#[ FINAL THOUGHT: martin needs to come and get this man a cup of tea IMMEDIATELY. that's all he wants actually right now. | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

voiceless-terror · 3 years

Note

#21 and #46 for kiss prompts, maybe? I can't get enough your writing tbf

kiss on a dare- a little jonmartin season one fluff <3 All in all, this is one of Tim’s better Friday nights.

It’s been ages since Jon’s hung out with them, and never with Martin along for the ride. The Archives had been off to a messy start after the Dog Incident and Jon’s subsequent panic over the state of the place. What used to be an ‘every couple of weeks’ tradition turned into an almost-never one as the newly-assembled team got buried under more and more boxes of dusty statements. He’s pretty astounded that Jon agreed to dinner and drinks- although it’s a Friday night, Jon’s been apt to stay weekends more often than not. He figured if he arranged for it at one of theirs instead of a pub, Jon would be more likely to come. He always preferred less crowded settings.

No, the real feat was getting him to come knowing Martin was invited.

Jon’s been getting...better around him, that’s true. He was perfectly fine at his birthday party, going off about emulsifiers for a solid fifteen minutes. Tim’s always been rather fond of Jon’s infodumping, and if he’s comfortable enough to do it around Martin that must be a good sign. Despite an initial freeze-out, he now thanks Martin for his tea and saves his most pointed comments for Martin’s more egregious screw-ups (and even those have less bite than usual). Still, a colleague does not a friend make, and Jon’s never been good at opening up to people he doesn’t know all that well. However, Jon just nodded at the Martin caveat, seemingly not giving it a second thought. And Martin didn’t seem all that worried either.

Whatever, Tim’s not going to look a gift horse in the mouth. He’s just happy they’re all here, having a good time. It’s late and Jon’s had enough wine to keep a smile on his face. He missed that. It’s nice how easily they slot together, even with all of the upheaval and a new addition. Martin himself isn’t so shy after a drink or two, more willing to engage in banter and keep the conversation going. This is what it should be like all the time, Tim thinks. Shitty archive job or not.

It’s when they retire to the living room, drinks in hand, that he finally notices the little grin on Sasha’s face. And Tim, knowing exactly what that means, is both a little afraid and excited. Four-drink-Sasha has always been a host unto herself.

“Why don’t,” she begins, a hiccup interrupting her as she slumps into an armchair. Tim snickers and ignores the glare this earns him. “Why don’t we play one of our old games-”

Tim raises a glass in agreement as Jon, predictably, groans. Martin looks quizzically between them. Ah yes, time for your initiation, Marto! Not that they’ve played this in about a year or so, of course, but it's always fun to revisit the good old days.

“Seriously? We’re not children-”

Tim gives Jon a playful slap on the back that sends him flying forward on the couch, spilling a bit of wine on Sasha’s rug. He hopes she doesn’t notice. “C’mon, it’ll be fun, boss! Nothing like it to break the ice, and there’s definitely some ice that needs breaking.”

Martin blinks, hand tightening on his glass. He looks nervous, like he always does when he doesn’t know exactly what’s going on. Which is a shame, because he’s been so nice and open all night. Even chatting with Jon. “Sorry, what are you talking about?”

Jon rolls his eyes, giving Martin a commiserating look. “Truth or dare.”

Martin lets out a disbelieving laugh, relaxing minutely. “Wait, really?”

“Yes, really.” Jon’s foot reaches out to shove at Tim’s leg. “Tim loves pulling ridiculous stunts-”

“-Hey, you loved the karaoke idea-”

“You sing?”

“No.” Tim would dispute that, but the look on Jon’s face declares it a bad idea. “And Sasha likes to ask probing questions.”

Sasha preens, though the remark was certainly not meant as a compliment. “What can I say, I’m the Queen of Truth-”

Tim snorts. “Hacking and blackmail more like-”

“Anyway-” Sasha sings out as Tim dodges a pillow to the face. “Tim….truth or-”

“Dare, always dare.”

“You’re absolutely no fun,” Sasha pouts, though it doesn’t take long for her eyes to narrow in thought. There’s very little Tim won’t do, but that’s a dangerous look. “I dare you...to text…”

“Text? You can do better than that, Sash.”

“Text...Elias.” That’s more like it.

Jon immediately scowls. “Tim, no-”

“I don’t have his number-”

“I do-”

“Sasha!”

“Jon, it’ll be fine! He’ll just say ‘oops, wrong number’ afterwards, no harm, no foul-”

Tim takes this time to snatch at Sasha’s phone, sitting precariously on the arm of her chair. She doesn’t notice, too busy gesturing at Jon empathically. He scrolls through her contact list.

“And then it’ll come down on me-”

Sasha rolled her eyes. “How is he going to connect it to you? It’s not like he knows we’re all together-”

“Done!” Tim tosses the phone back onto the couch with a little grin. Sasha blinks, looking down in confusion.

“Wait, that’s mine-”

The screech and smack on the arm at Tim’s hastily fired off ‘u up? ;)’ to Elias Bouchard were definitely deserved. He’s sure he’ll face consequences for that in the near future, but Jon and Martin’s immediate laughter had been well worth it. Shouldn’t dish it if you can’t take it, that’s Tim’s motto.

In the next round, Tim manages to get Martin to confess to his poetry-writing habit, an admission that has him turning an attractive shade of red. Jon just giggles quietly to himself as Martin reads through one of his poorer attempts at rhyme saved to the notes of his mobile. Tim watches the two of them; Martin keeps looking up at Jon throughout it all like he’s the only one in the room and god, his crush is so evident and yet Jon is oblivious, smiling at him like he’s not on the receiving end of some of the most loaded glances of all time.

Martin gets Sasha to admit to her most recent perusal through confidential institute records, which turned out to be previous archival expenses (solely to find out what Elias would cover with their new jobs, of course). At first glance, there wasn’t much in the way of extravagant meals or supplies, but a bit more digging had her finding Gertrude’s extensive travel budget. For an old woman, she certainly was a globe-trotter.

“All I’m saying, Jon, is that we could definitely do with a trip to China-”

“Yes, I’ll be sure to ask Elias about Gertrude’s trip to China, something I certainly shouldn’t know about, and he’ll have to let us go.”

“Refill?” Martin’s on his feet, taking Jon’s wine glass in his hand and Tim watches as their fingers brush- go Martin!- and yet Jon just nods his thanks, completely oblivious to the seduction taking place before him. Tim’s given it some thought and honestly, he thinks they’d make a cute couple. An odd pair, for sure, but Jon’s so soft once you get to know him, and Martin’s one of the funniest, sweetest guys he knows. They could be good for each other.

“Well, I still think it’s worth a try.” Sasha’s eyes are starting to blink heavily - she’ll be out for the count tonight, for sure. “Anyway, it’s your turn. I dare you-”

“I didn’t even pick!” Jon says, though he doesn’t seem too put out by it. This is the Jon Martin should know, the easy-humored, smiling man sprawled out before him. He’s even taken his little sweater vest and tie off, looking more like the familiar friend from research Tim knows so well. It warms his heart.

“Fine. Truth or dare?”

“Dare, I suppose. Seeing as how you already have one queued up.”

“I dare you to...to...to give a little kiss to someone in this room.” She waves her glass around imperiously. “Anyone you like.”

Silence. Tim gives Sasha a warning look that she ignores. She’s well in her cups, and he supposes any sense of propriety has gone out the window along with her sobriety. He’s actually seen Jon give quite a few kisses on a particularly memorable New Years Eve, but that was a different time. He doesn’t want him to feel pressured, not when he’s just starting to open back up.

“Jon doesn’t have to if he doesn’t want to-”

Sasha rolled her eyes. “Oh come on, you remember-”

“It doesn’t matter- Jon, you can skip this one if you like, we can think of something else-”

“Tim, it’s alright.” Jon puts a hand on his arm to stop the argument, and there’s a strange look in his eyes that can’t be attributed to liquor. It’s mock-serious, almost playful paired with his little sly smile. He thinks for a moment that Jon’s going to lean in and kiss him but instead he gets up from the sofa in a smooth motion and walks across the room to Martin, who’s just turned around with two glasses in hand. He freezes in place as Jon gets on his very tippy toes, takes his face in both hands, and kisses him.

Jonathan Sims. Kissing Martin Blackwood. Against a kitchen counter. Martin Blackwood, who, once he’s over his surprise, puts the drinks down behind him and kisses right the hell back, arms winding around Jon’s waist like they belong there.

What. The. Fuck.

_____

“The leg bit was a nice touch.”

“Hmm?” Jon’s in Martin’s lap, sprawled out on his couch back at his own flat, eyes closed in contentment as he leans back against the other man’s chest. Martin’s got one hand in his hair, and the other entwined with Jon’s, twirling the black ring on his finger. It’s heavenly.

“Thought you were trying to climb me.”

“Well, you usually pick me up at that point, make it easier.”

“Sorry, next time.” Kissing Jon’s always fun but kissing him out in the open, in front of their friends? Was that something they could do now? “Should we tell them we’ve been dating for two months?”

Two whole months since that night in Document Storage when Jon had finally let his guard down. When Martin had held him in his arms. Jon was very particular about keeping up appearances, though that all seemed to have crumbled tonight. Sasha rather fashioned herself a matchmaker, and Jon didn’t do anything to dissuade the fact. It’d been nice, having their relationship to themselves, the secret of it, the obliviousness of their friends who still thought Jon only tolerated him. It’s not that he wanted to keep it that way, of course, but it was nice while they were still figuring it out.

“If you’d like. Maybe it’s time.” Jon tilts his head back, giving Martin a fond look. “Though I know how much you enjoy playing the lovesick fool-”

“There’s something so poetic about unrequited love, yknow?”

“All the more when it’s requited, I’d say.” Martin couldn’t argue with that. He leans down to give Jon’s forehead a peck.

“Hmm. Give it a few more weeks. Act out the honeymoon phase for a bit, it’ll be fun.”

And when Jon squeezes his hand and smiles back, Martin thinks he won’t need to do much acting at all.

ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/31318724

#tma #the magnus archives #my writing #jonathan sims #martin blackwood #jonmartin #fluff #kiss prompts #i have a little backstory to how they got together in this one that maybe one day i will write #but heres a lil something something #jonmartin secret dating is fun okay #v enjoyable #jaybirdsfall #reblogs appreciated <3

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celosiaa · 4 years

Text

you can talk to me

Summary: Jon may or may not be questioning his gender. Either way, Martin is there to listen.

CW: dysphoria, periods, panic, self-deprecating thoughts, food mention

for a prompt from @transcendentalbf! <3 hope you all enjoy!

Sasha: you wanted channa masala, right?

Martin: yes! got it in one!

Sasha: of course I did! be back in 15

Martin: <33

Setting his phone back on the desk, Martin tips back in his chair and lets out a sigh, pressing the heels of his palms against his eyes. Though it’s been nearly three weeks since he’s started living in the archives, that doesn’t mean that he’s gotten used to it—if anything, the long hours of being constantly on the lookout for anything creeping or crawling across the floor has only served to heighten his pre-existing anxiety. It’s so lonely here. The low ceiling of the basement seems so vast when you wander beneath it in the dark—and even now, with his friends promising to return with lunch for him shortly, he can’t help but feel the weight of their absence.

Christ, Martin. You’re pathetic.

Can’t even handle a bit of pain.

As if the thought alone had caused it to happen, the aching roar of his cramps flares up once more, causing him to bend over the desk to breathe through it yet again. It’s just so embarrassing—he’s been on T for years now, surely the bleeding would have stopped—but alas, no such luck to be had. Of course he would be one of the people for whom it gets worse. Of course.

I’ve got to text her.

Martin: hey, do you have ibuprofen? didn’t want to look through your desk without asking!

Sasha: course! middle drawer. you okay?

He wants so badly to lie to her, say it’s fine—but he can’t really do that after asking for pain relievers, can he?

Martin: fine!! just having some cramps is all, it’s okay!

Sasha: aw, I’m sorry, Martin :/ need anything else? I can stop by the store later if you need

Martin: not yet. might soon though

Martin: I’m sorry.

Martin: please don’t tell Tim

Sasha: I would never. and don’t worry about it! it’s no trouble. I’ll get you some stuff later, alright?

You’re a burden you’re a burden you’re nothing but a burden

Martin: thanks, sash. you’re the best!

Sasha: <3

Returning his phone to its place on his desk, Martin has to stop to take a few deep breaths—heart pounding with embarrassment over the entire discussion. He knows it’s alright, knows Sasha means it when she says she doesn’t mind…right?

Jesus, stop it.

Just…take a walk, and you’ll feel better afterwards.

Standing a bit painfully on swollen legs, Martin swallows a few of Sasha’s ibuprofen before he makes his way toward the stairs, hoping for a chat with Rosie while waiting on lunch. At the very least, he could get some sunlight, escape from the windowless basement for a while. He could only hope that the worms aren’t too bad up there.

The lift dings its arrival to the main floor, where Rosie immediately turns to greet him with a warm smile.

“Ah, Martin! How are you, my dear?” she says as he approaches, looking genuinely glad to see him.

“Can’t complain!” he beams, leaning against her desk with one elbow. “You doing alright? Staying out of trouble?”

“You know I’m not,” she laughs, swatting playfully at his arm. “But neither are you, I’m sure.”

“Got me there.”

Martin can’t help but smile back, pleased at the thought of bringing happiness to someone’s day, satisfied to listen to her stories of cats and knitting circles and whatever soaps she’s been watching on telly. It reminds him of his mum, a bit—the nicer parts of her, anyway.

“Oh, that reminds me—“ she bends down beneath her desk to pull out a thin package, handing it over to him. “This was delivered for Jon this morning. Probably listed the Institute on the order form by accident again. Would you be so kind as to take it to him when you go back down?”

Holding it in his hands, Martin can feel the shape of the thing within it—some sort of soft fabric, stamped on top with a return label indicating a very nice clothing brand.

Date clothes.

He’s got a date.

Even as his heart sinks, Martin curses himself for it—it’s none of his business, Jon wants nothing to do with him, has no interest at all—after all, how could he? How could he when he’s…well, him?

“Stop making this about you, Martin,” he hears his mother say, closing his eyes against the memory. “You’ve always got to spoil everything, don’t you?”

“Martin? You alright, love?” Rosie asks quietly, and Martin looks up to see her worried face—hand coming to rest lightly on his arm.

Damn it.

“Oh, ha, of course, Rosie! S-sorry, it’s just—“

He backs away from the desk, pressing the call button for the lift.

“I’d better get back downstairs, then. Don’t—don’t want to keep Jon waiting. For his package, I mean.”

The lines of Rosie’s face only deepen, staring concernedly at him as he steps into the lift.

“Oh—alright, dear,” she says, a bit surprised at his sudden retreat. “Come back and visit sometime, alright? I’ll make us tea on your next break.”

“That sounds lovely,” he replies, forcing a wide grin to his face, flooded with guilt that she feels the need to make tea for him, when that’s supposed to be his responsibility.

“Nasty child, always making things about yourself.”

God, stop it.

“I’ll see you later then,” he continues with a wave, begging the lift doors to close quickly and hide his face.

—

Breathing deeply a few times before Jon’s office door, Martin finally gathers the courage to knock.

“Come in,” comes Jon’s baritone from behind the door, and he swings it open with a gentle creak.

“Hey, sorry to interrupt—Rosie had a package for you at the desk,” Martin says in as cheery a tone as he can manage, holding out the floppy package to Jon.

At once, Jon’s eyes go wide—he snatches it from Martin’s hands, setting it quickly out of sight with a blush rising to color his cheeks.

“Oh, th-thank you, Martin, erm—must have, must have accidentally sent it here,” he stammers, hand reaching up to rub at the back of his neck, no longer meeting Martin’s eyes.

Just get out just get out

“It’s no trouble,” he replies, and it’s far too happy, too sharp, too loud to be natural. “Sorry! Sorry. I’ll just be going, then.”

He closes the door on Jon’s shocked face, clearly surprised that Martin had not kept trying to make conversation, as usual. Stepping away from the door, he tilts his head back against the tears springing to his eyes—Jon was so clearly flustered by the package, confirming what he already knew: he’s seeing someone else.

Stop it stop it stop it

Furious with himself, at the hollow cavern of his chest, he turns toward the break room—determined to at least make this lunch normal and pleasant.

Just be normal.

For once, just do it right.

—

Though the hour is just barely approaching 8pm, Martin is more than ready to settle in for what he hopes might be some half-decent sleep. He’d been on the lookout for worms all day, as usual, but had really found very few—and certainly none within the sealed doors of document storage. Even if the air feels a bit stuffy, it’s nice to have a bit of added security that those things couldn’t possibly reach him in here. Or so he hopes.

It’s as if the cot has its own gravitational pull, beckoning him to just tip to the side, to let it all wash away into sleep—the only problem being that he cannot yet bring himself to take off his binder. To put it mildly, it’s been a day, even with the lovely lunch Tim and Sasha had brought him, even with the warming cup of tea he and Rosie had shared. The idea of kicking his dysphoria into an even higher gear is enough to set his heart pounding again, so much that every time he tries to just take it off, your lungs will thank you—he can’t get past even touching the hem sitting tightly against his ribcage.

Leaning back against the concrete wall, he smacks the back of his head against it a few times in frustration, before ceasing at the pain reverberating through his skull.

Just take it off just take it off just—

He pulls it up just a little higher.

Nononononono I can’t I can’t I can’t—

Bringing it back down against his pounding pulse, he forces himself to take deep, grounding breaths, shuddering and hitching a bit as his frustration builds up to form a lump in his throat.

Pathetic pathetic pathetic—

His thoughts are interrupted by the buzz of his phone against his thigh.

Sasha: hey, Martin—I popped some tampons and pads into your desk drawer. saw your door closed and thought you might not want company right now.

Sasha: and I got you some ice cream. double chocolate fudge. I’ve left it on the top shelf of the break room freezer.

Sasha: hope you’re alright—love you <3

Oh god.

Martin feels his eyes welling up as soon as he starts reading, the tears causing the words to swim almost too badly to see. God, Sasha—she always knows what to say, just what he needs—and he barely had to say a word about it.

Martin: love you too, Sash. you’re unbelievable. I can’t wait to tuck in! love love love you <3

Sasha: good man! I don’t want to see any left by the time I get in tomorrow. goodnight, handsome <3

Oh god oh god oh god

He can’t help but clutch the phone tightly to his chest, allowing a tear or two slip down the side of his cheeks with a soft smile. “Good man,” “goodnight handsome—“ even if he knows she’s saying it because of the dysphoria, it means everything to him that she would even think about it. That she would even notice it.

That she cares enough to want to make him feel better.

Dizzy with happiness, Martin slips out from under the covers and heads into the archives to retrieve his ice cream.

—

Spoon and his wonderful frozen gift in his hands, he makes his way back to document storage—knowing that if Jon were there, he’d be livid to see him take any sort of food or drink into a place where such precious pieces of spooky history are kept. In spite of himself, he lets the corners of his mouth turn up at the thought, imagining how terribly cross he would be, hands on his hips, shouting up at Martin, who stands a foot taller than him—

There’s a light on in Jon’s office.

Surely he’s…not…

Worry pooling in his stomach, Martin pads as silently as possible over to the partially-open door, peering inside just in case, hoping against hope that he’s not going to find more worms, or someone covered in worms, or Prentiss herself—

His heart leaps into his throat at once.

Inside the room, he finds Jon—with no worms in sight, no injuries—staring at the full length mirror on the wall. Hanging from his frame is a loose and flowing dress, thin shoulder straps drooping down into a dark navy ‘v’ across his chest, blue and white striped skirt falling graciously around his hips and to the floor. Slits in the fabric run from the hem up to his knees, giving the entire piece such a feeling of freedom—and the look on Jon’s face says he feels just the same. His eyes sparkle as he moves about in the skirt, feeling the fabric against his legs, reaching up to let his hair hang loosely over his bare shoulders. It’s lovely, it’s soaring, it’s—

Intensely private.

Oh god, I shouldn’t be here.

Desperate to leave as silently as he came, Martin takes a step back—right onto a worm wriggling beneath his foot.

“AAGH!” he yells, dropping the ice cream and spoon at once, scrambling backwards to grab a book from the desk behind him, smashing into the horrible little thing until it is well past dead.

“God, sorry,” he pants, swiping a hand across the sweat of his brow, setting the other to rest over his chest as he bends over to catch his breath. “Sorry, I must have scared you, I just saw the light on, and I—“

When he looks up, he’s greeted with the sight of a man frozen in place—eyes wide with shock, and…fear? He stands with his back pressed against the opposite wall, no breath visible in the movement of his shoulders as he stares back into Martin’s eyes.

“A-are you alright? Jon?” he asks carefully, taking a cautious step forward.

He receives no reply in return—the only movement visible to him the shakiness of his legs.

“You don’t look w—oh, Christ,” Martin yelps, rushing forward to catch Jon as he starts to slip to the ground.

It strikes Martin suddenly that he still hasn’t seen Jon take a breath—and he begins heaving at once, lungs gasping for oxygen.

“God—that’s it, just take a breath, just--just take a breath,” Martin encourages nervously, sweeping his eyes over him for some sort of injury. “Are you alright?”

Jon does not reply for a few moments, eyes still blown wide and wild, before at last turning them up to meet Martin’s gaze as his breaths begin to slow.

“Y-you—“ he begins, before his eyes sweep downwards for just a sliver of a moment. “You’re wearing…a binder.”

Oh, Christ.

With a start, Martin looks down at himself—only just realizing that he’s crouching in his boss’s office, wearing nothing but his boxers and a skin-tone binder.

“O-oh, God, I—“ he instinctively brings up his arms to cover himself. “S-sorry, I just—I didn’t mean—“

“N-no, Martin—that’s not—that’s not what I meant,” Jon assures in a anxious rush, reaching out to touch his arm—before hurriedly jerking it back.

“No?”

“No, I—“ he cuts off again, pressing a hand over his chest as he takes another grounding breath. “I’m really—I’m actually…relieved.”

Now Martin is properly confused.

“You’re…relieved?”

“Yes, I—“ he looks up, laughing a bit wetly before continuing. “I suppose you…you wouldn’t…I suppose you would understand. Perhaps.”

“Understand…”

It hits Martin like a train, now that the panic of a possible crisis has been averted: the dress.

“OH! Oh, I—I’m so sorry I burst in on you, Jon, I didn’t…I wouldn’t…I wouldn’t do that. On purpose. I can leave you alone? Or to change, if you feel uncomfortable.”

“I—I think I would like that. To change, I mean. You can—“

He drops his gaze to the floor.

“You can come back. If you want.”

For a moment, Martin allows hope to swell in his chest—before quashing it rather forcefully.

“O-Okay! Sure, I’ll just—I’ll be back in a mome, I’ll just…put some clothes on. Right.”

Elegant exit made, Martin briefly allows the shock to wash over him before dashing back to document storage—popping on a pair of pyjama trousers and a band t-shirt, sure to grab a canister of CO2 for proper protection this time. On his journey back, he spots the ice cream he’d flung to the floor at the sight of the worm—a bit melted now, perhaps—but if anything warrants some slightly-melty ice cream, it’s the conversation that he thinks Jon wants to have now. Turning on his heel, he grabs two spoons from the kitchen, and by the time he gets back, Jon’s office door has been propped back open. He knocks against it lightly all the same.

“Jon? Alright if I come in?”

“Y-yes—erm, have a seat, if you’d like,” he says from his desk chair, now back in his typical work-day cardigan, hair pulled into a bit of a messy bun.

“Right, sure,” Martin replies, settling in the chair opposite him and offering a smile. “Feels like I’m about to give a statement or something.”

To his complete surprise, the corners of Jon’s mouth actually turn up a bit at this—and though he still will not meet Martin’s eyes, something about the openness of his expression tells Martin to mark this moment as one to remember.

“I suppose it must feel rather like that,” he agrees, beginning to fiddle with a pen on his desk, staring intently at it.

They sit like this for quite a while—letting the silence settle, as Martin tries to intuit whether or not he ought to say something. Worrying at his bottom lip to keep himself from speaking, he tries not to stare at Jon, wanting him to feel comfortable, just wanting him to know that he’s there for whatever he needs to say.

It’s the most unnatural thing in the world for him to do—but it appears to have been the right decision, as Jon at last begins to speak.

“I haven’t,” he begins, before clearing his throat. “I’ve never worn a dress before.”

Ah. So it is what I thought.

Leaning forward against the table, Martin tilts his head in an effort to let Jon know that it’s okay, you can look at me, you’re safe here—but he’s not quite ready yet, and Martin is certainly armed with patience.

“I think that’s great, Jon! I think that’s really great that you tried it,” he begins, hoping that this is what Jon needs to hear in this moment. “Do you want to—I mean you don’t have to, but—do you want to talk about it?”

Brows furrowing, Jon stops twiddling the pen long enough to glance up at him.

“What do you mean?”

“Oh, I just…I mean…how did it make you—feel?” Martin clarifies, and Jon nods in response.

“Ah, I see. I—erm—“ and away he looks again, back to staring at the pen, perhaps more nervous than Martin has ever seen him. “It’s…difficult to say, I suppose. I’m not quite sure yet.”

“That’s okay, that’s perfectly natural,” Martin is quick to assure, running a hand over the bits of stubble that have crept up over his chin.

He remembers this, remembers the doubt, the exploration of what he did and did not want, what he did and did not feel—it was far from easy to do, and he’s starting to think it’s much the same for Jon.

Perhaps I ought to start at the beginning

“Are you—and you don’t have to answer this, but—are you…thinking about your gender identity?” he asks, watching Jon’s body language carefully.

He seems to curl up further into his seat, shoulders hunching in a way that makes Martin’s own hurt just looking at them.

“I don’t—I don’t know,” Jon mutters, hugging his arms tightly across his chest. “I’m…hesitant to say, really, I just…”

He sighs, leaning back into his chair and closing his eyes, arms braced against each arm rest.

“I happened to see that dress a few months ago, and it wouldn’t leave my mind, and I had some extra money to spare, and…and I bought it. I don’t know why.”

All of this spills from Jon in such a rush that it winds him, still not opening his eyes.

“That’s okay, Jon. Really. You don’t need to know why right now, okay? This kind of stuff can be complicated,” Martin soothes, letting out a little huff of laughter. “Believe me, I understand.”

At this, Jon opens his eyes again, bringing them up to meet his ever-so-slowly. Once they land there, though…Martin has a feeling that they will be fixed on him for the rest of this conversation, though he cannot put a finger on why.

“Would you tell me?” Jon asks in a near whisper, leaning against arms which he’s propped up on his desk. “I mean—I would like to know how you found out, if you don’t mind.”

“Ah. Right. Erm…well, I suppose I was pretty young when I started to figure it out. I’d never…I’d never really felt like me in my body, you know? The long hair, the school uniforms, just…it wasn’t right. At least not for me.”

He pauses for a moment, half expecting Jon to interrupt, to tell him he’s heard enough—but Jon still appears transfixed, as if he’s drinking in every word he has to say.

“But I didn’t really understand what that meant until secondary school. I was…well, let’s just say it was an upsetting time for me all around, right? One day I felt upset enough to chop off my own hair in the bathroom. And it was long by that time—nearly down to my waist.”

He laughs briefly at the remembrance, running a hair through his now-shorn locks.

“I cut it off—and it was like some small part of me started to understand. I couldn’t stop thinking about it. I tried to dress in what I thought boys should wear, walked around dressed like that to see what would happen—and the first time that someone called me “Mister Blackwood,” I just…it’s was like a great big wave of relief. It was like someone finally saw me. Like I finally saw me.”

Pausing there, he looks back up at Jon’s face—still reverently focused on his own. It sends a chill up his spine, in not an entirely unpleasant way.

“Thank you, Martin,” he murmurs at last, lowering his hands away from his face to stretch out across the table. “Thank you for telling me. That’s very…insightful.”

