#even in the gertrude is the tape recorders fic

[itsclydebitches]

I haven’t read a whole lot of TMA fic, so I’m sure this already exists somewhere, but I really want a time travel fic where Jon goes back to Gertrude’s era.

So it’s 2007-ish, before his younger counterpart has started working at the Institute, but years into Elias and Gertrude’s tenure. They’re having a normal day serving the semi-omniscient fear god when a fucking full-fledged avatar of the Beholding - complete with a small mountain of tapes - falls through a rift in space-time and crash lands on Gertrude’s desk.

(Season 5 Jon might have decided not to kill Helen and instead used her to get here. If he ever sees her again they’re going to have A Talk™ about her choice of transportation.)

For the record, a hot mess of a man falling from the sky indoors is only like... the eighth most interesting thing to happen to Gertrude this week. Still, it’s clear he’s not entirely human - one gets a sense for these things, even without a giant eyeball’s help - and she’s got a knife on him faster than you can say “Statement.” This doesn’t seem to faze the man.

That annoys the fuck out of Gertrude.

Meanwhile, Elias has nearly passed out from the supernatural alarm bells going off in his head because the Ceaseless Watcher’s special little boy is here!!! What does that mean? Hell if he knows, but this man is ALIGHT with the Entities’ marks, just dripping with the power of the Eye, and Elias finds he has the sudden urge to drop to his knees before this stranger, something he’s only ever done post-Watcher’s Crown.

(This might be a Jonlias fic, whoops.)

Elias, seeing The Archivist for the first time: 😍😍😍😍😍

Gertrude, seeing The Archivist for the first time: 🔪🔪🔪🔪🔪

So after introductions Jon is all, “Yes, I’m an eldritch monster that’s forced to feed off the trauma of others, but I’m your eldritch monster. Please, Gertrude, I’d like nothing more than to carve out Magnus’ heart with you so he can’t destroy the whole fucking world.”

Elias, suddenly experiencing true fear for the first time in decades, feeding the Eye and being fed in turn and basically entering a feedback loop where this powerful stranger threatening to murder him is the hottest thing he’s ever Seen: !!!!! 💖💞😱!!!!!🤩😊💚!!!!!

And at first Gertrude’s like hell no, not having any more goddamn avatars in my archives thank you, but then the trio passes young intern Sasha James (shhh don’t worry if that fits the timeline) and Jon looses it. The hold that the Stranger had on him in his original timeline has broken and he’s able to recognize this as the real Sasha - her face, her voice, her very panicked looks towards her bosses as this random man sobs into her shoulder. And Gertrude’s like dammit, clearly The Archivist still has some of his humanity left. No true Fear monster would ever willingly be that embarrassing.

After prying Jon away from Sasha and promising her a raise to avoid any HR reports, they get the whole long, traumatic story out of him, but any plans to just permanently kill Elias kinda... sputter out. It’s a little bit of a Web thing, a little bit of a time travel thing, and a little bit of Jon just feeling... wrong when he considers it, no matter what he’s told Gertrude. It’s similar to when he let Annabelle live, though Elias has done absolutely fuck-all to earn his mercy. This confuses Jon, though it’s pretty far down on his list of worries.

The good news is that Jon’s mere presence puts a permanent wrench in Elias’ plans. He’s never going to repeat the ritual to open the door, obviously, and good fucking luck marking another archivist while he’s Watching. Given Jon’s suspicions that he became semi-immortal after waking from his coma, he’ll be Watching a damn long time, you megalomaniacal bastard.

The bad news is that since Elias can no longer plot an intricate manipulation, he’s decided that the next best thing is to just convince Jon to bring about the end of the world willingly.

By wooing him.

Elias: “We can be Kings of a ruined world together, Jon~”

Gertrude: “I am not paid enough for this.”

So begins the office romance comedy of Jon’s nightmares, where instead of hating him for ruining his world domination plans, Elias is smitten - in a suave, very creepy kinda way - and has decided that he’ll simply wait Jon out, wearing him down until the inevitable day when he realizes that they were meant to be. A full-fledged Archivist was dropped into his lap, ranting about how he out-foxed a future version of Elias, tormented by his own monstrosity, and people expected his narcissistic ass to not fall head over heels with his own creation?? As if.

Jon is Not Having A Good Time.

Originally when he landed here he was all, “Where is my Martin whom I love so dearly? Where is the support and companionship that I crave?” But after ‘bumping into’ him a few times outside the Institute, Jon comes to the bitter conclusion that whatever connection they had is gone. He recalls Martin’s firm belief that they never would have become a couple without all the trauma they’d been through and though this time around Jon definitely doesn’t hate him... he doesn’t love him either. Oh, he loves that he exists, seeing Martin whole and blissfully ignorant of the Fears helps heal something in Jon, but it takes him a very long time to admit that he’s too nice. Too caring. Too tentative in his insecurity. Jon grinds his teeth and admits in the privacy of his own thoughts that he was attracted to a bastard version of Martin, one who showed off a little bit of his own monstrosity, was connected to his own domain, could cut just as cruelly with his words as Jon could with his powers... Meeting with him now over coffee, inches away, Jon has never felt farther from him. This Martin simply isn’t a part of the world that created Jon.

Good, he decides and firmly steers Martin away from the Institute. Thanks to some blackmail and Peter Lukas’s money, Martin finds himself with a caretaker for his mom and the promise of a full ride through whatever creative writing program he can get into.

Meanwhile, Elias is of course stalking and spying on Jon whenever he can, doing the metaphorical equivalent of doodling hearts in his notebook whenever he catches a glimpse of why Jon no longer connects with Martin. He’s a bastard avatar with shitty morals and, frankly, far better taste in poetry. Open your third eyes, Jon!!

Gertrude, who avoided sacrificing Michael after a stern talking to from Jon: “You sure you don’t want the Spiral to eat you, kid? Anything’s better than watching this clusterfuck.”

Michael: 🙃🙃🙃

After a while the Institute settles into a new kind of normal. Jon, Gertrude, and Michael defend the archives from the slew of enemies they’ve both amassed, stopping the occasional ritual in their free time. Jon has long come to the conclusion that the Fears couldn’t have originated here - not with the Eye being unable to see its own creation - so starving them in this reality at the expense of their world wouldn’t serve the greater good. The best they can do is continually contain them - which they’ve gotten real good at. Elias continues to bother Jon with a fervor that’s almost admirable (he can see how this guy managed plans for upwards of 200 years) and waffles between playing the Mysterious Boss archetype that he’d used on Jon the first time around, and just giving in to the utter adoration he feels whenever Jon is in the room. It’s clear he’s long since started worshiping Jon rather than the Eye and the Eye is... totally fine with that?

Gertrude: “How did you get the Ceaseless Watcher to treat you like a favored child?”

Jon: Trauma?? 🤷‍♂️🤷‍♂️🤷‍♂️

After seeing how much happier Martin is, Jon guides the rest of his former assistants away from the Institute, Sasha included. It helps, a little, but it also makes him even more isolated than he was the first time around.

Gertrude realizes this, so when Elias’ flirting - “I’ve found a fresh statement for you, Jon. Oh do stop glaring, it’s just a bit of chloroform. She’ll wake up soon. You can’t be satisfied with stale writings for forever” - starts inducing more fond annoyance than fear or horror, she becomes #Concerned.

Gertrude: “You realize that desensitizing you to his actions was the point all along, right?”

Jon: “Mmhm. But is it still manipulation if I know it’s manipulation?”

Gertrude: “You cannot possibly be considering this.”

Jon: “Would it help if I admitted that dating Elias wouldn’t be the worst decision I’ve ever made?”

Gertrude: “NO.”

The thing is, Jon liked Elias before he revealed himself to be an immortal body-snatcher hell-bent on creating... well, hell on Earth. He liked the soft academic exterior, his careful words, love of organization and attention to detail, the dry humor, cutting intellect, those suits that likely cost more than three months of his salary combined... In fact, Jon is now in a place to vividly remember the embarrassment he felt while interviewing for the archivist’s position, too busy avoiding looking at Elias’ lips to catch the hungry glint in his eye.

Of course, that Elias only exists as a veneer... though what was Jon’s “I’m just a normal man going grocery shopping, please ignore my scars and aborted grab as I resist demanding a statement from you” if not a veneer of its own? Where did their ‘real’ selves begin and their conscious choices end? The most awful thing about all this is that Elias is right. Oh, not about them being Kings of a ruined world, but about how no one but another avatar can truly understand an avatar. By this point Jon is years past his coma, fully at peace - or at least, as at peace as he’ll ever get - with the fact that he chose to live as a monster rather than die as a human. That means Knowing things at his leisure... though he tries not to catch anything private. It means Compelling others to provide him with more knowledge... though he’s careful with his questions around friends. It means Feeding off of others’ worst moments in life... though Jon restricts himself to statements that Gertrude has collected first, so that he never haunts anyone’s dreams. And it means spending the majority of his time with other monsters and monster-aligned allies... though Jon plants his feet firmly in his human morals and refuses to budge.

If he can navigate all that, why not this too?

Elias has said more than once that he would make Jon the worst version of himself - said with such glee and promise as to almost, almost sound like something Jon wants. Jon figures that the worst version of Elias, from his perspective, would be to look a bit more human.

“We can bring out the worst in each other,” he agrees one day, followed by a shark-like grin.

Elias hasn’t the faintest idea what he’s just gotten himself into.

And that feels wonderful. Manipulating him into being a marginally better person who doesn’t bring about the apocalypse might actually be more satisfying than stabbing him. The Elias of Jon's original timeline would have HATED this and that makes Jon do a happy little wiggle whenever he thinks about it.

Gertrude: “You’re leashing a fucking dragon, Sims.”

Jon: “Better than letting it roam free.”

Gertrude: “Just so long as he doesn’t chew through the reins.”

Jon: “Yeah well, I’ll be the first one burned if that happens” and he holds up his charred hand with a shrug.

So begins the most messed up courting ritual the world has ever seen. Do they work as a couple? Oddly enough, yes. Amazingly well, in fact. Is it a healthy relationship? LOL yeah right. But then that’s rather the point. Jon gave up on that the day he acknowledged that, yes, a part of him liked being the most powerful being roaming a hellish landscape - liked not being vulnerable for once. Back when he’d first joined the Institute, post-breakup with Georgie, Jon couldn’t even imagine someone liking him enough to grab a drink after work. He’s past pretending that having the cult-like devotion of a lover, the favor of a Fear god, and the grudging respect of everything else that goes bump in the night isn’t really fucking nice.

Sometimes Elias plays the part of a compassionate human for Jon, as a treat. Sometimes Jon let’s Elias bask in another’s terror, as a treat. Sometimes Jon is Jonathan Sims and sometimes he’s The Archivist. “Let’s rule a burned-out world together” becomes a staple request in their relationship, with Jon always giving Elias the equivalent of a pat on the head and a, “Sure, honey. Maybe next week.” They find something like balance that way.

Plus there’s Gertrude, perpetually in the shadows with an arsenal of weaponry and the promise to obliterate them both if they ever go too far. She reminds Jon of his grandmother when she threatens to fuck them up in the afterlife if they ever make her kill them.

Something, something, dysfunctional eldritch found families are beautiful?

Jon and Elias have achieved something akin to an uncanny, domestic bliss when Elias points out that this body won’t last forever...

Jon Does Not Like the idea of Elias kidnapping another innocent.

However...

Jon: “You know Jurgen Leitner is living in the Institute’s tunnels, right?”

And they lived ever after. The “happily” is highly subjective.

Bonus:

Post-apocalypse!Jon meeting with Original!Jon to warn him away from the Institute, painfully thin ever since his coma, hip-length hair streaked unnaturally white, a slew of scars covering every available bit of skin, the slightest green glow behind his eyes, somehow looking supremely confident and powerful while also embodying the most Awkward Academic you’ve ever seen: Hey.

Og!Jon: G-good lord!

Jon: It’s okay. You can say ‘fuck.’ Please say ‘fuck,’ Jon. We deserve it.

#TMA #The Magnus Archives #TMA fic #Jonlias #Jon/Elias

[bunnimew]

We were tagged by @9haharharley1 and @overmooneleven who could not have foreseen what a production this was going to turn into 😂 Thank you!!

RULES: post the names of all the files in your WIP folder, regardless of how non-descriptive or ridiculous. Let people send you an ask with the title that most intrigues them, and then post a little snippet or tell them something about it! and then tag as many people as you have WIPs.

*Gets out the record player* There's required listening while scrolling this list...

Now that the mood has been appropriately set, here we go!

Warm Bodies 10 Edit9It'sYourBoyJackFrostAightSo High Seas Hijinks pt 2 Android Pitch Neon Ideas Von Kaiser Mix Tape If you don't dance, no romance Jack Frost and the Quest for the Stanley Cup Let Your Conscience Be Your Guide YA Novel Merman/Nature Elf Baby It's Cold Inside Everything but the fresher sink Halloween bodyswap Saiyuki Fantasy AU Coffee and Fruit Snacks Untitled Document Blackice ABOlive Garden Concerned Neighbor AU Obsolete Force Monsters Donut Saga 2022 RotG Bingo RotG Bingo 2021 Free Day Light Magic Soulmate AU Sleight of Hand Android AU Wing fic space vampire arranged marriage fake ppl scifi book pogo kylux AU Hope Week 2022 Let's Play AU Clydeland Ghost roommate Omega hux Techwear AU Original magic apocalypse Holiday kylux Pink hair hux Goose steals the staff Quarantine Kylux twitfic college au ST/Kylux Omega hux sequel cyborg hux Fuck this I'm outtie hux Loud AF kylux Loud AF blackice Every floor is Loud AF Loud AF Zag and Than Angel/Demon AU Gymnast hux Parkour hux 5 times hux blows kylo A/B/O Hades Kylux A/B/Olive Garden Disney Princess Hux Hutt slave Mitaka Femlux Afterlife Bloom Halloween2020 sen aid + sen kid kylux Trivia and Other Flirtations Gertrude Pink hair Jack + Hux Teacher/Teacher Merge ST and EU frank/strange Bingo Fancy Dinner Matchmaker Cape Selection AU Senate Takeover Manny Moonbear's Pizzaria Guardians in Black Party fancy pitch Jasper/Lapis Suzalulu week 2016 horror ideas Untitled Terminator Game Terminator Ideas Frank/Strange coffee shop au Ideas for erotic stabbing Suzalulu week 2017 Zell birthday Gratuitous sleepytime Lulu the professional hand model au Peter has two dads au RotG Coffee shop AU Veelamate AU Sorceress Jack Guardian of the D Blanket Scenario i think Saiyuki bang 10k Clover AU Wizards unite AU X/1999/RotG [Redacted] Pitch's New Groove PoGo AU spacerace magic repo RotGRepo! Colormate AU Overqualified Merlin Caffeine and High Fructose Corn Syrup O2: Teammates Spideypool Bingo 2019 B1: Personal Trainer Spideypool Bingo 2019 Spideypool fairy AU Tie fix Soulmate tattoo AU 3 5 10 AU idea Silent Hill AU O1: Met at the Dog Park Spideypool Bingo 2019 ff8 werewolf au Buffate 2 Kink series Dance All Night Let Me and Your Body Talk Pounded in the Butt by the Physical Manifestation of the Fear That I Will Never be Good Enough While He Tells me I am Good Enough Also He's British  Silent Hill AU Bathtime Evening Horror Husbands Fic art 1 Morning cuddle Fic art 2 Spinel Jack Cover art Croptops Spiderman kiss Gargoyles

We literally do not know as many people as we have WIPs. I'd have to pull out the yearbook and start tagging people from high school and we're not going to do that. But we do have to tag @seekerseekingsomething for reasons they will understand and @askmyname @quillienvii @pheasantmadness for Other Unsaid Reasons ❤

#WIP #WIP list #Ask away! #O Fortuna #Youtube

[ollieofthebeholder]

to find promise of peace (and the solace of rest): a TMA fic

<< Beginning < Prev || AO3 || My website

Chapter 88: July 2017

“Sasha?”

Sasha hummed inquisitively and looked up. Melanie was peering around the side of the door to Jon’s office. She was scowling, but Sasha was pretty sure it wasn’t directed at her—a surmise confirmed when she said, “Elias wants to see us. All of us.”

“Right now?” Sasha asked with a quick glance at the clock on the wall. It had no numbers—well, it did, but they were all piled in a heap at the bottom of the clock’s face underneath the words whatever, I’m late anyway in a faux handwriting that somehow managed to convey exhaustion and weariness—but you could still guess roughly at the time, and it was about the midpoint between lunch and the end of the workday.

“Yeah. Says it can’t wait.”

“Okay. Coming.” Sasha pushed the STOP button on the recorder and got to her feet. “Want this?”

“I’ll get it when we come back,” Melanie muttered. In response to Sasha’s raised eyebrow, she added, “I’m not bringing the tape with everyone’s…last will and testament or whatever up to Elias fucking Bouchard’s office. If it turns itself on, I don’t want whatever’s about to happen in the middle of that.”

“Fair enough,” Sasha admitted. “All right, let’s get this over with.”

The others were waiting for them in the Archives, or else they were just finishing setting things aside so they could go up; clearly, none of them were in a hurry to deal with Elias. Sasha couldn’t blame them. She was pretty sure none of them had been keen to come into the office, but Martin had said something about needing a shower and a change of clothes before he went in, and not a single one of them had questioned or argued.

She wondered what Martin would have done if they had.

Of all of them, he was the one who most likely needed the day off, but with only two days left before the Unknowing was most likely to kick off, she understood why he didn’t feel like he could take it. She watched him critically for a moment. He seemed…tired wasn’t the word. Weary, maybe. Older, although that might have been the new white streak at his temple. And she was pretty sure his eyes hadn’t always been that violently green. Passport photos weren’t great, but the eyes that had stared up from the burgundy folder he’d seemed relieved to get back were definitely a lighter shade than the ones currently scanning his desk to make sure everything was buttoned up. In fact, they reminded her strongly of Gertrude’s, which made her suspect it was something to do with the Beholding. It also raised all sorts of interesting questions, like why Jon—who was the Head Archivist and had definitely been trending towards spooky powers—didn’t even have green highlights in his eyes.

Something to consider in three days, maybe. Once they were sure the world wasn’t ending.

Jon hovered extremely close to Martin in a way that made Sasha hide a smile. He’d been suffering with Martin gone, and it was obvious he was afraid that if he let Martin out of his sight for even a second there was a chance someone would snatch him up again.

From the way Martin looked up and met her gaze, steady and calm but with a look that told her he knew she’d been watching him, she didn’t think that was particularly likely, unless one of the Fourteen went through so many proxies to hire a pair of thugs that there wasn’t even a whisper of a Fear on them.

Tim glanced at her and smiled briefly. “Gang’s all here. Shall we go see what fresh hell is waiting for us?”

“Yeah. I promise not to try and kill him,” Melanie said, answering a look from Martin that she hadn’t even glanced at. Sasha figured that was a sibling thing rather than a Beholding thing. “Maybe we’re lucky and he wants to tell us all how sorry he is for letting you get kidnapped.”

Sasha snorted. “And what do you think the odds of that are?”

“I’d say somewhere between Grand Chawhee winning a race unassisted and a snowman seeing July. Let’s get this over with.”

Manal met them with a brilliant grin and actually came around the desk to give Martin a hug, which he returned, before showing them into Elias’s office. Daisy was already there, arms folded over her chest; she gave a nod to Martin, who nodded back, then one to Basira, who didn’t, but came over to stand closer to her. Elias had his hands folded over something and was smiling like…actually, Sasha couldn’t decide if it was the cat who ate the canary or a cat who’d fallen into a vat of cream, but it was definitely feline and pleased with something, be it the circumstances or itself.

As soon as Manal had shut the door behind them, he said, “Thank you all for coming.”

Sasha wasn’t the only one who groaned at that. Jon was the one who said, “Well, you said it was important.”

“Martin, welcome back,” Elias said, turning turning to focus his smile on their prodigal member. “I trust you had a…restful morning.”

Jon bristled. Melanie looked like she was about to launch herself at Elias, promise to Martin be damned, but Martin rested a hand on her shoulder and she subsided, or at least dialed it back to a simmer. Martin gave Elias the same calm, steady, neutral gaze he’d given Sasha in the Archives. “I’ve been here all day, Elias. I came in with everyone else.”

Sasha noted the surprise in Elias’ eye with interest and couldn’t resist asking, “Busy morning?”

“Somewhat, yes.” Elias gathered himself, but the expression on his face was no longer quite so pleased. He was already off his game, which boded well for the next couple of days. “If I had known you were here already, I wouldn’t have—”

“What do you want?” Jon interrupted.

“To help,” Elias said, as if it were the most reasonable and obvious conclusion in the world. “Do you have your recorder running?”

