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ollieofthebeholder · 1 month

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

Read from the beginning on Tumblr || AO3 || My Website

Chapter 104: March 2018

Daisy never thought she would be thankful for friends. Actually, she never thought she would have friends to be thankful for; closest thing she ever had anymore was a partner. And truthfully, she still wasn’t sure she could honestly call the Archives crew her friends. But Jon had actually climbed into the pit to find her, Tim had hugged her and welcomed her back, and Martin had made up a bed for her in the Archives without question, or even really asking her if she needed it, like he knew she did but that she wouldn’t be able to bring herself to ask for it. Sasha had lent her some spare clothes, then gone to get her some of her own, and while Melanie was the most wary and distrustful out of all of them, she had placed an enormous orange and white cat on her lap, which had promptly curled up and gone to sleep, and which Jon said was a pretty big peace offering. Even Gerard had told her to call him Gerry, although she hadn’t quite taken him up on that yet; she was still getting used to not calling all of them by their surnames. If they weren’t friends, they were the nearest thing she’d had in a long time.

Probably what surprised her the most, actually, was Martin telling her, bit offhanded, that she could keep calling him “Blackwood” if she liked. She’d brushed him off at the time, but that night while she’d been lying on the makeshift bed they’d made up for her, staring in the direction of the ceiling and listening to the others breathe around her, the realization of what he’d actually meant had hit her like a ton of bricks. Daisy had spent most of her adult life in one police station or another, and while people didn’t often get to be friends, you knew you’d got respect from the people around you when they dropped the job titles and just started calling you by your surname. Basira was the only one who’d ever insisted on going on a first-name basis with her, but they were partners, the first one she’d ever had for more than six months, so that made sense. There in the dark of the Archives, Daisy had almost started crying, for the first time in years, because someone she’d actively been planning to kill less than a year ago had been kind without making a big deal of it and offered to let her relate to them on her own terms rather than making her relate on theirs.

He’d been the easiest to start calling by first name.

She wasn’t a cop anymore. Even if she hadn’t more or less been declared dead, she didn’t feel like a cop anymore. She’d never joined to make a difference or help people—that was bullshit, anyone who said they’d joined for that was either lying or hopelessly naive. Daisy had joined to hunt down “bad guys”, but it had been about the hunt, not about the bad guys; she’d never particularly cared why she was after someone, only with actually going after them, and the longer she’d been on the force the more it had been about hunting the people and justifying why after. She knew now that that had been a powerful fear entity or god or…whatever it was, but she also knew that it hadn’t come from nowhere, that it had moved in to justify a whole lot of bad things. Tempting as it was to blame the way she’d been on the blood—the Hunt, the others called it—she knew she couldn’t. All it had done was give her an edge in what she’d wanted to do anyway.

But now it was gone. Well, not gone; she could still hear it on the edges if she let herself, and once she started letting herself hear it, it got a lot closer than that. It was one of the reasons she didn’t like being alone these days, the other being the endless months of isolation underground; when there weren’t other people around to focus on, the surging blood and choking mud competed for her attention. She didn’t want it back, though, that was the thing. It had been all she’d known for so long that she’d forgotten what she was like without it, but she wanted to learn.

She just needed to stop the shaking first.

Daisy’d seen her fair share of people coming down from highs and hangovers or going through withdrawal as they detoxed, so she knew what it looked like. She knew, too, how easy it was to nudge someone into breaking sobriety, even pushed a few over the edge so she could arrest them. Cut off enough avenues to go straight and the most well-intentioned ex-junkie would be right back at it. It shamed her, now, how many people she’d done that to, how many people would be productive members of society today if she hadn’t toyed with them. If this were a traditional detox, one of those twelve step program things, she’d have a long list of people for that eighth step.

Her mum had done it, she remembered. Or tried to, anyway. Couldn’t quite remember if it had been drugs or alcohol or both, she’d been a kid at the time, young enough that she was still Alice, but she vaguely remembered something about a car accident and an injured kid, and her grandfather saying something about how lucky she was the judge had given her a chance to get sober instead of throwing her in jail for the rest of her life. And to her credit, she’d tried. Made it more than halfway through the steps, even. But then she’d hit the stage where she was supposed to ask forgiveness, and she’d hit a wall. She’d ranted well into the night about how she’d done everything right, everything they asked her to, and still no one would accept her apologies, no one would forgive her. In the end, it had been too much, and she’d fallen off the wagon…and a rooftop.

Daisy had been Daisy by then, and old enough to be cynical. She’d decided apologizing was for weaklings, that nobody would forgive you no matter what you did, so it was better to just do things and live your life without worrying what other people thought of it. It hadn’t been until fairly recently that she’d even started thinking differently. Being buried with loads of time to think had started it, but a couple weeks back, just out of curiosity, she’d looked up the twelve steps. Most of it was bullshit—Daisy had never believed in a benevolent God and sure as hell hadn’t experienced anything in the last few years that would change her mind—but it was the ninth step, the one her mum had stumbled over, that had caught her attention. It referred back to the list you were supposed to have made of the people you’d hurt while you were in the throes of your addiction: Made direct amends to such people wherever possible, except when to do so would injure them or others.

Make amends. Not ask forgiveness. In fact, forgiveness wasn’t mentioned once in any of the steps. Which made sense, Daisy guessed. Recovery was supposed to be about you, not about other people. You recovered by fixing what you’d done wrong, not by asking other people to let it go.

What was it Martin had said when she was interviewing him—interrogating him really—after the old man’s murder…had it only been a year ago? We both need to learn how to do it on our own terms or it’s never going to stick. She hadn’t really known what he was talking about then, but she sure as hell did now. Martin was right.

Only she hadn’t learned, and now the person she’d been relying on was somewhere she couldn’t get at her, and Daisy was afraid. Afraid she’d missed her only chance to get right. Afraid of what she was becoming, could become, might not be able to stop herself from being. Afraid there wasn’t anything to her other than the Hunt. Afraid the only way out of this was death.

Afraid she would never see Basira while she was her own woman again.

She’d spent most of the first week roaming the Institute looking for Basira, after Tim had come back down from her office perplexed and worried and said he couldn’t seem to find her. Daisy had been sure she would have better luck—after all, she knew Basira better, and surely Basira would want to see her—but it hadn’t happened and she’d had a little bit of an internal breakdown over it. Martin had finally been the one to find her, but he hadn’t been very encouraging or forthcoming about it, had only said that he let her know Daisy was back. Daisy had tried again, not as often but at least every other day, since that point, and had been increasingly more distressed and heartbroken that she kept avoiding her.

But Tim had come in that morning and said, rather cryptically, that he thought she might have better luck today, and Martin had given her a few tips, and the long and the short of it was that here she was, lurking in a back corridor and waiting.

She closed her eyes and tried to follow Martin’s instructions: to focus on the moments with Basira that had made them close. Riding together in the patrol car. Going out for drinks. Their official Section Thirty-One case prior to the Institute. The lift to Basira’s chin, the pride on her face, when Daisy got promoted to CID. The smirk and the roll of her eyes when Daisy tried to get her to listen to the Archers with her. The first time she’d come over to Daisy’s flat and taken her headscarf off. She didn’t really want to, but she made herself add the moment in the clearing when Basira had stopped her from outright murdering Jon—the moment Basira had given up on walking away from all this bullshit and sacrificed herself for Daisy’s sake. There would have been no going back for her if she’d killed Jon in that moment, and somehow, Basira had known, had saved her. Daisy had to do the same.

Wait. Were those footsteps?

Something in Daisy’s chest warmed, ever so slightly, the way it always did when Basira was nearby. She drew in a quick breath, let it out in a slow, silent exhale, and stepped out into the corridor.

“Hey,” she said.

Basira stood in front of her, stock still, her expression totally flat and emotionless—she’d always been good at that blank, give-nothing-away stare, it made her a real pain in the ass to play poker with. Daisy, for her part, was shocked, and it probably showed on her face. Basira looked…desaturated was the only word she could come up with. Washed out. Like someone had applied a video filter to her that flipped her warm undertones to cool ones and lowered the contrast. Her eyes had gone dull, her skin had gone slightly ashen, and her hair had lost all its luster. That was the biggest shock—Daisy could see her hair. Or what was left of it, anyway. She’d hacked it into an Eton crop, short above her ears and slicked flat against her head, and she wasn’t wearing her headscarf. It wasn’t even hanging around her neck like it usually did when she pushed it back while they were relaxing; there was no sign of it anywhere. She wore the world’s most boring and inoffensive black pant suit and a pair of ballet flats that even Daisy could tell would barely make a sound under ordinary circumstances. How she’d heard her coming was anybody’s guess.

Maybe it was just that she’d wanted to hear her so badly.

“Daisy. Hi,” Basira said, her voice as flat and noncommittal as her face.

Daisy wrapped her arms around her chest, a bit self-consciously. A year ago she’d have been furious with herself for feeling this way, but…well, maybe she deserved it. “I…I haven’t seen you.”

“Yeah. Been busy.” Basira’s tone of voice never changed.

Which was fair, Daisy supposed. “Yeah, uh…working for Peter Lukas, right? That’s what…that’s what the others said.”

Basira shrugged. “Something like that, yeah.”

This conversation was like pulling teeth. Talking to Basira had never been so hard before. Daisy pushed ahead. “Are you…how have you been?”

“Fine. Busy,” Basira repeated. “Lots to do. Look, I’ve got to go.”

“W-wait.” Daisy took a hesitant step towards Basira. She wasn’t a small woman—at least she wasn’t short, she’d lost weight and muscle being buried but she was still six feet tall—but she felt shrunken, and Basira…well, Basira wasn’t exactly standing tall and proud, but she seemed somehow above Daisy. “I—I missed you, partner.”

“We’re not partners.” The words cut across the space like the throwing knives that were probably still locked in Daisy’s car, wherever it was. “Not anymore. We’re not even colleagues.” Basira took a step to the side, very pointedly. “I have to go.”

Something akin to panic was starting to rise in Daisy’s words. Basira didn’t sound cold. Daisy could have dealt with cold, cruel, any of it. She just sounded…flat. Neutral. She wasn’t trying to be hurtful, she was just stating a fact. They weren’t partners, they weren’t colleagues, they weren’t anything. Simple, logical fact.

“We used to be,” she said, struggling to keep her voice calm and under control, but the shaking was obvious. “Look—I’m not, I won’t get in your way, I just…missed you. I, I wanted to see for myself you were okay.”

Basira shrugged. “You can see that I am.”

“You’re—” She wasn’t okay. She was so obviously not okay. Daisy struggled to explain it. Finally, she just gestured at Basira’s head helplessly. “Your scarf?”

“Don’t need it. Who is there to care?” Basira twisted slightly to slip past Daisy and continue down the corridor. “Good to see you again, Daisy.”

“Basira—” Daisy began desperately, turning to follow her, and then stopped. The corridor was empty. The tiny flicker of warmth in her chest was gone. Basira had vanished.

Daisy stood alone in the empty corridor, staring at the spot where Basira should have been, her thoughts whirling in a thousand different directions. She’d asked Basira once, after she’d taken her truncheon to the skull of a bastard who’d called her a particularly vile slur, why she still wore the headscarf if she wasn’t religious; that had been one of the first things they’d learned about each other, back when they were still PCs Tonner and Hussain, that they were both atheists, and Daisy just hadn’t ever asked about the scarf until then. Basira had stared out the window of the patrol car for a few minutes, then admitted it was for her dad.

He was a real man of faith, my dad, she’d said quietly. Real big on the teachings of Allah and Muhammad and the lot of it. All that sort of thing was important to him. I don’t worry about most of it, like the praying and the not drinking and all that, but the whole thing about keeping part of yourself hidden and secret except around people who really deserve it…yeah, I’ll do that for him.

Daisy’s dad had been murdered when she was young, and her grandparents had both died when their house burned down inexplicably not long after she got her first Section Thirty-One, so she’d empathized with Basira for losing her own dad, assuming that, like Daisy, she was alone in the world. It hadn’t been until a lot later when she’d been on a totally unrelated case and met a young woman with Basira’s eyes who’d turned out to be her baby sister that she’d learned Basira actually had an enormous, sprawling family spread out over the greater London area, she just wasn’t in contact with any of them—Fariha al-Amin had been shocked to learn Basira was a cop. It was Basira’s choice…she thought…but it was still a bit of a shock to learn that she didn’t have to be alone. Or that her scarf didn’t have to be her last connection to the father she’d obviously loved.

Who is there to care? Well, statistically, a lot of people; it wasn’t very likely Basira’s entire family was gone now, and they’d all seemed pretty religious, so they’d be scandalized and heartbroken if they found out she was discarding the last of her outward signs of faith. They probably thought about her and prayed for her anyway, even if she didn’t acknowledge them or think there was anything listening to those prayers. But also…Basira cared. It was why she’d worn it in the first place. If she’d stopped caring…

If she’d stopped caring, then she was losing herself, too.

Daisy shivered. The blood sang to her, tempting her, telling her that it would give her the edge she needed, oh yes, let her sense, let her scent, help her to find Basira again and force her to stay, if only she would just let it…and on the other side was the rattle of falling dirt and the gurgle of rising mud and the choking, suffocating coldness and the pressure, the pressing on all sides, the feeling of being down, of being trapped, there isn’t even an up…

“Daisy, breathe.”

Martin’s voice cut through the voices and the pressure and she took a deep breath, then another. Some of the tightness eased back and she looked up to see Martin, his face creased in concern, standing a few feet away and holding out his hand—not touching her, just waiting for her. “Come on. Let’s head back down to the Archives, yeah?”

Slowly, hesitantly, Daisy reached out and took Martin’s outstretched hand. She winced at the rough, mottled feel of the burn scar, but she let him guide her back to the main part of the Institute, down the three flights of stairs, and into the Archives. Once there, he simply ushered her straight into his office and handed her a cup of tea that was still warm. She wrapped both hands around it and tried not to shake.

Martin picked up another mug of tea and sat behind his desk, looking up at her seriously. “Did you find her?”

“Yeah,” Daisy said, her voice rough. “She’s…she’s not okay. She said she was, but…”

“I know. The Lonely has her pretty bad.” Martin sighed heavily. “I wish there was something I could do to get her out.”

“Can’t you?” Daisy meant it to sound challenging, but it just sounded plaintive.

Martin shook his head regretfully. “Not yet. Not without understanding what she’s doing for Peter Lukas. I can’t See how tightly she’s bound to it, so I don’t know if I can rip her away from it without hurting her. And honestly, if you couldn’t get her to step out of it, I doubt I could right now. Not without breaking something beyond repair.” He studied her seriously. “Do you want to talk about what happened?”

Daisy did. She really, really did. She nodded slowly. “Yeah. Can…can we do it on one of your tape recorders?”

Martin’s expression softened. He nodded. “Yeah, Daisy. We can absolutely do that.”

#ollie writes fanfic #to find promise of peace (and the solace of rest)#tma fanfic #the magnus archives #daisy tonner #basira hussain #martin blackwood #isolation #mention of being buried alive #implied/referenced police brutality #addiction #twelve-step programs #mention of death #mention of fire #religion #depression #temptation

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thatforgottenbasilisk · 3 months

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the unofficial adventures of the unofficial archive group chat

Chapter 1 (AO3)

Originally posted on 1/22/2024

Summary:

TIM TAM TOM: martin you do not owe him an apology

TIM TAM TOM: i think you promoted yourself to his best friend actually

sash (❁´◡`❁): He's going to be asking you out any day now

TIM TAM TOM: married within the year

sash (❁´◡`❁): However I wouldn't bring up spiders again with him he's got the 'intense arachnophobia' note on his employee file

mahtin: He showed you his file?

sash (❁´◡`❁): No

mahtin: Oh

OFFICIAL archive discord

#general

hibitchcus flower just slid into the server.

hibitchcus flower just changed their nickname to TIM TAM TOM

Turbo nerd as in the movie joined the party.

TIM TAM TOM just changed Turbo nerd as in the movie's nickname to sash (❁´◡`❁)

sash (❁´◡`❁): Acceptable only because of the kaomoji

Good to see you, Blackwood, Martin

TIM TAM TOM: ugh god marto please tell me you just made that account 5 minutes ago

Blackwood, Martin: I'm sorry I've literally never heard of Discord!!

sash (❁´◡`❁): Give him a break he probably thought it was an official work thing

sash (❁´◡`❁): Directly affiliated with the Magnus Institute, London

TIM TAM TOM: please sash no jon references this early in the morning

Blackwood, Martin: It's 11:30?

TIM TAM TOM: if it's the AM it's too early in the morning

sash (❁´◡`❁): You voluntarily wake up at six, don't act like you're one of us

Blackwood, Martin: You're a morning person?

sash (❁´◡`❁): He goes to bed no later than 10 pm except for on special occasions

TIM TAM TOM: why would you call me out like this

TIM TAM TOM: im wounded

Blackwood, Martin: You should be

sash (❁´◡`❁): You should be

TIM TAM TOM: youre ganging up on me already i see how it is

TIM TAM TOM: also your name is giving me hives

TIM TAM TOM just changed Blackwood, Martin's nickname to MARTY PARTY

MARTY PARTY: Now I'm getting hives

sash (❁´◡`❁): You can change it in the top left corner

MARTY PARTY: Thank you!!

MARTY PARTY just changed their nickname to mahtin

mahtin: There, more acceptable

TIM TAM TOM: what did i JUST say about jon references

mahtin: You don't pronounce the 'r' in my name either? Nobody does? This is London?

TIM TAM TOM: yeah but jon is the most intense about it

sash (❁´◡`❁): MAHTIN YOU FORMATTED THIS INCORRECTLY!! JAIL FOR A THOUSAND YEARS!!

TIM TAM TOM: MAHTIN THE STANDARD WAY THAT WE FORMAT THINGS HERE HAS TWELVE-POINT FONT, NOT ELEVEN!

sash (❁´◡`❁): MAHTIN I DO NOT CARE IF YOU HAVENT DONE A REPORT LIKE THIS SINCE YOUR MASTER'S THAT YOU GOT TEN YEARS AGO! I'M GOING TO BE A BITCH ABOUT IT ANYWAY!

TIM TAM TOM: MAHTIN!

sash (❁´◡`❁): MAHTIN!

mahtin: I mean, to be fair, I truly haven't got a clue on how to do half these reports and follow-ups

mahtin: It's been too long since I've done anything outside of, you know, Library Things

mahtin: I don't blame him for being frustrated sometimes

TIM TAM TOM: once you get used to it its not hard at all

TIM TAM TOM: esp since you did it in uni all u gotta do is dust off them memoreez

sash (❁´◡`❁): Jon is unecessarily dramatic and mean about it though

TIM TAM TOM: ^^

sash (❁´◡`❁): He's like that with most things, though, so it's fine

sash (❁´◡`❁): He doesn't mean anything personal by it

TIM TAM TOM: we only bully him a little bit for it

mahtin: ah

sash (❁´◡`❁): ... 'ah?'

TIM TAM TOM: ??

mahtin: I see

mahtin: I may owe him an apology?

sash (❁´◡`❁): You what

TIM TAM TOM: im torn

TIM TAM TOM: on the one hand hell yeah lets go marto my man

TIM TAM TOM: on the other hand jon? is he okay? did you actually hurt his feelings ? the only reason hes not in the discord is bc hes fucking insufferable rn and also bc electronics dont like him-

mahtin: I could tell you what I did? To make you not torn?

TIM TAM TOM: no

mahtin: Well I'm going to say it anyway to determine if an apology is in order

sash (❁´◡`❁): Yes go ahead don't let Tim convince you otherwise

mahtin: Well

mahtin: I may have started a bit of a fight with him?

mahtin: Might have implied that he didn't pay attention in Uni?

mahtin: I was completely pulling it out of my arse but I was tired of being corrected on a bunch of little things like I'm SORRY it's been over TEN YEARS since I did ANY education

mahtin: So I dug in my heels on some inane little thing and now it's kind of. On sight

mahtin: This has been going on for a few days now? I'm surprised nobody picked up on it honestly

mahtin: I mean who has an argument about spiders? Even most arachnophobes agree that the jumping ones are cute! They're small and fuzzy what's not to love!

TIM TAM TOM: martin you do not owe him an apology

TIM TAM TOM: i think you promoted yourself to his best friend actually

sash (❁´◡`❁): He's going to be asking you out any day now

TIM TAM TOM: married within the year

sash (❁´◡`❁): However I wouldn't bring up spiders again with him he's got the 'intense arachnophobia' note on his employee file

mahtin: He showed you his file?

sash (❁´◡`❁): No

mahtin: Oh

TIM TAM TOM: if sash says dont bring something up w someone it means she hacked into somewhere she shouldnt and saw things nobody wanted her to see

TIM TAM TOM: she does that with everyone btw

sash (❁´◡`❁): It's easier to just look at the 'phobia' part than dance around like "hey, most people at the Fear Research Institute are absolutely fucking terrified of something, which club are you in? what should I not talk about with you?"

sash (❁´◡`❁): It's EFFICIENT and not personal information in the FEAR RESEARCH INSTITUTE it's basically an icebreaker question in Artifact Storage

sash (❁´◡`❁): For example

sash (❁´◡`❁): No clowns or mannequins with Tim

TIM TAM TOM: or creepy dolls

sash (❁´◡`❁): Or creepy dolls

sash (❁´◡`❁): I'm fine with pretty much anything in all honesty but I'll let you know if that changes

mahtin: Does my file say anything? I don't remember what I said my fear was

sash (❁´◡`❁): Yours was something existential like 'loneliness' or something like that

sash (❁´◡`❁): I don't tend to get that deep with my coworkers so if it's not going to come up in conversation I don't put in as much effort to remember it

mahtin: ... Interesting

mahtin: I don't remember what I said my fear was but I'm fairly certain it was something concrete

mahtin: Might've been snakes? I used to be scared of snakes for a while

mahtin: Then I got a part time job at a pet store for some extra money and their snakes were cool so no more of that

mahtin: But I was only asked the fear question once? During my interview?

sash (❁´◡`❁): ... Weird

TIM TAM TOM: ... indeed

#tma #tma fic #my writing #the unofficial adventures of the unofficial archive group chat #the unofficial adventures of the unofficial archive group chat fic

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theskywaslookingback · 3 years

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2020 is almost over and I just wanted to share some of my favorite lines from fics that I’ve worked on this year. No particular order because I’m bad about remembering when I started and finished a piece.

Jon’s flat is cold and musty. It’s obvious from the moment they step inside that it hasn’t been occupied in some time. The curtains are pulled tight over the windows, the light from the street peeking around the edges with a hazy yellow hue. Dishes have been left in the dry rack, a mug on the counter containing something that might have once been tea. It’s stifling in its bareness, empty walls and heavy bookshelves. The only point of warmth comes from two hands clasped together in desperation. - doubt, these are the ways that i love you series

Jon wants to pull him closer, let Martin crawl into the skin of him until they are not two but one and Martin never feels lonely again. - doubt, these are the ways that i love you series

“It’s just Daisy,” Jon says, “she’s not- she won’t hurt us.” The end lilts upward like a question. Light roves under his clothes, the cloth wrapped snugly around his face. All of his eyes flickering back and forth between hunter and lover. Each time they land on her it feels like a blade. It feels like a kiss. - home and safety, apocalypse now series

“Love you,” Gerry breathes, because he can. He’s too full of it to hold it inside of himself anymore. He always has been. - 3AM, visible world series

“If I step on your foot,” Martin says tightly. “I’ll step on yours back, Blackwood.” Laughter crashes out of him like a battering ram and Martin presses closer, pulls Gerry in tighter and lets himself be guided around the kitchen in clumsy circles. - Summer Air, visible world series

“You know, you could just go to a salon.” Jon says, but he’s already standing and reaching for the box. “This is cheaper.” “I know. You can tell.” “Hey--” -6PM, Saturday Night, visible world series

“Jon, no person’s desires are consistent from day to day. You’re always allowed to change your mind.” “But even I don’t always know,” Jon says thickly, “that’s-- you’ll get tired of it. Or Gerry will. And I’ll be--” “Stop that.” Martin says, but it doesn’t feel like an admonishment. Like everything about Martin it sounds kind and measured. “You are so, so hard on yourself, you know that?” Jon knows. “Yes.” “Love is not easy,” Martin says, “especially for people like us. We’ve had to work for this, all three of us, every day of our lives. I’m not going to get tired of you. I’m not going to be upset if boundaries change. I’m just going to learn the new rules, over and over, as many times as are needed.” Martin drops down to press their foreheads together and Jon feels his eyes close involuntarily. “I love you. I choose to love you, and I will continue choosing to love you every day for the rest of my life. Okay?” - Abrupt, visible world series

There is something between Gerry and Martin that Jon doesn’t understand, though not for lack of trying. He can see it now, in the tremble of Martin’s jaw and sudden sober wakefulness on Gerry’s face. He tries not to feel that familiar awkward ache in his chest that reminds him there will always be things about his partners that he doesn’t understand. - Intimacy, visible world series

“Why?” Jon asks. It sounds startled out of him, like the abrupt firing of a gun. The tape crackles in Jon’s hand, growling like an aching, hungry stomach. “I mean, why do you care?” He doesn’t sound accusatory or angry, just curious. ‘ I don’t ,’ is what Tim wants to say. It’s what he means to say. But instead his stomach swoops and the words tumble from his mouth, unwanted and unbidden but true, “You’re all I have left.” Jon’s mouth does something funny, trembling into an ‘o’. He fumbles for words, though nothing comes out but vague stammering noises. Tim snarls and grabs him by the shirt, twisting his hand in the fabric and pulling hard until Jon meets him chest to chest. “Do not do that to me ever again.” “I-I didn’t mean to--” “ Don’t. ” - litany (in which certain things are crossed out)

She’d gone out for lunch an hour ago on her own. It felt like a test, the gnawing hunger in her blood versus her will to make it be still, no one there to hold her accountable except for her own desire to be better. It was alright, fine. She’d gotten a sandwich at the cafe and impulsively ordered a salad to take back to the Institute for Sims. God knew he’d never remember to eat if she didn’t remind him. - Days Before; Unwinding, chaper one

She can feel his mouth against her neck, lips wet as he tries to speak. She holds him tighter, feels his fingers dig into the fabric of her shirt. “Shhh,” she rumbles and feels him sigh. “I know. Be still.” She slides a hand into his hair, rubbing fingers against his scalp the way her mother did for her after nightmares as a child. His breath hitches and she knows he’s crying, silently in a way that makes her wonder when he’d learned to quiet his own sadness. “I’ve got it, I’ve got you.” - Days Before; Unwinding, chapter one

Tim gestures at the piles of research vaguely, almost spilling coffee over his hand. Jon takes his mug. “Is that not why I’m here?” “Is it?” Tim gins, raising an eyebrow. “Sure there’s no other reason? A little Netflix and chill?” He’s joking, of course, he knows Jon has never expressed any interest in him in that way. Just a harmless flirtation, meant only to bring a little bit of heat to Jon’s face and neck. And that it does, the tips of his ears burning a ruddy red at the implication. “Tim-” - Days Before; Unwinding, chapter two

Gerry traces a finger over the constellation of freckles along Martin’s shoulder, up the side of his neck, almost light enough to tickle. He’s named some of the constellations before, called them things like Orpheus or Ariadne, pressing kissing into the bare skin until Martin giggles and presses him gently away. - Lazy Sunday Morning, visible world series

“I’m taking you to the doctor. Is the oven already off?” “Yeah, it– yes.” “Okay, just hang on to my shoulders.” “If you drop me–” “I can carry Martin,” Gerry says, hoisting Jon up from the ground, “you think I’m going to drop you?” Jon grumbles but presses his face into Gerry’s shoulder. - prompts, visible world series

Helen…is. At least it thinks so. Any state of being is complicated, as they were never meant to be a being. Helen was, and then very quickly and unceremoniously and all at once Helen was not. And they were Helen, and Helen was them. So, Helen was, and Helen is. The Archivist is, certainly. He’s pretending not to see, keeping his two front eyes shut in her hallways but all the rest of them creak open with curiosity. He follows her with his eyes closed, his hand outstretched to feel the bend and pulse of the wall. The way it shrinks and expands, undulating like an intestine. She wonders if he knows it is feeding on him. Not much. Not enough. But it is, it does. She does. [...] (The thing they were before was never any of that, because it never had to be. It was twisting lines, curving shadows, spirals and fractals. Being hurt. Becoming hurt. And it had turned that hurt on Michael, who had not always been anger and fear and sharp stark lines. And it would turn that hurt on Helen. But not yet. Not yet.) - prompts

When Jon makes his way back into the sitting room Martin is crouched in front of the radiator and frowning, the sleeves of his button down shirt rolled up to show the light brown skin of his forearm. He has a birthmark on his left arm, nestled next to the crease where his arm bends, a dark spot like a smudge of dirt that Jon wants to press his mouth to. - hands, unfinished

Martin appears a minute later from the bedroom and takes his tea with a grateful little thanks before taking a sip and making a face. “Tea is tea.” Jon mumbles. “I’m not sure this still qualifies.” Martin says but drinks it anyway. - hands, unfinished

Martin’s hands are large and strong and lovely. Jon’s breath catches when Martin’s arm curls around his waist and he’s pulled back against Martin’s chest. He can feel Martin’s heart beating against his back, thudding almost as loud and hard as his own. Martin’s fingers settle over his stomach, splaying out. Jon thinks his hand could almost cover it completely and it sets off another round of shivering in him that has nothing at all to do with the cold. “Alright?” Martin whispers. “Yes.” “You’re shaking.” “I’m-- it’s cold, Martin.” Martin hums thoughtfully and lets go of Jon for just a moment, long enough to pull the duvet up higher around them before settling his hand back against Jon’s stomach. Jon curls his own hands in front of his face and grabs the blanket so hard his knuckles ache. - hands, unfinished

Jon hums in agreement, closing his book without bothering to mark the page. He starts to stand and has a sudden thought, freezing half in place, “Do I— do you want me to—?” He gestures vaguely at the hall, where the single bed lies unmade, and then down at the settee. Last night had been...well, wonderful; but it had mostly been a necessity. Now, with the radiator half-working, warming the bones of the cottage, they could theoretically get through the night alone without freezing half to death. He sits back down on the settee rather heavily and it knocks their legs together, though Martin doesn’t seem to notice. Martin’s brows scrunch together and Jon has to fight the urge to smooth the skin back down with his thumbs. “Do I want what?” Me, Jon thought. He huffed out a sharp breath through his nose. “Do you want— do you want to sleep alone?” - hands, unfinished

“Thank you,” Jon says, his throat and eyes burning with unshed tears, “for having loved me.” Martin’s eyebrows furrow down and his hand comes up to brush Jon’s cheek. His fingers come away wet and Jon knows he’s lost. “Jon?” “It’s okay,” Jon says, even though it’s not. Even though his chest is painfully tight and he no longer knows how to breathe. “It’s okay.” “Jon what- oh. Oh…” Martin’s hands are so lovely and warm and real, one pressed to his face, his chest, his neck. “I did love you,” he says and Jon’s eyes close. There are lips, chapped from the cold and wind, pressed to his forehead. “I did,” Martin murmurs, “I still do.” “How?” Jon breathes out, ragged, his hands reaching for Martin’s wrists with desperate strength. “How could I not?” - hands, unfinished

#my fic #jonmartin #jongerrymartin #these are the ways that i love you #visible world #prompts #((happy 2020 everyone maybe i'll get more done in 2021))

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fricklefracklefloof · 3 years

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Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: The Magnus Archives (Podcast) Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist & Tim Stoker, Sasha James & Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, minor Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist - Relationship Characters: Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Tim Stoker (The Magnus Archives), Martin Blackwood, Sasha James Additional Tags: rated t for the word asshole, He/Him and They/Them Pronouns for Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, hehe i love how that is a tag :), aromantic!sasha, and bisexual tim and gay martin and biromantic sex repulsed ace jon you know the drill, martin is trans this is barely mentioned i just really need you to know, title has the name that it does because it reads as a pride fic, even though i did NOT write it in june., but it's pride all the time ok, when reading you are required to suspend your disbelief and pretend it's june with me, also @ alex and all my friends just starting out on tma: this fic contains no spoilers, minor acephobia, unintentional misgendering

It’s something that Jon usually keeps to himself.

