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#but after giving his statement @ the archives he goes back home for the first time in over two decades and feeds on his father bc
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hc that jon and gerry met several times when gerry was alive but neither realised it was the other
•back in jon's research days where it was late and everyone had gone home except for jon who was woeking overtime, exited the institute and realised it was raining and as he was about to go in and wait in his office gerry comes from behind and stops to stare at the rain (he stayed late cause gertrude wanted a report done due tomorrow). jon tells him there is no use staying outside and to wait inside and they make some small talk and Gerry asks jon if he has a cigarette and they share a lighter in the rain and after smoking gerry gives up and runs in the rain to the station while jon just goes back in. neither of them remember this happening because it was dark and both of them were beyond exhausted.
•many fics are done on this but gerry going to a pub where the mechs had a show and he accidently says something out loud while they are performing and jon without breaking character responds in a flirty manner but gerry had to leave when the show ended because The Horrors caught up
•gerry used to ask someone in the library to deliver a really obscure book to the archives and the person receiving the ask used to get really stressed when they couldn't find it and jon who happened to pass by and was friends with them helped them find it because he had toured most of the library or had read the book and later it got delived to gerry by the librarian. this happened a couple more times before gerry gave up and went himself.
•they met in a thrift store where gerry was tracking a lead trying to find a very specific vintage lighter mentioned in a statement and jon was just fa-ing when he found a cool vintage lighter and went to the check out counter meanwhile gerry who was frantically looking for it saw jon casually take it and go out through the door, ran after him in an attempt to stop him only to spot a girl holding a lighter that was exactly like the one in the statement and did a full 180
•a vast avatar attempted to make a meal out of jon by first approaching by hitting on him and proceded to got interepted by a panicked gerry who realised what was happening coming in through the crowded station and slapping the avatar accusing him of cheating on him. the very confused avatar watched a very bewildered jon slowly walk away into the crowd and could do nothing as gerry yelled profanities before also walking away.
jon realises all this happened after he fully comes into his powers and regrets not having enough time with gerry to tell him about this.
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renee-writer · 8 months
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What If It Were Brian Chapter Twenty-four
AO3
“Hurry!” Fergus has her hand, Brian is held tight by her other. They forgot in the joy of being together, about the dangers. A servant running in, breathless from the fields, warm them that the English are on the way.
 
“You must go down below with him. Brian looks to much like him to explain him away as anyone else but his son.” Jenny said as the household scrambles to welcome their ‘ guests’.
 
“I am sorry Sassanach.” Jamie is angry at himself for forgetting and placing his wife and son in danger.
 
“Hush. It is why we will be moving. As long as we are together, right?”
 
Jamie hurries down first. Claire, lead by Fergus as the stairs are steep, follows with Brian.
 
“We are playing hide and seek and the quiet game. We don’t want anyone to find us. So we are hiding down there with your daddy. Fergus will let us know when the game ends.”  A hasty explanation to her son before they take him down.
 
Jamie reaches up his hands to lower first Brian and then Claire, down. He places his finger over his lips to remind his son to be quiet. He nods enthusiastically. His other father never played any type of game with him.
 
They take seats on his bed. Brian sits on his daddy’s lap with mama beside him. It is mostly dark, except for a single candle burning on the small table beside them. Brian isn’t worried because he is with his parents.
 
Above them they hear voices. Brian tilts his head at hearing accents like his mama and father’s. He is used to hearing his daddy’s now. Jamie whispers right in his ear, “Quiet.”
 
That is when he knows it isn’t just a game. A shiver goes through him and he pushes closer to his daddy. Jamie holds him tight.
 
“Once again, he isn’t here. He left after he recovered from his wounds. Knew you would come looking.” Jenny says. She glares at them, wee Ian held against her. Big Ian is standing to her left and confirms his wife’s statement.
 
“We have information that he is.” The Redcoat Captain says.
 
“You come and you search, tearing apart our home. Each time, you find nothing. When will you give up?” Jenny demands.
 
“When that traitorous Red Jamie is housed in one of His Majesty ‘s cells.” He replies, turning to his men, “Search it!”
 
Brian, his face buried in his daddy’s  chest, whimpers. It is the voice, that strong English voice. He sounds like his father. Claire sits rigidly beside them. The coppery taste of pure fear floods her mouth.
 
They hear things being moved, a few crashes. She starts with every one. It is easy to forget the past here with him. That is until stern English voices and the sound of violence, reminds you.
 
He slams the door. A year old Brian cries and clings to his mama.
 
“Shut that bastard up! After long days out working to support you, the least you could do is have a quiet house for me to return to!” His eyes are bleary and she knows he has been drinking again. She quickly placed Brian to her breast. “For the love of God, not that way! You know how much seeing you be so common disgust me.”
 
“It relaxes him. He wasn’t crying until you slammed the door.” She tries to keep her voice calm.
 
“Are you blaming me?” He says and catches himself on the edge of the couch she is sitting on.
 
“Tea is in the warmer.” She tries a distraction. His eyes narrow farther.
 
“In the warmer. In the bloody warmer! A man works all day just to come home to a titty baby and a lazy wife!”
 
“Lazy! You have no idea what I do everyday?”
 
“Claire? Claire?”
 
“Mama?”
 
She comes back to the present with a gasp.
 
“They are gone. Where were you?” His eyes are so soft and loving on her.
 
“A memory of him. We must get somewhere safe, as soon as possible.”
 
“Bad men like father.” Brian says, “we were hiding from them.”
 