“I do.” Martin reached into his pocket without breaking eye contact and pulled out a recorder that looked as though it had been dragged behind a car during a rainstorm. Shockingly, Sasha could see from where she stood that it was running just fine.

Once again, Elias looked slightly thrown off balance, and Sasha notched another point to their side, but he continued to look at Martin as he spoke. “Well, then, I’ll speak clearly. You will soon be attempting to stop something few have ever witnessed, and fewer still have survived.”

“Not alone,” Jon said.

Elias ignored him. “And I believe your plan—um, simplistic as it may be—does stand a reasonable chance of working.”

“Well, thanks,” Tim drawled.

“The more moving parts a plan has, the more things can go wrong or be interfered with,” Martin said. “Sneak in, plant bombs while they’re distracted…”

“Detonate at the height of the ritual,” Sasha completed. “They’ll be vulnerable.”

“It should work. It doesn’t need to be fancy,” Daisy said. She shifted slightly, like maybe she wanted to bump her shoulder against Basira’s, but held herself back.

“Well, quite. But given there is every likelihood that some or all of you might end up confronting the Stranger in a rather direct manner—” Martin and Daisy exchanged brief glances that Sasha couldn’t quite read, but neither said anything as Elias continued, “—I thought it best you have an idea of what you might encounter.”

“Oh,” Basira said.

Elias unfolded his hands, revealing what was underneath of them—a cassette tape, labeled in Gertrude’s by now familiar round hand. “During the difficulties with your absence, Jon, I took Gertrude’s tapes into my safekeeping.”

Jon sighed. “Yes, I thought as much.”

“There is one I feel it may be wise for you to hear. All of you.” Elias reached behind him and retrieved a pristine tape player that nevertheless looked as though he had probably brought it with him when he joined the Institute as a filing clerk. “If I may?”

Melanie snorted. “Does it matter if we say no?”

Elias inserted the tape into the deck and pressed PLAY. There was a few minutes of spooling, and then Gertrude’s reedy, precise voice came from the speakers. “Case 7870211. Abraham Janssen. Incident occurred in the Court Theatre Buda, October 1787. Statement taken from journal entry, dated the 2nd of November of that year. Committed to tape on the 4th of October, 2013. Gertrude Robinson recording.”

The statement was as interesting as it was terrifying, and even Gertrude’s dry and clinical tone didn’t take away from the dread the man who’d experienced it still felt a month later. But at least half of Sasha’s attention was on Martin. His gaze was locked on the recorder, or at the very least on the spot where the recorder was, but he seemed to be staring right through it, as though he was seeing the events unfold. He seemed to be holding his breath—or maybe he just wasn’t breathing at all, like he’d frozen, temporarily left his body behind to step back to 1787 himself. What really caught Sasha’s attention, though, was the fact that his eyes weren’t just greener than they had been before, they were glowing like the stars she remembered being stuck to the ceiling of one of her foster homes.

She was sure it wasn’t her imagination, particularly as it began to fade as Gertrude did her summing up. At the twin clicks as first Gertrude’s recording, then Elias’ playback ended, he blinked and took a deep breath, which confirmed her theory that he hadn’t taken one during the statement. Nobody else seemed to notice, though.

Just to be sure to keep everyone’s attention off him while he recovered, she said, “That’s it, then?”

“It’s unlikely to be identical,” Elias said. Sasha couldn’t tell if he’d seen what she had or not, and she was not about to ask. “The Stranger is not known for its, um, consistency.”

“It wouldn’t be strange if it was familiar,” Martin said, softly, as if he was quoting someone. He shook his head minutely, then added, “But it’s the same principle. The closer we get to the focus of the Unknowing, the less we’ll be able to trust what we see.”

Basira folded her arms across her chest. “Well, that’s what it wants, isn’t it? The Stranger, I mean? For us to doubt what we see.”

“One long category error,” Jon said with a sigh.

“Brilliant.” Elias flashed a smile once more. “I have been doing my best to prepare you, Martin, to see. You should have an easier time of it than the others.”

“Well, ‘the others’ aren’t going, so I don’t doubt that,” Daisy said, folding her arms over her chest and scowling. “And we’re not going in that close.”

Martin nodded. “This doesn’t need an army. Daisy knows how to set the charges. I know…my way around, more or less. And if someone needs to make a distraction, I’m the best choice for that—I’m a target they won’t be able to resist. Too many people will only attract attention.”

Elias hesitated, but something told Sasha that was for show. “I agree that Jon and Melanie should stay behind, but—”

“No,” Jon interrupted.

“No?” Elias repeated.

Jon lifted his chin and stared Elias down like he had nothing to lose. “I’m not letting anyone on my staff go into a dangerous situation alone—”

“Ah. About that.” Elias opened a drawer and drew out two pieces of paper, which he slid across the desk. “Circumstances have…changed somewhat.”

Jon blinked, temporarily derailed. “What?”

Martin picked up one of the two papers and skimmed it. Again, his eyes flashed green, and this time Sasha knew that Tim, at least, saw it too, if the way he started back was any indication. “This…you didn’t do this.”

“Correct. I simply discovered the—ah—alterations when I was looking for a safe place to keep your passport. Temporarily, of course.” Elias sat back, and his expression was serious. “Please understand, this has never occurred before in the history of the Institute, that I am aware of. But, well. I suppose it was only nominally my call to begin with.”

“What are you…?” Jon picked up the other paper and frowned at it. “This is the contract I—wait.” His eyes narrowed, then widened. “Archival Assistant?”

“I told Martin upon his…initial return from the House of Wax that the Archivist was a role played, not a position at the Institute,” Elias said. “It appears I was mistaken in that. There is only one Archivist. And at some point in the last two weeks, our master corrected the paperwork in order to make it clear that I had chosen incorrectly. Martin is the Archivist.”

Sasha felt her mouth drop open slightly. Out of everything Elias could have come up with…that actually did surprise her.

“Explains why that lady with the fire ghost couldn’t give you a straight statement to save her life.” Melanie scowled over Martin’s—well, over his arm, anyway—then at Elias. “Anyway, titles or hierarchies or whatever bullshit you’re trying to throw at us, none of it matters. We just got Martin back, and we’re not letting him go into this alone. If he goes, I go.”

“And I.” Jon laid the contract down on the desk again and took a step closer to Martin, then looked up at him. “I won’t risk losing you again. It’s not happening. I am not letting you out of my sight.”

Basira nodded, but she was looking at Daisy, not Martin, as she added, “Besides, you’re both equally likely to try and draw the Stranger’s attention if left to your own devices. You’d both try to sacrifice yourself so the other could make it out alive and then there’d be nobody left to bring back the news that we won.”

“We’ve already had this conversation,” Tim put in. “We knew you’d try this, and we’re outflanking you. We’re all going, and that’s the end of it.”

“Not me,” Sasha said, trying to sound as reluctant as she could. They’d planned this part, too. Sort of. “I mean…someone’s got to be here to hold down the fort, right? You know, just in case someone comes in to make a statement. Or, I don’t know, one of the other twelve Fears tries to overrun the Institute while you’re gone.”

Martin seized on that, as she’d known he would. “Sasha, you can’t—y-you can’t defend the whole place by yourself. Someone needs to be here with you.”

He started to turn to Melanie. Sasha had kind of expected that, too. The problem was they’d already had a long go-round about it, which had come to no conclusion. Melanie was dangerous and volatile, and while she could probably do a whole lot of damage to the Stranger if things went wrong, she also might try to do damage anyway. She began marshaling her arguments to bolster Martin’s when he started trying to make Melanie stay; there was no conceivable scenario where Jon would be left behind, no matter how desperately Martin probably wanted him to.

Tim spoke up before Martin could say a word. “Fine. I’ll stay, then.”

Sasha knew she wasn’t the only one who was genuinely surprised by that. She turned to look at Tim, eyes wide. He met her eyes with his lips pressed tightly together, and she could see how much it pained him to make this call, but she also realized why he had done it—because he wanted so badly to have been there for Danny, and he wasn’t going to deny Melanie the chance to be there for her brother.

What he said, though, was, “You’re my best friend, Sash. As bad as I want to go—as much as I think I can help—I can do more good here. With you. Anyway, I’ve already been Marked by the Stranger, haven’t I? Two of us with that kind of draw, that’ll get us spotted for sure. I’m the biggest risk. I’ll stay behind. You five can handle it.”

Jon reached out and took Martin’s hand wordlessly. Martin squeezed back and sighed, and all the fight seemed to drain out of him at once. “If you’re sure, Tim…”

“I’m sure.”

“Then…okay.” Martin turned back to Elias and set his jaw. “Tim and Sasha will stay here. The rest of us will go to Great Yarmouth and blow the Unknowing to hell where it belongs. And when we get back, I think we could all do with a few days’ rest for saving the fucking world.”

“That seems reasonable,” Elias agreed without batting an eyelash, unless it was one of the ones under the eye patch. “Now, unless there’s anything else?”

“No,” Martin said slowly. “No, I think that’s about it.”

“Excellent. And you’re certain it’s tomorrow?”

None of them questioned how Elias knew that. “The day after.”

“Of course, of course. Well, it’s a three-hour trip to Great Yarmouth. I’ll have Manal book you into a bed and breakfast near the museum.” Elias took the contracts off the desk and opened his desk drawer again. “We can finalize the details tomorrow.”

“Brilliant,” Basira muttered.

“Now, if you’ll excuse me?” Elias rose to his feet, making it clear the interview was over.

They left Elias’ office as one unit. From Manal’s expression as they passed, Sasha could only guess what they all looked like—like they were heading to their own executions, probably, which wasn’t that far off. She waited until they were halfway down the steps to the Archives before she asked quietly, “Do you think he bought it?”

“Not here,” Jon said swiftly with a glance over his shoulder. “Later.”

“Come on.” Martin strode into the Archives. Sasha thought she had a pretty good idea of where he was heading.

She was right. He went straight for the trapdoor to the tunnels, Jon at his side and Daisy hot on his heels. Sasha followed as close behind them as she dared. The unpleasant disorientating nausea swept over her as usual, but Martin didn’t flinch. Since she was pretty sure it was affecting him worse than the rest of them, she assumed it was just that he had more practice at hiding when he was sick or hurt.

The second they reached the room they’d gathered in just a few days before, Martin spun around to face the others and held out his hands. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I should have said something this morning, but I just—I got distracted and then there were other things going on and I just…I’m sorry.”

Sasha was about to tell him he didn’t need to apologize—she wasn’t even sure what he was apologizing for not telling them—and then it hit her, and she interrupted, “Wait, about the Archivist thing? How did you know that?”

“I just—did. Not until just before Daisy picked me up, but I was kind of trying to get my thoughts in order, and suddenly in the middle of them was the thought that it was my job as the Archivist to protect all of you from—from the other Fears.” Martin looked around the room at them. “Probed a little harder at that and there the Knowledge was. I, uh, didn’t expect the thing with the contracts. That was weird.”

“Yeah, no kidding,” Basira mumbled.

“Yeah, well, I can’t speak for anyone else in the room, but I’m not upset with you.” Sasha took a seat on one of the boxes and propped her right ankle on her left knee. “Like you said, there was a lot going on this morning, and it’s not like knowing that would have made a difference in anything we’d said up there, or done today. It should’ve been your choice to tell us and when, and fuck Elias for taking that away from you.”

“That would be flattering. Un-fuck him.” Tim smirked, but there was something worried in his eyes as he sat down, too. “Sasha’s right. You didn’t keep that from us for shits and giggles, and it’s not like it’s something you’ve been sitting on for weeks. It was less than a day, you know? You needed time to figure it out. I get it.”

Jon twined his fingers through Martin’s. “I agree. Elias had no cause to do that when he did, except to hurt you—he must have known you were already aware of what you were becoming, and that you hadn’t said anything to us yet.”

“Probably wanted us to all be suspicious and mad at each other before we go to the Unknowing, so we’re working as a bunch of individuals instead of a team and he can watch from his fucking ivory tower and laugh at how guilty you feel when we all get hurt or killed because we won’t let you protect us.” Melanie’s voice was tight with anger, but it was directed at Elias, not Martin. “It’s not like you chose this.”

“I didn’t want it, no, but every single decision I’ve made in the last…probably twenty years, honestly, has led me to this point, so in that sense, I did choose it. Our world is made of choices, and very rarely do we truly know what any of them mean, but we make them nonetheless.” Martin sighed and sat down, but he held onto Jon’s hand, and it looked to Sasha like a little bit of weight had lifted off his shoulders. “I’m still sorry, but…thank you.”

Jon tried to sit on the edge of the box Martin was on; Martin automatically shifted over to make more room for him. Sasha repressed a smile. “So, back to my question—do you think Elias was convinced?”

“How long have you all been planning that?” Daisy spoke for the first time since she’d declared nobody else was going, and she sounded pissed.

Basira didn’t flinch. “From the beginning.”

“When we started making plans a couple days ago, we knew you two were going to try and make the rest of us stay back,” Sasha said, looking from Martin to Daisy and back again. “That you’d want us all safe and out of the way. And we also knew that none of us were willing to let either of you go without backup. But we also needed to figure out a way for two of us to stay behind without it being suspicious.”

“We expected Elias to say someone needed to stay back,” Tim added. “Just didn’t expect it to be Jon, honestly.”

Sasha eyed Tim. “I also didn’t expect you to volunteer. I was banking on backing Martin up in his campaign to keep Melanie here.”

Melanie crossed her arms over her chest and harrumphed loudly. Tim ignored her. “Look, Sasha, you’re the only one that doesn’t have a compelling reason to go—beyond the obvious, I mean, we all want to save the world, right? But Jon and Melanie need to be sure Martin comes back alive, and Basira needs to back Daisy up, and I need to get revenge for Danny.” His voice cracked on his brother’s name.

Sasha started to get up to hug him, but Melanie beat her to it, shoving him with her hip to one side so there was room to sit next to him and squeezing him the same way she did Martin. “When you put it that way, it makes me sound like an arse. You go. I’ll stay here and…”

“No. Thank you, but no. You need to go.” Tim hugged her awkwardly back. “If it comes down to a fight, you’d stand a better chance of winning it on your own and getting out alive than I would. Something tells me I won’t walk out of that building if I go. And you and Sasha here wouldn’t work because neither one of you can do the distraction we have planned.”

“Hey,” Sasha protested. “I can, too.”

Jon shook his head. “No, he’s right. You’re too curious about the statements, you wouldn’t…you’d pick ones that wouldn’t, um, be as distracting. And Melanie’s been tied up in the Beholder so long that it might actually hurt her to do. It has to be either Tim or Basira, and Basira hasn’t been here long enough for it to be convincing.”

Tim looked at Sasha and gave her a crooked grin. “Besides. You and I haven’t had a proper crack, just the two of us, in ages. Might be fun.”

“Might be.” Sasha grinned back. “Well. Can’t say I’m upset to have you at my side for this, just that I’m surprised.”

“We’ve got it all laid out.” Basira looked back and forth between Martin and Daisy. “It should work. Both ends. I’m going for a pint with Becher tonight, so that should be the last piece we need.”

Martin sighed. “I feel a little better, which is a relative statement not to be taken as approval.”

“Your objection is duly noted.” Jon kissed his temple gently. “It’s going to be all right. We’ll stop the Unknowing, save the world, and deal with our other little problem all at the same time.”

“And then we all ride off into the sunset on matching unicorns?”

“Exactly,” Jon said. “Piece of cake.”

Martin laughed, and seemed to genuinely mean it. Sasha was hesitant to break it, but at the same time…“Hey, while we’re down here, can we address the other elephant in the room?”

“I think there might be a whole parade of them now, but sure, go for it.” Martin was still smiling. Sasha didn’t think that was going to last long.

She took a deep breath. “When we were…listening to that statement up there. I was watching you and…um, I don’t think you were breathing. And your eyes were glowing. Is that…did I imagine that? How long has that been going on?”

As she’d suspected, Martin’s smile faded, and something inexpressibly sad came into his eyes. “I…don’t think you imagined it, no.”

“You didn’t,” Tim said. “I wasn’t going to mention it, but—when you were looking at that contract, same thing. Your eyes, I mean. Not the breathing. That was still normal, as far as I know.”

Jon reached up like he was going to touch the corner of Martin’s eye, then stopped himself. Martin smiled again, even though he still looked sad, and took his hand, kissing the knuckles gently. “It’s okay, Jon. I’m—I’m not sure how long it’s been happening, but the first time I sort of became aware of it was after I got away from the Hunters. There was a security guard…I was trying to get through a nature preserve and I-I panicked. He saw the blood on my shirt and asked if I’d killed someone and…I don’t know. I tried to intimidate him, I guess. It worked, but I really shouldn’t have…anyway, for just a moment, it was like I was seeing myself through his eyes, and yeah, I, um, definitely saw the glowing green eyes. It was probably a lot creepier in the dark.”

“I’ll bet.” Sasha bit her lip. Martin was avoiding everyone’s gaze. It wasn’t exactly up to her to absolve him, but…

“You didn’t hurt him, right?” Jon asked gently.

“No. Just scared the piss out of him.”

“Then it’s all right.” This time it was Jon’s turn to lift Martin’s hand to his lips and kiss the back of it. “I’m not going to pretend any of us are happy about…but, but we’ve all done it. I sort of compelled Melanie a few days ago and—you were under duress. You were hurt and scared. I know you’re trying not to give into the Beholding more than you have to, but I think—”

“I had options,” Martin interrupted. “I just took the path of least resistance. It’s a really bad habit to get into and I’m trying not to. You start doing something for a good reason, it starts getting easier to do it for a bad reason and convince yourself it’s a good reason, and then for no reason at all. I’m not ending up like Trevor and Julia, watching the line between human and monster erode day by day.”

“Well. That’s what you’ve got us for.”

“That’s good of you, Jon, but—I can’t put the burden of my humanity on other people. I’ve got to be able to do it on my own or it won’t stick.”

They all sat in silence for a long time. Sasha was beginning to wish she’d kept her mouth shut. Something was building in the room, and she wasn’t sure what, but she was pretty sure she’d been the one to set it rolling, so whatever happened next was her fault.

At last, Jon took a deep breath, took Martin’s face in his hands, and turned it to look him in the eye. “Martin,” he said, clearly and calmly and without flinching. “If you ever get to the point where you’re no longer human enough to ask—if you ever cross the line fully into monster, if there’s ever a point where you are gone and only the Archivist, whatever that may be, remains—I give you my word that I will personally kill you.”

Martin let out a long, slow breath, and Sasha swore she could physically see the weight lift off his shoulders. He nodded, as best as he could with Jon still holding his face. “That…that makes me feel a lot better, actually. Thank you, Jon. And I give you my word that I will do everything I can to make sure you never have to make that call.”

“Good,” Jon said quietly. “Good.”

There was another brief silence. This time, Sasha was the one to break it, getting to her feet. “Right. Since I’ve successfully upset everyone, we should probably get out of here before the distance from the Beholder starts making us all sick. What do you say we cut out a little early and go have ice cream?”

Martin laughed and looked at Jon, who looked back with a smile and a lift of his eyebrows. After several beats, Martin glanced around. “What’s everyone staring at me for?”

“You’re the Archivist,” Basira pointed out. “It’s your call.”

“O-oh. Right, right, yep.” Martin blushed. “That’s going to take some getting used to. But—you know what? Yeah. Screw it. Let’s get the hell out of here. We can come back tomorrow. Someone call Gerry and see if he wants to meet us.” His smile turned a little wistful.

He didn’t say anything more, but as they turned and headed for the steps, Sasha wondered if he’d been thinking the same thing she was—that if any of them didn’t survive the next couple of days, this would be one last good memory for all of them to hold on to.

She really, really hoped it wouldn’t be.

#ollie writes fanfic #tma fanfic #the magnus archives #to find promise of peace (and the solace of rest) #sasha james #melanie king #martin blackwood #tim stoker #jonathan sims #basira hussain #daisy tonner #Elias Bouchard #unreality #mild workplace harassment #implied manipulation #sense of foreboding #death threats (kinda)

[marlasomething]

(my) Mag a Week Special Feature: Threatening Fluff

Hello there!

Here is the thing: I am participating in the "a mag a day" idea by @a-mag-a-day  which is BRILLIANT and I decided to do "statement a week", rolling dice with the characters and fears that were ftw that week in the episodes I have listened. But, then, I thought...what if I made some special features for when each season finishes? And then the mid-seasons breaks camen and I thought...YEAH, THOSE TWO, VERY SHORT FLUFFY-ESQUE FICS! For this ones, I will roll to see who the main character is and what fear do they serve

For season three break (published already on S4 SHAME ON ME) I've gotten Georgie Barker as main character and as a The Dark avatar.

As usual, please do forgive my quick tipper and non-native speaker mistakes, Marla

Allons-y!

CW: the Dark very slight usual content, threatening behaviour that can be considered...moraly condenable

Also on AO3!