It’s not that he’s not proud, or ashamed of it in any way, just… well, he’d really rather it not be a big deal. They know it’s a big deal for other people, and that’s fine, but it’s not for them, not really.

---

written for the @summer-in-the-archives-event in collaboration with the lovely @cobalt-knave , who made beautiful pride art that this fic is roughly inspired by :) go check it out, gay rights, it’s pride every day babey

#hgjngkdfjgndkjgnfgkjndfkjgn don't look at me yes i am posting.... Words.... Writign.....#go check out all the stuff in summer in the archives Right Now #the magnus archives #the magnus archives fanfiction #tma #tma fanfic #jonathan sims #tim stoker #sasha james #martin blackwood #ali writes #summer in the archives #shoutout to ari for introducing me to the magic of the ao3 share button because i'm an absolute idiot

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artificialdaydreamer · 3 years

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Is it bad to have some of chapter four of Selkie Childhood Friends written before I finish chapter three? Maybe if I share it here it’s less bad?

“Jon, you didn’t tell me your husband was starting work today.” Glancing up from their computer Jon frowned at Tim, who hovered over them with a wide smile on his face.

“I’m not married, Tim.” After having been coworkers for the past three years Jon would have thought that this was common knowledge. They’d technically owned an engagement ring once, had even given it to someone else, but at the time they hadn’t known what it was. Their cheeks felt warm just remembering that day.

“Oh, a relative then? You don’t look alike.” Glancing at the door Tim’s smirk didn’t waver.

“What are you talking about?” Normally Jon wouldn’t mind Tim’s shenanigans, especially when they had to do with making Elias’ life a living hell. The man might have been one of the library’s biggest donors but he was still an asshole. That being said, Jon did not enjoy being the target of his mischief.

“I’m just talking about our newest coworker, he shares the same last name as you and I figured it was too much of a coincidence that there are two Blackwoods in the same library.” Jon tuned Tim out after that, a chill having gone down their spine as the meaning of his words sank in. Someone else with the last name Blackwood was working here? Maybe Tim was right, it was a strange coincidence, especially considering that Jon had named themself after someone else. Someone they’d met in this very town.

“Martin?” Their voice was a whisper, barely audible, but somehow Tim managed to hear them.

“You do know him then?” Jon couldn’t manage a response, their heart was pounding so loudly it drowned out all other sound. Martin was back? Martin was here, in the library? Jon wasn’t ready. They needed time to prepare themself to figure out just how to react to seeing Martin again after fifteen years of being apart.

“I have to go.” Hastily stuffing their laptop into their bag Jon grabbed their coat and headed for the door before stopping and peering around the corner cautiously.

“Are you alright?” Sasha piped up for the first time, Jon had almost forgotten she was there. “You look like you’re going to be sick.” She wasn’t wrong, they felt like they might faint before they made it out of the library. The coast appeared to be clear, and Jon ducked out of the office and made their way towards the side entrance, the one that was locked from the outside and only used by staff.

“-do my best, Ms. Robinson.” Stopping in their tracks Jon glanced down the row of shelves where the voice had come from. Almost against their will Jon got closer, using the shelves as cover while they tried to get a glimpse of the speaker. They caught a sliver of auburn curls from between the books. If this newcomer really was Jon’s Martin, back after being gone for fifteen years... Jon had to know, even if they didn’t meet just yet.

“Jonathan, quit lurking behind the cookbooks and greet the new hire.” Gertrude’s voice was stern, sending a shiver down Jon’s spine. They stepped out from their hiding place, staring at their shoes to avoid looking at either of them.

“Hello, Ms. Robinson.”

“Martin, this is Jonathan Blackwood.” Glancing up nervously Jon saw they’d been correct in their assumption. Martin hadn’t changed much, and yet he’d changed so much. He had the same curly ginger hair, the same round, freckled face, he even had the same habit of rubbing the back of his neck when he was nervous. Still, there was a sadness in his blue eyes that hadn’t been there when they’d been kids, even as those eyes lit up in surprise upon hearing Jon’s last name. “Jonathan, this is Martin Blackwood.”

Smiling awkwardly in a manner Jon recognized all too well Martin held out a large hand. “Blackwood, huh? It’s a small world after all.”

*Smaller than you think,* Jon thought, shaking Martin’s hand in return, not entirely sure what to say.

“Well, Jonathan, I’m Martin. I use he/him pronouns,”

“You can call me Jon, they/them pronouns.” Jon wasn’t sure what to say, they were delighted to see Martin again but they also realized that this was a Martin Blackwood they didn’t actually know. It had been fifteen years since they’d last seen each other, they’d spent barely a year together, and Jon had been a seal for practically all of it. The man before them was pretty much a stranger, and that knowledge hurt in a manner they couldn’t even begin to describe. Turning their attention to Gertrude they cleared their throat, which felt like something was stuck in it. “Ms. Robinson, I’m going home for the day. I’m not feeling well.” Without waiting for an answer Jon walked towards the exit as fast as they could, refusing to look behind them at where their childhood friend still stood.

#selkie childhood friends au

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beholdme · 3 years

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All the Many Shades of Gerry - Chapter 13

Chapters: 13/19

Fandom: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Gerard Keay/Jonathan “Jon” Sims | The Archivist, Martin Blackwood/Gerard Keay, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan “Jon” Sims | The Archivist, Gerard Keay/Jonathan “Jon” Sims | The Archivist

Characters: Martin Blackwood, Jonathan “Jon” Sims | The Archivist, Gerard Keay, Tim Stoker (The Magnus Archives), Sasha James, Gertrude Robinson, Elias Bouchard

Additional Tags: Alternate Universe, Library AU, Librarian Jon, Artist Gerry, Trans Male Character, Trans Martin Blackwood, Canon Asexual Character, Asexual Jonathan “Jon” Sims | The Archivist, Ace Subtype - Sex Positive, Polyamory, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Romantic Fluff, Falling In Love, Boys in Skirts, Kissing, Demisexual Gerard Keay, Minor Character Death, Past Character Death, Canon-Typical Child Neglect, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Flirting, Minor Jonathan “Jon” Sims | The Archivist/Tim Stoker, Adventures in Hair Dying, Happy Ending, Banter, Gerry has a lot of sass, Gerard Keay is Morticia Adams, Jon is a very grumpy Librarian, Martin adores them anyway.

Summary: In which Gerry is a kaleidoscope and Jon and Martin can’t help falling in love with him.

He happens to love them back.

Find it on Ao3

[1] [2] [3] [4] [5] [6] [7] [8] [9] [10] [11] [12]

If someone had asked Martin where he had least expected to be on the day after his thirtieth birthday, the veterinarian probably wouldn’t have been at the top of his list, but it definitely would have made the top ten.

Honestly, Martin didn’t think he had ever stepped foot into a vet clinic before in his life. He had never owned so much as a pet hamster, and now here he stood, clutching a tiny ball of mewling fluff and trying not to get distracted by the pet toys.

He felt positively inundated with new information on all sides. There were about a million different types of pet food lining the walls, and everything seemed to be a new bright colour to draw his distracted eyes. Warning signs that made very little sense to him filled the space, most memorably ‘Large birds must be kept leashed at all times inside the practice’, and ‘Reptiles need to be secured inside their travel enclosures.’

There was indeed an iguana in a massive glass enclosure sunning itself under a heat lamp, but it appeared to be a permanent resident, not a guest. Seemingly opposite to this was the massive tabby cat draped across the reception desk.

Martin begins to panic slightly.

He desperately wished he had allowed one of his lovers to accompany him, but he had sent Gerry back to bed to sleep and Jon had been shooed off to work, both quite thoroughly hung-over.

Now here he stands, alone with his new fluffy friend, and doesn't even know where to start. Neither of his partners have ever actually had a kitten before, but at least they had both owned cats before.

Gerry had been adopted by Saturn as a full-grown boy when he arrived at the window of his shitty little flat in Edinburgh and demanded to be let in. Gerry had confessed to a romantic feeling of instant affection for the fluffy beast and had taken Saturn in without a moment’s hesitation. They had moved together as he traveled the country, eventually settling together in London, where he had found Jon again.

Jon had been raised with several cats that had all been born before him and had liked them, but he had told Martin once that he heavily associated cats with his Grandmother and his slightly cold upbringing. That was all the pet experience he had until he met Saturn and fell in love with him as easily as they’d both fallen in love with Gerry. Like goth, like feline companion, apparently.

Nevertheless, Saturn did not appreciate being taken to the vet and had never gone once since Martin had met him.

"Can I help you, sir?" A kind-looking older lady sat at reception, and she beaconed Martin forward gently.

"I- I-" He started, stuttering badly. He closed his eyes and shook himself to dispel the unfortunate remnant of his childhood. “I found this kitten, and I was hoping the vet could check on it for me?”

“And will you be wanting to surrender it into our care?” She asks, tapping away at her keyboard.

“What?” Martin shies away, pulling the cat protectively even closer to his chest.

“You’re more than welcome to keep it, but we do also take in strays if you aren’t able to.” She smiles at him soothingly.

“Oh, I want to keep her please.” Martin flushes a bit. “I already gave her a name.”

The woman smiles at him knowingly. “The vet can see you in 15 minutes then.”

She takes his contact information, and they weigh Martin’s new friend. She guesses the kitten's age to be about 2 weeks and sends him off to sit close to the iguana.

An hour later, Martin stumbles out the door, armed with more supplies than he could ever have imagined he needed to raise one small animal. His head is spinning, alternating between fond adoration and complete anxiety over this new task that he has given himself. Luna meows at him supportively, happy to be clean and have a full belly.

Out on the street, he finds Jon. It’s raining slightly, and he’s wrapped in a long peacoat, with a scarf Martin is certain was once his.

“What are you doing here?” Martin demands, shocked. He stumbles over to his partner, and Jon reaches out to steady him. “I thought you were at the library."

Jon presses a quick kiss to his shocked mouth, before taking several things out of his overcrowded arms.

"I know you said that you were going to do this on your own, but I wanted to be nearby in case you needed me, so I called off." He shrugs a bit, "I reckoned that I had earned it, what with all the overtime I work and don't get paid for."

Martin is filled with warmth, eyes welling a bit. "Oh, Jon."

"Oh no, don't cry. I'm sorry." Jon's face pinches in concern. "I can go if you want me to."

"No, I'm so happy you're here. I was just wishing for you, and there you were. Thank you." Martin steps towards him as best he can, and they kiss softly for a few moments, out in the rain.

In time, the kitten, haphazardly clutched to Martin's chest, makes her displeasure at the soggy conditions known. Gripping hands tightly, Jon and Martin set off towards the bookstore, just a couple blocks over.

It’s quiet when they arrive, the morning pre-work rush over, and the student and lunch crowds far off yet. The two baristas and Tim descend upon them immediately when they see the small head poking out of Martin’s coat. There is much cooing and fuss over Luna, and Martin recounts the tale of discovering her in the back alley of Gerry’s bar.

Once they return to work, Jon and Martin settle on one of the sofas, a coffee table before them. They make up a small cat bed, which Luna explores for a few moments, before sitting at the edge and staring at Martin imploringly. He scopes her up and plops her inside, before placing the tiny bed right in his lap. She happily passes out after that, the wild adventures of the morning catching up with her little kitten body.

Deciding to truly have the day off, Jon does not take out his laptop and start working on it, instead ordering their tea, picking a book to read from the store, and bringing it all over to settle with his partner.

“Thank you for coming,” Martin tells him, a soft look on his face. He leans an elbow on the back of the couch, head resting on his fist. “I didn’t even realise how much I needed you until I saw you there.”

“I know,” Jon starts, frowning in concentration, “that I’m not always the best at sensing these things, that sometimes I can be too focused on myself and the things going on in my head. I do hope that I always manage to catch the important moments, and I trust that you’ll always let me know when I don’t.”

Jon pauses, and sighs, a self-deprecating smile lining his face. He continues, “I want to learn to be who you need me to be. I want to be for you, what you always are to me. I love you, Martin.”

“I love you too, Jon.” Martin squeezes Jon’s hand, before placing a sweet kiss in his palm. “You are exactly who I need you to be.”

It is a soft, hazy sort of day. The rain pours outside, and Jon lies against Martin and reads two books before lunchtime. Martin practices bottle-feeding Luna, every few hours, and Jon sits nearby watching nervously. He wonders vaguely if his partner is alarmed to be around an infant of any kind for a while, but on the third feeding, Jon seems to rouse himself and offers to give it a try.

Each time a new client comes in, there's a round of cooing and petting, and Martin worries that she’ll be spoiled rotten in no time. He imagines that if she spends much time here, he’ll have to sell cat treats and Luna will one day be as fat as a house.

At one point, Jon starts to read aloud, and Martin seems to fall asleep gently propped against his shoulder. He wakes to find Jon laughing softly and Luna learning to use him as a climbing frame.

"I think she likes you, love," Martin whispers into his hair.

"Well, I think I might like her too," Jon confesses, a world away from his scepticism of just this morning.

After lunchtime, Gerry flies into the store very manically, clutching a very strange backpack to his chest. It has a weird clear window, reminiscent of a ship’s porthole, and the rest of it is hard structured plastic.

He ducks down to kiss first Martin, then Jon, before thrusting the backpack into Martin's hands.

"What is this?" Martin asks, holding it away from himself as if it might bite.

"It's a cat backpack. Saturn has always preferred it to a normal cat basket, and I thought it might be useful if we need to take her to work with us and then back to various flats." Gerry walks around the table, bodily picking up Jon's legs and sitting beneath them. He looks like nothing so much as a large, damp bat, black trench coat flapping around him like over large wings. "I ordered her one of her own, but it won't be here for a few days, so I brought Saturn's in the meantime."

There's a beat of shocked silence, so Gerry adds, "Only if you want it, obviously."

"I- I do, thank you." Martin can feel himself blushing with odd pleasure.

He had made sure to ask them if they were okay with Martin keeping Luna, but he hadn't really expected them to embrace the situation with such gusto, and his heart burns with an odd intensity at their gestures of support.

It's almost-

It's almost like they love him, and care about all the things he cares about.

Martin sits, staring at a cat backpack, and allows the realisation to wash over him. It hits him like a tidal wave, despite the dozens and maybe hundreds of times they've said the words to him.

He feels very foolish, left floored by the fact that his lovers- well, that they love him!

Martin knows, understands even, that he has been left slightly broken by his father leaving, his mother hating him, the things that he chose to do to survive in his early adulthood. He does understand that, and yet he never realized that he was hearing Jon and Gerry say they love him and saying the words back, and yet subtly holding on to the (clearly mistaken) understanding that they don't really mean them.

It makes a sick kind of sense, clinging to the idea that they don't really care about him, so when they decide that they don't anymore, it doesn't leave him broken beyond repair.

Martin puts the cat bag down on the table, hands Luna to Gerry, and gets up. He waves at them reassuringly when they try to ask him what's wrong, before walking to the bathroom, locking the door, and sobbing like a child for several long moments.

As Luna grows, she spends time with each of them.

Gerry takes her most of the first nights, feeding her through the evenings and then handing her back to Martin as he leaves for the bookstore.

This means she spends quite a lot of her formative life in a bar, but when Martin goes in to check on them, he finds Gerry's plastered clientele just as enamored with the kitten as his own tea-drinking patrons.

Jon likes to have her in the late afternoons, keeping her at the library for a few sleepy hours before he leaves for the day. He tells Martin once that the children's reading group comes in during that time, and he likes to sit in with them and let Luna listen along.

The children, of course, adore her and Jon tells Martin very primly, "Listening comprehension is a very important skill in a developing infant."

Martin finds it hilarious and adorable and can't help but pull Jon into his arms and kiss him breathless, an unimpressed Luna trapped between them.

Saturn does not appreciate Luna at first, disappearing in a huff the first few times Martin brings her over to the studio.

"Don't worry about it, love." Gerry had waved away his concern casually. "He's just a jealous baby. He'll figure out that she wants to play with him eventually, and then they'll be the best of friends."

Indeed, Martin walks into the kitchen one morning to find the two cats curled together in a shaft of sunshine. Saturn is gently giving her a bath, and Luna purrs sweetly at the attention.

When Saturn notices him watching, he untangles himself, shows Martin his bum, and then disappears. He's reminded of nothing so much as Gerry himself, caught eating ice cream for breakfast, or smoking during the day, an activity he would insist is a nighttime pursuit only. The same drama is employed as a distraction technique, and Martin wonders whether the cat learnt it from the goth, or the goth learnt it from the cat.

Luna grows and settles, and Martin adores having her more than almost anything.

He takes the time, as they raise her, to force himself to accept his life for what it truly is. He puts aside the constant nagging fear that Jon and Gerry will lose interest in him one day and begins to notice all the ways they show him they love him, which makes the words all the more precious to him when they take the time to tell him.

#the magnus archives #jonathan sims #martin blackwood #gerry keay #jongerrymartin #fic #also on ao3

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haberdashing · 3 years

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i want you to straighten out my tomorrow (4/?)

The last thing Jon remembers is working into the night in the Archives in early 2016. Now he’s in a cabin in the middle of nowhere, Scotland, with Martin Blackwood as his only companion. Obviously Jon’s missed something along the way here…

Inspired by beloved of jon, though it can be read separately.

Chapter 1 / Chapter 2 / Chapter 3 / Chapter 4

on AO3

“It’s alright, Jon, it- it’s really not as bad as you seem to think-”

Jon closed his eyes as he pressed his hands against his face. “How bad is it, then? How much danger are we in? And we’re just- just sitting around talking, eating breakfast like nothing’s wrong-”

Jon’s voice started to quicken as his speech went on, his breaths quick and shallow. He was panicking, that much was clear, but he also didn’t especially see a reason to stop.

“Well, for one thing, odds are good nothing’s going to happen right this minute, we, we’ve been here for almost two weeks and nothing’s gone after us yet-”

“But something might go after us.” Jon couldn’t bring himself to unbury his head, to go back to looking Martin in the eye just yet. “Like Daisy.”

“Probably not Daisy, honestly. She was a hunter, yeah, but she was on our side. She, er-” Martin let out a strange sound somewhere between a wheeze and a laugh. “She was your friend, I think.”

“She tried to kill me, and now we’re friends?”

“That’s right, yeah. Trust me, it...” Another one of those strange sounds. “It seems odd to me, too. And it took some time.”

If Martin thought it was odd, and he was there, he remembered all of it happening... god, how much deeper did this rabbit hole go?

Jon opened a gap between two of his fingers just wide enough for him to be able to peek out, though he wasn’t sure if Martin noticed as much. “If not Daisy, who?”

“There’s the hunters I mentioned before. They came all the way from America to the Institute to go after you--you specifically, I mean. Actually, come to think of it, both of them come up in statements early enough you might know the names--Trevor Herbert and Julia Montauk ring a bell?”

Jon gave up all pretenses at hiding then, put his hands back down at his side so that he could more effectively stare at Martin in disbelief. “The vampire-hunting tramp and the serial killer’s daughter teamed up in America to become hunters that want to kill me?”

“Oh, you do remember them! That’s about the long and the short of it, yeah. Apparently you stole something from them after they kidnapped you?”

Jon’s mind was swimming again. If this was all a giant puzzle, evidently it had even more pieces than he had initially thought.

“Wait, Trevor Herbert... didn’t he die? I thought you said he died of lung cancer.”

“Oh god, not this again.” Martin muttered under his breath, the sound quiet enough that Jon wasn’t quite sure if he was meant to hear it.

“Again?” Jon repeated.

Martin’s face turned a bright pink. “This came up before once. I thought I’d heard that he’d died, but I must have mistaken, given that the guy’s still around... and, you know, out to kill you.”

Jon sighed, tempted to get in a dig about how Martin couldn’t even manage such basic research but instead only voicing a frustrated, “Great.”

“Though upside is, at least this time you’re not using that mistake as a reason to accuse me of murder.” Martin paused for a moment, and when he spoke up again, his words were softer, his voice subtly shaking. “You’re not accusing me of murder now, right?”

Jon nodded silently. He wasn’t sure how much he could trust Martin right now, whether his ramblings were haphazard lies or just flawed attempts at explaining a complicated truth, but even if he let his paranoia run wild, murder wasn’t on the list of misdeeds he could imagine of Martin at the moment.

“That’s... good. Certainly better than the alternative, anyway.” Martin let out a short bark of a laugh.

“Why did I think you killed someone, anyway?”

“Good question.” Martin laughed again, but there was no humor to the sound this time. “After I found Gertrude’s body, we weren’t sure who killed her, and you got all paranoid thinking someone you worked with was the killer, and that they’d be after you next. Which wasn’t entirely wrong, I guess, since Sasha’d just... gotten replaced.”

“Is that, that Not-Sasha thing the thing that killed Gertrude too, then?”

Martin shook his head, and Jon was struck by the sight of his wild red hair moving to and fro, how his streak of white strands mingled with the rest as it fell around his face. “No, that was... now, this might sound a bit crazy-”

“Because the rest of it hasn’t already.” Jon muttered in a low voice, more for his own benefit than for Martin’s.

Jon wasn’t sure whether Martin could make out what he had said, but he was greeted with a weary stare just the same. “-but I promise it’s true--Elias killed Gertrude.”

“Elias?” Jon furrowed his brow. “Why would he kill Gertrude Robinson?”

“Because she was planning on destroying the Archives, and him in the process. Almost self-defense, in a way, if you want to be generous towards him, which I really don’t.”

“Gertrude was the Head Archivist; why would she want to destroy the Archives?”

“Because they’re evil, Jon!” Martin threw his hands in the air. “Because we work for an evil organization dedicated to an evil fear power, and the Archives are the worst of it--well, besides Elias himself, anyway. On top of killing Gertrude, and then killing Leitner and framing you for it, he’s the one who made the Institute such a mess in the first place.”

Once again, Jon was finding a lot of information being thrown at him in a short period of time. Martin had mentioned Leitner before, but not that the man was dead, a murder Jon apparently was framed for--was that why he’d been “on the run” before, or was that a separate, equally-chaotic brush with the law?

(Also, some small, dark part of Jon that had hardened in place when he was eight years old was a little bitter that he wasn’t the reason Jurgen Leitner was now dead and buried.)

But that wasn’t what first came to mind when Jon opened his mouth to make a rebuttal, though whether he cared more about proving his knowledge or simply clarifying the situation Jon couldn’t say.

“From what I’ve seen, it sounds like the Institute was a mess well before Elias got a hold of it. If anything, Jonah Magnus should get the blame there.”

“Yeah, yeah he should, you’re not wrong! But the point’s moot, because Jonah Magnus is Elias.”

“...what?”

“He’s been, been swapping bodies or whatever for two centuries now, keeping a hold on his precious Institute.” Martin made a series of vague hand gestures to accompany his words, though their exact meaning eluded Jon. “Probably has some master plan involving the place. He was James Wright, too, and whoever was the Head before that, but now he’s Elias Bouchard. The whole Institute exists just to be some creepy monument to the Eye, to suck in power from his fear god.”

Jon’s head was starting to hurt something fierce, and as he realized one of the many implications of this latest tidbit of knowledge, his heart started to pound almost as fiercely as his head.

“...you said I have powers from the Eye, too, because I’m the head archivist. The same ‘fear god’ Elias has, according to you. Does that make me evil, then?”

Jon had hoped that Martin would eke out a quick “No,” maybe add in a bit of comforting reassurance, move on from the question quickly enough.

Instead, Martin hesitated for a long moment, and when he spoke up, it wasn’t to give Jon the simple “no” that he so dearly craved.

“I mean, not exactly, but... it’s complicated. You certainly can do evil things, or, or unnatural ones, with your powers--make people spill their deepest secrets, I think you cut off your finger once and it just grew right back?--but I know you try not to do that sort of thing... most of the time, anyway. You’re not just some amoral monster like Prentiss was when she attacked--I mean, obviously not, or else we’d be having a whole different conversation--but you’re also not... entirely human, thanks to your connection with the Eye. I wouldn’t say you’re evil, but the Eye is, and sometimes it’s hard to tell where you end and it begins.”

“...Christ.”

“Yeah, I know, this has to be a lot to take in, and I’m here to support you however you need me to...”

Jon looked around at his mostly-empty plate, at the dreary weather outside the window, at the safehouse and its thrown-together furniture and the half-done jigsaw puzzle on the far table, and his head swam as he tried to take it all in.

“Does that ‘support’ include you doing the dishes? I think I need a nap.”

Martin looked at Jon quizzically, though he obediently started clearing the table. “Jon, you just woke up.”

“Yes, and I’m going to take a nap now. I think I could use it; my head’s hurting pretty badly right now.” It wasn’t a lie, not exactly, but also Jon just wanted some time to himself, to think things through without Martin’s presence or input.

“Need a paracetamol? We’ve got a few in the bathroom cabinet.”

Jon noticed the way Martin casually, unblinkingly referred to the two of them as “we,” implying that their possessions were one and the same, but he didn’t have the mental energy to parse all the implications behind that single word right that moment.

“Maybe after my nap. We’ll see.”

“Alright then. Just... just come calling if you need anything, alright? I’m not going anywhere.” Martin shot Jon a weak smile as he finished that last sentence, and Jon wondered if there was something he was missing there, some inside joke or connection that was lost to him now.

“Will do.”

The bedroom was still small and awkwardly-decorated and the bed was still far too big for Jon alone, but as he lay there, trying his best to mentally put together the pieces to this convoluted puzzle, Jon was glad that he had some space to decompress on his own, tiny and awkward though that space might be.

#tma #tma au #tma fic #tma fanfic #the magnus archives #the magnus archives au #the magnus archives fic #the magnus archives fanfic #personal #my writing

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rest-upon-the-morning-light · 3 years

Text

JonMartin fic

So I’m trying to get back into fic writing, especially for TMA, and have a multi chapter fic planned but wanted to start with a smaller one shot style fic to warm up. It’s been an age since I’ve written anything, much less something that wasn’t just reader based or smut lmao. I’ve added trigger warnings but if I missed any do let me know!

Any feedback would be great and if you like this, please send me prompts! Happy to write anything from fluff to smut, just as long as its TMA based :D

So! Here is my cute fluff JonMartin fic! Enjoy~

Everybody Wants To Be A Cat

Word Count: 2240

Trigger Warnings: Mentions of Animal Abuse, but nothing to graphic. Anxiety. Self Worth Issues. Season 1 Jon being Season 1 Jon. Season 1 Martin being Season 1 Martin.

Fandom: The Magnus Archive

Pairings: Jonathan Sims/Martin Blackwood

Summary: Martin was certain of two things. One, he had an enormous crush on his boss. Two, his boss hated him. Who knew a one eyed beast of an alley cat would bring them closer?

