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red-archivist · 3 years

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Not quite part of the liveblog but, lil post-092 hc fic :3

As he leaves Elias’ office, Jon’s feet automatically take him down the stairs leading to the archives.

It is a habit that his long absence hasn’t managed to break but he stops himself from walking straight into his own office.

To do so, he would have to pass the open space where the assistants work, and call him a coward but he just isn’t quite ready to see the state that Elias’ little reveal has left the others in.

He retreats to the breakroom instead, keeping the lights off and taking a moment to take a few steadying breaths in the cool darkness.

As soon as he stops moving, the injuries he has been ignoring loudly make themselves known.

The constant ache of his burned hand provides a low steady hum of contrast to the staccato pulse of his throbbing throat.

He needs to clean them both up in order to avoid infection, and if he doesn’t want some concerned passer-by to call an ambulance on him when he leaves, he will have to bandage his neck as well.

He walks to the nearest press and begins rooting around for the first aid kit. It doesn’t seem to be where he last saw it months ago and a stumbling search in the dim light reveals nothing to him.

Jon is about to give up and just try to give himself a bit of a rinse in the sink when suddenly the door creaks open, and the lights click on behind him.

He whirls around with his heart in his bloody throat expecting something to pounce on him. Perhaps it is Tim come to take his weary anger out on him? Or Daisy aiming to finish what she started? Or maybe Elias with some other unsolvable puzzle to dump into his lap?

The fright only lasts an instant however, when he sees who is standing in the doorway looking even more surprised to see him.

“Martin,” He sighs with relief.

Martin’s mouth opens and closes a few times before he manages to find his voice.

“Uh, h-hi?”

“…Hi. Did you- Ah. W-Was the first aid kit moved?” Jon points to the mess he has made of the open presses.

Martin jumps in place before rushing forward.

“Oh! Uh, y-yeah, sorry!”

He crouches down to pull the kit out from under the sink and when Jon raises a questioning eyebrow, he shrugs meekly.

“Melanie moved it,” He says, “She said we all had to be able to reach it in an emergency.”

“Right.”

He takes the box from Martin with just one hand, keeping the bandaged one away from his body at an angle so it won’t bump into anything.

It’s a heavy, clunky thing and hoisting it onto the counter makes his joints sting. Ignoring the pain, he flips the latch and starts rummaging through it. A thin roll of bandages, antiseptic cream, gauze and dressing are placed in a pile on the counter as he mentally goes through the half-remembered steps of cleaning an open wound.

Just as Jon starts to unravel the hand bandage, the side of his face burns with awareness. He looks over to find Martin staring at him.

His gaze lingers on his hand, taking in the old bandages and his cracked nails, both still caked in grave dirt. Jon does his best not to squirm under the scrutiny.

When Martin’s eyes dart to the mound of medical supplies Jon is compiling, he also realises he is taking up most of the counter space.

“Am I… in your way?” He asks, about to sweep it all to the side.

Martin starts, as if he just remembered where he was and stammers as he turns away from him

“N-No! Sorry, sorry!”

He fusses with the kettle, taking out mugs as it boils, and does not face Jon again.

Jon is glad for the privacy. He doesn’t want to look at his own hand any longer than he has to, no-one else needs to see it.

As he peels the rest of the dirty wrappings off, they catch on his ruined skin and he can’t quite hold back a pained hiss. The burn is still dreadful to see, blistered like bubbling wax and so red it’s almost black. It weeps a clear discharge, making the whole thing reek a fluid, animal smell.

He rinses it off in the sink, pats it awkwardly dry, smears the whole thing in antiseptic cream and clumsily wraps it up again. It’s a messy, slow process and he barely remembers to clean his other hand as well.

Martin stays stock still as he works, standing guard over two brewing mugs and, as he glances at him, Jon can practically see the questions he wants to ask in the stiff line of his shoulders.

Jon feels both grateful and guilty that Martin holds his tongue. He owes him answers but his mouth is so tired of talking.

Tentatively, he starts prodding at the cut on his neck. It is long but shallow, already clotting. He can feel the skin around it is tender with a blossoming bruise. Daisy wanted it to hurt.

Jon pries his mind away from that thought. If he thinks about how close he came to dying today, he won’t be able to keep himself standing, nevermind clean up.

He just needs to get through the next few steps, and then he can go back to Georgie’s, lay down somewhere quiet and try not to have a complete breakdown. Laying out gauze and dressing, he wets a clean tea towel. He is halfway to raising it to his neck before he realises his mistake.

“Damn.”

“…Jon?”

Martin is peering over his shoulder at him, concern drawn in deep lines around his face.

Jon blinks back at him. He had almost forgotten he was there.

“I… uh,” He waves the tea towel, “I need two hands, should have done this first.”

He is going to ruin the clean wrappings on his hand. He will either have to do them again or wait to get back to the house and hope Georgie won’t be too pissed off to help him. Clucking his tongue, he weighs up his options.

“Um… Do you…” Martin’s soft voice cuts across his thoughts, “I mean, I can… i-if you want?”

“What?” Jon turns and sees him holding out a hand for the tea towel, “Oh.”

“O-O-Only if you, y’know, you’re comfortable with…”

Jon stares at him for a moment and regrets flickers across Martin’s face. He starts to draw his hand back.