“Aye, mo mhac. You were so good. We are going somewhere where they can’t find us. I promise.” He meets Claire ‘s eyes with concern. They will need to talk later.
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Writing Masterpost
Hello!
I've finally gotten around to doing some blog maintenance and making a masterpost of all of the writing I've posted on here. If you've found my blog because of a fic post and want to know if there is more where that came from, you're in the right place!
I write mainly fic for The Magnus Archives and TAZ Balance, with a few original things thrown in for spice! Most links stay on Tumblr, but I've also got some of my longer pieces on AO3 linked here as well.
List is under the cut, and thanks for being here!
MAGNUS ARCHIVES FIC
One-shots & multi-chaps (links to AO3):
present tense - Safehouse-era love confessions, the world didn't end edition.
will you remember me - Somewhere Else coffee shop au! Martin is intrigued by an attractive stranger who comes into his coffee shop, especially when they have an intense reaction to seeing him.
why can't the words I need ever come to me  - Research-era Jon finds Tim crying in the bathroom. He tries to help.
slippage (4 chapters) - Jon starts to forget while he and Martin are still in Upton House. Martin has to try to get him out before he forgets everything.
something to hold onto - Tim & Jon s2 reconciliation, with background jondanny
a promise and a prayer - alternate ending to TheOestofOC's The Kindness of Strangers; or, what if Jon & Tim had reconciled before the Unknowing
these constellations will guide you back - What if Martin had been the one to find Jon trying to get his "anchor" for the coffin instead of Melanie?
Tumblr ficlets:
Somewhere Else coffee shop AU: snippet 1 (Martin) snippet 2 (Jon)
Tim & Jon's Excellent American Adventure: 1 (at the airport) 2 (there was only one bed (platonic) aka literal sleeping together) 3 (statement dependence)
Dad!Jon: Jon has always had trouble imagining the future They name her Sasha
yet broken, still you breathe - Jon & Martin listen to The Amazing Devil
life's but a walking shadow - Martin gets Jon to recite some poetry (aka Jon is a Shakespeare nerd)
i will bring you ruin - Jon Sees Jonah's plans before he goes into the Lonely
Other snippets:
Post-Circus Jon angst
JonTim Literal Sleeping Together: China Edition
Martin & Tim say goodbye before the Unknowing
Not-Sasha visits the Trophy Room
Martin can bake?! - s1 Archive gang fluff
Somewhere Else - an explorations of possiblities
Peter Lukas is having a marvelous time.
Message from Jon to Martin, several days after his return from the Buried.
TAZ FIC
One-shots (links go to AO3)
L-U-P (multi-chap, ongoing) - What if Lucretia saw Lup's name burned into the wall and figured out where Lup was? Lup gets out of the umbrella early, and she and Lucretia team up to save the world.
take me back to the start - The Chalice makes Lucretia an offer, and she has to decide what price she is willing to pay for a second chance.
without you - Magnus and Lucretia have only been together, really together, for a couple weeks. When a routine scouting mission goes wrong, he has to face to prospect of nearly a year without her. Magnus/Lucretia fic set during Stolen Century.
a recipe for home - Taako tries to cook for the first time since Glamour Springs. When it goes wrong, Lucretia is there to lend a hand. Set during between the second Lunar Interlude and Petals.
by means of heat and time - Taako gives Angus a cooking lesson (a lifetime ago, Taako gives Lucretia a cooking lesson) - TAZ November Celebration Day 23 - Cooking
how this grace thing works - Taako helps Lucretia with post S&S nightmares, and maybe, just maybe, something starts to heal.
Eventually - Kravitz told Magnus he and Julia would eventually have to re-join the rest of the souls in the astral sea. He never thought about what he would do when “eventually” finally came.
Tumblr ficlets
hold on tight - The Birds get together for a family dinner after Story and Song, and Magnus and Lucretia have a talk about what it means to deserve a happy ending.
"Today's gonna be the best!" - The Birds have a snow day.
Barry is falling. - The moment right after Barry falls from the Starblaster, when he realizes what Lucretia has done.
What if Barry found Lup in Wave Echo Cave? - Barry finds Lup, and has to find a way to hold himself together.
“Shh, they’ll hear us!” - Taako and Angus plan a surprise.
TAZ November Celebration Day 21 - Night - A lil quiet moment between Davenport & Lucretia during Stolen Century.
TAZ November Celebration Day 17 - Rest - The crew of the Starblaster take a much-needed pause.
TAZ November Celebration Day 3 - Warmth - Taakitz Modern AU ficlet. Fluff!
almost home - Magnus returns to Raven’s Roost. (and an answer to the question, how did Magnus get Julia’s ring back?)
Metas/snippets
The Director aways has music playing in her office.
Lucretia never met the Judges in Cycle 65.
The birds and hugs
What if Raven’s Roost never fell?
The Light of Creation isn’t sentient, exactly.
If Lucretia saw Lup’s name burned into the wall and figured out where Lup was
Lucretia doesn’t remember the first time the Bulwark Staff spoke to her.
Lucretia wakes up in a white space.
After Story and Song, Davenport leaves. Lucretia says goodbye.
ORIGINAL WORK Sometimes I post things on here that aren’t fic!
Macbeth in the living room - A short written at the beginning of quarantine, before we really understood anything about how the virus actually worked. The mechanics of distancing are So Wrong but the sentiment is there. It’s a time capsule of a moment.
The One Who Stays Behind (short story)
OTHER BITS AND BOBS
Thoughts on wonder
Babel by RF Kuang time-travel fix-it (ish)
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boyancient · 3 years
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five kills r.eginald in my second t.ma verse thats all u need to know abt his vibes
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nellasbookplanet · 2 years
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Apparently the answer to “how long can i resist” is “less than a day,” have some tma au featuring Essek as the Archivist encountering a strange man with bad manners.
The first time Essek meets the man with the black-stained hands, it’s only been about two months since he was promoted to the role of Archivist.
Two months are just about enough time to realize something about the position is seriously fucked up, have his life threatened on three separate occasions, and develop an even stronger dependence on coffee than he already had, and so it’s no surprise that he, as Beauregard so eloquently puts it, is high-strung as fuck.
“What are you doing here?”
“Hm?” The man looks up from the handful of papers he’s been leafing through, looking distracted and faintly annoyed, as if he wasn’t just caught trespassing. “Can I help you with anything?”
He’s skinny and rumpled, all but disappearing in an oversized leather coat and a mess of hair that would probably be red if it’d been washed the last month or so. His skin is sallow and unhealthy, only partially visible beneath a short, untrimmed beard, and there’s a ratty scarf wrapped around his neck and pulled almost all the way up to his mouth. Honestly, he looks like someone come to give a statement.
Essek bristles. He hasn’t had his morning coffee yet (that is a lie; he had a cup at home) and was feeling irritable even before he stumbled on a strange man rooting around the Archives. Taking a breath, he forcibly pastes on his practiced customer service smile. “If you’re here to leave a statement, office hours are between twelve and three. Now, seeing as you’re already here at­”—he looks at a clock on the wall, not even trying to be subtle—“seven in the morning, we could arrange for—”
“No.”
Essek blinks. “I’m sorry?”
“No, I am not here to leave my statement.” The man goes back to reading the paper at the top of the pile he’s holding, calm as all that. “You will have to find someone else to feed on today, I’m afraid.”
This is about the time Essek starts to realize something about this, something about this man, is wrong. Of course, being Essek, he keeps right on going anyway.
“This isn’t a public library,” he says, fingers itching to rip the papers from the man’s hands. The only thing stopping him is an unwillingness to risk damaging them. He hasn’t yet gotten to this part of the Archives in his effort to digitalize the nightmare left behind by the previous Archivist, and would be loath to leave part of the statements unfinished, no matter the nonsense recorded within. “How did you even get down here?”
“Walked in the front doors. Followed the signs saying ‘Archives.’”
“That’s not possible. The doors to the Archives are locked.” Or at least they are supposed to be.
The man flips a paper, scanning it briefly before going for the next. “Then perhaps someone wanted me here. You should know by now that Ludinous always has a plan.”
This is ridiculous. Essek is reaching to grab the man by the arm­—exactly what he’s going to do after that eludes him, seeing as he’s got the upper body strength of a day-old wet noodle—when he notices something that makes him freeze.
There are dark smudges on the papers in the man’s hands. At first, Essek thinks them dust or maybe dirt, and his anger gets another boost, but then he follows the stains and sees them entirely cover the man’s fingers, his palms and the back of his hands, before disappearing into his worn shirtsleeves.
And the thing is, it doesn’t look like dirt anymore. Doesn’t look like a covering of any sort. It looks like the man stuck both his hands in a fire and didn’t take them out until his skin had sizzled and turned to coal.
“You are…” Essek gulps. Much too late, the tiny hairs on the back of his neck are standing up in warning.
“Caleb Widogast.” Finally, the man looks up to meet Essek’s gaze properly.  His eyes are burning like fire, and Essek does not mean that in the poetic sense. “And you,” he says, “are the Archivist.”
Essek tries to gulp a second time, but his mouth has gone fully dry. He has to make an effort to stay where he is, faking calm. Predators can smell weakness, whispers the sensible voice in the back of his head. If you run, you will not leave this room alive.
“What are you?” he breathes.
Caleb Widogast cocks his head, looking for the first time interested in the man before him. “Am I your first avatar?” When Essek doesn’t answer, the corner of his mouth quirks up. “Oh, I am. What an… interesting turn of events.”
He steps closer, and this time Essek’s body reacts before his mind has a chance to give an order and he scrambles back, nearly falling.
“I admit I have been somewhat disconnected from current events,” Caleb Widogast says, following as Essek retreats. “Last I knew, someone else held your… esteemed position. Most knew better than to mess with him, and those who did not were quick to learn, even if they did not get to learn much else afterward. I would not have dared to openly challenge him. But you…”
Essek’s back hits a bookshelf. Papers slide off piles and float down around him, quick to cover the floor. Essek’s lizard brain lights up like a firework and he raises his fists. Caleb Widogast does not stop until Essek’s knuckles are pressed against his chest. It’s hot. Dangerously so. It’s a wonder his clothes don’t burn right off him.
He isn’t very tall, but it doesn’t take much to be taller than Essek. Tilting his head forward, he looks Essek in the eye. It occurs to Essek that, underneath the dirt and the grime and the overgrown beard, Caleb Widogast is a handsome man. Sharp jawline. A nose with a bit of a bump to it, lending character. Very nice lips. It also occurs to him that this is entirely the wrong time notice such things.
“Do you even know what your job is?” Caleb asks.
“I am—the Archivist,” Essek replies, trying to pull himself straight.
“And what does the Archivist do?”
“I… archive?”
Caleb huffs something that could very nearly be called a laugh. “Oh, it would be easy to kill you.”
He lifts a hand, fingertips starting to glow dully red as he goes for Essek’s face, and Essek blurts, panicked, “Wait.”
Caleb, raising a brow, waits.
“You’re looking for something, yes?” Essek babbles. “Some bit of information you think is hidden here. Well, trust me when I say you won’t find anything worthwhile in here without my help.”
“Maybe I will surprise you,” Caleb says, hand still hovering just at the edge of Essek’s vision. “I am very good at finding things.”
Essek, astonishing himself, says, “Then try.”
This time when Caleb smiles, there’s no real amusement in it. “I could make you tell me where to find what I am looking for.” He plucks at a lock of Essek’s hair, fallen from the otherwise meticulous quiff. Once trapped between his fingers, the white hairs scorch black in an instant. “I can be very persuasive when I put my mind to it, Archivist.”
Caleb’s tongue flicks out to wet his chapped lips. Probably it’s just because the air has gone dry in the sudden heat, but something about it looks hungry, like he can’t wait to do to the rest of Essek what he just did to his hair.
Essek realizes, belatedly, that he’s been staring. By the time he corrects his gaze, it’s clear Caleb has noticed. He cocks his head again, a considering, almost interested look in his eyes as he studies Essek.
“You do not know what an Archivist does,” he says, slowly, deliberately, “but do you know what you want?”
“I—” Essek has to stop to gather himself. Caleb waits patiently, not giving Essek back an inch of his personal space. “I want to get to the bottom of all this. Of the statements, and the things that cause them. And I want to do it before anyone else has the chance to.”
“Mm. Perhaps it would be a waste to kill you already. The next Archivist might not be anywhere near as accommodating.” Caleb’s blackened fingers brush over Essek’s cheekbone. It hurts, like putting hot metal against one’s skin, making Essek suck in a breath, but Caleb is stepping away too quick for him to react.
“Until next time, Archivist,” he says, nodding politely before turning and making his way toward the glowing exit-sign.