“Is it?” he replies, leaning towards him once again. “Can you tell me why?”

He can almost hear the gears turning in Jon’s head—the lines of deep-seated thought clear on his face. After a rather long silence, he begins to speak again, voice more certain than it has sounded all evening.

“The feeling of it. What you said about not being able to get it out of your mind, I just—” he breaks off to sigh, frustrated with the way the words are stringing together. “I’m not saying I understand completely, because it’s obviously your experience and not mine, but…”

He swallows, setting his face with such strength of intention that Martin finds himself bracing for the impact.

“I liked it. The dress. I liked the fabric, I liked the way it…the way it looked on me. I…I liked feeling…feminine, I suppose you could say.”

In this moment, Martin is not sure he has ever felt such a surge of affection for the person before him—which is saying quite a lot, all things considered.

“I’m really happy for you, Jon! Thank you for sharing that with me, I know that’s not always easy.”

Jon’s only response is a curt nod, his penchant for decorum and professionalism shining through even in this moment of relative vulnerability.

“Could I ask you—have you thought about pronouns? Or names? I mean—I’m happy to call you however you want to be called. Or perhaps even to try something new out, if you want. Just to see,” he quirks up a little smile at him, pleased that Jon feels comfortable enough to look back at him.

“Erm—I suppose I had thought about it a bit,” he says as he wraps his arms around his middle again, a gesture that Martin knows to be one of self-comfort. “I…I don’t think I would want to change my name. Not now, anyway. I rather like how it sounds.”

“That’s alright! I…I think your name is lovely, if that matters,” Martin replies—flushing as he realizes what he’s just said. “Erm—anyway, what about pronouns? Do you want to keep using he/him? Or do you want to try something else?”

Again, Jon seems perfectly at ease to think about this in silence for a bit—turning away and twirling a loose strand of his hair with his right index finger. That all-too-familiar twinge in his chest returns with a vengeance at the sight, endlessly endeared to everything about him.

God, stay focused for one moment, Martin.

“I—would you mind to try they/them? I don’t—I don’t think I want to try it around the office yet or, but…would you? Try it?”

“Of course!” Martin breathes at once, hand reaching out instinctively to cover Jon’s own where it rests on the table—and to his utter shock, Jon does not even flinch at the contact, nor try to pull away. “Of course I will, Jon. Do you want me to try it now? I can say some sentences so you can feel it out.”

“I…yes. Yes, that would be lovely, Martin,” Jon replies softly, still not moving his hand away.

“Right. Erm…okay. This is Jon. They work at the Magnus Institute. They’re the Head Archivist, and their work is very important. I like to bring them cups of tea in the afternoon, and they wear cardigans almost every day,” he pauses there, reading the smile creeping up on Jon’s face like the sun breaking through the clouds—and knowing in that moment, that they must have gotten it right.

“So? How did it feel?”

The smile takes on a full-bodied appearance now—eyes sparkling dark and gentle across the table, boring into his own with such depth of meaning that Martin is not sure he could ever fully take in.

“Yes,” they reply simply, smile spreading even wider. “Yes, I—I rather liked that.”

“I’m really glad, Jon! I mean—I would have been glad even if you didn’t like it, of course—the important thing is that you tried it out,” Martin stammers, nervousness somehow creeping back into his words.

“Thank you, Martin. I’ve…greatly enjoyed this talk,” Jon says, at last pulling their hand away from beneath Martin’s to point it at the forgotten tub of ice cream, currently sweating a circle of moisture on the wood of their desk. “I think you might want to get back to this before it melts, however.”

“Oh! Oh, right—I forgot I sat it there!” Martin replies, grabbing it quickly and rubbing a sleeve over the damp spot it created on the wood. “I actually—“

No no no, stop.

Don’t make it awkward

Don’t ruin it don’t ruin it don’t—

“Would you like some?” Martin presses on, against every voice that tells him to do the contrary. “I—I actually brought two spoons, I thought…I thought maybe you could use a pick-me-up. After I barged in on you like that.”

The expression Jon gives back to him now is a mixture of things—incomprehension, confusion, disbelief—and perhaps, just perhaps, a small bit of delight.

“You don’t—you don’t need to do that, I—“

“I insist, Jon. Please have some with me,” he interrupts, handing him one of the spoons. “Sasha told me to have it gone by morning, and there’s no way I can do that myself.”

“Well,” Jon replies, taking the spoon from him with just a whisper of a grin. “I suppose we’d better get to work, then.”

“Let’s.”

#tma #the magnus archives #tma fic #tma fanfic #jonmartin #hurt/comfort #trans martin blackwood #nonbinary jonathan sims #cw dysphoria #cw periods #cw panic #cw self hatred #cw food mention #my writing #lmao tumblr deleted all the text from the first post #so that was exciting

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hoodiedmenace · 3 years

Text

Polyarchives Robot!Martin Au

so Martin is a robot that Jon, Tim, and Sasha programmed and designed as a bit of a chore-keeper around their house. it's not uncommon for them to get home late, or just be busy and tired, and dishes and cleaning up becomes a much harder task than it was that morning. so the three of them (who are, in fact, dating btw) create this robot that is able to help them with the chores.

at first, that's all the robot was. he helped with chores and such, but it doesn't take long for the three of them to start to get slightly attached. The same way one would a roomba. And then Sasha and Tim came up with a name for him, because they can't just go around calling this very helpful robot an 'it'. and so the name 'Martin' is born, mostly because it's a small pun based on tin man. Tin man. Mantin. Martin. Tim is elated that the name sticks.

And so Martin is given a name. And it's around this time that Martin started to gain a bit of sentience. No I don't have a good reason for this, they just got so attached to him that he was given life. But Martin had seen other robots like him, it's unnatural for beings like him to be able to think like his humans are. So he tried to go about his daily chores without showing emotion.

But Jon stays so long slouched over his desk, looking frustrated and on the verge of tears. So he does what he's seen the other two humans do in the past, and brought Jon a cup of tea. Jon, of course, is very confused because this wasn't something they had programmed Martin to do. But maybe Tim or Sasha told the machine to bring him a cup. Either way, Jon still thanks Martin and sends him off.

Next is Sasha, who Martin discovered scowling down at a few pieces of paper, much like Jon had done the week prior. But this was unusual for Sasha. She seemed to always enjoy the work she did at home? Not to mention the time of night. Jon and Tim had both already gone to bed, and he doesn't miss the way her eyes droop close before snapping open, only to repeat the same process. And so Martin walked to Sasha's side, copying what he had seen the others do to Jon. "It is nearly 2 a.m. You need sleep for tomorrow, and you will not get enough if you continue to stay awake." He had pressed a little, and soon was practically carrying Sasha over to her bed. Sasha looked at their robot curiously. This wasn't normal behavior for him, certainly not anything they had programmed for him. But she thanked him nonetheless.

The last person Martin helps is Tim. He'd always thought Tim put at least some of his happy face on display, and the crying he heard from Tim's room when the others were gone one day only solidifies his idea. Martin walked carefully up the stairs to Tim's bedroom, knocking carefully before opening the door. Tim was sat on his bed, knees tucked up to his chest and face puffy and red with tears. He looked up at Martin, wiping his tears away as the robot sat down on the bed beside him. "You are sad. The others are concerned when you're sad. Can I help?" And Tim, knowing full well how strange it was, wrapped his arms tightly around Martin, continuing his sobbing into the robot's shoulder. And so Martin did what he so frequently saw the others do, and pulled Tim closer, wrapping his arms around him as well.

After the last event, Tim, Sasha, and Jon come together and tell each other of the odd behavior they had seen Martin do. It wasn't a sign of malfunction, possibly mimicking what they had seen each other do. processing information and then applying it?" Jon had asked, but Tim was quick to deny it.

"He seemed too attached for it just to be a programming thing. And I know it seems really bizarre but..I just think we should, I dunno, ask him?" Tim had suggested. And Sasha, despite knowing full well what machines were and weren't capable of feeling, agreed with Tim.

"He did carry me to bed the other night. Said that it was late. I know we do that to Jon a lot, but it was almost like he wouldn't rest until he knew I was resting." Sasha explained, and finally Jon nodded.

When they asked Martin about the things he had done for them, his immediate reaction is fear, an emotion he didn't feel very often, but was coming to hate with a passion. "I am only doing what you have programmed me to do. Help." He tries, though the slight fidgeting his fingers begin to do makes the three humans press further.

When Martin does finally break, telling them that he has gained the ability to feel, the three are both confused and yet a little excited, and even more curious.

Bit of a timeskip because that's a lot of stuff to deal with

Eventually Jon catches himself saying goodbye to Martin every time he leaves, even helping Martin with chores he seemed to struggle with. Sasha introduced Martin to books, and when she catches a messy words on a page, clearly written by the robot, she can't help but feel somewhat proud. And Tim starts to bring Martin along on 'adventures', showing him around their neighborhood and going to see the trees and flowers and animals that lived around their small house. Martin grows increasingly attached to Sasha and Tim, but can't help but feel that Jon is..distant. And so one day, Martin invited Jon on a little adventure of their own. He remembered the long walk Tim had taken him on, out into the countryside.

And out in the field are one of Martin's favorite things he had encountered so far (despite his humans, of course.) A scattered herd of cows. Jon felt the pressure from the last few days leave his body with the wind, and he turned and thanked Martin, for helping him unwind. He pressed his face into Martin's chest, and Martin wraps his arms around Jon in return.

A few weeks later, Martin is formerly invited to join Tim, Sasha, and Jon's relationship, and Martin has never been happier to accept an offer.

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

inspired by Hello World by Louie Zong

#aaaa sorry if this seems rushed #i wrote it in like 15 minutes #i just think its a cute idea #the magnus archives #jonathan sims #sasha james #tim stoker #martin blackwood #polyarchives

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toosicktoocare · 4 years

Text

No one asked for this— I just wanted to write how recording statements is actually starting to get to Martin more than he lets on.

Setting: S3 with soft JonMartin.

(Currently taking prompts for The Magnus Archives!)

Tim’s walking toward the door of the archives, though, he isn’t quite sure why because he doesn’t plan on recording a statement. He can’t explain why, but whenever he reads the curved, old, faded letters of a statement, a foul taste coats the back of his tongue. One of the “perks” of this job, he assumes.

Still, he finds, more often than not, that he’s oddly drawn toward the archives, that, during his aimless wandering throughout the day, he always ends up outside the archives door. Most of the time, he doesn’t open the door, but a few times, he’s found himself in the archives, staring blankly at a statement almost as if in a trance.

He stops before the closed door, hand frozen in the air just before the doorknob. He can hear a voice filtering softly through the small gap at the bottom of the door, and he drops his hand to his side and leans forward, listening closely.

Martin, he concludes almost immediately. He can hear Martin reading through the ending of a statement, his voice slightly darker, almost edging the line of an unknown, furious passion, as if he’s the one who wrote the statement originally. But, when the statement ends, he can hear Martin let out a long, shuddering breath, and then Martin’s stuttering through his final thoughts, his voice barely above a whisper and cracking every few words.

Tim’s muscles twitch with a muted need to open the door, to try and bring comfort to Martin, especially since Martin’s been appearing rather zombie-like over the last few days, paler than normal and almost dazed. But, just as quickly as the feeling flicks across his bones, it disappears because how can he bring comfort when he, himself, is unwillingly to accept comfort?

He breathes through a quiet sigh, his shoulders slumping against the low breath. He may not know how to help Martin, not with the Institute bearing down on him, but he knows who will.

***

Jon’s lost within a statement, his mind wrapped around the cursive words on the paper in front of him, when his phone begins buzzing insistently beside his leg, promptly scaring The Admiral off the couch.

He expects Georgie or Martin. He even begrudgingly expects Elias, but what he doesn’t expect is to see Tim’s name flashing across the screen. He makes a split second, conscious decision to keep the tape recorder on as he answers the phone, heart already taking to a too quick thump against his ribs.

“T-Tim,” he stutters in lieu of greeting, voice echoing the surprise etched across his face.

“Jon.”

Tim’s voice, as it has been for weeks now, is cold, indifferent, and Jon’s heart falters slightly.

“How, um, how are you?” There’s a long sigh on the other line.

“I didn’t call for a friendly chat, Jon.”

While Jon didn’t expect Tim’s call, he’s not surprised by Tim’s tone, by Tim’s attitude toward him. Still, he can’t keep the wave of muted defeat and guilt that washes over him, and he sinks back against the couch, lightly pinching the bridge of his nose with his free hand.

“Why did you call then?” Another, longer sigh follows, and he swears he can hear the cogs turning in Tim’s mind.

“It’s Martin.”

Jon bolts forward, body tensing around the two words, and his fingers tighten around his phone. “What’s wrong? Is he okay?” He begins to mentally curse himself for not doing more to keep his staff safe as numerous, grim scenarios cross his mind.

“He’s fine. Well, actually, he’s not. But he’s not hurt or anything.”

Jon struggles to decipher Tim’s words, seeing it as some foreign code he simply doesn’t have the time time crack. He can feel panic lacing the edge of his mind, and it mirrors in his tone. “Get on with it, Tim. What’s wrong with Martin?”

“It’s the statements.”

Tim pauses, voice quiet on the other line, and Jon presses his phone a little harder to his ear, waiting with bated breath.

“He’s not you, Jon. He can’t just read one then move onto the next one. I think they are really starting to get to him. He doesn’t seem well.”

Each word is heavier than the previous, and Jon can feel the weight against his chest, an unseen pressure pushing past his ribs to his lungs and heart. It’s a cold feeling, and he unconsciously shivers.

“I can’t... You need to talk to him.”

Though Tim doesn’t say it aloud, Jon knows what’s gone unsaid, and he mentally supplies the unspoken conclusion of Tim’s sentence: ‘Because this is your fault.’

“Of course,” he mutters into the phone, already pressing stop on the tape recorder and getting to his feet, determination breaking the pressure in his chest. “Is there...?”

“No. Nothing else.”

Tim goes silent on the other end, but he doesn’t end the call, and Jon takes a moment to pause where he’s been shoving his feet into a pair of boots and just hang onto the notion that Tim’s still there, that maybe he hasn’t given up on him completely.

“Right.” Tim clears his throat. “Bye, Jon.”

The call drops, and Jon pockets his phone with a faltering frown, confused, but, for the first time in a long time, slightly hopeful for Tim sounded just a smidge more normal toward him in those last three words.

***

Jon’s made it to the archives door relatively unseen. Though, he’s aware that Elias knows he’s here without having seen the man, and he did share a silent, mutual nod with Tim when they crossed paths a few moments ago.

On the other side of the closed door, he can hear Martin mumbling through his final thoughts on a statement, picking up on the evident, tired frustration laced within his tone. His stomach twists uncomfortably, and, as he’s been on the other side of this door one too many times, he knocks, rapping his knuckles lightly against the wood.

“Oh, um, c-come in.”

Jon pushes the door open, holding one hand out when Martin jumps to his feet, knocking some papers over in the process.

“Jon!”

“Careful,” Jon says quickly, stepping into the room fully.

“Sorry,” Martin’s voice falls slightly, his cheeks going pink. “Why are you here? Er, well, I didn’t mean for it to sound like that. Don’t get me wrong, Jon. I’m happy you’re here... Well, I’m happy to see you, I mean. Just,” Martin pauses, hands tugging at the bottom of his shirt, “what brings you here today? Need more statements?”

Jon takes a moment to drag his eyes from the dark circles casting shadows underneath Martin’s eyes, up to his rumpled hair, looking as if he’s spent far too long raking his fingers through it, and to his eyes, meeting the wide, almost panicked look that makes his heart sink low into his stomach. He’s sure that he’s been on the reverse side of this countless times, and he briefly considers apologizing to Martin for putting him through this so many times.

Without fully working through his thoughts, he spits out the first, coherent word. “Lunch.”

“Sorry, what was that?” Martin steps around the desk, rubs one hand over the back of his neck.

“Lunch,” Jon repeats. He clears his throat. “Would you... Do you want to join me for lunch?”

“Oh. Oh! Um...” Martin’s face flushes a deeper red, and if Jon weren’t completely worried about his health and mental well-being, he would consider smiling.

“Sure! Yeah. Lunch sounds great.”

***

Jon opts for a small diner that’s about a ten minute walk from the Institute. It’s quiet when they slip inside, the lunch rush not quite kicking in yet, and they’re quick to put in their orders when a nice waitress greets them at their table, a corner booth a bit away from wandering ears.

They take to small, mindless chatter at first, with Martin doing the bulk of the talking. He talks about the staff, Elias, a movie he watched the other night, a new convenience store that’s opened close to his flat, but when their food arrives, Jon takes very quick note to Martin picking up and setting down fries without actually eating anything.

“You aren’t eating.”

Martin flushes a soft pink, and he bows his head slightly. “Oh, sorry! I’m not that hungry.” His voice grows soft with the admittance, and Jon frowns, ignoring his burger entirely.

“Are you alright, Martin?”

“What? Of course!” As if to further prove his point, he shoves a fry in his mouth with a forced smile.

Jon considers his options, finally working through the fact that the truth will most likely yield better results. “Tim called,” he says, and Martin raises a brow.

“Have you two made up?”

“Not exactly,” Jon mutters lowly. “He’s worried about you. He thinks the statements are starting to... get to you.”

“Oh, I’m fine!”

Jon can see right through Martin, reading his practiced, light-hearted attitude like an open book. He sighs quietly, finger absently smoothing around the rim of his tea cup.

“Martin, I know how hard this job is. You can... I want you to know that you can talk to me.” He picks his words carefully, not wishing to push Martin under the pressure of compulsion.

And yet, Martin all but deflates across from him, and Jon’s hand twitches with a jolting need to reach out to him.

“I really am trying, Jon. It’s just... Some of the statements... I don’t know how you do it,” Martin admits. “Each one brings this chilly fear that I can’t shake. It follows me home.” He pauses, eyes casting to the table. “I’ve been dreaming about the statements, you know? Nightmares really.” He laughs weakly. “It’s a bit embarrassing, but I’ll wake up screaming. I’m a bit worried my neighbors might file a noise complaint.”

Jon’s hand stops its absent movement, instead falling to the table and curling into a tight fist. His teeth are clenched tightly, and the anger that floods his mind bleeds down to his chest, burning against his heart.

“Why haven’t you said anything?” He can’t help the demanding tone. He only hopes that Martin will know it’s out of pure concern.

“I didn’t want to worry you! You’ve had so much going on. The murder... the kidnapping! The last thing I want to do is whine to you about how some of the statements scare me!”

“You’re...” Jon sucks in a shuddering breath and holds it in his lungs, unsure of what’s the correct thing to say, lost for words as he’s so used to spitting out sentences that were written for him. He knows that he wants to assure Martin that his feelings are completely valid and that his fear is justified. He knows that he wants to run back to the institute and slam Elias into a wall. He knows that he wants-

“-Jon? Are you alright? You’re shaking.”

The breath Jon lets out is long, uneven, but it helps to ease the prickling, hot anger. “You need to tell me when you’re feeling overwhelmed with the job. I know I’m not there, but I’m still the archivist.”

The label is sour on his tongue, but it’s what he knows needs to be said. “Believe me, Martin, when I tell you that this is not a job you can do alone.” He wishes, in that moment, that it is a job he could do alone, that he could relieve his staff of their duties without any consequences, but he can’t. So, he’s stuck with the next best thing.

“So, you have to let me help you.” Martin’s gone still across from him, mouth agape slightly, and Jon’s just considering that he somehow broke Martin when Martin finally clears his throat.

"Okay.”

Jon’s not sure if it’s a trick of the poor lighting in the diner, but Martin’s pale face looks a bit better, taking to a soft pink color, and unconsciously, Jon reaches out, cupping his rough palm atop Martin’s hand.

“Call me, Martin. Even if it’s in the middle of the night, if you need me, call me. I want to help.”

Jon’s not sure how, but he’s verbalizing what Martin’s been saying to him through looks alone since he first because the archivist. It’s an odd feeling being on the other side, being the one who’s deeply concerned for another. He pulls his hand back when Martin gives it one, tight squeeze.

“I will,” Martin whispers, and Jon smiles, soft, but unabashedly genuine, and the wide, open smile Martin returns momentarily takes Jon away from every single worry.

For just a moment, it’s just Jon and Martin sitting in a small diner, and Jon clings to that.

#tma #the magnus archives #jonmartin #jonathan sims #martin blackwood #tim stoker #rusty quill tma #tma fanfic #my writing #my tma writing #jon/martin #hurt/comfort #fan work #emotional hurt/comfort

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eldritchqueerture · 3 years

Text

Chapter 7: Threads

Hello! Long time no see! The delay was unplanned and I'm sorry about that. I had an idea in the meantime to add more fluff chapters before shit starts to go down but then I couldn't get to writing them while telling myself that I will write them eventually, and then I had other ideas, and I was writing for Summer in the Archives, and so we are where we are. I decided to just keep posting what I have and if I do feel like adding fluff that would be happening in the meantime then I will just make a separate work in the series. I'm aiming to go back to my weekly schedule (haha), so I hope I can get the next chapter out next Friday. As always, please leave me a comment or come yell at me here on tumblr, it always brightens my day and keeps my motivation up! Enjoy <3

Martin looks at Jon’s sleeping face and thoughts swirl inside his head like tendrils of the mist that has been following him, tendrils that meet in one specific place – his feelings for him. He’s not proud of the fact that this is where his thoughts end up turning every time he thinks about Jon, considering the severity of the situation Sasha explained to him, but he cannot help wondering – despite his better judgement – if Jon doesn’t share them. He replays the worry in his brown eyes, the tight hugs, always ensuring he’s there, safe, and whole… He might be adding meaning to otherwise ordinary actions, of course, but he can allow himself to hope, for when that hope sparks inside him, the fog withdraws.

Jon is wrapped in a blanket on the cot in the storage room, where Martin has laid him. They found him sleeping on the desk in his office, his eyes all red-rimmed and puffed up; they didn’t comment on it. Martin carried him to the storage room and placed his glasses nearby. Tim went to take Sasha home, so she can get some rest, too, and was supposed to come back with lunch; the events of the morning are laying heavy on all of them and have left them quite hungry.

Martin closes the door to the storage room and comes back to his desk. Working seems a bit pointless when you know that your boss is scheming an apocalypse somewhere behind your back and you can’t quit the job, but he finds himself needing a distraction, so he opens up his computer to do some follow up research on Jason North and the alleged ritual site he found in the middle of a Scottish forest. Martin’s never been good with research, not like Sasha, so he soon stumbles upon a dead end. He ends up researching pictures for Scottish forests and cottages, and he daydreams, with his poem notebook by his side. How nice would it be to just move to Scotland, to a cottage like that and forget everything. Grow your own vegetables and herbs, welcome the sun every morning with a cup of tea; go down to the town for some groceries, meet some good cows; and maybe Jon is there with him, and he finally gets through to his head that he shouldn’t make tea in the microwave, and they cuddle on the couch while reading—

“’scuse us,” comes a deep voice and Martin looks up, startled, to find two delivery men standing there, in the Archives, with a big package next to them.

“Looking for the Archivist,” the other man says, but Martin figures that just because the voice is coming from a slightly different direction. They sound exactly the same; he finds they look similar, too. Their clothes are identical; they’re different makes and all but somehow, he can’t tell these two men apart. There’s… something off to them.

“Sorry, are you two meant—” Martin blinks, but one of them interrupts him.

“Won’t take up your time.”

“Just got a delivery.”

Martin opens his mouth, trying to process the fact that they seem to be two parts of the same whole. He wouldn’t be able to explain this thought if asked, but this is what runs through his head.

“Look, you really can’t actually—”

“Package for Jonathan Sims.”

“Says right here.”

He looks and yes, there, on the package, says ‘Jonathan Sims’ in a very ordinary, unassuming writing. He glances over at the door to the storage room and back at the two men.

“Well, he’s not—”

“We’ll just leave it with you.”

“Be sure he gets it.”

Martin struggles for words.

“Okay, I will, but you really have to actually—”

“’course. Much obliged.”

“Stay safe.”

“I’ll… try?” He responds with the first thing that goes into his head.

“Your recorder’s on, by the way.”

“Might wanna change that.”

Martin looks at his desk and he notices a tape whirring steadily in the recorder.

“Oh… so it is. Thanks.”

“No problem.”

“At all.”

They both turn as one and leave Martin, the recorder, and the package alone. He hums, looking from one to the other and back.

“Well, I know for a fact that I did not turn you on,” Martin speaks to the recorder. “Maybe Tim felt in a mood for a prank. It is April Fool’s after all,” he huffs out a laugh. “Would be his style to do something, even with… all this happening.”

He stops the recording and turns to the package; before he can do anything else, though, the recorder clicks itself back on. Martin gives it a sideways look and his heart picks up the pace. He frowns and clicks stop again. One second. Two. There; it clicks the red button on its own.

Martin stands up and takes a step back.

“What the hell,” he breathes out.

Suddenly he hears a familiar laugh from the top of the stairs and energetic steps running down. Tim emerges from the doorway and gives him a surprised look.

“You okay, Marto?” He asks and places a paper bag on his desk, then points his chin at the package. “What’s that?”

“Uh…” Martin collects himself in a second. “Two delivery men just came by. It’s for Jon, apparently.”

Tim places a second paper bag and his coffee cup on his desk and walks around the package.

“No sender. Interesting.” He strokes his chin and looks at Martin with a grin. “We should open it.”

“Tim!”

“Look, boss is asleep, the package came to the Archives and not to his house, how private can it be?” Tim throws his arms up but seems to be watching Martin’s reaction more carefully. He doesn’t look very bothered, Tim assesses; he seems to be equally interested in the contents. He sighs and tosses him a letter opener.

“Fine, but you’re taking the blame,” Martin rolls his eyes with mock exasperation, and Tim’s grin gets wider.

“That’s the spirit!” He cuts the tape at the corners and opens the packaging to reveal an old wooden table; there’s a hole in the centre, Tim reckons about six inches square, and its surface is covered in intricate patterns resembling optical illusions. He frowns at it. “Huh. A table. Why would Jon…” He trails off as his eyes follow the hypnotizing patterns. “Interesting…”

Martin watches as Tim drops the letter knife to the floor, enraptured by the table. He wants to say something, to call out his name, but the fog from the edges of his vision spills out at the sight of the table and it blocks out the world; Martin stops feeling the chair underneath him and finds himself stranded in a sea of grey, thick fog.

“Tim? Tim!” He calls out but there’s no answer. There would be no answer, ever; he’s all alone here.

—

Jon wakes up to a nagging feeling that something is wrong. He blinks, trying to get rid of the sleep weighing heavily on his eyelids and gathers his bearings. He realizes he’s on the cot in the storage room, a blanket thrown to the floor next to him. He still feels too hot, and he takes off his sweater vest. What’s this feeling, gently pricking at the back of his mind?

He gets up, wobbly as he feels, and makes his way to the door. As he opens it, a voice makes its way to his ears.

“…friend mentioned poetry?” Jon squints his eyes, as light reaches him, yet he immediately recognizes the voice.

“…Gerry?” He asks and blinks – yes, he can make out the thin and long figure dressed in black, sitting on top of Tim’s desk. Tim is there too, leaning against Martin’s desk in front of Gerry, and Martin sits in the chair, his cheeks coloured just a little with faint pink. They all turn to him with surprise when he emerges. He can feel tension in the room, and he acknowledges the presence of something that looks like a table covered with a blanket in the middle of the room; the nagging in his mind grows into anxiety. “Something happened.”

“God, Jon, did we wake you up?” Martin jumps up to him with genuine worry and Jon smiles slightly, as he shakes his head.

“No.” He blinks again, to chase away the sleep and looks at Gerry and his inscrutable expression. “What are you doing here?”

“Watching a zombie rise from the dead, apparently.” Gerry gets down from the desk and crosses his arms. “Also saving the lives of his assistants by accident. I know you said you’re a mess but good God.”