“Uh, yes, no, I mean, I-I appreciate…” Jon stammers, “You don’t have to. I-I don’t want to interrupt… what you’re doing…”

The sheepishness fades from Martin as he chuckles slightly.

“I just came in to get a bit of a break from everyone else, really,” He immediately winces, “God, that sounded bad, didn’t it?”

“No… no, I understand.”

Martin smiles slightly and Jon’s feels his lips twitch upward in response.

“So, uh,” Martin holds his hand out again and Jon passes him the towel, “Might be easier to sit.”

“Right.”

Jon brings the gauze and dressing to the rickety coffee table while Martin wrings out the towel in the sink. They sit facing each other, and Martin scoots close enough that their knees brush.

“Can you lift your chin?” He asks, “And please tell me if I hurt you?”

Jon raises his head and stares into the yellowing florescent light embedded in the ceiling as Martin starts delicately dabbing at the cut.

It stings, of course. He can feel the edges of the wound prickle with pain as the meagre scabbing that covered them is wiped away. He hopes he isn’t letting it show on his face.

It is a little uncomfortable, letting someone else touch his neck. Especially someone he hasn’t seen for over two months. He peers at Martin out of the corner of his eye.

He looks exhausted. There are heavy bags under his eyes and the light from above washes him out terribly, making him seem even paler than usual. His hair has grown a bit, more from neglect than choice. His fringe droops over the frame of his glasses.

Guilt bites at the back of Jon’s mind. Without him here, he is almost certain Martin has been doing the lion’s share of the work in the archives. Melanie is only new to the position and Tim… Jon is doubtful Tim has been working at all.

Martin mumbles a pre-emptive apology as he moves the towel slowly over the cut. His touch is soft but steady, gentle in a way that is completely alien to Jon.

Martin’s gaze is focused on Jon’s neck, intent on washing away every speck of pain scrawled onto it. Instead of the sting of the wound, Jon feels something in his chest ache.

He can’t remember the last time anyone was this careful with him. That thought, more than the pinch of physical pain, makes his eyes water.

He blinks rapidly and rattles his brain for anything that will keep his mind off of how tender Martin’s touch is.

His mouth runs ahead of his head and he tries not to swallow too hard as he speaks.

“Martin… ah…”

“Sorry, am I pressing too hard?” The pressure on his throat eases slightly and Jon wills himself not to chase after it.

“No, no, I just, ah, I wanted to-” Jon bites his tongue in his haste to speak, “H-H-Have you been getting on alright?”

The pressure disappears entirely as Martin reels back to gawk at him, his mouth hanging open in shock. Jon might be offended at his surprise if he wasn’t too busy kicking himself.

He keeps babbling before Martin even has a chance to respond.

“God, that’s stupid- stupid question, of course you’re not-!” He sighs, “Just- Ignore me. Apologies.”

He looks back up to the breakroom lights, his face burning hot.

Martin chuckles.

Jon dares to glance at him.

The surprise has faded into something softer, a not-quite-there smile lingering on his lips.

“Yeah…” He agrees quietly, “That… is pretty stupid.”

“Well-! Pardon me for asking,” Jon snaps.

Martin’s smile grows.

“I’ve… I’ve got a pretty stupid answer for it though?”

“Uh,” Jon leans forward in his seat, “Yes?”

“Despite um, well, all of it…” Martin swings a hand around the room, “It’s… It’s really good to see you, Jon.”

He stares.

It’s Martin’s turn to try and hide from the scrutiny. Jon watches with fascination as he starts to turn a blotchy red.

He doesn’t understand. The last time they spoke, Jon gave him nothing but a weak apology after suspecting him of murder and invading his privacy for months. Martin should be angry at him, or maybe even afraid. Jon doesn’t want him to be, but he would understand if he were.

Instead, Martin sits in front of him with a shy smile and soft hands, helping him, missing him. Jon can’t possibly understand that.

He opens his mouth without any clue as to what to say.

“That… doesn’t actually answer my question?” He says weakly.

Martin laughs. Not a chuckle or a giggle but a full-throated belly laugh. It is a sound Jon has never heard from him before. His face feels even warmer.

As soon as he calms down, Martin shakes his head before delicately placing his fingertips on Jon’s chin and tilting his head upward.

“I guess not.”

He finishes cleaning and dressing the wound in silence. When he presses the dressing against the cut to make sure its smooth, Jon can’t help but shudder.

A frown crosses Martin’s brow.

“Don’t suppose I can convince you to see a doctor about this?”

“You suppose correct,” Jon sighs.

Martin clucks his tongue but doesn’t push him any further.

Jon is overcome with the sudden desire to sit in this chair for the remainder of the afternoon, resting in Martin’s half-joking disapproval with their kneecaps just about touching.

He is also keenly aware that that desire isn’t something he can afford to indulge in.

With a weary groan, he hauls himself upright.

“I… appreciate the help.”

Grabbing the now-stained tea towel, he turns away to toss it in the sink.

“O-Oh, uh, sure, anytime,” Martin says automatically, “Well, n-no, not anytime- I didn’t mean- I don’t want you to get hurt again or a-anything!”

“It’s fine, Martin, I know what you meant.”

He puts the first aid kit back under the sink and pats his pockets to make sure he has all the things he came in with. It’s not much.