Martin Blackwood has two problems.

Problem number one. He was absolutely certain he was more than a little bit in love with his boss.

Problem number two. His was absolutely certain said boss hated him.

Well, hated was probably a strong word. Hated implied that Jon thought of him at all, and it was far more likely that Jon thought of him very little throughout his day. Except, of course, when Martin did something wrong. Then those piercing eyes of his would be solely fixed on him whilst he shouted about how inept Martin was or how stupid his mistake had been.

It hurt, those moments. It hurt that the only time Jon ever truly seemed to see Martin was when he was angry at him. Not when Martin did an amazing follow up on a statement. Not when he’d created a great rapport with a statement giver or their family. Not when he brought Jon tea. Just when he did something wrong.

It was a running theme in this annoyance Martin called his life.

He still couldn’t help these feelings though. Jon was an arse half the time that much was true. It infuriated Tim to know end when Jon would lash out at Martin. “He has no right Martin. Mistake or not he’s your boss, he’s supposed to help you, not act like a massive dick all the time”

It was harder for Tim and Sasha in a way. They’d been Jon’s equal for a long time, working together. Moving to the Archive was always going to be a bit of a challenge. To have friend become boss. Especially for Sasha, who everyone thought was going to be become Head Archivist. But neither had held any real resentment over Jon for the change. After all, it wasn’t his choice, it was Elias’s.

But Jon’s sudden shift from rude but mostly recluse and occasionally friendly colleague to rude very recluse and stick constantly up arse boss was harder than any of them expected.

Martin could understand. It was big position and Jon seemed like the type to take everything he did very seriously. This meant holding everything in the archive to a high standard. His assistance included.

So yes, Jon was awful to him a lot of the time. But he was passionate. He cared. For all his blustering that none of this was real, Martin could see how much he empathised with the people who had given those statements. How he looked like he’d personally failed them when a follow up revealed they had died not longer after they’d come to visit the institute.

His crush probably wasn’t the most healthy but sue him! He liked being a bit in love. He liked having inspiration for his poetry. He enjoyed the fluttery feeling in his stomach when he came into work.

He just wished Jon didn’t quite hate. No. Didn’t quite dislike him so much.

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There is a cat that has been hiding the alleyway behind the Institute for several days now.

Martin noticed the poor thing when he’d been taking out some rubbish that accumulated in the Archive. Usually that sort of thing wasn’t his job, but he’d been done for the day anyway and he liked to be useful, even if no one really noticed.

It was a mangy young thing. Light brown fur matted, one eye seemed to be damaged and it hissed every time Martin so much as approached it.

He couldn’t just leave it though. Poor thing needed help. It was out here, lonely, forgotten, damaged by the people that probably at one point said they’d love and protect it.

Was he projecting onto a stray cat now? God this was a new level of sad.

So he did what someone in his position did best. He researched.

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

There is a surprising number of places to buy cat supplies near the Institute and the workers in the shop were incredibly helpful with his questions.

Approach slowly. Don’t try to touch or hold the cat. Leave out food and water. He’d also bought a small plastic hut and shoved a warm blanket inside for the large cat. He didn’t know what breed it was. Just that it was grumpy and hurt.

It didn’t take a great deal away from his own funds either. His job paid well enough and he didn’t exactly go out with people very often, buying expensive drinks or tickets to shows.

His special treat was usually some sugar drenched coffee.

He couldn’t see any physical injuries on the cat, apart from its eye, so he put some treats in the hut, left out the food and water, then left.

He came back everyday with more supplies to keep the large growling cat comfortable. Every day that passed the cat came a little bit closer to him. He grinned at that. Hoping one day it would come close enough to pet.

He’d read somewhere that when cats blink, once and slow, it was a sign that they trusted you. Martin waited for that day with bated breath.

Tim and Sasha were a little bit suspicious as to where he was going on his lunch breaks. He told them he just taking a long walk, getting some fresh air away from the dusty old archives but he knew it wasn’t the best lie.

Lying for the sake of his job was one thing. Lying to his friends for no good reason was another.

It wasn’t like he doing anything bad. It was more that he wanted this for himself. He wasn’t even too sure why. Part of him wondered if he was worried the cat would somehow take some natural liking to either one of them or both. He didn’t want to lose all his hard work.

Or, if he was being more honest with himself, he didn’t want the cat to abandon him for someone better.

Yeah. New level of pathetic had been reached.

But one lunch, a few weeks after he’d first spotted the broken but massive feline, that the lying and the ill feeling became absolutely worth it.

Because the cat approached him.

Martin didn’t move a single muscle. He was sat on a small wooden box in the alley. Far enough away as to not frighten the poor thing, but close enough that the cat could make contact if it wanted to.

And today it did.

He held his breath the closer it got, keeping eye contact with its good eye the whole time. It paused for a moment, right in the front of his bent legs, before it let out a small mirp noise and butted its head against his knee.

“Oh hello” Martin laughed, chest feeling lighter than it had in an exceptionally long time.

He reached out his hand slowly to pet its head and let out another sign of relief when the one eyed cat let him.

“Well” he began

“I can’t very well keep calling you cat or beast in my head, you’ll need a name”.

It didn’t acknowledge his words in any way, just continued to let him scratch behind its ears and watched him with its one working eye. He could almost imagine its thoughts.

“Silly Martin, just come up with one already. Stop wasting time”.

He let out a soft chuckle at the thought, a name ready on his lips.

“Jon” he smiled gently.

“I think I’ll call you Jon”.

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It went well after that. Martin made plans to keep the cat. It would help the dreariness of his lonely flat, and he was lucky his landlord allowed pets in his building.

He couldn’t afford proper insurance but the workers at the pet shop knew an emergency vet that wasn’t too expensive, so he could get Cat Jon’s eye checked out soon.

Giddy as he was with his newfound friend, he didn’t realise that he’d been less subtle than usual about where he was going on his break.

It was one grey, wet Wednesday that it all came to ahead.

He’d been sitting crossed legged on the ground, his coat below him as a sort of makeshift blanket to keep his trousers dry, when Human Jon found them.

He hadn’t even noticed Jon had followed him until the backdoor that led the alley burst open with a bang that echoed down the narrow way.

“Martin” shouted Jon, looking at some papers in his hand.

“I need you to take your lunch late and follow up on this report. You made several errors in your research that, frankly, a child could spot. I don’t know what you’re doing out here but if you have time to sit around then –“

Jon’s rant was cut short as he finally looked up to the picture that greeted him.

Cat Jon had leaped into his arms from the loud noise, clinging to Martin’s bright yellow sweater.

Martin froze, cat in arms as Jon stared at him with a look of equal shock.

“Oh” began Jon softly

“Sorry” Martin practically shouted.

“I – eh – this is, well um, a cat, I found? A few weeks ago, actually. I’ve been sort of taking care of it? Getting it food and water and um” he gestured to the plastic hut and blanket he’d laid out.

“He was hurt you see. Only one eye and really badly taken care of. Abandoned, I recon. So I’ve been out here on lunches making sure he’s, um, that he’s okay? Is that..is that alright?” he trailed off nervously.

He couldn’t look at Jon. It wasn’t exactly something to be ashamed of, taking care of a stray cat. But he could imagine Jon being the sort of serious no nonsense person who would see it as a waste of time, his lunch break or not. God would this make his relationship worse? Would Jon scold him for it? Did it make him seem more pathetic than before? Christ, was that even possible?

He didn’t notice the movement until Jon was sat beside him on the floor.

Jonathan Sims, Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute, sat on a dirty alley floor with Martin K Blackwood.

He watched with bated breath as Human Jon reached his hand out to Cat Jon and let out a small sound of relief when Cat Jon didn’t bite, scratch or run away.

“You poor thing” murmured Jon, eyes only on his (unknowing) cat counterpart.

“What have they done to you? Well, you look better now than you probably did before. Thank to our Martin here”.

Martin couldn’t help but blush deeply at that. Hot all over his face. He couldn’t handle this. Jon being all, all soft and gentle and calling him “our” Martin.

“You’ve been taking care of him then?” Jon looked up at Martin now. Eyes soft and kind for once. It nearly took all of Martins brain power to respond after receiving such a look.

“Yes” he began.

“Like I said, I found him a few weeks ago. Planning on taking him back to mine soon, get him out of the cold properly”.

Jon nodded, eyes never leaving Martins, hand firmly petting the cat in Martins arms.

“I’m sorry, about the work” Martin nervously bit his lip.

“I’ve been really worried about him so I rushed it to get out here on time. It’s no excuse and I know you don’t exactly think highly of my work in the first place. I’ll make sure I stay late tonight so I can catch up”

“Martin” interrupted Jon, eye straying on the bitten lip, a slight flush to his cheeks.

“I’m the one who should be sorry. I haven’t been fair to you these past few months. It’s been unprofessional at best and, well, and downright cruel at worst”

“Your job is stressful” Martin tried to defend

“And we both know I’m not exactly at the same standard at the others”

“Still” Jon continued.

“It’s my job to help you, not, berate you at every mistake. You came from the library, not research, so you have different skill set and – well, its been hard for us all. Not fair of me to put all that blame on you. God knows Tim could stand to be a bit more professional at times” Jon grumbled out the last part, a small pout to his lips.

Martin laughed at that, smiling wider than he could last remember.

“Tim just likes to keep you human, I think” he winked and watched with fascination as the flush came back to Jon’s dark cheeks.

Cat Jon leap out of his arms after that, toddling off to who knows where.

“Well” Martin began, getting up from his cross legged position on the floor.

“We still have time for lunch, we could, um, maybe eat together? If that’s okay I mean! You could help me figure out a name for him?” “You don’t have one already?” replied Jon, surprise in his voice “Uhhh not any suitable ones, no” Martin laughed awkwardly.

He couldn’t exactly say he’d name the poor blighter after Jon. He doubted Jon would take it as a compliment and he didn’t want to ruin whatever fragile peace they’d stumbled onto.

He held out his hand to help Jon off the floor. Jon eyed it, before bringing his own hand up and placing it into Martins larger ones. Martin pulled him up and held back a small gasp as Jon shot forward quicker than intended, his smaller hand landing on Martin chest.

Jon looked up at him, a small shy smile gracing his lips.

“Beautiful” Martin couldn’t help but think, face and ears bright red.

Jon pulled back, coughing every so slightly into his fist.

“Yes, well, I’ve named a cat or two in my time, it won’t be too hard” “Oh?” teased Martin

“What about Magnus? We did find him here” Jon shook his head at that, crinkling his nose slightly.

“Absolutely not, something more dignified. The Captain maybe?” “Captain?” countered Martin

“The Captain” continued Jon as they began to head back inside

“I suppose the one eye does give him a bit of a pirate look” Martin couldn’t help by laugh slightly as he said it.

“Yes” Jon laughed back

“Dignified but still fitting his nature” And off they went, back into the Institute. Unaware of any monstrous eyes watching them as they simply watched each other. A new, wonderful feeling developing between them.

Neither noticed that they still held each others hands as they made their way to the break room.

And if they spoke of cat names, and toys and flushed deeply when they did notice the hands still entwined, well.

Those moments were only for them.

#the magnus archives #tma #writing #fanfiction #jon and martin both project onto the same cat #cats just sat there like #pls someone fucking take me home #kiss already #jonmartin #god i love soft moments for them #hope you guys enjoy!#pls send me prompts they feed me #my writing

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eldritchteaparty · 3 years

Link

Chapters: 18/22 Fandom: The Magnus Archives (Podcast) Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist Characters: Martin Blackwood, Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Tim Stoker (The Magnus Archives), Sasha James, Rosie Zampano, Oliver Banks, Original Elias Bouchard, Peter Lukas, Annabelle Cane, Melanie King, Georgie Barker, Alice "Daisy" Tonner, Basira Hussain, Allan Schrieber Additional Tags: Post-Canon, Fix-It, Post-Canon Fix-It, Scars, Eventual Happy Ending, Fluff and Angst, I'll add characters and tags as they come up, Reference to injuries and blood, Character Death In Dream, Nudity (not sexual or graphic), Nightmares, Fighting, Spiders

Summary: Following the events of MAG 200, Jon and Martin find themselves in a dimension very much like the one they came from--with second chances and more time.

Chapter summary: Spiders. Also some unexpected information gives *some* of the archive staff renewed hope.

Chapter 18 of my post-canon fix-it is up! Read above at AO3 or read here below!

Tumblr master post with links to previous chapters is here.

***

“Martin.”

Martin lay in the bed, bleary eyed. Despite how early it had been, he’d fallen asleep almost as soon as he’d laid down after his conversation with Melanie in the hallway bath; he hadn’t even gotten undressed, just crawled under the covers in his clothes. He stayed still, not sure if he’d actually heard Jon say his name or if he had imagined it.

“Martin,” Jon said again, and this time he knew it was real.

“Jon?”

“I need you to listen to me.”

“What are you doing? Why are you—” Jon sounded like he was somewhere near the bedroom door, and Martin couldn’t see a thing. “Turn on the light.” He started to sit up.

“Wait.” Martin froze. Jon had an edge of concern in his voice that made Martin much more nervous than if he were yelling. “Don’t—don’t move. Just listen.”

“Jon, what’s going on?”

“I—I’d rather not say just yet. It’s probably fine.”

“Oh, god damn it. Can you—can you at least—” He sputtered out. Arguing would make this take longer, and that didn’t seem like a good idea.

“You’ll—you’ll be fine. I’m being cautious. Will you trust me?”

“I—do I have a choice?”

Do I ever have a choice?, he thought, but didn’t say out loud.

Jon sighed. “Yes. If you need me to tell you, I will, but—yes.”

Oh. Martin hadn’t expected that answer, and somehow it made not knowing easier. “It’s fine. I trust you.” He knew it came out sulky, like a child agreeing to a chore, but that was the best he could do in the moment.

“All right. Move to my side of the bed, but—stay under the covers.”

“Jesus.” Martin slowly and cautiously did as Jon said, half expecting to make contact with something in the dark, or to feel a weight on the bed, but there was nothing.

“Now—put your feet on the floor. Try not to move the covers too much.”

He swung his feet around under the blankets, slipping them out until he was sitting on the edge of the bed. He kept his hands in the air, not wanting to touch the quilt.

“You’re doing—you’re doing great, Martin. Now stand up. Slowly.”

The drop in his blood pressure reminded him that he had just been woken from a deep sleep; despite standing slowly as Jon asked, he had to concentrate to make sure he stayed steady.

“Now walk toward me—normal, but—slow.”

Martin sighed.

“Please,” Jon said.

“All right, all right.” Martin walked slowly toward the doorway; his eyes were starting to adjust, and he could see the outline of Jon in the dim light from the hallway.

“Stop.” He was probably about five feet from Jon.

“Jon—what is—" Despite the darkness, he was pretty sure he would have been physically aware of anything between him and Jon at this point.

“One big step. One big step, and then—”

Only partially conscious that he was doing it, he looked down.

“Oh shit.” Although he couldn’t see the floor directly in front of him, the hallway light was just bright enough to see a thin, broken line that cut across the floor near the corner of the door frame.

That line was moving. Crawling, in fact.

“Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit.” Martin cleared the remaining distance between himself and Jon in a single leap, heart suddenly pounding. “It’s spiders, isn’t it—shit, shit—”

“Martin, my—”

“Oh. God.” He hadn’t realized how hard he had grabbed for Jon, and he immediately loosened his grip; Jon, still facing the bedroom, continued to hold Martin. “Is that it? Just that? Or is it—”

“I think—I think that’s it. If she were going to do worse, I think she would have done it already.”

“That’s not actually all that comforting.” Martin took a moment to breathe in Jon’s arms and let his heart slow before he looked down at the floor again. Now that he was in the hallway and could see better, he realized the line of spiders was moving away from their room, not into it. He couldn’t help himself; he turned back to the room and flipped on the light.

“Oh.” There were at least a dozen crisscrossing lines of small black spiders moving back and forth across the room; they were on the floor, the walls, the bed. They were walking right over where Martin’s sleeping body had been lying until just now. After a moment he was able to trace their origin to a single spot, a corner of the room where the ceiling and the walls met. They appeared to be coming down from the room above them, although the crack they entered through must have been very tiny.

“Come on.” Jon put his arms around Martin’s waist again, gently pulling him back from the door. He hadn’t quite turned away when they heard a voice down the hall.

“Jon? Martin? Are you all right?” He looked to find Sasha in the hallway, with Georgie not far behind. “We heard shouting and thought we’d—Wait, what is that? Is that—ants?”

Martin noticed that as the line of spiders drew away from their door, they broke off in two directions—one line went into Sasha’s room, and the other went into Melanie and Georgie’s room.

“It’s spiders,” Jon said, in the same calm voice he’d used when waking Martin. “Get everyone else from the—”

“The Admiral,” Georgie said, panicked, and ran to the door of their bedroom. Martin started to shout at her to wait, but Jon put a hand on his chest.

“It’s all right.”

Georgie screamed from inside the room.

“Jon, she doesn’t sound—”

“Georgie?” Melanie burst into the hallway. “Geo—”

“He was eating them.” Georgie came back out, cat tucked under one arm while she brushed furiously at various parts of him with her available hand. “That’s disgusting.”

Martin exhaled, relieved.

“What is going on?” Melanie looked into the room Georgie had just left. “Oh my god. Spiders aren’t supposed to do that.”

“No,” Jon said, continuing to move Martin back toward everyone else. “No, they’re not.”

Elias and Tim had joined the group by the time Jon and Martin reached the middle of the hallway.

“What the hell.” Elias walked past Georgie and Melanie’s room, peering in as he did; he threw open Sasha’s door when he reached it and did the same. He looked back at everyone else as he reached Jon and Martin’s door. “That—that is weird, right?”

“Yes, that’s fucking weird,” Melanie answered. “Jon, this is—this is her, right? The woman that—”

“Annabelle.” He merely acknowledged her name, carefully lending no weight to it. “Yes. Well—I can only assume. She’s—she’s good at concealing herself, but—this seems like a clear message.”

“What’s the message? That she doesn’t like us?” Melanie asked, having turned to swipe at Georgie’s arms as she continued fussing with the Admiral. “Too bad. Let her show her face instead of this nonsense, and we’ll see how she likes us with my boot up her ass.”

Martin stifled an incredulous laugh; the thought was ridiculous. He was reminded that Melanie knew virtually nothing about Annabelle.

“What?” Melanie asked, annoyed. “Did you ever try it?”

“I—I can’t say that I did.”

“Hm. Maybe you should have.”

“Elias.” Everyone looked up when Jon said his name; Elias was walking toward the stairs that went up from the foyer.

“I’m going up to get rid of them.”

“Is that safe?” Sasha asked.

“Well—” Elias spoke more quietly this time. “Allan’s up there too, and since we haven't heard anything from him—I figured it was ok.”

“Yes,” Jon said. “It’s ok.”

“I’ll go with him,” Tim said. They watched as the two of them disappeared up the steps.

“Back to the sitting room then?” Sasha asked. “Until, um—that’s done?”

Martin walked slowly, letting everyone else go ahead so he could have a private moment with Jon. “They really don’t get it.”

“No.” Jon shook his head. “Are you surprised?”

“No,” Martin said, “and I’m glad they don’t. I’m just thinking—that means that message was for you. Us.”

“Yes.”

“Ok, so then—why? What is she telling us?”

Jon shrugged. “That she’s aware of what we’re doing. That she knows where we are, and that we haven’t accepted her—truce.”

“OK, but—” Martin swallowed. He still hadn’t bought into her offer, but Jon’s interpretation seemed otherwise valid. “Why didn’t she do worse? That was—that was almost nothing. From her, that was a joke.”

“I’m not sure she could do worse, actually. Not here. Not without me knowing, and possibly exposing herself. She’s likely still recovering.”

“So you think she’s letting us know that she’s still weak? Why would she do that?”

“Who knows. It’s not like it’s made her vulnerable.”

Martin frowned. “That’s not like her, Jon. She’s nothing if not deliberate—she’s always had a reason for everything. If that’s true—if that’s the best she can do, or even if she just wants us to think that—she’s let us know on purpose.”

“What are you saying?”

“I’m saying—I still think she’s trying to push you.” He rushed ahead, trying to get the words out before Jon could tell him he was wrong. “If you know that she’s still getting stronger, that it will get worse, that might push you to act too soon and—”

“Martin,” Jon said, taking him by the hand. “If that is the case—if she’s pushing me—what would you have me do?”

“I’d have you wait,” Martin said. “Just wait. Don’t do what she wants. Whatever comes out of this—give it time.”

“Wait?” Jon repeated. “Give it time, while she gets stronger and murders all our friends? Or worse?”

“No.” Martin tried to sound confident, although he could feel his argument slipping. “No. We’d protect them. You’d protect them.”

“How?” Jon asked. “I can’t. Not after a certain point.”

“But—”

“Never mind. Let’s say we could protect them,” Jon continued. “What about everyone who isn’t them? Everyone she can already reach? Well, her and the Web and the other fears. What about Carlos Vittery and Oliver Banks and—”

“Bad things happen,” Martin said. He knew now that he had lost, but he kept talking. “No, it’s not good. It’s wrong. It’s still terrible. But bad things happen even in a world with no entities, with nothing to live off the fear, with just—”

“Not these things.” Jon turned Martin’s hand over, enveloping it on both sides with his own. “These things—they’re my fault.”

Martin lowered his head. There it was—the conviction he could never shake.

“Martin, look. I don’t know that we have an option other than waiting. I have no intention of—of ending things, not right now. It doesn’t solve anything. It doesn’t stop anything. It doesn’t save our friends, not in the end. It doesn’t save you.” Jon traced the tendons on the back of Martin’s hand lightly with his fingers. “But I will never—never—let them out again. And when it comes to that—when it’s time to choose—”

Martin nodded, but did not look up again.

***

As it turned out, it was incredibly easy to destroy the spiders. Tim and Elias had discovered a massive nest in the room above the one Jon and Martin were staying in. Elias had grabbed a supply of insecticide from the attic and they had started to spray, prepared to run when spiders inevitably scattered, but that didn’t happen; they hadn’t diverged from their path at all. That was when Tim and Elias had realized the spiders weren’t just walking out of the nest, but also into it. They were coming back to the second-floor room from one of the bedrooms below, re-entering the nest, and waiting until they received some silent cue that it was time to leave again. The two of them had then stopped and watched as every single spider, without fail, returned to the nest to die in its turn.

“Fucking creepy,” Tim said, after he had recounted it, “but it did make things pretty easy.”

“So,” Sasha said, as they once again found themselves on the floor of the great room. “I take it no one wants to go to bed just yet.”

“Not anymore,” Melanie said. She leaned over Georgie’s shoulder to rub the Admiral’s ears as he sat contentedly in her lap.

“Martin, are you ok?” Sasha asked. His face reddened as everyone turned to him.

“Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, I think so.” He’d almost forgotten about the way he’d left the group earlier that evening.

“Do you mind if I ask some more questions, since we’re here?”

“We’re fine,” Jon said, and she redirected her attention to him. Martin was grateful.

“All right. Let’s start with Annabelle. She came here from the other dimension, right?”

“Yes.”

“And so did you—part of you, and Martin, also.”

“Yes. That’s—yes.” Close enough.

“And that’s it? Other than the entities?”

“Yes. I—I believe so. Well, also the—the body.”

“Right. Do you know how that all worked?”

Martin recognized Jon’s expression; it was the one he made while trying to simplify something complicated that already made complete sense to him. “We were connected to them—the entities—us to the Eye, Annabelle to the Web—in such a way that when they were expelled, we were too. Or really, they were expelled, we were dragged along with them.”

“Just the three of you were connected like that?”

“Yes. Our connections were—very strong.”

Sasha nodded. “What about the dimensions themselves? What do you know about them?”

“Not much. I only—saw them, for lack of a better word—for a moment. Or—the equivalent of a moment. Time doesn’t really—never mind. It was—it was a lot. Even for the Eye.”

“So there were very many of them. Dimensions, I mean.”

“Yes. More than I can attempt to describe. Infinite doesn’t—it’s too simple.”

“Are they all like this one? With versions of us, I mean, and—”

“No.” Jon clearly found the idea absurd. “Well—some of them are. But so many more are—different. I think. Different people. And—not people. And then—”

“You know who loves this shit?” Elias sat back on his hands, oblivious to his interruption.

“Um—who?” Sasha asked, after realizing he was waiting for an answer.

“Allan. Allan loves this. He can talk about it all day.”

“Talk about what exactly?”

“You know, alternate universes, wormholes, interdimensional travel—I mean, this is pretty much his thing.”

“Oh my god.” Tim smacked his own forehead with an open palm. “Go get him.”

“Right now?” Elias grew hesitant. “It’s pretty late. Maybe we could—”

“We both know what kind of hours he keeps, and anyway, his light was on when we were upstairs. He’s awake. Just—go get him.”

Elias looked at Jon, who shrugged. “It’s entirely up to you,” Jon said.

Elias hesitated a little longer, then stood up. “All right. Ok.” He disappeared up the stairs.

Sasha turned to Tim. “Care to explain?”

“Allan’s a physics professor. Theoretical physics. And he’s brilliant, and he does love this shit. I mean, he doesn’t really do it at work, it’s not the sort of thing that gets funding unless you’re Stephen Hawking, but—anyway, he’s obsessed with it. Manages to bring it up every time I’m around him. I can’t believe I didn’t think about it.”

“Oh. I suppose maybe he could tell us something helpful. That is, if he doesn’t think we’ve collectively gone mad.”

“Oh, he absolutely will, but he’ll pretend he doesn’t,” Tim reassured her.

Several minutes later, Allan was there. He fit a certain academic stereotype almost perfectly, at least in appearance; roughly the same age as Elias, he was completely grey, and had several days’ worth of beard growth that would have driven Martin crazy. Although barefoot, he was still dressed from the day in a pair of khakis and a rumpled polo shirt, and Martin suspected he might end up wearing them the next day as well if nothing interfered.

“Hello, everyone.” He stood outside the group, awkward but cheerful enough, given the time and circumstances.

Elias stood next to him and pointed out each of them in turn. “So this is Jon, Martin, Georgie, Melanie, Sasha, and—you know Tim.”

“Wonderful,” Allan said, following Elias’s lead in stepping carefully between Jon and Martin to join the semi-circle they had formed on the floor.

“So what has Elias told you?” Sasha asked.

“Not much, only that you are all engaged in a deep conversation regarding the nature of the universe itself, and I thought, it’s only 12:30 in the morning.” He smiled, but the expression quickly faded as he looked around again at the group. “I see we’re tackling the easy questions tonight.”

“Here’s the thing,” Sasha said. “We’re dealing with something that—well, frankly, isn’t all that believable, unless—unless you’ve experienced some part of it.”

“I’ll play along.”

Sasha took a few seconds to gather her thoughts. “All right, here goes. Several months ago, a number of very powerful entities from another dimension entered ours, and—they live off our fear. And Jon and Martin sort of—well—versions of them came here, too, and now they’re both of themselves, and they experienced all of this in that other dimension and—well, if we don’t find a solution, then—um—humanity is doomed.”

Allan looked around at the group again; he had a very different look on his face this time. “I’ll admit that’s not exactly what I was expecting—” He looked at Elias, who nodded slowly and then shrugged. “All right. Let’s start with these entities. Tell me about them.”

“Jon, you’re probably the best one to—”

“Yes, all right.” Jon cleared his throat. “Like Sasha said, they are extremely powerful. Just to give you an idea—some people in the other dimension thought of them as gods. They aren’t, of course, but—they aren’t exactly part of our reality, either.”

“So—they had their own dimension as well?”

“No. They were from our dimension—the other one. They were born there, and they co-evolved with us, I suppose. But not really with us, it was—it’s hard to describe. They weren’t—physical, maybe that’s the way to say it. Not in any sense I’m aware of.”

“Hmm.” Allan furrowed his brow. “I assume you mean you couldn’t see them, or touch them. In that case, how did you—well—know about them?”

“We didn’t, for a long time. Most people never did. They acted through things—people, animals, objects—and then, later, I—”

“Jon communicates with them,” Tim interjected.

“One of them,” Jon corrected him. “Insofar as they are separate. And—sort of.”

“Really?” Allan asked. “What’s that like?”

“It’s, um—” For a moment, Martin really understood what Jon had to accomplish when asked to explain things; he could not imagine any single way to sum up Jon’s relationship to the Eye. “Well, for one, I can—I can know things. Things I couldn’t know otherwise.”

“Really?”

“Ask him something,” Elias said.

“All right. Is my research assistant going to show up in the morning?”

“Oh—well—that’s the future. I can’t know that because—well, I assume because it hasn’t happened, and therefore doesn’t actually exist. But”—he thought for a moment— "she didn’t show up today. In fact, the last time she came in was Monday.”

“Ok. From the past, then—what street did I grow up on?”

Jon paused, concentrating. “Technically there were several, but you’re thinking of Church Street. You stayed there a bit longer than the others, and it was the one you liked best. There was a park nearby where you learned to ride a bike.”

“And what was the name of our dog when we lived there?”

Jon concentrated again, a little longer this time. “There wasn’t one. But you had—rabbits. Hm.”

Martin decided to intervene, as he was pretty sure Jon would keep going until he hurt himself. “Ok, look, this does take a toll on him, and tonight’s already been hard enough.”

