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voiceless-terror · 3 years

Text

Ink (TMA Fanfic)

For TMA Gerry Week 2021 Day One

Pairings: Jonathan Sims/Gerry Keay/Martin Blackwood

Rating: T

Summary: Art’s how Gerry shows his love- a few snippets where he does exactly that. No powers-au, Gerry and Martin own a bookstore. Takes place in this universe but can be read alone!

He’s getting used to having people who want him around.

Gerry’s had friends, sure. Once he left the institute and began working odd jobs, he realized how much he genuinely enjoyed having company. He still isn’t the most social of creatures, but he does enjoy a night out with old coworkers who enjoy his stories and laugh at his jokes. But now, with Jon and Martin, they want him around all the time. Even after they started dating, even after he moved in, he was always waiting for the other shoe to drop. It never does, though. And Gerry, in spite of himself, begins to relax. Begins to feel at home.

He’s laying on the couch, scribbling in his notebook when Martin surprises him with a peck to the top of his head. “Whatcha drawing this time?” He was very excited when he heard Gerry liked to draw, immediately asking to see his notebook or anything he’d done. He’d only recently shown him some of his work; he knows Martin would never make him feel embarrassed, but, well. It’s another part of himself no one’s ever been interested in. Until now.

“Jon,” Gerry responds, leaning into the touch. It’s an amateurish attempt in his opinion, just a rough sketch. But he’s got the proportions down and he never forgets a face. Couldn’t forget, in Jon’s case.

“That’s…” Martin trails off, peering closer at the page. “That’s really good. You’ve even got him smiling!” It’s not that Jon never smiles; he smirks and laughs and snarks. But he’s managed to capture that rare, bright grin that makes Gerry’s heart skip a beat.

“Mhm.” Gerry nods slightly, pen tapping against his sketchpad. He turns around, seeing the naked fondness in Martin’s eyes and has a particularly wicked thought. “Y’know, this is how he looks when he’s watching you.”

Martin sputters, turns a lovely shade of red. “W-What? Really?”

“No,” Gerry smirks. “It’s the way he looks at the Admiral.” A groan and a light smack to the shoulder prove his joke is unappreciated. “Sorry, sorry! I’m sure he also looks at you that way-”

“You’re an ass.” Martin rolls his eyes but oh-so-gently picks up his hand, pausing to inspect the ink-stained fingers. “A very talented ass.” His mind blanks as Martin kisses them one by one.

Thoroughly distracted, he never gets around to finishing that sketch.

_______

Painting, as it turns out, is a lot harder than it looks. Still quite fun, though.

They’ve just found the perfect space- a little out of their price range, but Gerry’s got savings and Jon was willing to part with a bit himself. Martin fretted over his ‘meager contribution,’ as his savings were depleted in the final months of his mother’s care. Ridiculous that he would ever think his contribution meager, considering he’s the one who scouted for locations and did all of the paperwork and stayed up late, agonizing over their finances. Some days, Martin’s the only one keeping them sane. Gerry and Jon are due to remind him of that.

Which is why they’re handling the decorating. Jon claims to have no artistic talent, but he does have a knack for making places seem like home. There are boxes filled with knick knacks and rugs and pictures, all waiting to be hung somewhere once Jon’s finally settled on a layout. Gerry’s left with painting the walls, labeling the different sections in whatever way he sees fit. He’s currently at work on the horror section, painting a stylized eye above the tarp-covered bookshelf when he hears the sound of the bell; Martin must be back from the store. They’d run out of appropriately-sized nails and after a minor freak out, he’d been on his way.

“Find what you were looking for?” he calls, listening as Martin’s footsteps grow closer, the crinkle of bags in his hand. “Here to save the day?”

“I wouldn’t call it saving,” Martin snorted, setting them down on the ground with a thump. “But it’ll certainly help. That looks nice.”

Gerry pauses, considering his work. He really needs a darker green for this. “Thanks. It’s a work in progress.”

“I’m sure it’ll turn out great,” he murmurs distractedly, and Gerry turns to look back at him. The lines of his face are more pronounced than usual, as are the shadows under his eyes. A sure sign that the stress is getting to him. Gerry understands, and he’s not much for being particularly sappy but he does what he can to help.