Georgie would never forget the moment in which Manuela Dominguez, a teacher assistant from some of those science degrees with extremely long names she made an explicit effort to forget held her hand as she faced Death in the most literal manner possible.

She was about to have the strongest existential crisis ever, to even forget how to be afraid, just in order to survive, as a mere copying mechanism that would change her life. Instead, a woman she had barely crossed a few words in the cafeteria brought her back to the rest of reality (all that escaped the staring corpse in front of her) and said, in a voice loud enough to anyone present to hear: “It doesn’t really matter, death or alive, none of us do matter. Isn’t that…liberating?”

And, see, any other day, Georgie would have likely punch anyone with such a take in the face (especially when they used the weakest moment of a person to mould their thoughts and believes as they wished), but, in that moment, believing it made her felt liberated from the impossible situation she had seen herself caught upon and the fear that was about to leave her body for good clung into this new purpose she could embrace.

She held Manuela’s hand closer and never completely let it go.

  Everybody knew Mike Fairchild (born Crew, before being adopted after his childhood fortunate accident) was dating the guy who killed Leitner, Georgie’s ex’s step-sibling and the eldest of the kids the Victorian Asshole that now went by Elias Bouchard had adopted when he had seen the potential for serving the Beholding they had. Gerry and him were, actually, a rather cute couple (as even Gerry’s little brother and Georgie’s aforementioned ex, Jon, begrudgingly admitted).

However, that didn’t matter to Georgie Barker, that felt obliged, as an Avatar of one of the Fears that prayed on people rather similar to the ones The Vast did (at least, in their smallness in comparison to the rest of the World) and an actual friend of said Gerry, to threat the chaotic, little, for some reason a bit French-looking, scared man when she officially knew.

Of course, she counted with the help of The Admiral, that, as a cat influenced by The Beholding, The Dark and The Lonely (Peter loved the animal, much more than his in-and-out husband or even a teeny tiny more than The Tundra itself).

Mike, losing even more skin pigmentation after the attack , just nodded and, before he left after making clear he got the message of what would happen to him if Gerry got hurt by him by any means, he muttered:

“You are even worse than that Gertrude Robinson” to what she just shrugged and commented:

“Well, I think she would have made a better podcaster than me, having she chosen that path instead of reading to a bloody tape recorder”.

And left, she had a date with a certain Slaughter Avatar and she didn’t want to be late, even if the other woman didn’t like to taste new and spicy foods.

#magnuspod #a mag a day #a mag a week #tma #the magnus archives #alternate universe #the dark #dark avatar georgie barker #mike crew #mike crew/gerard keay #superavatar the admiral #the admiral #writing #fanfic

[equalseleventhirds]

fsflskdfj now i am distracting my SELF bcos suddenly i want to work on the agnes series (which has only one fic so far but in my HEART and in my MIND it is a series) bcos there is......... gertrude/agnes yearning......... in it later.............

#this isn't even a spoiler for that series it should just be a known fact about me #a chance for gertrude/agnes? yeah! #even in the gertrude is the tape recorders fic #very first chapter i'm like 'the fire that never stopped burning in her lungs' #.........i want to write it for Me but also now... for mins...

[ghostbustermelanieking]

tma fic masterpost

love letters (of a sort)

(jonmartin, seasons 1-5, fluff, angst, wc: 13k)

Want to grab dinner later? I know you're going to be working absurdly late anyway, and there's a new Italian place I've been wanting to try. — M

Yes, that sounds nice. I'll try to be finished by 7:00. — J

Oh, yes. God forbid you don't work absurdly late. ;) — M

-

Or: The notes and letters Jon and Martin have written each other, through the years.

cracks

(post mag 200, tim & sasha, jonmartin, wc: 1k)

Sasha finds a tape on her kitchen table. A new one. The last one. She doesn't even need to listen to it to know it's the last one. And she has a voice-mail on her phone from Annabelle Cane.

She calls Tim first, right then, at one a.m., and he picks up. She knew he would. She knows he felt the change, too. "We have to go," she says. "Right now. We've got to go back. Something's happened."

microfics: tender, trembling hands, drastic

in the moonlight

(wtgfs, pre-canon, fluff, wc: 2k)

6. things you said under the stars and in the grass

Or: Georgie and Melanie on a late-night ghost hunt (in an "unromantic" field).

after words

(jonmartin, mag 102 au, hurt/comfort, wc: 3k)

things you said prompts: "13. things you said at the kitchen table."

Or: After Jon's escape from the Circus, Martin offers for Jon to stay with him.

warm

(jonmartin, scottish safehouse period, wc: 2k)

things you said prompts: "1. things you said at 1 am"

Or: Huddling for warmth after the Lonely.

reunions

(post mag 196, canon divergent, jonmartin, wc: 2k)

Martin and Jon find each other again at the remnants of Hill Top Road.

cursed grounds

(bly manor au pt 1, jonmartin, ensemble, slow burn, wip, wc: 14k)

When there's a lull, Martin speaks up, because he has to, he knows he does, he won't get a better opportunity. He says, "I've got a story," and when they look at him with interest, he adds, "A… a statement, really. It might be hard to hear, but… I think we all need to hear it again."

He shifts in his seat, sits up straighter, clears his throat and looks out at the lot of them and begins. "Statement of Martin Blackwood," he says, "regarding the Magnus Institute, and everything that happened there." He takes a breath, hears the familiar words in their familiar cadence rattle through his mind: the Archivist is taking a statement. He says, "Statement begins."

--

Or: In 1985, after the disappearance of Gertrude Robinson from the reclusive grounds of the Magnus Institute, Jonathan Sims is brought in as a replacement. As he adjusts to the new job, and begins to bond with his new coworkers, the strange happenings on the grounds that the Magnus Institute sits on become harder to ignore.

Years later, Martin Blackwood makes a statement.

variations on a death scene

(ensemble, jonmartin, wtgfs, aus, revenge stories, wc: 6k)

Or: Eight times Jonah Magnus was killed, and everything was fixed.

tapes winding forward

(jonmartin, time travel, season 1/season 5 au, word count: 48k)

Chapters: 6/6

Martin gets a closer look at the calendar, and his breath catches in his throat. He's gotten a look at the year, and it's wrong, it's all wrong. 2018. October, 2018. Right there, in Martin's own handwriting, on a Saturday, he's written things on little dates that Martin can't read, because he can't take his eyes off the year. 2018. 2018. They look differently. They have scars they don't recognize. Their hair is longer. 2018.

Martin seizes the calendar off the fridge and goes back into the living room. Jon's still at the coffee table, poking through the tapes piled there, but he looks up when Martin comes back in and says, "Martin, where…" with a familiar bite in his voice.

Martin ignores him, stops him mid-sentence to say, "Jon, what have you heard about time travel?"

---

Martin and Jon wake up two years in the future. It goes about as well as can be expected.

cat's cradle

(georgie & jon, wtgfs, the admiral, s5 au, cat angst & fluff, mag 189/190, word count: 5k)

Jon and Martin go out one day, on a trip to the eldritch horror-trap grocery store, and show back up in the tunnels after a few long hours, longer than any of the trips to the store that Georgie has been on. Martin has a bag of horrible spooky food, and Jon has a bag shut at the top that is wriggling suspiciously in his arms. "Oh, great," says Melanie, when Georgie fills her in. "What monstrous thing has he brought home now?" Georgie would giggle if the situation wasn't at least a little potentially dangerous, Jon could have anything in there, really.

---

Or: an exploration of the fate of the Admiral, after the end of the world.

rising static

(archivist!martin, jonmartin, s5 au/canon divergence/spec, word count: 14k)

Martin forces his eyes open to look at Jon, bruise blossoming at the top of his forehead, eyes red and wet. "Wh-what's gone?" he asks softly, almost afraid of the answer.

"It. All of it, or at least some of it, I don't know… I can't feel it anymore. The statements, the Beholding, it's—it's…" Jon breaks off mid-sentence, shaking his head. He leans forward so their foreheads are together, and Martin can feel him trembling all over. He says, voice low and thick with fear, "I'm… not sure I'm the Archivist anymore."

---

The initial confrontation with Jonah Magnus goes badly, and Martin wakes up outside the Panopticon to find Jon missing. In the wake of this initial loss, something about Martin starts to change.

northern-bound trains

(safehouse fic, jonmartin, post mag 159, pining, word count: 6k)

Martin rides with Jon to the train station. He insisted. Said he shouldn’t have to go there alone. “Nothing worse than leaving on a trip with no one to send you off,” he’d said. Jon had nodded, gratefully, and swallowed back the burning lump of what he wanted to say—Come with me, come to Scotland, I don’t want to leave you alone again. He kept hearing Martin’s words in his head: I really loved you. And he couldn’t ask Martin to do that, to leave his whole life and everything behind to become a fugitive, cower in Scotland and throw his whole life away. It’s too much. And Martin has already sacrificed so much for him.

He’ll be content with Martin seeing him off. That can be enough. That will be enough.

knowing

(s1 archives crew, timsasha, season 4 au, word count: 3k)

Jon falters, looks at the ground, one hand over his mouth. "You… you were both in the same place. In a… domain. D-Daisy was in one, too, a different one. I got her out. And I… I thought, afterwards, that maybe I could get the two of you back, too."

---

Or: After the Unknowing, after the Buried, Jon finds Sasha and Tim again.

journeys at the end of the world

(wtgfs, melanie king, season 5 au/spec, word count: 8k)

Melanie doesn't remember what happened after the world ends.

(Or: Melanie searches for Georgie in the wake of the apocalypse.)

a hidden statement

(season 1 au, s1 archives crew, jonmartin, timsasha, wc: 100k)

Chapters: 5/15 (wip)

Martin finds the tape in the wall. Specifically, in a small hole in the drywall, tucked behind boxes and stuffed with so much crumpled paper and tissue that it's almost impossible to see anything else in there. It's a cassette tape, the sort Jon uses to record statements, labeled on the front with a brown strip of tape. It's addressed to the Head Archivist in a spidery handwriting.

--

Or: Gertrude Robinson made a tape as a warning to the next Head Archivist. What if he had gotten it?

#for organization purposes lol... mastered after an xf fic masterpost from ages ago #tma fic #the magnus archives #archivist martin #timsasha #wtgfs #jonmartin #i wrote this #long post

[rosy-cheekx]

I Want To Be A Real Fake

@kaiserkorresponds said: Black and White + "I want to be a real fake" + formal clothing <3

Prompted fic that I haven’t been able to stop thinking about since I received it! Hope you like it, Kaiser!

-

Jon would not consider himself fashionable. He has a distinct sense of style, yes, but that style lately has been Tired-Academic-Works-in-a-Cold-Office,-Steals-Sweaters-When-Necessary-core. Not exactly suitable for the business casual dress code The Magnus Institute “requires” (no one seemed to pay attention to the Archive staff’s choices of attire), but certainly not suitable for the small rectangle of cardstock Elias Bouchard hands him, on a quiet spring morning in the Archive.

“What’s…what’s this?” Jon asked, staring at the neat, printed text as if it was Greek. (If it were Greek, at least, he could decipher parts of it. He was an English Lit student, after all, and he had really enjoyed etymology.) The card was a stiff black and white, with the black owl logo, the symbol of the Magnus Institute, printed in the top middle. Glancing down at it, he saw a date, and the words: “black-tie.” Shit.

“My apologies, I forgot how tired your position tends to leave you.” Elias’s voice was prim and polite, but Jon still winced inwardly. “As a head of a department, you are now strongly encouraged to attend the fundraiser I host in April each year. Our donors are fascinated by our departments, and especially the Archives. Gertrude’s disappearance has raised questions as to her successor, and I trust you can assuage the concerns of our donors at your accomplishments in the position.” Jon chose to believe that Elias’s keen eye didn’t sweep the mountains of paperwork that surrounded his desk as he surveyed the small, poorly lit office. “I’m certain you’ll be able to find appropriate attire for the occasion.”

He turned on a heel, halfway to the door before seemingly considering something. “Ah, and Jon, one more thing. Gertrude always requested she bring an assistant. Would you like to do the same? I am happy to accommodate one more for the catering count.”

Jon snapped his mouth shut, utterly dumbfounded by the responsibility just thrust upon him, and nodded mutely, before clearing his throat. “Ah-um, yes, I would appreciate that. Does it matter which one?”

“Someone who can make a pleasant impression, please.” Elias raised an eyebrow, nodded almost imperceptibly, like he had made a decision, and rapped his knuckles on the doorframe on the way out. “I trust your judgement.”

Jon counted to thirty, to be certain Elias wasn’t coming back, and slouched into his office chair, scanning the save-the-date again, without the immense pressure of Elias’s eyes on him.

“The Magnus Institute Fundraiser Gala,” it read below the embossed owl, within a thin black border. “23 April, 7-10 pm. Black tie. Catered.” Jon traced the owl with the pad of his finger, flipping the card over to see, in Elias’s thin cursive: Make a good impression, Jon.

God, this is going to suck.

-

“Sasha, come on.” Jon wasn’t one to beg, but desperate times and all that. He had cornered her in the breakroom, while Martin was on a research trip and Tim was getting takeaway from the chippie down the street. “It’s only three weeks away, and you’re the one I trust the most. Please.”

“Jon,” Sasha sighed, smoothing her skirt patiently. “I would if I could, I swear to you. But my sister’s wedding has been planned for months, I’ve already requested time off, and I can’t undo all that for a work party.”

“Fundraiser,” Jon corrected instinctively, even as he signed in resignation. “Fine. I just really didn’t want to go alone.”

Sasha scoffed, shaking her head to herself as she opened the fridge and pulled out her bagged lunch. “You have two other assistants you know. What about Tim? Or Martin?”

Jon wrinkled his nose at the thought of bringing nervous, rambling, doe-eyed Martin to the gala. “God no. Martin would be too much; I need someone who can handle themselves and hold a decent conversation. I need someone who can attend a black-tie gala and look more at-home than me.” A withering look from Sasha.

“So why not Tim, then? He can do all those things.”

“Do all what things?” Jon jumped and spun around to see Tim, carrying a grease-spotted bag in one hand and a paper soda cup in the other. He surveyed Tim in a moment: the button-up shirt, red and printed with tiny black balloons, sleeves rolled to the elbows. Sunglasses pushed to the top of his head, dark black hair artfully mussed. High cheekbones dotted with freckles, and what Jon swore could be the faintest bit of eyeliner.

“Tim, would you like to go to a fashionable, catered work party with me?”

“Boss,” Tim lowered himself to a knee and held out his soda solemnly. “I thought you’d never ask.”

“Tim, that’s backwards. The kneeler isn’t the one who accepts,” Sasha chuckles helpfully.

“You’re just jealous of our love, Sash!”

Good Lord.

-

Jon was really hoping the food would be good. He was in Tim’s flat, in the toilet, checking himself in the mirror one final time. His hair was carefully braided, courtesy of Tim’s deft hands and coiled into a thick bun at the base of his skull, gold and emerald hairpin snugly in place. His suit was nice: a respectable white shirt, dotted with tiny lime-colored flowers he had to strain his eyes to see, under a dark green suit jacket and matching trousers. The suit itself was cut in a rather androgynous style, pulling tight at Jon’s waist in a way he rather liked, and contrasted beautifully, he thought, with the smooth brown of his skin. He flicked an invisible piece of lint from his thigh and, satisfied, stepped into the hall to tell Tim he was ready to go.

“Tim, I’m all-woah,” the exhale was accidental. Tim’s suit was certainly not subtle. He was wearing a deep blue turtleneck, hair perfectly coiffed. Over the turtleneck, the suit jacket was white, a spray of water-color flowers in all shades of blue and purple shifting with every movement. The navy blue heeled suede boots on his feet accentuated his already-tall frame “Tim, you look good,” Jon breathed.

“Ouch. No need to sound all surprised. I know I clean up well; I dirty pretty damn good too.” Tim chuckled and adjusted his sleeves. “You don’t look so bad yourself, Mr. ‘I don’t want anything too crazy.’”

Jon grinned shyly, rocking on his heels of his own, less intimidating dress shoes. “I like it, I think. It feels nice.” The excitement over how good he felt in the clothes had, all too briefly, suppressed the impending doom he was feeling about the evening’s events. “Are you ready for tonight?” he asked for what must have been the fiftieth time, spinning the solid black ring he wore around his finger.

“Yes, Jon. Talk about the reorganization process as a structural renovation, converting files to audio formatting for future accessibility, don’t talk about artefact storage even a little, don’t get caught up with anyone too pretty, I get it.” His voice was flat, bored by the repetition. “This is going to be fine.”

“What-what if it isn’t, though, Tim? What if they ask about Gertrude or how their money is being used, o-or how the restructuring is going? I can’t bloody well tell them I’m using a tape recorder that’s probably older than I am.”

“Jon,” Tim’s well-manicured hand was on his shoulder, nails the same blue of his turtleneck. “Take a deep breath. For Gertrude: be honest. It was a tragedy, and you hope she’s found, but until then you’re doing your best to act on her wishes as her replacement. And for the rest, be vague. Restructuring is going ‘as well as can be expected’ or ‘is running quite smoothly with the help of your three wonderful assistants.’” He winked. “And tell them you’re using a multimedia system, that’ll confuse those old boomers enough to move topics. And it is technically true. Laptops and a tape recorder are multiple medias. Anything else we can riff, you know? I can talk with the best of them.” He eyed Jon meaningfully. “This will be fine. It’s one night. And we’ll get chips after. Promise.”

Jon nodded and closed his eyes, breathing steadying. He was grateful Tim had been available. Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad.

-

“So, how did you know what black tie meant?” Jon asked, eyeing Tim across the seat of the cab. They’re on their way now and Jon’s hands are steepled tightly, pressing his fingertips against each other until it hurts to do so. “I had to Google it last week when I went shopping, in case we had to wear literal black ties.” He needed to talk about anything, anything but this stupid fundraiser they drove steadily towards.

Tim grew silent for a moment, considering his words. “My brother was an extra in a movie once and started dating a stylist for one of the leads. He fibbed his way into getting us tickets for premieres, so I’ve made my way through a few high-fashion events.” He shrugged, fiddling with a thin silver bracelet along his wrist, were Jon knew the letter D was carved in delicate cursive. “I like it, too, you know? Dressing up for events. It makes me feel debonaire, like a spy.”

Jon shook his head in disagreement. “Makes me feel fake,” he mumbled, eyeing the lorry floor beneath them. “Like everyone knows I don’t belong. I hate having their eyes on me and knowing they’re better than me.”

Tim prodded Jon with his elbow gently, raising his eyebrows in a comforting manner. “That’s it though, isn’t it? We aren’t fake. We worked our way here. Hell, you’re the boss of an entire department, Jon. We’ve gotten to where we are in the Institute because we deserve to be here. And anyways, everyone at that party next week is gonna be fake. They’re pretending to care about our jobs, and we pretend to care about their money, and they pretend they’re even the ones who write the checks and not some snooty financial advisor in Wales.”

Jon shrugged, trying to keep himself from biting back that he wasn’t enough, didn’t earn this spot, that Sasha deserved it more than he did and was doing nothing to prove to Elias he was up to the monumental task of being the Head Archivist. He didn’t, though, and instead took a steadying breath, nodding to Tim’s comforting words.

“And anyways,” Tim continued, shrugging. “Even if we have to be fake for a night, it’ll be fun. We get to be a part of ‘the queen’s high society,’” he added in a high-pitched, overly fake RP accent, eliciting a chuckle from Jon. “And Rosie said the catering Elias orders is divine. Apparently we should keep an eye out for tiny samosas?”

As if on cue, the cab shuddered to a stop. Jon thanked the driver, paid, and followed Tim out.

-

The Institute looked different under the pretense of wealth and success. It was still the same building of course, but the floor was clear of the rain mats and the smooth marble floor paved the way to the library, the main sitting room of which had been cleared as a rather respectable grand hall to host a party. Tables lined the cordoned off books, hot plates and silver trays steaming slightly. Bottles of wine lined a bar, behind which a vested individual with slicked-back hair was pouring small glasses and taking orders. A quiet orchestra completed the scene, cello and piano in a delicate duet. Before tonight, Jon couldn’t have imagined this many people in the Institute alone, least of all the library. Not that it’s packed. There’s maybe thirty or so well-dressed individuals milling about, the din of conversation white noise in comparison to the floating of the music.

Tim’s hand is on his back, pressing kindly into his spine. Oh yes, he remembers dimly, and nods, allowing Tim to guide him into the library and hand him a glass of wine. They stand out a little, two beacons of color around what is a pretty drab spectrum of black and grey, save for a few spectacular dresses in the crowd. Jon finds he doesn’t mind it, except that it may lead to unwanted conversation. It’s not his looks he fears being judged on, but that he be found wanting when it came to his capabilities. He was always selectively self-conscious like that, some things utterly meaningless, others inexplicably important.