“I’m fine.” Jon looked at Allan, who was regarding him with renewed interest. “Anything else?”

“That’s more than enough. I’m—I’m quite impressed.”

“Oh,” Elias said, “also we found my body in the tunnels under the Institute the other day. Well, not my body, but—you know, my body from the other dimension.”

Allan looked at Elias with concern. “Ok, I’m—I’m not sure what to do with that, but—ok. We’ll come back to it. So these beings, they’re not from another dimension, and you can’t physically interact with them—not directly. But you—and maybe others—can interact with them, say, mentally, and they can influence the physical world.”

“Yes,” Jon said. “Yes, I think that’s fair.”

“What I’m getting at is that everything that makes up the universe—everything we are aware of—is classified as either matter or energy, and the two are equivalent in a sense. Well, there’s also evidence of dark matter and dark energy, but—never mind about that for now. And although there’s been no evidence of it, it isn’t impossible that there could exist some sort of life form that, rather than being made up of physical matter, is made primarily of energy.”

“Oh. That’s what a lot of people think ghosts are,” Melanie said.

Allan nodded. “Of course, there are some problems with the idea of energy beings. For one thing, energy, as we define it, is always associated with motion and change. Light, for example, which has no mass, transmits energy as a function of its momentum alone—but it must always be moving. Or we can define potential energy, which does not require momentum, but is always associated with a physical body. And for energy itself to be sentient in any way—well, it’s not clear how that would work. If there were sentient energy beings, they would be so different from us that it’s unlikely we would recognize them at all, except through the ways in which they interacted with the physical world. That sort of goes along with what you’ve said so far, as I think about it, but—tell me, when they left the other dimension and traveled here, was there any sort of medium involved? Some sort of physical matter?”

“Yes,” Martin said, surprised that he knew an answer. “The tape.”

“The tape?” Tim asked. “What tape? Like—sellotape?”

“No, like cassette tapes. The actual tape inside them. There was—”

“You didn’t mention that before.”

“Well look Tim, there was a lot to explain, ok? And that was—”

“It’s fine,” Tim said. “Go on.”

“I’m not sure I follow,” Allan said.

“Yes. Tape. Um, so—there was a crack, a gap, in our reality that led to the—the space between the dimensions, so to speak. That seems to have been a natural occurrence—”

“It’s possible,” Allan said.

“—but the tape, that was—that was something Annabelle did. The recordings on the tape were—relevant to the entities. It allowed them to bridge the gap without destroying themselves. It was—I honestly don’t know how she—”

“Annabelle put spiders in our upstairs guest room, by the way,” Elias said. “That’s why Tim and I were up there earlier.”

Again, Allan looked at Elias with concern. “You’ve been having a time of it, haven’t you?”

“Pretty much,” Elias said. “Sorry for not mentioning it sooner.”

“Quite all right,” Allan said. “This does explain some things. Just so long as you know you could have told me.” He looked at Elias a little longer before turning back to Jon. “Annabelle, she’s—one of them?”

“No, but she—she serves one of them.”

“So she is a physical being that they act through.”

“That’s—yes.”

“All right. So let’s see—this gap existed, the physical medium of the tape was placed there—how did they get to it?”

“Well—I suppose—we destroyed their other physical means of attachment to our world, and they were forced out the only way they could go. Into the gap.”

“How did all of that happen, exactly?”

“Well—you have to understand, there was an apocalypse, things had shifted, time and space didn’t necessarily—” Jon sighed. “Gas main. We blew up a gas main.”

“Oh.” He now gave Jon the same look of concern he had given Elias earlier, and the conversation momentarily quieted.

“This is—this is good,” Sasha said. “I mean—it’s good to have another perspective on this. Thank you.”

“Well, quite honestly, I’m not sure what to make of it, but—” He stopped. “You all really believe this, don’t you?”

“Yes,” Sasha said. “And if you don’t mind humoring us a bit longer—well, the reason we’re all in your house, and perhaps this is obvious, but—given that we do believe these entities are here, we’d like them not to be here.”

“Understandable. It would be bad for us, wouldn’t it?”

“Yes. So let’s say that we were able to—push them back toward this gap again, somehow. Would there be a way to—direct them? Make them go somewhere specific?”

“Hm.” Allan rubbed his hand over the stubble on his face. “Without really knowing more about them, but assuming we’re on the right track—I’m guessing we’d need access to the tape. Think of the way a wire conducts electricity. If they are sentient in some way, maybe they could choose their path along it, but—”

“I see.” Sasha frowned. “Jon, is that—is that even a possibility? Getting to the tape?”

“No,” Jon said. “I don’t—I don’t think so. Not for us.”

“Right.” Sasha, who had been crossing her legs, moved to stick one of them out in front of her. She took a moment to flex her foot, and then straighten it again. “Ok, what about this? And please understand, I have no idea how any of this works and I’m only throwing out ideas—could we move everything else? Like us? And leave them here? I mean—Jon and Martin came here, and Annabelle came here, and—the body.”

“Maybe,” Allan said.

“What—really?”

“Well—assuming this is all true, then it’s already been proven that physical matter can be transported from one dimension to another, because—like you said, it’s been done. Of course, the situation would be reversed from what we were just talking about. If energy requires matter to move across dimensions, matter most likely requires energy. In fact, I’m certain it would. Moving across dimensions is not the same as moving across space, of course—but the principle would be the same.”

“How much energy?”

“I can only assume enormous amounts.”

“Like—I don’t know, a nuclear bomb?”

“Well, how much mass are you talking about?”

“Humanity. The world.”

“A nuclear bomb would be a mere drop in the bucket. It would barely register.”

“Hm.”

The group fell silent again. Martin didn’t really know how to feel about any of this; he imagined the others were feeling the same. Allan’s thoughts on all of it made sense, at least as far as he understood them. In the end, though, it didn’t really present any new options, did it? Messing with the tape was almost certainly impossible given that Jon, even when his power had been at its height, was lost within seconds of trying to know its path. And the way Allan had described the amount of energy required to move everything else and leave the entities behind—even if they had some idea of how to do it, that was just too much, right? Could that much energy even exist?

“I might have a way,” Jon said quietly.

It only took Martin a moment to understand what Jon was suggesting.

“No,” he said firmly. “No. Absolutely not.”

“What just happened?” Tim asked.

Neither of them responded.

“Please,” Sasha said. “If there’s something—obviously we need to consider anything very carefully, but—if there’s a possibility—any possibility—”

“I could start another apocalypse.” He met Martin’s eyes; Martin looked back at him in disbelief.

“Ok,” Sasha said. “I have to say, I’m not sure how that helps.”

“When I—started it, before—when I said the words, and they—” Martin could see how hard Jon was working to hold back the misery of it, to hide the guilt and the torment he’d carried with him since that day. Martin’s instinct was to reach for him, to stop him before he crumpled under the weight of it, but at the same time he wanted it all to come out. It wasn’t that he wanted Jon to hurt; it was that he wanted them to see it, to understand how stupid this was. He wanted Jon to break now, just a little, so he wouldn’t destroy himself later. “When they entered our world, in that moment, the sheer amount of power they brought with them—it was—”

Martin lost it. “And what, you’re going to control it? Jon, that’s insane. Even the idea is—”

“Jonah did,” Jon answered. “Jonah controlled it, before he—where do you think that ridiculous tower came from? Jonah Magnus, king of a ruined world. Do you think the Eye gave a shit about his ego? Jonah made that world, Martin. He laid out the domains, preserved his own place in them just so he could—”

“Jon—"

“—and if I take his place in the ritual and retain the role of the Archivist, I believe I could—”

“No. Don’t even say it. It is way, way too—”

“All right,” Sasha broke in. “Stop. I’m sure I’m not following all of this, but you are talking about deliberately starting an apocalypse and—somehow using it? I take it the apocalypse wouldn’t actually take place, then?”

Jon considered. “Well, it would, but everyone would be—somewhere else. If I succeeded, no one would ever know it happened. And the entities would be left here to burn themselves out.”

“And if it failed?”

“If I failed, then that would be it,” Jon said. “There would be no going back. The opportunity would only exist for a moment.”

“That does sound incredibly risky.” Martin was briefly relieved; surely that would be the end of it. “But on the other hand—”

“What?” Martin’s desperation tumbled out of him. “You can’t be serious. It’s too much. It’s too dangerous.”

“Just—listen, Martin. Please. No, actually—all of you, listen. We are making no decisions tonight. We don’t understand this well enough. But if this is even a possibility, I think we have to consider it. It’s the only option we’ve come up with so far that doesn’t end with spreading the fears or sacrificing literally everything in our world. Everyone else—what are your thoughts?”

Uncomfortable silence pervaded the group; Melanie was the first person to speak. “I don’t know. It sounds like a lot could go wrong. And don’t take this the wrong way, but—it puts an awful lot of— pressure on Jon.”

“Yeah,” Georgie said. “I agree. I’d want to be a little more certain about—well, a lot of things, but like— what does that even look like, moving everything to another dimension? I mean, given what happened with Martin and Jon—well, if we didn’t just blow ourselves up or something, we wouldn’t want to crash land on top of a world filled with our own doubles, for example. Or end up somewhere worse.”

“Yes,” Sasha said. “We’d need to know a lot more—as much as we can. Allan, is there—is there any way to—I don’t know, check on any of this?”

Allan looked like he had been run over. “Keeping in mind, of course, that this is all very—um—”

“Yes. We know.”

“—I’m willing to do what I can. It sounds like the place to start would be wherever this supposed gap is. Do you happen to—”

“Yes,” Jon answered. “Hilltop Road. In Oxford.”

“All right. I’ll go in the morning. I’ll cancel my classes for tomorrow. I’ll take anyone else with me who wants to go. We’ll stop by the university and pick up some equipment on the way out. Let’s say 8 am.”

“Thank you. That’s—that’s very helpful. Anyone else? Any thoughts?”

Elias shook his head.

“Tim?”

“Well, just that—” He looked around at everyone, then shook his head once. “Never mind. It will wait.”

“Fair enough. All right. I know tonight has been a lot for everyone. Too much, really. We should sleep. Is everyone comfortable going back to their rooms?”

There was another bout of silence, and again Melanie was the first to speak. “I am if Georgie is.”

“Why not,” Georgie said, standing as she carefully balanced the Admiral in her arms. “I sort of doubt this one would let us sleep through another midnight buffet. Ugh.”

“Jon? Martin? What about the two of you?”

Jon reached for Martin’s hand; he didn’t pull it away. “We’ll be all right.”

“Martin, I’m sorry for—”

Martin turned away, and Sasha let her apology drop off. He heard Jon say something quietly to her, then accepted Jon’s encouragement to get to his feet. Sasha would have to forgive him later. He could tell they were still talking, although their words had become indistinguishable to Martin. He could hear Tim’s voice; somewhere behind him, Allan and Elias were having an exchange.

“Come on.” Jon’s voice, close to him. Martin’s body ached as if from a low-grade fever as they walked. It was a relief when Jon shut the door of the bedroom behind them, turning off the light that had been left on earlier. They faced each other in the dark.

“Martin—"

“No.”

“I know how you feel about this.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I guess you do. It just doesn’t matter.”

“Please.” Jon reached for him; Martin allowed him to turn his head, but would not let his eyes follow even though neither of them could see. “What if this—”

“Don’t. Don’t you dare. Not you.”

“All right.” Jon kissed him. Martin responded simply because he needed it; he needed the comfort. He wanted Jon close to him, and always would. He was too exhausted to fight it.

“Can you sleep?” Jon asked.

“I don’t know.”

“Just lie with me, then?”

He nodded, his forehead pressing against Jon’s in the dark.

Jon held him, and Martin lay awake for a long time.

#the magnus archives #tma #mag pod #tma spoilers #jonmartin #tma fanfic #my writing

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athina-blaine · 4 years

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MoMM Update! - What to heck?

Hello, everyone! Unfortunately, Chapter 2 is still under works– the hiatus we mentioned back in our first update post has arrived and MoMM has to take a bit of a backseat for now. I was definitely overzealous in flinging around posting dates the way I did, and I apologize for that; I’d hate to have inflicted any unnecessary disappointment. I promise to practice more reservation in the future!

In the meantime, I’ve decided to go ahead and post the first half of the chapter under this cut– 6k words, 17 pages, I got it all right here for ya. [pats top of post]

Enjoy!

THE MONSTER OF MAGNUS MANOR

CHAPTER 2

THE ESTATE

(Chapter 1 here!)

Martin’s dreams were murky things, cut to the clop of fading hoofbeats and a pair of frightened eyes– eyes that kept locking with his own as the world faded in and out. At some point they’d manifested fully into a man– he was saying something, a string of urgent, unintelligible words that blistered the air around them.

“–tay with me, don’t– no, no, no, no–”

Martin’s vision greyed out before he could make out the rest.

When he resurfaced, he was lying in a … a bed? Was … this the castle infirmary–? No, he didn’t think even Lord Barclay’s mattress was this comfortable. And the rock slab cots lining the servants’ infirmary didn’t have four poster canopies, either …

Strange dream. Everything wobbled, and grew dark again.

And then he was blinking awake. The bed and its canopy were still there, as lavish as they’d been in his dream.

“Are you awake properly, this time?”

The unfamiliar voice had Martin lurching upright. Pain zinged through his skull; he groaned, pressing a hand to one eye.

“I don’t know,” he breathed. “I-I guess so?”

The man sitting beside him let out a slow breath, some of the stiffness unwinding from his posture. “You’ve had a few false starts,” he explained. “Understandable, given your head injury.”

Head injury. The events from earlier came rushing back to him– Martin’s vision was still swimming, but he recognised this man, or the colour of his eyes, at least. They were the same shade of brown as the mysterious figure from the fog. He’d since pulled back the hood of his cloak, revealing dark skin marred with pockmarks on one side of his fine-boned face. His hair had been tied up in a silvering bird’s nest of a bun, and a few thin strands had fallen to brush the shoulders of a richly embroidered vest.

Martin tallied it all up: posh manner, fine clothes, the thin, borderline regal cut of his face. Despite the incongruity of his scars and disheveled hair, the facts pointed to one thing– this had to be the lord of that mysterious estate.

A mysterious estate he was now inside, with an injury that had stars dancing before his eyes. “How–” Martin started, then paused to steady his breathing. “How long was I out?”

“Not long.” The man pulled an ornate pocket watch from his vest pocket, squinting. “It’s about five o’clock.”

“In the afternoon?”

“Does it look like five o’clock in the morning to you?” the man demanded, gesturing to the window. He was right; a weak orange sunset had begun staining the sky, casting dark shadows from the treeline over the estate’s grounds.

“No.” The word had been torn from Martin’s mouth with a burst of horror. He scrambled for the sheets, startling a noise from his host.

“What on earth do you think you’re doing?”

Martin wasn’t listening; the image of Lord Barclay’s cold eyes as he told him, in unequivocal terms, that he was sacked had sent a low, buzzing static through his ears. “I’m sorry, thank you for taking me in, but I need t– I need to–” He had to get back– for his mum, if nothing else. Oh, God, if he lost this job now …

“What you need is to lie back down.” Martin’s bare foot had scarcely touched the floor before the man rose to his feet, thrusting a hand against his chest. “Didn’t you hear what I said? You’ve been concussed.”

Martin was unceremoniously shoved back down. He could’ve fought back– the stranger’s wrists were stick-thin where they stuck out past the sleeves of his tunic, and Martin wasn’t exactly small– but the sudden motion sent a wave of dizziness crashing over him, and Martin couldn’t summon the strength for it.

“Let me make one thing perfectly clear,” the man said, eyes fierce. “In your current state, you’ll collapse before you ever make it out of this forest. Is that what you want?”

The words hung in the air between them. Martin swallowed, shaking his head.

“Then lie down.”

Cowed, Martin sank back into the mattress. Once it was clear he wasn’t struggling, the man relaxed, withdrawing his hand from Martin’s chest.

“Thank you,” he said, sitting back down. Then his shoulders sagged. “I … apologise. I’m sure you have somewhere important to be, and you’ve been hurt as a direct result of my actions. Please believe me when I say this was not my intention.”

A heavy note of guilt rang through his voice, and Martin’s chest panged with instinctive sympathy. “I-it’s fine. It was just an accident.”

If anything, the grim set of his host’s mouth worsened. “I should also warn you– your horse ran off. I tried looking for her after bringing you here, but she doesn’t appear to be in the area.”

Oh God, Phillipa. “… she’s resourceful,” Martin said, but it was much weaker this time. “I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s found her way back home already.“

The stranger kept his gaze trained on his hands. “ … I– yes, of course. I’m sure you have nothing to worry about.” Abruptly, he stood once more. “I assume you’re hungry? Now that you’re awake, I can bring you something to eat.”

Martin jumped. “Oh, uh.” It would have been a full day since he’d last eaten, by now. He wasn’t sure he’d be able to keep anything down. Based on the strange intensity in the man’s eyes, though, only one correct answer existed. “Y-yes, I– um, thank you. Actually some– some tea would be nice?”

A single, sharp nod was his only response; the man turned on his heel, making a beeline for the door.

Martin held out a hand before he could stop himself. “Wait– wait.”

The man turned, arching one brow, and heat washed over Martin’s face. He hadn’t actually had anything important to say, but they hadn’t even exchanged names.

“Sorry, I just … wanted to thank you. For– for taking me in.” He cleared his throat. “My name is Martin, by the way. Martin Blackwood.”

“A … pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mister Blackwood.”

Martin flushed. "Oh– just Martin is fine. Um … c-can I ask for your name?”

Silence stretched taffy-thin between them as his host studied him, expression unreadable. Martin’s breath stilled in his lungs– was he being measured up? Found wanting somehow? He’d only asked for a name–

“Jon.”

Martin stiffened, but with a snap of his cloak, the man vanished, closing the door behind him.

Jon.

Martin wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting, but it hadn’t been that. Jon. It was so … common. Approachable, for such an unapproachable man. Perhaps it was a family name.

Musings about Jon’s name could only distract him for so long, however, with his worst case scenario waiting for him back in the real world. Barclay would make him beg if he wanted to continue working in the castle, especially after last night’s disaster.

Martin dropped his head in his hands. He was as good as sacked.

Distraction. He needed a good distraction. Anything to take his mind off agonising– not like he could fix anything confined to a bed by a stranger.

Lifting his head, he took a moment to peer around the room. It was bigger than the servants’ dormitory he shared with the others back at Barclay’s castle. To his right was an old, carved wardrobe; the desk and chair beside it had been made out of smooth mahogany. Paintings, their colours dulled by time, were hanging lopsided on some of the walls– a stark contrast to the faded wallpaper beneath them. Settled over it all was a fine layer of dust; only the chair, and the bed Martin was lying in, had been cleared of it.

Obvious disuse aside, even Lord Barclay’s accommodations weren’t this opulent. An unexpected twinge of guilt shot through Martin’s chest, as if he was doing something wrong. Stealing comfort that didn’t belong to him.

By the time Jon came back, the sunset had shifted from orange to a slow-burning red that dappled the sky. Tucked in the crook of his elbow was an unidentifiable bolt of cloth, and in his hands, a dinner tray. A silver dinner tray. “I apologise for the simplicity of the meal,” Jon said. “It’s … been some time since I’ve had the opportunity to cook.”

Had … was Jon implying that he, the lord of this house, had cooked for Martin? Martin swallowed, tearing his gaze from Jon back to the tray. Why wouldn’t the kitchen staff be making his meals?

Jon didn’t hand him the tray so much as he slid it into Martin’s lap; on it was a bowl of boiled vegetables, and next to that, a steaming cup of tea. Simple, yes, but Martin was grateful nonetheless.

“Thank you, really,” said Martin, entirely too genuine. Under the attentive eyes of his host, he shovelled a spoonful of turnip and carrot into his mouth, and started to chew. He stopped.

Jon leaned forward, poised. “How i– er, that is, I hope it’s to your satisfaction.”

Martin steeled himself and kept chewing, scrambling for a neutral expression. While the outside of the vegetables were soggy, their insides crunched against his molars, sending shudders down his spine. Underboiled, his mind supplied helpfully.

It was, perhaps, one of the worst meals he’d eaten in his life.

“It’s great,” he lied, smiling past the curdling in his stomach. Jon had made this himself, and Martin was going to die before he willingly insulted a lord to his face.

Jon released a quiet breath. “That’s … good.” He unwound the cloth draped over his forearm; it was a nightshirt and cap, made of fabric that could’ve been water for how it piled onto the sheets. “These are for you to wear to bed. You can find something to change into tomorrow in the wardrobe. Please inform me if there are any that don’t fit.” He winced. “And you’ll have to excuse me if you find anything that’s been chewed through. It’s impossible, keeping the moths out this time of year.”

“Tha– thank you?”

“You, ah,” Jon hesitated, before clearing his throat. “Seeing you’re here because of me, you’re welcome to stay until you’ve made a full recovery.” His voice grew guarded. “My only stipulation is that you remain in your rooms at night.”

Martin paused.

It wasn’t that unusual of a request– Martin was a stranger, of course Jon didn’t want him wandering about at night. No, what snagged Martin’s attention was the faint, nervous hitch of his shoulders as he said it.

“O-of course.” Martin’s throat bobbed. “Is it– can I ask why?”

Jon’s eyes narrowed. "I don’t see how that’s any of your business.”

Oh, hell. “Sorry, sorry, you’re right. I-it’s just, I don’t know …” kind of strange? But the impatient twist of Jon’s mouth stopped him cold.

The silence dragged, then Jon crossed his arms. “I have a dog.”

“A … dog?”

“Yes. Big, vicious thing. He … patrols the manor at night– and he’s not partial to strangers.”

Oh. Well, that … that made sense, didn’t it? Still odd, though– Barclay had a whole team of hunting dogs, and none of them were allowed to wander the grounds without supervision. They weren’t pets, and they certainly weren’t guards. It appeared this one was, though.

“What’s his name?” Martin asked, before he could think better of it.

“What?”

“The dog.” Martin held up his hands in apology. “Sorry, it’s just, I love dogs. My neighbors had one when I was a kid. Ol’ Frankie.”

Jon’s eyes narrowed even further. “John.”

“… John.”

“Yes.”

“John … the dog?”

“Yes, that’s correct.”

“You named the dog after yourself?”

The look Jon shot him was equal parts baffled and incredulous, as if he were ludicrous for asking. “I came into possession of the dog after it received its name. And, besides, it’s John, spelled with an H.”

“I … see.” Martin didn’t see. “Obviously.” It had not been obvious.

Jon glowered, daring him to continue, then reached into his pocket. “One last thing. I noticed … well, here.” With an oddly stiff motion, he held out a small glass jar of salve. “For your hands. It would be irresponsible of me, as your host, to let them ulcerate unchecked.”

Startled, Martin glanced down at his hands– they were still covered in blisters from scrubbing last night’s mountain of dishes. He’d forgotten about them in all the chaos.

“Th-thanks,” he said, accepting the jar.

Clearing his throat, Jon stepped back. “I’ll let you finish your meal. You can expect me tomorrow morning with breakfast.” One hand on the door, he hesitated, then added in a soft undertone, “Get some rest.”

Jon was gone before Martin could answer. He was alone once again.

Unscrewing the lid of the jar, Martin gave the ointment an experimental sniff– honey and almonds. He scooped out a dollop and rubbed it into the damaged skin of his hands, sighing as it cooled the sting of his blisters. Astonishing, that Jon had noticed at all– Martin was so used to it, he would have left them to rot on his own.

He finished his dinner, half out of pragmaticism, half because he didn’t want to risk insulting his host. At least the tea was good.

Tray set aside, Martin began unbuttoning his dress shirt. What an unusual sight he must have made, passed out on the ground in formal wear. The clothes Jon had provided were silky against his skin, marred only by the must of disuse– still a luxury for a person with Martin’s background.

It wasn’t enough to distract him from the cold knot of trepidation that twisted inside his stomach. But Jon had been right; even if he had known the way, he would never make it back in his current state, especially without Phillipa.

At the very least, things couldn’t get much worse. There was solace in that.

Martin settled back against the pillows. With so many thoughts racing through his head, sleep should’ve been impossible– but the moment he closed his eyes, the rest of the world slipped away.

“Here you are!” Martin’s eyes flew open as Charles dropped the tray into his arms. Its contents had been obscured by a covering; Martin couldn’t make heads or tails of what was inside, but whatever it was, it was heavy enough that he buckled under its weight.

Charles winked. “Better you than me, right?”

“R-right.”

“Well, go on then. He’s hungry!”

Pulse pounding in his ears, Martin scurried into the dark hallway. None of the candles had been lit, but he knew the way by heart. His arm shook under the weight of the tray– carrying it with both hands would’ve been easier, but that wasn’t proper. And Lord Barclay was so particular about being proper …

The grand door leading into the dining hall drew closer, and a coil of apprehension burrowed into Martin’s gut. An unusual smell had started emitting from the platter– sweet and gamey, meat mixed with sugar glaze. His feet moved, relentless, and with every step, that sinking pit of dread at the core of him grew heavier.

He opened the door. The dining hall was empty, save for where Barclay sat at the head of the table. A single lit candle shone down on the dozens of empty plates surrounding him. Barclay wiped his mouth with a pristine napkin, and waved Martin forward.

Martin’s hands were trembling. He placed the tray on the table in front of Barclay, in between the scattered, stained plates. At his Lord’s signal, he removed the covering with as much flourish as he could.

It was empty.

The hairs on the back of Martin’s neck stood on end. Run, his instincts screamed. Get away, now!

Barclay looked up at him, green eyes glittering dangerously. “Well?”

Martin started– at some point he’d been lowered into a chair. In ginger increments, he leaned over until his head was resting against the cool metal plate, each shuddering breath fogging its silver coating. Barclay reached for his utensils; Martin squeezed his eyes shut, praying that, for once, Barclay wouldn’t start with–

“Eyes open.”

Swallowing, Martin obediently pried them back open. The fork hovered out-of-focus, brushing his eyelashes.

Somewhere beyond Barclay’s hall, a voice brushed against the edges of his hearing.

“–Hello?”

The fork plunged down–

Martin jolted awake, his hair drenched in sweat. Sunlight was pouring in through the window, illuminating swathes of dust motes floating through each beam. It must have been around mid-morning. Reflexive panic welled in the back of his throat (late, oh God, he was so incredibly late) before the events of yesterday came back to him. The panic slipped away, dulled with leaden resignation.

Sleeping in was nice, at least; when was the last time he’d been this indulgent? Giving in to the mattress’ siren’s call was tempting– he could have slept longer, waited until Jon came to wake him up. But while the dreams’ contents had slipped away faster than he could recall, their weight sat heavy on the back of his tongue. He wasn’t particularly interested in returning.

Taking a chance, he tossed aside his blanket and slid onto his feet. His heart lifted– had he recovered enough to make it back to the castle?

The world spun on its axis, and Martin caught himself against the wooden bed poster before he collapsed.

Ah. As if he could be so lucky.

With one hand against the wall for support, Martin shuffled his way over to the wardrobe. The hinges creaked as he opened it– Lord, everything here needed a good cleaning. He’d have been tanned for letting a room fall into this much disrepair on Griffiths’ watch. Hopefully, the clothes would be in better–

Martin’s mind blanked. The clothes were indeed in better shape, but the options inside were … far more expensive than he was used to wearing. Was Jon not worried about Martin ruining them? Although they must’ve belonged to someone else– these were all too big for Jon. Whoever they belonged to, Martin prayed they wouldn’t mind him wearing their clothes.

He selected the plainest tunic and trousers he could find among the ornate, embroidered lot. None of them had moth holes, at least; Jon would be happy to hear that.

Speaking of his mysterious host …

As soon as he was confident he could walk without falling over, Martin opened the door to the hallway, glancing out into the hall. No dog; that was a good sign. Jon had mentioned bringing breakfast– the smartest idea was for Martin to wait inside his room, but his curiosity was burning. What did the estate of such an eccentric lord look like, anyway?

Surely he could risk a quick look around before Jon arrived.

Martin closed the door behind him with a gentle click, eyes roving over the hallway.

It appeared that the estate of a lord like Jon looked incredibly dusty.

Martin dragged an experimental finger over the surface of a nearby windowpane; it came back smeared with grime. Griffiths would’ve died on the spot– what on earth was Jon’s staff doing? Taking advantage of Jon’s generosity and shirking their responsibilities?

He picked a direction at random and began to walk, keeping one eye peeled for someone who could point him in a useful direction. This section of the manor appeared to have been functionally abandoned, though; perhaps Jon had wanted to ensure Martin’s privacy, although that seemed like an unnecessary effort.

By the time he reached what must have been the grand staircase of a foyer, he still hadn’t encountered another living being. Martin faltered, eyes grazing over the crusted windows, before dipping to linger on an old, broken gramophone at the bottom floor.

Where was everybody?

He continued trailing through the manor, more apprehensive now. Each step brought with it the sense he was a misplaced ghost; alone and drifting, untethered from reality. The layout of the hallways had a labyrinthian element to their design– a wise man would have turned back at risk of becoming lost, but …

It was as if someone had wrapped a string around his joints, tugging his feet forward. Martin couldn’t have turned back even if he’d wanted to.

His footsteps echoed through the empty corridors, crescendoing until they threatened to drive knives into his eardrums. No other noise penetrated the corridors; even the milky light filtering through the manor’s windows couldn’t reach him. The outside world had been choked off, as effectively as it had in the fog.

