#cos ofc theyll grow old tgt after the apocalypse

[nyctolovian]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Trish leapt backwards in fright with a squeak. 

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

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

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

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

Trish blinked. It was that easy? 

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Where's your kitchen?" 

"Over here."

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

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

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

"I'm Trish."

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

"What happened to your husband?"

"He's in the hospital."

Trish gasped.

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

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

"Oh. My name's Jon."

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

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

"Are you a boy?"

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

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

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

"Then, what are you?"

Jon frowned. "I'm nonbinary."

"Non…"

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

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

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

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

"Bye," Jon replied, waving his hand.

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Implant…?”

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

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

Jon scowled. "You know full well—"

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

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

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

Trish tugged Jon’s shirt. “Here.”

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

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

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

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

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

"Is that so?"

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

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

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

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

"How is he?" Trish asked.

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

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

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

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

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

***

Stupid Da. Stupid Ma. 

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

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

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

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

Trish nodded.

"Feel free to sit in the chair there.”

Trish shook her head. 

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

"Milk."

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

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

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

She nodded.

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

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

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

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

"Perfectly understandable." Martin nodded. 

"Where's Jon?"

"He's doing groceries."

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

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

Trish nodded as she took a sip from her cup. 

"So, what are you doing here?"

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

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

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

"Oh, um… Sure."

"Does it hurt?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Trish pouted hard, but eventually nodded.

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

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

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

Martin groaned comically and Trish giggled a little.

***

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

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

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

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

“Oh, okay,” Trish said, walking in.

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

Frowning, Trish asked, “Cur…?”

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes, yes, announce away,” Jon said.

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

Wincing, she muttered, “Sorry.”

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

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

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

"Jon too?"

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

"How come?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

Trish just thought they were quite funny.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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