At the sound of the door closing, Essek’s body gives in all at once. He has to catch himself against the shelf, sending even more papers flying, and then just stands there for a while, shaking and gasping too much to move. It isn’t until the pain in his cheek grows too hot to ignore that he starts dragging himself toward his office and the cellphone left on his desk.
If he was smart, Essek would call up his boss and ask why the fuck the doors to the Archives were unlocked and security nowhere in sight. It would appear, though, that Essek isn’t very smart, because he scrolls right past Ludinous’s name in his contacts and goes straight for Beau, affectionately saved under the name of ‘nosy journalist.’”
He puts the phone to his ear—remembering just in time to avoid the injured side of his face—and prepares to be yelled at.
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whirlybirdwhat · 2 years
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a piece for the it’s pirates zerver sine: home: built stolen lost found
When Luffy is three, alone and abandoned in the world besides a grandfather who is never there, and a bartender who tries her best to be, he asks Makino a single question.
It’s from a phrase he had heard patrons of the bar say as they pushed back their seats and headed out the door, a phrase Gramps had said as he slammed through walls with a smile, a phrase, a word he had never known he meaning of. 
“Makino? What’s home?” 
Makino looks down at him, tugging on her skirts, and kneels down with a smile. “Well – home is a place your family is, and where you feel happy and safe. It’s a place where you stay, and can have a bedroom, and a place to put all your toys and belongings. Sometimes, it can even be a person!” She says  it so happily, so brightly, but Luffy only looks at her with wide, wide eyes. 
“Oh,” he says, and clutches harder to the toy boat in his hands. Oh. 
It is then, that moment, strikingly clear, that Luffy realizes he doesn’t have a home. 
(His grandfather is never here, Makino is good but she isn’t quite family, not in the way he knows it, and he had a small attic to call his without a view of the sea.) 
And, quietly, realizes that he doesn’t want one. 
(To have a place to stay, to remain still, to place all burdens on another? To call home somewhere stationary, unmoving, unwanted? It sounded like hell.)
Oh, he says again. Oh. 
-
When Luffy is six, alone and abandoned in a small village by the sea that he could never leave, he asks Shanks a question. 
It is a question that had been lingering in the dredges of his mind, ever since these pirates had barged through the door with songs on their lips and adventures in their minds, with not that word that he didn’t have leaving their mouths but rather tales of ships and voyages and seas.
“Shanks? Where’s your home?”
Shanks looks down at him, eyebrows quirking upward as he finishes his drink with a flourish before setting it down with a soft clink. His eyes are just as soft, like some how he understands that this is different from when Luffy asked about his favorite battles, when Luffy asked for a sip of his drink or if Shanks really had been at the bottom of the sea when he was Luffy’s age. 
“Home? Easy – it’s the sea, anchor!”
“The sea?” Luffy had never heard something more stupid, and that was saying a lot since all the stupid things he heard of were from Shanks. That wasn’t what Makino had told him, wasn’t what Gramps had explained, wasn’t anything like where your family is or place you stay. It was the sea – endless and vast and full of danger and sea kings and marines that like to give you Fists of Love and don’t come back. The sea didn’t have a place to have belongings or keep yourself safe. It – 
It doesn’t make sense. 
“The sea!” Shanks says with a grin, a sparkle in his eye like he gets before stands on tables and talks about the time he sailed to a land of samurai. “It’s any pirate’s home! It’s where our adventures await, and where our nakama are with us, and every day it bright than the rest, ain’t that right, fellas!”
“Aye, captain!” The crew drunkenly choruses, words already forming on their lips. 
“How does that one chorus go?”
“Which one?”
“Oh, I know! Gather up all the crew – “
“It’s time to ship out Bink’s Brew!” Shanks joins in, holding his hands out to Luffy and not even waiting till he grabs them to snatch him up in a dance. “Pirates, we eternally are challenging the sea.” His voice is joyful and loud with the way men get when the party in in swing, but there’s nothing but happiness in his steps as he guides Luffy onto his feet and twirls him around.
 “With the waves to rest our heads,  ship beneath us as our beds, hoisted high upon the mast, our jolly roger flies! Yohohoho-“
“Oi! Wrong part captain! It goes like this – “
“Dahahaha!” Shanks ignores them, only to bend down to Luffy’s level. “A pirates’ home is where he’s happy, Luffy. My home is with my crew and with some drink – or an adventure – in my hand. That’s the sea for me. Got it?”
Luffy doesn’t, but as Shanks sweeps him up into another round of Bink’s brew, he’s starting to find that the answer doesn’t really matter, not when he’s not alone here, with Shanks and pirates all around him
“Yohohoho, yohohoho!”
-
Luffy is seven, and he’s finally figured out what home is. Home is his brothers, running through the jungle, laughter and adventure and fun is every step. Home is the way Ace smiles when he thinks no one is looking, and the way Sabo is always the first to say Let’s explore! Home is coming home to a tree house, and never being alone. 
Home is Ace and Sabo and Ace and Sabo and – 
Home is burning. 
Home is dead.
Luffy feels hollow, feels like the world is crumbling out from underfoot, because everyone said that home could be a person but they never said that home could burn. That home could die. That home could go away and never, ever come back. 
Maybe that’s why Shanks said home is the sea and why Makino said that home is a place and only sometimes a person – because people leave and burn and never come back, and seas can’t burn or be destroyed. 
Luffy is seven, and he realizes again that he doesn’t want a home, not anymore, because all home does is burn. 
(Then, there’s a promise and a vow and Luffy is never going to lose home again.)
-
Luffy is seventeen, and he’s been alone for three years but not anymore because this time – this time he has a home that won’t burn, that won’t leave, because he is their captain and he will protect them. 
Home is Zoro and his quiet smiles, home is Nami, and her ink-stained hands, home is Usopp and stories that roll off the tongue, home is Sanji and meals made for comfort, home is Vivi and her kindness however far away, home is Chopper and his hugs, home is Robin and her cryptic statements, home is Merry, sturdy and true, home is – 
Ace, and Ace won’t burn because Ace is made of fire. Home can’t burn again. It can’t. 
It can’t.
-
Luffy is seventeen, and home is burning by his own hands. It’s a funeral, the only one worthy of Merry because the bottom of the sea is a dark place and she deserves a sendoff to light her way but – 
It’s fire, non-the-less, reminding Luffy of how Grey Terminal’s fire looked by the shore, and home – Merry, with her black eyes and painted smile, with her strong planks and her determined heart, Merry, home – 
It’s burning.
(He’s starting to think that maybe home isn’t what he’s always called it before – people and places that make you happy, that keep you safe.
Maybe it’s something else. Maybe it’s something that’s only this way because of him. 
Maybe – )
Sunny won’t burn, will never burn with a hull of Adam’s Wood, but Merry does, and it hurts. 
-
Luffy is seventeen and home is burning. 
This time – 
This time – 
This time – 
It burns it burns it burns it hurts it hurts Ace Ace Ace Ace why no Ace Ace please – 
Home burns in his arms, his big brother who is made of fire, who can’t be burned, burns in his arms, and it drips drips drips down onto Luffy’s chest and he can’t let go because this is home and this home can’t burn but it does and – 
“Thank you for loving me.”
Home burns. 
(It always does.)
“AAAAAAAAAAAAACCCCEEEEEEEEEEEEE!”
-
Luffy is eighteen and Ruskaina is sweltering and his chest is burning burning burning but he’s not home. 
He’s not. 
He’s…
He’s not alone. He’s not home. His crew (ZoroNamiUsoppSanjiViviChopperRobinFrankyBrook) is still there, still existing, but they are not home, any longer.
Maybe he is, to them. He’s burned, after all, he fits his own criteria. But they aren’t to him.
On Ruskaina, he makes this decision. He vows it, under the sweltering sun and with bandages wrapped around his chest,  with phantom pains on his finger’s where Ace’s vivre card singed him, with his mind alight with war. His crew is not his home, Sunny is not his home, because Luffy does not have a home. 
He does not want one, he does not have one, because home is a place that burns, and Luffy has been burned too many times to count.
-
Luffy is nineteen and older and stronger than all his moments before. He stands in front of his crew with a smile on his face and a burn across his chest, because he is not home, but his crew – 
His crew tumbles into his open, waiting arms, crashing him down onto to the ground as they come home. 
Luffy burns, and Luffy is home, and he will be King of the Pirates. 
For his crew – for people who are not his home but his family, his nakama, his treasure  - there is nothing else he could possibly be. 
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📓!!
i've posted about this idea before a million times, but: archivist melanie fic. i've had this idea for such a long time, and i would love to riff on it if i ever get the motivation.
so the basic premise of this ends up being a semi melanie-jon role swap, but: essentially jon does not work at the institute, and melanie comes in to give her statement sooner. (her statement takes place in january of 2015, so this actually sort of works?? but i'd probably mess with the timeline so melanie has her encounter with the slaughter, and ghost hunt uk breaks up, sooner.) elias doesn't see a clear candidate for the archivist after murdering gertrude -- he's considering tim, he's considering rosie, but no one feels like a clear fit... but then he meets melanie, who isn't exactly a perfect fit, but... she's doubly marked, by the slaughter and the stranger. and with the drive she has for investigation, it seems like it would be easy to orchestrate twelve more.
so melanie takes the archivist job, with sasha, tim, and martin as her assistants (just because), and her approach ends up even more focused on investigation than jon's. (she refuses to look into the most outlandish ones -- she's still as skeptical of the institute as she is in canon -- but there's plenty grounded in evidence that she's ready to investigate.) tim and sasha fall into this easily, of course, with their experience in research, and they all end up more or less bonding, because why not (melanie canonically liked sasha, and was friends with martin, and i think she would've gotten along better with tim under better circumstances...). georgie, of course, is still close with melanie, and ends up being much more involved with things, and while the institute initially seems like a good thing for melanie -- a new opportunity and a chance to find closure -- it also ends up being a little frightening as time goes on, as melanie's eye powers start to develop, and the slaughter starts to take a greater hold on her...
so in this au, jon comes into the story when he's convinced (either by coincidence, by georgie, or by the web) to give a statement about mr. spider. there's little to no evidence, and melanie would probably dismiss it if it wasn't for the fact that a) jon is friends with georgie, or used to be friends with georgie, and b) the fact that martin and jon immediately hit it off, and martin pushes to investigate more. they can't find anything about jon's statement, but they do decide to look into more spider statements to see if there's a connection. specifically, first, the carlos vittery case. which martin and melanie go to investigate together. and this time, instead of martin, jane prentiss follows the archivist home.
melanie is trapped for a few days with her phone gone. but this time, people get clued in faster -- partially because georgie, who texts with melanie all the time, knows that prentiss's texts are nothing like melanie, and partially because martin was there at the basement with her. they manage to break her out after a few days. melanie ends up staying with georgie instead of in the institute because georgie insists ("you're not staying in the office, melanie; i'll be fine"). jon finds out about this through georgie and, despite the tension he and melanie had when he gave his statement, he calls to apologize. (and is more or less adopted into this strange little circle because of his connection with georgie, and his new tentative friendship with martin.)
the prentiss attack goes very similarly, except for one thing: when the dust has settled, and melanie is getting patched up in an ambulance outside, and tim and martin start hugging a strange woman and calling her sasha... melanie sees through it. she sees through it, and can't say anything, because the others won't believe her, and the not!sasha knows it, keeps smirking at melanie over their shoulders. that isn't sasha, and something has happened to her.
melanie tells georgie, convinces georgie to believe her. they go back into the archives while it is empty (everyone on leave) and tear it apart, looking for references to what this is. (melanie remembers the amy patel statement, but wants more information...) eventually they find the statement from mag 78, the one with adelard dekker. they put together the pieces about the table. melanie goes to tim and martin, and they don't believe her, but she convinces them to come with her, to just see the table, and that's when they destroy it, releasing sasha and letting the not!them loose all at once.