Panic swelled inside his lungs. Was there really nobody here? In a desperate bid, Martin threw open the first door to his left, hoping someone, anyone, would be on the other side.

Instead, he found the library.

Stumbling backwards, his jaw went slack.

Martin had only seen two libraries in his life: the small, tattered bookshelf in the back of his mother’s church, and Lord Barclay’s personal collection– although the servants couldn’t make any selections for themselves. An entire room full of books, Martin had assumed it was among the largest collections of its kind.

He’d been wrong.

What stood before of him now were two stories worth of wall-to-wall bookshelves, brimming with texts and tomes in exquisite leather bindings. The scent of old parchment tickled Martin’s nose, sending him back to that dusty corner of the church, escaping through tattered parables and hymns.

Entranced, Martin stepped into the enormous room, leaving the door hanging open behind him. Giddy compulsion had him plucking out the first book he laid eyes on. A cookbook; although the language inside was unfamiliar, every page had been filled with mouthwatering illustrations. He selected another book at random: this time, a book of astronomy. And after that, a love story. Martin fought the urge to laugh, breathless. Just how many different books did Jon have?

Tucking all three in the crook of his arm, he continued down the aisle, reverent fingers brushing over each spine as he passed. A vast majority of them had been left untouched; preserved, perhaps, to maintain the appearance of esteem. That was the only reason Barclay ever added to his works. But occasionally, he’d come across a book with frayed pages, its spine threadbare.

Not mishandled, though. None of the pages had been dogeared, or the bindings broken. No, these carried the air of a book well-loved, read so many times over the years they’d been worn down to the glue. Martin took those with him as well, adding them to the growing collection in his arms.

When the first throbs of a sharp ache began pulsing at the back of his head, Martin ignored it. He couldn’t just leave, not with so much begging for his attention. When would he ever come across an opportunity to browse through a collection like this again? No, he had to make the most of it, while he still could.

But as Martin reached the far corner of the library, he slowed. A door was tucked away here, in a corner where no sunlight reached. It was nondescript, out of place in its simplicity– and yet, something about it drew Martin closer. Cool air seeped from between the door’s cracks, beckoning his curiosity.

His fingers grazed the brass handle–

“Don’t touch that.”

Martin yelped, books crashing to the ground.

Jon was standing at the end of the aisle with eyes like chips of ice. Heat bloomed across Martin’s face. This hadn’t been how he’d planned to encounter his host again: caught like a child sneaking sweets from the pantry.

“Sorry,” he stammered, scrambling to scoop up the fallen books. God, he’d dropped them. “I-I wasn’t– I didn’t mean to–”

“How many times do I have to say the word concussed before it sinks in?” With a sigh, Jon bent over to pick up the remaining books, depositing them on a random bookshelf before swiping the rest from Martin’s hands. Martin flinched, and the lines around Jon’s mouth deepened. "You’re in no condition to be wandering, let alone nosing around into places you shouldn’t.”

“I– I wasn’t trying to, to snoop or anything–”

“Really.” Jon shot a cool, pointed glance at the door. The flush crawled down to Martin’s neck, prickling in time with his erratic pulse.

“Sorry,” he said again, lamely. “I really didn’t mean to– I-I was just … curious.”

“Curious. Of course.” With a sigh, Jon dropped the remaining books into another untidy stack, clapping dust off his hands. “I’ll show you back to your rooms– breakfast is waiting for you.”

Jon shouldered his way back out of the aisle, leaving Martin no choice but to follow. He was too embarrassed to protest even if he wanted to, but– his eyes lingered on the stack of books as they passed, mournful. It would have been nice to read at least one.

Jon urged him back into bed as soon as they reached Martin’s rooms, then turned to the breakfast tray he’d left on the desk. Martin fought down the growing dread at what Jon could have possibly prepared for this morning– but when Jon placed the tray on the bed, he breathed a sigh of relief.

Bread, butter, and a bowl of chestnuts. Absolutely no risk of anything overboiled here. And the bread was fresh, too– delicate wisps of steam rose to curl in the dusty air. Had Jon made this himself as well? It had come out better than the first meal, that was certain.

“Thank you,” Martin mumbled, picking up the bread knife to smear butter over a slice.

Jon’s frosty expression didn’t change. "Why in the world did– I can’t imagine what possessed you to roam around this morning. Do you have any idea what I experienced when I found you gone?”

A spasm of guilt tangled in Martin’s gut. “S-sorry. I just … wanted to look around, a little.”

“There’s nothing worth looking at. This place may as well be a mausoleum.”

Martin’s head whipped up. "You can’t mean that.”

A wry silence.

“Seriously? But your– your library is amazing! I’ve honestly never seen anything like it.”

“Th– the library?” Some of the severity in Jon’s expression vanished; he blinked, opening and closing his mouth. “ … Oh. Well, thank you, I suppose. But I’m, ah … I’m not the owner of that collection.” A shy, almost pleased note crept into his voice. “I did help retrieve a few of the rarer tomes, however. ”

Slice of bread halfway to his mouth, Martin paused. “You … but I thought …?”

One arched brow crept toward Jon’s hairline. “You thought … ?”

“I’m sorry, but– aren’t you the lord of this place?”

“No.”

Martin took a moment to process this sudden collapse of his mental image for Jon. “But then who … why are you …?”

For someone so young, Jon had far too much stress lining his face. “It’s … complicated. You could say I inherited this place from its previous owner.”

“Your father?”

“No,” Jon said, blanching. Then, without warning, he pitched forward. “I’ve been wondering if you’ll entertain a question from me.”

Martin jolted, taken aback by the sudden shift in conversation. “Y-yes?”

Jon smoothed a hand over one of his cuffs. “You were dressed too nicely to be working in someplace like a smithy. But your hands … I assume you’re a labourer of some kind?”

“Oh.” Flustered, Martin set down the piece of bread. Why would Jon want to know a mundane thing like that? “I’m, um, I’m a server in Lord Barclay’s estate, actually.”

“Barclay?”

“Yes, Lord Barclay. Lord Frederick Barclay?” Jon was still frowning. “Your Lord. Your Lord, if you live in this region.”

“You really expect me to know the name of every noble that goes parading themselves around these parts like an arsehole?”

“I-I … suppose not?” Martin didn’t understand how Jon couldn’t know, though. What about his taxes? “H-how about you?”

“Pardon?”

“Well, you said the library wasn’t yours, right? And … you said you’re not the lord of the estate, yeah?”

“In a legal sense, no.”

Well that was an interesting answer, but Martin was learning not to ask for elaboration. “So, what do you … do?”

Jon scowled. “I don’t see why it matters.”

“S-sorry.”

“You apologise a great deal, you’re aware of this?”

“S–” Martin bit it back just in time, and Jon blew out a haggard, long-suffering sigh.

“But I suppose it’s only a fair trade. If you really must know, I was – am, I suppose – the Head Archivist of this estate.”

Martin’s brows flew up– Head Archivist? That had to be rather prestigious. Did Barclay have a similar role anywhere present in his staff? The only thing Martin could think of that compared was … “So, like a librarian?”

“Not like a librarian.” But Jon’s mouth twitched. “I suppose there is some overlap. It was more than just filing books and keeping things tidy, though. We were also researchers.”

Martin perked up. “We?”

“… Yes. I … I did have a team working alongside me, previously. We researched unusual encounters, on behalf of our patron.”

“What kind of unusual encounters?” Fascinated, Martin leaned forward. “You mean like, like love affairs?”

“Nothing as salacious as that.” A slight smile broke out across his lips. “Although there– there was one time … ”

He stilled, trailing off. The fragile warmth that had been growing behind his eyes shuttered.

“Although … ?” Martin prompted after a beat.

Jon’s expression could’ve been carved from stone. He said nothing, shoulders hunched under some unseen burden.

A suspicion had been brewing in the back of Martin’s mind since his crawl through the manor’s hallways, and now, with Jon coiled tense as a spring in front of him, it came roaring back full force. Well, if there was ever a time for inquiries … “Can I ask you something?”

Jon huffed, and Martin winced.

“Right. Um. I guess I just wanted to ask–” oh, how to phrase it …? “–is … is there anyone else … here?”

Jon’s eyes lowered to rest on his hands. “No,” he said. “It’s just me. And now you, I suppose.”

And all at once, the pieces fell into place. Jon’s cooking, his nonchalance about the borrowed clothes, the dust that had settled in a thick carpet over everything Martin, or Jon himself, hadn’t touched. For the second time today Martin was left staring, dumbfounded. “… I don’t understand.”

“What’s there to understand?”

“This place is gigantic. Don’t you …” Martin glanced down at his lap, thumbing a loose thread in the duvet. “There’s really no one here?”

It was the wrong thing to say. Jon’s eyes flashed. “I don’t need your pity. Why else would I be here if I didn’t prefer it this way?”

Martin opened his mouth, but Jon stood before he could reply, stormclouds thundering in his eyes. “This has been more than enough excitement for one day– I’ll let you get some rest.”

He’d already made it to the door when Martin regained control of his voice. “Thank you for the ointment.”

Jon stopped, one hand frozen on the door’s handle. “Pardon?”

“The hand cream. It, uh, it helped. Thank you for noticing. And … and I’m sorry for … everything, I guess.”

Jon stared at him for a long moment, then lifted his chin. “Glad I could be of some service.”

The door clicked shut behind him, and Martin counted his footsteps until even their echoes faded down the hall entirely.

It was probably for the best that he followed Jon’s instructions and got some rest. He had the gnawing sense that he was wearing out his welcome, fast.

He’d already nestled back into the mattress when a flash outside his window made him shoot back up.

Snow. Fluttering snowflakes were dancing on an invisible wind just beyond the glass. Martin rubbed his eyes– once, twice– but they were still there.

A trick of the light– it had to be. Some … half-asleep hallucination. He still had a ways to go before he was recovered, after all. Imagine– snow, at this time of year.

Putting it out of his mind, Martin pulled the duvet over him, and, with very little effort, drifted away again.

“–Hello?”

Martin stumbled to a halt, dinner tray in hand. What the hell was he doing? He didn’t have time to stop– there was still so much of the hallway left to go. But …

There. A door had appeared in the hall. Or had it always been there? For the life of him he couldn’t remember. Why couldn’t he remember …?

“You’re going to be late,” Charles said, somewhere off in the distance.

Late. Yes: Barclay’s dinner. He … he needed to leave. He was going to get everybody in trouble–

“–go.”

There it was again. Martin’s legs were stone; unable to move to the door, unable to move down the hallway. They had said go, right? He had to deliver Barclay’s dinner. But …

“You’re going to be late,” Mum said. Her eyes were hazy, unclear. What a wretched son he was; couldn’t even recall the colour of his own mother’s eyes …

“I’m sorry,” he said, but even he couldn’t tell who it was for.

Martin woke with aching arms and gummed eyes. Sunbeams were once again pouring in through his window, and this time, the accompanying disorientation faded faster.

Was it already morning? He must’ve slept right through dinner– this bloody mattress made it too easy.

And for once he was actually hungry. Properly hungry, too, without the accompanying nausea or weakness he’d grown accustomed to during his morning routine at the castle.

Today the silver tray was waiting for him on the desk– Jon had already come through this morning, likely an effort to keep him from waking, or wandering off again.

It was only as Martin was reaching for the tray that he noticed the books. Three of them, stacked on top of each other. Next to them were several pieces of folded parchment.

Martin, the letter started, with graceful, cursive handwriting, and something in Martin’s chest swooped low.

Here are some collections from the library, should you find yourself in need of entertainment. I had some difficulty choosing a recommendation, but I feel that these three have fairly universal appeal. Please take your injury into consideration, but I trust you to do what feels right for yourself.

Kinsey’s Survival on the Front Lines, especially, I find quite compelling. It’s a collection of memoirs from Kinsey’s time in war, and while a few have criticised his writing style as a bit dry, I find the contrast between his straightforwardness against the reality of war is how he’s able to make his point so clearly …

Martin read slowly, eyebrows climbing higher and higher with each word.

The letter was five pages total, front and back. All detailing Jon’s reasoning for the selections he’d made, from their historical relevance, to his opinion on their style of prose. Was there anything in Martin’s life that he could talk about for so long? That he was so passionate about? Maybe his poetry, mediocre as it was, but not with half as much eloquence.

Buried in the text, tucked between hesitant, tentative platitudes, were Jon’s personal reasons for enjoying each book, such as I would often find myself returning to this text during my apprenticeship, and Some might consider Williamson’s humour a bit crude, but I still found it enjoyable.

Martin lingered longest on these, drinking in each tidbit with the avidity of a book-starved scholar.

The letter concluded with,

By now I’ve realised I needn’t have gone on for so long, but I’ve already spent two hours writing this, and it seems a wasted effort if I just tossed it, so … there you are. If you made it this far, anyway. Admirable, if you have.

If the choice between the three books still proves to be too much, I would suggest Sutherland’s Mythos of the Ages as a start. It’s simple, but, as I’ve mentioned, the illustrative work is astounding, and although it’s rather sentimental, I find the tales of some comfort to me.

Jon

Martin traced the elegant swoop of the J, heart ballooning in his chest until he might burst.

Oh.

–

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bubonickitten · 4 years

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Summary: Jon goes back to before the world ended and tries to forge a different path.

Previous chapter: AO3 // tumblr

Chapter 13 full text & content warnings below the cut.

CWs for Chapter 13: all the usual Buried-related warnings apply (claustrophobia, inability to breathe, etc.); panic/anxiety symptoms; just a smidgen of internalized aphobia; brief mention of past passive suicidal ideation; internalized victim blaming; canon-typical trauma (including discussion of victims targeted by the Fears as children).SPOILERS through S5.

Chapter 13: Center

The darkness and overwhelming pressure of the Buried make it nigh impossible to orient oneself. The only conceivable directions are forward, down, into, deeper. Jon’s only choice, when he has one at all, is to keep moving – and so he does, digging and clawing his way through the muck, making a transient pathway for himself as best he can.

“Daisy?” It comes out as a rasp. He tries to swallow, but succeeds only in upsetting his already-sore throat. It feels as though the dirt and debris have taken up permanent residence there, clogging his airway just enough to leave him chronically short of breath without cutting off his oxygen supply entirely. “Daisy, can you reach me?”

“Jon,” comes the weak reply, “I’m – I don’t know where – I c-can’t – can’t see –”

“I hear you,” Jon says. “I’m here, I’m coming to you. Just – keep talking, and –”

As he talks, he inhales a cloud of dust, dissolving into wracking coughs.

“Jon? Jon, are you still there?” For a long moment, Jon cannot speak. Daisy’s next words are steeped in panic. “Where are you? I can’t… p-please be there, please –”

“I’m still here,” Jon forces out hoarsely, stretching his arm forward as far as it will go. “I’m not going anywhere. Follow my voice, I – I think I’m almost –”

Chill fingertips brush against his, and he throws his weight forward as much as possible. He hooks her fingers in his and pulls, and with a burst of energy he manages to clasp her clammy hand in his.

“There you are,” he says, smiling weakly.

“You’re real,” Daisy says in disbelief, crushing his hand in a bruising grip. “You’re real.”

“I am.” He intertwines their fingers, as grateful as she is for a hand to hold. “I’m here, Daisy.”

“Daisy,” she says dreamily. “Yeah. Daisy. That’s me.” A pause. “Just – just me.”

Jon closes his eyes with a relieved sigh. There are no signs that the Hunt still has its claws in her. He had no reason to think that reaching her a couple weeks earlier than before would change anything, but there was still that nagging doubt.

“J-just me,” she says again, but this time there’s a waver in her voice. “Just – alone –”

“No,” Jon says hurriedly, squeezing her hand several times in quick succession, “not – not alone. Not anymore.”

“Yeah.” She grasps his hand even more tightly, as if to reassure herself.

“I’m here.”

“Yeah,” she says again, and this time it sounds like she’s starting to believe it.

“How – how are you?” Jon cringes. It’s as stupid a question now as it was the last time. Moreso, seeing as he’s already heard the answer. “S-sorry. That’s – probably obvious.”

Daisy answers anyway, likely glad of the chance to talk to someone else after so long in isolation.

“I – I can’t move, can’t breathe, can’t…” She trails off, hesitating. “But it’s… it’s quiet here? I can’t…”

She seems to be struggling to find the words.

“You can’t feel the blood,” he supplies.

“Y-yeah. How did you…”

“I can’t feel the Eye, either. It’s… it’s just me. All me.”

“Where are we?”

“In the Coffin. The Buried. It’s… the powers don’t have much sway within one another’s domains. The Hunt, the Eye – they can’t reach us here.”

“The Hunt,” she echoes.

“Yes. You’re a Hunter.”

“I… I guess I was. But – not here.”

No, not here. But once they leave here…

Stop, he tells himself. One thing at a time. Escape the Buried, then worry about the Hunt.

“Come on.” He tugs on her hand. “Let’s get you out of here.”

“Can’t – can’t move, and – and even if I could, there’s no way out –”

“No, I – I can get us out. I have a plan.”

“Is this like all your other plans?”

Jon chuckles, but it comes out as a wheeze.

“Yes and no. But – but don’t worry, it’s – I can do this. I just – need to – to find it.”

But when he closes his eyes and concentrates, there’s… nothing there.

“Come on,” he says under his breath, keeping his voice deliberately calm. “Come on, where are you?”

There’s nothing there. Why is there nothing there?

“Just need to… need to focus. Just – focus, think of…”

Think of Martin. Martin is your anchor. Clever, brave, loyal, compassionate Martin.

He was kind to you even when you didn’t deserve it; he cared for you even though you did everything you could to push him away. He reached out to you through the Lonely when you were at your most monstrous to remind you of the humanity you’d thought you lost. He made you want to do better, to be the person that he saw when he looked at you.

You followed him into the Lonely because you love him and because he deserved to know it. You need to return to him now, because this version of him doesn’t yet know that he is loved. If you don’t get back to him, if you don’t reach out to him – he’ll get lost, and he –

Jon’s breath hitches. The fear is starting to move in as inexorably as the earth surrounding them, settling cold and heavy in his gut.

Stop that, he tells himself. Just think about Martin, not the worst case scenario.

Everyone underestimates him, because he spent his entire life striving for the perfect balance between useful and unobtrusive. But he’s not helpless; he’s not a pushover. He took master manipulator Jonah Magnus by surprise; he fooled Peter Lukas for months. Sometimes, you think that Martin Blackwood could outmaneuver the Web if he cared to. If anyone could, it would be him. You don’t think you’ll ever fully forgive yourself for taking so long to notice.

No, Jon tells himself once more, recognizing the warning signs of a guilt spiral. That won’t help. Redirect.

In those early days after the ritual, you briefly defaulted to your old habits, withdrawing and shutting him out. He stood up to your brooding, gave your self-loathing no refuge in which to thrive, because he saw right through your sharp tongue to the vulnerable parts of you that it was meant to hide.

He is intuitive, stubborn, and patient in the best of ways.

You have a tendency to stare. You always have; you typically don’t notice you’re doing it. After you became the Archivist, it went from being an awkward habit to evidence of your inhumanity: all eyes, always watching, always demanding more, more, more until every secret is exposed and any semblance of privacy has been demolished.

But it was never just the Eye urging you to record things. You know from experience that nothing lasts forever, that anyone and anything can disappear without a moment’s notice – sometimes leaving no trace, no memory that they ever existed. It only makes sense that you would develop a compulsion to document everything for posterity. The tape recorders were only the most recent manifestation of that preexisting obsession. Before that, you made lists, you took pictures, you wrote on your hands – and, of course, you stared.

During your first few days together at the safehouse, Martin called attention to the staring. You were mortified, launched into a rambling apology – but he shut it down, reassured you that he was only teasing, that he didn’t mind it, that it was… endearing, in a way. And once you were given permission, you began to consciously catalog every little detail.

He has thirty-six freckles on his face, seventeen on his hands, and constellations of them besides: on his back, on his shoulders, on his arms, on his belly. He blushes easily, and you love it, because you’ve never been good at reading body language, and you can always use a hint. His hair is soft, and the way he leans into it when you run your fingers through it – you think he would purr if he could. You were hesitant, at first, to spend too long looking at his eyes – but unlike most people, he showed no signs that he found eye contact with you unsettling.

You gave him permission to stare, too. And he did. He never shied away from your scars. He liked looking at you – and you knew he was genuine when he said so, even though you didn’t understand it.

Martin is self-conscious about his size, painfully aware of how others see him. He rarely stands to his full height, tending to curl his shoulders in, maintain a curve to his spine, keep his arms pulled tight to his body: anything to avoid towering over others, anything to take up as little space as possible. He saw his stretch marks as flaws to be tolerated; spent most of his life assuming that his weight and soft edges made him unattractive.

There are so many things he hates about himself. It broke your heart a little, to see how difficult it was for him to believe that you like looking at him, that your boundaries regarding physical intimacy weren’t a comment on his desirability. (Though he never voiced that last concern, never wanted his own insecurities to make you feel self-conscious about that part of you. Never made you feel guilty or lacking or… or broken.)

You regularly stole his jumpers; the first time you did it, he went speechless and flustered at the casual domesticity of it all. You took turns ambushing one another with affirmations and small acts of affection like that. It became something of a challenge, a game: springing a pet name on one another here, placing a soft kiss on a hand there, delighting in the reactions it got. It’s strange how easily you settled into that routine, how natural it felt to let down your guard.

At night, he would curl around you like he belonged there, like there was no place he’d rather be – and it made you feel like you belong, too. The first time he held you in his arms, you realized that you’d never truly known what it was to feel safe until that moment – and isn’t that its own special kind of vulnerability, isn’t it such a cliché? You still had nightmares, still jolted awake several times throughout the night frantic and disoriented – as did he – but it felt so much more endurable with someone to coax you back to reality.

When you first led him out of the Lonely, it was still clinging to him. He couldn’t understand what you saw in him, any more than you could understand what he saw in you. You made it your mission to make him understand. And eventually, he did. It wasn’t the first time you told him you loved him, but one morning when you said it, he looked at you and his lips parted ever so slightly, and you could practically see the epiphany dawn in his eyes, and he whispered that he believed you.

You still haven’t found a word that accurately describes what you felt then. You kissed him, and hoped that it would say what words could not.

You never gave up on each other, even when you’d given up on your own selves. He never stopped caring for you, even when you were at your most fearsome and fearful. Despite everything, you communicated, you compromised, you comforted one another. You never stopped loving one another.

You lost him once before. You cannot lose him again. You need to find him. Why – why can’t you find him? Why can’t you feel him?

Jon feels his breath quickening, terror needling at the edges of his mind. He jumps slightly when Daisy speaks.

“Jon?”

“It’s – it’s okay,” he says, his voice shaky. “I’ve – I’ve done this once before. I can do this.”

There’s no rule saying he can only have one anchor, right?

He thinks of Georgie.

She took you in when you had nowhere else to go, even though you hadn’t spoken in years, even though you hadn’t parted on the best of terms. Staying with her felt more like home than you’d experienced in… you don’t know how long. It made you realize how much you missed her – her humor, her ingenuity, her confidence, her tenacity, her generosity, and, yes, even her perceptiveness, daunting though it may be at times. She speaks her mind and you can take her at her word. You can appreciate that, as someone who has always had trouble parsing the implicit and unspoken aspects of social life.

You trust her judgment, and she believes in you, and it makes you want to believe in yourself. You want to be there for her in the same way that she’s chosen to be there for you.

He thinks of Melanie.

You disliked one another at first meeting, even though – or perhaps because – you have so much in common. Over the years, you saw more sides to her. She’s brave and resolute, not just when it comes to fighting back, but when it comes to making the conscious decision to heal. She’s capable of kindness to those who are receptive to it. You’ve seen how she is with Georgie, how her hard edges relax, how her devotion is as fierce as her anger can be – perhaps moreso.

You know that she never deserved to suffer like she has. You know she deserves a happy ending. You want to try to reconcile with her. In your future, she went so far as to suggest that you could be friends. You think you would like that.

He thinks of Basira.

She’s had no one but herself to rely on for months. She feels trapped and alone; she hasn’t had a moment to grieve; she’s forced herself to compartmentalize and detach because if she breaks down, she doesn’t know if she’ll be able to put herself back together again. She’s told herself that her own comfort and wellbeing don’t matter. She has a job to do and she’s the only one left who is willing and able to do it. The only solid thing left in her life, the only thing giving her purpose is the mission. The mission is her anchor, because she’s lost everything else.

When she found out that Daisy was alive, she was almost angry with you for making her dare to hope. You promised that you would bring Daisy home to her, and you mean to keep that promise.

And Jon has a job to do, too, doesn’t he?

You need to stop Jonah Magnus, you need to –

His stomach clenches as the dread grips him.

Okay, no. Don’t – don’t think of Jonah. Not helpful, not helpful, not –

He reaches further. He tries to think of Naomi, of the Admiral, of –

The faraway rumbling starts up again.

“Jon,” Daisy says again, urgently, perched on the edge of panic right along with him.

This is forever deep below creation, some self-sabotaging part of his brain reminds him. Where the weight of existence bears down. This is the Buried, and we are alive. There isn’t even an up –

“I just – I just – I just need to calm down,” he stammers. He can feel his pulse beating in his throat; would be hyperventilating if he could breathe at all. “I – I can’t think straight, and I just need to…”

He thinks back to the physical details of the world just outside the Coffin.

The arrangement of the tapes –

…CASE #0160919 sits 34.2 centimeters west of the Coffin, turned at a 45-degree angle. Approximately 20.6 centimeters south-southwest is CASE #0172904; the casing of its recorder is slightly cracked at the lower left corner. 2.4 centimeters to its right is CASE #0171302; the rewind button on the recorder housing it tends to stick…

– on the floor of his office –

…where fingernail scratches are still visible in the northwest corner of the room, left there by Enrique MacMillan on 4 November, 2003, after he gave his statement regarding his encounter with a Buried-touched Leitner…

– and the tape he left on his desk –

…on top of a softcover Moleskine notebook – black, 12.7 by 21 centimeters, ruled – belonging to Martin Blackwood; the Archivist knows every word written thus far on the 68 used out of 192 total pages within…

– and on that tape are pleas that went unanswered for far too long, laced with desperation and grief and rapidly dwindling hope –

…We really need you, Jon. We – I need you …

– but Jon cannot hear it anymore.

His mind wanders to the single folded sheet of paper tucked away in the top drawer of his desk. A second message for Martin, to be read only in the event that Jon doesn’t return. A transcript, to be precise.

On their way to the Panopticon, they had been separated when they traversed the Lonely’s domain. Jon had searched frantically, resisting the urge to simply Know because he had promised. As much as he wanted to, he didn’t feel right forcing Martin to See him the way he did before. It was Martin’s domain, and he had the right to decide for himself whether to leave it behind. Even if Jon had wanted to, though, he suspected that he wouldn’t have been able to actually find Martin this time unless he wanted to be found. And in the end, he did.

Just before Jon found him, he managed to catch the tail end of Martin’s statement. Naturally, the Archive memorized every word and dutifully filed it away without any conscious effort or consent on Jon’s part.

…I am Martin Blackwood, and I am not Lonely anymore; I am not Lonely anymore. I want to have friends. I – no, I have friends. I’m in love. I am in love, and I will not forget that; I will not forget…

Before he entered the Coffin, Jon copied it down and left it behind. Just in case. Just in case something goes wrong. If he goes missing in action for too long, he trusts that eventually someone will clear out his desk, find it, and hopefully pass it along to its intended recipient.

It was a last-ditch effort to impart the truth: that a future exists wherein Martin isn’t Lonely; that he can be and is and deserves to be cared for; that it isn’t just an unattainable fantasy. And, most importantly, Jon is not the only one who can provide that, nor is Jon alone enough to fulfill that need. In the end, Martin chose to turn his back on the Lonely. He can do it again.

There’s every chance that it was a meaningless gesture, but Jon doesn’t think he could live with himself if he didn’t at least try – and if he does get lost down here, he’ll be forced to live with himself for as long as the Buried itself exists.

But Jon doesn’t want to leave Martin alone with that inexplicable scrap of statement, hoping that it’s enough to get the point across. Jon has to get home. He has to; there’s no other choice –

“Jon?” Daisy says again. “You sound like you’re… what – what’s wrong?”

“Sorry, I’m – I’m just… I can’t – I can’t feel my anchor.”

“Anchor?”

“Y-yeah. Something to ground me, help me feel the way out. It’s – there’s a void where it should be, and…” His short exhale shudders on the way out. “I think – I think we might be here for awhile longer.”

“N-not alone, though,” Daisy says, almost questioningly.

“No. No, not alone. And – and I can still get us out, I think,” he adds hurriedly. “I just – I need to… I need to come down from the panic, and it’s hard to do that when I can’t – I can’t breathe –“

His breath catches and he closes his eyes. Stop, he tells himself, you’re – you’re spiraling, talking yourself into a panic. Just… listen – listen to the quiet.

“Jon?”

“Still – still here,” he says, squeezing her hand again. “I’m not going anywhere without you, I promise.”

“Do you – if you need a break from – from whatever you’re doing…” She falters for a moment before blurting out: “C-can we… can we talk? I haven’t – I just want someone to hear me.”

“Of course. I’m listening.” When Daisy doesn’t reply, he offers a gentle prompting. “Daisy?”

“I’m – it’s difficult. I can’t find the words.”

“Would it help if I… ask?” The last time, it did help her get her thoughts out.