“Right, I won’t be back today, but I’ll be in the office tomorrow.”

“You’d better not be!” Martin exclaims, suddenly loud.

Jon blinks at him.

“I beg your pardon?”

“You’re hurt! You need rest!” Martin squeaks indignantly, “Proper rest, Jon not just a half-day off!”

“I- Wh- You can’t stop me coming to work!”

“I bloody well can!”

Jon boggles as a memory suddenly strikes him full-force. He had tried coming back to the archives early after Prentiss’ attack as well, hadn’t he? Martin had practically carried out of the building. At the time, it was just another reason for Jon to be suspicious of him. Now, he can see it for what it was.

Martin cared.

He still cares, whether that care takes the form of washing his wounds or scolding him for his poor work-life balance. It’s not a feeling Jon is familiar with.

Martin still sits at the coffee table, arms crossed over his chest, colour high in his cheeks. With a wistful smile, Jon decides to let him have his way. It’s paltry thanks for his ministrations, but it is all Jon has.

“Alright.”

Martin’s glare vanishes under his shock.

“Alright?”

Jon nods.

“Alright. I’ll rest.”

“Oh! Oh. …Good!”

“It’s what, Friday now?” Jon says, “Maybe I’ll even take the weekend off.”

“Wow, let’s not go overboard,” Martin grumbles.

Jon snorts, hiding his laughter behind his bandaged hand. Martin smiles brightly and somehow, gets even redder.

“I’ll see you Monday.”

“Y-Yeah.”

Jon heads for the door. His feet are like lead weights and he already knows he is going to have to stop himself from napping on the tube. He can sleep properly once he is back at Georgie’s. It might even be nice to rest, for once.

He pauses in the doorway, glancing back.

Martin has stood up, his arms still crossed even as he flicks a hand up.

“See you.”

As he stares at him, Jon’s chest aches again. He is overcome with the urge to speak, as if that will ease it.

“For what it is worth… It is really good to see you too.”

Martin’s face goes slack with a look as soft and tender as his hand was on Jon’s throat. It makes the ache worse.

Jon turns away without another word, knocks once on the doorframe and walks away.

As he heads for the stairs, his hand still throbs, and his neck still stings but it is the hurt in his heart that distracts him. The sound of Martin’s laughter echoes in his head and Jon thinks that this particular pain is one he doesn’t mind keeping.

#the magnus archives #tma #jonmartin #jonathan sims #martin blackwood #tma 092 #tma fic #the great tma relisten #listen. has this scenario been written about more than once? yes. do i care? no.#you will get my interpretation and you will like it #the boys are PIIINNNNIIINGGGGG

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voiceless-terror · 3 years

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Going Back (The Magnus Archives)

Whumptober 2020 Day Thirty: Wound Reveal

Fandom: The Magnus Archives

Characters: Jonathan Sims, Tim Stoker, Martin Blackwood

Summary:

“I can’t even feel it anymore, really. She just liked to see what colors she could make me turn.”

Martin could’ve thrown up.

Jon returns from the Circus through Helen’s hallways. Martin and Tim see the aftermath.

The room wouldn’t stop spinning.

He kept it together just long enough to get Melanie out of Elias’s office. Jonathan Sims, Human Shield. Who would’ve thought it?

But now, stumbling down to the Archives, he wasn’t so sure. Everything was scrambled, neither here nor there. His arm throbbed and the hallway tilted, or perhaps he tilted. Wouldn’t that be funny? Just walking sideways down the hall while everyone stared. Don’t mind me! He let out an involuntary giggle- did it echo? Like Helen’s voice echoed? Like poor Michael’s? No, not ‘poor Michael.’ He tried to kill you!

Right, right.

He was getting some looks. Jon was starting to get used to this whole ‘pariah’ business. He was never the most social person, but people would still greet him in the hallways. Now, though. Now they just stared and whispered. It’s not their fault, of course. He knows he doesn’t look good. Jon hadn’t seen a mirror in a good long while, but he certainly wasn’t feeling good, The Circus had done a number on him and it’s not like he had time to make himself presentable before going back to the office. The Distortion wouldn’t have allowed them to make pit stops. Be funny if it did, though.

He laughed again, stumbling into a wall. A woman looked as if she wanted to help, reaching out an arm that was slapped away by her companion. “Leave him,” the man whispered. He was right to. Jon was starting to think this whole avatar business was contagious.

“Don’t worry,” he whispered back in an attempt to be reassuring. It probably would have come off better if his voice didn’t have the consistency of sandpaper. “I’ll be gone soon enough!” He smiled and they scurried off, looking horrified. Huh.

He didn’t know what he meant by ‘gone.’ Out of their hair, back in the Archives, dead in a hole somewhere. It was all the same to him.

There was a song playing in his mind, an incessant, repetitive tune that should be cheerful but it was not. He hummed along with it.

Ten minutes or two days later, he stumbled through the door to the Archives, tripping down the stairs at a rate more like falling. No one was there to greet him, perhaps it was lunch time? Jon was very hungry. But that wasn’t a good indicator of time- Jon was always hungry now. For answers, for food, for someone to look at him without anger. Hungry hungry hungry.

Someone must have left a thing or two in the break room. Martin always had snacks lying about. Maybe he could have one of Tim’s protein bars? Melanie’s Gatorades? So many choices it almost made him weep.