(yes, sasha lives in this au; not because melanie is the archivist, but just because i don't wanna kill sasha, shhh)
there is the canon-typical not-sasha chase, with a sasha that only melanie recognizes along for the ride. jurgen leitner still shows up and traps it, but melanie refuses his offers to talk. none of them want answers, at this point, after prentiss and the not!them; they just want out. they go to elias to try and quit, and are unable to, of course. (even after melanie threatens him with a letter opener.) they are trapped, for now.
everyone takes their time off, although none of them really stay away; tim and martin and georgie are all waiting for their memories of sasha to go right, and after tim and melanie's wounds heal a little, they're meeting almost daily to try and figure out how to leave the institute. but in all the confusion and exhaustion and trauma, one thing all of them forget to do is fill in jon. (how can they? strange spiders and worms are one thing, but this... it all seems a little much.) this ends up being a mistake when, on everyone's first day back to the archives, elias announces a new coworker. he shows jon down, who looks confused and maybe even a little hurt when everyone loudly protests. elias smiles at melanie and tells her it's a shame they can't bring that host of what the ghost on -- that she would surely be a valuable resource to the archives as well.
so i'm not sure where the fic goes from here; in my mind, it's always cut off with elias essentially hiring jon as a hostage to keep the others under control. with the 197 reveal that the web hand picked jon as the archivist, though... i did have a new idea for a continuation. one where, in a sped up timeline with the revelations of s2 and early s3 having come in about a week -- and with the web's chosen archivist finally in the institute -- the web starts to orchestrate situations where jon gets marked alongside melanie. and it catches things before they progress too far. it shows melanie eric delano's tape instead of steering her away -- like it did jon -- in the hopes that melanie will blind herself to get free of the institute. so that the archivist position will be open for jon.
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aster-aspera · 3 years
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It’s just my skin
@badthingshappenbingo
Prompt: loss of hearing
Pairings: (platonic) jonmartim
Warnings: claustrophobia, hospitals, hearing loss
Masterlist
If you liked it please reblog <3
The aftermath isn’t as quiet as Tim thought it would be.
Maybe it’s the fact that he isn’t dead even though he should be, maybe it’s the dreadful ringing in his ear, maybe it’s the way his chest is heaving in gasping breaths he can’t hear.
There’s a thousand pounds of stone pressing down on his back and somewhere far above him he can feel the ground rumble and shift. He can’t even find it in himself to worry about the whole place coming down. He wasn't planning on making it out alive either way.
He thinks he floats in and out of consciousness for a bit. Time seems to wind and stretch and loop back, only the rubble on his back and the incessant ringing to keep him company.
Something shifts eventually, a change in the air at first, the darkness becoming just a bit softer, a bit less cloying.
And then there are hands and stretchers and needles and people pulling and prodding him and over it all is still that high pitched ringing, rising higher and higher into an impossible crescendo. He thinks they ask him things, he is sure he sees their lips moving and their expectant gazes. He thinks he tries to say something, but his lips feel awkward and unwieldy.
Everything goes dark after that. A cool blessed darkness where he just floats, no stone, no rubble, no dust, just peace.
He thinks about Danny for a while, and the ritual and the burning collapse of it all and the way Sasha smiled at him every morning when he came into the archives. Then he just sleeps.
He wakes up a bit more coherent the next time. The ringing isn’t gone yet, but at least his brain doesn’t feel like it’s through different planes of dimensions at a hundred kilometres per hour anymore. At least now he can breathe without the dust clogging his lungs.
He looks around the overbright hospital room, the disconnected monitor and the IV dripping a clear fluid into his veins. There’s a bouquet of orange flowers on the bedside table. Probably from Martin, he thinks bitterly. There’s no one else who would go through the trouble.
Martin walks into his room at some point and Tim wonders why he’s here and not hovering around Jon like some lost puppy. Maybe Jon didn’t make it out of the explosion.
Something sharp and painful shoots through Tim’s chest at the thought and he does his best not to examine it too closely.
He looks up at Martin, whose lips are moving as he fusses with the flowers on the little table. Tim stares up at him uncomprehendingly, waiting for sound to come through, waiting for that unbearable ringing to resolve itself into something he can understand.
It doesn’t.
“I can’t hear,” He says, his lips forming the words, his vocal cords vibrating, but no sound comes out, not to him at least. Martin looks up at him with concern, his mouth moving in shapes that should have been familiar, had they been accompanied by the right noises.
“I can’t hear,” Tim says again. And this time, it doesn’t come out half as controlled. He can feel something very close to panic crawling it’s way up his throat and he doesn’t quite manage to swallow it down.
Martin presumably says something else, before giving up and typing something on his phone, shoving it into Tim’s hands before stalking out of the room.
Getting a doctor, stay here
Well of course he’s going to stay here, does Martin really think he’s going to wander around London when he’s just survived an explosion? He isn’t Jon.
He waits impatiently in his bed, rubbing the uncomfortably thin hospital sheets between his fingers and trying to adjust the flat pillows so he can sit up.
Eventually the doctors come in and once again, it’s back to being poked and prodded. Doctors examining his ears and brain and all the million scans they take, with Martin occasionally coming in to hover over him, bringing along coffee from the cafeteria.
In the end, the verdict is predictable. Permanent damage from his proximity to the explosion. Figures he couldn’t just walk out of that unscathed.
And most people would probably consider being permanently deaf better than being dead. Tim wasn’t too sure he agreed with them  yet.
They let him go home eventually, with a whole laundry list of instructions on how to care for himself. Tim throws the papers into a corner as soon as he gets home. He’ll be fine, he’s survived Jane Prentiss, he can survive this. And it isn’t like it matters much.
His phone buzzes to life when he sticks it into the socket, all the messages he missed streaming in at once, a tidal wave of promotional mails and push notifications. He’s half tempted to just shut it off again when he notices one text notification between all the others.
Jon
Martin had told him he was alive, of course. But something about seeing his name displayed black on white on his phone screen drives the point home in a way Martin’s scribbled notes hadn’t done. Something sharp and hot shoots through his chest and he wants desperately for it to be that familiar anger that carried him through the last few months.
But as he lets his head fall back onto the couch, he can’t quite feel it burn the same, and without its familiar warmth, he feels hollow in a way he hasn’t since Danny died.
He swipes away the message without reading it and curls up on the couch, pulling an old, dusty blanket over himself and shutting his eyes. He tries not to think too much of the darkness after the explosion, of the plaster dust swirling through the air and settling in his lungs, of the stone crushing his limbs at awkward angles.
A dark apartment isn’t much like a collapsed building but his brain doesn’t care when it brings up vivid images of his time under the rubble. Despite it all, he does eventually drift into the comforting darkness of sleep, his slumber taking the pain and weariness out of his bones for just a moment.
It’s peaceful, till he wakes up gasping from a nightmare.
His desk rattles slightly when a heavy book is dropped on it and Tim looks up in annoyance, ignoring the painful squeezing in his chest when he meets Jon’s tired, regretful eyes.
‘Learning sign’ The book proclaims and Tim feels irritation bubbling up.
“Fuck off,” He says, focusing his attention once again on his desk.
‘I know sign, I can help, or at least recommend you some classes/books’ Jon informs him through the notes app on his phone.
“I don’t need your help.”
‘I know you don’t, but I’d like to'
“Why? So you can feel better about everything that happened? You think this is going to fix it?”
‘I’m sorry Tim’
“Sorry is too late,” he bites out, shoving out of his chair roughly. He tries to move past Jon, make it out of this stifling, dusty room, get somewhere it doesn’t feel like the walls are watching him.
A rough, calloused hand shoots out, wraps around his wrist like a vice. Jon’s eyes are dark with concern and Tim feels an odd anger at the expression. How can he show so much empathy after everything that happened?
He looks at the hand wrapped around his wrist and suddenly, it’s all just too much.
The deafening ringing in his ears, this wretched place that trapped him and choked him and took his best friend from him. And Jon, eyes still hopeful, still compassionate, after Tim had blamed him and hurt him for months on end.
“Go away,” He tries to say and he doesn’t even make it to the first syllable before his voice betrays him with a choked sob. A shudder runs through him and he looks down at the wooden floor, trying to compose himself.
The grief has never felt as all consuming as it does in this moment and it chokes and burns and pulls him under all at once.
And then, there are arms around him. A familiar touch, a familiar weight, from days so long ago Tim can barely remember them. The first touch that isn’t hostile, the first comfort he has felt in so long.
And it’s all from the man he’s tried to hate for months.
His hands curl themselves tightly into Jon’s cardigan and he buries his face in his shoulder, biting back tears with all his might. It doesn’t do much good against the tidal wave of emotions sweeping through him and soon he’s shaking all over with the sobs that wrack through his body.
Jon’s hand comes up in a familiar movement, brushing through Tim’s messed up curls. It’s hesitant at first, as if Tim will yell at him again, but when he makes no motion to do so, only melting deeper into the hold, the fingers carding through his hair become surer.
There’s a rumble against his cheek as Jon says something and Tim wishes desperately he could still hear it, hear Jon’s sure and steadying voice.
He remembers when, near the beginning of it all, he would stand in the corridor outside of Jon’s office and listen as his voice drifted through the halls, all the pain and fear and emotions painted so clearly on it. He’d always thought Jon a bit ridiculous for the way he read those statements. Now he just wished he could hear it one more time.
He closes his eyes as the loss of his family and his friend and even his hearing tear through his chest, leaving him shattered and shaking.
Jon’s chest rumbles again and Tim presses his cheek into it, pretending for just a moment he can hear a sound that isn’t the awful ringing.
Another pair of hands close around him, softer ones, broader ones. They pull him up gently and he’s not entirely sure how they both ended up on the floor, it probably has something to do with how broad he is and how skinny Jon is.
He’s pulled close against a soft, broad chest and relaxes into it almost immediately. Martin’s safe, he always has been.
He’s deposited gently on the cot, a blanket wrapped around his shoulders and a warm mug of tea pressed into his hands. He feels a bit like a child, being coddled and carted around. But right now, he can’t find it in himself to care.
He thinks Jon and Martin are saying stuff. Martin’s chest is rumbling against his back and he tilts his face so he can feel it better. Martin runs a comforting hand along his face, brushing away the tears that stick to it.
A hand settles on his knee, comforting and grounding and he’s sure it’s Jon’s. Both of Martin’s hands are occupied holding him together after all.
He closes his eyes. He can deal with the mess of it all tomorrow.
Right now, he just feels safe. His friends are here and that’s enough.
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voiceless-terror · 3 years
Text
Perchance to Dream
@aspecarchivesweek Day Three: Drinks
Characters: Jonathan Sims/Martin Blackwood, Tim Stoker, Sasha James
Jon comes out to Martin. Twice.
(Ft. Kiss-Averse Jonathan Sims and Hamlet References)
__________
“Ugh, no thank you.”
Martin pauses. Sasha and Tim titter behind their hands.
And Jon, well. He’s got a look of vehement disgust written across his features, not unlike when he’s laying into what he claims is a fabricated statement. Martin can feel his face turning red at the words.
Getting Jon to come out for drinks had been the hard part. It’s one month into his tenure as Head Archivist, and everyone’s starting to feel the scope of the task ahead of them. Tim thought a ‘monthiversary’ drink was in order, and the only way to get Jon to come out was to threaten him with some sort of ill begotten information, the likes of which Martin couldn’t hear behind the closed door. Ten minutes later, Jon emerged, looking grumpier than usual (and very dashing) with a scarf around his neck. And now he sat next to him in the cozy pub booth, Martin trying very hard to remain stock-still because Jon’s leaning into his side. Perhaps he’s cold? Either way, Martin isn’t going to discourage it. 