“Hey,” he calls down to him from his ladder. “C’mere. Need your opinion on something.”

Martin sighs, but heeds the call. “What is it? You know I’m rubbish with this art stuff-”

“It’ll only take a second. Come closer.”

“What am I supposed to be looking at-”

“Closer.”

As Martin huffs and leans towards him, Gerry darts his paintbrush out, drawing the quickest of hearts on Martin’s cheek before he can pull away.

“Gerry!” Martin startles and his hand reaches up to wipe at his cheek.

“Don’t smear it, it’s a heart.” He pauses, going for his gravest voice. “Because I love you so much. I’ll be devastated if you ruin it.”

“I don’t appreciate that.” Martin sighs but drops his hand, his face softening already. Exasperation has never been paired with fondness, not when it’s aimed at Gerry. Another thing he’s starting to get used to.

“Shame. It looks good.”

Martin goes home with a heart on his other cheek as well. He looks ridiculous. Gerry loves it.

_________

When Jon’s particularly stressed, Gerry leaves him post-it notes.

Often he leaves before Gerry even wakes, so he’s got to do them the night before. A little cat here, a little caricature of Bouchard there. He leaves a variety, depending on his mood. Jon always gives him a kiss when he gets home, a soft ‘thank you for the note,’ and that’s all he needs, really, to keep doing it. He likes making Jon smile.

Martin’s gone grocery shopping and Jon’s pulling a late night again, so Gerry’s alone in the flat looking for something to do. There’s nothing on Netflix worth watching (or at least, worth watching by himself) and he’s not in the mood for his latest novel, so he decides he’s going to be productive, make a list of all the things he has to do this week. Jon’s always going on about lists, though he leaves them everywhere and never seems to accomplish everything on them. Maybe it’s the act of making them that’s relaxing. It’s worth a try.

He makes his way over to the second bedroom they (mostly Jon) use as an office. He’s sure Jon’s got a little notepad here that he can use, and he wants it to look as official as possible. He opens the left hand drawer but only finds Martin’s receipts, and on the right he finds a plain-looking notebook, a little worn with use. Maybe that’s what he uses-

Gerry opens it. Pauses. Blinks. Feels something heavy and thick form in his throat.

It’s his notes- his stupid little sketches, his ‘have a good day at work’s, his smiley-faces and little hearts. Each carefully placed on page after page with an accompanying date, neat and tidy, like a little scrapbook. Mum used to throw out his ‘doodles,’ as she called them, told him his time was better spent on actual art, but Jon’s kept all of them. Like they mattered. Like they were important. He sets it back down on the desk and just stands there, heart beating hard in his chest.

Gerry’s tearing up like some sort of moron so he’s distracted and doesn’t hear Jon come home, doesn’t hear his usual grumblings and sighs. Doesn’t hear him until Jon’s right behind him, startling him with a hand on his arm. “Sorry, I was just- Gerry, are you alright?”

Alright. Alright. It’s a word that doesn’t encompass everything he’s feeling. Wanted, embarrassed, a little overwhelmed. And so, so happy.

He turns around and grabs Jon in a fierce hug, overcome with affection and eager to hide his stupid tears as he squeezes Jon to his chest. “You’re adorable, you know that?” he says, peppering kisses to the top of his head despite Jon’s weak protestations. “Real fuckin’ cute.”

Jon melts into his embrace, even as he complains. “I’ve got no idea what you’re on about, Gerry,” he says into his chest, the words muffled. “You’re being absurd.” Jon’s just about the only person he knows that uses ‘absurd’ on a daily basis. It’s insufferable. Gerry loves it.

“Just let me hug you, you little ogre.”

_________

Sometimes, Gerry’s the one who’s got to be up early. Doctors appointments are a bitch, and after a brief scare last year, it’s important that he keep up with them. Martin helps him schedule, marking the appointments on the calendar with a bold black marker that can’t be missed.