Elias was always saying he chose this. He’s starting to agree. He always wanted more- more answers, more information. The choice was always easy then- go wherever the knowledge takes you. So why was this one so goddamn hard? Just pick some food, any fucking food you’re so hungry-

It would be nice if someone picked for him. He hadn’t had to choose his own food for a while, but now the options were just overwhelming. Just let him have one more thing out of his control. He wasn’t ready to go back to normal, not just yet.

But they had to move forward, he knew that. Jon wanted answers and so did the rest of them. They never liked the answers he gave them. Is that Jon’s fault, really? Maybe. Everyone else seemed to think so. Elias didn’t tell them he’d been kidnapped, but he’d been gone all the same. It’s sad isn’t it, when you become a person no one will miss? Jon missed them. Jon missed everything that was real, flesh and blood and warm. Jon was selfish that way.

But now he had an answer. Something good that came out of all of this, a lead. Tim would be happy. He might even thank him.

The world tilted and Jon tilted with it.

________

“Hang on-is that Jon?”

Martin peered into the break room on his return from lunch; he wasn’t expecting anyone else to be here. But there was a small figure there in the dark, swaying on their feet. He rushed over and flicked on the light switch- it was Jon! His excitement was dampened, however, when he got a good look at the man.

Jon looked bad. Martin didn’t think he could possibly look worse than he did after Daisy brought him back but no, this was definitely worse. At least then he’d been angry, rushing around and demanding answers from Elias. Now though, he was just...swaying, his eyes distant and cloudy, not even noticing the other occupant in the room. His hair was tangled and long, his face was gaunt. He was drowning in his clothes- clothes that were dirty and blood stained and torn as if he spent the last month living in the woods. “Jon?” he asked hesitantly, inching forward in the room like he was approaching a spooked animal. “Jon, are you alright?”

No answer. Jon was humming, a strange, childish tune like something from a music box or an ice cream truck. Tim was silent and still behind him; Martin wasn’t surprised he was unwilling to help. It was a horrifying picture, after all, and he and Jon weren’t on the best of terms. Martin managed to get close enough to venture a hand on Jon’s shoulder.

This seemingly broke him out of his fog and stopped that god-awful hum. His eyes cleared as he turned to Martin and smiled- Martin had always wanted Jon to smile at him but not like this, never like this. Happy and dreamy yet somehow manic. “Oh!” he croaked; he sounded as if his voice hadn’t been used in days. “M-Martin, you’re here!”

“Yes, I am,” he explained slowly, trying to match his smile if only to put him at ease. “Are- are you alright, Jon? We haven’t seen you for a while, and you look- well, not great.” That was an understatement. There was a strange, glowing sheen on his otherwise unhealthy frame, like a doll that’d been covered in greasepaint. It was unnerving, to say the least.

“Yes!” Jon said excitedly, grabbing at his arm with thin, spindly fingers. There was a desperate strength behind it. “Now that you’re here. Where’s Tim? I have to- I need to find Tim!”

That was not a good idea. “Erm, are you sure?” he hedged, trying to usher him into a seat but Jon was having none of it and pulling at his arm insistently. “Jon, I really think you should get to a doctor, I mean look at you-”

“Tim!” Jon called in that croaking, animated voice. The man in question looked irritated at first, and then clearly disturbed by the man in front of him. “Tim, I have news.”

Tim backed up as Jon approached and leaned forward on his desk as if imparting a secret. ‘I know where it’s going to be. The Unknowing.” Martin watched as Tim’s eyes lit up unwillingly and he grabbed at Jon, pushing him into his own desk chair. Easy, Martin wanted to chide, though he knew Tim wouldn’t heed it. He had a one-track mind when it came to dealing with the Circus.

“Where?” Tim asked urgently, his hands on Jon’s shoulders as if ready to shake him lest he gave the wrong answer. Martin noticed the way Jon leaned into the touch, threatening as it was. “Where?”

“A wax museum!” The words were...delighted. Jon was smiling like a child giving a teacher the correct answer and that strange, clouded look was coming back into his eyes. “I don’t know which one, though. They didn’t tell me that.” Who?

“Who?” Tim echoed his thoughts and pushed Jon up straight as he listed to the side. “Was this- was this one of your powers? How long have you known?”

“No, not this time,” Jon patiently explained. “I was there. I’ve known for- hm, Elias said - about a month!” What? Tim’s eyes narrowed and his hands gripped harder. Jon didn’t seem to notice. “I would’ve told you, but I was all tied up!” He reached his hands up imploringly, sleeves slipping down his arms to reveal wrists rubbed raw, clearly infected. Martin gasped and even Tim let up, looking nauseated.

“Jon,” Martin kneeled by the chair, trying to meet his eyes. “Jon, what happened? Who did this to you?”

Without Tim’s help, Jon fell to the side of the chair, only supported by it’s arm. His shirt, worryingly baggy, slipped off his shoulder to reveal deeply bruised skin, blooming a purple and green that seemed to extend beyond what they could see. Jon must have noticed their horrified stares, for he rushed to reassure them.

“I can’t even feel it anymore, really. She just liked to see what colors she could make me turn.”

Martin could’ve thrown up.