Jon isn’t a huge fan of wine, but he finds himself clinging to the glass as a lifeline as he and Tim meander through the crowds, largely ignored. The music is intoxicatingly simple; he finds himself caught up in the deep reverberations of the cello as they walk, feeling it deep in his chest. There were, in fact, samosas, as well as small cannoli, and he and Tim piled plates as high as they could without garnering stares.

There weren’t many people Jon recognized; he didn’t even see Elias as he scanned the crowd for faces. Wine in one hand, a plate in the other, he thought maybe the night wouldn’t be too bad.

Jon shivered, the sensation of being stared at prickling the back of his neck. He spun around, trying to appear casual, and spotted Elias at last. He was standing with a large man, broad and wearing a deep blue suit, scruffy beard a mix of tawny and white. Elias crooked his finger, smiling primly. As Jon made his way over to the pair-who he could’ve sworn he hadn’t seen previously, he was intercepted by a short bald man in a plum velour suit, leaning heavily on a cane.

“Ah, Archivist,” he smiled warmly, extending a hand to shake before seeing Jon’s hands were full, and nodding his head instead. “Congratulations on your promotion. Elias has told me he expects great things from you.”

Jon smiled politely, glancing over to see Elias and the other man gone again. Regretfully, he turned his attention back to the man. “It’s a shame about Gertrude, yes, but I’m hoping I can do her proud,” he said in a practiced tone. He glanced over his shoulder. Where was Tim? He was just with him.

“Of course, of course. I was hoping I could have a word?”

“W-with me?”

“Yes, you see, I was rather concerned when I heard Gertrude’s position had been left open. When Elias said you yourself where at the junction to take over, I wanted to meet you for myself. I worry about the Archivists in your institute, so many of you do such monumental work for so little recognition. Do you worry your work to be meaningless?  Your name insignificant when it is all said and done?”

(It is this conversation he remembers, months later, when he demands to record Prentiss’ attack. He refuses to be another mystery, a name on a placard to be wondered about.)

“I-ah, yes? No?” What was the right answer here? Jon stammered out a half-assed reply about doing his best, midway through when he felt a hand firmly on his shoulder, where his neck and collarbone met. Glancing to his peripheral, he saw a golden ring, an eye, and was frustratingly grateful to hear the cool tones of Elias Bouchard over his shoulder.

“Now Simon,” he said, voice even, “you aren’t trying to scare my dear Archivist, are you?” He gave the shoulder a squeeze but remained put. “Jon, I believe you’ve heard of Simon Fairchild, a significant donor to our establishment.”

Jon nodded wordlessly, not really listening to the two bureaucrats delve off into some topic or other, craning his neck to look for Tim. The music had picked up, he registered dimly, a orchestral melody led by a violin, sharp and whimsical.

“Jon?” Another squeeze to his neck, and Jon tried not to wince. “Wouldn’t you agree,” Elias asked, voice patient at surface level. “That the best way to move forward is to restructure the Archive?”

Jon nodded, trying to recall the answer he had rehearsed. “Yes, ah—my team and I have worked quite hard at recording the statements a-and organizing them in a way that will last long-term.”

“Ah, what a delight,” Simon—Mr. Fairchild—said warmly. Jon was reminded of the voices adults would use when they spoke to him as a child, when his inane facts about space or etymology had moved from endearing to obnoxious.

The conversation lasted for what felt like days, Jon feeling rather like Mr. Fairchild’s cane: a statement piece, contributing nothing to the conversation but unable to find a smooth exit. Leading questions from Elias led to thankfully rehearsed answers before Simon found his own exit and walked away smoothly, eyes wide and taking the room in.

“I-I really should find Tim,” Jon muttered, glancing around the room anxiously.

“Nonsense. He’ll be back,” Elias said, releasing Jon’s shoulder and taking his elbow in turn, “I would like to introduce you to a few dear friends of mine. I believe Tim is keeping one occupied at present.” Jon sighed inwardly (and maybe outwardly as well) and allowed himself to be led around the room. His wine glass was empty, as was his plate and he found it snatched away by a member of catering. He had nothing to cling to, to keep his hands busy, and was struggling not to pull out his delicately-placed hair pin just so he could fiddle with something.

Jon was taken on a tour of old rich people of England. Names flew past him, conversation buzzed around him, and still Jon felt like nothing more than a well-dressed trophy to be ogled at. Did Gertrude do this every year, he wondered dimly. No wonder she disappeared. He fiddled with the ring on his finger, nodding and smiling at the appropriate times, speaking when needed, and feeling the swirl of the orchestra build up in pressure behind his eyes. The music was beautiful but hard to listen to. Something about it was ugly, hiding a dark secret behind the innocent melodies.

Eventually, the evening was so much of a blur that he couldn’t even begin to fathom how much time had passed. It may have been weeks, may have been merely twenty minutes. Jon glanced down for his watch before realizing he had taken it off at Tim’s flat and never strapped it back on. Pity. It only added to the dreamscape reality he seemed to be participating in.

At last, Elias led him towards the large burly man that was suddenly in view (hadn’t he always been? Jon wasn’t quite sure. The wine must have affected him more than he thought with the nerves) and Jon saw Tim, similarly trapped in conversation as he had been. He smiled apologetically as Jon and Elias approached and the larger man smiled warmly at the newcomers.

“Ah, Archivist. I hope you don’t mind I stole your companion away briefly. I was curious about the nitty-gritty of your Archive. Timothy here was very informative.” Tim winced at the use of his full name and a part of Jon smirked, relating to the sentiment of being called Jonathan or worse, John.

“I’m glad he can answer your questions.” Elias spoke before Jon could open his mouth. “I’m quite proud of the Archive staff. Jon chose well and I am sure the four of them are going to do great things together. Jon, you remember the Lukas family?”

Jon nodded, confused for a second before the man in front of him extended his hand. “Peter Lukas, at your service.” The hand was cold, and a feeling of dismay washed over Jon as he shook it. He couldn’t help the feeling that the shake of that hand was a seal of his fate.

The orchestral music had picked up, a swirl of strings and piano, ascending in pitch until it grated at Jon’s ears. No one else seemed to react to it, however, as the manic notes pulling at something inside Jon’s brain, something he couldn’t explain. It was almost like a migraine, but sharper and deep in his spine and in his ears. Elias let go of Jon’s arm at some point during the conversation with Peter Lukas, a discussion about boats, maybe? Travel? This was the conversation Elias was so keen on Jon being a part of?

As Jon felt that grip relax, the glint of the ring on Elias’ finger seeming to wink at him, Jon took a staggered step backwards. “Mr. Lukas, ah-Peter, it’s been a pleasure. Elias, ex-excuse me.”

Jon turned and dashed out of the library, feet carrying him on instinct through the winding halls and down the stairs of the institute, deep into the Archives. He stopped when he felt his feet echo against the cold, solid lino of the archival storage and bent over, hand on the wall, gasping in shallow, rapid bursts. It was too much, it was too much, he thought he could do this but it was too much and he wasn’t enough for them-

“Woah-boss.” Tim was there. When did Tim get here? Was he speaking out loud? Shit. “Jon, yeah-hey, Jon. I’m here. You’re okay. Take some deep breaths, okay? You’re going to black out if you’re not careful.”

Jon felt his suit jacket being shrugged off of him and the newly allowed freedom of his shoulder helped. He took a deep, sputtering breath, the sweet oxygen flooding his system and sharpening his thoughts.

“The-the music and the talking,” he said under his breath, Tim craning to listen without infringing on his personal space. “Too-too much.”

“The music? Jon, hey, hey, just focus on calming down, okay? That was a dick move of Elias to separate us immediately. I was talking to that Lukas guy for way too long. Not even sure what we talked about. I think he’s just one of those guys.” Jon smirked to himself as he focused on the floor beneath his feet, breathing slowly until his heart rate had resumed a normal rhythm.

“Says you,” he mumbled, eyes closing as he pressed his warm cheek to the cold wall.

“You bastard!” Jon felt a light swat on his shoulder. “I listen to people! I have meaningful conversation; just ask Martin and Sasha and Alexa from Library and Calvin from Artefact Storage. I am practically a professional listener.”

Jon smirked, satisfied with his jab and turned around, now pressing his back to the wall. “God, Tim, I do not want to go back in there.” It was hard to admit out loud, even if the evidence was written all over his face.

“Okay. So, we won’t.”

“What?” the answer was so mind-bogglingly simple, Jon reeled.

“We don’t want to be here. We’ve talked, we’ve eaten. Let’s just leave. I can tell Elias I had an emergency and you had to escort me home, like a true gentleman.”

“Lie to Elias? I feel like that cant end well.” The offer was tempting, Jon hadf to admit.

“I mean, Sasha has keys to my flat. I could ask her to start a fire, if you think that’s sufficient?”

Jon barked out a laugh at that. “Ah, no, lets save a fire for something big. Yes. Let’s-let’s go, Tim. And-er, I suppose I should thank you. For coming tonight. I know its not an ideal way to spend an evening.”

“Are you kidding?” Tim did a twirl, Jon’s own jacket slung over his shoulder. “I look hot. You think I’d pass up an opportunity to dress up like this? You’re dreaming.” He smirked and took Jon’s arm, leading him back up the stairwell. It felt different than Elias’s touch. That had been a cold tug, directional and leashed. This felt…snug, more like a link in a chain than anything else. Comforting, reassuring.

(Luckily, they weren’t laughed out of the Nando’s they popped into late at night. Lemon and herb and spices covered their hands, but they were careful to keep their jackets clean. Jon, when looking back on the evening; remembers this moment, talking and laughing and letting the fresh night air was over them. Elias, Lukas, and Fairchild be damned. He’d deal with that tomorrow.)

#the magnus archives #tma #tma fanfic #fanfic to a tea #jonathan sims #tim stoker #prompt fic #black-tie #elias bouchard #still a dick #peter lukas #simon fairchild #sasha james #me? write everyone BUT martin> #amazing

[jonspurpleskirt]

Perks of Beholding

Summary: Jon gets distracted from paranoia by learning he can now understand animals. This somehow solves all their problems. Or: Jon turns into a Disney princess the fic.

No Warnings apply. It’s just fluff. Heavily inspired by this lovely TMA comic:  ___

It started with the Admiral. Jon was about to read the first statement his mysterious benefactor had sent when he heard a small "Jon!" from the kitchen. It had a strange, rumbling undertone to it and sounded as though a human was trying to imitate a cat.

Jon startled so hard at the unfamiliar voice that he send the papers he had in his hands flying. Instinctively grabbing the tape recorder he sprung up.

"Who's there!"

The Admiral came out of the kitchen, rubbing against the doorframe and purring. "Jon! It's time for a midday snack."

Jon blinked hard, wondering if he had lost his mind entirely, while a much louder voice was screeching in delight.

"Admiral! I can understand you!"

"Give me food Jon, I beg of you. I'm famished."

The Admiral jumped up on his lap, claws snagging on the worm hole riddled arm. It should have already been healed, but Jon continued picking on it.

"Ah..ha. Careful please. I'm damaged goods."

"My apologies. Now food and then cuddles? I crave attention."

Statement forgotten Jon spend the rest of the afternoon debating with Georgies cat about the pros and cons of feeding the Admiral without Georgies consent, sneaking snacks anyway and cuddling on the couch.

To say that Georgie was bemused when she got home was an understatement. "You can speak cat now. Are you shitting me?"

"No. It's amazing! Georgie this might be the only good thing to have happened to me in years!"

Georgie rolled his eyes, grinning. "Don't be so dramatic. So what? Are cats really planning to overthrow us lowly humans? What is he saying?"

"I'm pretty sure he wouldn't tell me if that was the case. Admiral is there anything you'd like to say to Georgie?"

The Admiral, who hadn't budged from Jons chest since after he had been fed was staring straight at him. "Tell her I love her."

Jon turned to Georgie with the most serious face she had ever seen on him. "He wants you to know that he loves you." He announced gravely. And then, after a short pause. "But he loves me more."

"I didn't say that."

"He didn't say that!"

"No, but I know."

The Admiral bit at his finger and then immediately licked the raw skin as an apology. "Unruly kitten."

"I'm not a kitten!"

"You know I'm not sure if the noises you make are cute or creepy."

~~~

His language comprehension skills didn't only focus on cat speak, Jon found out soon after. He had been brave enough to step out of Georgies flat to go for a quick walk (and buy some cat food that Georgie refused to get for the Admiral), when a voice from above cooed at him.

"So shiny!"

Jon froze at the croaky exclamation, scanning his environment and trying not to panic. There was no police nearby. Which was good. But also bad if this was going to turn out to be a robbery. There weren't any people around at all, actually. Jon had gone out at an ungodly hour as to avoid big crowds and thus being seen.

The only being he could make out was a crow perched atop a lantern, gazing down at him. Jon pointed at himself. "Are you speaking to me?"

The crow tilted its head. "It would seem so, human."

"Oh. What is it that you find so shiny?"

It considered his question for a moment, then flew down. Jon flinched when the bird landed on his shoulder, a sharp beak tapping the hair clasp Jon had used to keep his mess of a hair out of his face.

"This. I'd like to have it."

Jon itched to stroke the black feathers that caressed his cheek. A childish excitement that he hadn't felt since uni thrumming in his chest.

"You can have it. Just let me take it out first."

The crow hopped on his other shoulder, nibbling at his scarf while Jon gently untangled the clasp from his locks, careful not to jostle his new friend too much.

"There we go. Here."

"Thank you. This kindness will not be forgotten."

Jon watched the bird fly off with his possession and wished his human encounters could go so smoothly.

Word did get around fast that he was a friend of corvids and provider of shiny things. Wherever he went at least two or three crows or ravens would appear within minutes chatting him up. Most of his spare change went to them and soon he found himself buying little trinkets for them to carry off.

In the weeks that followed Jon got out more and more, keeping to parks at unreasonable hours, driven to converse with all kinds of wildlife. He hadn't touched most of the statements he had been send, too fixated on the new, harmless ability he had been granted. This had improved Georgies and his relationship immensely. She had been worried that he would obsess over who could have murdered Leitner. Him going out and talking to various animals might not have been any less strange, but at least it felt harmless enough to her that she left him to it, sometimes even tagging along.

Jon had always felt it easier to communicate with animals. And this didn't change with his new ability. Interactions were simple and their stories were interesting, with a perspective foreign enough to catch his interest. Animals viewed the world rather differently, had different priorities and had less behavioral rules that Jon could mess up.

And they weren't shy to seek out his touch once they got to know him. More often than not these days Georgie would find him with a squirrel draped around his neck, a bird pulling his hair or a cat in his arms. He had even tried to talk to some insects once, but told Georgie with a look of disappointment that they didn't have the mind for idle chatter.

Like humans not every animal was friendly or even a good conversationalist. There was a white and grey pigeon nesting close to Georgies flat, who made for dreadful smalltalk and couldn't hold a thought to save its life. And Clara the sparrow loved to spew a litany of curse words at him, because she found they sounded funny.

In the end, however, his curiousity to learn more about his abilities led him to check out more of the statements and eventually, try and contact Jude Perry. They met in a quaint little café, opting to sit outside because of Judes flamability and Jons want to have a better chance of escape should anything go wrong.

Jon didn't shake Judes hand when she first asked. But after her statement and her willingness to give him the contact of an acquaintance he felt he had to. He reached out to take her hand when a crow dived down and crashed between the two. The ball of black feathers shook itself and snapped sharply at Jons hand.

"What do you think you are doing you lanky idiot! Do you not have any instincts left in your body! What are you?! A fledgling? Shame on you! You nearly gave us a heart attack!"

"I'm sorry, but you really should fly away. Your feathers are beginning to sizzle- Ow!"

The crow had squawked at him in a rather unbecoming manner for such a lovely lady, but had heeded his warning and flown onto his shoulder, opting to snap at his ear and pull it to get him to leave the firey lady, cussing him out all the while.

"I get it, I get it! Please stop assaulting my ear."

"What."

Momentarily having forgotten his audience in order to get the furious crow out of his hair, Jon send Jude an apologetic smile.

"Sorry. Marah seems to be quite against me shaking your hand. Ow. Would you stop that I'm not doing anything!"

"You can speak with animals?" Not even Jude - I'll burn everything you love to the ground - Perry seemed to be immune to the craziness of the situation. Her grin had turned from feral to amused. The air around her had gotten colder as well.

"Ah, yes. Wasn't Gertrude also able to do so?"

Jon had finally been able to get Marah out of his hair and was cradling her against his chest, patting down her ruffled feathers and let her play with the shiny decorative coins that hung from his scarf.

"I don't think I've ever seen her doing that. But then everyone Becomes differently."

"Becomes? Ah... right sorry, no further questions. I... I guess I've always had more interest in animals then humans. Could that... I mean that could be the reason."

"Could." She echoed him, eyes fixed on the crow nestled in his arms.

A flutter of wings made both of them look up and startle at the sight of dozens of black birds perched along the roofs staring down at them.

"Did you call them?" She hissed.

"No. It's not like I can control them. I occasionally give them stuff? And they make great conversation partners. I guess they're just pretty protective of me?"

"Fledgling." Marah huffed, winding one of his long locks around her beak and tugging.

"Ow. They call me fledgling for some reason."

Jude snorted into her boiling coffee. "Yeah that checks out." Her gaze skimmed the dark wall of feathers above them. People around them had become uncomfortable as well, hurrying to get out of the area. The waiter was giving them nervous glances, too.

"If it would ease your mind I doubt they'll try to attack you if you play nice?"

"You sound awfully unsure of that."

Jon shrugged as best as he could without jostling Marah too much. "I'm still not sure how all of this works. That's why I'm looking for other avatars."

Jude shook her head and laughed. "A Watcher not Knowing something. The world never ceases to surprise me." She took out her phone, which had a cracked display, the plastic scorched where her fingers touched, but miraculously was still functioning. "Give me your number I'll forward you some of my contacts."

"Thank you!"

"Don't. You'll pay me in cute pet pictures. Once weekly."

Jon smiled, that sounded like a much better price to pay than a scorched hand. "I'll do that. Any favourites?"

"Owls." Jude said without hesitation, then blinked and scowled at him. "You'll have to get a grip on that if you don't want Mike to throw you out the window."

"I'm sorry. I really don't mean to do... whatever I'm doing."

"Watch your wording then. Don't ask questions or whatever."

Jon sighed, holding out his phone for her to copy his number. "Right."

He bought Marah her favourite pastry as a thank you for saving him and promised to get her that pretty ring she had seen. It was quite expensive, but Jon thought it was worth it.

~~~

Jon was a bundle of frayed nerves when he went to visit Mike Crew. They had written back and forth a bit over the days and no matter how much Jon tried to coax Mike into meeting him somewhere more open the Avatar of the Vast never budged.

So here he was, sans crow support, knocking on the door of a serial killer. The young man that welcomed him in was only shorter than him by maybe an inch or two. He had donned a fake smile and was asking if he wanted some tea.

Jon didn't. He had a set of questions, hungered for Mikes statement. But Judes warning stopped him from immediately going for it. Drinking bland tea he didn't want was probably the better alternative to being thrown out a window. Not that that was still a very real possibility afterwards.

"I'd love to. Thank you."

Mike seemed surprised that he had taken him up on the offer. "Huh. Well then. Come in. I only have Lavender and Peppermint, any preferences?"

Jon tried to distract himself from the very obvious scar on Mikes neck by taking in the spacious flat he had just entered. "Peppermint sounds nice."

"Peppermint it is, then."

Jon trailed after him into the kitchen, a bit lost on what the etiquette was when being a first time guest. Was he supposed to wait somewhere? Go to the couch? Was he even allowed to take a seat before being told?

At least he had gotten better at small talk. True Mike Crew wasn't an animal, but Jon had found out that being nice was actually well received by humans and avatars alike. (What a shocker.)

"You have a lovely apartment."

Mike shot him what looked like a genuine grin. "Thank you! A gift from Simon. He's taking good care of all the new Vast avatars. Tends to try and adopt them, but I quite like my autonomy and the family parties he throws are dreadful."

Jon couldn't help but pout. The terminology didn't confuse him as much anymore. Jude had deigned to explain that to him via text, with a lot of gloating and bad puns. "I wish the Eye would be so welcoming. I swear for an entity that's all about knowing it doesn't tell me shit."

"Tough. You sure you work for the Eye and not the Web? Here. Come on don't just stand there like a bean pole the couch is a perfectly good place to sit."

"Good lord I hope so. I hate spiders."

"Cheers to that."

Not asking questions was hard. Jon was an impatient man, endlessly curious. And something within him craved Mikes statement. He opted to be honest with Mike about that, telling him without turning it into a burning question and the Avatar nodded in understanding.

"Alright I'll tell you my story then. Because you were nice enough not to ask and we short people should work together."

Jon hadn't been prepared for the sad tale that had been Mikes life. It seemed that he had only been able to somewhat settle down in the last few years. Being on the run for so long, Jon could only imagine what it did to a persons mind. He was only being wanted for murder for a bit now and the stress and paranoia was already killing him.