“Y-yeah,” she says with only a slight delay. “Do your… thing.”

“Right,” he says. For a moment, he worries that he’ll have difficulty concentrating long enough to compel an answer, but his mind clears almost as soon as he opens his mouth. Of course. “How are you feeling?”

The question buzzes like static on his tongue on its way out.

“S-scared. I – I’m – I’m s-scared…”

Daisy’s words do not deviate from the last time he was here, but he does not interrupt her as she speaks. He latches onto her voice, focuses all of his attention on her story, and tries to ground himself in the present.

“Y-you know what I thought, when I woke up here? I thought this was hell. I – I was dead, and I was in hell. And I - I knew I deserved it.” Daisy stifles a sob as she nears the end of her statement. “I don’t want t-to b-be a s-sadistic predator again. I – I don’t want to hobble around like some – pathetic wounded prey here. I don’t know which would be worse. But I’m scared now – that I won’t ever get the choice.”

One thing I’ve learned, Daisy, is that we all get a choice, he told her last time. Even if it doesn’t feel like one.

Now, though, he’s not so sure. Or, rather, now he thinks it isn’t quite that simple.

“It’s… complicated,” Jon starts slowly. “Choice, I mean. We all have choices, but – but when all the alternatives are unendurable, or impossible to achieve, or – or even conceptualize, then… well, it’s not a fair choice, is it? Sometimes because that’s just – how it is, and sometimes by design. There – there are people, and – and things out there that will abuse their power to deceive you, keep you ignorant about things that would affect your decisions. Or – or convince you that you have no options, no autonomy – or even that you can’t trust your own judgment, your own senses. Some choices can hardly be called choices at all.”

He begins to grind his teeth as he considers his next words, but stops as soon as he feels the grit between his molars when he bites down. There are a lot of things to hate about the Buried, but its refusal to allow him to engage in any of his usual nervous habits definitely adds insult to injury.

“You say you deserve to be here, but – do you think you deserved to be marked by the Hunt in the first place? Because one thing I’ve learned is… most people who become Avatars – we don't necessarily do anything to deserve the attention of the things that take notice of us. To be put in these positions, to be given impossible choices about – about things we have no right to decide in the first place.”

“What do you mean?”

“It seems that a common thread is… well, um, I think Tim hit the nail on the head, actually? In his testament before the Unknowing, he – he said, ‘The only thing you need to have your life destroyed by this stuff is just bad luck. Talk to the wrong person, take the wrong train, open the wrong door, and that’s it.’”

“You remember that verbatim?”

“It’s – it’s an Archivist thing.” Well, technically. Jon can’t access the Archive right now, but some statements have looped so many times in his head that he has every word memorized by now. “But the point is that our transgressions, they… the punishment often doesn’t seem to fit the crime.”

Daisy is quiet, so Jon continues.

“Uh, Jane Prentiss, for instance – stumbled upon a wasps’ nest in her attic, and then the Corruption infested her. In her original statement, she was afraid of what was happening to her, she was asking for help, but it… it was slowly hollowing her out. Appealed to her insecurities, whispered to her that it was the only thing that could love her, that wouldn’t abandon her. Maybe eventually she embraced it on her own, but at that point, how much of her was left to make that choice?

“And – and Michael Crew. He was struck by lightning when he was eight. The Spiral never stopped stalking him after that. He spent his childhood in fear, obsessively sought out information about – lightning, and fractals, because understanding it felt like the only way to resist a thing that feeds on uncertainty.”

Jon can relate to that, can’t he? He was always curious, but his desire to know and understand things became more obsessive after he encountered his first monster – as if he could solve any problem if only he learned enough about it. But it was never enough, and that impulse never actually kept him safe. It only offered him a flimsy illusion of control, which was something he desperately needed after the Web showed him what it was like to have none. Still, an ineffective coping mechanism was better than not coping at all – or so he told himself then.

“When Mike realized that there was no escape from the supernatural once he’d been marked by it,” Jon continues, “he decided that the next best thing was choosing which Fear to submit to – to serve. Obsessively sought out Leitners until he found the Vast, and… it offered him safety. The most basic of human needs, something he hadn’t known since he was a child. The things he did to feed his patron were – indefensible, but I can’t help thinking about the person he might have been, if the Spiral hadn’t come into his life. He… he was only eight. How is a child supposed to process something that even an adult would have trouble coping with? I’m sure many children don’t even physically survive an encounter with one of the Fears, but even those that do… they never actually escape, do they?”

Daisy makes an indistinct little noise in her throat. Jon can’t Know for certain, but he imagines she’s thinking of her own first encounter with the Hunt. When enough time has passed that she doesn’t seem ready to say as much, Jon continues.

“And there’s – there’s Oliver Banks, he’s an Avatar of the End. He just started having dreams one day, became a death prophet. As far as I can tell, nothing provoked it. It just… happened. And early on, he tried to use that ability to help people, but… the powers granted us as Avatars, they aren’t for helping or saving anyone. When you realize that, after a long string of failures, you start to become… despondent – numb, even. Maybe some misstep along the way piqued the End’s interest in him, or maybe it was completely arbitrary. I don’t know. I don’t know that Oliver does, either.”

It’s difficult to speak at length here, and Jon’s speech is punctuated by frequent gasps and stops and starts, but he plows ahead. Granted, he’s always had a tendency toward intense, rapidfire speech whenever he gets invested in a topic of interest, but it’s also that he needs to cover as much ground as he can as quickly as possible. There’s no telling when the Buried will constrict again. Sometimes there are long intervals of relative peace; other times, the bouts of crushing pressure come one after the other in a barrage. The inconsistency makes the dread all the more potent: you can never predict when the walls will close in.

“And Helen,” he says, moving right along, “before she became the Distortion, she opened a door. That’s all. Most people would have probably done the same. A door that wasn’t there before, that can’t be there – of course the human mind wants to test its perceptions, make sense of the discrepancy. Which is exactly what the Distortion preys on. It let her escape its corridors, because it would make the fear that much more potent when it came for her again, when she realized that it had never actually let her go, that there was never any way to escape. It was… it was just playing with its food.”

Like with Benjamin Hatendi, Jon thinks. ‘The blanket never did anything.’

The Fears are never merciful. For an earthly predatory animal, the pain and fear of the prey are only relevant insofar as their utility in capturing it. Granted, the majority of animals may have no qualms about eating their prey alive so long as it’s incapacitated, no concept of putting their food out of its misery – but still, sustenance isn’t derived from the experience of the prey, only from its organic matter.

For the Powers, though… terror is the food source. If anything, the misery is deliberately drawn out. The suffering is primary to the meal.

“I still don’t know how much of Helen Richardson was left by the time she embraced her new existence and began feeding” – by the time she chose to stop feeling guilty, Jon notes privately – “but she never asked to be in that position to begin with. She just… opened a door.

“And you… all you did was trespass on a childhood dare, right? You and Calvin Benchley. I did hear the tape – of your interrogation with Elias. Maybe the Hunt chose the both of you, was deliberately waiting for you there. Or maybe you were in the wrong place at the wrong time. Either way, you… you did something that most children do at one point or another, exploring out bounds – I did plenty of that myself. And – and you’d done the same thing many times in the past, there was no reason to think that things would go any differently. But that time, that time you stumbled into something that most children – most people never do.”

Jon debates whether or not to share his own initiation into this world. He never told Daisy about it last time, but he knows – and Knows – about her childhood encounter. It seems only fair to include his own.

“Actually, I… I had a similar experience, when I was eight,” he admits, pushing through his habitual reservations. “Unlike Michael Crew, though, I was an active participant in my own fate. There’s no dodging a lightning strike, but me – I… I opened a book I shouldn’t have, knocked on a door I shouldn’t have. I could’ve just… not.”

“That’s a funny double standard,” Daisy says flatly.

“P-pardon?”

“Couldn’t you just as easily say that Crew could have chosen to not stand outside during a lightning storm?”

“He – he actually wanted to go inside, but his friend pressured him to keep playing,” Jon says, almost defensively. “By the time they decided to go in, it was too late.”

“Like I pressured Calvin.”

“That’s –” Jon gives an agitated little exhale. “It’s still different.”

“How?”

“Did you have a bad feeling about the dare, or was it just like any other day? You had no reason to think that things would go wrong. I… I knew that book was wrong, and I opened it anyway.” Daisy scoffs. “What?”

“Has anyone ever pointed out to you that you’re capable of some truly infuriating mental gymnastics?”

Jon puffs out another exasperated breath before muttering, “Yes.”

In fact, she said almost the exact same thing to him the last time around. And Georgie – she used to say so all the time, especially when they were dating.

“You always do this,” she’d pointed out once during an argument, hands on her hips and a shrewd look in her eye. “Any time a conversation gets a little too uncomfortable for you, you just – throw your hands up, say it’s your fault and shut down, and nothing ever gets resolved. Why are you so eager to take the blame for things? Is it that it’s better than admitting there are some things you can’t control, or is it just easier than actually talking about your feelings?”

The answer was yes on both counts, and he had been angry with her for putting it into words. He’d already known on some level, but he studiously avoided that sort of introspection. Now that it had been verbalized, the knowledge would always be there, floating around in his mind – yet another thing to overanalyze, to obsess over, to ambush him in moments of doubt.

Since then he’s gotten better at communicating in healthy ways, but the self-blame thing… well, Martin still had to periodically call him out on it, right up until the end. It became a common refrain: “It’s still victim blaming even if you’re the victim, Jon.” The reminder did help – at least some of the time – but it wasn’t enough to undo a worldview that he’d spent his entire life internalizing.

“Y-yes,” he says again, less sullenly now, “I – I see your point.”

“Good. So – evil book?”

“A Leitner, yes. The Web.” Jon has no desire to go into all the gruesome details, not when he’s – when they’re both already being suffocated by fear. “And I only escaped through… I don’t know, some combination of mundane human cruelty and luck – or… or someone else’s misfortune, more like.” He gives a tired sigh. “Or it could have been deliberate interference by the Web, taking someone else in my place because it had other plans for me. I’ll never know the exact reason why. If there even is a reason.”

He pauses, expecting the Beholding’s characteristic objection to the idea that he should accept not knowing anything, before remembering with grim satisfaction that the Eye can’t reach him here. Nor can the Web, for that matter. A small mercy, but he’ll take it.

“But the experience led to an obsession with the supernatural. I suppose I thought that if – if I could just understand it, I could conquer the fear. It didn’t work, but an obsession like that – it persists regardless of whether it’s successful or productive or – or healthy. Eventually it led me to the Institute. Which led me… here, ultimately.” He bites his lower lip as he considers his next words. “I’m sure many of my choices along the way were mine alone, and – and I’m responsible for my actions regardless. But that first domino… it was just a restless child ignoring gut instinct, all because he needed to know.”

“Jon,” Daisy says, the hint of a warning growl underlying her tone.

“I – okay, yes, I know, I know. Double standards.” He takes a shallow breath before continuing. “My point is, most of us are just… unlucky isn’t the right word, but it’s as close as I can get. Sometimes the Fears seem to seek out victims who are already uniquely susceptible to them – people with phobias, or specific traumas. Other times it seems… arbitrary. And sometimes it seems like the difference between an average victim and those who eventually become Avatars is… compatibility, or – or in some cases, a sense of kinship, even.

“I’ve always been too curious for my own good, a natural fit for the Beholding. Jane talked about being seen as toxic, and it was the Corruption that found her. Annabelle Cane said she was well-versed in manipulation as a young child, the sort of gift that the Web favors. Jared Hopworth always had a sadistic streak, but the difference between him and any other bully is that he found The Boneturner's Tale. I… don’t really know what to make of Jude Perry. The way she told it, she always had the disposition for the Desolation. She would likely have been a nightmare with or without supernatural help, but there are plenty of people like that in the world. She just happened to be one of the few who caught the attention of the Lightless Flame.

“But – but I also don’t think preexisting compatibility is a requirement to be an Avatar. Some people really do just – stumble into it, probably. Grow into it, maybe, after enough exposure. Especially if the same Power keeps coming back.”

Jon can’t help thinking of the Distortion and its tendency to dog its victims for years. Helen said once that she couldn’t just force her victims into her corridors, that they had to open the door on their own. But that was a lie, wasn’t it? Marcus MacKenzie refused to open the door every single time it appeared throughout his childhood and young adulthood. It started to take increasingly drastic measures: disguising itself as other things, at one point even opening up in the ground in front of him, hoping he wouldn’t notice until he already stepped over the ledge and gravity did its work. When that didn’t work, it took his father. And then, even after evading it for decades, Helen eventually took Marcus anyway. Choice didn’t come into it. It didn't matter how many times he walked away – it followed him wherever he went.

“Either way,” Jon continues, “whether it’s part of some grand plan or just happenstance, the Avatars… we catch the attention of something predatory, and it sinks its hooks into the vulnerabilities it finds. There are plenty of other people in the world who may have the same… flaws, or inclinations, or experiences, but most are lucky enough not to be drawn into this world. I’m not sure exactly what determines who is, but I don’t think it comes down to fairness, or deservedness, or – or some sort of cosmic punishment. I – I don’t think the universe works that way.

“And – and after we’ve been marked, maybe we can make choices along the way. But as far as I can tell, none of those choices ever lead to complete freedom from the Powers that lay claim to us. We’re still accountable for our actions; we can fight back, we can resist – but we’ll always be struggling against our natures. Sometimes it seems like there’s… there’s really no choice we can make where things actually turn out okay. Doesn’t mean we stop trying, or give up hope, but…” He pauses to gnaw on the inside of his cheek for a few seconds. “It can be hard to ignore the fear when it’s become such an intrinsic part of you, is all. When it makes its hunger your own, and hollows you out if you don’t feed it. It can make the concept of choice seem… empty.”

When he trails off, Daisy blows out a forceful exhale.

“That was… a lot.”

“Surprised the Buried let me get it all out,” Jon says, a bit sheepishly. “Sorry, I’ve… had a lot of time alone to ruminate.”

“I think I can rela-”

Daisy’s words are cut short when all at once the earth crashes down around them with a vengeance, as if exacting payment for the courtesy of staying its hand for so long. An indeterminate amount of time passes, weight pressing down on them from all sides, leaving no room for breath or words or thought. Jon focuses on their hands, still linked tightly together, the only anchor to be found here in the dark.

Eventually, the walls begin to withdraw in tiny increments. The sinister, sibilant shifting of soil is a constant, unknown variable – it sounds the same whether the earth is compacting or moving away, and often there is no way to tell until it’s already too close and pressing down. Jon can feel his pulse hammering in his throat, can hear Daisy’s gasping breaths overlapping his own.

“I was gonna kill you,” she blurts out eventually, breathless and rushed. “You know that?”

“Yes.”

“I – I don’t just mean that day in the woods,” she clarifies. “Af-after the mission, I was planning on killing you.”

“I know. You – you realized I wasn’t human. That I needed to die.”

“H-how did you –”

“I’ve been here once before. And – and I should apologize for the dreams, I –”

“Jon –”

“I know it’s not an excuse, but I never meant to compel you that time – didn’t even realize at the time that that was something I could do, and –”

“Jon –”

“I didn’t realize then that the dreams were real, and – and when I finally did, I still didn’t have any control over them, but I –”

“Jon! Shut up a minute.”

His mouth snaps shut a little too quickly and he winces as he bites down on the tip of his tongue. The metallic taste of blood just barely registers on his tongue in the few seconds it takes for the cut to heal.

“Just – back up,” Daisy says, toning down the intensity this time. “That thing you said about… you’ve ‘been here once before’? What is that supposed to mean?”

“It’s… a long story. And difficult to believe.”

“Well, it’s –” Daisy huffs. “It’s not like we don’t have the time?”

“I suppose,” Jon sighs. He’s already told this story to the tape recorder at length, but… the idea of telling it to another person, in his own words this time, feels both terrifying and cathartic at the same time. It’s just – difficult to talk about, no matter how many times he recaps it. “Where to begin… oh, I should probably preface this with ‘time travel is real.’”

Daisy sounds far too nonchalant when she says, “Okay.”

“O-okay? That’s… that’s it?”

“Sorry if it’s not the dramatic response you expected. Encounter enough – vampires, and people made of sawdust, and – and this, here, and… I don’t know that anything would surprise me anymore.”

“R-right,” Jon replies, still a bit incredulous. “Well, I’m – I’m from the future.” He pauses again, but she doesn’t interject. “And… and I came back to stop the apocalypse.”

His inflection pitches up into a near-question on the last word, certain that this will be the point at which Daisy calls bullshit. Instead, she just gives a dry chuckle.

“And how’s that going for you?”

“Well, uh, actually…” Jon’s laugh manages to sound slightly hysterical despite its brevity. “Being stuck here actually does – put it on hold indefinitely?”

“H-how’s that?”

“Because – because it can’t go forward without the Archivist.” He takes a shallow breath. “Just like the Stranger has the Unknowing, the Eye has its own Ritual. I was – I am a part of it. I – I didn’t want to, Elias – he orchestrated the whole thing, f-forced me to –” He nearly bites his tongue again when he cuts himself off. “But that – that doesn’t change anything,” he continues, almost viciously. “I’m the one who opened the door. It wouldn’t have happened if not for me, s-so it’s as good as my fault.”

“Don’t know about that,” Daisy says.

“What?”

“Don’t think I can see you making a choice to end the world, if you had any say. Doesn’t sound like you. You – Jon, you just went on about having choices taken away.” Jon is silent, teeth clenched; Daisy jostles his hand insistently. “So – so how’d it actually happen?”

“I, ah…” Why is this still so hard to talk about? “So you know how I – I… need the statements?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, I – it – my appetite only got worse as time went on. Started craving live statements, and – and hunted for them. The others intervened eventually, and I stopped, but I still needed – need – statements, or else I’d… starve, for lack of a better word. So I made do with the old statements like before, but they were – less and less filling as time went on, and – and I needed more of them, and more frequently, even though I tried to – to spread them out, ration myself. And, uh, some things happened, and Martin and I went into hiding – used your safehouse, actually –”

“Which one?”

“Scotland.”

“Ah,” Daisy says softly. “I like that one.”

“So did we,” Jon says, smiling fondly. “I – we only had a couple weeks, before… b-but the time we did have, it was…”

He clears his throat.

“An-anyway, I went – hungry, for a bit, until a box of statements could be sent to us. And the first one I read, it was – a trap, by J- Elias.” He can explain about Jonah Magnus later. If he takes that detour now, he’ll never get through the rest of this. “The heading looked – just like any other statement. Statement giver’s name, date – but as soon as I started reading, it was Elias’ words. It was a, uh, statement about – about me. About what I am. I’m not just the Archivist, Daisy, I’m the Archive.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I – when I take or – or consume a statement, I, ah – experience it like I’m there, and it – it becomes a part of me. I’m like a – like a living record, a library of – of people’s worst fears, nightmares, moments that I have no right to witness, and – doesn’t matter. Elias needed a fully realized Archive for his ritual to work, so he – he created one, and he fed it a statement. And I – I tried to stop reading, but I couldn’t, even though I – I tried, I really did, I –” He laughs nervously. “Even tried to – to blind myself, but it just – healed. Then, at the end, there was an – an incantation. To open a door that could let all the Fears into the world. And when I read it… it did.”

“Wait – all of them?”

“Yes,” Jon says quietly. “Just before she died, Gertrude figured out that a ritual to bring one of the Fears into the world could never succeed on its own. The Powers can’t exist without minds to experience them, and our minds – they’re highly associative. The experience of fear is just… far more convoluted and subjective than any artificial taxonomy can capture. The Fears have overlap, and – and some of them are defined by their opposition to the others.

“A Vast ritual would collapse without the existence of the Buried, for instance. Or – the Stranger and the Spiral, they’re both tied to unreality, to not being able to trust your perceptions – which can feed into paranoia, which the Eye and the Web also thrive on. The Hunt and the Slaughter run together, and the Flesh can tag alongside. Both the Corruption and the Desolation are equally efficient and thorough in ravaging a home or a body or – or even the general concept of safety.

“Even here – we’re too far deep below creation for the Eye or the Hunt to reach us, but there’s still more than the Buried to fear. The Dark, for instance, or being Forsaken. Even the Vast can be found down here, if you start obsessing over your own insignificance in the grand scheme of the universe. The Powers are just – too interconnected, and their rituals never accounted for that.”

“So the Unknowing…”

“Would have failed even without our intervention,” Jon says bitterly. “Same goes for all of the rituals that Gertrude stopped, and all the others that have been sabotaged throughout the centuries. All of that sacrifice, and for nothing. Michael Shelley, and Jan Kilbride, and – and Tim, and you ending up here –”

“Tim?”

“He… he died during the mission,” Jon says quietly. He hears a sharp intake of breath from Daisy.

“And Basira?”

“Alive. She got out before the explosion.” He can just barely make out Daisy’s sigh of relief. “She… she told me to tell you that she’s waiting for you.”

“Oh,” Daisy says softly. “I’m s-”

Before she can say more, the Buried begins to writhe around them again, this time closing in molasses-slow. They both instinctively tighten their handhold on one another. As horrid as the crushing force is, this time it at least has the decency to press them closer together. Daisy’s free hand tentatively brushes against Jon’s free wrist. Understanding the unspoken request, Jon interlocks their fingers, and they wait.

“S-so,” Daisy wheezes when the earth finally relaxes and settles again, “about – about the rituals?”

“R-right.” Jon coughs lightly, still catching his breath. “Well, ah, Elias found out about Gertrude’s theory. Came up with a – ritual that would bring all the Powers through at once, but with the Eye ruling over the rest. It required an Archivist – Archive – directly marked by all the Powers. Elias – chose me. Made sure I’d encounter each of them, and… when I was ready, he laid one last trap and waited for me to wander in, because he knew from experience that I would.”

And it could happen again, Jon’s brain helpfully supplies.

“Huh.”

“Yeah. S-so it probably goes without saying, but if you thought I wasn’t human before, I, ah…” He gives an exhausted, humorless chuckle. “I’m definitely not now.”

Daisy is silent for a long moment before saying: “I take it you – you didn’t come here the first time.”

That wasn’t the comment that Jon had been expecting.

“No, I did.”

“Then… how –”

“I told you, there’s a way out. I just – I just have to find it. Last time I found you, and we escaped together. We can do it again.” She doesn’t respond to that, and he kneads the tops of her hands with his thumbs. “Daisy?”

“You’ve been here once before, and you escaped, and… and you came back?” She says it in such a small voice, it almost doesn’t even sound like her. “After – after seeing what it’s like, you still came back for me?”

“Yes…?”

“Why?” she whispers. “Why do that for me? I – I had a knife to your throat, I would’ve killed you if Basira hadn’t found us first, I saw the fear in your eyes and I enjoyed it – and you knew that I’d still planned on killing you the moment I got a chance, so – so why?”

“We’re –” Jon stops himself, rephrases. “In my future, we became friends.”

“What?”

“W-well, we – we were both Avatars trying to resist our darker natures. We went through this together. We just – we had a lot in common.”

Daisy offers no comment.

“I… don’t know what I would have done without you, honestly,” Jon continues, jiggling one foot nervously as best he can in the confined space. “You were… you were the only one I had, most days. The only one who knew what it was like, having the hunger consume you because you refuse to feed it. And – and you had Basira, but she… there were things she didn’t fully understand, couldn’t relate to. So you would come to me. We, uh… we helped each other. Trusted each other.” He adds, a bit timidly: “I… I’ve missed you.”

Still, Daisy says nothing. Jon is about to start rambling again – about what, he doesn’t know; he just needs to fill the awkward silence somehow – but Daisy speaks first.

“But – but what about before all that? Why did you come down here the first time around?”

“I was… in a bad place,” Jon admits. “Tim was dead, Sasha was dead, Melanie hated me, Basira saw me as a monster, Georgie wanted nothing to do with me, and Martin was… gone. I had no one, I wasn’t human anymore, I was afraid and ashamed and guilty and tired, and I… I was starting to doubt my decision to live. Not wanting to die had started to feel selfish, and I – I needed some way to justify living, some way to make myself useful.

“When we found out that you were alive, I – I just didn’t want to lose anyone else. If there was a chance of bringing you home, I had to try. And… there was nothing to lose. If I got stuck down here, it – it would be no great loss. The world would have even been safer for it – moreso than I even imagined at the time. I… honestly didn’t think that anyone would care if I didn’t come back.”

“That’s messed up,” Daisy says, a hint of wry amusement in her voice.

“Yeah,” Jon says with a self-deprecating laugh. “That’s what you said last time. Like I said, I was in a bad place. But – but in the end, we got out. I know I can get us out of here again. I promised Basira I would bring you home, and I – I – I will. I just… I need some time to find the way.”

“No pressure,” she deadpans.

Jon makes a strangled, exasperated noise in his throat.

“Seriously?”

If he could gesture at the tons of dirt pressing down on them, he would – but he can’t, because of the tons of dirt pressing down on them.

“Just trying to lighten the mood,” Daisy says, just the slightest hint of a self-satisfied smirk in her voice. Jon feels one corner of his mouth quirk in spite of himself.

God, he really had missed her.

The concept of time has no meaning within the Buried. Without any real way to observe or calculate its passing, things tend to feel stagnant. One long note of boredom and desperation and restriction. If not for the unpredictable tides of the soil around them, it might even feel as if time is at a standstill. In a way, it is: there is only one time here, and it is forever – or until the End of everything, at least. To make things worse, true sleep is impossible in the Buried. Sometimes, though, there is a lull in the movements of the earth, and within that liminal space, the mind may be allowed to drift.

Jon isn’t sure how long he’s been drifting when Daisy tugs on his hand.

“Jon.”

“Hm?”

“You’re muttering again.”

“Oh.” Jon clears his throat when he realizes how groggy he sounds. “Was I?”

“Care to share?”

“I’m just – I keep thinking about how Basira escaped the Unknowing,” he says, rousing himself. Out of habit, he tries to stretch, only to remember that he can barely move at all – which, of course, only intensifies the urge to fidget.

“Oh?” Daisy shakes both his hands in hers, prompting him to continue. Judging by the waver in her voice, the silence must be getting to her again. “How – how’s that?”

“She… thought her way out. Like a – an ‘I think therefore I am’ thought experiment.” Jon smiles to himself and shakes his head slightly. “She put Descartes to shame.”

“Not even a fair comparison,” Daisy scoffs.

“Agreed.”

“Were you thinking of trying that here?”

“I… don’t think it would work.”

“Yeah, I guess you’re not that level-headed.”

“That’s –” Jon’s indignation fizzles out just as quickly as it emerged. “That’s… okay, yes, that’s fair.”

Daisy snickers; Jon can’t help a small grin in return.

“But what I was actually trying to say is that it was a strategy uniquely tailored to the Stranger. The Unknowing was all about – unreality, about not being able to trust your senses, even your own identity. Basira figured out that the best way to anchor herself in that situation was to boil her entire reality down to simple logical premises: She existed. She existed in a place and time. The place was dangerous at that time, so she had to not exist in that place at that time. Places have ends, and if she kept moving, she could reach a different place.”

“Huh.”

“Straightforward. Elegant, even.”

“It’s Basira,” Daisy says, unmistakable fondness creeping into her tone. Jon snorts. “Shut up, Sims. You were saying?”

“The Buried doesn’t operate in the same way. Basira reasoned her way out of the Stranger’s domain by denying unreality. If we tried to do the same thing, we’d just be denying… well, reality. The earth, the pressure, the – the ‘too close I cannot breathe,’ it’s all real.”

“Good pep talk.”

“Sorry, that’s not what I –” Jon sighs. “I didn’t mean to sound… morose. I was just thinking about different kinds of anchors. Basira managed to center herself and use her own mind as an anchor, and I – I find that impressive, is all.”

“That’s one way to describe her,” Daisy says. “She’s… always been like that. Practical, reliable… centered.”

Wait, Jon thinks to himself, brow furrowed. What if…

“Daisy, tell me about Basira.”

“What?”

“I – she’s your anchor, right? And – and you’re hers.”

“I don’t know about –”

“She called you solid, a – a – a fixed point,” Jon says excitedly. “When you’re there, things make sense to her. You ground her. And now, without you, she’s… she has trouble knowing where she stands. She has no backup, no one to orient her. What she did during the Unknowing – it was impressive, but it isn’t sustainable over a long period of time. You can only go it alone for so long before you lose your bearings. She – she needs you. And you need her. Right?”

“She’s the fixed point,” Daisy murmurs, as if that explains everything – and maybe it does.

“Exactly, s-so – tell me about Basira. From your perspective.”

“Why?”

“Because this is the Buried, where we’re at the center and everything is weighing down on us,” Jon says, mind racing five steps ahead of him. “The dirt, the pressure, it’s all real, but – but the Fears are also about state of mind.”

Jon can feel his heart rate pick up, the way it does whenever he’s talking his way through a puzzle. If he could, he would be pacing right now, burning off that restless energy. Instead, he finds himself tapping his fingers rapidly against Daisy’s hands. She doesn’t stop him, though.

“I’m not saying that we can solve this with ‘mind over matter’ thinking, but it might – help, if we can both focus on an anchor – a different center point, that is, one outside of this place. Move from this center to that center. There’s a better chance of figuring out which way is up if we’re both feeling for the way out. We can orient each other. If we both feel a tug from the same direction, we know we’re going the right way.”

“I can’t feel anything, though,” Daisy says. “Or – I can, but it’s – it’s everywhere, pushing in one direction – pushing down –”

Jon grips her hands more tightly when he hears her breathing start to grow ragged.