“Who’s she?” Tim stuttered out, horror rooting him in place though his hands twitched in what look liked an urge to help.

“The clown. Nikola. Needed- needed my skin for the dance. She couldn’t cut me up yet. I was almost-” Jon was no longer there with them, not anymore. “I was almost ready.” He pitched forward, eyes rolling back in his head and Martin rushed to grab him but Tim got there first, sweeping an arm under his chest and pulling him back up on the chair. There was a feral, unhinged look in the man’s eyes- anger, fear, and something he couldn’t name making his arms shake even as they kept Jon in a tight grip.

“Should- should we get him to the hospital? This is bad, Tim.”

“No!” Jon shot up in the seat, arms flailing in a sudden panic. “No more- no more strange hands! I don’t w-want them touching me, please Martin, I don’t want to I don’t want to-”

“Shh,” it was Tim who hushed him, leaning Jon into his side and taking most of his weight. He was completely attentive now in an entirely different way- Martin would say it was protective if he didn’t know the man’s real feelings. “We won’t. How about we take you to the cot, have a rest, yeah?”

“Tim…” Shouldn’t they be doing more? A nap wouldn’t cure him- he needed real medical attention.

“Just for now,” he said and his tone didn’t leave room for any arguments. “He doesn’t want it. Not right now.” Martin wondered what made him suddenly attuned to Jon’s needs- as if a switch had been flipped at the mention of a clown. He followed behind like a lost puppy, watching as Tim took a still-murmuring Jon into Document Storage.

“Their hands, Tim. I don’t- too much touching-”

“I’ll let go of you as soon as you’re settled,” Tim promised, laying him down with the utmost care as Martin watched from the doorway. “I’m sorry-”

But Jon’s arm shot out and grabbed at Tim’s as he tried to walk away. “Not- not yours. I-I didn’t mean yours.”

And to Martin’s surprise Tim sat down, leaning back against the cot and entwining his hand with Jon’s. His eyes held that same far-away look as Jon’s, as if he were trapped in a memory and seeing something else entirely. Martin suddenly feels like he’s intruding.

He shuts the door and lets them be.

ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27285688

#whumptober2020 #no.30 #wound reveal #fic #tma #the magnus archives #jonathan sims #tim stoker #martin blackwood #angst #bit of hurt/comfort

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iamalivenow · 5 years

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“Well.” The man takes his glasses off of his nose and slides them into his front shirt pocket. “Nice to finally meet you.” Martin blinks, more shocked than anything, when Peter exists in front of him- between him and the man. “And you are? The secretary didn't call ahead.” “Rude of her.” The man looks between Peter and Martin as best he can. Peter's certainly not making it easy for him. “You gossip about me so much, and you don't even know my name? I'd feel hurt, but.” He's thin, hair graying at the roots, biggest circles under his eyes that Martin's ever seen. “Extinction.” He whispers, and Peter sighs.

“I suppose. Though I'm still shopping around for proper names.” He smiles and Martin thinks it would be a rather charming smile if it wasn't for all the smoke- no, smog pouring out of his mouth. “You've Done This feels right but a bit on the nose.” “They're all on the nose,” Peter says and takes a step back as the smog begins to settle on the floor, the smell of chlorine and paint thinner and gasoline sinking into their clothes. “Blackened Earth is interesting. Watcher's Crown too.” Martin chances another look just as the man scratches his neck, sickly pale. “Where are they, by the way? Watcher and Archivist.” “Jail,” Peter says, and takes another step back forcing Martin up and against the door. “And where's Basira, Martin?” “Don't know.” “Doesn't know. Travesty.” Martin chances a look out the windows of the office. The hallway is empty but not the wrong kind of empty. It's still here. Peter can't leave- this man won't let them leave. Well. At least Peter's come back for him. It's more then he expected. “Yes.” The man says and sighs. The smell of burning plastic coming off of him makes Martin nearly gag. “Travesty.” He pulls his phone out, not a model Martin recognizes at a glance, and taps away at it. “Martin you need to-” Peter shakes his shoulder and Martin catches his eyes. “You need to go.” “Where- I-” He makes a hand movement, fingers twitching. “Fixed your CCTV for you.” The man says, not bothering to look up. “Did you know that was off? What a lark. This place and no CCTV?” “If you get to the street, they'll be a car- my nephew will get you away-” “Oh, black sedan?” The man looks up, flips his screen around. “You know most new cars are so- what is it- convenient? All electronic now, don't even need real keys anymore.” Martin doesn't need to look to know that it's a photo, several photos even, of a car wreck. Peter swallows, audibly. Not a good sign, generally, Martin's found. “So where does that leave us now then?” His voice doesn't waver, and that's fairly impressive, circumstances considering. “Barely even born and you try and sweep our legs out from under us? The rest of you had chances, where are ours? You understand, don't you, Peter Lukas? Whispering about things like that, it's nice to know you're scared.” “We've had bigger concerns,” Martin says, over Peter's shoulder. “Have you? Worms, I suppose. Very frightening. And dolls.” He walks around the desk and sits in Elias' chair. “Aren't you tired of it all? Aren't you always tired?” He rests his hands in his hands. “I was. I still am, really. But I suppose that never leaves anymore. Aren't you exhausted? Hm-” He stops, looking back at his phone. The click of the phone camera goes off before anyone has a chance to do anything. “Martin Blackwood. Still, have a facebook? Really?” “I meant to... delete it.” Peter looks at him with the sort of disdain he's so much more used to, and the slip of normalcy almost grounds him. “Not a lot of friends. No wonder you're with him.” He almost looks bored now, sliding through his account. “Oh you write poetry- that's sweet. Not particularly good, though.” “That's just-” Rude, he wants to say as another wave of nausea rolls over him. The man smiles again, and more of that smog rolls out, like nitrogen, rolling slowly across the desk and down the floor. “I friended you.” Martin looks at Peter who's not really paying attention anymore, thinking of ways to get away or at least get Martin away. He didn't think the Lonely was as weak as the Beholding was. The man's name is Jon Sims. He only has three- now four friends. One of them is a pet account. “Thanks?” “Anytime, Martin.” The man- Jon closes his eyes for a moment. “It was nice meeting you both.” And just like that, he's gone. “Well.” Peter opens the door, finally, and the smog pools out into the hallway. “That's enough excitement for one day, don't you think? You should take the rest of the day off.” “Right. Are- are you okay? I mean- Your nephew-” But Peter's gone too. Martin's head hurts.

