbearable, but either way, an overwhelming warmth starts spreading from the bottom of your chest to your fingertips, so comforting.

You can do this forever too. Stay tangled under white cotton and sweat, bodies stuck skin to skin as if you melted into each other long ago, and hold on to that orange euphoria only his presence can bring you. Feathery touches, dirty whispers, drunk confessions and the purest of love.

Maybe this can be your future and spend every night sinking in those moments of affection, two souls intertwined.

But this can never happen, can it?

You hum, hurtful thoughts letting their venom seep into your mind, and lay back into the plush mattress. Your fingers squeeze his palm, a silent prayer to those above to let him stay by your side, to cut the flow of time so that you don't have to see your heart ripped out brutally again, like countless times before.

He shuffles around and tightens his grip on your bare waist.

"I hate leaving you." His voice echoes, cutting the silence deep, as if your thoughts had reached his ears.

"W-What?" You hesitate to believe, every word falling on the messy bed like a missile, because there is no way he means that after all those nights he allowed miles to separate you

"I said, I hate leaving you."

A knot ties your breath to your throat and you swallow, as if that will make the suffocating tension a little lighter, feeling your heart racing.

"Then why do you leave me?"

The weight of every memory without him pushes traces of tears to gloss your eyes, threatening to spill and release everything you've been holding deep inside with them.

Lucas keeps silent. His gaze can't bare to linger on you anymore, moving out the window, to the dome of night sky where stars shine a dull white.

"Because l have to, baby."

You can feel agony nip at the edges of your brain, struggling to find words to plea him, make this night different.

"Just this once, don't." Your whisper caresses him like a ghost.

Lucas kisses you, deep and burning with hidden emotions, his lips like two unstoppable serpents, their only mission being to drink every last drop of you. His thigh props between your legs, allowing him to hover above you like a saviour, fallen from heaven, his halo lost after loving you so passionately. Your lungs are drained of oxygen, pulsing with red and blue flames that he breathes into you with this kiss, as if he's the only who can truly give you life. And maybe he is, since the world is long forgotten when his arms eradicate the last bits of distance between your bodies and he slips under the covers one last time.

[09:10 AM]

You wake up, head banging with the daze of a flowery dream, last night's deeds tattooed on every curve of your star painted body in purple, his hoarse voice staining your memory. Sun's beams wrap around your hair, as you slowly flutter tired eyelashes open, vision still blurry with sleep's last breaths, as your hand reaches to the side. Only to grasp morning air and icy sheets.

He left. Again.

You're all alone in the eternal emptiness of your room, and thank god for that, because no man could ever bare to hear the sad, ominous crack of your heart as it breaks down into a thousand sharp shards scattered all across the floor, waiting for a breeze to lift them and lead them back to him where they belong.

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