"Huh." Mike blinked when he was done, tea gone cold in his hands. "That was actually pretty therapeutic. I'm not opposed to doing this again."

They talked idly for a while after, Mike far less aggressive in his attitude than Jude, although he did lightly threaten him once or twice and gave him a horrible case of vertigo when Jon accidently insulted his taste in books.

Their conversation was interrupted by a knock on the door and Mikes eyes narrowed. "I thought we agreed you'd come alone."

"I did." Jon defended himself, fear easily flooding back into his body.

They both stood and carefully inched towards the door. Just as Mike was about to open it, mouth already open to scold whoever had dared to interrupt him, a chorus of loud hisses, meows and a surprised shout made them freeze.

"Jon! A Hunter is here! We've got her handled. Run!"

Not thinking Jon snatched Mikes wrist and pulled him away from the entrance to the flat. The floor underneath him seemed to give way, but Mike at least hadn't fully thrown him into his domain. He dragged them both deeper into the flat. "Shit that's Tonner."

"Who?"

"The police. I ah... might be wanted for murder at the moment. I thought I've been descreet enough. But apparently not. Sorry."

He didn't like that Mikes eyes gleamed with a newfound respect after hearing that. "Oh yeah. I forgot that murder was illegal for a moment. Who did you kill?"

"I didn't." Jon scowled. "I was framed. It was Jurgen Leitner."

"Leitner?!"

"Hmhm. Turns out he was hiding below the institute the whole time. Honestly he was a rather pathetic old man."

Mike tsked. "Good riddance."

"Quite."

Mike eyed the window as the cursing from outside continued. They both flinched when there was a gunshot. Jon lurched forward, running towards the sound, only to be harshly janked back with surprising force. "What the fuck are you doing?!"

"She's shooting the cats! I need to save them!" There might have been a bit of static in his voice, fueled by the panic.

An inhuman growl came from outside and a layered voice shouting "Stay back!".

"That's a Hunter out there!"

Jon only let out a pathetic whine. His cats. He couldn't leave his cats! But the arm around his waist didn't let him go. Mike cursed behind him.

"You're crazy. And weird. You owe me for this."

"I can pay in cute animal pictures."

Mike snorted and let Jon go, leaving him to open the door. As soon as Daisy was in sight there was a loud Pop and a yelp, then she was gone. Jon knelt down in the mass of hissing fur, hands stroking over every body he could find, frantically looking for injuries on any of his babies. They came to him immediately, butting against his hands, chanting "Jon!" and started to purr up a storm.

"I think she just fired a warning shot." Mike mused, pointing towards the ceiling.

Jon heaved a huge sigh. "Oh thank god."

Mike tilted his head at the strange display before him. "Are those free of fleas?"

"Of course! They all are perfectly well behaved, clean angels."

Mike rolled his eyes. "Cool. They can come in then. I'm sure they just saved both of our lifes. Might as well reward them a bit."

And that was how Jon joined an impromptu sleepover at a supernatural serial killers flat, drowned in cats and delightfully tipsy, because Mike insisted on drinking to not dying.

The next morning greeted them with more knocking, which was nearly drowned out by the screams of the cats begging for food. Mike shot him a tired look.

"I deal with the cats. You open the door. You only presumably killed one guy. I'm sure they won't shoot you on sight."

Jon really didn't think that logic was sound, but decided against arguing with Mike, who turned out to not be a morning person at all. Some of the cats came with him as he greeted Basira, who frowned at his entourage.

"I didn't know Mike Crew was secretly a cat lady."

"Ah no, that would be me."

"Right. That sounds more believable. I just came by to let you know that you're in the clear. Elias Bouchard is the murderer. We have evidence now."

"Cool." Came the nonplussed reply from behind Jon.

Both avatars (could Jon count himself as an avatar at this point?) stared the police woman down. Jon unsure how to either continue or end the conversation and Mike probably trying to glare her to death. By the looks of it Basira had suddenly developed a very bad case of vertigo.

She stood her ground, though, clearing her throat and staring right back. "Would you know where Daisy is? She came her to investigate yesterday and I didn't hear from her since."

Mike giggled, Jon sighed and the cats purred in triumph, looking smug. This did not reassure Basira in the slightest.

"Your feral mutt was making a racket outside my flat, Officer."

"She was shooting at the cats." Jon was still upset about that, bending down to cradle one of them against his chest. The good boy immediately began licking his chin to soothe him.

Basira just about held herself back from snarling at them, keeping her cold, professional mask in place. "And where is she now?"

Jon glanced over to Mike in question. The Avatar of the Vast grinned. "Enjoying a long skydiving trip!"

"I'd like to have her back, please. We'll need her to confront Elias."

"We?"

Basira shot him a glare. "Yes." There was no room for arguement there.

Jons shoulders slumped and Mike patted his head in faux sympathy. There was a scream from outside.

"There. Done. See you around Archivist. Send pictures not Cops."

"If I survive this." Jon grumbled, the cats trailing behind him as he left with officer Hussain.

Daisy met them halfway down the stairs and nearly lunged at Jon. Basira took the whole car ride to calm her down. A task that was made even harder by Jon, who was unconsciously bristling with static, still very much furious about Daisy trying to harm his babies. No matter how many times either of the women explained that they would never and that Daisy hadn't aimed at any of them, Jon could not be calmed. This was the only reason why Basira allowed him to take a huge orange tabby into the car.

Really.

#tma #jonathan sims #jude perry #mike crew #fanfiction #fluff #my writing #i will not stop writing until jon has befriended everyone #i just need this guy to be happy okay #also on ao3

[podcastenthusiast]

Fic: Alstroemeria

Summary: Gertrude and Adelard investigate a series of mysterious deaths, commit arson, and do some self-reflection.

My fic for aspec archives week!

They meet up outside a small East London church on a bright winter afternoon. Gertrude and Adelard have not seen one another in person for nearly five months, as is frequently the nature of their work.

“Thank you for agreeing to help with this,” Adelard says.

“I suppose I do owe you after that little Desolation matter,” Gertrude replies.

“Mm. The burns healed very well, thank you for asking.”

That earns him the ghost of a smile from her. They all have to take a bit of levity anywhere they can find it, but it seems more and more elusive with each passing year.

Gertrude cannot recall the last time she set foot inside a church. A funeral, most likely. She glances at Dekker, who looks comfortable here even under the circumstances, like existing in this sacred space is second nature to him. Her friend’s faith will always be a mystery to her.

It truly is a shame that faith alone has never protected anyone from the Fears.

Lucilla Sutton—Adelard tries to make a point of learning their names—had dropped dead as she walked down the aisle during her wedding. This is the third incident of its kind in as many months. Possibly a coincidence, of course. However, Bianca had conducted Lucilla’s post-mortem examination and found that her body was in a very advanced state of decomposition, much more so than one would expect given her recent time of death. The other cases had all been the same.

They need to figure out why.

“I’m told the police are keen to avoid an official inquest whenever possible, so the scene should be largely untouched,” Dekker explains.

Indeed, it is. Still, this is also hardly the most interesting place of death either of them has ever seen. It looks like an ordinary wedding, if all the participants and guests had abruptly vanished mid-ceremony. The bland normalcy of their surroundings does make it fairly simple to identify anything strange, even without the background whir of a tape recorder in Gertrude’s bag.

Adelard stoops down, knees protesting—he really is getting too old for this—to get a closer look at the abandoned bouquet. This, he suspects, is probably the last thing that poor bride ever touched. He reaches out a gloved hand and retrieves the wilted peonies and roses. Every flower appears to be dry and discolored, and beneath them he finds a small puddle of some sort of dark, murky liquid that smells sickly sweet.

“Those should be burnt,” Gertrude says, handing him her lighter. It used to be his lighter and technically remains so to this day, but she borrowed it in 1989 shortly before one or both of them disappeared for a while chasing a lead.

“Yes,” he agrees, expression grim. “And we need to have a word with the florist.”

 

 ----

 

Now, night has fallen, and they are standing across the street from a flower shop. Its windows are bright with raging orange flames that consume everything within.

“Cigarette?” Gertrude offers.

“You know I quit years ago.”

“As did I, but it helps with the smell somewhat.”

He hesitates, but ultimately accepts. After all, almost anything must be better than the stench of rotting plants and decay that lingers long after its source is gone.

They smoke their cigarettes in companionable silence.

As the heat inside the shop rises, one of the windows suddenly breaks. It will not be long at all before a firetruck’s wailing siren completely spoils their nice evening.

“Have you ever considered marriage, Gertrude?” he wonders.

“I can’t say it’s been much of a priority of mine, no. There would hardly be time for such things, regardless.” Gertrude gives him that look, then, the one which means she is curious but does not necessarily want to ask a question and risk taking more than he might be willing to give.

“Nor me,” he tells her. “To be honest... I don’t believe I’ve ever felt it. That sort of affection, I mean. The inclination to be with anyone in that way, to date or marry; any of it.”

Friendship has always been enough for Adelard, and he cares for his friends fiercely, especially Gertrude. He cannot imagine telling anyone else this particular detail about himself anyway, although he wouldn’t be surprised if she already knows.

“I did some research once, and apparently there’s a word for that now,” he continues. “They call it being ‘aromantic.’”

“A romantic?”

“No. It's just one word. The Greek prefix.”

“Ah.” She nods, taking a thoughtful drag of her cigarette. “It seems there is a great deal of terminology to describe things we never could when we were young.”

“Quite so.”

“...Tell me more about this research of yours.”

Their lives are, due to the nature of the work they do, isolated in many ways. But it’s comforting to know that they are never entirely alone in all things. That even if the countless horrors they have both witnessed and experienced throughout the years surely left marks upon them, they were not born broken, nor are they incapable of love. It is merely a different kind.

#the magnus archives #tma #aspec archives week #adelard dekker #gertrude robinson #they're aro and badass

[inklingofadream]

Prompts?? if you're interested, I would love to see any jon whump (you write it so well) early on in the series, maybe season one with the whole gang? idk maybe him just being super overwhelmed/sick right at the beginning or theres some sort of accident. honestly whatever you want, im so bad at prompts. btw, loving your daisy fics!!

owo s1 jon whump you say?

Read on AO3

Send me prompts

“Oh, Jon!” Martin waved a file around as he half-jogged after Jon. This was what he got for leaving his office. “I’ve just about finished the research on one of the statements that doesn’t record right.”

Jon did his best to banish any visible annoyance before turning to his least useful assistant. “Did you find anything useful?”

Martin shifted under his gaze, shuffling through the pages of the file. “Not much. The people and places are mostly verifiable, although the timeline doesn’t match up at all, but the Leitner book doesn’t seem to exist anywhere outside of this statement, which is odd-”

“The what?”

“Er, the book, Ex Altiora, “From the Library of Jurgen Leitner,” the title doesn’t show up on any list I can find-”

“Give me that!” Jon snatched the file away and stalked into his office.

-

Jon took a wobbly step out of his office, trying not to show how reading over Dominic Swain’s statement had shaken him. It wasn’t some coincidence, or a characteristically-misspoken conversation with Martin twisting into some terrible coincidence. The bookplate Swain had described matched the one Jon himself remembered exactly.

“Sasha.” He didn’t normally leave his office during the day, and even if they couldn’t see how off-center he felt, he could feel Tim and Martin’s gazes on him at the mere oddity of his appearance. “I was wondering if you could double-check the research on this statement for me.”

Sasha accepted the file and started to skim it. “I though Martin was already through with this one.”

Jon huffed, trying to pull his usual persona around him like a protective shell. “I’d appreciate a more discerning eye giving it a second look. Particularly the book- Ex Altiora.”

Sasha’s eyes were still skimming, and she hummed. “Ooh, a Leitner. Can’t just dismiss this one, Jon!”

He stiffened. “I- I beg your pardon?”

Sasha glanced up, hair falling over one eye. “You know I worked in Artefact Storage for a bit? They’ve got a whole shelf of them. Nasty things, but also credible instances of the supernatural,” she adopted a mimicry of his own voice for the last. “Research marks assignments dealing with books or libraries for Storage veterans specifically, since we’ve already learned all the protocols,” she spun her chair slightly, waving a hand at the other two, “You remember Tim? That month I got three different haunted library assignments? It was because they don’t want to risk just anyone tripping over a Leitner.”

“Were any of the libraries…?” Jon thought he did an admirable job hiding the squeak in his voice, under the circumstances.

Tim snorted. “Actually haunted? Pretty sure visiting one of ‘em was where she got that bug she ended up passing to half of Research. Maybe it was a cursed chest cold!” He let his voice waver and wiggled his fingers, eyes bright with mischief.

Sasha rolled her eyes. “Do you want me to round up some of the background on Leitners, Jon? I think Storage has a short history of their collection to go with the handling and authentication packet, though it’s annoyingly vague. Allegedly, there’s supposed to be clarification on “the 1994 incident” somewhere here, but with Gertrude’s filing…”

“That would be much appreciated, Sasha.” Jon turned on his heel and retreated to his office as quickly as he could without arousing suspicion. A whole shelf….

-

He had clearance to go into Artefact Storage, now that he was Head Archivist. He could go look for himself, if he wanted to. The thought was less a comfort than a persistent threat, looming over him. If he went looking for the Institute’s collection of Leitners, no one would stop him. If he picked one up, wandered off looking for a door, would anyone keep him from knocking?

He’d been working with a handful of walls between him and several dozen books just like the one that had ruined his childhood for half a decade and never known. Sasha had given him the list of titles and known effects with her research. Even if they weren’t identical to A Guest for Mr. Spider, they all sounded every bit as destructive.

And the titles were another thing. Scanning them, he’d nearly convinced himself for a moment that he’d somehow picked up the Leitner name and crafted an imaginary encounter to go with it. Maybe the trauma that had defined so much of his personality and the lingering memory of his hands acting without his input or desire were entirely concocted, a symptom of some deeper illness lurking in his own mind. It wasn’t as though he remembered his bully’s name to check, or had any evidence at all aside from his own memories. None of the Leitners in the Institute sounded the least bit like his own. If it weren’t for his own experience, he’d dismiss Dominic Swain’s Leitner for not matching a known text on the arcane, and it at least sounded like a near enough match thematically. As far as Artefact Storage was concerned, Leitner had never collected children’s books.

Around the time he’d entered university, Jon had convinced himself that, while his encounter had been real, there was no real library. Just whatever person or thing had created the book trying to make themselves sound more important. But there were dozens in the Institute alone, and he held evidence of more out there unrestrained in his own hand.

He didn’t leave his office for the rest of the day, alternating between trying to distract himself recording false statements into his laptop and trying not to vomit. His head felt too light for his body, and he was distantly sure that all of the recordings would have to be redone, rendered unusable by the shaking of his voice and the long, nauseous pauses he had to take every few paragraphs. When Martin knocked with tea in the midafternoon, Jon remained silent behind the locked door, afraid of what might come out if he opened his mouth. There were more of them.

He stayed much, much later that night that even he made a habit of, and he didn’t sleep once he did return home, to assured of the specter of long, hairy limbs to risk dreaming.

-

When he recorded Dominic Swain’s statement several days earlier, he counted it as a personal victory that his voice didn’t tremble on the tape, and spent the rest of the day working curled under his desk and flinching every time someone knocked at the door.

#tma #tma fic #voiceless-terror #jon whump #emotional whump #the magnus archives #jonathan sims #mine #my writing #my fic

[overdramatic-queer-antagonist]

Stop The Apocalypse Out of Spite

Woah I actually made a part two. And left it on a cliffhanger. Whoops

***

Ao3    Last   Next

***

fic under cut

Jon was tired. Exhausted, even. He had just been chased around in tunnels by evil worms, quarantined, and then found out that his predecessor had been murdered. Suffice to say that he wasn't in the best mood. Yet here he was, taking statements from his friends and coworkers. Tim didn't have much to say that he didn't already know. They were together for most of it, after all. Sasha stepped into the office next. "Hey, Jon. How are you doing?" Sasha asked, seemingly as tired as he felt. He just fixed her with a look that was meant to be sympathetic but probably came off as rude. "Let's just get this over with. Then you can go home," Sasha nodded, "Statement of Sasha James, regarding Jane Prentiss's Attack on The Magnus Institute, Londen. Statement pulled directly from the subject." Jon sighed, setting up his tape recorder. "Okay, well. You already know the beginning. Worms broke into the Archives, you, me, and Martin hid in the storage closet. Tim was being a dipshit, I went to save him, and we got separated. I ended up pulling the fire alarm to get everyone out of the building and grabbed Elias on his way out. We went back into the Institute to deploy the CO2, but we got separated. I ended up getting chased into Artifact Storage and... Something was there, and it wasn't human. Martin ended up pulling me into this weird fog plane to save me from it and-" "What?" What the fuck did he just hear. Martin- How? Sasha's eyes widened as he interrupted her, "Wait- fuck. I didn't mean to say that. Martin asked me not to. He wanted to be the one to tell you. Let's just move on, okay?" Jon nodded reluctantly, and Sasha continued on with her statement, "We went down to the tunnels. We were trying to find you and Tim, but..." "You found something else." Sasha nodded, "Martin said he was sure it was her. He also said-" Jon put his hand up to stop her, "He can tell me himself. Send him in, please." Sasha nodded and walked quickly out of the room. Jon put his head in his hands.  Sasha was rational. She wouldn't have just jumped to a conclusion like that, but- He knew Martin. Martin brought him tea and laughed when Jon forgot who his dad was. He wasn't some- thing? Monster? - he was Martin. Even so, He Knew Sasha was telling the truth. The door opened, and he looked up to see Martin smiling sweetly at him. At some point, Jon had turned the recorder off. This was ridiculous. It was Martin, for christ's sake. Jon would just ask him, politely. "What are you?" Or he could say that. He expected to see a look of confusion or hurt on Martin's face. Instead, Martin laughed and sat down. "Second time I've been asked that today," He said, still smiling. Jon tried to sound more disconnected than he was, but his voice still came out hurt, "so what's the answer?" Martin frowned, "Huh. Too bad. I was really hoping you'd be able to have that answer. God knows I don't," He saw Jon getting agitated and reached over the table to comfort him, " I can still die, I still eat and sleep. I'm just- there's more than just that. Does it really matter? I'm still Martin." Looking back, Jon didn't actually suspect Martin. He was just angry, hurt for whatever reason. But he still had to ask, "Did you kill Gertrude Robinson?" This got a reaction out of Martin, but still not hurt. His eyebrows shot up, and his eyes glowed with pride. Like he had been pleasantly surprised and not accused of murder, "No. I didn't like her. But you know what they say, 'the enemy of my enemy.'" "And what enemy would that be?" "Now you're asking the real questions. That would be her killer, Elias Bouchard." The room was so quiet you could hear a pin drop. At some point, Jon had stood up and was leaning over the table, looking so intently at him that their noses were almost touching. For some reason, that got more of a reaction out of Martin. "Martin," Jon began. "Yes?" "D-did you just accuse your own father of murder?" Martin scoffed at him and responded with dry sarcasm that really didn't fit him, "Yes. I did. Keep up. Why is that so hard to believe? Elias is a capitalist. I'd be more surprised if he hadn't murdered anyone." "Yes, but he's your father." "That doesn't mean as much as you think, Jon. And before you ask, no. He was pretty alright at parenting. He just also was a monster." "But aren't you-" Martin cut him off, looking actually upset for the first time in this horrifying conversation, "Now that actually hurts, Jon. There is a difference between being an avatar and being evil. If you don't want to take me as an example, take Gertrude- Or. Yourself." "What the fuck are you talking about?" "Lot's," Martin said quietly. Dammit, he was upset. "But now isn't the time," Martin stood up and walked to the door. As he was opening the door, he looked back at Jon, "Don't bother with Elias's statement. It's all lies," Martin softened, "And Jon? Get some rest." *** Jon tried to listen to Martin. The moment he got to his flat, he flopped down onto his bed. But he couldn't sleep. His mind was racing. Gertrude was murdered, by Elias if he was to believe Martin -and he did for some reason-, Monsters were real, and more than just Mr. Spider, Sasha had nearly been killed by one and... Saved by one. He knew it was true -To an extent. Martin had called himself an avatar, which made Jon feel a lot better, actually- but he still couldn't believe it. Come on. It was Martin. Martin was human. He breathed, and ate, and drank tea, and laughed. Did he actually have to do any of those things, or was it a conscious act? Jon didn't particularly like this train of thought, but it was better than dwelling on his boss being a murder, so he continued. Was Martin really as incompetent as he seemed? Was that even an act, or was that just what Jon was expecting from his boss's son? The more he thought about Martin, the guiltier he felt. Martin was actually pretty nice now that he thought about it, and he clearly knew more than him. He wasn't even actually an archival assistant. He just hung out there and, out of kindness, helped the clearly understaffed team. And Jon was so mean to him and- and. He'll just apologize to Martin tomorrow. He was going to anyway, for the whole monster thing. There was no point dwelling on it. He still did, of course, but the resolve to apologize made him feel a bit better. He had almost actually fallen asleep when the doorbell rang. Checking his clock, he could tell it was 4:00 in the morning. He hoped it wasn't that Michael thing. Sasha had said something about him and doors. When he had opened the door, though -after extensive checking that it was, in fact, his door- He found Tim, looking more solemn than Jon had ever seen him. Under his arm, Tim held what looked like statements, and a lot of them. Tim fixed Jon with a heavy glare and said, "Sasha told me. We need to talk."