…

There's a rash on his forearms, almost down to the wrist, that he notices when he's lying in bed and scrolling through his phone. It's sore and blistering, and when he prods at it lightly it bruises almost instantly, and when he touches the spot again, his finger comes away bloody. He considers calling Peter, but then, Jon's not Corruption. This could just be a spider bite that he didn't notice in all of the commotion. There's been so many of them at the office lately anyway. It's not getting any worse really, and with the way he's been existing lately, he really doesn't want to bother medical staff and ruin their lives, somehow. He bandages his arm and lies in bed, staring at Jon's facebook. He's doing research, obviously. There's not a lot on there, just some pictures of the man when he was obviously younger, mostly tagged by other accounts. His university days. If he wasn't a monster he'd be cute, Martin thinks with some sense of embarrassment. The two other accounts are of some girl who runs a podcast and uses her page as a business advertisement, and the other one is of a deceased page of some angry looking goth. Jon's account is the only one to leave a farewell message. That's kind of sad, almost, but again, scary smog monster. The nausea still hasn't gone away, not really. The pet account is of some massive orange thing that could be a cat or could be a fox in certain angles. It seems pretty popular. Jon likes most of the photos. It is pretty cute. The Admiral, it's called. Jon leaves comments under the videos and the account actually reply to him. It's shockingly simple. He expected something worse. He wakes up late for work the next day, still tired. A lot of hair on his pillow, but otherwise, fine. The rash hasn't gotten any worse. Hasn't gotten any better, but. He's fine.

…

Martin gets lunch at the Deli he used to visit with Sasha and Jon sits in the corner, reading his phone. The building is oddly empty, aside from them and two workers who look rather under the weather. Maybe something's going around. “Martin.” “Jon.” Smooth. Smooth and respectable. “How have you been?” He doesn't make a habit of looking up from his phone, glasses still down, thin curls of smoke twisting up towards the ceiling, darker than the smog. That same burning plastic smell is back, with undertones of exhaust and maybe just a hint of aerosol again. “Fine, I guess. Considering.” “Right. Stressful. I understand. Everyone's tired these days. Have you noticed? Tired and sad.” “I suppose that's a sign for you? End times?” “Maybe,” Jon says. “I'm still figuring things out. It was a lot of nothing, and then everything accelerated so quickly, I don't have teachers like everyone else does. But people want to rest. Talk to anyone our age.” “Oh so- you're what? Thirty?” “Twenty-nine.” A year younger than Martin- but then he knew that, from the facebook page. “It's just-” He shrugs. “Just the zeitgeist.” “Well, maybe you'd know better than me.” He says. “You're the one jumping from power to power.” There's an implication that makes Martin frown, He should leave. Get lunch elsewhere. If he could eat at all really. He coughs, to try and clear his throat before hacking harder. An allergic reaction, maybe. To the spider bite. Jon waves as he leaves.

…

Peter has the same rash, up and down his arms, and around his neck and when he coughs he draws blood, and it does little other than turn Martin's stomach. “At least Corruption has the decency to be quick about it,” Peter says bitterly while Martin pours their third cup of tea. “And you?” “No blood yet.” “From your throat you mean.” And he points at the bandage that's turning pink. Martin didn't even notice when the skin must have broken. “I guess.” Peter coughs again.

…

He finally throws up. There's blood, and Martin can't bring himself to be surprised. He drinks water and lays in bed and tries not to cough his throat anymore raw. The angry goth's name is Gerard Keay. Martin is only familiar with his mother because his mother skinned herself alive. The woman is Georgie Barker, and her podcast is called What The Ghost and the Admiral is her cat. They went to university together, her and Jon. They used to date, for a year. There's a few pictures of them together, one of Jon holding a much smaller Admiral and trying to hide a smile. The only picture of Jon and Gerard together is on vacation. Jon's wearing a tacky bar shirt. It's a selfie. They look horrifically mismatched, but Jon looks happy. He messages Georgie, more out of curiosity than anything and unsurprisingly doesn't get an answer back. He wakes up twice to throw up again, and when he gets back in bed, he's certain its a fever now. In the morning, when he showers and washes his hair, it comes out in clumps.