This morning’s particularly brutal, with an eight o’clock appointment an hour’s commute away. Jon went to sleep at a reasonable hour last night and he needs the rest; Gerry knows if he wakes Martin, he wakes them both. Jon’s never been good at sleeping alone.

He’s stumbling blearily around the kitchen, about to put the kettle on when he notices it. On the table is a post-it note; he doesn’t remember leaving one for Jon last night, but he’d been rather tired, so who knows? Gerry putters around, fixing his tea and nibbling at toast when he finally spares it a glance.

It’s not for Jon. It’s for him.

Good luck at your appointment! It reads in Martin’s familiar, neat script. Accompanying it is a small doodle that has to be Jon’s; it’s not particularly good, but it clearly shows a little Gerry, makeup and all, with a plaster on his cheek and a heart over his head. It looks like Jon spent time on it. Spent time on some stupid little post it note to make Gerry smile.

He puts it in his pocket. Takes it out a few times in the waiting room, stares at it. Everything looks fine, the doctor says at the end of the appointment. He’s so lucky.

He’s so lucky.

ao3 link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29635833

#tma #the magnus archives #tmagerryweek2021 #gerry keay #gerard keay #jonathan sims #martin blackwood #jongerrymartin #my writing

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bluejayblueskies · 3 years

Text

agony quiets to pain

Words: 2.1k Relationship: Jonathan Sims/Gerry Keay Tags: AU - Pre-Canon, AU - Canon Divergence, Hurt/Comfort, Tenderness, Burns Warnings: burns, aftermath of hospitalization, implied abuse/neglect, self-depreciation

Ao3 link in source!

Gerry aches. Which is a step up from total agony at least, but still, not pleasant. And then of course there’s the bandages, still covering nearly every inch of his body and hiding the mess that lies beneath.

(Permanent scarring, the doctor had said with a plastered-on expression of sympathy. We’re very sorry. There’s nothing we can do.)

It’s fine. He’ll be fine. He always is, isn’t he?

And to top it all off, he’s lost the book—the Leitner he’d been sent to fetch. He fully expects to step out of the hospital doors to see cool blue eyes staring back at him, hard with disappointment despite the benign expression on her face and accompanied by a casual, “Let’s go home now, Gerard,” that he would recognize for the threat it is.

Instead, he sees a man, thin and tired-looking, sat atop the short wall outside the hospital doors with a lit cigarette held between two fingers and a scarf wrapped tightly around his neck to chase away the late December chill. And Gerry realizes that the nurse never said exactly who he was being released to. The relief that overcomes him is dizzying, and he barely registers the nurse handing him his discharge papers before disappearing back into the hospital.

“Jon?” Gerry says, his voice cracking a bit around the words (though he tells himself it’s just from the lingering effects of the book, filling his lungs with smoke).

Jon looks up. When his eyes land on Gerry, he quickly snubs his cigarette out on the wall next to him, stands, and takes quick steps toward Gerry. He looks, for a moment, like he’s going to wrap Gerry in a hug before thinking better of it and simply fluttering his hands aimlessly in the air for a moment before dropping them back to his sides. Gerry’s disappointed and grateful in equal measure; given that his skin is still raw and sensitive, he doesn’t think a hug would feel pleasant. That doesn’t mean he doesn’t ache for one anyway.

“Are you okay?” Jon says, then shakes his head before the words have even finished leaving his mouth. “Right, no, of- of course you’re not. What I mean is.” Jon pauses, as if considering, before saying softly, “Are you all right?”

It’s the same question, technically. But Gerry knows it’s not. And so he decides to answer honestly.

“Not really.” Gerry rubs his left thumb over one of the tattoos on his right knuckles, the motion a habit born of nerves and anxieties. The skin there is smooth and unblemished. Funny, that. “All this, and I didn’t even get the book.”

“Oh,” Jon says quietly. There’s a sadness there that Gerry doesn’t want to look too closely at. Mostly because it’ll look too much like pity, and he doesn’t think he can handle that right now.

A sharp wind cuts through Gerry’s clothes, making him shiver and then wince as the sensation sends pain skittering across his skin. The unhappy expression on Jon’s face is erased in an instant, replaced by concern and determination. “Here, let’s- let’s go home, and we can figure everything else out after that. Okay?”