Jon frowns with worry.

“Gerry, I’m serious.”

Something in Gerry’s demeanour changes as he sighs, and his expression clears.

“Well, I wanted to tell you that I’m in,” he says. “Whatever your crazy plan is, if you even have one, I want to hear it or help you make it; you weren’t picking up your phone, so I decided to come, pay you a visit.” He glances towards the table and his eyes cloud with a shadow. “And it turns out it’s good that I did.”

“What is this?” Jon walks over to the table and three pairs of hands shoot out to stop him. Gerry’s touch lingers comfortably, because apparently that’s what he does, and Jon isn’t so sure he minds it.

“An old table, with weird, hypnotizing patterns,” Tim says, and Jon detects a tinge of guilt in his voice.

“Did it have a hole in the middle?” He asks urgently and Tim nods.

“We need to get rid of it,” Jon looks in the direction of the stairs. “Put it in the Artifact Storage and make sure it’s covered.”

“Are you familiar with it?” Martin asks and Jon nods.

“Amy Patel case; the one where a person got replaced. Why would they—” Jon’s face falls and he turns to Martin and Tim. “Who delivered it?”

“It was two delivery men, really big, quite intimidating, but—uh, now that I think about it I can’t remember what they looked like…”

“Shit,” Jon sighs and rubs his face. “Okay, we really do need a plan.” He looks over their faces and his eyes stop at Martin’s disgruntled expression. “What is it?”

“What you need is rest,” he crosses his arms. “You pulled an all-nighter with Sasha, and you haven’t even slept for two hours now.”

“You do look like shit,” Gerry offers his insight and Jon fixes him with a glare.

“I can’t protect you when I’m asleep,” he says and looks pointedly at the table. “Clearly. Tell me wha—” He stops when Gerry squeezes his arm sharply. He takes note of the static in the air and clears his throat. “I want to know what happened.”

Tim sighs.

“Alright, it is kinda my fault,” he admits looking away. “I insisted on opening your package to see what’s inside. But in my defence, I thought it would be something funny; at least a bit humiliating for you, and we could laugh it off. The mood’s been horrible lately,” he grimaces. “The lines kind of… hypnotized me. I couldn’t look away and I started getting lost in them. It… It felt like being trapped in a web; the more I struggled to look away, the harder it was. I don’t know how much time had passed before your resident goth intervened. Then I came back to myself and Martin… he was grey again.”

Jon glances worriedly at Martin, who starts fidgeting with his fingers.

“I didn’t think you guys could see that,” he confesses. “It’s… it’s that fog you mentioned,” he says to Jon who nods, his lips pressed together. “It was… stronger this time.”

“He was a step from disappearing,” Gerry says, looking at Jon curiously. “I thought you guys were new here.”

“We are,” Tim says, looking at Jon pointedly. “You said you know why that happens.”

“I did,” Jon sighs and leans against the desk, next to Gerry. “I’m—Martin, I’m sorry I wasn’t here.”

Martin looks away and he mutters something along the lines of “don’t worry about it”.

“The fog is… another one of the fears; called The Lonely or The Forsaken,” Jon says, looking somewhere into space. “It’s the fear that you’re all alone, that you can’t connect with anyone. Martin…” He exhales. “I have reasons to believe that your connection to the Lonely might have appeared in this… reality, along with my memories.” He finally looks up at Martin; there are no emotions on his face. “When did the fog first appear?”

“S-Sometime when I got transferred into the Archives,” he nods. “I thought it was just anxiety, but… y-yeah, it makes sense, I suppose.”

“You still don’t remember what you did to end up here?” Gerry asks and Jon shakes his head; Gerry clicks his tongue.

“So, what do we do now?” Tim looks at Jon. “What is Elias’ plan?”

“I…” He rubs his forehead. “I don’t remember exactly. I…” He trails off looking at them. They are waiting for him to tell them what to do. Martin, with colour in his eyes and something else there, something Jon doesn’t let himself think about; Tim, whom he hasn’t hurt yet, who still has hope and who isn’t filled with bitter anger and sorrow; and Gerry who’s alive, here with him, offering his help. Jon thinks about Sasha, the real Sasha who’s still there. He can’t protect them all from other Entities and Elias. Even with all of his knowledge, Elias still has more power here than him, and Jon sees that his threats weren’t a bluff. Jon deflates with a sigh. “We need to know if there’s a way to fill the tunnels with CO2 before the Hive attacks; and I need the table sealed shut - it’s not getting anyone this time. Other than that, I think we need to work the statements, like before.”

“Are you kidding?” Tim raises his eyebrows. “Elias is serving an Eye power and not letting us leave, and I’m supposed to still work for him?”

Jon swallows.

“Elias… He’s dangerous. Even with everything I know, he can still hurt us. I’m not risking an open war with him.”

“What is he gonna do, kill us?” Tim scoffs but he goes quiet when Jon gives him a hard stare. “Fuck off.”

“Murder isn’t usually his style of dealing with things, he generally prefers threats and blackmail, but he can definitely do that, too,” Jon says. “Let’s just say we don’t want to piss him off more than is necessary.”

“You literally punched him in the face today.”

“Yes, I know.” Jon grits his teeth and looks away. Tim narrows his eyes.

“He threatened you, didn’t he?” He asks and takes a step towards Jon. “What did he say?”

“It doesn’t matter.” Jon says coldly. “We need to get back to work.”

“Oh, no, you’re going back home and getting some sleep,” Martin shakes his head. “Or we refuse to work.”

Jon groans but Gerry places a hand on his shoulder.

“Go, Jon, I’ll keep an eye on them,” he promises and after a second of searching his face, Jon gives in.

“Fine. Be careful.”

“You, too,” Martin says and hands him the paper bag from his desk. “Eat this.”

Jon gives him a grateful smile and, with a last look at them, walks to the stairs and climbs up.

—

Gerry Delano sits comfortably on a park bench with a cup of coffee in his hand and sips on it slowly; he thinks about the things the new Archivist – Jon – said to him this morning. He looked tired; the bags under his eyes, the messy hair, the absolutely horrendous smoking habit (at that Gerry just chuckles to himself) and the clean but messy clothes speak for themselves, and Gerry didn’t want to say it, obviously, but it was this entire image of an absolute mess of a confused man that made him believe him. The marks are curious, yes, but Gerry has seen many things which he doesn’t understand, and he’s okay with that. No, this man is clearly in need of support and if he’s really taken over for Gertrude (and, judging by the sheer amount of his energy just screamingBeholding, that was very probable), he is in for one hell of a ride.

If Gerry would have to describe his perfect life, with his mother and Gertrude gone, he’d probably say he wants to find a normal job and get some peace and quiet; that being said, he did try that as a teenager, running away from his mother and her life. He told himself then that he didn’t belong in the normal world and would always find his way back to his mother. He abandoned that dream for a while, until Gertrude offered to help him get rid of his mother’s ghost. He thought that maybe if he helped Gertrude for a while, burned some Leitners in the meantime, maybe he’d have enough and manage to build a life that didn’t always border on getting killed by something supernatural; and so his life went on and he never really grew to feel at home in the “normal” world. He’d about accepted the fact that he’ll probably die on the job with the old Archivist, and he wasn’t very surprised to find how quickly he accepted it. It seemed fitting; much more so than getting a job at a coffee shop or other, and just living among people who had no idea what’s really out there. Then he got shot in Pittsburgh – a Slaughter case he’d tried to prevent – and he was forced to stay behind in the hospital. In some fleeting moments of consciousness he saw Gertrude holding the Catalogue of the Trapped Dead and he prepared himself to wake up as a ghost any time; instead, he woke up to an empty hospital room and a note in her handwriting – “Build your life here. Stay safe.” He thought if this weren’t his chance to build the life he’d imagined for himself then it would never come; and he was right. He soon discovered that making friends is way too difficult when you’re able to tell which Fear Entity marked them in that supernatural encounter they’re too scared to talk about, and he returned to London, searching for Jurgen Leitner himself. He thought he found him, but he ended up beating up someone who turned out to just be some pathetic old man. And here he is, back in the world his mother dragged him into without his consent. Gerry sighs and takes another sip of his coffee. Maybe the universe simply needs a pyromaniacal, angry goth who did in fact end up in the business of helping strays.

He directs his thoughts back to Jonathan Sims and the Institute. They need to form a plan and Jon said he would fill his assistants in on at least the basics. He takes out his phone and checks the time – 1 PM. He rules that’s enough time to explain the basics of the metaphysical functioning of the Fear Powers in the world.

He finds his last messages and opens the one Jon sent at his request for contact saving purposes – “Here. – Jon Sims”. He’s a creative one, isn’t he? Gerry saves the number as Jon Archivist, then changes it to Jarchivist, and grins; then swipes to call.

No answer. He tries again and it still goes to voicemail.

Gerry shrugs and finishes his coffee. He burned his last Leitner in the alley just before he met Jon, so he doesn’t exactly have any new leads. He thinks he might as well pay the Archives a visit; it’s been a while since he was there last time, with Gertrude.

The street is quiet when he walks up to the building. The aura of Beholding is quite strong here already and he looks at the Latin words above the entrance. “I watch, I listen, I wait.” Tacky.

He comes inside and turns towards the stairs leading down. He’s not surprised when the lady at the reception calls out to him.

“I’m sorry, sir! Can I help you?”

Gerry turns to her. She’s a small Chinese woman with a bob cut and huge glasses; she smiles but Gerry can recognize a customer service smile when he sees one.

“Oh, actually, I’m a friend of Jonathan Sims, the, uh, Head Archivist. Saw him this morning, I promised I’d drop a few notes.”

“Notes?” She glances over at the papers at her desk. “What’s your name, sir?”

“Gerry Delano,” he tries to smile as she checks something.

“I’m sorry, I don’t think I have you anywhere as a potential source—”

“Oh, that’s weird. I worked with the previous Head Archivist, Gertrude Robinson? Jon had a couple questions about her management style, you know how it is,” he waves his hand. “New job can be stressful.”

She looks over his clothes and tattoos with a frown for a second and then sighs.

“Alright, Jon’s office is right downstairs, through the Archives, Mr. Delano.”

“Thank you very much,” he nods his head and runs down the stairs.

Gerry doesn’t know what he expected to find down in the Archives, to be honest. Probably Jon being interrogated by his assistants, or maybe no one at all; he definitely did not expect to find one tall man staring into swirling patterns of a table that gave him very mixed signals of the Web, and another man in his desk chair, staring into space with a very unnaturally grey stare and his form dissipating into mist.

“Oh, I swear to God,” Gerry curses under his nose and looks around. “Can’t I meet people normally once in a blue moon?”

He picks up a blanket that lays stranded on the ground and covers the table. He then snaps his fingers in front of the tall man’s face and waves his hand.

“Hey, you still there?” He asks and the man draws in a breath, rapidly, and blinks, then looks around in confusion.

“Wh-Wha…” His eyes land on Gerry and he frowns. “Who are you?”

“Someone who just saved your ass from something nasty,” Gerry says, turns to the other man and touches his shoulder. Still there.

“Oh, God, his eyes are grey again.” The tall man grabs his shoulders and shakes him. “Martin? Martin!”

“How did he manage to go so deep into the Lonely with you there?” Gerry asks and moves to look inside the Head Archivist’s office. Empty.

“Into the what? Martin!” He shakes him again and Martin blinks and exhales but does not acknowledge him at all. “Do you know what’s happening to him?”

“Where’s Jon?” Gerry looks at the man sternly.

“Jo—who the hell are you?” The man exclaims. “We need to snap him out of it!”

“It’s not that easy.” Gerry rolls his eyes and looks through Martin’s desk. “What does he love?”

“What?” The man looks at him confused and Gerry stifles a groan of frustration.

“Martin. He needs an anchor, something that he loves that will bring him back here.”

The man’s eyes search the desk frantically.

“Come on!” Gerry rushes him and the man groans.

“Can he hear me?”

“Allegedly.”

“What does that mean?!” He looks at him pressingly.

“It means I don’t know!” Gerry grabs one of Martin’s hands. “He might, if he’s not too far gone.”

“Martin,” the man grabs Martin’s other hand. “Martin, think about tea. Poetry. Um, about—” He’s cut off by Gerry’s groan of frustration. “What?!”

“That won’t work,” he shakes his head. “He’s in the fogs of The Lonely; he thinks he’s alone and that it’s never gonna change; that he can’t ever make meaningful connections with other people.”

The man’s eyes move frantically as he puts something together in his brain.

“Martin,” he squeezes his hand again. “I’m here with you, you hear me? You’re not alone and Jon is here too, and Sasha will be here soon, and we will all be with you here because we are your friends, okay? We’re—” His voice catches when Martin’s grey gaze lands on his face. Gerry unknowingly nods for him to continue. “Look, I know you’re convinced that you’re no help here because of that fake resume that everyone pretends not to know about, but you’ve been such an amazing friend through these couple of months and—” he searches for words before continuing. “And I know you have feelings for Jon, and you need to think about him because if you ask me, he’s head over heels for you too, and you’re just too oblivious to realize, both of you,” he laughs and a tear streams down his face. “So you need to think about him because he needs you to be here and stay here, and we need you too, okay, Marto, we—we really do…” He inhales, as Martin squeezes his hand back and blinks. The man sighs deeply with relief and leans his forehead on their joined hands.

“Tim…?” Martin speaks up with a very gentle, detached voice and then his gaze lands on Gerry who has now let go of his hand and stands back up. “Who’s that?”

Tim looks up and wipes away another stray tear, then stands up to face him.

“Yeah,” he frowns. “That’s a good question.”

Gerry smirks and climbs up to sit at one of the desks.

“Seeing how I just might have saved your lives; I’d rather think some thanks are in order.”

“I’m not kidding, who the fuck are you?” Tim crosses his arms and narrows his eyes. Gerry notices he stares at his tattoos like he’s trying to remember something.

“Eh, fine.” He rolls his eyes. “Name’s Gerry Delano, but you may know me as Gerard Keay.”

Recognition flashes in Tim’s eyes.

“We had a statement about you!” He says and immediately frowns. “You killed a man.”

Gerry chuckles.

“You’re gonna have to be more specific than that.”

“What are you doing here?” Martin asks and Gerry crosses his legs.

“Waiting for Jon, actually. I thought I may find him here, but it appears I must have found his assistants, am I correct?”

“And you know Jon how?” Martin follows up; his voice gains a bit of depth to it, and he tilts his head, much more present than a second before.

“We met in an alley outside the Institute this morning,” Gerry shrugs. “Or, late night. Morning might be pushing it. He didn’t mention it?”

Tim sighs and rubs his face and Martin shakes his head.

“Eh, that’s fine. You two look like you have enough information to process for the next two months.”

“Something like that,” Tim nods and leans against Martin’s desk. “Jon’s getting some sleep and we’d rather have no one disturb him. It’s been a… hard morning.”

“He did look like he hasn’t slept in a week, I’ll give you that.” Gerry shoots a glance at Martin; his skin is regaining color, but his eyes are still unnaturally grey, and the edges of his form are blurry; the fog still lingers. “Hey, um… Martin?” He asks and Martin looks at him with surprise.

“Yeah…?”

“Just getting your names since you haven’t introduced yourselves. But that’s okay, I’m good at picking up from context.” He smiles and continues before Tim can speak. “So, Martin, what is it that you do here?”

“Uh… excuse me?” He blinks.

“I’m just interested, tell me what your usual day consists of. What do you do for fun? Your friend mentioned poetry?”

He notes the blush on Martin’s face with some satisfaction; the dark green colour returns to his eyes, though, still, his edges remain blurry. Martin can’t answer however; as he takes a breath, he’s interrupted by the door to the storage room opening.

Jon looks, frankly, even worse than he did before; in addition to everything aforementioned, his eyes are now puffed up from sleeping and he has apparently ditched his sweater vest, leaving only a creased, light blue shirt.

“…Gerry?” He frowns at him and takes in the room. “Something happened.”

“God, Jon, did we wake you up?” Martin shoots upright and the edges of his form become solid for a second. Just a second.

“No,” he shakes his head and blinks at Gerry. “What are you doing here?”

“Watching a zombie rise from the dead, apparently.” Gerry jumps down from the desk and crosses his arms. “Also saving the lives of his assistants by accident. I know you said you’re a mess but good God.”

“Gerry, I’m serious.” Jon gives him a look and Gerry sighs, but it’s a sigh of mock exasperation which hides only fondness. From the moment he learned Jon is the Head Archivist, he knew he would be a lot different than Gertrude; even if at first it was “this kid is a proper mess” contrasted with Gertrude’s calculated craft. He can see that what actually makes him different, better, is that he cares. Even though Beholding has him in its grasp far stronger than it ever had Gertrude, he has that spark of human empathy that she deemed an obstacle. He wouldn’t be the kind to sacrifice his own assistants to stop the Apocalypse, which maybe doesn’t give them big chances of success, but makes Gerry trust him. It makes him feel safer and it makes him stand stronger, and maybe that is exactly what is needed. And that one detail, that seriousness in his voice when he asks what happened to his assistants – to his friends – and the worry in his eyes when he checks if they’re okay, that’s what fully convinces Gerry that this man is worth his effort. If they can’t save the world with a strength like that then maybe no one really can.

—

Martin opens the door to Jon’s office to see the man reading something in a book. He looks up at Martin and his lips twitch towards a smile.

“Hello, Martin,” Jon says and immediately yawns. “God, sorry.”

“I was about to ask you if you’re still working.” Martin takes a look at his desk; there’s two empty mugs pushed to the side, a tape recorder (not recording), and some books and papers. Martin notices Jon’s glasses are still where he left them after he found them near the cot in the storage room. “You’re wearing contacts now?” He asks and Jon raises his eyebrows.

“What?”

“Well, I- I noticed you didn’t wear glasses today,” Martin shrugs and points his chin at them. “You forgot them yesterday.”

Jon’s eyes stop at the pair of glasses, and he frowns.

“Huh.” He rubs his chin. “Checks out, I guess.”

“What?” Now Martin frowns and Jon looks up at him, breathing in.

“The, uh—The Eye powers,” he grimaces. “This happened before too. I don’t—I don’t need them anymore.”

“Oh.” Martin shifts. “Well, I just wanted to tell you, you should get some rest. It’s—It’s late.”

Jon smiles fondly, staring into the air. Martin wonders what he's thinking about. Is he going back to memories he doesn't have?

“I really should, shouldn't I?” Jon asks no one in particular and sighs. “Thank you, Martin.”

“F-For what?” Martin laughs a little bit confused, and Jon looks at him for a moment before he shrugs.

“For caring. For being there.”

Martin looks away and shifts awkwardly again. Jon's stare, though gentle, is piercing; overbearing. Martin can't yet decide if it's good or bad, but it is certainly a lot.

“I should—”

“Could you—”

They start at the same time and look at each other. Jon shakes his head and gestures with his hand.

“Please, go first.”

Martin takes a deep breath.

“Could you tell me what—what it is that you want me to remember?”

Jon opens his mouth and closes it. His forehead ripples.

“I...” he begins and sighs, looking at his desk. “I don't think it was you. I mean—I think that... that it was a different version of you. In my past.” He looks up and his brown eyes are sad. “So it makes sense you can't remember because it never actually happened for you.”

Martin deflates with a little “oh” and looks down. The hole in his mind is settling nicely in the fog and he doesn't question it. Why would he? It was always there. He’s only lived this life, not anything else – if anybody would know it would be Jon. And obviously, it was a different Martin that Jon fell— That Jon cared for.

“Were we…” Martin stops, the word “together" left hanging in the air, and Jon looks at him for a second before something flashes in his eyes.

“We don't—I mean, I can't really— It's, it wasn't you so...”

‘I can’t really expect you to have the same feelings now’ is what Jon does not say, but Martin, of course, has no way of knowing that.

“Right,” Martin nods, and he can see Jon's cheeks blush, much the same as his own must right now. Martin swallows the awkwardness and nods again. “Alright, I'll, uh... I'll leave you to it. Then. Get—uh, get some rest.”

He closes the door and exhales deeply. Well, that was disastrous; he thinks, as he walks towards the document storage. There’s something heavy weighing down on his chest but he chooses not to dwell on it; it wouldn’t provide him with any insights he didn’t already know.

#tma #the magnus archives #tma fic #tma oftm #jonmartin #niki.writes #new posting format because i have not heard of consistency in my life #we're back at it!!#also i promised myself that i would finish this #i Will Not abandon this #we are powering through #and we can Do this

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haunted-by-catholic-guilt · 4 years

Text

I Can Feel Ghosts and Ghouls Wrapping My Head

He couldn’t breathe, he felt the air get trapped in his throat, and he was faintly aware of tears behind his eyes.

His lungs were being crushed by the weight of everything, and he knew he definitely should not be binding but he also wasn’t exactly willing to be exposed like that, especially in the archives, if he was honest with himself he’d been wearing it way too long at a time already and may or may not have fallen asleep in it a few times.

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TW UNSAFE BINDING, PANIC ATTACKS, AND SELF HATE

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When he heard the coughing from the office next door that morning, he felt his heart freeze.

Not only out of worry for Tim, who really did not sound well, but out of, well, fear.

Martin was scared.

He couldn’t get sick, but he also needed to take care of his coworker, his friend.

So he did.

After Tim finally went home, Martin was exhausted, having not slept well the night before or any night in a while, if he was honest, and then trying to take care of everyone, he was plain tired.

Sleeping at the archives wasn’t the easiest thing.

It was cold and eerily quiet, and if he was still enough he swore he could hear the knocking on the door still.

But when he woke up the next morning and felt a small tickle at the back of his throat, he felt his heart hammer in his chest and the muscles in his back seize.

He brushed it off, must have slept weird or dust, or something.

Anything except getting sick.

He made tea, and stayed away from Sasha and Jon that day, better safe than sorry.

The day passed on slowly, and by the time it was done, he was about ready to pass out where he stood.

He went through the repeated, dull motions of the evening, the microwaved noodles were tasteless, and he could hardly eat half of it before he tossed it into

the trash and went to bed, despite the early hour.

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

It was around noon the next day that it all started to go downhill.

Tim was back, and seemed more or less recovered, a little tired, and seemed like he was still somewhat stuffy, but didn’t seem too miserable.

Martin, however, was miserable.

He couldn’t breathe, he felt the air get trapped in his throat, and he was faintly aware of tears behind his eyes.

The next thing he knew he was shaking, and he could feel tears in his eyes, and he immediately pushed himself off his chair, not caring about the noise he was making, yet still caring about how the others saw him.

He made his way to the bathroom and as soon as the door to the stall shut, he collapsed to the ground, chest heaving with both sobs and pain and he felt his stomach begin to flip inside him.

He knew it was just a cold, that’s all Tim had, that’s not what was bothering him.

A panic attack.

Before he knew it he was heaving over the toilet because he couldn’t breathe and it was all too much, he felt the germs running through his body and-

There was a voice calling his name.

He couldn’t decipher who it was but they were calling his name and here he was, being weak and selfish, couldn’t even handle a little cold on his own.

They knocked on his stall and he was able to breathe and finally processed who it was.

Sasha.

Of course, it was Sasha, perfect, loving Sasha.

He cursed himself for his bitterness and cleared his throat.

“Y-yeah ‘m alright”

He heard Sasha sigh from outside the stall, and she crouched to the floor outside of it.

“Martin, love, I know you aren’t, can you open the stall for me, sweetheart?”

He sobbed and curled into himself, trying so hard to get away from her, to let her go and enjoy herself.

She predictably did not.

He heard someone else open the door to the bathroom, and heard Tim’s low-voice from outside of the stall, before Sasha stood up, but didn’t leave the bathroom, and Tim took her place outside on the other side of the door.

“Hey Marto, what’s wrong?”

Tim’s voice was still hoarse from his illness, and it managed to make Martin cry harder, and Tim sighed.

Disappointing everyone again.

God, you really aren’t a man.

“Martin, open this door.”

Tim was being firm yet he still was kind, and the tone of his voice made Martin feel safe, so he unlocked the stall door, and as soon as it opened he regretted it, seeing Tim and Sasha’s concerned faces were too much, and he felt his chest tighten more if even possible, and he swore that his vision began to darken.

He felt himself start to sway a little, before Tim’s strong hand gripped his shoulder and pulled the bigger man towards his chest and tried to force him to relax, but Martin couldn’t breathe and he was sure if he relaxed he’d only make it worse.

His sight was fading and he heard Tim and Sasha calling his name, voices full of worry but before he knew it, the world was dark.

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

Tim was, understandably, freaked out.

Martin was pale and shaking against his chest, completely limp and his cheeks a bright red.

This must have been the same cold he had, but Tim wasn’t sure this was even a cold anymore.

Sasha crouched next to Martin, her hand on his face, confirming what they both already knew.

“He’s burning up”

Tim hummed, as Sasha stood up to fill a small cup of water in the sink and wet a paper towel, before placing it on his forehead, and they waited until he woke up.

When he did, he was predictably disoriented, yet somehow still rejecting their help, his breath coming in a harsh wheeze.

“Martin, love, I need you to drink this alright?”

Sasha pressed the water to his lips, and he took small sips, but wasn’t able to take more than a few sips before he was taken by another coughing fit.

Tim winced at the sound of it, and propped Martin up more and rubbed his back until the fit subsided.

Martin was wearing his binder.

He sighed and looked at Sasha, who was also worriedly holding Martin up.

“I’m going to go grab one of his hoodies and some sweatpants, do you want to try and talk to him a little”

He really hoped she was understanding what he was saying, and it seemed like she did, so he stood up and left the bathroom leaving Sasha alone with their sick friend.

“Hey Martin, you’re wearing your binder and that can’t be comfortable when you’re already so sick, Tim is grabbing your hoodie, can you take it off when he gets back?”

Martin was hardly processing what she was saying, she was sure of it, but he still vigorously shook his head when she said this, and curled even further into himself.

“Martin, please you’re making yourself sicker by wearing it, we will both leave the room when you change, but you need to take it off.”

He froze for a second but nodded, still holding himself so tightly that she was worried he’d hurt himself, when someone knocked on the door, but only as a warning as it opened before she could say anything.

It opened to reveal Jon, standing awkwardly in the frame, with a blanket, first-aid kit, and a glass of water.

“I- I brought these? Tim told me Martin was ill so I thought..”

He walked in and handed her the water and first aid kit before awkwardly wrapping the blanket around Martin’s shaking shoulders.

“Thank you, Jon, it’s very sweet of you.”

Jon nodded at the same time Tim was walking back in, Jon awkwardly backed out after telling them to take care of Martin.

“Alright, here Martin, when you’re done changing do you wanna come out and you can come back to mine for the night?”

Martin hesitated a bit but nodded, not having the energy to put up a fight.

“Alright, sounds good. Sasha, can you go get his things and we can go?”

Sasha nodded, and both she and Tim got up and left the bathroom, leaving Martin to change.

Martin was, truthfully, mortified by the whole ordeal, being so weak and sick, he was pathetic.

He sighed, he knew he needed to take off his binder but he wasn’t even sure if he could.

So he put on the oversized hoodie and sweatpants, not bothering to take off the binder before he took a second to try and breathe before leaving the bathroom to find Tim and Sasha waiting.

He nodded and held the bundle of clothing closer to his chest.

“Tim, it’s really alright, I can stay here, I don’t want to be a bother.”

Tim sighed and set his hand on Martin's shoulder.

“Martin, you’re never a bother and I doubt you want to stay here and honestly I don’t want you to, I know how cold it can get here.”

Martin nodded once and followed Sasha and Tim to the car, before huddling in the backseat.

He closed his eyes and the next thing he knew he was being shaken awake in a garage, looking up to see Sasha.

He stepped out of the car and tried to ignore the black that overtook his vision and how he wasn’t sure he even knew how to breathe.