…

A young woman talks to Rosie when he gets in for work, and she takes one look at him and sighs. Georgie looks like what he expected her to. Prettier, in real life. Photos really didn't do her justice. “He applied here, I think? When we were still together.” She says. “Someone turned him down though.” “And now he's-” Martin trails off. He's not going to be the one to say- “And now he's a monster. Who's given you radiation poisoning, by the way. That's what that is.” She reaches into her massive bag and pulls out a slim well-worn box, and after turning a dial, an obnoxious loud clicking sound goes off. Even louder when she points it at him. “Do you just carry that around?” Because that's a good first question. “He does this a lot.” “Oh. Are you... also...” “No. I'm not involved in whatever this place is. Or any of the others.” He coughs, off to the side, and wipes the blood on his jeans. “Yeah. If it's that bad, I'd say go to a doctor but, I doubt any hospital will actually admit you. You're a walking biohazard.” “Oh.” “If I were you I'd get your affairs in order. Or ask him to take it back.” She shrugs. “He might.” “Oh.” He says again, like an idiot. “You know the fire people?” “Desolation?” Blackened Earth, he had mentioned. “He hangs out with them sometimes. Or the weird murder band.” Georgie pauses for a moment. “Actually, they're not that bad, now that I think about it. Ethically, horrific, but musically? Anyway.” She stands up and packs her counter with her. “Good luck.” “Right.” Later, when there are people running all of a sudden, down to the office, and Martin doesn't have to run after them to know Peter died.

…

He finds Jon surrounded by Lightless Flame members, smoking. Jon either doesn't see him or pretends not to see him so Martin inches around the hot bodies of the cultists until he's right next to him. Jon startles when Martin tugs on his sleeve, a large plume of dark smoke pouring out of Jon's mouth at once before he coughs. “Sorry,” Martin mumbles while a woman laughs beside them. “Really.” Of to the worst start, maybe. The smog makes him cough, and he doesn't bother cleaning the blood from his mouth. Maybe with his teeth covered in it, he'll look more pitiful, and that might be the only thing going for him. “Martin.” Jon blinks, pulling his glasses off his face. The woman whistles and he doesn't spare her a glance. “Peter died.” “Did he?” The woman whistles again, and claps Jon on the back. Martin swallows and nods, and the woman laughs, leaning on Jon's back, arms over his shoulders, before she ruffles his hair and Jon looks shockingly self-satisfied. She practically hangs off of him, her fingers dripping onto the floor. “Look at you.” She says, proud, and presses a singeing kiss into the side of his head. “Jude.” He sounds like an embarrassed child who's clingy mother won't leave him alone. “Agnes would be proud too.” She says, and he softens with that. “Could you-” Martin tries to clear his throat which only turns to more pathetic hacking. “Sorry to- to interrupt. Could you fix me?” That sends Jude cackling again, and Jon turns his head to try and hide a smile. “How do you imagine I do that?” “I don't know-” He feels very small. Tired. “Jump ship, kid.” Jude leans forward over Jon again. He can feel the heat that rolls off of her even through his fever. “Don't you want an little helper, Jon? An assistant?” “Not really.” Of course not. He doesn't know what he was hoping for- what he thought any part of this would even accomplish, really. “Aw. He looks like a kicked puppy.” “I have that effect on people.” Martin turns to leave, Jude's cackling following him all the way on to the street. He tastes blood in his mouth. It drips down his nose too.

…

The angry goth shows up in his dreams. Martin thinks it's odd at first, until Gerard “Call me Gerry” Keay tells him that he's bound, literally, to an End book, and then it's just more business as usual. “Just appeal to his better nature. Or get a cat.” “A cat?” In the dream, his skin doesn't feel like its dipped in acid, and his lungs don't ache. He can't taste iron anymore. He has a full head of hair. “Massive soft spots for cats. I think he had one, before? Or his ex had one. It's his phone background at least.” They sit in front of the Trevi fountain which Martin was sure he'd never see in real life, where Jon and Gerry took that one picture together. It's a gorgeous sunny day, and if he doesn't focus on the fact that the other tourists don't have faces, he thinks he could really learn to like this. “Why are you helping?” “He needs more friends who aren't dead.” Gerry pulls out a crumpled pack of cigarettes and lights one with a cheap looking lighter that looks a lot like Jon's. “I don't think he likes me.” “You'll grow on him. Probably. You seem friendly.” “Do you give this pep-talk to everyone he poisons?” “No.” Gerry blows a thin line of smoke through his nose. It smells of nicotine, faintly. “He doesn't bother keeping most people alive this long.” “Ah. Does he- Does he know?” Gerry shrugs. “He does, or he doesn't. I only found you cause you're irradiated the way you are.” Through Jon, Martin thinks he means. “I spend most of my time in his pocket,” Gerry explains like that's a normal thing to say casually. “Right.” “Oh-” Gerry puts a finger up, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a cheap looking felt tip marker. “Before you go.” He grabs Martin's hand and scribbles an address on Martin's palm. “He'll be there tomorrow, sevenish, if you want to try again.” “He didn't seem- interested last time.” He says again, starring at the address. “Well, look at it this way.” Gerry gets up, cigarette already down to nothing in what feels like a few seconds, and he tosses it into the fountain. Some people shriek in objection, but Gerry walks back to him, pulling his long hair up and out of his face. Same deep circles under his eyes, made even more obvious by the eyeliner. “Either you make nice, or you die trying to vomit your lungs up alone in your apartment.” “Well, when you put it like that.” Gerry shrugs. “Tell Jon I like you, maybe it'll net you some favor.” “Do you?” Gerry pulls on a pair of glasses- Jon's glasses, and turns to walk away, almost disappearing into the faceless crowds. “Why not?”