#the magnus archives #tma #tma fic #fanfic #martin blackwood #jonathan sims #jonmartin #tw swearing #tw murder

[lighthausen]

It’s the final tma liveblog everyone… for mag200 last words… IT’S FINALLY HERE (and loaded lol. I’m really impressed they got their servers okay that quick!)… and 25 minutes… oh my god… how are they gonna do this

Let’s go. Below the cut.

Thank you Alex <3

Oh yay cast and crew!

I hope i enjoy it too

Love you

Oh intro song

Here we go here we go

How can they do this in 25 minutes???

Oh the way he says Last Words… hh

Aaaaaaaaaaaaaa

*tape recorder click*

Oh hey it’s jonah

OH 

CEASELESS WATCHER

Uhhh?

Release him!?

OHHH

OH??

Is he dead? 

WHAT

!

What’s going on?

It is over

Where is Martin?

Wh

WhEREs martin???

Not even fear…

But. where’s Martin??

Ohhhh his voice

Oh my god

Burn it out

Lifeless?!

Wait? whAT?

OHHH HE DERAILED THE PLAN

HE DERAILED THE PLAN

Not for much longer

Can they fear their own ends

Oh he’s trying

HYESL

KILL HIM

GET HIM

FOR SASHA FOR TIM FOR GERTRUDE

No one escapes the end!!!

Yeahh!

What’s he killing him with??

Eugh

??

Wha?

Who’s that?

What? W hat’s happening?????

OHHHH NO

OHHH HE’S BECOMING THE PUPIL

NOooooooooooooooo!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

OH GOD

NO!! NO NONO!!

Oh?

Is… he ok? 

Oh

“Thank you” aw

What’s…..

Once upon a time?

Oh!

Fear of the End!

Ooooo love the soundscaping!!!

Feel more?

Be more ooooh

Ah here comes the Dark!!!

The thing that was fear!

Inch by inch…

Ohh fun!

Love this origin story!

Fire!

And sky!

(Oh no what if Martin has to kill him now)

Oh communication

Crack??

Oh! Oh! It can’t see itself? Oh never whole

That’s… kinda sad????????????

New dreads

 corruption, buried, vast 

Yaaah

Oh the Web! 

Slaughter!!

More and more! 

Some didn’t recoil?

Oh. Court them…

Very fun!

Whispering… 

Smooth and shifting. Interesting

Oh! The veil between torn!!!!!

Oh so the fears exist but they’re not… there yet until now!

Watched and watched

Ohh

Greed. Oooh. 

Oh no! Not Capitalism!!

Til they were one or the same?? Hm..

They needed it…

Sing. Ooh. 

Oooh soundscaping so good

The spider!!!! :)

Threads! Webs! OOoh.. Nerves… give her a brain

Oh is that a spinning wheel? Fun!!

The web doesn’t like to explain. Interesting

Escape… escape into other realities itself

The Eye, the most unwise.. It doesn’t understand the knowledge

A grander web! Neat!

Find its escape?

Apotheosis??

Climax

*pause* i’m thinking about the whole trolley problem “Jon gets in the trolley and floors it” that’s still so funny. Love that. 

Hey while we’re here… like. What happened outside earth post apocalypse. If anyone was in space are they also sucked into the fearscape or?

Anyway it looks like he’s done with that statement. *unpause*

No it won’t?

It has only found its end

MARTIN

He’s already done it

What’s that

ELIAS

SFDKJLSDFKJDS

Ohhh nooooooooooo

Oh no..

Go tell the others

Oh no…

Oh no…

They’re down there

It’s still him..

It’s done.

Oh. But Martin can hurt him.

We can still be together…

Call off?

If they don’t?

What’s happening????

WH?

What’s happening????????

The pull??

What? What’s 

You can’t see that :(

Can’t protect him?

He’ll die??? 

What?

W??????????

What’s 

Oh god he’s crying

Where you go I go,

Oh no…

Oh god

What? 

Maybe everything works out??

Together…

Oh..

Oh no.

I LOVE YOU

OH god

KISS

NO

OH GOD

Oh shit

It’s done. 

Silent. 

W?

Glass?

Huh. 

Birds in the background

No bodies???

*looks out window*

Probably for the best

OH SIMON

OH my god!?

OH shit people remember!!! OH god people remember!

Did people suddenly die from what’s happening?

WHat happened to the world

Nightlights…

THE ADMIRAL

OH MY GOD THE ADMIRAL IS OK

Tinned tuna

So… the world just snapped back. But the things that happened.

Hey, Fakecrfan, like your fics! Nice job predicting

Turn it off :(

No… 

Don’t go

I’m listening!

Hi!

BYE!!

I’m sorry too

Thank you

Wait good luck.

Good luck about what????

The MAGNUS ARCHIVES WAS A PODCAST

*is.

Oh boy

H

Gotta say, I like the openness of the ending

Oh this is easy to write around

OH look Jon and Martin are in their own little world

Oh look Jon and Martin were found and they’re alive

Very cool. 

Well… That sure was fun!!

Good podcast! Good podcast! Satisfying ending! Loved how Jonah got fucking killed 

I hope the script says “brutal knife murder”

Ohhh the way he begged . how he tried to be all manipulative at first . good shit. 

And the Jon and Martin confrontation

How calm Jon sounded at points…

Wanna know what would happen in an au where he doesn’t tell the others to go.

Wow

Podcast.

Yeah. I can’t see any other way this could have ended. Not really. 

Soundscaping was great. Sounds like the fears… 

I guess I should stop.

I had fun guys. Love you <3

#tma spoilers #tma liveblog

[bubonickitten]

TMA fic: Night Terrors

Summary: At first, Jon assumes his nightmares are just that: bad dreams. But it's only a matter of time before he is forced to acknowledge what it means to be the Archivist.

Cross-posted to AO3 here.

[Spoilers up to MAG 132. CW for canon-typical horror, unsettling dream/nightmare imagery (think MAG 120), some passive suicidal ideation, and some spider mentions here and there.]

Jonathan Sims has had the same nightmare since he was eight years old, with only slight variations.

Sometimes he is the fly in children’s overalls being offered up as a meal. He can feel the anxious buzz of the delicate wings on his back, a foreign and sickening vibration humming its way across his exoskeleton. Four feet rub together nervously in front of him in an uncanny, insectoid pantomime of hand-wringing. The looming form of Mr. Spider is made all the more horrifying by his hundredfold vision and his inability to blink.

Sometimes he is the larger fly, offering up a victim as sacrifice. He can feel his face contorting, features molded into the horror-stricken face of Mr. Horse that still haunts him on sleepless nights. He is forced to watch his offering devoured, slow and excruciating. After, the monster turns its eyes on him.

Most often, though, he is the spider. Or, rather, he watches from the spider’s perspective, a prisoner trapped behind the creature’s many hungry, glinting eyes, as helpless as a fly caught in a web. The dream sequence unravels in slow motion and he is forced to witness the weeping faces of his intended prey for what feels like hours. Enormous block letters bear down on him, announcing the spider’s insatiable hunger, its demand for more, more, more.

Finally, blessedly, he is allowed to close his eyes, but the relief is always fleeting, for when he opens them seconds later, he sees the aftermath of a massacre: smears of reddish-brown blood coating the walls, the floor, the wilting flowers in their vase.

Then, he hears a knock on the door. He sees many – too many – hairy black limbs reach out to open it. He catches a glimpse of a terrified, familiar, but still nameless face through the crack. He always awakens just as the victim opens his mouth and begins to scream.

Jon may have managed to wrench himself away from Mr. Spider, but the fear and the guilt still cling to him years later, like the wispy strands of a broken web. It’s only right that they follow him into his dreams.

~~~

Jon isn’t sleeping well lately.

Well, that isn’t new. But he’s sleeping even worse than usual.

It shouldn’t come as too much of a surprise, Jon tells himself. The new job is stressful.

The Archive is a monument to entropy. A tornado could have swept through and blown things into a more sensible order than the previous Head Archivist left them. The Archives contain nearly two centuries’ worth of case files, and they're scattered about with no discernible system of organization. Material isn’t sorted by format: cassette tapes are thrown haphazardly into the same boxes as loose leaf paper. It isn’t sorted chronologically: case material from the mid-1800s can be found mixed in with recent statements from the 2000s. As far as Jon can tell, it isn’t even sorted thematically; on a cursory perusal, the statements boxed together seem to vary wildly in content, comprehensiveness, and verifiability.

In fact, the conspiratorial part of Jon’s brain can’t shake the feeling that there’s an eerie sense of curation to the disorganization. The more rational part of him knows that Gertrude Robinson was simply elderly, set in her ways, and secure in a position that she had held for decades. Elias isn’t one for hands-on management in the best of cases; there was little to no risk of him actually making his way into the Institute’s basement to observe the way Gertrude ran her Archives, let alone to actually discipline her for lax work ethic.

Either way, though, the result is the same. 

The first thing Jon had noticed when he walked into his new office a week previous was a stack of unmarked boxes against the back wall behind the desk. They were partially covering what at first glance appeared to be fingernail scratches on the floorboards, but he told himself that he didn’t have time to dwell on that and deliberately pushed it to the back of his mind. He could deal with it later – or, with any luck, not at all. 

The first box he opened contained a handful of unlabeled cassette tapes, a stack of blank index cards in a plastic sandwich bag, an empty manila folder, a nonfunctioning USB thumb drive, and a mess of loose papers with no coherent theme: some fragments of personal correspondence (unsigned and handwritten on yellowed paper in nearly illegible cursive), the scattered typewritten pages of a statement (pages 2 and 7 of 10 missing, presumed lost), and a hand-drawn map of what looked like a labyrinth. The second and third boxes contained more of the same: scattered documents and a yawning void of context. The fourth box was completely empty. The fifth contained only a single matchbook with a faded spider printed on its surface, rattling around the bottom of an otherwise vacant box. 

Unmarked boxes, improperly-preserved documents, no rhyme or reason, a layer of dust, and an ignition source. It wasn’t a good start – and, unfortunately, it seemed representative of what the job was going to look like, at least for the first few months. 

But beyond that, Elias had been insistent that Jon begin creating audio recordings of statements as soon as possible. Jon had initially chosen to interpret “as soon as possible” to mean “as soon as everything is organized,” and after seeing how big of a task that was, he was careful not to promise a time frame. After the third email from Elias inquiring about Jon’s progress with digitizing the old statements, though, Jon was honest: every day, he found himself adjusting the project timeline as they found more and more statements misfiled or missing.

“I believe it would be best for you to begin recording the statements as you go along,” Elias said. It was obviously an order, but he masked it as a friendly suggestion. Jon hates when he does that; it feels manipulative and condescending, like a parent (or grandparent, in Jon’s case) presenting the illusion of choice to a child and daring them to call it out for what it is.

Jon never was good at keeping his mouth shut, though.

“My first priority is to ensure that everything is cataloged and stored properly. Digitization will go more smoothly if everything is in order before -”

“You have three perfectly competent assistants,” Elias interrupts. Jon bites his tongue before he can make a snide remark about competence. “I’m certain they can handle a bit of filing without your close supervision.”

“But we -”

“I want you to begin making audio recordings, Jon,” Elias interrupted, finally adopting a tone that brooked no argument. “It all has to be done eventually, and it doesn’t matter what order you go in, so you may as well pick a place and start.”

“Some of the documents are incomplete.” Jon couldn’t quite manage to keep his annoyance out of his tone. “I found pages of the same statement scattered across three different rooms -”

“Start with the statements that seem complete, then. If you find more related case material elsewhere later on, you can simply make supplemental recordings.”

And with that, Elias had walked away before Jon could protest further.

So, yes. He’s stressed. The Archives are an unmitigated disaster, Jon only has three assistants to help him put them back into some semblance of order, and Elias wants him to embark on a massive digitization project when they still haven’t even inventoried the contents of most of the unlabeled boxes piled around the place. It’s like standing in the immediate aftermath of an earthquake and being told to start construction on a new building before the damages are assessed or the rubble is cleared. Oh, and he isn’t given any blueprints for direction.

Sleep troubles are to be expected.

~~~

These nightmares are new.

It isn’t that all of Jon’s nightmares involve spiders. He does occasionally have standalone nightmares that are perfectly spider-free: finding himself back in uni and failing a class he’s never attended and doesn’t remember signing up for; being chased by something sinister and tripping over nothing, only to wake up just as its teeth puncture his throat; waking in an unfamiliar place surrounded by things just to the left of human, hiding behind names he knows well and faces he does not recognize.

But this is the first recurring dream he’s ever had where spiders do not feature prominently.

At first, all he can see is the fog, pressing in on all sides. If the dream lent itself more to cartoon logic, it’s the type of fog that could be molded like putty. He doesn’t make the conscious decision to move; the dream simply puppets him forward and he lets it take him. He doesn’t even notice the open grave until one foot is suspended over it, and when the dream loosens its grip on him, he throws his weight backward, swaying off-kilter and nearly stumbling into another pit that has appeared just behind him.

The fog recedes just enough for him to make out the dozens of empty graves now surrounding him.

Then it starts to move back in, tendrils reaching out to him like the myriad limbs of a living, breathing creature, coating his skin and filling his lungs, and all at once he is pummeled with the overwhelming revelation that he is alone. It’s not just that there isn’t anyone around for miles. It’s not even just that he will never again see another living person. No. It’s that he is, for all intents and purposes, an island. No one knows him. No one ever has, and no one ever will. And he has never known anyone else, either, only carefully constructed personas meant to mask the self – if there even is such a thing as the self.

He will die here, and nothing will remain of him, and no one will notice that he disappeared. And that’s… that’s okay. It’s right. It’s exactly as it should be.

Someone is screaming. Actually, he realizes belatedly, someone has been screaming for a while now, but only now does it manage to reach him through the haze.

Once again, the dream forces him to move. It maneuvers him around the vacant graves, drawing him ever closer to the voice. When he is finally brought to a stop, he is wrenched forward and his gaze is forced downward to behold a shivering figure sprawled six feet beneath him in the earth and mud. She looks familiar, but it takes a few moments before he can place her.

Naomi Herne.

She nearly weeps in relief when she sees him, another living, breathing person after so long lost in the mist. She reaches up to him, begs him to help her, but when he tries to kneel and extend a hand, he finds that he cannot move. He cannot speak. He cannot blink.

He can only watch, and so he does.

The seconds stretch into minutes stretch into hours, and the whole time she pleads with him to say something, to say anything. He watches as her fingers dig deep furrows into the walls of her prison and eventually her pleas dissolve into hopeless whimpers.

He wakes up in a cold sweat, feeling as if he never slept at all.

Untangling himself from the sheets, he stumbles into the bathroom, turns on the faucet, and splashes cold water on his face. As he stands and stares at his reflection in the mirror, he notices how pronounced the dark circles under his eyes have become. Naomi Herne’s statement had been unsettling, certainly, but apparently it’s affected him more deeply than he had initially thought.

It’s not all that surprising, he supposes. There have been a lot of changes in his life recently. The content of the statements he reads is… upsetting. He’s stressed. It would be strange if he didn’t have trouble sleeping.

It’s fine. It’s normal. He’s fine.

  ~~~

 The next night, he dreams of Naomi Herne again.

And the night after that. And the night after that.

Every time, she begs him to say something, to take her hand. She needs to hear another human voice; she needs to feel a human touch; she needs an anchor, anything to chase away the isolation.

At some point, though, she begins to curse him. He is her jailor, her tormenter. She would rather be completely alone, to be left to suffer in dignified privacy, than to have her loneliness amplified by that unwavering stare. Why is he doing this to her? Why won’t he just say something?

As usual, he cannot make a sound, and he cannot look away.

~~~

Jonathan Sims and Melanie King rubbed each other the wrong way from the moment they met eyes, and she is no more pleased to see the Archivist in her dream that night.

They both watch as Sarah Baldwin pleads with an unseen, unforgiving assailant. They look on in revulsion as she staples her skin back together. The scene plays over and over and over again, and eventually Melanie wrenches her gaze away from Sarah and hones in on the Archivist. All of her fear transmutes into anger and she unleashes a torrent of accusations, railing against him for his arrogance, his callousness, his foolish conviction that he knows better than everyone else, that he understands anything at all.

He can’t open his mouth to argue with her, but even if he could, he’s not sure that he could counter her allegations.

Melanie is still shouting at him when he is pulled from the hospital and finds himself in the graveyard again. Naomi Herne is huddled in the corner of her grave tonight, knees hugged tight to her chest. She is utterly silent. He wishes he could look away, but the dream has his head locked in place and his eyes plastered open and he watches her for the rest of the night.

Jon wakes up all too aware of his skin and what lies beneath it.

~~~

The tables in the dissection lab are piled high with pulsating hearts, quivering lungs, and writhing bones.

Hand trembling, scalpel in hand, Dr. Lionel Elliott slices into an apple as if demonstrating how to dissect a human heart. The Archivist catches the glimmer of tooth enamel, the glint of a silver crown on one of the molars, and a shared wave of nausea crashes over both of them. The professor begs the Archivist to take the apple from him, but as always, the Archivist is immobilized. He can feel every ounce of the Elliott’s helpless fear as if it is his own.

The Archivist knows what Elliott is thinking. He wants to run. He wants to curse. He wants to beg. He wants to bury the scalpel in the Archivist’s unblinking eyes. Instead, his blood curdles and his limbs contort and his joints dislocate and he writhes like a live butterfly pinned to a board in front of an uncaring, ceaseless watcher.

The Archivist feels all of it along with him, and neither of them can scream.

It’s only a dream, of course, but Elliott feels so alive that Jon wakes up with a sense of pity all the same.

~~~

 The Archivist wants to tell Helen Richardson not to open the door, but his jaw is wired shut with invisible thread.

The Archivist has lost count of how many times he has been forced to watch as the Distortion’s maze devours her, the scene playing recursively in its mirrored hallways.