“That’s why you need to tell me about Basira – until you do feel a pull. I could be way off, but it’s worth a try. And – and if nothing else, it might help clear my mind, so I can give finding the way out another shot.”

“A statement, then?” Daisy asks sardonically. “Recharge your battery?”

“I wish,” Jon says with a grim smile. “The Eye only likes horror stories. If any story would sate my appetite, I could just watch biopics any time I was feeling a bit peaky. Hell, imagine if a fictional story was enough. An episode of the Archers would be like an afternoon snack.”

“You like the Archers?” He doesn’t have to see her to know that her eyebrows are raised as high as they’ll go.

“You know, I said the exact same thing to you once. And no, I don’t, but you do, and you used to make me listen with you. We didn’t even make a dent in the back catalogue, but I’m an Avatar of terrible knowledge and the Beholding loves spoilers, so guess who Knows every episode now?” Daisy barks a laugh at that. “There are over nineteen thousand episodes, Daisy!”

“That sounds like a you problem.”

“Anyway,” Jon says, squeezing both of her hands in lieu of nudging her shoulder, “a story just… helps take me out of my own head sometimes. Always has. You’re humoring me, not the Eye. Besides, do you have anything better to do?”

“S’pose not.”

“I mean – you don’t have to, of course, if you’re uncomfortable. I don’t want to pressure you –” Jon cringes. “Bad choice of words. I –”

“Stop babbling, Sims.” He knows that tone of voice, knows that she’s rolling her eyes right now. “We only have so long before the walls close in again –”

Daisy cuts herself off with a strangled noise, which she tries to cover by clearing her throat. She was likely trying to lighten the mood again, but the inevitability of the Buried’s ebb and flow is still too real, too close.

“Do you, uh… do you want to hear a story or not?”

“Please.”

“Back again?”

Martin jolts at the sound of Georgie’s voice. He tosses a brief glare over his shoulder at her where she stands just outside the doorway to the office, a safe distance from the Coffin. Martin discovered quickly that the Coffin’s compulsion has no impact on him, likely muffled by his allegiance to the Lonely. Georgie, though, has no such protection.

Coincidentally, it also means that as long as Martin keeps close to the Coffin, Georgie has to keep her distance from him as well.

“It’s been a week,” Martin says in a quiet monotone, tearing his gaze away from her.

“Yeah.”

“He should have been back by now.”

“Well, he didn’t really give a timeframe –”

“But you said he implied that it wouldn’t take more than a week,” Martin says impatiently. “And knowing Jon, he exaggerated how long it would take, just so no one would worry if he was late.”

“I… yeah, I know,” Georgie sighs. “I was expecting him to be back by now, too.”

Martin nods in a clear ‘I told you so’ gesture – then immediately feels childish. Why is he acting vindicated by her admission?

“Does Peter know you’ve been coming down here?”

“Don’t care.”

“Oh?” Georgie says, her voice suspiciously bland – and only then does Martin register the significance of what he just said.

“I just meant – it’s –” Martin huffs. “It’s none of your business.”

“Of course.” Martin can hear the smirk in her tone.

“Why are you here?” he snaps, swiveling to look at her again.

“Same reason you are, I expect.”

Martin says nothing to that, simply turns his back on her. For a few minutes, the only sound is the low, indistinct chatter of the tape recorders, still spooling out their horror stories on a loop.

“Have you tried calling to him?” Georgie asks. Martin continues to ignore her, teeth clenched until they ache. “It could be worth a shot. He left all those tapes running – don’t know if he can hear them exactly, but they’re meant to call to him.”

Go away, Martin thinks, his hands curling into fists on his knees.

“Your voice might be better than a recording.”

Why is she so persistent?

“Just – think about it, okay?”

When Martin doesn’t respond, Georgie sighs, knocks twice on the door frame, and takes her leave. He doesn’t look back around until the sound of her footsteps fade away.

“Sure, just leave the door wide open,” he grumbles irritably, rising to his feet to remedy the issue.

He pulls the office door shut with more force than intended, practically slamming it. The lone tape recorder on Jon’s desk, previously standing on end, topples over with a light clatter. Martin exhales heavily and pinches the bridge of his nose, trying to suppress the static buzz of nervous energy simmering inside him.

“But we need you, Jon,” the tape recorder grinds out. “Jon, please, just – please.”

“Fuck,” Martin says, voice thick and strained. He takes several deep breaths – in through his nose, out through his mouth – trying to clear his thoughts. Eventually, his shoulders slump and he sighs. “Fine. You win.”

He settles himself on the floor in front of the Coffin again, closer this time.

“Jon,” he says, then falters, unsure of what to say. “I –” He lets out an agitated breath, then follows it up with a bitter chuckle. “This is stupid. You probably can’t even hear this, can you?”

There is an uncomfortable, stinging pressure in his eyes and he reflexively tries to swallow back the tears, only to realize how dry his mouth has become. He rubs his eyes instead, digging the heels of his palms into the sockets and applying pressure.

“I – if you – if you can hear me, I… I already lost you once. I can’t do this all over again, I just – I can’t. I’m – everyone is waiting for you, and I still…” Martin sniffles and clears his throat. “Just – come home, Jon. Please.”

“I think I’d forgotten what it was like to just be… present in the moment? A – a quiet moment, anyway.” Daisy sighs. “On a hunt, you always have to think a few steps ahead, anticipate the prey’s movements so you can get out in front of it. Even when you’re present-thinking, like during a fight, it’s – it’s instinct and reflex, quick movements and jagged edges. You can never just… be.”

“I think I understand,” Jon says. “Not the Hunt aspect, but – but the intolerance of stillness.”

“But in that moment – laying back in the grass, Basira going on about the stars – I was… I was just me. I was focused on her – she gets so excited, so animated whenever she has a chance to talk about something new she’s learned, and I – I let her go on for” – Daisy laughs – “going on forty minutes, probably, about – about the Wow! signal before she looked over and saw me staring. Got all embarrassed that I let her talk so long.”

Jon can feel himself grinning.

“In her defense, the Wow! signal is a fascinating topic.”

“I thought so,” Daisy says warmly. “I mean, I must’ve, right? The whole time she was talking, I never felt the blood calling to me. Afterwards, it felt wrong, somehow – unnatural – that I’d been ignoring it. Not even resisting it, just – tuning it out altogether. I didn’t notice until then how loud it was – like for my whole life there had been teeth at my throat and I just never noticed until that moment.” She pauses. “It’s strange, but I – I think I liked it. The quiet.”

“I don’t think it’s strange at all,” Jon says softly. “I think –”

Suddenly, there’s a distinct wrenching sensation within him – like having a hook yank upwards, painless but abrupt enough to make his breath catch in his throat.

“Jon?” Daisy says warily. “What’s wrong?”

There’s something there.

“Do – do you feel that?”

“No? What – what is it?”

“It’s – wait, just let me…”

Jon concentrates, holding his breath as he waits, and –

There. Another pull, like a fish tugging at a line. And another, gentler but just as insistent.

“Daisy, I –” Jon lets out a breathless little laugh. “I think I know the way. C-come on, follow me.”

End Notes:

tbh I was tempted to split this into two chapters but it felt like it wanted to be all one thing, and also I didn't want to end on an angsty cliffhanger because:

I know I was managing a loose every-7-to-10-days-ish update schedule for awhile there, but it miiiight start looking more like an every-two-weeks schedule going forward. I've been on split shifts at work but we're supposedly going back full time soon, so that might effect how much writing time I have each day. Just wanted to give a heads up in case it takes longer than usual before the next chapter is ready.

There are several snippets of dialogue borrowed/reworked from Jon & Daisy's conversation in the Buried in MAG 132 - they're scattered throughout the chapter. (The "This is forever deep below creation..." and "One thing I've learned..." internal dialogue bits are from 132 also.) Probably goes without saying, but Martin's Lonely statement is from MAG 170 and there's also a previously cited usage of his dialogue from the S4 trailer. The Tim quote is from MAG 117. "The blanket never did anything" (still one of the creepiest lines in the podcast i s2g) is from MAG 086.

#tma #tma fic #the magnus archives #tma spoilers #long post

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ollieofthebeholder · 3 years

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leaves too high to touch (roots too strong to fall): a TMA fanfic

[1] [2] [3] [4] [5] [6] [7] [8] [9] Also on AO3

Chapter 10: Statements of Martin Blackwood, Timothy Stoker, Sasha James, and Martin Blackwood Prime regarding the infestation by the being formerly known as Jane Prentiss.

[CLICK]

[DIALOG IS SLIGHTLY MUFFLED, LIKE SOMETHING IS COVERING THE MICROPHONE]

SASHA

Do you have a tape recorder lying around somewhere?

TIM

Why would I?

SASHA

Dunno, but if Jon’s going to get our statements…I mean, you’ll need something to record them with.

PAST ARCHIVIST

(under his breath) Damn. (out loud) I can’t believe I’ve already grown so used to that thing being at hand that I forgot I don’t have one with me. Blast. I don’t want to wait until tomorrow, but…

ARCHIVIST

I’ve got one. Several, I dare say. Give me a moment to find an empty one.

[SOUNDS OF FABRIC RUSTLING, A ZIPPER BEING UNZIPPED. NEXT WORDS ARE LESS MUFFLED]

MARTIN

Here. This one’s ready to go.

PAST ARCHIVIST

How sensitive is the microphone?

MARTIN

It’ll pick up what it needs to pick up.

ARCHIVIST

I suppose you’d like the rest of us to step out for a minute while you do this.

PAST ARCHIVIST

…

No. No, I—it can’t hurt to have everyone here, I suppose.

ARCHIVIST

…Are you sure? I know you don’t usually like an audience when you’re recording statements.

PAST ARCHIVIST

If we’re all here when the statements are made, we won’t wear out the tape with everyone listening to it trying to get an idea of what they missed. And I can just get everyone’s in one go.

MARTIN

(very low, barely audible to the tape) It might help him if you’re here.

ARCHIVIST

Hmm.

[CREAKING SPRINGS, LIKE SOMEONE SETTLING BACK ONTO A SOFA OR LOVE SEAT]

PAST ARCHIVIST

Right.

(deep breath) Statement of Martin Blackwood, Archival assistant at the Magnus Institute, regarding the…infestation by the being formerly known as Jane Prentiss. Recorded direct from subject, third May—

TIM

Fourth. It’s just gone midnight.

PAST ARCHIVIST

Fourth May, 2016. Statement begins. (softer) Whenever you’re ready.

PAST MARTIN

Okay, well, first off, I should…probably tell you that I’ve actually known he was around for a few days. More than a week, actually. I didn’t say anything because I didn’t know what to say, but I—I did know. We’ve talked some, so I knew who he was and I knew Jane Prentiss was nearby, but he kept telling me I’d be safe, that the worms wouldn’t attack after dark, that—that I wasn’t what they were after. So I didn’t really worry about it too much, except to keep an eye open during the day.

Tonight…last night, whatever…after all of you left, I went to find him, and he was…agitated. He told me things were progressing more rapidly than he expected, and he was going to need my help. He’d just got finished explaining what it was he needed me to do when I heard Tim calling my name. I went out and found him and Sasha there and—I tried to get them to leave, honestly. I wasn’t altogether sure about all of this and I didn’t want them to get hurt. But they insisted on staying, and kept asking me what was going on.

I—I think I would have told them. Over dinner. Tim put stuff in the break room so we’d have it for dinner, we were going to eat in the Archives and I was going to…say something, maybe. But when we got back to the Archives, we heard noises coming from your office, and when Tim called out to find out who was there, he told us to get into the document storage room, right away. We were on our way in there when a whole bunch of worms came…pouring out the door of your office. We made it in safe, luckily, but—well, it meant I didn’t have time to do what I was supposed to do first, so we were trapped.

I told Tim and Sasha what I knew—that he was me from the future, that he was here to stop the world ending, and a little bit about what his plan was. Then Sasha mentioned she could hear…something.

PAST ARCHIVIST

Something?

PAST MARTIN

Singing. In the walls. She said she could hear singing.

I told her she shouldn’t be able to. That room’s soundproof. Future Me told me that. But she insisted she could. She said it was louder near one of the walls, the one that wasn’t by the door, and—and she prodded at it. Well, she kind of hit it. We thought it was an exterior wall, but her hand went through it. It was just plastered over and—more worms came out. Not many, but enough. I’ve been kind of storing fire extinguishers in there—I-I was hiding them, I know it doesn’t make sense, but I just felt like I had to hide them from the worms—so I grabbed one and sprayed until the worms stopped moving.

We grabbed a couple each and went through the new hole. It probably wasn’t safe to stay in that room anymore, and anything was better than being trapped, you know? I didn’t know how many worms might be down in that hole or if they’d all come out into the Archives, but I thought if we could at least slow them down in the walls, we’d have a chance to get back out into the main Archives and stop Jane Prentiss once and for all.

Turned out there were—there are tunnels down there. It’s dark, unsurprisingly. Sasha had one free hand, so I gave her my torch—I’ve been carrying it around wherever I go—and she shined it to show us which way to go. We started looking for a way back out. At least where the worms might have got in. The trouble is, the corridors all twist in on themselves—you go a few steps and nothing makes sense anymore. We got around this one corner and there were a bunch more worms, and they were moving a lot faster. We fought them off, but in all the chaos and confusion I fell behind, and it was just me in the dark. Tim and Sasha were gone.

I tried calling out to them, but it’s—it’s dead down there. It’s like the walls just swallow sound. It didn’t even echo. I realized they couldn’t hear me, and obviously I didn’t have a light anymore, so I just made my best guess at where they might have gone and kept going until I found a set of steps. I climbed up them and found a trap door overhead. I pushed it open, and…well, I was in the Archives.

And I found Jane Prentiss.

She—she smiled at me. Like she knew me. Well, she did know me, I guess. She spread out her hands and asked me if I could…if I could hear the singing. I didn’t answer her—well, not with words, anyway. I still had the fire extinguishers, so I tried spraying her with them. All it did was slow her down for a second, but it at least gave me some breathing room. I managed to get some distance between us.

The floor was seething with worms. It was…it was disgusting, frankly. I sprayed a bunch of them and stomped more, but I knew I’d never be able to get them all before—well, before they got me, so I went back to Plan A. I grabbed a trashcan and threw a bunch of the statements out of the Discredited section into it, just shoved them in there until the thing was good and full, and then I cleared a space under one of the sensors and set it down. I pulled out the lighter Future Me gave me and managed to get it going and lit the whole stack on fire.

It went up pretty quick, but…well, I had to set down the fire extinguishers to do all that, and the worms got too close. They came at me and—you know, getting bitten by those things hurt. I know that’s probably really obvious, but it did. The fire alarm went off about then, but the noise didn’t seem to faze them. And then the system kicked in. I guess there was enough smoke to set it off. And there was this—this scream—like tens of thousands of things without mouths screaming all at once. That’s the last thing I remember before I blacked out.

PAST ARCHIVIST

…

Why the Discredited section?

PAST MARTIN

What?

PAST ARCHIVIST

Why did you specifically burn statements from the Discredited section?

PAST MARTIN

Well, I didn’t—

I didn’t want to risk burning something important. The Discredited ones we knew for a fact were false, they were all the ones you could…record normally, so I figured…if I was going to set a fire, it would be best to use those, you know? Ones that wouldn’t—wouldn’t be important later.

PAST ARCHIVIST

No, that—that makes sense. Thank you, Martin.

[CLICK]

———

[CLICK]

ARCHIVIST

See? There’s plenty left on the tape.

PAST ARCHIVIST

Hmph.

Were you two together the whole time you were down there?

SASHA

Yeah.

PAST ARCHIVIST

Then I think…

(clears throat) Statement of Timothy Stoker and Sasha James, Archival assistants at the Magnus Institute, regarding the infestation by the being formerly known as Jane Prentiss. Recorded direct from subjects, fourth May, 2016. Statement begins. In your own time.

TIM

We didn’t notice Martin wasn’t with us at first. Not until I asked him a question and didn’t get an answer. We tried to retrace our steps, but…like he said, those tunnels don’t make a lot of sense. I thought we were totally out of luck until we came around a corner and ran slap bang into him, or at least we thought we did. I asked him if he was all right and he wanted to know what the hell we were doing there. He sounded scared and angry and…that’s when we realized it wasn’t our Martin.

SASHA

I told him about the wall being hollow. He said he knew that, but he’d hoped we’d have the sense to stay put, so I explained about hitting the wall because I could hear that creepy singing from behind it even though it was supposed to be an exterior wall. He got kind of upset, actually, and asked if I’d been bitten, but I hadn’t. The worms might have been faster down there than they were in the Archives, and quieter and more aggressive, but we’d managed to kill them all whenever we ran into them, so it was all right there to a point.

We asked him how to get out of there. He said he didn’t know exactly, but that there was a trapdoor leading into the Archives, he didn’t remember precisely where in the Archives it led to. He said if we followed the corridors, we’d eventually wind up at the steps, but that we’d have to be careful.

TIM

That’s when we heard the scream. Scared the hell out of both of us, really. Martin Prime barely flinched, though. Actually looked kind of relieved. He told us that meant Jane Prentiss was dead, which probably meant the CO2 system had been triggered, so we needed to find Martin and get the hell out of the Archives. I asked him what he was going to do, and he said he supposed he’d just stay down in the tunnels, now that they were worm-free, and dodge the police if/when they came down investigating. Find a room or something. Like we were talking about the Ritz instead of what I’m pretty sure is the remains of the old Millbank Prison complex.

And then the door appeared.

PAST ARCHIVIST

Appeared?

SASHA

I swear, Jon, it wasn’t there before. One minute we were standing at a completely unremarkable bend in a hall, and then—my hand was getting tired, so I switched the fire extinguisher and the torch, and when the beam moved it caught on this yellow door right behind Martin Prime. I asked him if that was a safe room to go into, and he turned around and glared at it, then knocked. And…

Michael came out. He giggled, in that creepy way he did before, and asked us if we were lost. Then he held the door open and said he could show us the way. I—I was about to go in, but Martin Prime held out his arm to stop me and said, “They don’t need your way. Leave them alone.”

Michael seemed surprised, and then—I don’t know. Worried, maybe? A little angry? And then he smiled again. It’s really disconcerting. He said, “Well, you’ve been marked, anyway, so you can come through safely enough, if you want to. Will you do that for them?”

TIM

I told him to go. I said that if the police were going to be there, the last thing they needed was to see two Martin Blackwoods, you know? Especially looking almost perfectly identical and all. Don’t want the police thinking they’re seeing double, they’ll have us all arrested for being so drunk it affects reality, right? I asked if he knew where I lived. He said yes, so I said we’d meet him here. He hesitated, and then he nodded and followed Michael through the door—and it just disappeared. Like it had never been there.

We tried to retrace our steps, but “back” doesn’t mean all that much down there, really. Finally we found another door. It wasn’t yellow, so we opened it, thinking it might be the way out, but…no. Just a small room. Square. Dust covering everything. Cardboard boxes full of cassette tapes.

PAST ARCHIVIST

That’s where you found her.

SASHA

Yes. She was sat on a wooden chair in the middle of the room. No worms. No cobwebs. Just an old corpse. I recognized Gertrude Robinson right away. She was slumped forward, but I could see that her mouth was open, like she was trying to tell us something. Almost dropped the torch. Luckily I didn’t. We ran like hell and found the trapdoor not long after that and…well, you know the rest.

PAST ARCHIVIST

Mm.

…

How did Gertrude Robinson die?

SASHA

I didn’t see. Didn’t really look, and anyway, it’s been almost a year. Cause of death could have been almost anything at this point.

PAST ARCHIVIST

Tim?

TIM

…I don’t know. Not for sure. I mean, it was dark and Sasha was the one with the torch, and all I cared about was that she hadn’t been eaten alive by worms or whatever, but—

PAST ARCHIVIST

Tim! How did she die?

TIM

She was shot, okay? In the chest. Three times that I could see.

PAST ARCHIVIST

…Right. Right. Thank you, Tim.

[CLICK]

———

[CLICK]

MARTIN

I’m not altogether sure that’s a good idea.

PAST ARCHIVIST

(tired and testy) I need a complete picture of what happened tonight. That includes you.

PAST MARTIN

Can’t it wait until morning?

ARCHIVIST

(also sounding tired, but more resigned than annoyed) Best get it over with tonight.

PAST ARCHIVIST

Statement of Martin Blackwood…Prime…er, time-traveler…regarding et cetera. Go.

MARTIN

In my defense, none of this was supposed to happen like this.

I’ve been lurking in the Archives for the last two weeks. Mostly trying to get my bearings again—I haven’t been down there in ages, really—but also trying to avoid being seen by any of you. Haven’t been very successful, although fortunately, the only one who never caught me during the day was—well, your Martin, so I could play it off. Our plan was to wait until Jon made it to the Archives, and then the two of us were going to tackle the worms while they were still under the Institute, clear out the tunnels, and clue the rest of you in. Until then, I was just waiting.

I’ve also been trying to help you all, as best I can anyway. I discovered, kind of by accident, that I can still get a feeling for what statements are real and what aren’t. It’s not as strong as it was when I was still an Archival assistant, before…everything happened…but one or two of the more powerful ones still speak to me. I didn’t dare put them on anyone’s desk because I couldn’t risk getting caught, or seen in the same place as your Martin, and I can’t…fade into the background like I used to. So I’ve just been kind of clustering them together in one of the corner shelves.

The thing was…well, I panicked. I admit that. Tim caught me out this morning and I realized after we talked that if he didn’t know I wasn’t your Martin, he’d figure it out quickly enough. And to make matters worse, he’d told me to take the statement I was holding to you. I was going to just leave it on your desk, but you were just getting back from your…meeting when I walked in. I’m sure I made it far too obvious that I wasn’t who I was claiming to be. I couldn’t run the risk of one of you telling…anybody I was here, so I figured I had to make a move. I thought if I cleared out the worms quickly enough, I could just wait about in the tunnels until Jon turned up and we’d go from there.

As soon as your Martin came to talk to me after you’d all left—(pointedly) we thought—I told him the basics of what I had in mind. He wanted to help, but…well, the whole point of all this was to keep all of you safe, so I told him the best way he could help was as backup. I gave him the lighter—honestly, I didn’t realize I was the one who had it—and told him to set up something that would burn enough to trigger the fire system if need be, and that if any worms got past me, to light the fire and lock himself in the storage room and stay there until the worms were all dead. He was starting to ask me more questions, I think, but then Tim called out and we had to scatter.

I couldn’t really hear what was going on, but I thought I heard Tim leaving, so I went into your office. The wall behind that shelving unit is another one that was just plastered over, which I’m sure you know by now, so I just kind of shoved them out of the way and, well, slammed my way through. And there the worms were.

I was just getting the fire extinguishers ready when I heard Tim yell out. I shouted for him to get back in the storage room—I assumed your Martin was with him—and went after the worms with everything I had. I could hear the squirming and—I knew that wasn’t good. In the tunnels, they’re a lot quieter, they don’t make that…noise. They’re faster, too. Something in the Archives slows them down. I’d been hoping the infestation would be small enough that I could handle it myself, but I realized a lot of them got past me and I was just hoping your Martin had been able to get the fire going. I didn’t realize how many worms got past me until I ran into Tim and Sasha later.

[A FULL FIVE SECONDS OF SILENCE]

PAST ARCHIVIST

Did you remember it?

MARTIN

Sorry?

PAST ARCHIVIST

The statement. Jane Prentiss’s statement—the one you brought me earlier. Did you remember it? Is that how you knew it was…real?

MARTIN

…Yes and no. I knew we had that statement—I mean, you said when I first made my statement about being trapped that you thought there might’ve been a statement from her somewhere in the Archives, and I remembered we’d found it in our time, but that’s—I didn’t know which one I had on hand when Tim found me. I just…it felt real.

PAST ARCHIVIST

How could you possibly not have known whose statement you were holding? The names are right at the top.

MARTIN

…

(faintly, as if the word is forcing itself from between tightly clenched teeth) Fuck.

(in a normal tone of voice) I couldn’t see it.

TIM

…Why did none of you stop me from making stupid comments?

SASHA

I’m sorry, is there a time you’re not making stupid comments?

TIM

Why didn’t you say anything?

MARTIN

Honestly? It’s been a long time since I heard you joke with me. I kind of missed it.

TIM

Christ. What kind of person do I turn out to be that you’d think I would tease you about that?

PAST ARCHIVIST

What are you talking about? Why couldn’t you see the name?

MARTIN

I’m blind.

ARCHIVIST

…

(in a choked half-whisper) He didn’t.

MARTIN

Jon…

ARCHIVIST

When he said he could—I thought he had a better idea than—i-if he was going to--

MARTIN

(overlapping) We both knew it was probably going to be the only way. It’s fine.

ARCHIVIST

How can you be so calm about this? You got dropped in the middle of the Archives, mid-infestation, alone and blind and—you didn’t want this! How can you just accept it?

MARTIN

Well, I’ve had two weeks to get used to it. Okay, it’s not ideal, but it’s better than the alternative.

ARCHIVIST

And which alternative would that be?

MARTIN

The one where we have to watch each other die, Jon!

[A LONG SILENCE, SAVE THE WHIRRING OF THE RECORDER]

…Sorry, that—I didn’t mean it like that, I—

ARCHIVIST

(softly) No.

(a bit louder) No, you’re right. I’m sorry.

MARTIN

It’s all right, Jon.

[CLICK]

#tma #the magnus archives #leaves too high to touch (roots too strong to fall)#statements #the formatting's better on AO3 #worms tw #death mention #ollie writes fanfic

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sketchy-scribs-n-doods · 4 years

Note

saw your post about time travel fics. do you have any particular ones you can recommend? 👀👀

Yes!! I sure fuckin do!! my good Anon!! And @astupidgaytrashcan and @applestorms , you too my dudes, I saw ur tags ! >:D

Buckle up this is a bit of a long one bc I have Things To Say

Here goes:

Yesterday is Here by CirrusGrey

["Who the hell are you?" Jon could feel his hands shaking.

The man laughed, taking a step forward and raising a hand to point at him.

"I'm you, from the future!" he said, then swayed, eyes going unfocused, and collapsed to the floor in a dead faint.]

This is the 'Everything WILL Go Right This Time Or So Help Me God' Fix-It Queen of the bunch, featuring S4 Jon and Martin hopping back in time to S1 to set things right, S4 Jon being So Done with S1 Jon, some tasty ass Bullying Elias hours, Jon finally dealing with his emotions, and some double JonMartin goodness, 10/10 recommended.

Reverb in These Holy Halls by Wolftraps (AlwaysBoth)

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

This bad boy said 'idk if i'm doing this right but by god i'm gonna try'. Features: Jon being Gay and Sad about shit, Jon bitching at Elias, Powerful Archivist Jon, the Web gifting Jon a cat, Found Family, shit going Wrong in completely Different ways this time around, and the avatars deciding they hate Elias more than they hate Jon.

Reflection by LazuliQuetzal

[Jonathan Sims, researcher at the Magnus Institute, is seeing a ghost. Of himself.

Of course, it’s not really him, no matter what secrets it knows, or how many arguments it brings up. So if it tells him to do something? Obviously, he’ll be doing the exact opposite.]

This one's still ongoing, but strong with almost 40k and 8 chapters so far. Bit of a twist on the time travel trope, but definitely excellently and infuriatingly well executed. Features: S1 Jon being the Biggest Bitch Ever, Gertrude Robinson being shady af, S4 Jon doing His Best, more Bullying Elias hours, Martin being Hopelessly Gay, scarily Competent gay amazonian goddess Sasha, and the Jons having some massive arguments and emotional upheaval quality bonding time.

(Also Leitner getting his pathetic little old man bones knocked sideways if that's sweetens the pot for you)

Martin Blackwood Tries to Save the World (and Drags Jon with Him) by TheRealAndian

[It's the end of the world, and Jon and Martin have no idea how to fix it. That is, until a suspicious door lands them unsuspectingly in the past, long before the apocalypse. Now they have to work together with their former coworkers and their younger selves to stop the Magnus Archives from being completed, and maybe even admit their feelings for one another.]

Jon and Martin are SUCH a mess in this one and I love them dearly for it. Featuring: S4 Jon and Martin being super soft, Plans Falling Apart, S1 crew being very confused, Elias Gets Punched ©, Helen Richardson being as lovely as ever, Get Fucked Peter Lukas , many 'oops' moments, more double JonMartin, and a gentle epilogue. <3

Your Today is My Yesterday by ArtificialDaydreams

[“My name is Jonathan Sims... and I am not from this timeline.”

It has been seven months, two weeks, six days, fifteen hours, and thirty-seven minutes since the world ended, Jon wasn’t counting, but the Beholding let him Know anyway. Offered a chance to go back Jon struggles with fixing his past mistakes and keeping everyone in the Institute from realizing he's not the same man he was before.]

This one's also in progress, but at 43k and 16 out 19 chapters done, there's loads to enjoy here! This dude features: Jon trying to figure out a balance between 'old bitchy Jon' and 'new kinder Jon' in front of his coworkers and failing, Jon being Soft for Martin, Elias being a Bitch, Daisy being a Good Friend, Helen Richardson again being the Best Ever, Hunting Down your evil boss hours, and as of the newest chapter, a Gerry being a Good Bro cameo and Martin's sweet sweet manipulation skills.

your future is optional by gayprophets

[There’s a beat of silence, Annabelle clearly waiting for something.