…

He can barely move his legs, can barely keep his eyes open by the time he stumbles into the dive bar. There are some people setting up on stage, or unsetting up, Martin can't tell, and Jon sits at furthest bar seat, talking to- no- talking at one of the musicians. A cellist, leaning against his seat while Jon whispers about Peter Lukas' death. “Jon.” The monster turns around and gives him a glance before finishing his one-sided conversation. “Please.” “Please what, Martin?” “Please- Please anything-” A flutist clears his throat and taps the microphone before giving Jon a wink and playing the first notes. Martin doesn't pay attention to the mountain frenzy around them. Barely can with the blood pounding in his ears. And out of his ears. “Jon.” “I can't undo this.” He says, and the lighter smog pours out of his mouth. “Best I could do is speed it up. And that is something, isn't it?” “I'm-” Martin leans against the barstool, almost slides off of it. He doesn't want to die. Not after the worms and Not Them and the Unknowing. Not after Sasha and Tim and his mother. He's not going to- He doesn't want to yet. Not yet. He's suffered too much to just throw it all away because some cute abomination had a fight with his stand-in boss. “You're?” Jon's obviously not listening, too enraptured by the senseless violence in the rest of the place, glass flying and bones shattering. Georgie was right though, the music's nice. “I'm useful.” He says, hands shaking, dripping red on to the floor. “And sturdy. A- A really quick study.” “But aren't you tired, Martin?” There's the tiniest smile on his face. “Don't you want to rest, Martin?” “Why do you keep saying that-” He cuts himself off with a miserable cough, deep and red. “Because things don't hurt when you sleep.” He says. He reaches into his pocket, and there's the flesh page, just like Gerry said it would be. “There's nothing to worry about. Real life is a nightmare. Wouldn't it be better to just- rest.” Jon runs delicate fingers over the pale skin, flipping it over in his fingers. So Martin does what he does- well no, not best, Basira is way better at on the fly choices likes this- but he does- he does something. “What if I could get him back?” Another cough. “Corporeal.” And another. “The Archives- The Archives are-” “Very big, yes I know.” He sighs, and maybe the fever finally starts melting his brain, but there's a look of hopefulness, maybe. “Georgie likes you.” “Oh.” That's nice of her. “I'm. Fairly demanding.” “But you need help- all of them need help-” Even if it seems like Jon might be the exception to the rule. “Tell me where the Archivist is. And then I'll- I'll fix you.” “I-” Peter's kept him in such isolation that even if he wanted to, he had no idea. But- But he knew where Daisy was- and that's- that's almost like knowing where the Archivist is- where Basira is. “Martin?” Yes, he supposes, it's only polite to inquire about one's health when one faints at a concert.

…

He wakes up in a hospital room- no. In a hospital bed in a room made out of plastic, with iv's and monitors, thirsty and delirious. “What happened?” He asks no one in particular. “You died.” That's Jon's voice, unmistakably, even if muffled by the bubble Martin's in. “Oh.” Martin tries to turn his head, and it's harder then he imagined it would be. Jon's holding a big ball of- “Is that a cat?” “I'm babysitting.” It's hard to see through the plastic, but Jon scratches behind its ears, and it purrs so loudly, Martin thinks he's losing his mind again. “Georgie had to go to a convention.” “Oh.” Again. The- the normalcy of it all just really threw him. “I've thought about what you offered. I wouldn't mind if you did.” “That was on offer before I died.” He says without thinking because really, the nerve. “Oh, my mistake.” Jon stands, and The Admiral jumps up onto his shoulders, and then they're both in Martin's bubble. “And if I reintroduced the same circumstances again, would the offer return?” The smell of disease and fire and metal might as well drown him. “Didn't realize you were such a glutton for punishment.” Well obviously. Martin takes a deep breath, and smog pours out of Jon's mouth. It's in him again. He can feel the slow creep of it, the rancid smell of burning plastic sticking to his hair as his skin begins to burn itself from the inside out. The cat seems entirely unphased. Like it's used to this. “Wait-” The smog gets pulled back into his mouth like a smoke trick. “I'll- I'll start research tomorrow.” “My very own assistant.” Jon smiles at him, the dark wisps rising and fading like regular cigarette smoke. “Really moving up in the world, aren't we?” The Admiral purrs when Jon scratches under his chin.

"So-"

"I'll come collect you soon. Once my friends flush the rest of it out of your uh-"

"Irradiated corpse." He should ask who Jon's friends are- who does hospitals? Or places that look like hospitals? Rich people? Maybe? For someone power that doesn't even know what it's going to call itself Jon sure has a lot of friends. Martin can't help but wonder where he finds them.

"That's the one."

And then Martin is alone.

Again.

#the magnus archives #writing #full fic #once again on tumblr for those who like it more like this #long post

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