But then he’d had a few drinks and they all loosened up; even Jon’s laugh came easier. And Martin- well, Martin’s opening up a bit more than usual, chattering about his time in the library and bolstered by the smiles he receives in turn. Tim changed track to the personal, regaling them with his latest outdoor adventure while Sasha and Jon gave witty, sarcastic commentary. But then Tim directed the conversation towards him, and they seemed relatively interested in his poetry. He even felt comfortable enough to rattle out a few lines from his phone in a desperate hope to impress, and he stupidly chose one that referenced ‘lips like a rosebud’ and Jon reacts like he’s read a particularly saucy bit of a smut novel aloud. How embarrassing. 
“Whew,” Tim whistles lowly, folding his arms behind his neck with an exaggerated wince. “Harsh, boss.”
“No, that’s not it,” Jon says, shaking his head and putting a hand on Martin’s arm. Putting a hand on Martin’s arm. Putting a hand- “Martin, your poetry is fine, if a bit derivative.” Jon thinks his poetry is fine and he’s got his small, fine-boned hand on Martin’s arm and god, he’s got a poem about that too, somewhere in his phone-
Tim guffaws, slamming a hand on the table and startling Sasha. “What a compliment!”
“It’s just…kissing. Lips. Ugh.” Jon smashes his fork rather violently into a dumpling, sending bits of food flying across the table, one of which hit Tim directly above his eye. “I eat with my mouth.”
“Wise observation.”
“Very astute of you.”
Martin would join in on the banter but Jon’s hand is still on his arm and his warm weight is pressing into his side. Honestly, what’s Jon playing at? He could rip the poetry to shreds in front of him but as long as that hand remains on his arm he’d just sit there, not saying a word. Hell, he’d probably even agree.
“So the bossman doesn’t like kisses,” Tim says, taking an obnoxiously loud sip of whatever fruity beverage he’d decided on. “Is that why you ripped down all of my mistletoe back in research?”
Jon. Mistletoe. Hand still on arm.
“I don’t like any of it,” Jon says, removing his hand from Martin’s arm to make a decisive gesture across the table which nearly sent his drink flying. He instantly misses the pressure but the warmth is still there, burning through his sleeve. Jon looks incredibly drunk, now that Martin’s got a better angle to view his flushed cheeks and bright eyes and lips- “All that touching. I don’t understand why everyone’s so hung up on it. No thank you, not for me.”
A brief flash of understanding lights Sasha’s eyes but Martin’s not in a place to decipher it. He’s not sure if it’s the drink or the Jon-of-it-all that’s impeding him. He’s never seen him so relaxed, so animated about something that’s not work. He can’t even focus on the words coming out of Jon’s mouth at the moment.
But Sasha leans forward- once she’s got an idea in her head, she won’t let go until she’s seen it through. Martin recognizes that look. “You’re asexual, then?”
“Mm,” Jon mumbles, his head tilting back dangerously as he puts on an affected, exaggerated voice. “Man delights not me, no, nor woman neither.”
And then Martin’s gone, suddenly struck by a vision of teenage Jon, silhouetted on a stage by a dramatic spotlight, reciting Shakespeare like a born thespian- look, Martin despises theater, but even he’s not immune to Hamlet. In a dream world he’d be Ophelia, no, not Ophelia, idiot- maybe he’s a stage hand, or no, he helps Jon with his quick changes, that’s a job, right? So caught up is he in this pseudo-high school fantasy that the words being said don’t actually dawn on him until a full minute later, when Tim’s laughter reaches a crescendo.
“Boss, did you seriously just come out via Shakespeare?”
Jon’s not even denying it, giving a lazy, good-natured smile in response. Fuck. Here he is, having some stupid fantasy over his boss who is very much right next to him and very much not interested. God, is he taking advantage? He jumps to the side, trying desperately to put a few more inches of space between them for Jon’s comfort when that small hand comes back to his arm, the sudden and strong grip stopping him in his tracks. 
“No!” Jon’s voice is low, those dark eyes so intense. Martin can feel his face go scarlet from his gaze alone. “This is nice. I like it.”
Tim and Sasha share an evil little smile and Martin’s out of commission, the night’s revelations and Jon’s insistent snuggling having taken their toll. He couldn’t tell you what happened after that, how many drinks were shared or how he got home. All he remembers is the feel of Jon’s hand on his arm, his insistent closeness, and the sound of his laugh whenever Tim teased him.
The next day Jon comes in late, looking about as bad as the rest of them felt. From the way he interacts with them, it’s likely that he doesn’t even remember last night, what he did or what he said. Martin tries not to let it sting, and goes back to work, knowing there’s a side of Jon that he’ll likely never see again.
__________
“Martin, we have to...talk, if that’s alright.” 
Martin pauses, a lump building in his throat. “Okay.”
He settles in on Daisy’s lumpy couch, trying not to let his apprehension show. It’s been a week since Jon got him out of the Lonely and they’re still adjusting, but Martin likes to think they’re settling into a nice routine. There’s such a natural ease to their domesticity; they had their differences, sure, but he’s never seen the man so soft and unguarded, puttering around the cottage, making sure everything’s nice and comfortable for the two of them. And of course, there’s the bed situation. Only one, like in all the cliché fanfiction Martin had taken to reading back when he lived in the Archives and his biggest problem was worms. Maybe Jon doesn’t want to share anymore? He’s been strangely distant the past day, keeping space between them and hovering about in a nervous manner. He goes back through their interactions, trying to think of what he could’ve done wrong.
Jon sits down next to him, his face showing his own apprehension. “I know we’ve been getting...close, this past week. But if we’re going to ah, have an, er- well, you know, relationship- there’s some things you need to know.” Relationship. Jon thinks they're in a relationship. Martin didn’t want to put a label to it, too afraid it would shatter the fragile trust they built. But to be in a relationship with Jon, well, that’s something he’s always dreamed of, right?
So he relaxes minutely, tries not to show the utter joy he feels at the words. “Alright. What’s up?”
Jon takes a steadying breath, looking so oddly grave that Martin immediately wants to take him into his arms. “I don’t...well, I’m asexual. So I’m not really interested…” he makes a vague gesture down towards Martin’s crotch and then freezes, clearly embarrassed by the crudeness of the action. “I’m not interested in all of...that. Or kissing, for that matter. It’s just a personal boundary for me, if that’s alright.”
Oh. Martin blinks, taking in Jon’s serious countenance and hopeful eyes and while he wants to match it, he can’t control the laughter that bubbles out of his throat. “Oh-oh Jon-”
Jon immediately blanches, his brow furrowing in confusion and probably hurt. “W-What? What’s so funny?”
“I’m sorry! Fuck-it’s, it’s not that, that’s fine, it’s just-” Martin tries desperately to keep his laughter under control and fails. Christ, he can’t breathe. “Man delights not me, no, nor woman neither!” 
“Why are you quoting Shakespeare?” Jon’s looking at him like he’s lost his mind. Perhaps he has.
“Because you did, you daft thing!” Martin’s shoulders shake with the effort of containing himself, and he wipes a tear from his eye. He immediately puts a hand on Jon’s arm, a mirror’s reflection of that night at the bar and yet it’s still his hand that burns. “Jon, it’s fine. I already know. You told us over drinks my first month in the Archives.”
Jon’s face takes on that peculiar look of confusion and concentration that Martin loves, as if he’s searching his mind or maybe even the Eye for information. “I-oh. Oh!” He puts his head in his hands with a groan, ignoring Martin’s comforting pats to the back. “How embarrassing.”
“It was adorable.”
“No it wasn’t,” Jon whines into his hands even as he leans into Martin’s touch.
“It was,” Martin assures him, drawing him close to his side and letting him lean his head on his shoulder. “I’m sorry I laughed- you were just so serious, I couldn’t help it-”
“Yes, well,” Jon sighed, settling into his arms, the beginnings of a smile on his face. “It’s fine. As long you’re alright with…”
“More than alright.” It’s Jon, of course it’s alright. Being here with him, in their little shabby oasis- well, it’s more than enough. They sit there in silence for some time, Martin enjoying the closeness of the man he’d fought so hard to protect finally in his arms. He’s starting to think they just might be alright. He smiles to himself, perching his chin on top of Jon’s head.
“To be or not to be-”
“Shut up, Martin.”
ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28741983
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joskippy · 3 years
Note
!!! ARCHIVIST MARTIN HEADCANONS PLS !!!
OHOHOH FELLA YOU HAVE NO IDEA HOW MUCH HCS I HAVE FOR THIS AU
Literally all of this is going under a read more because I have this entire au mapped out in detail but basically I find the idea of Archivist!Martin very interesting because it's just changing one detail of the entire podcast and it completely alters the story.
(Under the read more is basically my entire idea for this au from season one to season four)
What happens in this au is that Elias hires and appoints Martin as head archivist because of the fact he was already deeply alligned with the lonely and was a interests of the webs. He lacked any real connection outside of the archives and was already of interest of two entities, he's basically a perfect candidate to become archivist. Tim, Sasha, and especially Jon are hesitant to be working under someone who they don't know and hold a slight grudge against Martin at the start for being obviously unqualifed for his job. Tim and Sasha, of course, immediately become more understanding when finding out about Martin's cv and just assuming he got unlucky and winded up with the role as the head archivist. Jon, on the other hand, still doesn't know about Martin's cv and continues holding the grudge against Martin.
Which leads us to season 1
In season one, Jon's opinion on Martin is "Oh lord this man I don't know is obviously unqualifed for his job and the role of archivist should've gone to my friend Sasha. I don't like this man but he is my boss so I will keep my mouth shut." Jon though, is still very passive agressive to Martin but is less of an ass to him in this au. Martin is very open about his opinion on statements and believes alot of them but similar to jon, will only record the ones that he knows have to be real. I still think Martin get's trapped in his flat by prentiss in this au, wanting to get more info for the case but not wanting to inconvenience any of his co-workers. While trapped in his flat, Jon takes over for him and records statements for Martin (Not in a "I want to impress my boss" matter but more of an "I'll show this twerp how it's really done") and realizes how much of toll it takes on him and how difficult the job is. When Martin comes back from his little worm adventure, Jon is much more nicer and understanding of him. Martin records what happened with him and prentiss and Jon offers him to stay in the little room he made for when he overstays at work. (Martin of course, is not happy with the fact Jon stays past work hours finishing up stuff but that doesnt matter). Y'know how the rest of s1 goes with the prentiss attack (Jon and Martin still share the heart to heart, Jon loses him and Tim in the tunnels) Jon finds Gertrude's body and it sparks his paranoia finding out she was shot to death and then we get to
Season 2
Jon's immediate assumption is that Martin killed Gertrude to get his job because like, he still doesn't know Martin well and then finds out this dude's predecessor got murdered so of course mr jon sims is going to go "oh so Martin for SURE murdered this lady." For the first half of the season, Jon pretends to be buddy buddy with Martin to see if anything's off with him and somewhere along the line Jon finds the noted Martin was writing to his mom in the trash and immediately assumes its about the murder. He catches Martin in his office and immediately corners Martin like "HEY I KNOW YOU KILLED GERTRUDE AND I GOT THE PROOF" and Martin just sighs and tells him about his cv and mother and Jon's opinion of Martin goes from "incompetent murderer who killed his predecessor to get his job and might kill me." to "highschool drop out whos just trying to make a living might end up being murdered too". With the not-sasha stuff it's sorta the same but Martin let's Jon in on some details of his suspicions on her. Martin get's framed for Jurgen's death and NOW WE ARE AT
Season 3
So since Martin obviously doesn't have a place to hide it at the start of season 3 so Jon offers him to stay at his place. Jon knows that Martin didn't kill Jurgen and is willing to take the risk of giving Martin a  place to stay. Martin, of course, is hesitant but takes the offer because he's been crushing on Jon for the past forever and definitely will take his chances in staying in hot guy's flat. You know the shenanigans of s3 (Martin get's burned by Jude, kidnapped by Daisy, kipdnapped by Nikola) and FINALLY get's back into the archives to apologize to Jon for being gone from the flat for so long and apologizes again cause he's about to go off to america. Martin get's kidnapped again, comes back to london, and now it's time to stop an apocalypse! ( Before the unknowing happens, Jon and Martin share a heart to heart and confess that they both share feelings for another and get together the day before 118 happens then shit goes DOWN ). Martin of course, goes off to the unknowing and Jon stays behind at the archives to distract Elias. Elias tries and fails to use Jon's feelings for Martin against him, then switches to what happened with Georgie and the dead women walking incidents against him, pinning it on him because of his connection with the web. Martin stops the unknowing, Jon comes home to the empty apartment and gets the news that Martin is in a coma. (He immediately blames it on himself) and now it's time for