Sasha seemed to notice and she wrapped a hand around his arm, and made sure he didn’t fall over as they made their way into Tim’s flat.

Sasha led him to the couch and honestly, he couldn’t be more excited, he could feel his lungs crack with every shallow breath and he very much needed to sit down.

Sasha’s cold hand pressed to his face and he was brought to awareness that someone was talking to him.

“Martin, are you with us?”

It broke Martin all over again and he wasn’t even sure why he was crying, but he did feel the couch sink and himself get pulled into someone’s chest as sobs ripped through him.

“Oh it’s alright love, you’re okay, don’t worry sweetheart, you’re going to be okay.”

She was rubbing his back and he knew he was caught.

Making everything more difficult for everyone again.

“Martin, you need to take off your binder.”

She sounded disappointed, not mad but just so done with him.

He hated it.

So he did what he did best, he apologized and apologized, begging for forgiveness.

“Martin, Martin, shh you have no reason to be apologizing you didn’t do anything love.”

Sasha was rubbing his back again, and calmly speaking in his ear.

He let her lead him into the bathroom and sat on the closed toilet, where after she left, he took off his hoodie and very carefully took off his binder and he felt himself sigh in relief as his ribs thanked him.

He really, really wished he could have kept it on.

He put his hoodie back on, praying that he would still be hidden enough, before opening the door, actively avoiding the mirror when he stood.

Sasha was outside of the door and he nodded, hoping she wouldn’t question him more, and they made their way back to the couch where he slipped the binder into the bag of his Sasha had grabbed.

Tim was waiting with tea and a pile of blankets, all ready for a cuddle party and what he had previously called ‘loving Martin hours.’

Martin sat in the corner, where Tim and Sasha then lightly bullied him into the middle and covered him in a blanket before sitting on either side of him.

“I- I don’t- I don’t deserve this.”

Tim made a noise of disagreement before lightly pulling Martin closer to him, hoping he could let himself relax.

“Come on, Martin, you’d do the same for us, in fact, you have, let us take care of you.”

A few minutes passed of Tim running his hands through Martin’s curls before he said anything.

“I-I don’t like getting sick. It’s just... it’s a fear I guess? When I- when I was a kid I always had to take care of everything and everyone and I didn’t have time to be sick.”

Tim stopped his repetitive motion, that was definitely the most he’d shared about his life and he was sure he screwed it up.

Making a mess again, you waste of space.

“It’s alright Martin, you don’t need to take care of everything anymore, let us take care of you.”

Martin nodded, he was tired and he was in pain, so he let himself be lulled to sleep by the comfort surrounding him.

#tma #tma sickfic #trans martin blackwood #martin blackwood #sasha james #tim stoker #hurt/comfort #whump #panic attack cw

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that-one-girl-behind-you · 4 years

Text

Illicio 19/?

Part 18

CWs for this chapter: -Depression -Parental neglect -Past implied suicidal ideation (These are present in the very first POV, and are related to Martin's past. Please feel free to skip it if the topics make you uncomfortable) -Canon character death

----

Gerry's never been to the Lonely before, though he's felt its grip on him many times in his life.

It has loomed over him ever since he was a child, alone and confused and fearing and craving his mother's hugs in equal measure. Back when he first started learning about the fears he did wonder why it never struck, why it never pulled him in to devour him whole. It was only later that he understood what made him so resistant to this particular fear.

You defeat the Lonely with love, and Gerry has never been short of that.

XIX

Martin is seven years old the first time he realizes how utterly and completely alone he is. Back then he still goes by a name that isn't his, and he doesn't yet have the words to describe why it feels wrong.

He looks around at all the children in his classroom; their clothes look clean and smell good, and their mothers not only pick them up from school, but they look happy when doing so. He asks mum once why she never smiles, does something hurt? Maybe the doctor can give her more pills?

Mum doesn't respond. She merely gives Martin that long, serious look that always makes Martin think he said something dumb, and goes to her room, leaving Martin alone with his cold supper and a slow gathering fog that he can't see.

Martin is fourteen years old when he first understands he's unwanted. He's begun to figure out who he is, and his clothes are ill-fitting, just like he himself is, bouncing around between groups of people that aren't really his peers, and merely accept his presence like one would any other part of the scenery.

Mum is no longer subtle, and the look isn't serious as much as it is distasteful, no matter how hard Martin tries. He would like to tell someone about this, but when he thinks of reaching out he remembers the only messages in his old school notebooks are those of well-meaning teachers, wishing him luck and praising a potential that Martin knows isn't there.

He's sixteen years old, when Martin comes to the conclusion that he's perhaps meant to be alone forever. Mum's illness has gotten so bad that Martin has to drop off school to work and care for her. She doesn't look at him anymore, not even when Martin finally shows up looking like he's always wanted to. He doesn't know exactly how to feel about this, because as much as he didn't want a fight, it's yet another proof that his existence is irrelevant in her life.

He tries to tell himself this is just his poor self esteem. Of course his mother loves him, she's his mother. She kept him alive, she cared for him, she's just... ill. And she's always been strong-willed. To a child it might've looked like irritation, but Martin is an adult now and he's learned life is not at all like in Hallmark movies, and if he sat down to cry every time mum didn't say 'I love you' back, he'd seldom have time to do anything else.

Martin is twenty two when he accepts he's exhausted. Of this life, of his mother, of himself. He wants to do something about it, but the pill bottles behind the bathroom mirror scare him just as much as the University pamphlets he hides under his pillow.

He strides up to the imposing looking building by the river with his forged CV in hand because he doesn't know what else to do. He gets the job, but as the Head of the Institute shakes his hand to dismiss him, Martin looks at Elias Bouchard's bright green eyes, and knows that he knows. That somehow this man has realized he's an impostor, that he's gotten this far only by convincing people he's far more capable than he actually is.

But he needs the money, and this job is far less demanding than anything else he could've gotten with his lack of credentials. He signs the contract, and he doesn't notice the jealous cling of the fog around him, as the Eye turns its gaze on him.

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

"What is this place?" Tim asks when they come into the cavernous chamber.

Basira looks around, nailed in place by the unsettling feeling of relief she's experiencing. The cells are empty behind their rusted bars, but Basira can See the outlines of the prisoners where they died when they were Known by a power they couldn't even begin to understand.

"It's- it's a place of Beholding," she mutters. She hates it here, hates how comfortable she feels in this place that's so permeated with death. It's another reminder of what she is, of all the shit she let pass; it's a bit of a bad joke, that after looking the other way for so long she's now become something that can't look away. "Jon's up there. And Martin too."

"What about Gerry?" Tim asks.

"I dropped him there. Not sure where he went after." They whip around at the new voice, and sure enough the entrance to the passageway they came through is now a very large version of Helen's door, with the Distortion herself swinging too-long legs as she sits on an enlarged doorknob. "He was in quite a fit about Martin, though."

"Well, better late than never, I guess." Tim grunts.

Basira rolls her eyes, because of course Tim has been so lost on his personal drama of whether or not he wants to forgive Jon that he hasn't noticed anything else. Still, her mouth twitches; it's a good distraction from the constant wondering about Daisy. She cups her hands around her mouth, taking a tentative step forward.

"Jon? Did you find them?" she calls out. No one responds, and Basira gets a muted pang of surprise at the way her stomach drops with worry. Maybe she did care after all. "Get ready. Elias was here. And Lukas too."

"That's comforting," she hears Tim grumble behind her as he follows her lead. It feels... it's different.

It's not Daisy. It will probably never be Daisy again, but it feels good to have a team at her back.

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

The Lonely smells like tears.

It's a deceptively simple smell, building up like bad memories and a knot at the back of your throat.

Much like in the Dark, there's no colors here. Unlike the Dark, there is nothing here, not even fear, or the certainty that there is something waiting for you to give up and consume you.

The Lonely doesn't care about you.

No one does, or you wouldn't have ended here. Do you care about this? You have always cared so much. It was exhausting, and it did nothing but cause trouble to you and the ones you thought you loved.

Isn't this a lot easier? You don't have to feel anything, here. You can't hurt anyone here.

"-on? Can you hear me?"

The scent of lavender hits softly like a memory, and Jon blinks until he can distinguish between the cold inside him and the cold around him.

"Gerry?" he asks, but his hand closes around nothing.

"-m here." Gerry's voice reaches him from far away, even though Jon is sure they were holding on to each other when they entered.

"I- I can't see you."

"-ou feel me?"

He can, Jon finds. A thread of white-hot steel pulling at the left side of his chest, the ghastly feeling of lips on his own.

"Yes. Yes, I can." A love that is felt but not seen, just like-

"-ind Martin," Gerry says from his corner of the Lonely, which could be an inch or a mile away. "-ocus on that."

That- that makes sense. Martin is still human, he's the most at risk here. Once they find him, they can get out, and the other will follow. Should follow.

"Okay, I- be careful." Jon tries to add something else, but the words that Gerry uttered so easily on the kitchen floor that night feel impossible to push out.

"-ove you," Gerry whispers, before his presence fades away.

'Me too,' Jon thinks fiercely, desperately and futilely. 'Me too, and I will find the two of you if I have to Know every inch of the Lonely, until it can't keep you from me.'

The Beholding purrs in delight at the declaration. It doesn't care why the Archivist uses it as long as he does. Jon should probably care about that a little more than he does, but the only thing in his mind now is Martin, and the need to get him out of here before he can't distinguish between it and himself.

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

"Can you see the entry?" Tim asks, stepping away from the dry corpse in the center of the room.

"Not really," Basira shrugs. "I can see where their trails end, but- we can't go in, Tim."

And that's that, he supposes. She says it with such finality, with such certainty, that Tim has no choice but to accept it as fact.

Martin is gone.

Martin, the last of them, the only one untouched by all this shit. Martin who brewed them tea and pretended he wasn't making cow eyes at Jon even though he behaved like an absolute ass. Martin who found Tim at his living room with fire in his veins and offered him the same unconditional friendship they'd shared before everything began to go south.

He warned them about this. He warned both of them and the worst part is he can't even be angry at Jon about it, because Jon is gone too, and because he himself wasn't able to keep Martin here, he wasn't enough.

This is- he's the only one left. They're all gone, and they slipped through his fingers even after he got a second chance, one after the other, Danny, Sasha, J-

"I wouldn't touch him right now if I were you," Helen says somewhere in the room, and it's only when he opens them that Tim realizes he's shut his eyes; he looks in time to see Basira's hand retreating from his shoulder, as Helen speaks again. "Should I go get Melanie?"

"No," Basira says immediately. "She's out. We don't- we don't go to Melanie unless there's no other choice. We have to-"

"We have to what?" Tim snaps. He's so tired of this, of losing people- he liked it much better when he'd just woken up and all he could feel was rage. "Let's just pop your eyes out too, so I can blow the fucking place up." And himself too, if he's lucky.

"Could you stop moping around already?!" Basira whips around to face him. Her eyes are burning with intensity, and her fists are clenched and shaking by her sides. "You've seen him walk from worse, you've walked from worse. Now- now we have to- I don't know what happened here, but if Elias walked out of jail exactly today, then it's got to have something to do with Martin, or-"

"Or Jon's marks." The answer hits Tim like a slap to the face.

'You're just missing one, aren't you?'

'The Lonely, yes.'

'How convenient isn't it? Martin's sudden promotion.'

'I'm well aware it's my fault, Tim, thank you.'

What else could it be? Whatever Elias is planning-

He turns to her, and in her eyes he finds the same understanding, the same clicking of pieces he just went through. The fourteen marks were deliberate, orchestrated; Annabelle Cane's statement was nothing short of a confession.

It doesn't change anything, not really, everything that happened, everything Jon did is still there, a wound that scarred badly and that still aches when pulled at, but-

"We have to get them away," Basira says.

But at least for now, Tim has a purpose again.

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

Gerry's never been to the Lonely before, though he's felt its grip on him many times in his life.

You defeat the Lonely with love, and Gerry has never been short of that.

Whether or not it's been paid in kind is another matter entirely, but he loved his mother, and he loved Gertrude, and he loved every soul he helped save from a fate worse than death. It has to be enough now, and if it isn't... well, Gerry's always been good at making round pegs fit into square holes, and this won't be the exception. He won't let Martin be the exception.

He wanders across the Lonely for what feels like hours, when he spies a figure hunched on the floor. There's no heart to race in his chest, but Gerry hurries his steps when he recognizes the muted black of Martin's hair, the tired curve to his shoulders.

"Martin? Martin!" Gerry exclaims, falling to his knees across from him, and swatting away at the thick fog that lays around the man like a cloak. "Fuck, I- it's so good to see you. What the hell were you thinking?!"

Martin doesn't look at him, doesn't even look up, and when Gerry lays his hands on his shoulders there's a thin layer of cool dampness that he wipes away hurriedly.

"Huh. I didn't expect you'd be here," Martin's voice echoes oddly, like it's carrying across water. "I thought they'd stop if I let them put me here. Did they send you here too?"

"I- n- no, Martin." Gerry tries to crouch lower to enter his field of vision, before he carefully lays a hand on Martin's round cheek to softly pull his face up. "No, we- Jon brought me in. We came here for you.

"Jon." Martin's grey eyed focus on him, and Gerry feels like he's been punched in the gut. He can't taste the emotion in Martin's voice like he can with Jon's, but he doesn't need to. He's heard the kind of sorrow poured in those three letters.

"Yes, he- he's here too. Now that I got you, we just need to-"

"You should go to him."

"I mean, yes, we both need to-"

"I think it's better if I stay here, Gerry."

"...What?" Gerry scowls, then feels his eyes widening in terror when his hand starts going through Martin's cheek. "Shit- Martin no! We need-"

"I really loved him, you know?" Martin's silhouette is growing harder to see, like a mirror fogging up.

"Of course I know, you- Martin you pretty much only tolerated me because of him, I know you love him."

Martin lets out a chuckle; it's a low, sad sound that makes Gerry's stomach churn.

"At first, I suppose." He shrugs, and his contour grows a bit fainter. The only thing Gerry can see clearly is his sad little smile, like some twisted version of the Cheshire cat. "I was sad at first that you- but you turned out to be so amazing, in the end. I was happy he found you."

Fuck. Fuck, fuck- Gerry tries to grab at him again, but his hand just goes clean through.

"Martin, it's- it's not over. We're not done, he wants you, he still-"

"I think it's time to go now-"

"Martin Blackwood you're not going anywhere," Gerry snaps. This can't- this is not going to end like this. He won't let it. They were supposed to sit down and talk about the future, there was going to be a future to talk about, for fuck's sake! "I will follow you to the end of the Lonely if I have to, you're not going to shake me off this easily."

"I really liked that about you too. You made me feel wanted."

"That's because I do, you idiot!"

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

"They're safe, see? At least for now." The voice is insidious, frustrating. It gives off the feeling of practiced politeness, empty pleasantries that mean even less than cold, uncaring silence. "It's very heartwarming, if ultimately futile, of course."

"I take it you're the reason I can't reach them?" Jon asks coldly. He can feel the Forsaken rearranging itself as they speak, the space between his and the two silhouettes hunched over in the distance growing wider and wider, so that every step he takes towards then moves him ten steps back.

"Does it really matter?" Peter asks. "They don't need you there, and it's only a matter of time before they give up."

"I will find them first," Jon says simply; there is no other choice, no scenario where they don't come out of this together. He'll make sure of it.

Peter laughs, and the sound echoes oddly around Jon, like only the ghost of it was reaching his ears.

"I doubt so. But you're welcome to keep trying."

"Why don't you come speak face to face, Lukas?" The fog around him takes on a sickly green hue where the glow of his eyes illuminate it, and the Lonely curls more thickly around him, hiding Peter from his Sight, from his reach. "Afraid of being seen?"

"I've dealt with your kind before, Archivist."

"So that's a yes, then."

"Fooling around with that toy of yours really have you some undeserved bravado, didn't it?" He sounds a bit disgruntled now, Jon notices with a muted, dark amusement. "Since he's not human, I'm not sure if he can even be consumed here, you know? I wonder if he'll just walk around forever until he shuts down."

"I'm not his only anchor," Jon scowls. That much is true, isn't it? Melanie-

"Please. Do you really believe he'll walk away without you? Both of you? Anchors are very effective, Archivist, as long as you aren't tied to a sinking one." Peter's smirk is palpable in his voice, and Jon grits his teeth. That's- it's not entirely wrong. Gerry's far too selfless, far too dedicated to putting others before himself.

"He'll do it for Martin," Jon says with far more vigour than he feels. That was the plan, and Gerry's not stupid in the least. Out of the three of them, Jon's the one that has a highest chance of survival here. If he has a chance to at least pull Martin out-

"Oh, but Martin doesn't want to go." Peter chuckles. "You let him fly too close, Archivist. This is his place now."

Silence stretches over them for a moment, the echo of Jon's breathing the only sound for miles.

"...You brought him in here, though." That's what Gerry said, what the Eye confirmed. Martin chose to come willingly, but it was Peter who opened the door. "You can kick him out. Both of them."

Peter doesn't respond immediately, and Jon focuses on the two silhouettes that he can see, but will never reach, not as long as the Lonely keeps pushing them apart.

"I could. For a price."

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

It feels like his words resonate around them for an eternity, before the odd dissonance of the Lonely takes it away completely.

Martin is still there, barely visible and barely tangible under his bruising grip, the only sound between them is Gerry's agitated breathing.

"Martin?" Gerry asks carefully. While Martin has stopped fading away into the fog, he doesn't seem to be getting better either. But if his words kept him here, then- then maybe there's still a chance. "I'm- I know I'm not Jon, but- but I came here for you, alright? I wanted to come for you."

But it doesn't work that way, does it? You can be the most desired, the most loved person in the world and still be alone.

"Why?" Martin asks. His eyes fix on Gerry's, grey and empty of any and all emotion, but it has to mean something, that he hasn't left, that he still wants to know.

"We need you," Gerry answers truthfully. He doesn't know too well what it means, but it's been a while since this was just about Jon.

"You know that's a lie, Gerry." The corner of Martin's lips twitches into a humorless smile.

"It's not, it's-"

"I think I want to stay. Nothing hurts in here. It feels... quiet. We can all be happy, like this." There's a longing in his voice when he says it, a soft wistfulness that Gerry doesn't trust right now.

"Martin, I'm- listen to me," Gerry asks, nearly begs. He shouldn't have been the one to find him, he realizes with a start. It has to be someone he loves, he remembers telling Melanie so long ago. And still the fact remains that Gerry's the only one here, and if he's not enough, then he'll have to remind him of the one who might just be. "Think of why you did this, think-

"...What?"

"Martin, who is your reason?"

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

"You want me to stay in their place." Jon says quietly, clenching a fist in the fabric of his jumper as the realization dawns on him. "Why?"

Peter stalks around him, watching him under the cover provided by his patron. He can feel the Eye searching for him, but its intensity is growing fainter by the second, as the Archivist begins to bend under the weight of his own doubt.

"Trust me, Jon, the Eye has given me plenty of reasons. But I must admit I'm simply not too happy with Elias at the moment and I'm very curious to see what he'll do if you don't make it out of here." Bit of an understatement, honestly.

"I-"

"That's the offer," Peter interrupts. "What do you say, Archivist?"

The desolate questioning in Jon's face is an absolute delight to behold.

"Take your time. Though I feel like the choice should be easy. Or are you hesitating because your pet undead will die without you anyways? You can't have everything, Jon." Peter tuts consolingly. "Either he dies out there, or the three of you stay in here."

"You said- you know Elias is planning something. He-"

"Oh, he'll try to get you back of course." Too much invested in this one, years of orchestrating his marks and survival. Elias won't just start over, Peter isn't even sure he could start over, without the Mother's webs that drape over this one's shoulder as a blessing. "Granted, I'm not sure how much of you there'll be left by the time he works his way back into my good graces.But that's not necessarily a bad thing in your books, is it?"

"...It isn't." The thrum of the Eye in the air fades a little more, when Jon lets his head drop.

Peter isn't terribly surprised. He might not be Martin, whose entire core calls to the Forsaken like they are one and the same, bit Jonathan Sims is still am incredibly lonely man.

It's about regret, in his case. Peter can feel all the mistimed connections that haunt him, when he reached out only to find it was far too late and he'd pushed way too far. The memory of waking up alone in a hospital room, and knowing he was neither expected nor wanted back.

"I thought so. Your friends will be much safer without you, Jon. You know that." He's not sure how much more convincing Jon actually needs, but it can't hurt to double down, he decides as he stops his pacing by his side and leans in to whisper in his ear. "You can't hurt anyone here."

"I... I suppose so."

"You know so." And Peter does too. Won't it be poetic, to keep Elias' pet in here as revenge for his own sabotaged ritual? Not much he can do, if there's no one to wear the crown. "It's all up to you, Jon. What do you want?"

Peter has dealt with beholders before, far more than he should, actually. He knows how they work, how for all they preach omniscience, they home in on a purpose, and become blind to everything else. Gertrude wanted war, Elias wants power, and this sad, broken man wishes uselessly for redemption, and if he can't have it, he'll have immolation.

"So? What will it be?" he asks.

Jon's head tilts up slowly, and Peter freezes at the intense neon green of his eyes, and the downward curve of his tightly pressed lips.

"A statement, I think," he says, and all around him the Watcher's eyes burn holes through the fog, pinning Peter in place like stakes, their focus so heavy it stings.

He tries to remain calm, to keep his fear from the Eye. This is his domain, and he can't be harmed here, not even by Elias' trained dog-

"Peter Lukas, you will give me your story."

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

His reason.

Did he have one?

Was it saving the world, or did he just want to look good while killing himself? Was it revenge against these things that took all the ones he loved, or spite at not being taken himself?

This place makes it hard to think. All you can do is sit and feel the emptiness inside you, smell the tears and listen to the silence. Was that his reason, finding a place to escape to? Maybe he just wanted to rest, for once, forever.

He's so tired.

There's a man before him. His hands are heavy on Martin's shoulder and face, but so careful, like he's made of glass or secrets. The man's eyes are beautiful, desperate mix of greens and blues, and his lips curl around words that barely reach him, words Martin doesn't know if he wants to hear.

He did have a reason, didn't he? It had a name and a face, a lopsided smile and eyes swimming with sadness.

Didn't he hate Martin? That's what they had in common, isn't it? Before the worms, before the fear.

Where is he now?

Martin remembers him, dead in all but name, laid on a hospital bed like a broken doll. His hand is limp in Martin's own, l and every time he presses it to his lips Martin swears it's grown colder.

Was that his reason? What was he more afraid back then, the thought that he wouldn't wake up, or that he might?

The man before him speaks again, and his hands on him feel heavier, warmer.

He doesn't like him, Martin remembers. How easily he stepped into the Archives, how well they fit together. Martin looks at him, and he doesn't know if he wants to tell him to go away or ask him what took him so long, why couldn't he have come before Martin gave up on his future for a chance at saving Jon's?

Martin tries to recall the man's name; maybe it'll help him figure out why he's here. It's a good name, he's sure, because he's a good man. A simple name, the kind you say with a smile. An incredibly, absolutely, undeniably mulish and irritating name, what on Earth is he doing here?!

Martin came here to keep him safe, because even knowing this was a trap for Jon, it was the only way to get Elias to stop hurting him, why would this idiot follow him in?!

Now all the work he did will be for nothing, because Martin knows as sure as the sky is blue that Gerry won't go away, won't let him fade into the grey. He'll find Martin again and again and again, until he answers his question, or the Lonely consumes them both.

This was a gamble he took to try and protect him, and now both of them are here and Jon is lost in here too, and Martin wants to scream at the absurdity of it all.

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

"Did you pack-"

"I packed the first things I saw, Basira, if they don't like it they're going to have to suck it up."

"That's fair."

"Where are they going?"

"North. Daisy had- she has a place. A cottage on the countryside."

"Oh, Martin will eat that stuff right up."

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

"-tin come on." Gerry tries again. Martin is still there, still tangible under his hands, but he still won't talk, won't look at him, the only sign of life to him is the slight furrowing of his brow. "Think- think of him, he's coming for you, we both did. Tim would've come too if he'd been there I'm sure, he's a prick but he loves you. So many people care, Martin, but we need you to care too, we-"

It's alright, he tells himself with just the slightest edge of panic. He's got time, and he'll keep going until the Lonely steals his last breath from his lungs, they are not going to lose Martin.

"Just- you have to- Martin I know you have what you need to break it, but you need to remember it yourself. You need-"

"I need you-" Martin's voice rings out clear and firm, without the ringing of the Lonely, and Gerry freezes. Martin's eyes are bright and green and burning with righteous indignation as he scowls down at him. "-to stop being so incredibly infuriating!"

And then Martin is collapsing against him, and it's all Gerry can do to hold him steady as a wave of relief washes over him.

"I'm- sorry?" He asks, his voice tinged with confusion.

"No you're not," comes Martin's sullen voice, muffled against his shoulder.

Gerry lets out a bark of somewhat hysterical laughter, tightening his grip around Martin's frame. He feels solid, and growing warmer by the second, and Gerry feels a little like he did when Jon opened his eyes after so much begging.

"No, I'm not."

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

The man gasps in exhaustion and pain, as the last of his tale tumbles out of his lips.

The Archivist watches, adds the story to his archive with the same delight with which one would enjoy a feast.

It's a pathetic, hilarious joke that Peter Lukas ultimately dies protecting the Pupil's secrets, when the Archivist demands the truth.

The Eye hums in delight, and the Forsaken shies away from its unblinking gaze, from the power of its chosen, from the future this promises.

It knows with glorious certainty that when the Archive speaks next, the world will listen.

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

Martin feels the Lonely break around them like something being ripped from his chest.

He misses it immediately, the pungent smell of salt and humidity, and the emptiness inside him. The arms around his shoulders, the scent of lavender and ink under his nose, the warmth of another body pressed tightly against his is overwhelming.

"-'re back!" He hears Basira scream somewhere, and the sound of echoing steps coming closer.

"Hey there," Gerry whispers somewhere close to his ear. "I have someone for you."

And Martin's heart drops, because he knows who that is, and he knows what he said the last time he saw him. How could he forgive him for that? For turning him away when he came to him with a promise of freedom, of a future together? Of-

"Martin?" Jon says his name like a prayer, like he doesn't know if he's more afraid of his silence or his response, and when Martin lifts his face from Gerry's shoulder, he finds that he looks much the same, his teeth worrying nervously at his bottom lip as his dark eyes search Martin's face for... for what?

"Jon." Martin's own voice is a pitiful, exhausted thing, but the name sounds just right in his lips, like a memory, like an answer to a question he can't bear to think right now.

It's like Jon's strings have been cut, and he goes down on his knees by their side, slotting himself right under the arm Gerry lifts for him. Martin has a spare second to think of how well they fit together, before Jon buries his face in his chest and it hits Martin that he's here too, held between them like he belongs, like they were waiting for him.

"I'm sorry I didn't find you," Jon whispers into his chest. He feels nothing like Martin imagined, and is somehow much more real for that. "I'm sorry I let it get this far."

What could he possibly say to that? That it's not Jon's fault that Martin wanted to die? That he's sorry too, because now Jon has all the marks and nobody knows what that means, but it can't be good?

Objectively speaking, Martin knows it would've been much better for them -maybe even for the whole world, who knows what Elias is thinking?- if they'd let him in the Lonely.

It's tough to voice that aloud however, with Gerry's arms around him and Jon tucked so perfectly under his chin. Their presence hurts, but Martin hasn't felt this much like himself ever since Tim first came, and he knows he needs them here precisely for this reason. Without the Lonely's overbearing, suffocating presence all around him, it's all too easy to see just how close he came to losing himself.

"...I've missed you," Martin says in the end, probably long past the time they've stopped waiting for an answer. Still, it's the truth, and Martin's spent so long denying it that it feels almost like another lie. He tightens his arms around Jon, partly to check if he's allowed, but mostly to confirm he's actually real and there.