Figure it out. As if Mary Keay could be placated so easily. Still, Gerry nods, and he follows Jon to his car, twinges of agony pulsing up his legs with each step that he tries to hide. Given Jon’s grim expression as he helps Gerry into the car the best he can without touching Gerry’s skin too much, he doesn’t quite succeed.

The car used to be Jon’s grandmother’s, out of style by a decade or so with roll-up windows and a lingering cigarette smell that no amount of air fresheners seem to eliminate. Gerry leans his head back against the seat and breathes it in. It’s not something you’d bottle up and sell as perfume, but compared to the sterile antiseptic smell of A&E, it’s heavenly. Jon starts the car, looks over at Gerry once like he’s making sure he’s still there, and begins to drive. His hands shake ever so slightly on the steering wheel. Gerry pretends not to notice.

Gerry isn’t surprised when Jon takes them to his flat. Of course he isn’t, Jon’s the one who picked him up, so logically they’d go back to his place. Still, Gerry can’t help the rush of dizzying relief that sweeps through him when they arrive, like he’d still expected to be faced with rusty red brick and a weathered wooden sign that seemed to laugh at him with every creak of its hinges.

“Thank you,” Gerry says. He doesn’t bother to hide the way the tightness in his throat chokes off the words.

Jon’s quiet for a moment. Gerry can almost hear it—echoes of a conversation oft-repeated, useless and fantastical and irritating only because Gerry knows that Jon is right. I wish you wouldn’t go back, Jon would say. And Gerry would say, I know. And sometimes it would continue, if Jon were feeling particularly incensed at the moment. Sometimes it wouldn’t. Gerry almost hates that more, if only because of the expression that would come across Jon’s face, something profoundly sad and weary and, underneath it all, hurt.

It’s almost enough to convince him.

Almost.

“Yeah,” Jon says, his hands tightening on the wheel for a moment before going slack. He removes the key and fiddles with it absently. “You know I…” Jon trails off, worries his bottom lip between his teeth, then says abruptly, “Well. No use just sitting here, I suppose.”

It’s clipped, a bit brusque. Rude, if Gerry didn’t know better. But he does, and so his mouth settles into a small smile as he follows Jon into his flat, despite the burning, chafing sensation on his skin as his bandages shift as he walks.

God, he feels like shit.

As soon as they’re inside, Jon insists that Gerry sits on the couch, and Gerry goes without complaint, his aching body screaming in relief as he sinks down onto the cushions and finally takes weight off the soles of his feet, which did not come out of the experience unscathed. There’s clattering from the kitchen, a few muttered curses, and before too long Jon’s in front of him with a glass of water with a straw in it and a bowl of what looks like hastily reheated curry. He hesitates a moment before saying, “Can you… hold things?”

Gerry flexes his fingers experimentally. His hands got the best of it, given the myriad of tattoos across the joints of his fingers. Still, the entirety of his palm and the pads of his fingers are red and inflamed, and though they’re no longer bandaged, the needles of pain that shoot through him at the motion draw a small gasp from his lips despite his best efforts to keep it contained. Jon’s forehead sets into a firm line at that, like he’s considering something, before nodding once. “Right.”

He sets the dishes on the floor, disappears back into the kitchen for a moment, and reemerges carrying one of the wooden chairs from his kitchen table. He looks a bit winded when he sets it down in front of Gerry, which might be amusing in any other circumstance, but Gerry’s too busy wondering what the hell he’s doing.

Then, Jon retrieves the dishes, sits in the chair, and holds the glass of water in front of him stiffly. And Gerry realizes, all at once, what’s happening.

“Is this where I’m supposed to say ‘ah’?” Gerry says, because joking about it is preferable to protesting or staring at Jon in shock or—god forbid—getting flustered.

Jon seems to appreciate it because the tension in his arms dissipates ever so slightly, and he says primly, “If you’d prefer. Though I really don’t see how that will aid in the process.”