Season 4
Jon losing Martin right after realizing that they both love each other absolutely tears him apart. He moves flats and he begins to separate himself from the rest of the archives and works with peter. Martin wakes up from his coma without anyone by his side and is told the news to him about his mom right the day after. S4 basically goes the same with Martin seeing Jon again finally after the coma and goes to hug him and tell him how much he missed him but Jon just stares at him like he saw a ghost and leaves without saying a word to him. Alot of their interactions are sparse, usually with Martin trying to spark a convo with Jon resulting in usually no response or just a head shake as he scutters off.  Then Martin finally is able to actually talk to Jon and tells him that he misses him and that maybe they could catch up sometime but Jon just laughs and tells him that hes busy. Martin later on finds out about how to cut off the connection with the eye and goes to tell Jon that they could leave the archives but Jon tells him that he can't and tells Martin he doesn't want to see him anymore and kicks Martin out his office. You know what happens in 158 and 159, it's basically the same and Jon and Martin settle down at the safehouse.
I don't have much for season 5 but I really like the idea that Martin is still optimistic even after the change and that he reassures Jon that he's gonna find a way to fix it when it reality he has no clue and it terrified to think about what is going to happpen to them. They don't stay in the cabin that long soon after since Martin is very eager to go to the pannopticon and ya! Yknow how it goes.
Im so sorry I wrote a whole essay worth of shit but this au means alot to me and i get very excited when people ask me about it!!
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desertflowerbowling · 2 years
Text
*mini disclaimer: these are mostly shameless projection and as such reflect my own personal experiences. obviously everyone’s experiences are different, and knee pain is caused by different things.*
-Jon’s sort of had bad joints since he was a kid, but it didn’t become a real problem until about the beginning of high school
-He got a knee brace in high school, and at first only wore it whenever he would be doing a lot of walking or other exercise
-He began to need it more and more, though, and was wearing it more often than not by the time he met Georgie
-He goes through periods where he has almost no pain, but it always comes back eventually
-His knees both hurt, but one is worse than the other, and that one gets the knee brace
-When he started working in the Archives, his knees were actually doing well, and he didn’t need the brace, but after about two weeks he had to start wearing it to work
-He hated this, it felt like giving up to have to wear it when he wasn’t even running or anything (it ISN’T, but brain can be a bitch sometimes)
-Tim knows Jon’s knees suck from when they worked in research together, and he asked him how he was doing pain-wise after they had been in the Archives for about a month
-Jon went on a whole rant about it, because Tim had caught him on an especially bad day, and he had forgotten his brace at home
-(I don’t know about you, but bad knee days make me very grumpy, especially without my knee brace)
-Tim has similar struggles with wrist pain and the two of them used to bitch about their joints together in research
-Jon needed to wear his brace all the time after the Prentiss attack, and his knee issues got a lot worse
-He got new physical therapy exercises, which he hated because “they’re boring and stupid, Martin, and standing up hurts”
-Tim and Jon used to remind each other to do their physical therapy, take pain meds if it got bad, rest, etc. but then season 2-3 happened
-Martin actually didn’t know about Jon’s knees until season 3 ish
-Jon was looking for his knee brace in his office (because he took it off the day before and forgot about it) and Martin walked in on him and asked what he was looking for
-Post-coma, Jon thought his knees would be even worse, but they were actually better
-They got worse when he tried to stop reading statements
-During the eyepocalypse, he doesn’t have any pain while walking unless he’s in a domain where it would benefit the entity who rules it
-Somewhere Else, Jon has knee pain again
-Jon procrastinates his knee exercises constantly, he knows they’ll help, but ughhhhh
-He usually tries to push through bad pain days (don’t try this at home kids it doesn’t end well) but Martin knows the signs and doesn’t let him
-Evil Boredom urge to get up and go for a walk vs Knee Pain urge to just sit down all day: my Jon’s brain on bad days
-Jon and Martin usually deal with bad pain days by playing board games and watching movies
-Jon jokes that those nights are the best dates
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fakecrfan · 3 years
Text
POV: You wake up in the TMA universe at the start of season 1.
You find yourself on the streets of London, cold and confused.
You try to figure out what happened and get home. You discover the place you lived no longer exists. The place you worked no longer exists.
You try to call the numbers of family, friends, anyone you knew. Baffled voices that you don’t recognize answer you, and then hang up.
As you're wandering around the streets getting increasingly terrified, you pass by the Magnus Institute. Then, everything makes sense.
You hurry in and blurt out: "I would like to make a statement"
Rosie smiles politely.
“Alright, let’s get you the proper forms then.”
She tells you that the Archivist, Jonathan Sims, will see you in a moment. As you are waiting for him, you recall what happens to people who give statements to Jonathan Sims. Unceasing bad dreams. Unrelenting panic attacks. Enough that Jess Tyrell stopped being able to go out in public.
"Ah," you think. "I will not do that then."
You leave in a hurry. Outside, you realize:
oh, I'm the only one who can stop the apocalypse now, aren't i
You shiver. That thought can wait, you think. For now you need to find... somewhere to stay. You are effectively homeless. No, not effectively. You are straight up homeless.
You pull out your wallet to pay for food. Your card is declined. You try to use cash, only to be told it’s counterfeit. Everything is just a little too much to the left of your reality for you to navigate.
Finally you find social services of some kind. They ask for your information, including your NIN. you aren't surprised when they say the info they have on file for that number is.... not you. You are disappointed though.
They help you to a homeless shelter. You sit on your cot and cry self-pityingly for a bit, and then that pressure comes back to your mind:
The world is going to end. You know the world is going to end. You're the only one who can do anything about it.
You turn over and decide that's something you can deal with in the morning.
----
The next day, you think about it again.
"That's something I can deal with when I have an apartment," is what you think then.
So that becomes your next project. Finding your footing as a displaced person. Social services helps but it's... sporadic. It takes months for you to get more stable housing.
When you lie down on the couch of the new, well, new associate you've made, you once again remember that the world is going to end. That you are the only one who can do anything about it.
"I'll think about that when I get a job"
-----
Time continues to pass. As you are trying to get on your feet, you make feeble attempts to... start something.
You go to the Magnus Institute a few times. But it's hard. You've always had terrible social anxiety,. And everyone there seems so cold. You can feel eyes on your back: staring, watching your every move. Normally that alone is enough to make you quit for the day.
A lot of times, the main cast you remember is out doing research. When they are there, you are about to walk up and speak to them when the anxiety hits you again.
What if Elias sees you talking to them? What if he kills you?
You decide to retreat for a little while, then. Just to think of a better plan.
You spend the next month getting your first job in this new world. You start a timeline of when you think the apocalypse is going to happen, but remembering the canon dates is hard. It's not a very helpful timeline, and so you give it up.
Eventually you think the best thing to do is to wait until Elias has been arrested and then talk to the others. When Elias is in prison, he can't murder you for revealing your plans.
This means Sasha and Tim will die. But--they might have died anyway, even with your intervention. Who’s to say? Anyway, you’re not the one who will kill them. It’s not your fault.
You scan the news every day for things about the Magnus Institute, particularly the head of it getting arrested.
During this time, you do a little better. You have a nice apartment now, you think. Nice by your own standards, at least. You decorate the place a little. Get some video games that you like--or well, they aren't the same ones as in your world, but close enough you think?
Months pass.
One day it hits you that maybe the papers would never actually report on Elias being arrested.
Oh shit, you think.
You go back to the Magnus Institute then. By this point, Rosie recognizes you. She grants you the same expression one grants a wayward alley cat. You ask who the current head is. You are told "Peter Lukas."
Shit.
"Can I make a statement?"
Rosie looks nervous. "Um, the Archivist is on medical leave."
"Okay can I talk to one of his assistants?"
Rosie gets this very tired look in her eyes.
"I'll... ask."
Rosie phones the archives extension
it rings
it rings
it rings
"They've all really been through it recently," Rosie tells you. "They don't--like to talk to anyone else, now."
"I have to talk to them," you say. "Um, can you--can you tell Martin Blackwood specifically that I need to talk to him? That it's about Jon?"
Martin is--you like Martin. Martin will be nice and safe. He'll be easier to talk to than Melanie at this point, or Basira. Still, Rosie looks tired again.
"I'll have a chat with him," Rosie says. "How about you go home for now, and I'll call you when I've talked to him."
"But--"
You're bad at this. You were always bad at this. You can barely sign up for anything on your own. Your mother has done so many calls and filled out so many forms for you.
You never cultivated the skill of standing in a lobby and insisting to talk to someone. Maybe you'll just irritate Rosie and she'll blacklist you if you dig in your heels now. Anyway, you're already so tired from this. You think about going home, and playing some Medal of Honour IV.
"Fine," you say.
You go home. You play the game. You sleep.
You're not giving up, you say to yourself. You're just--biding your time.
Rosie does not call you.
It pains you, but you realize you have to go back in and ask to speak to someone again. You'll go today after work, you decide.
No, wait, you're too tired from work today. You'll go tomorrow.
Maybe on the weekend.
----
You finally go back
Rosie tells you she just--hasn't been able to get a hold of Martin.
"Fine," you say. "Any of the other assistants."
Rosie actually looks a bit worried for you. "Um, they're not--they don't take well to unexpected visitors. Let me wait and chat them up about it."
You do not listen this time.
You march down into the basement level where the archives are. The door is--well. Shit. It's barricaded? You knock. You keep knocking.
"Melanie! Basira!" you say. "I have to talk!"
The door opens too quickly. You barely get a glimpse of Melanie's snarl before she strikes and your vision goes white.
She hits you a few times. No knives, just fists. You hear Basira in the backround, barking for Melanie to stand down. Once there is an opening and you can blearily see again, you run away in terror.
It's not--you didn't intend to run. You were just afraid.
----
You go home, and realize that Melanie didn't even really hit you in a super serious way. Nothing that would warrant a hospital trip, at least. Nothing that has left you with a lot of pain, outside of the immediate terror of physical violence.
You probably could have stuck it out there. You should have.
You think about all the months--no, years now--that have passed without you making any progress.
"But that’s not my fault,” you say.
"I was having a really hard time. I was homeless. I've been struggling with my mental health. I still have to keep the rent paid and feed myself."
"It's not my fault. It's not."
"I will do something. Just--I need some more time."
You sleep.
You decide to wait a bit for your bruises to heal up before going back.
When you do drag yourself back to the Institute, now there is a PTSD reaction to going into the Institute on top of the social anxiety.
You leave quickly. Rosie looks so sad for you.
You do try to go back. You do try to get back in contact with the Archives, or go back when Jon is back up. But there's always something. Not something directly stopping you. Just--
Tiredness. Work. Illness. Doctor's appointments. Panic attacks. The Archives staff being unreachable.
The world is going to end. You're the only one who can stop it.
"That's not true though," you think. "I mean, technically anyone could. I just have a little more information that could help."
"It's never one person's fault," you tell yourself as you crawl into bed after another flight of anxiety struck you as you were about to cross the street to the Institute. "It's everything. It's--a whole system. It's Jonah's fault really. If I don't--I'm not to blame."
“I’m not to blame.”
----
You are playing Medal of Honour V when your phone lights up with a notification that there was an outburst of violence at a place known as the Magnus Institute, and billionaire Peter Lukas has disappeared in the confusion.
You should get up. It’s going to happen, and happen soon. You hand twitches on the controller.
You remember a quote you saw before you ended up here, on Facebook of all things.