Gerry clears his throat a little. "Would you like me to leave you two alone?" he asks quietly.

'You found me,' Martin wants to say. 'You found me, and you didn't let go, why would I want you to leave?'

Words are still difficult though, especially with the fog still trying to pull at him, yelling at him from all sides that he doesn't matter, that they saved him out of some misguided sense of heroism, and not any particular interest for him. That it is he who is intruding, that they could've lost each other, and it would've been his fault.

Martin shakes his head and shifts to lean a bit more comfortably on his shoulder. His neck is already starting to smart from bending down, but even the pain is a blessing, a reminder that he's alive, that he's human and can feel things, good and bad.

The faint scent of lavender drifting up from Gerry's hair and Jon's comforting weight in his arms are grounding. Soothing.

"Martin?!" Tim's arrival is heralded by the room growing warmer, as if to chase away the remnants of the fog that clings to Martin's tired bones. "Fuck. You're- are you alright?"

"Right as rain," Martin rasps out, cracking an eye open -when did he close them?- to look up at him. Even splashed in blood and dirt, Tim's a sight for sore eyes, the concern in his gaze so simple and sincere not even the Lonely can twist it into loathing. "What are the bags for?"

"Management said you had too many vacation days saved up," Tim croaks with a laugh just this side of hysterical. "We booked you a holiday."

And Martin would like to respond to the joke, he really would, but his eyelids are growing heavy with exhaustion, and it's all he can do to aim a smile -who knew he could still do that?- his way, before he lets go.

"You have to get away before he comes back-" is the last he hears Basira say.

It's not over, he remembers, they're not done. But for the time being, they're all together and they're safe, and Martin is here because they want him to; it still feels like a lie, but nothing else makes sense and he has to allow the tentative, absurd hope that it might be true.

Martin decides that, maybe for once, the rest can wait.

#vit writes #jongerrymartin #jgm #illicio

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beholdme · 3 years

Text

All the Many Shades of Gerry - Chapter 3

Chapters: 3/19

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]

In the following weeks, as he sees Jon a few more times, Gerry's hair fades out and he looks rather more 'forest nymph' than 'American Gothic'.

So it's not much of a shock when the next time Jon catches sight of Gerry striding through the library stacks, his hair has been re-coloured. This time it's a smooth buttery yellow and Jon is struck by how young the warm, bright colour makes him look.

Gerry doesn't feel young though, he feels tired and bored and wrung out, and he wishes he had never agreed to take art commissions.

"It's only the one time!" Gertrude had insisted to a very put upon Gerry, very early in the morning. "And if he puts in a good word for you in his circles, your name will really be on the map in the art world."

Gerry wasn't particularly interested in being put on any maps, or being picked apart by rich, stuck up strangers, but he had agreed to try, mostly because Gertrude had put a lot of effort into making his passion for art an actual career and he felt like he owed her.

(He forgets, frequently, just how much of a commission she takes on the sales of his paintings).

So there he was, striding around the library at 7 am and desperately looking for exactly the right reference book. Unfortunately, it has been out of print for years, and Gerry can't seem to find a copy anywhere that won't cost him half a liver. He has the money now, but he refuses to pay half a month's rent to a second-hand retailer on principle.

Jon watches him skulk around for so long, (apparently forgetting that he is, in fact, a librarian) that Sasha comes out from her desk to ask Gerry if he's looking for something specific. She's wearing her big round glasses today and even indulged herself in her favorite waistcoat to beat the Monday blues.

"Why, yes." At this, Gerry looks directly up at Jon, where he is standing and watching him from the upper balcony level. Jon's face burns, and he ducks out of sight, but not earshot. "I do actually come here to borrow books, not boys." And he smartly feeds her the name of the reference book he has been hunting for almost an hour.

Sasha giggles at his antics, "We do have a copy of that, actually, but it's very popular. There's a waitlist; also it's checked out right now."

Gerry's whole demeanor sags and he sighs in defeat. "Guess I really will just have to order it off the internet, then." He eyes the stacks of books, old and new, looking vaguely betrayed.

"No!" Sasha's exclamation takes everyone a bit aback, being that they are in a library and all. "You know, my mate has this sweet little bookstore, and he loves hunting down rare copies of older books, he might have a copy?" She wrings her hands, eyebrows raised in question.

Gerry beams down at her, causing even stoic Sasha to blush and scurry off to get a piece of paper for the address.

They're already most of the way to the front desk by the time Jon realizes just which bookstore Sasha is busy recommending to the man he is dating , and just who owns that particular establishment.

By the time he manages to get downstairs to try to deflect the situation, Gerry is out the door, nothing left but the faint scent of oil paints and leather from his jacket.

***

Tim Stoker leaves Gerry feeling faintly dazed. By the time he stumbles out of the bookstore and into the tea room, elusive book in hand, he's forgotten everything he has ever known in the face of such intense flirting. And Gerry thought he was bad.

Throughout the whole episode at the library, the walk through Chelsea, and the exchange with Tim, Gerry had never once taken a moment to consider that Sasha's friend with a bookstore and Jon's Martin with a bookstore might be the same person.

He chooses to blame the lack of sleep and general disarray that is his life for the oversight.

Which is how, 9:30 in the morning, having been awake for almost 24 hours and completely finished, Gerry walks up to Martin in his tea room and says, "I'll have whatever is pink and in that jug, please. The biggest you've got."

Martin, of course, recognized him immediately. He would have recognized Jon's gothic childhood boyfriend from his social media stalking alone, but Jon's frantic texting was also a pretty big giveaway.

Martin: Relax, I don't bite clients this early in the morning. He's in safe hands with me.

Jon: HE KNOWS THINGS ABOUT ME. Besides, who's gonna stop him from biting you?

Martin: Whatever he has to tell me can’t possibly be worse than the office gossip I heard about you before we even meet.

Jon: W H A T

Now, here Gerry is before him, and he’s quite pleased with what he sees. Even tired and vaguely dazed, his presence in the little room carries a certain energy that Martin enjoys.

"Right away. Take a seat and I'll call you with it." Martin's voice is sweet, but gentle and firm, in a comforting sort of way. Through Gerry's sleepy haze, the instruction makes perfect sense, although he has neither paid nor offered a call name.

Gerry considers taking a seat on the plush bench that occupies one wall, before deciding that he desperately needs a cigarette, and wandering outside.

Technically he is only supposed to smoke at night when he's painting and needs just the right kind of boost, but he decides to call this one since he's on a painting-based errand when he's supposed to be sleeping.

"Gerry?" He turns toward the sound of his name, to find the barista offering him a large to-go cup of what he assumes is fruit ice tea. He frowns at having his name known (his new, much-preferred name, no less) and then frowns at a blonde, bespectacled man in a tea room attached to a bookstore.

His brain finally takes a moment to function, and he puts all the pieces together in an avalanche.

"Martin?" Far from his usual self-confident tone, the single word comes out in a squeak that would make even a toddler wince.

"Yes?" Martin returns the single word in the same solidly reassuring way, and even offers a happy smile.

"I didn't... I didn't recognize you."

"Would be pretty hard for you, considering this is the first we've ever met." Martin's voice is calming in a way that eases Gerry a bit, teasing and all.

"Thank you. For the tea, I mean." Gerry closes his eyes and desperately begs his shit to pull together for him, just this one time. "It's nice to finally meet you."

His hands are fully occupied with a book, a cup of tea, and a cigarette, but Martin doesn't seem particularly bothered by the lack of a hand to shake. "It's nice to meet you too. We're giving Jon a heart attack by doing it without him."

"That is the lawful good," Gerry says, after a long drag of his smoke. "A panicked Jon is a happy Jon, after all. Whatever would he do with himself without a situation to unnecessarily complicate?"

"Yes, the man does seem to thrive on anxiety, doesn't he?" Martin asks warmly, eyes crinkling around a fond smile. "Speaking of, you seem pretty wrecked yourself. Good party, I hope."

Gerry's answering laugh has a razor edge, "Not hardly. This fucking painting I'm working on will be the death of me." Gerry lifts the reference book as proof of trauma and stabs out his cigarette viciously.

"Hmm, sounds like a pain. I hope you typically find art a more enjoyable career?" Martin asks, tilting his head inquisitively. His curly hair moves fetchingly and Gerry catches himself tracking the movement.

"Mostly, yes. Although I keep the bartending gig for variety. You'd be amazed at the sort of inspiration someone can find in the right drunk crowd." Gerry grins, thinking of all the ridiculous things he’d seen walk in and out of the bar in his run there.

"I'd be very interested to see what kind of art you can turn that into. Maybe you'd like to show me sometime?" Martin's words are open and friendly.

Gerry eyes him for a minute, hiding behind a long taste of his drink. He's trying to suss out Martin's motivations, for his kindness and general geniality. The drink is good and it tips Gerry's mood far enough back into cheerfulness that he shrugs off his considerations for the time being.

"You know what," Gerry quips back. "I think I would like to show you sometime. How 'bout tonight."

It's not a question really, with Gerry's typical force of personality behind it, and he leaves the shop with Martin holding an address in his hand and a time to drag Jon over for dinner that evening.

***

Gerry does not make a big deal of Martin coming over. He acts as if any other friend is coming over for dinner.

He tidies, a little. Lights a few candles. Wears pants. The bare minimum really.

He isn't trying to impress anyone, he tells himself sternly.

Except he is, obviously. He doesn't know Martin very well yet, but he does want to keep Jon around, and they are a packaged deal these days. Which he was happy with, truly.

In their limited interaction, Martin had been sweet and put Gerry instantly at ease. He knows, from many years of working a bar, how to spot a dipshit, and feels confident in his assessment of Martin's character.

But, it's his own character that concerns him. People don't always like Gerry past surface interactions. He can be tempestuous and moody, and catching him tired is a pretty bad idea. The combination of artist and mommy issues can be jarring.

He desperately wants those things to not bother Martin though. He wants Martin to like him, and he's not interested in putting on a show to make it happen.

It occurs to Gerry an hour before they're due that he doesn't even remotely know what takeout to order for dinner.

(He knows what Jon will eat, and he obviously knows what he likes, but what about Martin? Why didn't he ask this morning? Why didn't he ask Jon earlier?)

Gerry is just starting to really panic about all the life choices leading up to this moment, when he gets a text from an unknown number, instantly filling him with relief.

Martin: Since you're hosting this time, I'll grab the take-out. Jon says you like Thai, I'll bring that. You got the drinks covered?

Gerry: As long as you drink either coffee, vodka, or water, yes.

Martin: I'm sorry, I subsist only on the blood of virgins.

Gerry: Oh dear. I couldn't tempt you to settle for Earl Grey?

Martin: Hmmm, yes, I'll accept your offerings this time.

***

The first knock comes right on time. Gerry, dressed in his best paint-stained jeans and cherry blossom kimono, opens the door with a flourish.

Martin allows himself to be welcomed in and hands the food off to the dramatic artist, who deposits it on the table where he has already set the tea tray.

"No Jon? Not that I mind quality ‘us’ time, of course."

Martin is busy taking in the rambling studio space and barely spares the attention to respond, although he manages a blush at the flirty tone. "He's, uh, running late. Work stuff. You know Jon."

Gerry smirks at that. "I do indeed. Is it a 'stumble in at 3am' late, or 'we could probably wait to eat' late?"

"Hmmm? Oh, let's wait a bit? If you don't mind." Martin seems equally taken with his painting wall and his book wall and keeps trading his attention between the two. The paintings, being the larger attraction, eventually win, and he meanders over to study them closer.

"Do you keep all the completed paintings around?" His voice is soft and reverent, and Gerry feels a rush of pride for his work.

"For a while. I like to make sure they're in their final forms before I release them into the wild." Martin blinks big brown eyes at him, before grinning and giggling slightly.

"You're very talented. Jon said as much, showed me the pictures, but words and photos are nothing compared to seeing the real thing." Martin really regards his paintings as if they're special, and rather than the prickly feeling of appraisal he feels during gallery nights, it fills Gerry with warmth.

He turns to examine the wall himself. It's filled with an eclectic group at the moment. Large abstracts made by pouring paint and then layering designs over, three-dimensional pieces painted and then embroidered or quilled over in select places, including a particularly wild eye design. Surreal faces and scenes that seem realistic except for the wild subject matter of planets in meadows and chimeras going to battle.

"Is this what comes from your adventures in bartending?" Martin asks Gerry, turning from the wall and towards the slightly taller man.

"That, and my traumatic childhood." Gerry makes sure to laugh at the last, taking the edge off the small confession.

"Obviously." Martin offers.

"Obviously." Gerry accepts.

***

Gerry and Martin drink tea on the floor while they wait for Jon. Gerry gently prods Martin through the story of how he came to open the bookstore. The blonde man even softly confessing that he had to lie on his CV to get the librarian gig at Magnus.

"How old are you? How did you convince them you had a Master's degree?" Gerry is incredulous. Not that he doesn't think Martin could have an advanced degree. But in paranormal research? Gerry hadn't even known that was an option.

"That's the thing! I'm only 29 now . I worked there for five years!" Martin's voice pitches up in disbelief. "I'm still in shock that anyone ever brought it. Desperate times, desperate measures, you know?"

"I do, actually." Gerry shifts slightly, adjusting his balance with the long remembered urge to flee from those desperate times. He fiddles with his teacup to distract himself. He brought this particular set from a pawn shop because the filigree and florals appealed to his love of colour theory. Soft pinks and corals warm against the cool aqua background.

"Jon says you wanted to go to art school when you two were younger."

It's not a question, but merely Martin offering the same space for openness that Gerry had given him.

"I never went. After my A-levels, I had to get away, and I never really stopped moving for long enough to go to uni when I was younger. Now I'm settled and it's not important to me anymore. Besides, no one asks for a copy of my phantom degree when I sell a painting. So I'm happy with how things turned out for the most part." He stops to consider the outline of a possible past for a moment, one where he didn't have to skip college and go ten years without seeing Jon. "Besides, can you imagine a 27-year-old in art school? The young ones would sacrifice me for more creative talent."

Their eyes meet for a moment, and then they laugh easily and move on to different topics, sliding through the easy stages of getting to know each other.

***

Jon does eventually arrive, looking panicked and harried. He de-ages 10 years when he finds them laughing and relaxed instead of tense and awkward.

So, the three of them eat cold Thai take out on the floor of Gerry's loft, leaning against the perfectly good couch. They share the odd intimacy of people who have known each other for very disjointed amounts of time but like each other just the same.

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

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schrijverr · 4 years

Text

Revealing Outfit

Jon invites Martin to stay with him for the weekend, because he felt bad about MArtin having to stay in the Acrhives (no he did not have a crush, shut up). His Mechs outfit is still lying there when they arrive and Martin sees it, causing Jon to accidentally invite him to a concert.

Bit pre-slash and getting together :)

On AO3.