“Prick,” Gerry says, not without fondness. And it’s only a little awkward when he leans forward and, while Jon holds the glass, drinks. He hadn’t realized how thirsty he was until that moment, and he should probably be a bit embarrassed by how quickly he empties the glass, but he can’t quite bring himself to care when he sees the little pleased expression on Jon’s face. The affection that accompanies it, however slight, is enough to squeeze at Gerry’s chest until he finds it hard to breathe, and he clears his throat slightly to relieve the pressure.

The curry comes next, and it’s significantly more awkward to have Jon spoon-feeding him chicken and red bell peppers with careful precision so as to avoid any spillage. But Jon talks during it, which helps. It’s mundane things, like the case Jon’s currently working on at the Institute and what he had for lunch that day and the grocery list he’s compiling for the weekend. He transitions after a bit into a discussion of a documentary he watched recently about the origins of humanity, and Gerry gets to sit back and listen to Jon grow increasingly more passionate about bonobos and homo erectus and the unique structure of Neanderthal bones.

It’s nice, to learn about things like this. To learn from Jon. He spent his childhood chasing after cursed books, his mother giving him half-hearted studies in between that she deemed sufficient enough to be considered homeschooling. He’s just lucky he knows basic maths, honestly. But he knows a lot about books. Even if they’re mostly just the spooky kind.

So Jon talks, and Gerry listens. And he tries so very hard not to label the warm feeling in his chest as love, but, well. It’s hard not to fall in love with Jonathan Sims. And he doesn’t particularly want to try to stop it.

Soon the bowl is empty, and Jon holds it awkwardly against his chest for a moment before setting it aside on the floor. He’d stopped in the middle of a discussion about Stone Age tools, and Gerry wants so badly to ask him to continue. But there’s a weariness in him now, the food and water having chased away the gnawing hunger in his stomach and the dryness of his throat and leaving behind only bone-deep exhaustion.

So he doesn’t say anything. Eventually, Jon breaks the silence between them, his words stuttering and jagged, like he hasn’t quite figured out how to smooth them into shape. “I. I don’t really know. Uh. What else can I- can I do? To help. To make things easier.” He pauses, his fingers tapping a nervous rhythm on his thigh, before looking at Gerry with a fragile expression and saying, “I’m sorry, Gerry. I- I should have been there. I shouldn’t have let you go alone.”

“No,” Gerry says firmly. The thought of Jon being like him—wrapped up like a mummy, all agony and raw skin and cracked lines across his body that promise to leave him blotchy and scarred forever—makes him nauseous. Better that it’s him. He can handle it. He always has before. “It’s not your fault. And I don’t want you to blame yourself, okay? I know how you get, so don’t. There’s nothing you could have done.”

Gerry can see the protest written all over Jon’s face, in the way he purses his lips and fixes his eyes firmly at a spot over Gerry’s shoulder. But all Jon says is, “That doesn’t make it better. So please—tell me what I can do.”

There’s a kind of desperation in Jon’s eyes at that, a need to categorize a problem and find the best course of action in order to resolve it. His hands are curled into fists on his lap; Gerry wants so badly to take them in his own, to uncurl Jon’s fingers and thread them with his and squeeze until all the tension’s bled out of Jon’s body. Instead, he says, voice heavy with exhaustion, “I think I’d just like to go to bed. It’s been a long few days.”

Jon lets out a small, humorless laugh at that. “I suppose it has.”

Gerry doesn’t protest when Jon offers him his bed, just offers quiet thanks before making his way relatively painlessly to the bedroom. He considers trying to remove his clothes, then thinks better of it and gingerly climbs onto the bed with them still on.

It’s uncomfortable in every way possible. Gerry falls asleep all the same, the soft sleep well Jon had given him before disappearing back into the living room lingering in his mind until he drifts off into a restless slumber, his dreams filled with burning flesh and a fear he doesn’t think he’ll ever quite shake.

#tma #the magnus archives #tma fic #tmagerryweek2021 #jongerry #jonathan sims #gerry keay #my fic #my writing #prompt 2: burn #now that i've done two of these my brain is like 'do the rest! do the rest!' that's the devil talking lol

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