“Oh my God,” Martin says suddenly. Jon is staring at her blankly, either uncomprehending or flabbergasted. “Are you seriously suggesting - you’re not,” he continues, because she can’t be, he must be misreading the situation somehow. “You have to be joking,” he says, desperate, “You’re not suggesting time travel.”

Annabelle cocks a perfectly-manicured eyebrow, smiling serenely, and Jon bursts into hysterical laughter.]

Listen, l i s t en, this one isn't complete either, and technically what's there has no time travel yet, but it's one chapter has 11k of glorious world building and spot-on character interaction building up to the actual time travel towards the end of the chapter. In this chapter 1 out of 3, you get: S5 Jon and Martin being So Fucking Soft with each other (honestly my h e a r t), Annabelle Crane being a Terrifying Bad Bitch, some solid Basira, Georgie, and Melanie interactions with the boys, really some very nice character introspection and wrapping your head around the idea of time travel in the first place, and a Mighty Need for more like hhhhhhhh-

These are just my main favorites so far! I started tma on the 19th of June honestly! I'm new here, but I absorb new shit voraciously so-! asdfhsjsksk tbh I've got like 4 other fics with this same exact trope open rn (in addition to a dozen more with different tropes hahaaaa) and I'm still reading through them bc I'm a Mess lmao, but feel free to hmu for more recs (of any trope type rly) in the future! I have,,, so many,,, and the list only grows,,,, :>

#tma #the magnus archives #magnuspod #jonmartin #tma fic rec #jonathan sims #martin blackwood #time travel tma fics #time travel fix it #time travel fic #fic rec #tma spoilers #prolly just bc of the very nature of these recs honestly #ask sketchy #long post #kinda yea lol bc idk how to shut up lol

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ieattaperecorders · 4 years

Text

Something’s Different About You Lately - Chapter 2

The three archival assistants engage in some highly unprofessional office gossip, showing a lack of respect for the esteemed academic institution that employs them.

Read on Ao3

“He’s going to fire me, I just know it.”

Martin sat miserably at his desk - head down, hands at his temples, trying in vain to banish the tension headache forming behind his eyes. Tim leaned over him, casually tossing one of Martin’s little desk toys from hand to hand. It was a stress ball shaped like a Snorlax, and had done very little to reduce Martin’s stress of late.

“Don’t really think that adds up,” Tim said, “why start being friendly if he’s planning to fire you? And wouldn’t he have, y’know, done it by now?”

“Elias, then. He’s going to fire me and Jon knows about it, so he’s acting nice to soften the blow.” Martin pulled at his hair, dragging a few messy curls down over his face. “Or - - or else he’s just happy I’ll be gone soon. Either way.”

“Or, here’s a thought - -” Tim reached over and set the stress ball down on the desk, about an inch from Martin’s nose. “He’s just decided to be nice. Something nice is actually happening to Martin Blackwood but he can’t accept it, because he’s got worms in his brain.”

Martin glared tiredly up through his hands. “I did ask you to stop with the worm jokes, Tim.”

“Sorry, sorry.” Tim put his hands up. “But that’s a thought, right? He probably just feels bad that you, y’know. . . got attacked by a stalker and her army of flesh eating parasites?”

There was some sense in that, Martin had to admit. It hadn’t been long after his encounter with Prentiss that he’d begun to notice changes in the things Jon said and did. Some of them were nice enough - he snapped a lot less, for one thing. He didn’t grumble and complain over little things Martin did or forgot to do, at least not where Martin could hear it. But other things were just baffling. He seemed to ask after Martin a whole lot more. He’d make strange comments and look at Martin like he expected him to laugh. And more than once, Martin had turned around to catch Jon staring at him with an expression that he couldn’t make heads or tails of. It left him feeling scrutinized. As if it was just a matter of time before he slipped up somehow, made some mistake that would upend his life even more.

Oh yes, and then there was the incident two weeks ago when he’d nearly smashed Jon’s head in with a wrench, and he’d said it was fine and they shouldn’t worry about it. Martin almost had a heart attack with that one. And then, then Jon said to call him if he thought he heard something at night? What did that even mean? Was he concerned that his employee would be making frivolous 999 calls from the institute every time he heard the floor creak if he didn’t keep him from it?

If so, well . . . he probably wasn’t far from right, to be honest. Martin had been doing his best to keep it to himself, but he'd been pretty badly wound up lately. Especially at night, when everyone else was gone and it was just him and a thousand files filled with spooky stories to keep him company. And there was always that sensation of eyes on the back of his neck, no matter how many times he told himself that no one else was there.

To say nothing of the creepy noises. It was an old building, and everything creaked at night. The pipes were especially bad, the uncanny susurration of rushing water that through the walls at night. He tried to ignore it, even block it out with music. But as the long, empty nights wore on, it always crept back into his mind. His sleep-deprived brain making it sound like muffled, unintelligible voices. As if there was something just beyond the walls whispering or singing to him. It made him feel sick inside.

He really needed to get better sleep.

Still. If Jon just felt sorry for Martin after everything that had happened, it would at least explain why he was grumbling less and hovering more. Really, Martin should be enjoying the better treatment while it lasted, because he doubted it would stay for long. Jon probably wasn’t going to ever actually like him. But if Martin could gain some ground with his new boss out of pity, well. That was something, wasn’t it? Better than being hated. And despite everything, he still really needed this job.

Tim’s eyes suddenly widened. He gripped Martin’s arm and smiled brightly, looking over his shoulder to the door.

“Hiya boss,” he called, “how’s decoding Gertrude’s filing system going?”

Martin turned to see Jon enter, a rueful smile on his face.

“It’s a challenge,” he said. “I’m afraid it will be some time before we can expect any progress.”

“We really should come up with a name for it,” Tim replied. “Creepy Card Catalog? Dewey Decimal of the Damned? Oh! How about Old Lady Robinson’s Disaster-o-pedia?”

“‘Disaster’ is certainly appropriate.” Jon's tone was neutral, but he didn't hide his smile. He turned to Martin, setting a mug in front of him. “I ah, I’ve noticed you’re always making tea for the rest of us, Martin. I thought it might be nice if someone else brought you a cup.”

It was the mug that Tim had bought Martin as a gag gift shortly after they’d started working in the archive. The one with a black and white pattern that looked like a Jersey cow, with a pink three-dimension udder sticking out of the side. Martin looked at it, then back at Jon who was smiling expectantly.

“Oh. . . thanks?” Martin smiled back, a little awkwardly. “That’s nice of you.”

Jon’s smile widened. It widened a lot, actually. His whole practically face lit up and it was way too much, and it was weird. Maybe Jon didn’t hear people call him nice very often?

"Least I can do. Given, ah - -" Jon hesitated, as if trying to remember what he was supposed to be grateful for. "Well. Given how hard you've been working, I suppose."

“What, nothing for me?” Tim teased.

“Ah . . . I didn’t think to--” Jon frowned, an expression of mild distress on his face. “But I could? I’ll just be a moment.”

Jon turned back towards the break room, and it was clear that even Tim was startled by that reaction. He’d obviously been joking, setting Jon up for a retort or an excuse to complain. It’s what he'd have normally responded with.

“See?” Martin gestured to where Jon had been standing. “That’s weird, right? That’s not just being friendly, it’s . . . I don’t know what it is. It’s an entire personality change.”

“Hmm. Yeah.” Tim blinked at the doorway. “He’s definitely planning to kill you.”

“Don’t joke about that either.” Martin groaned, rubbing his brow. The stress headache had not left, and he doubted it was going to any time soon.

“It starts with tea.” Tim continued, feigning a solemn tone. “Then, bit by bit, he’ll begin slipping you teeny tiny amounts of poison. Once you’re too weak to fight back or run, bam. Briefcase full of snakes.” He shook his head. “The perfect crime.”

"Come on."

"Snakes can't talk, Martin. That means no witnesses."

Martin sighed and reached for the mug. Whatever was going on, he supposed he was at least getting tea that he didn’t have to make. As he took a sip, a familiar flavor bloomed on his tongue and he choked in surprise.

“Yikes.” Tim looked at him with concern. “Is his tea that bad?”

“No . . . no it’s - -” Martin set the mug down, coughing a little, and wiped his mouth. “There’s jam in it. Strawberry jam.”

“Seriously?” Tim wrinkled his nose. “Who puts jam in tea?”

“I do! Sometimes . . . .”

“And you have the nerve to call anybody else weird?”

“I like it! It’s sweet and - - and anyway that’s not the point.” Martin frowned. “How does he know that? I know I never mentioned it.”

“Eh. He remembers strange things sometimes.” Tim shrugged. “He’ll forget that you had to show him how to use the copier, but he’ll rattle off a thousand details about how it works. He’s probably got an encyclopedic knowledge of how everyone in the institute likes their tea.”

At that moment, Jon’s head appeared back in the doorway. “Tim. I forgot to ask. Do you take sugar or milk?”

“Oh, you know it’s both.” Tim grinned, pointing in Jon’s direction.

Jon nodded and ducked back out. Martin looked at Tim, who shrugged.

“Listen,” he said. “I’ve known Jon a lot longer than you. And one thing I can say about him is this - he’s a prick, but he’s not an asshole.”

“What does that even mean?” Martin sighed, picking up the mug again.

“It means . . . he’s just sort of like that,” Tim gestured vaguely towards the door. “He’s insensitive, and kind of snobby, and when he’s in a bad mood he makes it everyone else’s problem. But he’s not mean-spirited. Most of the time I don’t think he even realizes he’s doing it, honestly.”

“Realize it or not,” Martin muttered into his tea - - which damn it, was delicious and he was going to enjoy it regardless. “It’s not very nice being on the other end of it.”

“Oh, absolutely.” Tim smirked. “Like I said, he’s a total prick. But I don’t think he wants to be mean. And he doesn’t like thinking he’s hurt someone. You want to know my guess?”

“. . . Sure.”

“The whole worm thing made him take a look at how he’s been acting, especially with you,” Tim said. “And now he feels guilty. Covertly figuring out your awful, deviant tea preferences is probably his way of trying to make amends.”

“Mmm.”

Martin tapped Tim’s arm and looked at the door, which he’d been watching more closely ever since the first interruption. Jon appeared with a second cup of tea, this one in a mug that read “Over Sixty and Still Sexy!” in pink bubble letters.

“Here we are,” he handed it to Tim, looking pleased with himself.

“Thanks, chief.” Tim snapped his fingers. “Oh, hey! Almost forgot, I followed up on Statement 0162102. The woman in Sussex who saw a manifestation in her backyard? You know. The one with the uncanny, owl-like features?”

“Oh.” Jon raised an eyebrow. “What did you find?”

“Well. I looked up her address and as it turns out she lives half a mile from an owl sanctuary.”

“Ah.”

“Went to investigate like you said. Really nice old lady. He scones were a little dry, but she had all sorts of interesting knickknacks that she wanted to show me.”

“Sounds profoundly fascinating.”

“Anyway, I managed to tear myself away long enough to check out the yard. Shockingly enough, found some owl pellets there. So, stop me if you’ve heard this one, but--” he clicked his tongue loudly. “Think maybe she saw an owl?”

Jon smirked. “Another one for the discredited section.”

“That thing’s filling up fast.” Tim observed.

“Quite unsurprising, all thing considered.” Jon sighed, feigning disappointment, badly disguising how smug he was about it. Given his attitude towards the paranormal, Martin expected he believed that every statement should go straight into that pile. “Still. Progress is progress, and elimination is a form of progress on its own. I’ll let you know when I have something new for you.”

“Sure thing. Still waiting for my chance to unmask the creepy old mill owner trying to scare those meddling kids off his property.”

Jon laughed, sharp and loud, before catching himself and putting a hand over his mouth. There was something in his expression when he looked at Tim that Martin couldn’t quite place, and he found himself wondering if Jon had any interest in men. If so, it would make sense for him to be interested in Tim. Everyone was interested in Tim.

“Yes, well. I’d best be going,” he added hastily, nodding at Tim and then Martin. “Work to do. Good afternoon.”

Off he went again, ducking through the door and heading back towards his office. Tim turned to Martin once Jon was out of earshot.

“See?” he said, sipping his tea. “Deep down, the man’s a teddy bear.”

“Hmnn.” Martin fiddled with the handle on his mug. “Well. You and Sasha have known him for longer.”

“We were a duo of infamous murderers in a past life,” Tim said, “and now we’re being punished for it.”

“I suppose if you guys think this is normal for him - -”

He was interrupted by the loud thunk as Sasha appeared beside them, setting a box full of files down on the desk next to his. She looked at them both and smiled brightly.

“Oh, are we talking about how weird Jon’s been lately?” she asked. “Because he’s acting super weird, don’t let this guy over here tell you differently.”

“Right? Thank you!” Martin exhaled, relieved.

Tim gave Sasha an annoyed look. “Thanks, Sash.”

“Welcome, Tim!”

“It’s tough for me to say this," Tim leaned back, shaking his head, "but I’m honestly not sure that we can trust him anymore.”

“Jon?” Sasha asked.

“No, Martin,” he made a show of putting a hand over his mouth, loudly whispering. “I found out he’s got this weird jam thing going on. Highly suspicious.”

“It’s not even that unusual!” Martin gesturing towards Tim. “See, he thinks Jon just feels guilty because I almost got murdered by worms.”

“Well, sure. I could believe that was it if he was just being less of a grouch. But there’s other things.” Sasha leaned in, lowering her voice. “I was talking to Cora today about some of the things in artifact storage? Jon overheard as he was walking by and he got . . . oddly upset. Went off on a whole rant about how there was nothing good down there and it would be better for everyone to keep their distance.”

“Well, I sort of get that.” Martin had been at the institute long enough to notice the high turnover rate in artifact storage. He’d heard stories. “That place is really creepy.”

“Sure. I don’t like going down there anyway.” Sasha shrugged. “But he was so intense about it. Like he’s trying to keep something shut up there . . . not sure what, though. Kind of thinking of taking a look around, just to see if anything came in recently.”

She reached over towards Tim and grabbed the mug out of his hand, taking a sip from it. He glared at her in mock annoyance.

“And you know when I hurt my shoulder just a few days ago?” she continued. “I asked if he’d let me record a statement about what happened, since some of it was a little bit odd --”

“What did happen anyway?” Tim asked, “you keep dodging me on the details.”

“Why stop now?” Sasha grinned, taking another sip of Tim’s tea. “At any rate, he wouldn’t let me just tell him about it. Handed me a form and said that I should write it down and he would read it afterwards. Was insistent about it, too, even though Elias says we should be committing as many statements to audio as possible.” Her eyes lit up. “Oh, and there’s something going on there. Have you noticed the way he looks at Elias now?”

Martin blinked. “Not really.”

“Hate.” Sasha said. “Not his usual - ‘ah, how dare you have the temerity to exist in my immediate area while I’m working’ thing. I mean real, proper hatred.”

She paused dramatically to let that sink in. Martin frowned. He wasn’t entirely sure what it meant if she was right, but he didn’t like the thought of it. Elias was an okay boss, as far as he could tell - not that he had much experience. But there’d always been this edge to him, something in his eyes that made Martin never want to be on his bad side.

“At first I thought it was an ego thing, you know?” Sasha continued. “That Jon had some new ideas about how things should be done around here, that Elias pushed back on them, and now they were having a pissing contest.”

“Thank you for that horrible image.” Tim said.

“But aside from the recording, he’s not doing anything differently. There’s just this tension between them all of a sudden. Feels like something happened.” Sasha continued, taking another sip of tea. “Not that I have a clue what it is. Yet.”

“Okay Poirot.” Tim reached to grab the now mostly-empty mug back from her. “As long as you’re solving mysteries around here, how about you catch the villain that keeps stealing snacks from my desk? Sometimes in front of me, while I watch her do it?”

“Oooh. Dunno, Tim.” Sasha smiled. “Got to deal with one thing at a time, don’t I? Don’t want to overwork myself on an empty stomach.”

“Speaking of . . . I should probably get back to work.” Martin said, glancing at the pad of notes he’d been ignoring since Tim sat down and started chatting with him. “Got a lot to get through.”

Work had been piling up since he moved into the archive. He wasn’t getting the best sleep, and during the day he was distracted too often. Occasionally he’d spot what looked like one of Jane’s worms and have to drop everything to lift up boxes and move furniture, make certain there was nothing there. Not the best circumstances for productivity. Jon hadn’t commented on it yet, but he was sure to notice if he hadn’t already, and Martin didn’t want to spoil whatever tentative good will he’d gained too quickly.

“I can take some of it off your hands.” Tim said. “I’ve got nothing to do anyway.”

“Oh, uh --” Martin hesitated, looking at the small stack of folders beside him. “Are you sure? I mean, if you don’t mind. . . .”

“Sure. Archival assistants gotta stick together, right?” Tim smiled and gave Martin’s shoulder a gentle shove. Martin smiled back, something soft and grateful rising in him at the gesture.

“Well . . . take your pick, then- -” he held up the two folders containing statements he hadn’t started on yet. “We’ve got, let’s see . . . a guy who thinks his car is haunted because it’s been making funny noises and, uh . . . someone who claims her parrot is the reincarnation of her late husband.”

“Thrilling stuff.” Sasha muttered.

“I’ll take the parrot one.” Tim said, holding out a hand for the file. “I’m good with birds.”

Sasha shook her head and sighed. “Is it just me, or have all the cases we’ve been working on been really, really dull lately?”

“Hey, I’m developing a real appreciation for dull.” Martin held up a hand. “The last interesting case I looked into got me locked in my apartment for a week. I’m pretty happy to have something where the follow-up’s probably going to involve recommending a mechanic.”

“Hmm.” Sasha sighed, glancing with disinterest at the files she’d brought in. “Well, I’ll leave you to it. Got some follow-up of my own to do.”

Martin saw Sasha grab her coat off a chair and walk back out the door, leaving the files untouched. He turned his attention back to his own work.

#tma #the magnus archives #tma fanfic #looks like i'm still writing this #time travel au

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beholdme · 3 years

Text

All the Many Shades of Gerry - Chapter 15

Chapters: 15/19

Fandom: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Characters: Martin Blackwood, Jonathan “Jon” Sims | The Archivist, Gerard Keay, Tim Stoker (The Magnus Archives), Sasha James, Gertrude Robinson, Elias Bouchard

Summary: In which Gerry is a kaleidoscope and Jon and Martin can’t help falling in love with him.

He happens to love them back.

Find it on Ao3

[1] [2] [3] [4] [5] [6] [7] [8] [9] [10] [11] [12] [13] [14]

Almost a year into their relationship, Martin's lease comes up.

There's brief romantic talk of them all moving in together, but they're all attached to their own spaces, especially with Gerry needing to keep his art studio, and it trails off without any real resolution.

When Martin's landlord doesn't want to renew and he essentially has no choice but to find a new place to live, he panics.

Jon is with him when he opens the letter, and witnesses the heartbreak on his face, a look far more appropriate to the death of a loved one than to having to move house.

He understands though. This is Martin's first home. The first rent he paid, the first freedom he claimed. The first place he had whispered 'I love you' to Jon, and the first place Gerry had pressed his lips to Martin's.

Jon is settled in his own flat in a more practical way. It's close to the library, Gerry's bar and also to Martin's bookstore, but he still understands Martin's heartache, even if it is detached from his scope of personal attachment.

As Jon takes the time to think things through, he knows they're being silly. When was the last time he had commuted to work from his own flat? And if Martin had to move anyway, why shouldn't the three of them be living together? Gerry would happily spend every spare second with them and frequently tells them so.

At their knock, Gerry opens the door in a pair of leather pants and not much else, hair faded out from navy to a soft violet.

He physically reacts to see Martin tear-stained and Jon frowning intensely at his side.

"Why tears? Who do I need to murder?" Gerry mutters darkly as he draws Martin inside and into his arms.

"He has to move out of his flat," Jon tells him angrily, still standing in the doorway.

"Oh, love." He whispers, rocking Martin gently.

"It's so stupid to cry about it. It's just a shitty little flat." He hiccups into Gerry's chest.

"Fuck that. We all know better than that. That flat was important to you," Gerry retreats further into the studio, dragging his weepy partner with him and leaving Jon to shut the door. "And you're important to us, so here's the plan. Gertrude and I are gonna dig up some dirt, we're gonna have a little chat with your landlord, and he's gonna agree to sell you your flat. Problem solved."

Martin laughs wetly as he is deposited in the cushion pile and Gerry follows him down to sit in front of him and take his hands.

Jon strips his jacket and scarf off and tosses them on the couch (the biggest indication of his upset, really, as he normally always meticulously hangs things up), before flopping down on the floor with them. Martin and Gerry offer a hand each, and they sit in a triangle, connected.

"Gerry, you can't blackmail my landlord into selling me my flat." Martin starts, voice still choked with tears, "Not least of all because I can't afford to buy it anyway. I already have a business loan, not to mention all the debt from before my mother died."

Apparently able to sense any great excess of emotion, Luna and Saturn wander in and both attempt to curl up in Martin's lap. Jon takes Saturn, leaving Luna to her tearful human. Martin smiles gratefully and disentangles his hands to pet behind her ears.

There's silence for a moment as they consider Martin's words. Gerry opens his mouth, closes it, then decides to say what he wants to anyway. "I could lend you the money. Or give it to you. Whichever you prefer."

The look on his face could be accurately described as casually angelic, and he reaches out a hand to stroke Saturn benevolently.

Martin and Jon stare at him, stunned.

"What do you mean?" Jon eventually prods him, incredulously.

Gerry opens his mouth to respond, but Jon senses the sass coming and adds, "A real answer please," rather firmly.

"Fine then," Gerry mutters, rolling his pretty teal eyes. "I have some money in savings. And in investments and stuff, I'm not actually irresponsible, despite what my appearance might imply. And the years I spent galivanting about the county. And Europe." He shrugs, rambling on, "Okay, maybe I am irresponsible."

His partners stare at him for a moment, then exchange a look.

“Define some money?” Jon says, poking him in the ribs. Gerry tells them.

“What!?” At Jon’s exclamation, Gerry blushes from the roots of his hair, and all the way down his bare chest.

"Where did you get it?" Martin finally asks.

"From selling my paintings?" Gerry responds, but it comes out as a question, and he rubs his burning neck in embarrassment.

"And," Jon says, voice carefully neutral; having regained some sense of composure, "why do you keep your job at the bar if you have enough money to casually offer to buy Martin a flat?"

"Don't feel left out Jon, I'll buy your flat too." Gerry offers, smiling at him beatifically.

"Gerry…" Martin lets out his name in the significant tone of voice that lets him know this is a 'serious conversation'™ and to get his shit together.

"Okay, okay," Gerry flaps his hands uncomfortably. "At first it was just because I was convinced that the painting money was gonna dry up and I didn't want to be left in the lurch. I've always operated anonymously and that made it hard to make money as an artist, it was only when Gertrude joined the crusade that I found any success. She insisted that people would buy prints online, and she was right. The digital art and prints were really popular, and it led to people wanting the originals." Gerry pauses and shakes his head in disbelief. "And Gertrude always has to be extra about everything, so she sold them at fucking auction instead of pricing them, which made me seem edgy and exclusive."

"You are edgy and exclusive," Jon interrupts to insist, a slight petulant edge staining his voice.

"Thanks," Gerry mutters, still blushing. "Anyway, so then I had all this money, but I was convinced it wouldn't last and now it's been years and it's only gotten worse and I was panicking so Gertrude took half the money and helped me put it into investments, which have mostly been pretty successful too, so now I have all this fucking money that I don't know what to do with, so Martin, would you like a flat?" Gerry ends his monologue slightly hysterical and Martin laughs out loud at the slight desperation in his voice.

"Do you even own this flat? I've been wondering how you could possibly afford it." Martin asks him, gesturing around at the massive space in one of the most up-and-coming parts of London.

"Yes, it's one of the only significant things I've ever actually paid for with the art money. You know, to do art in."

"And were you ever planning to mention this?" Jon queries, sounding slightly put out. He frowns down at the cat, instead of his ridiculous boyfriend. Saturn decides at that moment that he's had enough belly-rubs, and without warning, sinks his claws in, bites Jon's hand and then scurries off. Jon glares at his fluffy black tail as it disappears up the stairs and Gerry tries very hard not to laugh at him.

"Jonathan!" Martin scolds him, pushing his shoulder gently to regain his attention. "Gerry doesn't have to tell us about his finances."

Jon pouts even harder.

"Jon's right, I should have said something. I just didn't want it to be a big deal." Gerry responds, voice quiet and unusually reserved. He looks a little adrift and helpless, and they can see just how uncomfortable the money talk has made him.

Jon sighs and dislodges the stick from up his ass. "It's not a big deal, love, I'm only surprised. I'm glad it's out the way now." He collects Gerry's hand and presses a kiss to his knuckles.

Gerry relaxes and tugs Jon closer to kiss him, before offering the same to Martin.

They all sit in comfortable silence for a few moments, digesting the day's many revelations.

“Not that I’m not incandescently happy to see you both, but why did you actually come over?” Gerry asks eventually.

“Oh,” Martin sits up straighter, remembering their original objective. He looks down at the cat in his lap, stroking its back in an effort to distract himself. “It’s a little awkward actually.”

Gerry raises his eyebrows, thinking of what could make Martin feel awkward after all the things they’ve done together, occasionally right where they are currently sitting.

"Do tell." Gerry urges him. Martin and Jon share a look. Gerry rolls his eyes at the pair of them. "Come on, guys, whatever it is, just tell me. It can't possibly be that bad. Unless you're breaking up with me? Because fuck that."

"No, Gerry," Jon says, sounding amused. "The opposite."

"The opposite?" Gerry asks, frowning.

"Yes, the opposite," Jon tells him more firmly. "We were thinking," Martin makes a small nose at this, "that is, I was thinking, that since Martin has to move anyway, the three of us should finally take the plunge."

"You know," Gerry mutters peevishly, "I love riddles as much as the next overdramatic goth with a young adult book obsession, but could you please spit it the fuck out."

"Jonthinksweshouldallmoveintogetherhere." Martin finally rushes out, breathlessly.

"Martin, baby, those are separate words."

He takes a deep breath and tries again. "Jon thinks we should all move in together, here, with you."

Gerry sits up taller abruptly, a wide grin spreading over his handsome face. "What, really? You actually want to."

"Well, yes," Jon says, although his voice still sounds nervous.

"Okay great. Luna and Saturn are gonna love this." Gerry jumps up excitedly. "So I know you guys like having your own personal space, and I always have my art shit everywhere, but I've been thinking and I think we can make you both comfortable here too."

Martin and Jon share a perplexed look at Gerry's sudden frenetic burst of energy.

"We'll be comfortable here no matter what," Martin rushes to reassure him.

"Hush," Gerry speaks over him. "We both know you're just saying that because you feel like an inconvenience. But you're not and we all have to make this our home. Come, come on, I want to show you."

Gerry grabs a hand from each of them and drags them behind him and around and under the wide stairs that lead up to the loft space.

He leads them to two doors under the stairs, leading them into one. It's a large storeroom, technically, and Gerry has filled it with extra paint, canvases of many different sizes, and a plethora of other painting supplies. There aren't any windows, and the industrial light makes the space look stark. The scent of oil paint and turpentine is pervasive, but homey since those are things they associate heavily with Gerry himself.

"They're both the same. I've been thinking that if you two ever did want to move in here, you could take one each. A creative space just for yourselves, or your own bedrooms if you need some space once in a while. If you want them." His typical self-confidence is slightly lacking, the nervous twist of his fingers belaying his nerves at the admission.

"Oh Gerry," Martin says with something akin to wonder in his voice.

"But aren't you using them?" Jon asks, never one to let romanticism come in the way of practicality.

Gerry shrugs, "I've been thinking of having cupboards installed in the studio space and moving all this in there anyway. It will be more convenient for me when I'm working and it will be worth it to have you here all the time."

Gerry pauses, brow furrowing. "I've also considered moving the art studio in here so you two don't have to trip over my art stuff all the time."

Martin and Jon both understand the significance of that offer, knowing that Gerry's favourite things about this place are the high ceilings, giant windows, and natural lighting at most times of the day and even at night.

"You would be willing to give up your art space for us?" Martin asks in some wonder.

"Well yeah, of course," Gerry says as if it's obvious. "We'll all have to share the bedroom then, but the living space will be bigger. Whatever you would prefer."

"Just like that?" Jon's blunt incredulity finally tips Gerry off to their shock.

"Oh come on. I obviously haven't been a very good boyfriend if you two don't already know that you're more important to me than painting." It was the most romantic thing Gerry could say to anyone, really.

Martin kisses him, tearing up again.

"What did I say? Don't cry, love." He reaches up to wipe the tears away, and Martin offers him a wobbly smile.

Jon goes over to kiss him too. "You love us more than art."

"We're going in circles here. Yes, I love you both more than literally anything." Gerry is starting to wonder if they're being obtuse on purpose.

"We love you too," Jon tells him emphatically.

"Of course you do. I'm delightful." They all dissolve into laughter at that, the weighty mood breaking with it.

"So do you think you'll both be happy here?" Gerry asks when the laughter has faded.

Even standing in the mildly dusty storeroom and breathing in paint fumes, Jon knows the answer already. "I think we might be able to make it work."

#the magnus archives #jonathan sims #martin blackwood #gerry keay #jongerrymartin #fic #also on ao3

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