Ships: JonMartin

Warnings: none really, Jon’s a little praise starved. Tell me if you want me to tag something and I will!

~~~~~~~~~

Jon was trying to be better. He knew he had been an asshole to Martin ever since they were moved to the Archives all because he would rather ignore the flutter in his heart and mistake it for irritation at the bumbling, clumsy, adorable, uhm, awkward man.

But, like he said, he was trying to be better. He had stopped insulting Martin at every turn and tried to be nice when the other made a mistake. Especially now that Martin was forced to live in the Archives. Jon felt terrible he hadn’t noticed his own assistant had been taken hostage for two weeks, which is probably why he had offered Martin his couch for the night.

Yes, The Jonathan ‘keep everything separate and professional’ Sims had offered Martin to stay at his place for a few days.

He hadn’t known what had gotten over him when he offered (that was a lie, of course, he knew. Martin had looked so sad? Deflated? At the thought of being alone in the Archives for the weekend again and Jon couldn’t bear it, but that was neither here nor there). The point is, he offered and through a terribly awkward misunderstanding and a quick coming out as asexual, Martin had gladly taken him up on his offer.

Which is how they’d ended up in this situation.

Honestly, Jon had forgotten he had left his outfit so out in the open. He hadn’t expected visitors when he had put it there, so it wasn’t such a stretch it had slipped his mind, but it was awfully embarrassing right now.

A little bit of backstory is perhaps required, you see, Jonathan Sims had a life outside his work, to contrary belief. And it wasn’t even a boring one. He was in a band, a steampunk band of immortal space pirates.

It was just something fun he did with friends and they had quite a dedicated following. They had a small performance this weekend (which Jon hadn’t at all forgotten about when he had offered Martin a place to stay, just to make him smile at Jon) and he had taken his costume to the dry cleaner, because it had gotten soaked in a mixture of sweat and beer last time, which didn’t make for an appealing smell.

He hadn’t taken the time to put it away, finding it useless when he had to get it later anyway. Instead he had hung it over his chair and laid the rest of his costume with it. The outfit was obviously not Jons usual work clothes. The steampunk vest and goggles vastly different than his librarian style cardigans. Which was why Martin had immediately pinpointed as odd when he’d seen it.

Without really thinking about it, he had lifted the article of clothing and frowned at it, before he heard Jon let out a startled cough and he dropped it like it burned, while apologizing.

When Jon was done with his coughing fit he said with pinched voice: “It’s alright, Martin. I left it there.”

“Still, I shouldn’t have just grabbed it. That is highly inappropriate.” Martin insisted.

Wanting to get the clothes out of the way before Martin could get a better look at them, Jon gathered them in his arms quickly and made his way out of the room as he assured Martin that it was really alright.

After he had fled the scene, Jon dropped his costume unceremoniously on the chair in the corner of his room, which also functioned as a closet since it always got covered in clothes throughout the weeks. He sighed in relief that he had made it, until he noticed one part was missing of his ensemble.

His goggles.

He must have dropped them in his haste to get everything out of Martins eyes. Panicked he turned around, hoping they were lying on his bedroom floor. But alas, no such luck was on his side. When he got back to the living room, he found Martin holding them in his hand as he looked at them curiously.

Jon swallowed and Martin met his eyes. Wordlessly he held out his hand and carefully Martin laid it down on Jons palm. Once the object was out of his hands, it seemed Martin regained his ability to speak and he asked: “Why do you have that?”

Immediately his brain caught up with his mouth and he stumbled out: “Not that you have to tell me, of course. No, I was just asking. Doesn’t seem your style. Not that I can judge, sorry.”

Jon cut him off, before it got more embarrassing for both of them. Only then he realized he now had to give at least some explanation, especially since he was going to disappear this weekend and stay out until late, leaving Martin alone in his flat.

Fuck.

This whole thing had been a terrible idea and Jon suddenly remembered why he kept everything nicely separated.

He floundered for a second, then he carefully chose his words: “I, uhm, I had forgotten actually that I had something this weekend, uhm, old uni friends. I, I- I needed to give those back to one of them.”

Internally he cringed at the vague and partially untrue statement. I mean, technically they were uni friends, but this wasn’t going to be that casual and although some of his friends did own goggles in a similar style, those were definitely his own.

“Oh,” Martin replied, “I can still go back to the Archives if that’s better. I wouldn’t want to impose and I assume you wouldn’t want someone you barely know in your flat while you’re gone.”

Jon has never claimed he is not a stupid man and what he did next only cemented that. Martin was already inching back towards the door, face crestfallen. And Jon, Jon quickly said: “Oh no, it really isn’t a problem. You can come if that’ll make you more comfortable.”

A heavy silence hung between them as both processed the words that had just come out of Jons mouth. Jon realized how weird and personal that sounded and he was about to take it all back when Martin said: “If it isn’t a problem, I think I’d like that.”

The retreat died on Jons lips with Martins agreement and smile. Jon just smiled back and said: “Alright, I’ll let them know. It’s going to be pretty loud, I hope you don’t mind.”

“No, thank you. It’ll be good for me to listen to something else than the silence of the Archives for a change.” Martin chuckled, but Jon caught the underlying truth and decided that he couldn’t back down from this, no matter how mortifying it was.

Then he realized how rude he had been and quickly showed Martin to his kitchen where started on some tea. The goggles were still dangling around his wrist and when Martin noticed he told him to put them away, before he damaged them and said he’ll finish the tea.

Grateful for the breather, Jon slipped out the room and into his bedroom where he send a frantically whispered voice recording in the Mechanisms groupschat: “I did something stupid, I accidentally invited a coworker to our show, but I didn’t tell him about anything and he doesn’t know and he’ll find out and it’ll be weird, but I can’t go back now and I don’t know what to do and I need help.”

To avoid suspicion he put his phone away and hurried back to the kitchen. There he had to do a double take, because Martin was sat at his table with two mugs, gently sipping from his cup as he scrolled through his phone.

It was oddly domestic and Jon had to swallow away a lump.

The sound alerted Martin of his presence and he looked up and smiled at him, gesturing at the tea opposite of him. This didn’t help the lump. He silently sat down and started to sip his tea to avoid conversation.

Martin seemed to pick up on it and he stayed quiet as well. They stayed like that for the rest of the afternoon, just sitting together in silence while they did their own thing. Jon broke it to ask Martin what he wanted from the pizza place and then they had a heated discussion when Martin wanted pineapple on his.

They ate on the couch and watched a documentary and Jon could almost forget that this wasn’t his life and it wouldn’t all come crashing down tomorrow.

After that he made up the couch and he and Martin brushed their teeth together. It was peaceful, kind of nice and if Jon had to admit it he missed this in his life. Before he retired to his room Martin called out a soft thanks along with a goodnight from the couch.

Jon returned it equally softly and with a smile. A smile that fell when he was met with the sight of his outfit in the corner. He checked his phone only to find his so called friends laughing at him and offering little support.

He slept little that night, lying anxiously awake, mulling over everything that would go down tomorrow. Only coming out of bed late after he finally fell into a fitful sleep.

Martin was already dressed, when Jon stumbled out in an oversized sweater with small short pajama bottoms. Jon yawned sleepily and rubbed his eyes as he excepted a cup of tea from a heavily blushing Martin.

Once Jon had taken a sip, he realized what the sudden appearance of tea meant and his eyes snapped wide open as he met Martins eyes. He swallowed and looked down at his own state of dress. Then he mumbled: “Sorry, I’m going to get some better bottoms.”

And hurried out of the room, unknowingly giving Martin to compose himself as he tried to imprint the image of sleep ruffled Jon in those pajamas in his mind.

When Jon returned he was dressed in his normal librarian clothes. During the night he had resolved to tell Martin as late as possible what was going to happen, so he would get dressed at the bar where the Mechanisms would be performing.

The rest of the day passed relatively normal. Martin had retreated to the couch with a notebook, while Jon was sitting in the kitchen with some statements, later leaving them in favour of reading on the couch next to Martin in silence.

Then it was time to leave and the nervousness grew inside Jon as they walked towards the little pub. They were pretty early, since Jon wanted to avoid any fans that would throw a wrench in his plan. Inside the others were already setting up. Jon stopped Martin, wanting to tell him what would be happening, before the others could do it for him.

Martin shot him a confused look and Jon came clean: “So, I might have undersold and lied a bit about what is happening, but you have to promise not to tell the others about this. Tim will never let me live this down, please.”

“I don’t- What are talking about Jon?” Martin asked, distressed.

“It’s nothing bad.” Jon assured him, “I’m going to get you settled at a good calm table and you’re going to be fine. I promise.”

“Jon.” Martin did not sound pleased.

“I’m preforming, with my uni band.” Jon blurted out.

“What?” Martin exclaimed.

Jon explained further: “I didn’t want you to ask me questions and stuff, so I lied and then I invited you and I got nervous and I was too afraid to tell you, so I kept it hidden. I’m sorry. You can still go back, I’ll give you my keys.”

Martin hesitated, but they were spotted and Gunpowder Tim called out: “Jonny, there you are! Come on, you need to get dressed and in makeup if you want this to go through. Here, introduce us to your friend.”

Jon looked back to Martin, who nodded. Jon shot him a smile and lead him to the stage, where he quickly introduced everyone. When everything seemed to be going well, he pointed to the table Martin could go sit at, before he left them and slipped away to get in costume.

He was done moments before they had to go on stage. Ashes nodded at him and grinned: “Your friend seems nice. Well informed.”

“Oh shove off.” Jon replied, embarrassed.

But there wasn’t time for more, since it was time to get out there. The Mechanisms stepped onto the stage and all the anxiety slipped from shoulders along with his normal life as he morphed into Jonny d’Ville, Captain (First Mate.)

“Well, I’ll say one thing for this planet, it does produce some spectacularly ugly people.” he started, creating the normal banter with the crowd, he went on: “Killers and vagabonds, liars and thieves. We are the Mechanisms, a band of immortal space pirates roving through the universe on the starship Aurora, having fun wherever possible, violence when necessary and if were very lucky both at the same time.”

He scanned the crowd filled with smiling faces and desperately ignored the corner he knew Martin was in. He didn’t let it show though, as he went on: “Allow me a brief moment of self indulgence to introduce to you, the crew of our mighty starship.”

Jon gestured to the side as he started to introduce everyone next to him on the stage, until he got to himself: “And last, but the opposite of least, myself. Jonny d’Ville, your humble Captain.”

The crowd along with the band corrected him and he grinned, shedding the last bit of nervousness over who he know was in the corner watching as well.

With the adrenaline pumping through him and the energy of the crowd feeding into his confidence, Jon was in high spirits after the very successful performance. He had chatted with some fans that had hung around, but now the pub was mostly empty. The other were packing up and were chatting idly when what Jon had known would happen, but also dreaded, happened.

Martin walked up to him.

Sitting on the edge of the stage, Jon didn’t move, just swallowed heavily as he waited to see the anger in Martins eyes after he’d been lied to and forced to sit through such a strange thing as this. Jon was sure Martin must be weirded out. He knew it wasn’t everyones taste and most didn’t get it and that was okay.

It was okay, if it wasn’t Martin.

Fiddling with his vest, he kept looking to the ground until a familiar set of shoes appeared in his sight. Preparing himself for the worst, he winced a bit as he met Martins eyes, only to be pleasantly surprised at the smile along with the excitement in Martins eyes as he exclaimed: “That was amazing!”

Jon blinked for a second, then he bashfully asked: “You really thought so?”, all the confidence of Jonny d’Ville disappearing.

Martin nodded and said: “Yeah, I loved it. I’ve always been pretty text orientated, so having a full story with great music is something I didn’t know I needed until now, but I definitely did.”

With the praise a smile appeared on Jons face (he was just happy Martin didn’t hate him for lying. It wasn’t at all that Jon desperately wanted to know he had done well and that his heart fluttered with the slightest praise, especially from Martin. I don’t know where you got that idea).

“I’m glad.” was all he managed in return.

Their eyes stayed locked for a long moment after that and they only noticed when Tim called out: “Jonny, we’re done here, you gonna get something to drink with us.”

Jon looked back at his fellow bandmates, then at Martin, before looking back again. He shook his head and yelled back: “No, I think I’m going home. I’m pretty tired. It was fun seeing you.”

“Okay, bye, Jonny.” Ashes said.

The sentiment was echoed and returned. As the other filed out, Jon looked back at Martin and whispered: “I should probably wipe the makeup off or get out of this outfit at least.”

“I don’t know, I think it suits you.” Martin said, before his eyes grew wide and he spluttered something incomprehensible.

Wanting to please him, Jon said: “Thank you, I think I left my makeup wipes at home anyway, so I just have to hope I don’t run into anyone else I know.”

Martin looked up at him and smiled. He waited as Jon gathered his normal clothes and haphazardly threw them into his bag. Before he left, he looked into the mirror self-consciously. His dark hair was braided, grey streaks running through the interwoven hair. Perched on top of his head were the goggles and around his eyes was black lighting. He had black jeans on and a white shirt with a light brown vest over it. He had too many belts wrapped around him, with a golden ornament over his heart and a holster with fake gun by his hip.

Out of context he looked like an idiot, but Martin liked it, so he breathed in and walked out to where Martin was waiting. He threw his coat on over it and together they walked back. Jon was happy he lived near the pub, so the walk was short.

During the walk Martin filled the air with chatter about the performance. Jon wished he could blame the cold instead of the compliments for his read cheeks, but the weather was quite nice.

Once they were inside Jon switched his persona's clothes for his pajamas, this time he did put on longer pajama bottoms immediately. He wiped his face clean and when he looked into the mirror just plain Jonathan Sims looked back and the anxiety began creeping up again.

Slowly and unsure he made his way back to the couch where Martin was sat at. When he entered Martin looked up and Jon swallowed as he tried to smile back, but he probably couldn’t manage more than a grimace. Martin didn’t seem to mind, just offered him a cup of tea.

Timidly Jon sipped his tea and didn’t bother to start a conversation, dreading what the conversation would be about. It seemed Martin picked up on his unease, but he didn’t know what it would be about, so to try and ease the tenseness in Jons shoulders he said: “I have to say this was not what I expected when I think about how you were in uni.”

“No?” Jon asked curiously, not wanting to be the one to fill the silence.

“Not that it’s bad thing.” Martin told him, “Just- well, uhm, no offense, but you can be kind off stuck up from time to time. And that’s fine, but then you don’t really assume this.”

He gestured with his hand to encompass the Mechanisms.

Jon chuckled slightly at that, relaxing bit by bit when Martin didn’t suddenly backpedal and hate him anyway. He shrugged and said: “I can’t fault you for that, really. You are mostly right, I was pretty studious and probably a bit pretentious. The Mechs was my spot to let go and just have fun, you know. I don’t like to advertise it, it isn’t really professional.”

Martin was quiet for a moment, then he said: “Thank you for sharing it.” then he gasped, “Oh my, I hope I didn’t force you or anything! I didn’t mean to.”

“Martin, Martin, I invited you.” Jon said, trying to calm him, but also dreading what might come.

“Yes, but.” Martin began, “But you only did so, because I was being awkward about it, you shouldn’t had to.”

“No, I invited you.” Jon insisted, “I made that choice, it isn’t your fault.” then he bashfully went on: “Besides, I don’t mind you knowing.”

It was silent for a moment as the two met one another's eyes and stared as they started to breath in sync due to close proximity. Then Martin swallowed and looked away as he asked: “You don’t?”

“No.” Jon forced out, “You, you are, uhm.”

Jon didn’t know how to go on, so he rubbed his temples and sighed with frustration. He clenched his eyes shut and allowed the pressure to calm him. Then he met Martins inquisitive eyes and the flush retook his face. He stumbled out: “You’re kind, Martin. I know, I’ve been harsh on you and I’m sorry about that. I know you wouldn’t judge anyone over something like this and you don’t deserve to live in the Archives and I should have noticed and I didn’t. I’m so sorry about this and this is the least I could do to make it up to you and I don’t mind you being here. You’re a good person.”

He finished his rant. Martin blinked in confusion a few times as he processed everything. Then he carefully said: “Thank you, I guess. Uhm, that’s quite a lot, sorry. Let me just- uhm, give me a moment, please.”

“Of course, apologies.” Jon said.

“You didn’t invite me out of pity, did you?” Martin asked, sadness on his face.

Jon hated to see the sad expression on Martins face and he quickly shook his head and answered: “No, no, I didn’t. I did it, because I like you.”

Immediately after he clasped his mouth shut, but the words had already tumbled out and he couldn’t stop them. For a moment they hung heavy in the air. At the same time they spoke: “You like-” “Forget about it-” “-me?” “-I’m sorry.”

Then in union they said: “What?”

Martin repeated his question: “You like me?”

Jon was now resembling more a beetroot than a person. He silently nodded then said: “Yes, I’m sorry that was highly unprofessional of me. I didn’t mean to tell you, sorry. I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

“It’s not making me uncomfortable.” Martin rushed to assure him, “I just didn’t think you even found me an acceptable person.”

Jon winced and curled a bit into himself. What he had already known about himself and hadn’t wanted to admit was out in the open and if he wanted to explain he would have to admit another thing to himself and Martin. Something that would also open up the possibility in the back of his mind, something about the feeling he was being watched.

But for Martin he would admit it, so he did: “I, uhm, I know I am not the best person when it comes to emotions and I hid behind irritation instead of admitting it. Sorry, I know that is no excuse.”

Then the most unexpected thing happened: Martin started laughing. It wasn’t malicious or mean spirited, but Jon didn’t know how to react, so he snapped: “What’s so funny?”

Martin composed himself and said: “Sorry, it’s just, it’s just- I’ve been trying so hard to get your attention and approval only to find out I already had, but you’re just terrible at expressing it and all it took was a performance by a band of immortal space pirates for it to come to light.”

When Martin put it like that Jon had to admit it was pretty funny, he chuckled lightly then the rest of the statement caught up and he stopped laughing. He looked at Martin and asked: “You’ve been trying to get me to notice you?”

His voice was vulnerable, just like Martins when he answered: “Yes, it’s embarrassing, really, but yes.”

Jon took a deep breath, then he said: “Martin, uhm, would you like to accompany me to a date somewhere next week? A proper one?”

Martin agreed with a smile and Jon silently thanked the murderous alter ego he had created to have some fun in uni for helping him open this conversation.

The rest of the night they spend talking and when they came into work together they had established a comfortable companionship between themselves. The other assistants immediately noticed the shift in dynamics between the two, but when Tim asked Martin about it all he replied was: “Nothing happened, I went to a concert that’s all.”

#RR writing #jon sims #jonathan sims #jonathan sims x martin blackwood #jonmartin #martin blackwood #martin x jon #tma #the magnus archives #the magnus pod #tma the mechanisms #the mechanisms #jarchivist was a mechs

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voiceless-terror · 4 years

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For the comfortober!!!! If you'd like to do some of them, might I request "Back to school/work"??? Picturing Jon, after being v sick, or recovering from an injury finally coming back to work, maybe recovered, maybe not?? And the crew just totally fussing over him ??

Here you are! Just in time for day 25.

The situation at hand is not ideal.

He’d been carrying boxes, heavy, cumbersome things that blocked his field of vision as he made his way to Document Storage. Tim had cast a disapproving eye; Jon’s not the most coordinated, he knows that. But the least he could do was carry a few boxes of statements to their proper filing place.

But he managed to, in Tim’s retelling, ‘completely eat shit’ as his leg came in contact with an errant box, causing the one he was carrying to go flying and Jon to fall unceremoniously on the ground with an audible crack.

Everything’s a bit blurry after that.

He remembers an intense pain in his ankle- he’s been here before, his bones are not the most stable structures (it’s a shame they’re tasked with holding his body together). But that didn’t make the pain any less. Surprisingly, it was Martin who took charge, showing a competence Jon had never seen applied to his research or his Latin translations. He picked him up, managing to avoid putting any pressure on his ankle and summarily put him in a cab, despite Jon’s many refutations that he was fine.

He stopped that after Martin shot him a very unimpressed look.

He paid the cab driver and Jon let him- the pain was starting to make his brain foggy and his stomach nauseous. Martin waited the full two hours it took to get him admitted, even letting him fall asleep on his shoulder in one very embarrassing instance that he hopes will never see the light of day. The result of his clumsiness- a broken ankle, a cast, and a set of crutches that he threw into the closet as soon as he got home. He had a cane, that should be fine.

Martin followed him to the door, making sure he was settled on the couch and fixing him a cup of tea as if Jon were an invalid. Sure, the painkillers he was on did not allow for much thinking, but he could manage to take care of himself. When Martin suggested staying a while, just to make sure he was fine, Jon found himself snapping a “No!” and breaking Martin out of his competent stupor. He shook his head a bit, turning red and letting out a nervous laugh. “I’ll uh, leave you to it then. Let me know if you need anything.” On his way out, he turned to him, face serious. “And don’t even think about coming in tomorrow.” He wasn’t- he’s not a complete idiot.

Okay, maybe he did briefly consider it the next morning. But the soreness had intensified, and he knew he probably wouldn’t be able to make it without breaking another bone.

Getting around was...difficult, to say the least. He spent most of the day on the couch, dry swallowing ibuprofen as the painkillers the hospital prescribed were a bit too strong, despite the ease they provided. God, it was so boring. He wished he had the foresight to bring work home. But his assistants’ texts ignored any query about work, only focusing on well wishes and asking if he ‘needed anything.’ What he needed was to do his job. If he was going to be motionless, he might as well be motionless behind a desk.

The next day, the train ride nearly kills him.

Jon manages to find a seat; people are generally sympathetic when they see a cane and a cast. He should’ve taken a cab, of course, but that seemed a little extravagant. He can manage a few steps.

Probably should’ve brought the crutches as well, but they seemed too unwieldy. When he tried them in his flat they’d put too much pressure under his arms, and he wasn’t sure how to go about adjusting them; he quickly got frustrated and threw them to the side. Patience was never one of his strong suits.

But the pain is unimaginable. By the time he gets into work, he’s huffing and puffing, on the verge of passing out. He’d taken ibuprofen again that morning, but it’s doing very little to help him out. As soon as Rosie catches sight of him, she makes sympathetic cooing noises and attempts to take his bag from him.

“Poor thing,” she says after he refuses for the third time. “Are you sure you don’t need help downstairs?”

Quite sure.

The stairs intensify the aching in his joints and he’s sure every one of his assistants hears the tell-tale thump of his cast landing awkwardly on each step. He’s met with three concerned stares, all tinged with exasperation and disappointment. He’s been eliciting those reactions a lot these days.

“Didn’t Elias approve a week of paid leave?” Sasha asks, immediately attempting to take his bag, just like Rosie. And just like with Rosie, he dodges her arms, letting out an involuntary hiss as he puts pressure on his injury. “Honestly Jon, you should’ve stayed home.”

“And where are your crutches, mister?” Tim’s leaning against the wall, looking for all the world like a disappointed parent. “I happen to know that a cane’s not sufficient when you’re in a cast like that. Not to mention uncomfortable, dragging it all around London. What were you doing, hopping down the street?”

“I had a seat on the train, thank you very much,” he says, attempting to hobble away as fast as he can to take refuge in his office. This was all very overbearing.

“You took the train-?” Martin’s incredulous voice is cut short by a slammed door.

Peace and quiet. His office has always been a nice place to suffer in private.

Not that it remains so for long.

Martin comes in not minutes later, bearing a cup of tea accompanied by a few biscuits. “You don’t seem like much of a breakfast-type,” Martin surmises correctly, “And you’ll need to eat something with the medication they’ve got you on.” Jon does not mention he’s not currently on said medication. It sits in his pocket, heavy and accusing. Instead, he just grunts, barely deigning to raise his eyes from the work in front of him. The door shuts and Jon nibbles at the food before his stomach tells him this is a bad idea.

He does eventually (and very reluctantly) call one of them in- he still wants to go through the files from two days prior, but he’s going to need a bit of help to get there. Tim doesn’t help him walk, however, instead pushing his office chair into Document Storage with surprising care, and helps him prop his leg up on a box to keep it elevated. Tim hands him the files one by one, sorting by date- it’s an easy, companionable task. Tim always was one of his favorite researchers to work with; there’s a reason he asked him to join his team. He’s wearing a jumper in a nice, deep blue shade. Jon is not immune to Tim’s charm or looks, but he’s mostly preoccupied with how warm it looks. His own button down and sweater vest are barely doing the job.

After about thirty minutes of this, his leg starts to ache- the stretch is no longer pleasant, and he attempts very gingerly to place his ankle on the ground. Needless to say, it does not work out very well. If the chair had about two more inches, his foot could dangle without putting undue pressure on his joints. Alas, the chair is already at its highest.

Tim notices his fidgeting, zeroing in on the pain in his face. “Need a break?”

Jon sighs. “I’d rather get this box done, at the very least.”

Tim looks thoughtful at this. “Hold on- give me a sec.” He leaves the room but returns rather quickly, two pillows from the break room couch in tow. “Here- lean on me for a mo’, will you?” Jon manages to get to his feet relatively painlessly, leaning most of his weight on Tim’s shoulders as he puts the pillows down as a cushion, lifting him the desired inches he needs. “Better?” Tim smirks, clearly proud of his achievement.

“Much, thank you,” he admits, just happy to continue working. The throbbing is getting worse with each passing minute. They’re eventually interrupted by Sasha, who announces that she’s gotten takeout for everyone- Indian, Jon’s favorite. Elaborate and unnecessary, but appreciated.

Ten minutes later and he’s sitting in the break room with the rest of them, picking at his curry. He knows he should eat; his mind registers the hunger, but it's hard to feel through all of the pain. Ibuprofen’s just not going to cut it. With great reluctance, he pulls the bottle of pills out of his pocket, unscrewing the cap. Martin notices.

“About time for your next dosage, I reckon?” he questions innocently. Martin doesn’t know he never took the first one, and Jon would like to keep it that way. He can’t handle any more thoughtfulness and care from the man. So he just nods, swallowing two pills and chasing them with water. If he can manage a few more bites of curry, it should be fine.

What he didn’t keep in mind is his original reaction to the medication- that strange, loopy feeling that had him leaning on Martin the entire cab ride home. About thirty minutes later, it starts to hit. And all he can think about is Tim’s jumper.

It just looked so warm. Jon wants a jumper like that. Maybe he has a jumper like that? He’ll have to check when he’s home. There’s a lot of stuff in his closet- dumb things, remnants from his college days. Probably a few of Georgie’s jumpers. Maybe Georgie’s jumpers are that warm? But none of them are that nice shade of blue. Jon wants a jumper like that, yeah. In a nice shade of blue. He’s going to ask Tim where he got it from. But he’s got to be discreet. What if Martin overhears? And then Martin gets the jumper? They can’t all wear the same jumper, that’s ridiculous. He’s already going to have to coordinate with Tim, make sure they don’t wear it on the same day. Jon’s a grown man, he can’t go around matching his employees.

He lifts the phone, dialing Tim’s extension. It only rings once before Tim’s cheerful voice answers. “What’s up, bossman? Everything alright?”

“Tim,” he whispers, just in case anyone’s listening. “Tim, I need you to come to my office...immediately.” No, he has to give a reason or he’ll be suspicious. Why would he call Tim into his office? “Reports, Tim. Research. Bring...your research. Yes. Goodbye.” That seemed natural enough.

For some reason, all three of his assistants are at the door. No, that’s not what he wants. Not what he wants at all. “I only need Tim.” He’s still whispering for some reason. “The rest of you go away.”

They don’t, pesky things they are. Tim moves closer, face both concerned and amused. “What’s going on, Jon?” He beckons him closer- he’s so blurry, it’s hard to focus. When he gets within grabbing distance he tugs at his sleeve, forcing him close to his face. “Er, boss-”

“Tim,” Jon’s eyes are wide with urgency. “Tim, I need to know where- where you got your jumper.”

Tim makes a face, somewhere between amused and confused. Jon does not understand what’s difficult about this question. It’s very straightforward. “Um, sorry? My jumper?”

“Yes!” His voice gets louder, though he doesn’t mean it to. “It’s just- it looks so warm. And it’s so soft.” His voice starts to wobble and his eyes water as he runs his thumb across the fabric. It’s a very good jumper. “Such a nice shade of blue.”

“Okay, did you take one too many of those pills? You weren’t like this earlier.” Tim’s got one arm on Jon’s chest, attempting to stop his wandering hands as his eyes search the desk. “I swear to god, if you’ve overdosed-”

“Don’t be stupid, Tim.” Why won’t he let him touch the jumper? Does Tim not want him to be warm? Rather rude. “I only took two today.”

“Wait, seriously?” It’s Martin’s voice he hears next. “Oh, Jon. You must have been in so much pain.”

“Obviously, Martin!” The snap comes as naturally as breathing- Jon’s an old hand at that, after all. “But that’s not the point-”

“Whoa there, buddy. No need to get tetchy.” Tim’s got both of his hands on his shoulders, his eyes now patient and kind. “You’re high as hell, aren’t you? Think you should probably have a rest right about now, yeah?”

Jon can’t help the whine that comes out of his throat. Rest? No, he wants-

“I swear I’ll tell you where I got the jumper. Hell, I’ll even get one for you if I can. But only if you sleep.”

Jon sighs wearily. If I must. “That sounds reasonable. Thank you, Tim.” He allows himself to be led to a couch, limping all the way. Oh, that’s quite nice. Yes, that’ll do. Tim arranges a pillow beneath his head, and Jon hopes it's not the one he sat on before. His stomach growls, and a thought occurs to him; he grabs at Tim’s arm again, forcing him down to his level.

“Jon, I told you I’d-”

“No, that’s not it. I-I threw out some biscuits earlier. Please send my apologies to Martin.”

Tim’s face is fond. “Will do, boss.”

“And perhaps you could secure me a few more for later.”

A soft snort. “I’m sure I can.”

“Tim, you are invaluable to me.”

“God I wish I had this on tape-”

A soft click sounds from somewhere in the room as if in response. Tim blinks. “Did you hear that?”

Jon doesn’t answer, already halfway towards sleep.

“Huh. Alright, then.”

ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27715163

#my writing #tma #the magnus archives #prompts #comfortember #jonathan sims #martin blackwood #tim stoker #sasha james #jontim #a lil bit but its there #hurt/comfort #ft. a very loopy jon #plz excuse the self-indulgence of this fic #kaiserkorresponds

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celosiaa · 4 years

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hi i just found your blog and I love it?? so much??? you're a super talented writer!! if you want prompts: i'm a sucker for Tim and Jon being friends (or ex-friends) in hurt/comfort scenarios (but if you prefer Martin that's fine too!!) so how would you feel about Tim asking Jon for a favor despite that he knows he hadn't been feeling well the previous night, and Jon agreeing because he's JON and making Tim regret even asking lol. if you don't like this, I can try again!!

I!! Loved!! This!! Prompt!!!! Literally so honored to receive a prompt from you! Hopefully this will do it justice. :)

This is set at the very beginning of season 2, before Jon gets super paranoid. Tim’s thoughts are formatted in italics.

“Closing tiiiime, one last call for alcohol, so finish up your whisky or beeeer!!”

Martin rolls his eyes at Tim where he’s draped himself across his desk, singing both passionately and tunelessly into an air microphone.

“Closing tiiiiime, you don’t have to go home but—”

“Tim, it’s only just quarter past noon! I hate to tell you, but we’re a long way from closing time, mate,” Martin giggles, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms.

“Yeah, well, that just means it’s lunch time! And it’s your big day! So—where are we going?”

Martin’s grin falters ever so slightly.

“Er, well…actually, I don’t know if—”

“No no no, you do not get to back out of this one. You’ve got to celebrate! It’s not every day a man gets cleared for top surgery!” Tim replies fervently, sitting up properly on Martin’s desk.

Martin sighs, scrubbing a hand down his face.

“I know, and I really appreciate it Tim, it’s just…Jon asked me to look over some stuff, and I’m already behind because of my appointment this morning, and…you know how he can get.”

“…yeah. Unfortunately.”

Tim glances over at Jon’s office door, which is fully shut with the blinds closed. Truth be told, he’s been worried about Jon since he came back from leave. The man had always been a little reclusive, a little awkward, but…this was something else entirely. Nowadays, his door remains perpetually shut, intentionally closed off from the rest of the archival staff—and Tim doesn’t like it one bit.

He’s broken out of his reverie by Martin’s stomach growling.

“Ooh, sorry—”

Tim claps his hands together with a grin.

“Ha! That settles it, then. I’ll give him a distraction and he won’t even notice you’re behind,” Tim replies jovially.

“Are you sure?”

“Absolutely. It’s a good one, I’ve been saving it for a time of need. Leave it to me.”

He gives Martin a wink as he stands, knowing that it will make him blush—and he’s delighted to be proven right, pink rising at once beneath his dusting of freckles.

Nothing if not predictable, Tim thinks with a fond grin. As he passes by his desk, he grabs the file he’s been saving for the past few weeks and raps on Jon’s door.

No reply.

Tim’s brow furrows at this, concern beginning to rise. He calls out and raps on the door again.

“Jon? You okay?”

Still nothing. He can’t hold down the anxiety rising in him now.

Something’s wrong. Fuck.

“I’m coming in.”

He swings open the door, heart pounding, praying to whatever gods there may be that he’s not about to find Jon on the floor, covered in worms again.

The room is entirely Jon-less.

Sweet Jesus.

Tim takes a moment to breathe, allowing the panic to settle back in as he leans over, bracing his arms on his knees. Squeezing his eyes shut, he fights back against the onslaught of memories—worms, blood, infection, pain, pain, pain—that flood incessantly through his mind.

He’s not here.

He’s not here, and he’s fine.

You’re fine.

Taking one last grounding breath, he stands to his full height, rubbing at his shoulder where the worms had dug into it as he exits the room.

Alright, you bastard, where’d you run off to?

He checks the break room next—not because he thinks Jon would be there, but because Sasha may know something he doesn’t. As usual. To his utter surprise, however, there stands Jon—leaning heavily against the countertop, fixing himself a cup of what looks to be more honey than tea.

Tim can’t help but laugh, causing Jon to jump at the unexpected noise.

“Ha! Caught in the act! Finally decided to take matters into your own hands, did you? Martin will be so upset!” he booms, leaning casually against the door frame.

Jon’s only reply is to glare daggers at him over his shoulder, before turning back to his “tea” with a sniff. Tim’s smile falls in confusion.

Odd.

Sweeping his gaze over Jon, he notices with rising alarm the way he’s braced against the countertop, his left leg shaking even as he leans onto his uninjured one. Even more concerning is the presence of his cane, also resting against the counter within his arm’s reach—as Tim knows he doesn’t typically use it to walk short distances within the office.

Ooh, this is…not good.

He softens both his voice and posture carefully as he approaches.

“Jon? You alright?”

Whipping his head back around, glare still in place, Jon sneers at him.

“I’m fine, Tim. Leave off.”

Tim’s eyes go wide, and he steps back slightly, hands raised in consolation.

“Woah, boss. Jesus.”

He remains frozen for a moment, unsure of how to proceed. As he watches, pondering, Jon’s hand shakes so badly that tea sloshes over the rim of his mug, and Tim’s had enough.

“Jon, really. You’re shaking. Are you in pain?” he says lowly, crossing his fingers that this gentle tone won’t earn him a chewing-out.

Jon sighs and looks up, a gesture Tim recognizes as a plea for patience from whoever is listening.

“I said I’m fine, Tim. Just leave it, please,” he says, his words carefully measured.

As Tim inhales to reply, Martin steps through the doorway, freezing for a moment when he sees Jon’s attempt at making tea.

“Oh! Jon! I was just about to make some. Sorry I didn’t get it to you this morning, I had to—”

“I don’t need excuses, Martin. And I can make my own tea. Just get back to work,” he snaps viciously, never turning around to look at him.

The way Martin’s face falls at this sparks an anger in Tim that he hasn’t felt in a long while.

“Oh. Um. Right, sorry. I’ll just—I’ll just go then. Sorry,” he stammers as he hurries out of the room face beet red.

Oh, that’s it.

I’m going to kill him.

Jon at least has the graciousness to blush, regret pooling ever so slightly behind his eyes.

Tim throws his arms wide, glaring at him.

“You’re really going to snap at Martin, right in front of me, and not expect me to get angry?”

Sighing yet again, Jon does not reply, refuses to look at him. Tim’s ire only grows, and his tone steadily ticks upward until it’s very nearly a shout.

“You know, if you paid attention to anything he’s told you, you’d know that he’s been trying to get an appointment with that top surgeon for nearly a year. He’s been counting down the days on the office calendar for months, and he finally had it today, and you can’t even be bothered to remember? To cut him any slack? Are you joking?”

Jon meets his eyes at last, his glare sharp and cold.

“I do pay attention. More than you know,” he hisses.

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

Jon looks away once again, staring into his tea.

“Just…just tell me what you wanted, Tim,” he says, his voice nearly a whisper.

God, I could punch him right now.

He throws the file he’s holding on the counter instead.

“You know what? Fine. I was just starting to feel sorry for you, and I was actually going to fix this problem for you. But since you insist on being a complete arse, fine.”

He points forcefully toward the file folder.

“There’s an inconsistency with the date on this statement and the follow-up. I tried everything I could to reconcile it, but we just need more data. I need to know if there are any other statements about this house or the surrounding area so I can cross-reference them.”

“R-right, I’ll take care of that,” he says, voice still low, and takes the file.

Tim’s anger very nearly abates when he reaches for his cane, then limps slowly and painfully to sit at the breakroom table. But he cannot shove it down, no matter how much he wants to.

No, you know what? He can deal with whatever this is himself.

He ought to feel ashamed.

He can’t keep speaking to us this way.

Steeling himself, Tim locks his gaze on Jon once again.

“Look, I’m taking Martin to lunch today, and I don’t care if he’s behind on his work. I don’t care what you think of it, either. He deserves to celebrate, and you can just sit here and wallow.”

He turns immediately on his heel and strides out the door to collect Martin.

---

(7am, the next morning)

The brewing cold of autumn seeps into Tim’s bones as he walks from the gym, freshly showered and aiming to drop his things off at the Institute before grabbing coffee with Sasha. It’s the first time he’s worked out on his own since he was discharged from physical therapy, and he cannot deny his frustration about the performance of his weakened muscles—muscles that had once been so strong. Still, it had felt good to be back, and Tim had certainly not gone easy on himself.

Perhaps I should have, he thinks, feeling the shoulder beneath the strap of his gym bag beginning to seize up.

Dumping his bag on his desk, Tim flops down unceremoniously into his chair. He can’t help but wince as he rubs at his sore shoulder, finding with dismay that he can no longer turn his head to the left without sending shooting pains to the base of his skull and across the top of his shoulder.

Damn it. Overdid it again.

He spends a few minutes this way, breathing through the pain as he works his fingers over the knots, over the countless scars—testing his neck’s range of motion every so often. It helps in part, but he ultimately finds himself still unable to turn his head by the time he’s finished. He groans in frustration.

As he does so, a sharp sound echoes from deeper within the archives, and Tim is immediately set on high alert.

Fuck fuck fuck

He stays stock still, eyes blown wide, listening for any indication that something unwelcome has joined him here today, when—

A series of harsh, painful-sounding coughs floats from the direction of Jon’s office, where a light has been left on.

Vicious anger flares up in Tim instantly.

Oh you have got to be kidding me.

Standing up in a rush, he marches over to Jon’s office door, which stands partially open. There sits Jon, hunched over his desk, staring intently at the pages scattered across it without really seeing them. The deep black under his eyes tells Tim that, without a doubt, he has been here all night.

And he is furious.

“What the hell are you doing, Jon?”

Jon’s head snaps upwards, expression momentarily widened in shock, before it melts quickly back into his usual scowl.

“I’m only doing what you asked me to do, Tim,” he rasps, voice sounding decidedly small.

“I did not ask you to stay here all night,” Tim fumes, his hand slamming down angrily on the corner of Jon’s desk.

He jumps again, and guilt twinges in Tim’s chest—a twinge which deepens the longer he regards Jon’s complete bewilderment.

“It’s…morning?”

Silence hangs in the air for a moment as they stare at each other.

Something’s wrong.

Tim tries to swallow down his concern, remembering that he’s supposed to be angry.

“Look. If I tell you to go home, are you going to listen to me?”

Jon drops his gaze at once, picking at the scars on his hands.

“Right. That’s what I thought.”

Tim shakes his head briefly, looking away for a moment in frustration, when his eyes land on a small, wrapped present set on a shelf—on top of which stands a handmade card. Squinting at it, Tim can just make out the front: “Congratulations” is scrawled across the bottom in forcibly-neatened cursive, above which sits a messy drawing of a Highland cow, shaggy hair hanging down over its eyes.

Tim quirks a smile at this, his anger dissipating immediately.

“That for Martin?” he asks, jerking a thumb toward it.

Jon looks up, eyes bleary.

“What? Oh—yes, yes it is.”

“What is it?”

“Er—just some tea from my family in Jordan. It’s…quite good, actually. I thought he might like it.”

Tim is grinning smugly now, doing his best impression of a Cheshire cat while leaning over Jon’s desk.

“What an interestingly personal gift, Mister Sims. In fact, one might even mistake it for flirting—that is, if you’re capable of such a thing.”

Predictably, Jon’s face flushes beet red at this, and Tim’s entire body tips back in laughter.

“I—you—it’s not flirting, Tim. But I will have you know that I am capable of doing so, when I wish.”

Tim laughs again, so utterly pleased with himself at how flustered Jon has become.

“Right. Of course, silly me.”

After a moment’s silence, Jon sighs and rubs a hand into his temple, and Tim knows that the fun is over for now.

“So? Do you want to come grab a coffee with me and Sasha? Might do you good to get out of this place for a moment. Maybe get some caffeine and try to look a little bit less like death warmed over.”

Jon shoots him a sharp glare, which Tim thoroughly enjoys, before turning his eyes to his cane where it rests against the desk. Considering it for a moment, he worries at his bottom lip before reaching out to grab it.

“Fine. If you—”

“If I insist, right. And I do.”

“Alright.”

Jon braces his left hand against his desk, the right gripped tightly around his cane, and lifts himself to half-standing.

Panic laces up every nerve in Tim’s body when he gasps, shifting all his weight to his good leg and swaying alarmingly. He grabs onto him immediately, steadying him by the upper arms with some difficulty.

“Woah, Jon, woah woah—”

Jon blinks rapidly, face growing ashen.

“Sorry, I…” he trails off at once, eyes closing.

“Sit back down, here—sit down, Jon. God.”

Tim guides him back to his chair as the cane clatters to the floor, forgotten. His eyes remain closed as he sits, prompting Tim to shake him gently by the shoulder.

“Jon? You with me?”

After a few moments, he opens his eyes obediently, moving to nod before thinking better of it.

“Sorry, just—head rush.”

Tim rolls his eyes and stands to his full height, placing his hands on his hips.

“Bullshit. What’s wrong with you?”

Jon holds out his hands, palms facing up.

“Nothing! Just…change in the weather. Affects my…affects my leg, that’s all.”

As he says this, something that looks suspiciously like a fever chill runs the length of his body. Tim snorts in derision.

“Right. Sure. And there’s nothing at all to the fact that you’re literally shaking right now?”

Jon’s eyebrows furrow in annoyance at this.

“I’m not—”

He breaks off as he looks down—finding that he is, in fact, shaking.

Unbelievable.

“Right. I’m going to ask you again, and you’d better not lie to me. What’s wrong with you?”

At this, Jon sighs, looking away with an expression that shows he’s at least considering honesty.

Suppose that’s all I can ask for.

His considerations are cut short by coughing, which he muffles quickly with both his elbow and his closed mouth. Tim can’t help but wince at the sound—so dry and wheezing and painful that he can almost feel it in his own throat. As the fit comes to an end, Jon lowers his elbow and heaves out a wet sigh.

“Just…not feeling well, that’s all. It’s nothing.”

Tim is momentarily shocked by the candor of that statement, and feels his chest swell with responsibility.

“I’ll be the judge of that.”

Though he knows Jon will be distinctly annoyed by it, Tim places a hand on his forehead—quickly realizing what a useless thermometer his hand makes. Jon scowls up at him especially unpleasantly.

“What, it works in the movies!” he says defensively, dropping his hand.

Jon’s scowl only deepens, but he remains silent.

“Fine. I’ll just go get the thermometer, then.”

Tim walks quickly toward the break room to grab the first aid kit, which he knows Martin has recently restocked with just about everything his money could buy. Tim had made fun of him for it at the time—both for the absurd nature of his worry, as well as the extremely limited number of potential office uses for things such as a satellite phone—but now, he felt nothing but gratitude for his foresight.

Should really listen to Martin more.

Maybe then I wouldn’t have ended up with worms in my shoulder, and I’d still be able to turn my head properly.

He grabs the thermometer and walks briskly back down the hallway, hearing Jon’s coughing resume—the painfully hollow barking no longer contained by his shirt sleeve.

Jesus, he sounds awful.

When he arrives back at Jon’s office, he finds him braced over his knees, trying to catch his breath in the wake of his fit. Every inhale is drawn heavily, his lungs seemingly starved for oxygen.

Tim’s worry grows with every passing second.

“Alright, Jon, put this under your tongue,” he orders, holding the thermometer in front of him.

He takes it resentfully—but puts it under his tongue nonetheless. They wait for a few moments in silence, Jon struggling to breathe through a blocked nose until the thermometer beeps, and Tim takes it out to read it.

“38.3. Not too bad, but most definitely there.”

Jon does not reply, instead dropping his head as he resumes pulling in labored breaths in through his mouth.

Christ.

Tim sighs, replacing his hands on his hips.

“Alright, Jon. What else is there? Besides all of—” he gestures vaguely at him— “this, and the hacking up a lung?”

It appears that Jon had not heard him, his breaths still coming in heavy and wheezing.

“Hey.”

Tim snaps his fingers in front of Jon’s face and kneels in front of him, trying to draw his gaze.

“Hey—look at me, Jon. What else is there?”

His eyes turn vague and glassy as his breath hitches, catching a few times before he turns, grabbing wildly at the box of tissues set on his desk. He manages to press one against his nose just in time, facing away from Tim as he sneezes thrice—harsh and wet—before it morphs steadily back into awful barking hacks.

Jesus, Jon.

Tim shifts his weight back to sit cross-legged on the floor, waiting out the fit with his head resting against his fist. Nearly half a minute goes by before Jon turns back to him, still visibly shaking.

“Leg hurts,” he whispers weakly.

Tim lets out a soft laugh.

“That much I gathered. Head too?” he asks as Jon begins to rub at his temple again.

Jon only sniffs and nods in response, closing his eyes.

At this, Tim stands, folding his arms sternly across his chest.

“You should really go to a clinic, Jon. You look absolutely dreadful.”

“I’b fide, Tib,” Jon mutters, and Tim can’t help but outright laugh.

“Ha! Sure. You’re right, case closed, totally not struggling to breathe or anything.”

Jon glares at him once again before reaching for another tissue, blowing into it with some difficulty and little relief.

Something about his misery pulls at Tim’s chest, and he takes pity.

“Really, boss, that looks like the flu to me. And if you won’t do it for yourself, then take one for the team and go home. You don’t want to get us ill, I can promise you that. Then you’ll find us even more insufferable than usual, me especially. And yes, that is a threat.”

The corners of Jon’s mouth quirk up faintly at this, and Tim feels like he’s won the lottery at last.

“Fide. I’ll go.”

“Excellent.”

Tim picks up Jon’s cane from where it’s fallen to the floor, handing it to him and bracing the opposite elbow as he stands.

“Come on, now. There we are. Have to get you out of here before Martin arrives and starts fussing.”

Jon huffs out a laugh, a genuine smile spreading across his face.

“Tim?”

“What?”

“Isn’t that what you’re doing right now?”

Tim sputters in mock indignation, jaw dropping as he turns to face Jon.

“How dare you even suggest that? I’d never do such a thing.”

Jon’s shoulders shake with muffled laughter as they walk, and Tim feels like the luckiest person in the world to be able to witness it.

#tma #tma fic #tma sickfic #hurt/comfort #jonathan sims #tim stoker #martin blackwood #my writing

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sweetlilpaulie · 4 years

Text

The Magical and Mysterious Wishing Well Pt.II

Request for a Pt. II w/ angst. I’m really sorry guys.

George X Reader

Caution: Language, misty eyes (maybe, depends on your mood)