Of course he dreams of her. She disappeared right in front of him and he could do nothing to stop it. In quiet moments, the scar that the Distortion gave him still twinges, and brings with it the deep ache of guilt. It’s to be expected that it would bleed over into his dreams.

  ~~~

 Letter by letter, Tessa Winters consumes the keyboard. An eerie, cold glow highlights every detail of her pained expression. Although the Archivist’s mouth will not open, he feels one of his molars crack under the crunch of plastic, and as Tessa moves on to the monitor, a shard of glass slices into the roof of his mouth. The blood pools on both of their tongues, trickles down their throats, and they both wish they could gag.

The Archivist's thoughts unravel into acute angles and sharp edges, shredding his consciousness to ribbons. He is a collection of garbled text and rogue characters, of noisy pixels and castoff artifacts, of corrupted extensions and crossed wires.

It’s cold, and it hurts.

       IT%’s/ côLd &&;t <<hurts>>.

                 I̴t̸'̴s̴ ̵c̸o̸l̶d̵, ̵a̵n̶d̴ ̸i̴t̴ ̸h̶u̸r̵t̸s̶.̸

                                                                                                                                                             Ï̵̡̻ͅț̴͘'̴̰̙͒̌͠ͅs̶̻̿̎ ̴̞c̵̮̒̾ơ̴̞͕̕͝ļ̴̱̅d̶̥̣͎̈ ̵̨͕̀̿̊a̵̗̪̽̆n̶͕̩̞͆d̵̦̮̳͐̏͗ ̵̢̻̑ȉ̷̪t̸͓̉͒ ̶̮͉̹̇͠h̵̳̻̞͝u̴̢̬̣̒ř̴̠́t̵͍̟͛ṡ̷̨̤͓͒̾.̸̦̭̓

                                                                                                                                                                          I̶̢͚͓̤̗̹̱̠̱͚̤̾t̶̛̳̏̑͐͗́̍̈̿̄͒͗́̔̈́̈́̈́̚̕͠'̵̡̧̦̖͚͓͙͙͕̜̻̣̙̲͓̑͂͋̾̊̄͌̀̑͒̚ͅͅṣ̶̛̻͚͓̫̜̀̂͌͌̈̈́̃̽̏̐̔̌ ̵̗̫̓̊̾̇͆c̷̨̑̀̈́̇̊̇̑͊́̂̊̇͘̚͘̚̚̚͝ǫ̵̈́̎̿͑̔̔̑͛̀͋̉̋̓̾l̷̙̯͙͍͇̟̭̳͉̹̳̖͎͇̲͖̝̖͈̺̍d̴̡̫̼̗̮̹̎̌̽̏̂̐̑̈̏̀̃͆͗͂̓̚͝ ̴̧̛͈̭̼̭̰͔̥͓̟̲́̒̊̍̉̌͆̇̆̑͗̑̿̉̅̑͒̽̈̿a̵̳̰̽̌͆͂̏͒̌̓̔̈͐̆̿̕͝n̸̨̢̧̧̲̺͙̗̪̻͎̥͉̥͔͇̠͙̫͒̌̅̃͒́̌̈́͐̀̈͘̚͘̕͝͝ͅḋ̵̢̡̧̜͇̜̤̠̺̜̦̲̳͓̼̩̣̼̭̱͐̿̿̍̿̀͌͊̃̿͊̕͠ ̶̭̩̥̲͈͚̟͇̱̹̼̩̪̙̱͒́͑̌͒͐̕͜ỉ̸̲͇̬͓̫̪̞̜̱̪̻̲̎̿́̃̽̕͘͠͝ţ̸̗͙͍͍̫̞͚̞͓̙̼̝͚͕̮̋͋̏̌͂͗̈ ̵̨̟̗͉̯̘̙̫̱̹̱̲̘̪͖̤̱̟̦̘̹̟̎̐̌͗̾̋̿̄͜͠h̴̢̡̨̢̛̫͓̠̤͉̠̩̮͙̞̪̏̇͊̈͂̿̅͋͌͘̚͠ư̵̰͙̯͖̈́̄̊͌͐̾͐̃̈̈͒̑͠ͅr̷̨̛̗͈̣̰̘̲̩̦̙̅̃̽͛͒̈͜͠ͅṯ̶̮͕̺͖̹̺̺̦͈̰̮͚͇̳̘̺̤̹̭͐͊̏̓̅̊̏͌́̒́̚̕͘͘͜͝͝͠͝s̶̺̻͔̹̙̟̭̜̏̆͗͂̔̄̔͋́͆̀̋̈́͌͂̚͝.̶̘͚͚͓͕̝͖̪͔̼̙̲̞͎͉̩̳͍̙̩̋̆̅͒̇̅͌̆͗̉̋͊͒͐̔̅̏̕͜͝͝ͅ

    ~~~

When Jon finally bolts upright into wakefulness, he knows.

These are not his nightmares.

They are shared dreamscapes.

No, not shared. Invaded.

Just recently he had noted how long it had been since last he was the spider in his nightmare, but maybe that was premature.

At least the others showed up at the Institute to give their statements on their own. Tessa Winters, though, was his fault. He wrote the forum post that drew her to him. She wouldn’t be in his dreams if he hadn’t cast that net. He spun a web and waited for the prey to wander in, all because he needed to know and was willing to lure someone in under false pretenses just to get the answers he craved. It doesn’t matter that he didn’t intend this – the consequences are the same.

And Tessa Winters knows it. She meets his gaze, equally unblinking, baleful and accusing. He is a thing with too many eyes, gorging himself on her suffering, devoid of empathy or humanity. When she looks into his eyes, she sees a ravenous, pitiless voyeur, and even if the Archivist was allowed to speak, he would not dispute her claim. After all, the Beholding is the feeling that something, somewhere, is letting you suffer, just so it can watch, and the Archivist is its pawn and its representative and its instrument. Tessa's eyes pin him in place just as effectively as the ever-present Eye in the sky.

He is becoming – has become? – that which he fears, and he cannot look away.

It really isn’t all that different from the spider dreams after all, except this time there are witnesses to his sins.

  ~~~

 The words on the paper are blurry and his head feels full of cobwebs. His eyes itch and sting in equal measure, making it ever more difficult to keep his heavy eyelids from drifting shut. He keeps nodding off, leaning forward and jerking upright as soon as the sensation of falling grips him.

“-n? Jon!”

“Wha-” Jon startles as Martin’s voice finally reaches him through the fog. “I – what?”

Martin has a concerned look on his face. That seems to be his default state these days, Jon thinks distantly.  

“I kept saying your name but you were just… you weren’t answering.”

“Oh.”

Martin worries his bottom lip between his teeth. Jon can tell that he wants to say something, but he just stands there waffling, and –

“What?” Jon snaps, and then he and Martin wince at the same time. “I’m… I’m sorry, Martin. I – I’m just tired.” He rubs his eyes furiously, trying to chase away the haze. “I’m sorry. Did you need something?” 

“I… Jon, when’s the last time you slept?”

Silence.

“Maybe you should have a lie down? I made up the cot in the storage room, and –”

“I’m fine,” Jon replies through gritted teeth.

“You’re falling asleep at your desk. Actually, um,” – a small, cautious grin crosses Martin’s face – “I don’t know what paperwork you used as a pillow, but you have ink on your face.”

Jon groans and scrubs at his face with both hands.

“You really do need to sleep, though,” Martin ventures again, gentle but firm.

“I… I don’t want to,” Jon says stiffly. As soon as the words leave his mouth, he curses himself for the honesty – Martin is going to want to talk about that now, and –

“Why?”

Jon is silent, steadfastly refusing to look Martin in the eye.

“Fine,” Martin sighs, exasperated. “But you can’t go forever without sleep, I don’t care how stubborn you are.”

He’s right, Jon knows.

Jon did manage a full 70 hours awake before he started nodding off in spite of himself. For the past few days, he’s been allowing himself short naps, setting his phone alarm at hour intervals to wake him long before he can enter REM sleep.

It isn’t sustainable, but the alternative is haunting people’s nightmares, looking into their eyes and Beholding what they see when they look at him: Cold, calculating predator. Unblinking voyeur. Too many hungry, prying eyes, feeding on their terror, stripping them of their dignity, soaking in their trauma with cruel fascination –

“Jon.”

“Fine,” Jon grumbles. “Sixty minutes.”

  ~~~

 Whenever he slips into the dreamscape, Daisy promises to hunt him down. Finish what she started. Bury him in a shallow grave and leave him to become yet another mystery.

The Archivist wonders if being killed in the dream would wake him up, spare the other dreamers from his scrutiny for just one night.

He wonders how Daisy would react if he was able to tell her that he resents the absence of her knife at his throat just as much as she does.

  ~~~

 Six months.

For six months, he wanders, an uninvited, hated guest in those familiar dreamscapes.

The Archivist wants nothing more than to throw himself into an empty grave, to turn the damp earth into a prison with six-foot-high walls, to break his legs in the fall so that even when his resolve crumbles and he tries to clamber out of the hole, he will be unable to do so. The other dreamers would be safe from him, then. There would be nothing for him to watch but unyielding soil and the chill, impenetrable fog above.

He Knows that the Eye is still there behind the veil of fog; he can feel its unceasing gaze, but at least in the lonely cemetery, he cannot see it.

There is an open grave in front of him, its waiting maw calling him forward, promising to shackle him, to hobble him with blindness and paralysis. He stands at the edge, knees locked and eyes peeled, staring down into a plot that he desperately wishes belonged to him, and him alone. The dream keeps him there for what seems like hours, taunting him, holding relief just out of reach.

Then, the dream turns him around and pulls him inexorably toward his true objective. Once again he is forced to watch as Naomi’s freezing, bloodied fingers scrabble uselessly on the walls of her prison. Her tears have left trails in the mud on her face, and when she looks up at him, she asks the same question she does every single time: Why are you doing this to me?

Eventually – after far too long standing statue-still, eyes locked on Naomi’s pained, desperate face – the Archivist is yanked onward toward the waiting carnage of the dissection lab, the mournful singing of the coffin, the undulating mass of ants.

When Jane Prentiss shambles toward him, he can feel the worms burrow into his skin all over again. He wants to scream, to scratch, to grab a corkscrew and start digging – Dig, comes the intrusive thought, blinking in his mind like a marquee: Dig. Dig. Dig. – but his mouth and his hands are not his own, and his eyes – so many eyes, so reminiscent of the spider – are fixed on Jane. Her otherworldly screams pierce the night as she burns, and the Archivist desperately wishes he could clamp his hands over his ears to block out her death knell.

Being brought before Georgie Barker is almost worse than confronting Jane Prentiss. If she could still feel fear, the Archivist is certain she would wear the same expression as the others. Instead, there is only a mix of pity and resignation. Over and over again, Jonathan Sims has walked into burning buildings for even the slightest chance of having a question answered. She wishes she was more surprised to see what he has become, but she is so intimately familiar with his pattern of self-destruction and stubborn curiosity, and she has long since recognized it for what it is: a fatal flaw, coaxing him toward tragedy like a moth to the flame.

The exterminator makes no distinction between the Archivist and the Flesh Hive, and Georgie Barker likely wouldn’t, either. As always, the Archivist cannot find it in himself to argue.