"Don't wonder what you'd be doing in Nazi Germany. Whatever you're doing now, is what you would have been doing then."
Because bad things were happening in the world all the time, your preachy Facebook aunt said. There is always genocide, and famine, and war. It’s not some movie fantasy from the past.
You think about that. About the horrors in your world. Those movements that you retweeted support for and occasionally donated $5 to. The protests you awkwardly passed by on your way to work.
You quietly realize what kind of person you are. What you would have been doing in Nazi Germany, or the civil rights era in the U.S., or during the catastrophes in your own world, or right now.
It's what you were always going to do.
And so you get back to Medal of Honour V.
----
You're still dreading the apocalypse of course. It won’t be easy.  It will be around six months to a year of full on torture, specifically designed to be the worst you have ever felt. Something about that soothes you. Something about knowing you are a victim too, or maybe knowing that you’ll be punished.
But--it will end, and then you'll be alright. Everything will return to normal, and you can go back to your apartment and your job and your games. It’s not all that bad.
You feel a twinge of guilt for Martin and Jon, who you could ave intervened for. You feel more than a twinge for the worlds the Entities will infect after. But--maybe it will all work out okay. Maybe the universe is a kind place. Maybe other worlds will be able to handle the fears better.
Who knows! There is always hope!
----
[When the sky turns red and the great Eye opens, when you start to hear the howls of your apartment neighbors through the wall--
Nothing happens to you. You are fine. It does not touch you.
Oh.]
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leighistired · 3 years
Text
Out Loud
A Martin character study AO3 Link
“G’night mum, love you.”
“Make sure you put the trash out, don’t want it stinking up the house.”
At 12 it occurs to Martin, he can’t recall the last time his mother said “I love you” to him. She must have. He knows she loves him, so why can’t he remember her saying it? Was it before dad left? It can’t have been that long ago. He knows if he brings it up she’ll just tell him off for being silly so he just decides to not say it unless she says it first. She doesn’t say it.
“Look how nice our neighbor’s garden is,” she says instead. “If only we could have such a nice garden.”
“The neighbors hire a man-” Martin tries to explain. He had just done law maintenance over the weekend; he would have to bring up memory issues next time they saw a doctor.
“Aren’t you happy with how I provide for you?” She snaps. “Ever since your lousy father left us I have done my best even with my health and all you can talk about is getting a bloody gardener.”
“Sorry, mum,” he says. It’s better not to argue when she gets like this.
“Forget it. Just get me my tea.”
He goes and brews her a cup of Oolong tea. It’s far too bitter for his tastes but it’s all he buys when he does the shopping. Perhaps that was it, instead of saying she loved him she just provided for him.
Martin tells himself that until she gets too sick to work and begins needling him to get a job at 14. Suddenly he’s providing for her on top of school and everything else but that didn’t mean she didn’t love him. She was just sick and the medication she was on made her tired most of the time so it wasn’t like he could expect her to be excited to see him; especially not when he’s the one bringing it to her.
“Is soup the only thing you buy?” She asks one evening when he brings her dinner.
“You didn’t have soup last night,” he reminds her patiently after a long day of school and work.
“Oh, so you think I’m ungrateful? I am your mother! I gave birth to you! You should be happy to take care of me!”
“It would be nice if you acted like a mum for once!” Martin snaps back. He regrets it as soon as he says it and doesn’t wait to hear her response. He leaves the house and sits in the park near his house for a long time and cries. Of course she loves him. It must be so hard on her to be stuck at home all day with no one to talk to and there he went snapping at her. She’s asleep by the time he comes home and neither of them mentions it in the morning.
Martin doesn’t know what he expects when he starts to transition. He hadn’t even called it a transition at first, he just likes how he looks with short hair, baggy clothes, and a sports bra. His mother disagrees. There are days she won’t even look at him and when she does it’s usually even worse.
“You cut your hair again,” she mentions one morning over breakfast. “Just when you were starting to look like a girl.”
“Yup,” Martin replies tight-lipped. He had been thinking it over for a while and he’s slowly coming to terms with the fact that he isn’t a girl. The way she says it hits him sharply. If she was never going to say “I love you” to a daughter, why would she say it to a son? He doesn’t bother coming out to her properly because he can already see the disgust on her face when he gets a proper binder.
When she decides to move into a full-time care facility, it’s almost a relief. He feels foolish for expecting her to say it when she leaves. He feels even more foolish when he says it in goodbye. The receptionist gives him a sympathetic look when she doesn’t say it back but the receptionist probably assumes his mother has memory issues and forgot who he was. She doesn’t. Still, he appreciates the gesture.
Dating is nearly impossible for most of his life. It’s easiest to blame his busy schedule; he doesn’t even have time for friends outside of school. The fact that no one even asks him out isn’t something he wants to think about. After he drops out of school and his mother leaves, dating and friendship don’t get any easier. He can’t let anyone he works with get close enough or they’ll find out his real age and utter lack of qualifications. Online dating is also out of the question for similar reasons. If one of his coworkers saw him with the age 19 in his profile they would either know he wasn’t actually 25 or they would think he was a creep and he didn’t exactly feel comfortable lying about his age to potential dates. Meeting people organically isn’t the worst thing in the world but it’s difficult. He makes a few passing friends at a local trans support group but even then, he can’t get close to anyone without risking someone discovering his falsified CV.
He doesn’t have his first real boyfriend until he’s 23 years old. They meet at a Holloween party thrown by a mutual acquaintance and date for almost five months before Martin ruins it.
“Happy Valentine’s Day, Dominick, I love you,” Martin says as he serves dinner.
“Oh, uh, it’s a little fast to say that, don’t you think?” Dominick had stammered awkwardly. Was it? It didn’t seem like it to Martin and even if it was, it was true. He loved Dominick.
“I-I don’t think so,” Martin replies nervously. Some distant part of himself starts to berate him for being so needy.
“It kind of is. Let’s just pretend you never said it and we’ll see how we feel in a few more months, ok?”
“You mean we’ll see how you feel,” Martin says a little bitterly.
“Why can’t you just relax and enjoy the holiday?”
Martin had sighed in resignation and picked at the rest of his plate. They broke up a week later because Dominick felt like they were “looking for different things.”
Martin doesn’t have another serious boyfriend after that. He goes on a few more dates over the years but nothing that lasts longer than five months. Nothing that lasts long enough to say “I love you.” In some deep dark part of him, he wonders if he was ever meant for love. His father hadn’t loved him enough to stay, his mother hadn’t said she loved him in over a decade, and he’s not even sure he was in love with Dominick. He gets crushes, sure, but he just throws himself into his work at the Magnus Institute instead.
Working in the library isn’t bad. He gets along with his coworkers well enough but he can never get close to them. Not close enough to love them as friends or be loved in return.
Then he gets transferred to the Archives.
Jonathan Sims is not the first asshole boss Martin has ever had. He doesn’t understand why Mr. Bouchard sent him down to work in the Archive in the first place and his first impression with his new boss is less than stellar when a dog follows him into the building. It doesn’t help that Jon is good-looking and every once in a while Martin catches glimpses of a version of the Archivist without a stick up his ass. Like when he spends Martin’s ice cream birthday talking about emulsifiers. If only he would be clearer about what he actually wants from Martin. No report or follow-up seems to be good enough, even with the help of Tim and Sasha.
Martin works hard for Jon’s approval. He doesn’t know why he wants the recognition but it’s either this or quit and he really, really can’t quit. So he spends three full days looking for every woman named Angela over fifty in Bexley only to be berated for actually talking to one of them and then he offers to look into a case about spiders that clearly upsets Jon only to get trapped in his flat by a zombie worm woman.
When he finally escapes, he takes a few worm corpses with him and he dumps them on Jon’s desk while he’s in the middle of a statement. Let Jon try and disprove that When he gives his own statement he makes special emphasis on reminding Jon how hard he worked to meet his exacting standards. He refuses to be yelled at for this.
Except Jon believes him. More than believes him, in fact. He offers Martin a place to stay. Of course that would be enough to ignite a crush in Martin.
As soon as they get to document storage Martin sits on the cot and begins to cry with exhaustion. He expects Jon to leave but again he surprises him.
“I-it’s alright, Martin,” he says awkwardly as he pats Martin’s shoulder. “You’ll be safe here and I’m certain Elias will respond promptly to my request for extra security.”
“Thanks,” Martin sniffs. He can’t remember the last time he cried in front of another person.
“Would...would you like me to stay until you fall asleep? If- if you think it will help.”
“Oh, er...no...I’ll be fine, thank you. You should be getting home, anyway. It’s Saturday, Jon.”
Martin blacks out as soon as Jon shuts the door to document storage. When he wakes up he finds his crush on Jon stubbornly still in place.
He can’t help himself after that. He starts taking special care of Jon in hopes of encouraging the kind man he saw that night into emerging. At the very least Jon doesn’t yell at him as much and he even thanks Martin for the tea he brings. It’s then that he notices other things about Jon, like how rattled he gets by certain statements and how he’ll often go an entire day without eating or drinking anything unless someone brings him something. That someone being Martin. He also notices how late Jon leaves, if he leaves at all.
It’s on one such night of Jon still being in his office at 11 o’clock that Martin knocks on Jon’s office door.
“Jon?” He calls gently.
“Hzzmt! Martin?” Jon responds, having been startled awake from dozing at his desk. “You should be asleep.”
“And you should be home.”
“I see your point,” Jon sighs. “I’ll finish up here and head home. Unless you need something?”
“Actually….I-I was thinking,” Martin beings. “Since I sort of kicked you off your cot...D’you want to come back to document storage with me? You know, get some sleep?”
“What?”
“Er...forget I-”
“The cot would be rather cramped with both of us,” Jon warns as he gets up from his desk. “If...if you’re sure you want me to join you.”
“Yeah...I thought you had work to do?”
“It can wait until morning, no use keeping you up longer than necessary.”
Martin only half regrets offering to share a bed with his crush. Jon was right, the only way to fit both of them on the cot is for both of them to sleep on their sides (or for Jon to sleep on top of Martin but even the thought has his face burning) and it’s difficult for him to fall asleep with Jon’s back pressed against his. It’s good to hear Jon fall asleep, though, and as time wears on it’s easier for Martin to goad Jon away from work to sleep a few hours.
The more of himself Jon reveals the harder Martin falls for him. Especially after Jon accuses him of being a ghost during the Prentiss attack. Even with the guilt Martin feels every time he looks at Jon mummified in bandages. That was Martin’s fault. If he had just paid more attention then he wouldn’t have lost Jon and Tim in the tunnels. He does everything he can to try and make up for it; despite Jon becoming more and more closed off by the day. Intellectually, Martin knows that Jon has gotten like that with everyone, but something deep down makes Martin feel like it’s his fault Jon’s gotten so cold. It doesn’t help that Jon seems to have gotten friendly with the policewoman investigating the murder of the previous Archivist. Tim even seems to think they’re having an affair which does wonders for Martin’s self-esteem. Jon wouldn’t be the first straight man Martin has ever had a crush on but Martin was pretty sure Jon wasn’t straight. Again, he wonders if he’s done something wrong to push Jon away.
After Jon stumbles out of his office covered in blood claiming to have had an accident with a bread knife Martin finds all the excuse he needs to regularly drag Jon to the canteen to make sure he eats something. The silences during those lunches are hard. They had eaten together before but now Jon wasn’t talking to him. The most Martin could get out of him were a few one-word answers. He tries not to think about how it reminds him of his mum.
“So,” he tries for the millionth time while Jon picks at his sandwich. “Did I tell you what happened while you were at physical therapy the other day?”
Jon doesn’t say anything but he looks up with a gaze that bores into Martin.