~~~

The boys had just gotten back to the studio, and started recording again. Cynthia had to go back home, get ready for work, and so (y/n) was left alone with the boys, Eppy and George Martin.

She couldn’t believe her eyes. She was the first outsider to hear these songs. She watched intently, listening to each take, each change, each improvement and each step towards the song she knew would be a #1 hit in a few months.

“I think I'm gonna be sad, I think it's today, yeah. The girl that's driving me mad, Is going away.”

She closed her eyes, getting lost in their voices, tapping her foot gently on the carpeted floor.

“My baby don’t care, My baby don’t care, My baby don’t care, My baby don’t care...”

(y/n)’s eyes opened once they had finished and they immediately landed on the shy Beatle, who was looking at her, amusement in his own eyes.

“Excellent. We’re done for today, you can go home now.”

The boys let out a cheer, and escaped the room, taking themselves outside. (y/n) found herself following them out into the chilly breeze.

“So, how’d we do?” George questioned her.

“Excellent. I have a feeling that song’s gonna be legendary.”

“You think so?”

Oh, I know so, honey.

“Yeah, I really do.”

He smiled.

She smiled back.

“George, a light if you please?” Paul had come out of nowhere, fag between his lips. George, clumsily shoved a hand in his pocket, in search for his lighter. Unfortunately, before he could grab it, it fell out of his pocket.

He picked it up sheepishly, and thrust it into Paul’s palm.

“Care for one, m’lady?” Paul pulled out his pack.

Only get to live once, right? Probably a really dumb idea.

“Sure. Thanks.”

He handed her the ciggie, and she licked her lips before placing it between them. Then George yanked his lighter back, and lit (y/n)’s for her.

Taking in a breath, she felt the immediate need to cough. She forced herself not to, eyes watering slightly as she did so. She blew out the smoke.

Huh. Definitely a bad idea. Oh, well.

Paul and George chatted with her, almost aggressively. It was as if the two boys where seeing who could get the most information out of her sooner. There was definitely also some tension in between the two boys, (y/n) had noticed.

She cleared her throat, after the two had started arguing about something completely off topic, and very childish.

“Er..boys, do you happen to know where the loo is?”

George pointed to the studio and was about to give directions, but Paul interrupted him. Again.

“Here, let me guide you.”

He put a hand on the small of your back and urged you forward.

“Oh c’mon Paul, it’s the loo for Christ’s sake.” George grumbled.

As much as you liked Paul, you felt he was pushing it just a little bit. You were having a bit of a moment with George, and he rudely interrupted.

“And here we are.”

“Yes, thanks. There was no need....”

“I know. Actually, I was hoping we could have a moment alone.” he bit his lip.

You raised an eyebrow. “For what reason may that be?”

“I was wondering...If you weren’t doing anything...maybe we could...get to know each other a little better? Maybe...dinner? Tonight? 5:30 or so...?”

Oh, God this can’t be happening.

“Erm...well, I was actually gonna have dinner with George so...” she awkwardly wrung her wrists as she looked down at her very non 60s shoes.

“Oh, of course...” he seemed a bit disappointed at that. “Maybe tomorrow then?”

How could I say no? I mean he’s Paul c’mon! Two dates with Beatles in the same week?

“Yeah, I think that should work.”

He looked like a giddy schoolboy.

“Gear! I’ll see ya soon then!” he then surprisingly gave (y/n) a peck on the cheek.

Now, she slightly regretted saying yes. She felt bad for George, and somehow, even though they weren’t dating, they had just met for Christ’s sake, she still felt she was letting him down. She thought it best not to dwell on it too much though.

~~~

Since (y/n) didn’t know where to go, she decided to head to the Lennon’s house, Cynthia being the only girlfriend she had in this time.

Knock, knock.

John opened the door, and gave a wide smirk.

“Can’t seem to get you away from me, eh?”

Rolling her eyes she simply replied “I was looking for Cynthia.”

“Right. CYN!” he called for his wife.

She came running to the door, a wide grin on her face.

“That’ll be all John, thank you love.”

He gave her a peck on the cheek and headed inside.

“So, how may I be of assistance?”

“Uhm, well...I wasn’t sure what to wear, I’m kinda....er...going on a date with George, and I didn’t pack anything nice...”

“Say no more.” she pulled (y/n) into the house, taking her to her walk-in closet.

She pulled out several things: a shift dress, a blouse and skirt, a beautiful chiffon gown...

“Ah, here it is!”

She finally pulled out a very cute salmon cocktail dress with ruffled straps.

She held it against (y/n)’s body.

“I think it should fit well.”

“Thank you Cyn.”

“Of course, darling.”

Cynthia headed out of the room, and (y/n) quickly changed into the dress.

Once she had left the room, she found Cyn and John sitting on the sofa, both of them smoking a cig, John reading a book, and Cyn resting her head on his shoulder. (y/n) perceived it as very intimate, and felt bad for intruding. Cynthia seemed to notice her presence in the room and waved a hand for her to come and join them.

“Would you care for a cuppa?”

“Yes, thank you.”

Cyn pushed the cup and saucer on the coffee table, towards (y/n).

Soon enough, after 3 cups of tea, and to (y/n)’s dismay, another cigarette, a knock came on the door. John glanced up from his book, at the door.

“Another visitor, ay?”

“That must be George.” (y/n) started to stand up, but Cynthia beckoned her back into her seat.

“Here, allow me.”

She opened the door.

“Hello George! Er... and Paul?”

What?!

“Hello Cyn.” (y/n) could recognize that voice from anywhere.

What the hell is Paul doing here?!

“Well, (y/n) is coming.”

She stood up, legs wavering, slightly.

When she came to the door, sure enough both George and Paul where standing there waiting to greet her.

“Uhm, hello...” she muttered awkwardly.

Paul gave her a toothy grin, along with a greeting, George merely mumbled a ‘hi’ and barely glanced her way.

What’s with him?

They escorted her to the car. Paul, gentlemanly, opened the door for (y/n) as George went to the driver’s seat to start the car. She very uncomfortably, had sit in-between the two boys, who took up a lot of space.

This is not what I was thinking.

Paul tried to initiate some conversation, but she just ended up giving monosyllabic answers, still wondering what his problem was.

They had gotten to a club, which when they entered was filled with heat, music, and the stench of potent alcohol.

So much for a nice dinner.

They sat at the bar, and the bartender asked what they wanted.

“A brandy for me.” George offered. Then he turned to you, which was the first time he had done so this entire night. But, it was not a look she liked very much “What d’ya want?”

“Er, a bottle of red, please.”

“I’ll have a scotch, ta.” Paul piped up.

George slammed the cash on the wood, making (y/n) jump slightly.

They drank some of their beverages. She never really liked the taste of alcohol, but she supposed that’s all you’d get at a bar.

Paul once again, tried to start a conversation, whilst George silently nursed his drink. He was quickly becoming very drunk.

They call it liquid courage for a reason.

Or more like, liquid stupidity.

George slipped, rather awkwardly, out of his seat, and off to a girl who happened to glance his way several times through the night.

Right in front of (y/n), he kissed her long and slow, eyes still on his date.

Asshole.

After having a very unnecessarily long make out session, he pulled her into the bathroom. Before the door had fully closed, he sent a smirk her way. Paul had seen the whole escapade as well, and was very annoyed himself.

“I dunno what’s up with him. He come’s to me askin’ if he wants to join ye at the club, and I knew he fancied you the moment he saw you. Now he’s off ter shag some skank.”

“I don’t know either.” you frowned at the now closed door. You had worshipped George, always adored his style and his voice, his seemingly kind personality, but you guess maybe you didn’t know him well enough. He was, at the moment, being a drunk blockhead, and you lost all the admiration you had once had for him.

Soon enough, they came out the bathroom, recent activities, evident in their faces. He gave her another kiss, and walked back to where Paul and (y/n) were sitting.

“So, you gonna fuck yet?” he snarled.

“Excuse me?!” she choked out.

He rolled his eyes at her. “’ts obvious. So why don’t you get it done already?”

“I have no idea what the hell is up with you, but you’re acting like a ass, and it’s pissing me off.” she glared at him, arms crossed.

“Yeah, it’s pisses you off? I should be the one who’s pissed off! Leadin’ me on, and then goin off with Paul. If ya didn’t want me, just fuckin’ tell me so!”

“Well, I certainly don’t want you anymore, George Harrison.” she fumed. And before she knew what she was doing, she pulled Paul’s face to hers. He lips melted into hers and they had a fight for dominance. When, they pulled apart, Paul looked at her with an air of shock, but obvious pleasure and lust in his eyes. George’s mouth dropped open, but then he quickly scowled, and headed towards the entrance.

“I see you’ve made your choice. I hope your happy.” he spat bitterly.

“I hate you George Harrison. I’ve now seen how cruel you really are.”

And with that, she never spoke another word to the man.

~~~

I’m so SO sorry, that took me 5 million years, I’m finally done! Hope you enjoyed. It’s kinda long, so yeah.. anyways, have a good day!

#Beatles #George Harrison #george harrison x reader #paul mccartney #paul mccartney x reader #John Lennon #cynthia lennon #Ringo Starr #angst

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ladyherenya · 3 years

Photo

Books read in December

I set myself some reading goals for the end of the year -- finish any books I’d already started, read the books I'd already borrowed, and to read ebooks I’d bought before buying any more. But I guess most of those books just weren’t the right genre? A few exceptions aside, this month I read a bunch of other things instead.

Also read: The Frost Fair Affair and Holiday Brew by Tansy Rayner Roberts, and Sweetest in the Gale and 40-Love by Olivia Dade.

Reread: Love Lettering by Kate Clayborn and Bookish and the Beast by Ashley Poston.

Total: thirteen novels (including two audiobooks and two rereads), three novellas, and three story/novella collections.

Favourite cover: The cover was what caught my attention for Finding My Voice and Old Baggage.

Still reading: Between Silk and Cyanide by Leo Marks, Or What You Will by Jo Walton and The Disorderly Knights by Dorothy Dunnett.

Next up: A Most Improper Magick by Stephanie Burgis.

Queen’s Play by Dorothy Dunnett (narrated by David Monteath): In 1548, Francis Crawford of Lymond arrives in France, incognito in order to protect Scotland’s queen, seven-year-old Mary. I enjoyed this, even though I am not very interested in the antics of the French court and thought The Game of Kings benefitted from having more characters who I found wholly likeable and/or who matter, personally, to Lymond. Dunnett is an impressive storyteller -- vivid descriptions, lively dialogue, nuanced characters and twists that take me by surprise. Moreover, those satisfying puzzle pieces explain the plots and intrigue, give insight into personalities and develop the narrative’s themes (here, the consequences of power).

The Kinship of Secrets by Eugenia Kim: In 1950, four year old Inja lives with her grandparents and uncle in Seoul, while her sister Miran is in America with their parents. War delays the family’s reunion. This is a fascinating portrayal of two sisters growing up in different countries, and an incredibly poignant story about a family separated. Compelling, and beautifully written, and despite moments of intense grief, hopeful. I liked how, in the end, Inja and Miran didn’t have all the answers.. But I wonder if I’d have found the ending more satisfying if I had a deeper understanding of who they both were as adults.

Teacup Magic series by Tansy Rayner Roberts:

Tea and Sympathetic Magic: Stephanie Burgis recommended this novella as something similar to her Harwood Spellbook series and it certainly has a similar appeal: romantic fantasy, bordering on comedy-of-manners territory. Like Georgette Heyer but with magic and diversity and an intention to challenge problematic and outdated attitudes. Charming and cosy, like a good cup of tea rather than a frothy hot chocolate. Miss Mnemosyne Seaborne, a reluctant guest at a houseparty. She joins forces with the other guests after an unexpected abduction occurs. Entertaining, and even though it was too short for me to really become invested, I immediately wanted to read the sequel.

The Frost Fair Affair: After her previous adventures, Mneme has new friends, a suitor and a campaign: overturning the social conventions which prevent women from travelling by portal. After someone in Town steals her political pamphlets, she gets caught up in a mystery. I enjoyed this oh so much! I found myself caring a lot more about Mneme and her relationships; I liked the mixture of intrigue and danger, and how in the cause of dealing with these, Mneme learns more about the man she hopes to marry; and the Frost Fair, on a frozen river, makes a delightful setting. I'd love to read more.

Belladonna U(niversity) series by Tansy Rayner Roberts:

Unreal Alchemy: Oh, this is my new favourite! Urban fantasy about Australian uni students who are connected to an indie rock band, Fake Geek Girl. These stories are funny, geeky and romantic, with great chapter titles and lots of fandom references. They employ different points of view and different narrative styles in a way that’s really effective. I love the characters and how important and intense their non-romantic relationships are. Between them they have a variety of romantic/sexual relationships and feelings, but friendships and familial relationships, like the one between twin sisters Hebe and Holly, also drive the narrative. The first collection contains four stories/novellas.

Fake Geek Girl -- Ferd moves into the Manic Pixie Dream House; Holly and Sage argue about the future of the band.

Unmagical Boy Story -- Viola has feelings about her best friend losing his magic, transferring colleges and making new friends.

The Bromancers -- The band and frriends spend a weekend at a magical music festival.

The Alchemy of Fine -- A prequel about the band’s origins.

Holiday Brew: This collection is more serious and less overtly fandom-y than the first, but arguably still very meta (especially if you consider Viola, Jules and Ferd as a response to the trio in Harry Potter). I sat down intending to read just one of these stories -- and ended up reading them all.

Halloween Is Not A Verb -- Holly invites various people to their mums’ place for Halloween.

Solstice on the Rocks -- A short story about university graduation.

Kissing Basilisks -- Begins on New Year’s Day, is compelling, and picks up the non-band-related narrative threads from Fake Geek Girl.

Missing Christmas by Kate Clayborn: This novella is loosely connected to Beginer's Luck but stands alone. It's sweet. Business partners and best friends Jasper and Kristen pay a last minute trip to a client and get trapped by a blizzard, which pushes them to reconsider the boundaries they’ve drawn in their relationship. I liked the moments which showed that they’re an effective team because they know each other so well and can communicate through subtle body language.

Finding My Voice by Marie Myung-Ok Lee: Ellen is a Korean-American teenager in her final year of high school. Her story is about applying for college, gymnastics training, Ellen’s relationships with her best friend and her first boyfriend, dealing with racism at school and with her parents’ expectations that she will follow her sister to Harvard. It’s very short, first published in 1993. I was aware of all the places where a YA novel written today would be allowed to give more details and to expand the story, but it was still interesting.

The Magnolia Sword: A Ballad of Mulan by Sherry Thomas: I’ve borrowed this several times this year, only to return it unread each time, and I was starting to wonder if I really wanted to read it. But once I actually sat down and focused, I quickly realised that I definitely did! I became completely engrossed in this Mulan retelling. It’s a tense adventure. I enjoyed the characters and their interactions, particularly the elaborate courtesy of formal conversations, and the way Mulan and her companions value loyalty and camaraderie. I thought this was a very believable take on the whole girl-disguised-as-a-boy thing too.

Dear Mrs Bird by AJ Pearce: In 1940, Emmy wants a newspaper job but is instead typing up letters for a women’s magazine and discarding mail from readers whose problems are Unacceptable. Frustrated that Mrs Bird won’t offer advice to so many women in need, Emmy's tempted to take matters into her own hands. Her optimism means she makes some naive mistakes, some of which made me wince, but it’s also an incredible strength. She's delightful company. I really like how much of this story is about her friendship with Bunty and I enjoyed the insight into women's magazines and the Auxiliary Fire Service.

The Lonely Hearts Dog Walkers by Sheila Norton: Recently separated, Nicola moves back in with her mother, starts as a teaching assistant at her daughter’s new school, gets a puppy and joins a group of dog walkers, who embark upon a mission to save the local park. This was very low-angst and, once I realised the sort of story it was, kind of predictable. I can recognise the appeal of this brand of realism, but personally would have preferred more humour or more emotional complexity. Were Nicola a colleague, it’d be easy to find things in common to discuss, but her story wasn’t quite what I was looking for.

Chasing Lucky by Jenn Bennett: When Josie and her mother return to Beauty to look after the family bookshop, Josie has plans -- keep to herself, finish high school, secure a photography apprenticeship, move to LA. But after Josie accidentally breaks a store-front window and her childhood friend Lucky takes the blame, Josie’s priorities change. I enjoyed this more than I expected to. I particularly liked how Lucky subverts people’s expectations, and how Josie’s family works at communicating better with each other.

Old Baggage by Lissa Evans (narrated by Joanna Scanlan): It’s 1928 and Mattie Simpkin, a now-middle-aged militant suffragette, lives in Hampstead with her friend Florrie Lee (aka The Flea). Mattie gives lectures about the suffragettes but realises she’s not reaching the younger generation. So she starts a club for “healthy outdoor fun” for teenage girls. Mattie is wonderfully forthright -- amusing, engaging and informative when it comes to things she’s passionate about -- but she’s also fallible. A really delightful yet bittersweet story about friendship and loss and the opportunities available for women. I liked its awareness that being able to loudly be yourself is a privilege not everyone has.

There’s Something About Marysburg series by Olivia Dade:

Teach Me: Rose is unimpressed -- not only must she share her classroom with the new history teacher, he’s been given her Honors World History class. There’s something particularly satisfying about people who have been hurt and lonely finding support and love in each other. I like that they get to know each other over many months. I like Martin’s relationship with his teenage daughter and Rose’s relationship with her ex’s parents is so touching that one scene made me cry. And it was interesting seeing the US school system from the perspective of experienced teachers; I appreciated the details about their jobs.

Sweetest in the Gale: a Marysburg story collection contains three novellas about couples in their forties.

Sweetest in the Gale -- Griff is worried when Candy, a fellow English teacher, returns for the new school year uncharacteristically sombre and subdued. A really sweet romance about people who are navigating loss and grief.

Unraveled -- Maths teacher Simon is assigned to observe and mentor the new art teacher, Poppy. I enjoyed the threads of mystery.

Cover Me -- After a concerning mammogram result, Elizabeth marries an old friend so she’s covered by his health insurance. Predictable as anything, but that made it a safe position from which to explore serious and sobering topics.

40-Love: I’m not interested in tennis or holiday resorts; I was disappointed that this novel wouldn’t show Tess being an assistant principal; and even though some of my favourite fictional couples have a significant age-gap, I’m wary about age-gap romances (and socially-programmed to think it’s odd for a woman to date a much younger guy). But I liked the other stories in this series and I was curious. It’s Not really My Cup of Tea, but I was convinced that Tess and Lucas were both capable of making their (somewhat unconventional) relationship work. An interesting exercise in challenging my social-programming.

The Viscount Who Loved Me by Julia Quinn: After watching Bridgerton (not always to my tastes but mostly fun), curiosity prompted me to read the opening of the second novel, and I was so entertained by Kate Sheffield verbally sparring with the viscount, whom Kate is determined to prevent from marrying her younger sister. I continued to be entertained up until the viscount acts a bit too entitled on his wedding night (that’s unattractive, if outrightly problematic). Which left me in rather an uncharitable mood for the final act, so I can’t identify if the drama of dealing with past traumas didn’t meet the standard of the earlier comedy or if I just hold such scenes to differing standards.

#Herenya reviews books #sooner or later

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primalrageanddumbassery · 4 years

Text

It’s A Quiet Room That Calls My Name

Word Count: 2,560

Ships: Jonmartin

Warnings: Self Loathing

Brief Alcohol Mention

Insomnia

Fear of Abandonment

Crying

Brief Mention of an Abusive Parent (Martin' mum)

Repeating one sentence over and over

Swearing

Summary: Jon has been so distant since they arrived at the cabin. Martin wants to believe that he's giving Martin space, but the voices in his head have all but convinced him otherwise. The Lonely is returning, if it ever left at all. AO3 link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26342788

For all its faults, Martin really did like the safehouse. Sure, it was dusty, free of any decoration, and smelled like the 5 year old scotch left on the counters and in the cupboards. Sure, all blankets, pillows, and cloth-based items were moth eaten. Sure, the tiled floor of the kitchen was so bitterly cold that you could feel it through even your thickest socks (and occasionally even your shoes), making late night cups of tea borderline unpleasant, especially if you forgot to put on socks or shoes.

All of that said, the beds were cozy enough, the fireplace was gorgeous, and Jon was there. Martin couldn't bring himself to truly hate any place with Jon when it came down to it. Even the memory of the Institute had a little bit of a rose-colored tinge to it, if only because he had met Jon there.