When at last he finally awakens, he is not surprised that she leaves with such finality, her parting words condemning him as a lost cause. He pushed on past the point of no return, just like she always feared he would, and she has no desire to watch him burn.

  ~~~

 Jon may not have been allowed to toss himself into a lonely grave, but the coffin welcomes him with an eager appetite, and imprisons him in much the same way. He may be unable to move, but at least his body is his own, unlike in his dreams; he may not be able to escape, but at least he can speak.

“After the mission. I was planning to kill you,” Daisy tells him, matter-of-fact. He knows why the moment she starts talking about her dreams. “Realized you weren’t human. Needed to die, as soon as it was safe. Never mind Elias and his… insurance.”

“And now?”

“Don’t know. I – I miss dreaming. You don’t sleep, down here.”

Jon finds the prospect of eternal wakefulness in this place downright horrifying – the endless boredom alone sounds like torture – but... no sleep means no nightmares. 

“Daisy, you should know, I – I’m… if I wasn’t human before, I’m, uh – I’m even less now.”

The distant rumbling of the shifting earth picks up in volume until he can feel it in his teeth.

“Yeah.” Daisy doesn’t sound surprised. “Well, at the moment, I don’t care.”

“And if we get out?”

“But we can’t get out.”

“No.”

The noise grows in volume, drowning out his voice.

I really should have known better, he thinks to himself. Of course his rib wasn’t a strong enough anchor. He’s so alienated from his own body at this point, so far from human that he couldn’t even die properly. How many times has he found himself thinking, What’s another scar? In a way, he feels just as detached from his body when he’s awake as he does in his nightmares. The idea that a part of his body would call to him from outside the coffin… it’s just as ridiculous as his rushed, irresponsible deductions about the NotThem’s table.

“I’m s – I’m sorry,” Daisy stammers, snapping Jon out of his reverie. “I’m sorry, Jon.”

“So am I,” Jon replies. For everything, he does not say.

The rumbling fades, and silence descends on them in a rush.

“You know,” Jon begins after a minute, choosing his words carefully, “I… I didn’t know, at first. That the nightmares were real.”

Daisy says nothing, and Jon interprets it as permission to go on.

“I – I thought that they were just my nightmares. That the first statements I took hit me harder than I’d expected. I was so dismissive to the first few people who came in to give their statements in person, and I assumed that my – my guilt over how I treated them was manifesting as nightmares, since I refused to process it in real life. That I was just…” He lets out a bitter laugh. “That I was just stressed about the new job.”

“When did you figure it out?” Daisy asks levelly.

“I… I think I suspected after a few months? But I just – I told myself that I was being ridiculous. I went through a bit of a – a paranoid phase, and I thought that I was just… overthinking things. I tend to do that, to just – obsess, and let my imagination run wild –”

Daisy snorts. “Yeah, I gathered that.”

“I – I've had a lot of practice with denial, I suppose,” Jon says, sheepish. “Or feigning denial, at least. Playing the skeptic was… safer. Admitting out loud that I believed in – in monsters felt like it would… draw unwanted attention, I suppose. That it would somehow provoke the thing watching me to strike. I convinced myself that pretending to be ignorant would keep the monsters at bay.”

“That’s…”

“Stupid, I know.”

Daisy gives a dry chuckle.

“I had to give up the act after – after Prentiss attacked the Archives,” Jon continues. “Even after that, though, I still wanted to believe that the nightmares weren’t real. But then one day I woke up and – and I just knew –”

The dirt around them begins to press in again, forcing the air from his lungs. Jon feels Daisy’s fingers brush his wrist and he takes her hand. Not alone. Not alone. Not alone.

Then the pressure lets up all at once and they are both left gasping in its wake. 

“Keep talking?” Daisy’s voice has that desperate, pleading edge to it again. It’s so at odds with the Hunter that Jon knows, more like prey than predator. “I – I need – I don’t want to be alone.”

“Not alone,” Jon murmurs, as much for himself as for Daisy. “The dream that made me realize – her name was Tessa Winters. I took her statement, and that night she was in my dreams. The way she looked at me, I just… I knew. She was really there. Her eyes were so – so accusing, like she knew that it was my fault that she was there. And – and it was. The other statement givers came to me on their own, but she likely would have never come to the Institute if it wasn’t for me.”

“Oh?”

“I – I posted on a message board, soliciting supernatural experiences related to technology.”

“You can use a computer, then,” Daisy teases, a smirk in her voice.

Jon smiles too, and for the briefest moment he forgets where they are. “I just turned 30 this year, Daisy,” he says, rolling his eyes, and she snorts.

“Still, I can’t picture you making forum posts.”

“I had an ulterior motive,” he admits, his smile fading as the old guilt bubbles up. “I had found Gertrude’s laptop, and I needed help breaking into it, so I – I figured maybe I could lure in someone who knew computers, take their statement, find a way to casually ask them to have a look at the laptop for me. It worked, but then she appeared in my nightmares, and – if I hadn’t drawn her to me, she wouldn’t be there.”

Daisy makes a noncommittal sound. Jon shuts his eyes tight and takes a deep, faltering breath.

“And then – after the Unknowing, I – I should have died. I was dead, technically. My brain was still firing – dreaming,” he says with distaste, “but I had no pulse, no respiration, no… no other signs of life.” He feels the pressure of tears in his eyes and he fights to keep his voice steady. “You should have seen the way the doctors and nurses looked at me as they were explaining it. A – a medical mystery – a marvel, really – the sort of thing that most professionals would kill for a chance to study – but they couldn’t wait to get away from me, to hurry me out the door.” He pauses to take a deep breath, but between the crushing earth and his own grief, he can’t fill his lungs. His exhale comes out shallow and shaky. “And – and Georgie, and Basira, and Melanie, and –”

Daisy tightens her grip on his hand. It’s so surreal that Jon almost laughs. This is Daisy. Daisy, who seized him by the throat, who tried to kill him, who enjoyed seeing him terrified and begging for his life, who took such pride in the scar she left him with – and now she’s comforting him. He isn’t sure how to process that turnaround, so instead gives her hand a squeeze in return, clears his throat, and continues.

“So – so for six months, I was in a coma. If you can call it that. But the whole time, I was dreaming. For six months, I walked through the same nightmares, over and over and over again. There was no waking up to escape it, and – and it meant that the other dreamers couldn’t escape me, either. Up until then, if I was awake while they were asleep, they could get away from me, but – but I was in the dream every hour of every day, so I was there every night they slept. And the way they look at me – like I’m a monster – it just… they’re not wrong, but I just wish – I wish I could tell them that I’m sorry, that I don’t want this either, that I don’t want to watch. The Eye doesn’t let me speak, though – or move, or – or blink. I am an observer, and an observer does not interfere.” He laughs then, a little hysterically. “It – honestly, it felt like longer than six months. I lived through the same scenes so many times that I started to feel so numb to it all.”

“What about my part of the dream?” Daisy asks quietly.  

“I – ever since the Unknowing, whenever I get to your segment, there's nothing but the coffin. I always enter it, but it never brings me to you. Until now, I suppose,” he says with a humorless chuckle. “Oddly enough, though, I always found myself wishing you were there.”

“Really.”

“Yes, I – it’s hard to explain.” He hesitates for a moment before settling on honesty. “You always looked at me like I was prey, instead of predator. Or – or maybe like I was a predator, but a – a weaker predator, something that could be killed. A monster that could be vanquished. I… I wanted you to catch me. I suppose I thought that maybe – maybe if I died in the dream, it would end the cycle, and release the other dreamers from the Eye.”

“Might have killed you in real life, though,” Daisy points out. “If the dreaming was the only part of you that was alive.” 

“It may have,” Jon agrees.

Daisy lets that linger for a minute, heavy and revealing.

“I… I don’t think I want to die,” Jon eventually continues, “but I can't stop thinking that maybe it would be… better, if I did? All that would happen is that the world would lose another monster, and – and that would be fine. It would be right. But I still…” He chokes on his words, something between a laugh and a sob. “God, when did not wanting to die start to feel selfish of me?” 

The dirt around them shifts, sibilant and imposing. They hold their breath, as if speaking might provoke it. Daisy waits for the rustling to settle again before she speaks.

“Why did you come here, Jon?”

“To – to find you, to get you out –”

“Yeah, but why? I nearly killed you. Would have tried again. Would have liked it.” She huffs. “I know you didn’t come here out of any loyalty to me. So, why?”

“I…”

“To get yourself killed?”

“No, I – I really did want to get you out of here.”

“Why did you come for me, then? Out of guilt? To justify not dying?”

“I…” Jon sighs heavily. “Yes, I – I suppose. And - and Tim was dead. Sasha is dead, and Martin is... gone, and when we found out you were still alive, I just - I didn't want to lose anyone else. I couldn't just leave you here, not if there was a chance I could bring you back.”

Daisy is silent. Jon knows that she wants him to say more, and he takes a deep breath.

“The others don’t trust me – not that I blame them, I don’t trust me, either. Martin is… he has his own plans. Georgie wants nothing to do with me. Melanie hates me for not having the decency to die, blames me for everything that’s happened. Doesn’t even think I’m me anymore, just – just some monster wearing a familiar skin, and – well,” he laughs uncomfortably, “I have a hard time arguing with her assessment.” He takes a deep breath. “And – and Basira, she… she doesn’t put much stock in my humanity, either. Sometimes she sees me as an asset to be used, but…”

He trails off, feeling faintly guilty for his mixed feelings on Basira. She encourages him to use his powers when it will help further their goals. She doesn’t go so far as to claim that the ends justify the means, but she does frequently remind him that they need to be pragmatic, like Gertrude. The rest of the time, though… she looks at Jon like he’s a dangerous animal, unpredictable and poised to strike. He knows that she’s fully prepared to put him down if it starts looking like he’s too dangerous to be allowed to live, and although that hurts, he’s also glad that there’s someone who he can trust to put an end to him if he loses himself.

Nonetheless, it’s frustrating to be hated and feared for what he can do – to hate and fear himself so thoroughly – while still being expected to embrace those powers whenever it’s deemed useful. He’s more of an instrument than a person now, a tool to be used and then locked safely away once he’s fulfilled his purpose. At the same time, though, it at least offers him some semblance of control. He may be a vehicle for the Eye’s machinations, but perhaps he can balance it by giving their side an advantage in whatever way he can, principles be damned.

And he did give Basira explicit permission to use him.

Sometimes he wishes he had Gertrude’s certainty, or Basira’s resolve, or any sort of confidence in his own convictions. Most of the time, though, he fears what he could become if he was more decisive. He doesn’t trust himself to live without doubt.

He doesn’t know how to explain all of that to Daisy, though.

“I don’t – I don’t expect them to trust me,” he says instead. “Or like me. It seems dangerous to be near me at all, and I’m not exactly” – he huffs out a short, bitter laugh – “I’m not good enough company to risk it. It hurts, and it’s lonely, but I – I do understand. But I can at least make myself useful –”

Without warning, the Buried constricts itself around them in a rush, strangling his words and stealing the air from his lungs. This time, it feels like hours pass before it finally relaxes its chokehold. The only conversation that passes between them for a long time is synchronized, frenzied gasping for what little chill, stagnant air the Buried deigns to permit them.

“We’re the same, you know,” Daisy says eventually, forcing the words out even as she struggles to catch her breath. “I'm afraid of what I am, or - or was, or could be again. I needed the Hunt. Liked it, even – I enjoyed the thrill of the chase, the kill. But now I – I look back and I’m disgusted. I hurt people who didn’t deserve it. Even the actual monsters were… I wasn’t killing them because I cared about justice, or protecting others, not really. I was feeding on the fear of the prey. It made me feel alive –”

An abrupt coughing fit interrupts her then, and several minutes pass before she’s able to continue speaking through the grit coating her tongue.

“All I’ve felt since I came down here is fear and pain and guilt. I accept that – I should feel guilty, and I – I probably deserve more punishment than this. But still, I… I want to see the sun again, to breathe fresh air, to –” Her breath hitches. “I – I want to see Basira again.”

Jon can just barely hear her sniffling, but knows better than to draw attention to it.

“But – but if I leave here, I – I know I’ll hear the blood again. I don’t know who I am without the Hunt, but I – I still don’t want to go back to it. I deserve to be here – but I also want to leave – and that feels selfish. But I suppose it really doesn’t matter, does it?” When she laughs, it almost sounds like a bark, hollow and brittle. “There’s no way out.”

“No way out,” Jon repeats. “But maybe… maybe the world is safer without me in it – without… without either of us, I suppose.”

“Yeah,” Daisy chokes out, her voice hovering between a laugh and a sob. “That’s – that’s pretty messed up, isn’t it?”

Jon lets out his own tearful chuckle. “Yeah. Yeah, it is.” He pauses. “You said that – that you don’t sleep down here, that you don’t dream?”

“Yeah.”

“That's probably for the best,” he sighs. “At least this way, the Eye can’t reach the dreamers anymore.”

“And at least we’re – we’re not alone?”

“No. Not alone.”

“I’m glad that you’re here, Jon,” Daisy blurts out in a rush. “I know that’s horrible of me, but – but it’s the truth.” She takes a shaky breath. “I don’t want to be alone. I’m… I’m glad I’m not alone.”

“I’m… I think I’m glad, too,” Jon admits.

He wasted so much time pushing people away, refusing to trust, rebuffing any offer of help. Georgie told him that he needed human connection to help him stay human, and she was right, but when he finally admitted that – by the time he finally resolved to trust the others, regardless of his doubts – it was too late. When he woke up in the hospital, there was no one left to offer their hand when he reached out for help. Even worse, he can’t exactly deny that it’s his own fault.

But now, trapped here in the cold and the damp and the cramped, suffocating dark, Daisy holds his hand. The firm pressure of her grip is comforting, despite the clamminess of their skin. He can’t remember the last time he was touched with anything less than malice.  

“I’ve been alone since I woke up,” he continues, “and – and afraid of what I’m becoming. It’s nice to have someone who – who understands what it’s like. I think this is the most companionship I’ve had in… in a long while. It’s nice to be the one seen for once – by something other than a monster.”

Daisy tightens her grip further, and Jon marvels at how such a simple gesture is so much louder than words.

A silence falls on them then – a bizarrely companionable one, so incongruous with their current predicament. They clutch each other in the dark, focusing on one another’s breathing to coax them through the irregular ebb and flow of the earth pressing down on them, peppering the gloom with quiet conversation whenever the Buried gives them an inch to breathe.

Daisy talks about her childhood dog, and The Archers, and how people are always surprised to learn that she has a sweet tooth. She tells Jon about the first time she and Basira went camping: They had stretched out beneath the night sky and Basira taught Daisy the constellations, the origins of their names and the legends they represented. Affection welled up in her as she listened to Basira muse about how even though the constellations vary across time and culture, humans have always shared this collective impulse to look up at the sky and make meaning out of randomness.

For the first time in a long time, Daisy had been truly present in the moment; for once, she wasn’t gnashing her teeth, impatiently anticipating the next hunt. Basira’s voice anchored her in the present, and the call of the blood was drowned out by a flood of warmth and devotion.  

Jon talks about the Admiral, and his brief foray into AmDram at uni, and how he's always hated poetry, but then he read some of Martin's, and, well... some of them were quite good, actually. Jon confesses that he too has an unexpected sweet tooth. Martin somehow guessed; whenever Jon was having a particularly rough day, Martin would make his tea sweeter than usual. Martin never drew attention to it, and Jon never commented on it, but it was... touching, if he's honest with himself. He wishes that he had told Martin then that he noticed, that he appreciated the gesture - that it made him feel seen in a good way for once.

Jon misses Martin desperately, worries for him fiercely. Worse, he knows with a certainty that Martin will never know just how much he is missed. He spent far too long underestimating Martin, taking him for granted. Sure, Martin had stumbled a lot in the early days, but when Jon learned that Martin had lied on his CV, he was actually impressed. It's remarkable how competent Martin managed to be with no prior experience or qualifications to speak of. Daisy listens as Jon rambles on about how Martin is so much braver and cleverer than Jon or anyone else ever gave him credit for, and how much he wishes he could tell him that now.  

They go back and forth like that, confiding in each other about their regrets, and the apologies they will never get to make, and all the things they miss. They talk about fears, and monsters, and what it means to be human. They talk about choices.

Jon does not dream. Daisy does not hear the blood. Together, they listen to the quiet.

#the magnus archives #tma #tma fic #jonathan sims #daisy tonner #just gonna tag those two since they're the main ones i focused on #anyway i didn't mean for this to get so long but i have a lot of feelings about jon and daisy's friendship sooooo #have 3400+ words of them comforting each other in the buried i GUESS #tma spoilers #up to MAG 132

[backofthebookshelf]

Book Recs for Magnus Archives Fans

I was just rambling in tags the other day about how my avatarsona was "the Archivist, but a public librarian: Oh, you like dirt?? Let me tell you all the dirt stories I have!!!!" so, uh, here I am I guess.

I'm gonna spare you all the M.R. James and Algernon Blackwood and House of Leaves and Blindsight; you know all that already. These are my horror backlist recs.

The Bone Key by Sarah Monette Y'all. Y'ALL. Kyle Murchison Booth was absolutely the Archivist before Gertrude. He was poached from the Parrington by the Usher Foundation and the Eye glommed onto him at once, because the Eye loves disaster queers who can't people right (and also Gertrude). This I believe to be true, and so will you.

Kyle Murchison Booth is an archivist at the Parrington Museum, which is somewhere in New England, sometime in the early twentieth century. He also has a lifelong entanglement with the supernatural which is almost entirely not his fault, and he would very much like it to stop, but he also feels responsible and he can't just let evil mirrors and cursed necklaces and possessed dressing gowns randomly eat people who have no idea what's happening. Even if it means he's going to suffer for it.

(This collection doesn't contain all of the Booth stories, so here I am going to link to "White Charles", which happens to be my very favorite Booth story.)

For you if your favorite part is: honestly everything about MAG, from the modern sensibilities about early twentieth-century-horror, truly eerie ghost stories, to suffering eldritch librarians (thanks to whoever tagged my most recent fic with that you're so valid), monsterfucking and soft gay pining. No happy endings here, sorry.

Bedfellow by Jeremy C. Shipp You may or may not have heard that Macmillan-Tor is launching a horror imprint, and I don't know how long it's been since a major publishing house has had a horror imprint, but I am EXCITE. This book is part of the trend that's the reason why: Tor.com has been publishing these kickass novellas for a couple years now, and their horror books are top notch.

One night a stranger knocks on a family's living room window and asks to be invited in. They ask him to stay the night. He's an old friend, after all, he needs a place to stay. You can't kick out your twin brother when he's just gotten divorced, no matter how much Gatorade he spills on your two-year-old hardwood floors.

For you if your favorite part is: the Stranger, this is all Stranger, it's terrifying and good.

Through the Woods by Emily Carroll A graphic novel, some of these were originally posted as webcomics (have you seen His Face All Red, and if not, why not???) and the only disadvantage to having them in book form is they can't blink at you. Probably. Very folktale-ish, with all the death and violence that implies, and also the slightly eerie feeling that you know this story already, and then it turns around and slaps you.

For you if your favorite part is: looking over your shoulder when the foley gets good; Once Upon a Time in Space (I know that's not technically part of the Magnus Archives but shush)

Universal Harvester by John Darnielle I am not usually a fan of artists who jump media. Just because you can write songs doesn't mean you can write novels. Apparently writing good songs doesn't mean you can't write good novels, though, because John Darnielle of The Mountain Goats (pretty sure that's his full name at this point) wrote Universal Harvester and I love him for it.

Jeremy works at a video rental place in Nevada, Iowa (it's pronounced Nah-vey-da, and yes it’s real, I've been there, and yes, it's probably haunted). It's the 1990s, and someone's been returning their VHS tapes with something on them that isn't just the movie. Footage that includes a barn that he recognizes, just outside of town.

Fair warning: this is not the kind of mystery that gets tied up in a nice bow at the end.

For you if your favorite part is: Jon losing it with paranoia in S2, The People's Church of the Divine Host, the Lonely

The Good House by Tananarive Due If this author's name is unfamiliar to you, RUN, do not walk, to your nearest internet bookseller and purchase every single one of her books immediately, you will not regret it. She also just came out with a documentary on black horror, Horror Noire, on the Shudder streaming service. They've got a free month if you aren't a horror movie person, it'd be worth your while. This book summary sounds like it's full of tropes. It is, but Due has the cred to write them well.

Angela Toussaint hopes to salvage her suffering marriage and her troubled relationship with her teenage son with a trip to her grandmother's house, a home so beloved the locals in small-town Washington state call it "The Good House," but tragedy strikes instead. Two years later she returns and finds that the tragedy isn't over, and it's not going to stop on its own.

For you if your favorite part is: the very practical statement-givers who know what's happening to them and Will Not Put Up With This Shit, the Desolation, the Hill Top Road statements

The Library at Mount Char by Scott Hawkins Is this horror disguised as fantasy? Found family disguised as horror? Grown-up Neil Gaiman? Less grimdark George R.R. Martin? Honestly I have no fucking idea, but it's amazing. Fair warning, unlike Magnus Archives, this deserves all kinds of trigger warnings, including but not necessarily limited to: sexual assault, torture, mental manipulation, dysfunctional families, incest(?)

Father is missing, and his twelve children (though extremely talented in their own ways, and not strictly speaking children any more) are at a loss without him. But also, without him, things are starting to seem different. He might be God? They might not be human? (They were probably human once.) He might not be God but maybe one of them might be next? If any of them survive.

For you if your favorite part is: slowly turning into a monster, the relationships between entities and avatars, monsters hot (not kidding about the trigger warnings)

The Loney by Andrew Michael Hurley I have to keep reminding myself that Magnus Archives isn't really folk horror, there are two separate (if related) strains of British horror here and folk horror is not the one we're on, but at the same time I really want a good creepy rural pagan cult to show up in the series, you know? Anyway.

When he was a child, our narrator used to go with his family on an Easter pilgrimage to shrine on a bleak stretch of Lancaster coastline locals called The Loney. His Catholic mother was searching for a cure for his older brother, and she was convinced if they kept going long enough she would be granted her wish. The locals, however, are not huge fans of her annual visits, and even less so when the boys become involved with the goings-on of a pair of glamorous tourists.

For you if your favorite part is: the Lukases, I didn't realize until I was writing this up that I'm picturing Moreland House in the exact place described by this book

Eutopia by David Nickle One thing I love about the historical statements in Magnus Archives is just how truly historical they are. There's almost nothing in "The Piper" that isn't historically accurate - yes, Wilfrid Owen spent several days in a trench underneath the shredded bodies of his fellow soldiers. Like. You can't make up horror worse than that. But then you add monsters and it gets good. And I'm a sucker for early-twentieth-century history, it's such a bonkers time.

It's 1911 and the new Eugenics Record Office is sending agents out to catalog the disabled, infirm, and otherwise undesirable members of society so they can figure out what to do about them. In the utopian town of Eliada, Idaho, Dr. Andrew Waggoner runs from the racism of American society and straight into the influence of Mister Juke, the most troubling patient in his new practice. (Trigger warnings for, obviously, a whole lot of ableism. Treated like the monstrousness it is, but there's a lot of it.)

For you if your favorite part is: learning history through horror, the Flesh

A Head Full of Ghosts by Paul Tremblay I hate male writers writing about teenage girls, so you are going to have to trust me when I say that I had to check, several times while reading this book, to make sure that Paul Tremblay is actually a dude. He's very good. This book was kind of his breakout, so if you follow horror you've read it already, but if you don't necessarily then please do not miss it. His newer ones, Disappearance at Devil's Rock (Stranger, Spiral) and The Cabin at the End of the World (Slaughter, Extinction), are also good but not as good as this, I think.

Fourteen-year-old Marjorie is having a rough time - outbursts, hallucinations, paranoia. Treatment is difficult (and expensive) and her family ambivalent; they turn to a local Catholic priest, who recommends an exorcism and, to help manage those medical bills, a production company who's interested in filming a reality TV show about the process. Fifteen years later, Marjorie's sister deconstructs the now-famous show and wrestles with her own memories of childhood. Trigger warnings for ableism on the part of many of the characters, but not the narrative.

For you if your favorite part is: the Spiral, metafictional analysis of horror tropes

#the magnus archives #book recs #there's a lot of other things i could tag this as #but i wrote it for this fandom #is this a transparent excuse to get more people to read booth stories?? #it is #it really is

[equalseleventhirds]

i realize i have mostly advertised the gertrude fic with posts about my off-the-wall tape recorder theory and a rly terrible ‘your mom’ joke, but actually it is about gertrude still trying to save people up until and then after her death, even after learning terrible truths about her previous futile efforts and ultimately useless sacrifices, but also still having to make choices without knowing the results, so like. i’m actually a little proud of it. 

#i know the second chapter has barely been posted but........... i want ppl to read it.............. #the formatting is pretty weird tho and chapter 2 is largely about her drowning in Beholding Knowledge tho so like #i get that it's difficult to read #it is a real character study and stuff it's not just a joke i want to be Very Clear about this

[fanfic-from-a-67-impala]

Masterlist

I promise it’ll be more organized once I have more items to list.

Request things here! My requests are closed right now, but check back later!

And find out how to be added to my tag lists!

Main series (ongoing)

A Supernatural x Reader Story Masterlist (Charlie x Reader)

Series rewrite starting at the end of season one. It’s mostly platonic Winchester fluff in the beginning, and then a little more Charlie once she’s introduced in season seven. (It’s good, I promise).

A Supernatural x Reader Story GIF Imagines Masterlist

Oneshots

Better With You (Sam x Reader)

You and Sam were an item until you left. When Dean calls you for help on a case years later, you agree. The hunt takes an unexpected turn, and you and Sam are forced to reevaluate what you mean to each other.

Win a Battle, Lose a War (Hannah x Angel!Reader)

Metatron has sent you to kill Hannah, the angel you fell in love with in Heaven – and also the angel leading the opposing faction. Set in the later portion of season nine.

Sneaking Out (Sister!Reader)

Loosely based on this imagine: Your brother Sam telling Dean about your new boyfriend.

Nightmare (Dean x Reader)

Dean sneaks into the reader’s room. Title says it all, doesn’t it?

Optional extension story

Coming Out (Charlie x Reader)

Part Two to Sneaking Out!

You face the boys’ reactions when they find out the person you’re involved with bears a familiar face.

Mistletoe (Castiel x Reader)

Request: Can you please do a one shot where reader is trying to explain to Cas what the tradition with mistletoe is and then turns into lots of making out?

The Important Things (Sam x Reader)

You’re a psychic who has a vision about Sam getting killed on a hunt.

Just What I Needed (Sam x Reader)

You’re a hunter who has crossed paths with the Winchesters a few times before, and you and Sam hook up sometimes. Really fun, totally casual – overall a healthy and mutually beneficial relationship.

What You Don’t Know (Dean x Reader)

While on a case with the boys, a psychic tells you the ghost you’re hunting will kill you.

Can’t Hurt You (Dean x Reader)

Part Two to What You Don’t Know!

You were pulled from the brink of death, and you know better than to think it didn’t come at a cost.

Red-Haired Juilet (Rowena x Reader)

Based on this imagine: Being the one in charge of Rowena’s questioning.

Locked Away (Dean x Reader)

You think you’re not good enough for Dean, and vice versa. Doors are locked and feelings are shared.

Bad Terms (Part One) (Part Two) (Sister!Reader)

Request: Can you please do a oneshot where You and brother dean are constantly at each other’s throats till he/or you get caught by a djin and get saved by the others and like you and Dean hug for the first time in over a year?

Stay (Charlie x Reader)

When you move to Kansas for a fresh start and start working at a hospital in Topeka, you take over the case of one Gertrude Middleton, a 15-years-brain dead patient with no known relatives.

Lovers’ Quarrel (Sam x Reader)

Request: Could you do a oneshot where souless sam hurts you very bad so you end up in the hospital and after he has his soul back he goes to apologize please?

Interuniversal Distances (AW!Charlie x Reader)

The stars aligned, and you met Charlie.

Still Looking (Claire x Reader)

Based on this imagine: Being Claire’s girlfriend and Alex telling her that you never stopped searching for her after she left without a word.

Grudges (Sam x Reader)

Based on this imagine: Sam telling his mother that he is ready to do anything to save you, his lover, regardless of what she may think of you

Surprise, Surprise (Dean x Reader)

After having a baby, you and Dean struggle to balance hunting and parenthood.

Know When to Hold ‘Em (Sam x Reader)

Garth calls for help on a case, leaving you and Sam to figure out which one of you has to go.

Colleagues (Meg x Reader)

You and Meg have been through everything together. She considers you a colleague, but you feel something more human for her. Maybe… friendship? Your newest adversary forces you to come to terms with the impacts your feelings have on both of you. Set around 8.17.

Hope (Mary x Reader)

Dean’s been gone for two weeks. You’ve been through this with both him and Sam countless times, but Mary’s newer at this, and you know she’s hurting, even if she doesn’t know it yet. The two of you find an angel-related (possibly archangel-related) case. Set about one week before 14.01.

November Rain (Sam x Reader)

Sam’s in love with you, but things are more complicated than that.

I’m a Believer (Charlie x Reader)

You were never one for romance, and the idea of love seemed as out of reach as ever. You figured maybe it happens for some people and not others. But then you saw her face…

Courage (Ruby x Bela)

Bela helps Ruby out with a job, and she’ll need to scrape together all the courage she has to get through it alive.

The Blackbird Motel (Charlie x Reader)

Reader insert rewrite of the ending of 10.21. Guest appearances by love, angst, and more.

When Mary Met Kelly (Mary x Kelly)

As Kelly’s due date approaches, Castiel calls Mary over for some motherly advice.

Safe (Alex x Patience)

Patience as damsel in distress. Alex as knight in shining armor.

Imagines

Imagine frequently competing with the boys for cases

Imagine Dean checking out your record collection

Imagine Dean talking to Sam about you

Imagine Sam and Dean finding your hunting partner’s body

Imagine sticking up for Lucifer

Imagine Sam calling you after a long day

Imagine Sam mistaking you for a vampire while you’re luring the real vampire to you

Imagine Dean discovering you practicing witchcraft, and admitting to him you don’t believe in saving the world anymore

Imagine offering to drive so Dean can get some rest after a long hunt

Imagine the boys staking out your room after an angel threatened your life

Imagine Sam calling you for help on a tough case

Imagine Dean flirting with you at the bar where you work

Imagine the boys showing up at your door after, unbeknownst to them, you’ve spent a night with each of them

Imagine meeting the boys in their motel room

Imagine sharing a moment over beer with the boys

Imagine being an expert in Greek mythology

Imagine being trapped with Dean

Imagine Crowley calling you

Imagine taking Jody up on her offer

Imagine seeing Dean again

Imagine Sam spotting you across the bar

Imagine the boys watching your death scene on a security tape

Imagine Bela interrupting your hunt as it’s going wrong

Imagine arguing with Dean over whose country produced the best music

Imagine posing as the boys’ lawyer

Imagine the boys capturing and questioning you

Imagine asking Dean about his car

Imagine the boys looking through your case history as an FBI agent and discovering you’re an excellent hunter

Imagine the boys waiting for news about you after you got hurt helping them on a hunt

Imagine tracking Jo down after she took off

Imagine Sam confiding in you about hunting because he knows you understand

Imagine reuniting with Castiel after his descent from Heaven

Imagine the boys searching for you after you sent them a disturbing message

Imagine commenting on the “agent” vibes of Dean’s suit

Imagine calling Bobby for help on a case

Imagine meeting Ruby in her hotel room

Imagine Sam telling you about his last hunt

Imagine Anna telling the story of how you fell in love with each other

Imagine helping Jo prepare for a hunt

Imagine running into Ellen for the first time since you had a fight

Imagine working a case at a church with Sam

Imagine Sam convincing you to stay with them at Bobby’s

Imagine Charlie offering to go on a hunt with you

Imagine admitting to Dean you need help on a tough case even if you don’t like mixing your personal and professional lives

Imagine the boys calling after you got separated on a case where you got a concussion

Imagine celebrating another case solved with Dean

Imagine Rowena drunk-dialing you after you stopped seeing each other

Imagine Castiel calling the boys when he arrives at your house and finds it heavily warded

Imagine running into Dean after you left during an argument weeks ago

Imagine sharing a post-hunt beer with Jo

A Supernatural x Reader Story Imagines

These don’t have to be read in any particular order, but they correspond to my ongoing reader insert fic (it’s Charlie x reader, but there’s a lot of Winchester fluff, which can be read as platonic or otherwise).

Drabbles

Sick Day (Rowena x Reader)

Femslash February drabbles MASTERLIST

Series

Boston (Completed)

You meet Sam in a diner, but a case turns your one-night stand into a hunting partner and something more… or two somethings more.

Headcanons

Sam x Twin!Reader

Dean x Twin!Reader

#masterlist #main masterlist