So Martin bought rustic-looking signs with cheesy sentiments in cursive to hang around the house, a toothbrush holder to screw to the bathroom wall, and anything else he could find in the market to make the safehouse feel more like a permanent home than a random cabin he was hiding in with the man he... to be honest, he didn't know what Jon was to him, but he liked thinking of this as

their

house rather than their hideaway or, worse, their prison.

As much as he fantasized about being... whatever he fantasized about being to Jon, he couldn't help but notice how much space the other gave him. Sure, they'd eat together, play cards together (which was rather amusing as Jon only knew Trash and Go Fish), even just sit in what passed as a living room reading together, but Jon seemed so

tentative

, like he thought if he got too close Martin would disintegrate. In all fairness, Martin had been in such a fragile state at first that any attempts to come near him might have resulted in whatever outcomes it was that Jon feared, but within a week most of the immediate effects of the Lonely had worn off. He was almost certain Jon had realized that he was, for the most part, better now, but his companion seemed no more willing to make physical contact than he was the first week. For reference, they were now on week seven.

There was, of course, that tiny voice in Martin's head -too frequent to be in the back of his mind, but not loud enough for him to devote very much conscious thought to it for at least a little while- that was slowly filling Martin with a lonesome dread not unlike the kind he knew back when Jon was in the height of his paranoia.

He's just being polite, you do know that, right?

the voice would whisper.

He's only staying because he needs to. He just wants to keep himself safe. He doesn't love you the way you love him. He doesn't WANT to love you the way you love him. Who would? It's obsessive, disabling, disgusting. Not even your own mother wanted your love. Why would someone who could choose otherwise?

Soon, the voice wasn't a tiny voice anymore, but a voice demanding to be heard. It sounded remarkably like Jon's own voice. Soon, it wasn't very far away from the forefront of his mind. He could hear it all the time, with that

tone

Jon had when he was absolutely disgusted. The only tone Martin had known him to have for almost the entire first year they'd known each other.

In this instance, Martin was trying to read a book on the sofa. It was late at night, around 10:30, but he had long since given up on sleep and instead had resigned himself to trying to focus on the memoir he found on Daisy's nightstand. It wasn't working. His mind was so polluted with his worries that he found himself rereading one sentence over and over. His mind was so polluted with his worries that he found himself rereading one sentence over and over. His mind was so polluted with his worries that he found himself rereading one sentence over and over. His mind was so polluted with his worries that he found himself rereading one sentence over and over.

The soft sound of Jon clearing his throat brought him out of his thoughts. Martin looked up from the book in a bit of a daze.

"Oh, did you say something, Jon?" he asked, immediately worried he'd missed something important.

"Not yet, actually," Jon replied, "but I was going to tell you that I'm going to bed."

"Oh, okay. Sleep well, then." Martin looked back down at his book. There was a beat of silence.

"You should think about doing the same, Martin," Jon said softly. Martin looked up again, surprised.

"Oh, no, I'm alright. I have some things on my mind right now- I don't think I could sleep if I wanted to." Jon frowned with concern.

"Are you sure? You look like you haven't slept well. It might do you some good."

I do?

Martin thought. He hadn't noticed looking any different.

"I'll go to bed in a bit, alright?" he assured Jon. "You go ahead." Jon's brow furrowed and for a moment he looked like he was about to argue, but seemed to think better of it.

"Alright. Goodnight, Martin."

Jon almost shut the door to the guest bedroom behind him, but he seemed to think better of it and left it ajar.

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

Try as he might, Martin couldn't force himself to focus on his book. He would finish a page, but realize he couldn't recall in the least what he'd read on it. It wasn't even serving as a distraction anymore- his every thought was of Jon's distance.

Of how

lonely

he was.

He didn't put a word to it immediately, but then he felt the fog -perfectly devoid of temperature to contrast the warm cabin, just as he remembered it- curling around his arms and legs and neck and between each of his fingers. He knew then. He had no illusions about what the opaque gray fog meant.

"No, no, I'm out of there," he whispered, trying to fan it away. It didn't work, of course, becoming clearer and clearer as he felt himself start to fade out of vision.

"Stop it, stop it! I'm not lonely!" He gripped his head in frustration. The fog was unrelenting. The very worst part of it, however, was the sense, deep down, of relief. The numbness was returning and he knew how much

easier

everything became with it. A part of him, a bigger part than he would ever like to admit, wanted nothing more than to submit again. If he just let go...

Before he knew it, he was in the bedroom he was using, burrowing head-first under the covers. It was something he had done as a very small child, swimming to to bottom of the sheets like it was the ocean or a cave. Other than the rustle of covers as he went deeper, all other sounds were muted by the blankets. It had always sounded, to him, like he was utterly alone.

He was a good deal bigger now, and unless his legs were drawn up close to him, they stuck out the top of the blankets. It was surreal to be in such a familiar situation again but with a drastically different body. Even so, he knew why he had done it again.

It was pitch black under the covers, all of the sounds muted by the layers of comforter and quilt. In the quiet, he could more easily hear the pounding voice.

HE DOESN'T NEED YOU. HE NEVER HAS. THE ONLY REASON HE REMAINS HERE IS FEAR OF WHAT LIES OUTSIDE. WHY ELSE WOULD ANYONE VOLUNTARILY SPEND TIME WITH MARTIN BLACKWOOD?

This was loneliness at its finest.

A part of him was still reluctant, still conscious of the danger he was in. How he'd fought so hard to get out of the Lonely the first time, how he felt so much happier when he was able to just be with Jon like he should have been for the past year.

This was the part of him that made him cry. Even though he could feel the calm fog, the relievingly calm fog that whispered of its tranquility, of its numbness to him, he could still feel the tiniest sliver of himself that remained and protested. His sobs shook his chest violently, loudly. His first instinct was to try to quiet himself (

"Mum hates it when I'm loud, she'll be so mad at me..."

he thought in his delirium), but upon trying, he found that he couldn't. He was crying too hard for that to be even close to plausible. He hugged his knees, lying on his side underneath the blankets.

This is why,

he thought.

This is exactly why he's keeping away from you. Look at you! You're a mess! What kind of crazy would he have to be to want to get involved with this shitshow? It's selfish of you to even consider letting him get involved. Jon does NOT need this kind of stress. Why, you're the most selfish man on the continent! The planet, even! After all Jon has been through? Why would you even THINK about asking for his help? You're such a-

"Martin? Are you okay? I heard you-"

Jon's voice stopped at the same moment that Martin froze.

"Martin, are you alright?"

Shit, shit, shit! He'll see my puffy red eyes, he'll see the fog- OH SHIT, HE'LL SEE THE FOG, HE'LL SEE THAT I'M FADING, I CAN'T BELIEVE I WAS SO-

He felt the mattress depress.

Jon has sat down.

"You can talk to me about anything, Martin. You

know that?" Martin took a shaky breath. The half of him that had been more than ready to return to the Lonely was uncomfortable.

"Y-yeah," he whispered finally. With a high degree of difficulty, whether from his own reluctance or the physical restraints, he slowly crawled out of the covers. Jon had clicked on the bedside lamp and was smiling at him.

"There you are." Martin smiled back shyly.

"Here I am." Jon looked him up and down, eyes catching on the fog. His breath hitched.

"The Lonely again?" Martin shrunk into himself, vigorously messing with the threadbare edge of the quilt. His fingertips were completely invisible. "Hey, hey, it's alright," Jon said softly. "I'm not mad if it's back. I just want to help it go away again, okay?"

This was probably the softest Martin had ever heard Jon say. He was surprised he wasn't a puddle by now.

"Ok-okay," Martin whispered. He relaxed his shoulders as best he could. The quiet that followed was almost tense with Jon apparently thinking about what to do next and Martin trying (in vain) to push away the thoughts again.

"Can you- that is, would you like to... talk about it?" Jon asked tentatively.

Don't tell him! He'll think you're ungrateful! He's giving you the space he thinks you need, you can't tell him that he's making it worse! What are you doing? How dare you even consider it? He's trying to be kind to you! Why would you throw it back in his face? Just lie, tell him you don't know how it happened, tell him it came out of nowhere and you're just fine, tell him-

"Martin? Are you still with me?" Jon's voice drew him out of his thoughts.

No, Jon's too smart for that. I have to tell him.

"Yeah, I am. I think I... I think I

would

like to talk about it." Jon nodded.

"Alright, then," Jon said. Martin took a deep breath, trying to figure out where to begin.

"I've been... worried, I think? Yeah, I've been worried recently. About how you feel about me. I mean, don't get me wrong- you're nowhere

near

the way you were in the beginning, and I'm really happy about that, but..." He trailed off, searching for the words. "Look, Jon- I know you're trying to give me space and not impose, but space is the complete opposite of what I need. I mean," he said with a half-assed laugh, "I've had nothing but space since that damned Unknowing. I- I mean, if you would be..." He took a breath to steel himself. "If you would be willing to get closer to me, that would be good. For me. I think." Jon's mouth was slightly ajar in... surprise? Loss of words?

"Martin, I... I'm so sorry, I didn't realize that I... I should have kn-"

"No, no, Jon, don't do that, you had no reason to have known," Martin pleaded. "You didn't know and what's done is done. But now that you do know..."

"I'll do anything to make sure you don't feel that way again," Jon assured him. "Of course. I

sorry, though. I promise, I'll do whatever you need me to do." Martin smiled widely. Probably the first genuine, Martin K. Blackwood Ray-Of-Sunshine Smile™️ that had occured since, well, since the Unknowing.

"Is touching alright?" Jon asked softly. The half of him prepared to become Lonely again was still there and screamed 'no', screamed for Jon to leave, but Martin nodded.

"Yes. Yeah, it's okay."

Jon's hand reached out and covered Martin's.

"What do you see?" he asked gently. Martin smiled.

"You, Jon." Jon's grip tightened around Martin's fingers. His hand was substantially smaller, something that would have made Martin laugh in another situation.

"And I'm not going

anywhere

, you hear me, Martin? I'm staying right here, right by your side as long as you need me." His green-brown eyes, so calculating so much of the time, looked at Martin with nothing other than pure adoration. Martin felt himself tearing up.

"Thank you, Jon," he whispered. Jon chuckled.

"Oh, Martin, don't

cry..

." he stood up and moved to the other side of the bed so he could sit next to Martin. He slid into the covers and put a gentle hand on the cheek that faced away from him, guiding Martin's head to lay on Jon's shoulder. Martin laughed a bit, relaxing. He had to shift his body sideways so he wasn't bending down to do so. Jon's arm settled around Martin's shoulders.

The fog isn't gone, but it's getting there. Martin knows it won't just disappear. It's had too lasting an effect on him to just

disappear

. He's still a little bit lonely, but that's alright. He has Jon, and he's positive now that Jon won't leave him. He'll heal in time.

"Jon?"

"Hm?" Jon hummed in response.

"Would you... would you stay in here with me? In the bedroom?" Jon smiled.

"Of course." He pressed a kiss into Martin's hazelnut curls. "As long as you'll have me." Martin chuckled.

"You're never going to sleep in that other bedroom again in that case." Jon shrugged.

"Then so be it."

Thank you SO MUCH for reading!!!!!!!! Bro I enjoyed writing this so much! It went through several drafts over the past few days so I was just a tad bit worried but!! it's fine!!! and I'm happy!!!!! And by the way, the swimming under blankets thing? You cannot imagine how fun that is. I did that when I was a kid ALL the time and quite frankly if I had a bed larger than a twin, I would still do it. I would highly recommend that you try it as soon as possible. Pro tip- it works best in a large, king or queen sized bed, and even better if the covers are tucked in at the end of the bed. And again, if you want to know what the song is that this fic was named after, listen to Long Shadow by Della Mae because it fucking SLAPS https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=B7J30ksWBRE&feature=youtu.be

This fic was originally posted on my AO3 account. If you like my content, feel free to hop over there and check out the rest of my work! I have two more TMA fics out so if you liked this one, check out 'And The Hounds of Heaven Rise' and ‘But Now I’ve Come Back To Wash Out The Stains Hey! I love you! Take care of yourself, okay? Go get yourself some water to celebrate the fact that you're a cool person! Or food if you haven't eaten recently. Or your meds if you need them! Stay safe and remember that you're radder than, like, a whole jar of peanut butter! I repeat: THANK YOU FOR READING! ~Beck

#the magnus archives #fanfiction #Jonathan sims #martin blackwood #fluff #angst #scottish safehouse period #season 4 spoilers

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wormtitty · 4 years

Text

Epiphany, part 2

tim/martin, 3.2k words, E-rating

read on AO3!

Something about Tim’s visit the other day bothered him. It was nagging at the back of his mind, squirming around like the worms that he keeps seeing out of the corner of his eye. Living in the archives was bad enough, Martin didn’t need the extra confusion, the added frustration that Tim’s impromptu drop-in had brought up.

So he had a crush on Jon. It wasn’t going to actually go anywhere; Jon was his boss. That’d be a huge HR violation. Probably. Either way, it wasn’t fair of Tim to just barge in and start interrogating him about who he liked, as if they were still in primary school. Especially not when he opened up a whole can of worms about his insecurities, even though it was kind of nice to affirm that at least one of his colleagues was still his friend.

Still though, he absolutely didn’t need to start throwing out names like he did. And from what he managed to infer from the conversation, Tim and Sasha had some sort of bet on his romantic life. And then he said - that.

“Dance card’s open.”

With a wink.

What was Martin supposed to do with that, exactly? Of course he’d noticed Tim’s flirting. But he flirted with everyone; Sasha, Jon, Kevin, even Rosie! Martin even saw him wink at Elias once, though he received such an intense glare in return that Tim had never tried again. So what were a couple of dirty jokes and glances every now and then between friends?

Oh god. Was Tim actually into him? Martin fretted over this for an admittedly considerable period of time before finally deciding to ask Tim himself. After all, didn’t he do the exact same thing to Martin not even a week ago? He drafted, the redrafted, text after text before finally just asking if Tim wanted to get drinks together that night, since it was Friday and neither of them had to actually work the next day. Although, he supposed, Martin did have to come back to the Institute. Because he lived there now.

Honestly, he wasn’t expecting the near-immediate confirmation text Tim sent. He’d expected the text to go unread until Monday, or for him to politely decline because he had company that evening. And why wouldn’t he? He’s Tim, the man with a body to die for and a personality that immediately drew one in. Okay, so maybe he was a little bit attracted to his friend. It was no big deal, because you’d be hard-pressed to find anyone in the greater London area that wasn’t at least a little in love with Timothy Stoker.

But Tim had responded, with an enthusiastic “Yes please!” that had Martin’s heart racing for totally normal reasons. With only a minimal amount of fumbling, they’d agreed to a time and place to meet. Martin resolutely did not spend the hours leading up to that fussing over his appearance. Tim knew his living situation, and hopefully wouldn’t be too put off by the outfit Martin put together from his measly selection of clothes he rescued from his flat. Surprisingly, he didn’t think to grab eveningwear in his rush to pack the essentials and get the hell out of there. Besides, it’s not like this was a date .

***

“Martin!” Tim exclaimed from the booth he’d claimed in the bar they’d chosen. He stood to give Martin a one-armed hug in greeting. If that sent him blushing, Tim thankfully didn’t comment on it. “Didn’t think you’d be the one to initiate this little meetup! These days, it’s usually me or Sasha that have to drag you out of the Institute for some fresh air. Or just to see other people that aren’t staff.” Tim said with a pointed look.

“Yeah, I mean, it’s not the easiest thing to not freak out in public every time I see a worm. Sometimes they’re real, but most of the time I’m afraid I’m imagining them.” Martin felt relieved at being able to admit that, if a little embarrassed. But Tim wore an expression that conveyed his understanding and blessedly changed the subject by ordering both of them a stiff pint.

“All work talk aside, what prompted you to call on me?” Tim inquired. “Not that I’m complaining, of course.”

“I actually wanted to, ah - I wanted to talk to you about something you said the other day.” Martin admitted to the table, suddenly fascinated in the grain of the wood. He began tracing a line with a finger.

“Oh, I hope I didn’t make you uncomfortable, Martin. I was just having a bit of fun, a little curious about what had you so distracted, but that’s all. I’m sorry if it was out of line. I know we work together but you’re still my friend and I’d hate-”

“It’s not that!” Martin cut in. Looking up from his table when their drinks were delivered, he took a breath in attempt to calm his racing heart. “No, Tim, it wasn’t that. Well, it was, but about the other thing.” Tim seemed confused. “After. The second time.”

A look of realization crossed over his face. Martin’s own face seemed to be made of fire, so he busied himself by taking a deep drink from his pint. A slow grin started to unfurl from Tim’s lips.

“Martin, don’t tell me you texted me for a booty call ?” He beamed at Martin with a shit-eating grin.

“No! Tim, god, no!” Oh, he actually seemed a bit disappointed in that. “I mean, not that there’s no interest! Oh, would you please say something else before I embarrass myself even further? I didn’t ask to see you for a booty call, Tim. I just wanted to know what you meant?”

“What I meant by…” Trailing off, Tim took some time to remember what exactly it was that had confused Martin. Across the table, Martin was steadily draining his beer in an attempt to keep his mouth occupied and not talking. “Oh! The dance card thing?” He nodded. “That’s basically what it says on the tin, right? Dance card’s open, I’m open, get it?”

“Uhm,” Martin started again, “So you were, you were being serious?” Before Tim could answer, the waiter stopped by to collect their glasses and Martin mumbled his way through asking for a refill. When he looked back across the table, Tim looked utterly dumbfounded.

“Martin, I thought you knew! Christ, I’ve been dropping hints for what feels like forever. You really weren’t aware I was sincerely hitting on you?”

If it was possible, Martin’s cheeks coloured even deeper. “No? I thought you flirted with everyone! You’re always making eyes at our other colleagues, and two weeks ago you kissed Sasha’s cheek! Also, like, I’m me and you’re you .” He decided it was best to stop talking when Tim’s expression went from amused to vaguely pissed off the longer Martin tried to explain.

“Okay, one: I ‘make eyes’ at people I find attractive. In case you weren’t aware, that includes you too.” Martin tried to shrink into himself. “And two: I kissed Sasha’s cheek because she agreed to take one of my more frustrating cases and couldn’t give her a hug due to the files I was currently carrying. But that doesn’t mean anything.” Tim shrugged, “I just wanted you to know that if it was me you were acting all dreamy about, I’d really like you to act on that because I fancy you , as hard as that is for you to believe.”

Fixing his posture, as well as the no doubt dumbstruck look on his face, Martin cleared his throat. “Well. I, uh, thank you? I guess, same? I mean, ditto. I think I’d like to accept your dance card invitation, if you still have an opening?”

“Of course I do.” After that, they finished their drinks in companionable silence. The air was a little bit charged, a little heavy, and neither quite wanted to break the tension yet. Eventually, Tim called the waiter over and paid their tab. “So, what now?” he asked with a warm smile. “I think we’ve spent what time we want to here, but I don’t think I’m ready to let you go just yet. We could grab a late night bite to eat, or we could actually go dancing at one of the clubs around here? And there’s always my flat. I’m sure I can scrounge up something for a nightcap, if you’d like. Promise to be a perfect gentleman.”

With a groan, Martin politely declined both options of staying out later. Unfortunately, his body just isn’t quite as young as it used to be, and he’d never been much of a clubbing kind of guy.

Which is how the two of them ended up on opposite ends of Tim’s couch, each nursing a cup of tea that Tim insisted on making. Even they both knew Martin’s tea would have been far superior. They’d chatted idly about their childhoods (Tim’s was objectively happier), families, and other idle topics on the walk to the flat, but Martin was still mulling over the conversation that led them here.

“About your advice back in the archives, just out of curiosity, where do you think I stand firm, Tim? Not - not things that I can give people, right?” Tim set his empty mug on the coffee table while he mulled the question over in his head.

“Of course. I mean firstly, I think you’re incredibly brave. I would’ve quit the second that freaky worm lady let me go. But you’re still here, Martin. You’ve not thrown in the towel and found somewhere else to work, instead you stayed and kept researching even when I know you’re scared.” Martin looked as if he was about to interrupt. “I’m not done!” Tim said, shushing him with a finger to his lips.

“You’re also very kind. Now I know that making people tea is technically giving something, but you’re probably the only person I know that can make the perfect cup every time. And we never have to ask! You’ve always been great at conversation, ever since you started working at the institute. It can get pretty dreary in the archives, and I know all of us appreciate you being there to brighten it up a bit.”

By now, Martin was incredibly red-faced. He batted Tim’s hand away. “Are you done?” he asked, with a hint of trepidation in his voice.

“Nah, I also think you’re hot as hell.” Tim declared, smirking. Martin made a noise that was half squeak, half groan and put his head in his hands.

“I’d really like it if you’d shut up now, Tim,” he said, the words slightly muffled by his palms.

“Well, I’d really like it if you came over here and made me.”

Half scandalized and half intrigued, Martin carefully shuffled closer to Tim. They were almost knee to knee. Ever so slowly, Tim reached over and pried the mug from his hands. The gentle clink of ceramic on glass broke whatever spell that’d entranced them, and Martin lurched forward.

The kiss was slightly off center with the force of Martin’s body pressing Tim back against the arm of the couch. He angled his head more and, oh, that was so much better. Every sense of his was heightened with the slick slide of their lips. Tim was kissing back with just enough fervour, if not more. There was a hand in his hair and a fist curled in the front of his shirt, hauling Martin closer, closer, ever closer.

Tim let his legs fall further apart and Martin greedily scooted into the space left for him between his thighs. Tim was one hot line of heat plastered to his front, and he couldn’t get enough. He placed a hand on Tim’s jaw and deepened the kiss. With the first sweep of tongue across his lips, he desperately reined in the moan that threatened to spill out. It’s a good thing that they were already sitting down, because the things Tim did with his tongue made his legs feel like trembling jelly. He felt like a trembling mess, and they were only making out . He hoped Tim didn’t think he was too easy.

Trying to regain his composure and actively participate, Martin slid one hand down Tim’s chest. With a surprised noise, Tim’s hips stuttered upwards and his hand tightened almost painfully in Martin’s curls. This time, Martin couldn’t hold back a moan at the dual sensations. At least now he knew that Tim was just as affected as he was.

Martin leaned down to lave at Tim’s jawline, working his way down his throat and cataloging which spots caused a reaction. After that first bridge was crossed, neither of them could quite stop the slow grinding of their hips against each one another. One particularly sharp circle of his hips had Martin’s head hanging forward, lips brushing an earlobe as he let out a soft “Oh, Tim.”

Tim abruptly stopped his movements and gently pulled Martin up to meet his gaze. “Not that I’m not having an incredible time right now, but would you like to move somewhere a little more comfortable than this couch?” Martin gave an enthusiastic nod and climbed off his lap, gesturing at Tim to lead the way.

They eventually made it across the flat into Tim’s bedroom, making only one short detour so Tim could press Martin up against the wall and kiss him senseless. He wasn’t afraid to beg a little when Tim slid a thigh between his own and pressed up. “Tim, please, if you keep that up..” he trailed off and Tim relented, taking his hand until they made it to the bed and Martin was gently pushed backwards.

Tim took a moment to pull his shirt over his head before climbing after Martin, settling with his knees at either side of his waist, asking, “I’d like to take yours off too, if you’d like?” And God, he should not be allowed to look so debauched and sexy while asking something so politely. With a mumbled “yes, please,” Tim rucked up his shirt, sliding his hands up his chest as he went. Being pressed chest to chest sent a jolt of electricity down his spine, and he returned to Tim’s slightly swollen and shiny red lips.

After a few minutes of messy, heated kissing and aborted thrusts of hips, it became clear to Martin that Tim wasn’t going to be the one to escalate things any further. Reluctantly, Martin pulled away from the heat of his mouth. “I know I said that tonight wasn’t a booty call, but what would happen if I said I might like that?”

Tim smiled wickedly. “I would say something along the lines of ‘finally!’ and then do this.” With that, he slithered down Martin’s torso, stopping at his belt, where he was achingly hard in his pants. “That looks uncomfortable,” he mused, with a devious glint in his eyes. In no time at all Martins trousers were tossed off the side of the bed, and Tim was breathing hotly at the front of his pants. He wasn’t moving.

Martin tried to keep the whine out of his voice as he said “Feel free to continue any time.”

“Hmm. You’ll have to ask politely, Martin.” And oh, Tim was just pushing all the right buttons tonight. When Martin didn’t say anything in response, Tim’s mouth made contact with his briefs, wetting the fabric around his cock and applying a hint of friction.

“Okay, please, Tim, please!” Martin begged.

“Good boy,” Tim murmured as he pulled the pants all the way down and off. Martin tried his very best not to whimper at the praise. “God, look at you,” he breathed, gazing down at the now fully naked Martin in his bed. He squirmed uncomfortably on the sheets before Tim acquiesced and finally took the head of his cock into the wet heat of his mouth. Martin had always been sensitive, and this was no exception. He brought a fist up to his mouth to keep the choked-off sounds of pleasure in, but Tim pulled off with an admonishing look and tugged the hand away. “Come on, I want to hear you. Can’t you see how hot that is, how hard it makes me?”

Glancing down, Martin could see Tim shallowly thrusting his hips into the mattress, as if he was getting off on sucking him off. He let his head fall back and groaned, but kept his hands fisted in the sheets instead of covering his mouth. Satisfied, Tim returned to laving at Martins cock. He ran his lips and tongue all over, getting him wet before sucking his cock into the back of his mouth.

He kept at it, changing up the pressure and speed, all the while Martin was letting an almost constant stream of pleasured noises slip from his throat. He tentatively unfurled one hand from the sheets and placed it on Tim’s head, pulling gently. Tim moaned around his cock, and that was it, it was too much- “Tim, Tim I’m going to come if you don’t stop,” he panted.

With an obscene pop Tim pulled off and crawled back up to kiss Martin after sparing a second to wipe at his mouth. “Yeah, come on, come for me,” he slipped a hand around Martins wet cock and managed only a couple of strokes before he bit down on Tim’s lower lip with a grunt and came harder than he had in months . Tim kept kissing him and stroking him through it before slowing to a stop when his hips twitched away, oversensitive.

He came back to himself and kissed Tim back with renewed vigor. “Fuck, Tim, you’re incredible. Here, let me -” but before he could get his hand around Tim’s cock, he was groaning through his own orgasm and thrusting weakly against Martin’s hip. “Oh, okay. Hah, that works too, I guess.”

Looking not even the tiniest bit bashful, Tim smiled up at him. “Sorry, you were just really hot. Didn’t quite want to wait when I was so close .” He kissed Martin’s cheek, his nose, and finally his lips. “But the night is still young. You could always get me off during round two?” Martin groaned and buried his face in Tim’s messy hair.

“You’re severely underestimating how thoroughly you’ve worn me out.” Tim pulled back and stuck his tongue out at him before settling into a smirk. Martin pulled him down to kiss the smug look off his face. “However, after getting cleaned up a bit and a quick nap, I could be convinced to go again.” Tim hummed softly before pushing off the bed to grab a wet cloth. Martin couldn’t not watch him as he left.

***

Later, when they both were cleaned up and half-spooning on Tim’s large bed, Tim interrupted the sleepy silence by voicing something that had clearly been on his mind all night. “So it was me you were mooning over while we were heroically exterminating worms, then?

“Tim!” Martin slapped his arm. “Go to sleep please.” Muffling his laughter into Martin’s chest, Tim closed his eyes and did just that.

#remember when i begged for anyone to write something like this?#i gave in and did it myself #in the words of awsten knight: this is not g #but it's the most i've ever written #alright it's midnight i'm posting and peacing out #here are the real tags #the magnus archives #tma #tma fic #tim x martin #timmartin #martin/tim #martin x tim #sidney writes

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