“Uh...A little girl came in alone with a statement, she must’ve only been eight years old,” Martin says. Jon looks at him with an expression that almost seems afraid. “Don’t worry, it recorded fine on digital. She walked right down into the Archive, walked up to my desk, and said ‘Excuse me. My name is Beatrice Walker and I’d like to make a statement about a supernatural occurrence.’ She sounded so grown up and she refused to leave until I had recorded her statement. Turns out her dad was using the library for research and she had just wandered off.”
“What was her statement about?” Jon asks to Martin’s surprise.
“Oh, a hamster with mysteriously changing spots.”
“Ah,” Jon replies thoughtfully. “Not much need for follow-up there, I suppose.”
“Not unless you really need me to track down the shop where her parents picked up the new hamster.”
He catches the briefest of smirks from Jon before the conversation dies again.
After that Jon’s coldness and paranoia comes out in the form of a screaming accusation over letters Jon found in the trash. Martin barely manages to make it to the bathroom before he bursts into tears after coming clean about his CV. Tim thankfully doesn’t check on him while he silently curses his taste in men. Jon doesn’t meet his eye for the next week in what he bitterly hopes is guilt. He does seem slightly more willing to talk with Martin at lunch, though.
Then Jon goes missing. After trying to get Martin and Tim to go home early because Jon was feeling under the weather; he disappears. Not before apparently bludgeoning someone with a pipe and isn’t that exactly what he and Tim need to see as soon as they get back from a two-week kidnapping by a spooky door monster?
With Sasha gone, Jon missing, and Melanie King being suddenly hired by Elias, whatever’s left of Martin’s relationship with Tim deteriorates. More so when Martin becomes the only one in the world to believe Jon could be innocent. It’s probably that that makes the police detective “investigating” Jon so actively hostile toward him. Apparently, people say he and Jon are “close” and that probably only means the lunch thing but he wants to imagine it’s something more. Like people are somehow picking up that Jon likes him back.
When Jon comes back to confront Elias it’s all Martin can think to do to fall back on his tea-making. He ducks into Jon’s office with a piping cup of the overly sweet tea he spent months perfecting to Jon’s taste and finds him with his face buried in his one non-bandaged hand.
“Jon?” He calls as gently as he can while he closes the door behind him. “I brought you some tea.”
It’s when Jon looks up that Martin notices the bloody mess down the front of his shirt.
“You’re hurt. Let me go get the first aid-”
“No!” Jon interrupts frantically. “Just...Could you just stay with me for a moment?”
Martin acquiesces and they sit side by side on the sofa in Jon’s office in silence until Jon starts sniffling into his tea. He offers Jon a hug and Jon all but dives into his chest to cry. It’s the saddest most broken thing Martin has ever heard and it’s all he can do not to pull Jon into his lap and curl around him protectively.
“Martin...I-I...I’m sorry,” he says quietly. “For everything. For Sasha and Prentiss and...and for the way I treated you. You didn’t….no one deserves that.”
“None of that was your fault and I sort of deserved it. I didn’t actually know what I was doing.”
“You didn’t deserve it,” Jon insists before going back to quietly crying into Martin’s jumper. Martin doesn’t respond. He can’t recall the last time someone’s apologized to him. At least not like that. He’d been told off most of his life for not doing things up to people’s standards. A few people over the years had told him he didn’t deserve it but Jon was the first person to apologize. No wonder Martin was falling in love with him.
Damn it.
Cuddling doesn’t become a regular occurrence for them by any means but Jon begins doing more to seek Martin out after that. They eat lunch together more often and Martin stays up late to talk to Jon while he’s abroad. It drives home how deeply buried into Martin’s heart Jon has become. Especially after he comes back after going missing for a month and has the audacity to joke about being moisturized by a clown mannequin for a month.
He wonders if Jon feels the same way. Sometimes Jon will smile shyly at him, and he can almost believe that Jon would be interested in a relationship if the world wasn’t ending. The last time they speak before the Unknowing they’re in document storage.
“Are you ready?” Jon asks as he shifts nervously.
“As ready as I’ll ever be,” Martin signs. He heard what happened to Melanie. He knows what’s likely to happen to him. Some small part of him is screaming to just tell Jon his feelings like it’s the climax of an action movie.
“Stay safe,” Jon says.
“Come back,” Martin replies. Jon offers him a hug. It’s no movie kiss but it allows Martin to hold Jon as close as possible. Jon himself is hanging off of Martin’s neck and it feels like a final goodbye.
Then Elias confirms what Martin has always suspected deep down. That his mother never loved him or if there was a time when she did, she stopped when his father left. Even after everything. After he spent years taking care of her. After he had to quit school to care for her. All she ever saw was his father. All his transition did was to remind her further of how much he looked like his father’s son. At least it was worth it. To distract Elias so Melanie could find evidence to arrest him.
Then Peter Lukas shows up and reveals that Elias planned to get arrested. Worse than that, he offers Martin a promotion of sorts.
Then they get the news from Yarmouth. Tim’s body is found in a charred heap, Daisy is missing, and Jon is dead in all but brain activity. At least Basira is physically alive.
Martin spends as much time as he can next to Jon. He’s used to loving someone who can’t love him back. Maybe this is all he’s destined for. Love unrequited. He talks to Jon’s dreaming corpse. Tells him about his day, reads him poetry, even a statement, but nothing draws Jon out of his coma.
Then his mother dies. He barely has the emotional strength to mourn her. Instead, he scatters her ashes and mourns his childhood lost to trying impossibly to earn her love.
After the Flesh attacks, Martin makes a decision. He’ll join Lukas. It’ll probably lead to his death but what did that matter? His mother was gone and didn’t care about him anyway. Tim and Sasha were gone. Jon was basically gone. Basira and Melanie were the only people left that he vaguely cared about and by doing this he could at least protect them.
He visits Jon one last time in the hospital. He’s still covered in wires and his eyes still flit around violently behind his lids as Martin sits down next to him and takes his hand.
“Hey Jon,” he says quietly. “I...This is the last time I’m going to see you...Probably ever. I know, I know old dramatic Martin surely he’s exaggerating. I’m not. The Institute is in danger and...I have a way to keep Melanie and Basira a little safer, so I’m doing it. I just came by one last time to say...Jon, I...I love you. Goodbye.”
He gets up and presses a kiss on a part of Jon’s forehead not covered in wires before leaving. It’s alright that he doesn’t say it back. No one ever says it back to Martin.
When Jon wakes up everything becomes that much harder. Suddenly he had a reason to live and the way Jon pursues him makes him almost believe...No, even completing the thought would be dangerous for all of them. Jon trusts him enough not to be constantly badgering and that makes it worse. When Jon is there the Lonely makes Martin resent his presence and when Jon’s gone Martin resents his absence.
The final, most excruciating pain is when Jon comes after him in the Lonely. He’s excepted his fate in the chilling numbness of the Lonely. Maybe that’s why he says it. The certain, inevitable rejection would be numbed utterly. So he says it.
“I really loved you, you know?”
And Jon looks broken. Even after he rips Peter’s statement from him. Even when he reaches for Martin’s face with hands that seem far too warm and makes him See. Knowing Jon loves him isn’t like “knowing” his mother loves him. Instead of a lie born in Martin’s mind to stamp down the fear of rejection, it’s a reality pouring from Jon’s mind mingled with Jon’s fears of rejection.
Jon’s hands still feel too warm compared to the icy chill of the Lonely as he leads Martin out. Still, he refuses to let go all the way through the tunnels, the Institute, talking to Basira, packing at each other’s flats, and on to the train. The way to Daisy’s safe house feels like a blur and when they finally arrive it’s all Martin can do to remember to take off his binder before collapsing into bed with Jon’s warm arms around him.
He wakes to Jon’s quiet crying. The awful, stifled thing that breaks Martin’s heart.
“Jon,” he whispers.
“Martin? Did I wake you? I’m sorry, I’ll-”
“It’s alright, Jon,” he assures as he swaps their positions so Jon is tucked firmly against him. Jon makes another broken noise and Martin can’t stop himself from crying, too.
“I-I’m here, Martin. You aren’t on your own,” Jon soothes and Martin almost has to laugh. They lay crying and comforting each other until they both fall back asleep.
When they wake up properly they take stock of the safe house’s pantry and make a list of things to pick up in the village after breakfast. Martin gives in to the temptation to buy a new notebook to try and write poetry in. They have enough canned food to survive to the next ice age so they pick up perishable items like milk, bread, butter, and eggs. Jon also picks up fresh peaches and a box of Martin’s preferred tea. It’s easy to pretend like they going on a normal shopping trip as they walk up and down the aisles to check things off their list.
They return to the cabin and settle in. Martin sits on the sofa and tries to write out a poem while Jon tries to read a book from Daisy’s personal collection. After a while, Martin beings to feel Jon’s gaze on him.
“Is there something on my face?” He tries casually as he’s met with an expression he’s never been on the receiving end of.
“I was just thinking about how much I love you,” Jon sighs. Martin can’t stop the noise that comes out of him. All his life trying to earn love and Jon just says it while Martin’s thinking of a synonym for ‘yellow.’
“I-I don’t expect you to reciprocate,” Jon says quickly, his soft expression suddenly turning worried.
“But I do.”
“Oh…Oh!”
“Yeah.”
Jon starts giggling and it’s impossible for Martin not to follow suit until happy tears stream down both of their faces.
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dickwheelie · 3 years
Text
heyyyy coming in a few days early with the “expression” prompt for @aspecarchivesweek! just a lil something about jon wearing a shirt he doesn’t like. enjoy!
(also on ao3)
_______________
All of Jon’s clothes are in greyscale.
Well, this isn’t entirely true—some are a very light tan, or a dingy brown. One mothbitten vest is a glaring 70’s orange that Jon deeply dislikes, so it stays at the back of his closet. These are the clothes he inherited from his parents and possibly also his grandparents, which he can’t bring himself to throw away. The rest, however, strictly range from white to black, practical to a fault.
Jon has a working theory that he may be the first person in history with an allergy to clothing stores. Entering one instantly stresses him out, and all he wants is to get what he came for and get out as quickly as possible. Figuring out how to match colors, as he eventually learns by the time he’s in uni, is a waste of time and consideration. Much easier and simpler to only buy clothes in shades that match no matter how you swap them out.
Of course, there are exceptions, and as life goes on in its chaotic and unaccountable way, he acquires items of clothing he wouldn’t otherwise have picked for himself. A colorful sweater from Georgie as a birthday gift. A free T-shirt from a uni event. He keeps these things for their sentimental value, but rarely wears them out of the house.
However, sometimes life is not only chaotic but also utterly unmanageable. And sometimes Jon finds himself with a promotion he doesn’t really know what to do with, an entire archive to organize, and less time than he’s ever had to do laundry.
And, well. One has to wear something to work, doesn’t one.
This is what Jon keeps telling himself as he miserably pulls on the last clean shirt left in his flat. He should know; he’s checked four times, and if he checks a fifth he’ll be late for work. He gives himself a glance in the small, dirty mirror stuck to the inside of his closet door, and looks away almost immediately, strangely embarrassed.
It’s just a long-sleeved, striped T-shirt, which is maybe a bit unprofessional for the workplace, but it’s not as though anybody minds how the people who work in the basement dress. The problem comes from its colors. Well, one of its colors. Three of them—black, grey, white—are perfectly suitable for Jon. But following those, at the bottom of the shirt, is a glaring, bright violet.
The shirt is a casualty of the aforementioned chaos of life. A friend of an acquaintance had given it to Jon to wear to a pride parade several years back, which he had ended up skipping out on anyway. Since then the shirt had been kept out of sight and mind, packed into the back of Jon’s closet for a rainy day that he’d never really expected to arrive.
There’s a first time for everything, Jon thinks, almost reflexively. The words don’t mean much to him, philosophically speaking, but they are a steadying mantra nonetheless. He goes to pull on his coat; by some measure of luck, it’s a cold day out. He plans not to take it off again until he’s safely back in his flat that night.
The trouble is, of course, that wearing one’s coat while making tea in the break room in an adequately-heated basement looks rather conspicuous to one’s coworkers, and leads to questions.
“You feeling alright, boss?” Tim asks, as he retrieves his bagged lunch from the fridge.
“Yes,” Jon says, stiffly. “Perfectly fine. I’m just cold.”
Sasha, who has followed Tim in, says, “Not sick, I hope.”
“I’m fine, don’t worry,” Jon says again, though he is beginning to feel a bit overheated. “It’s just cold in here. You don’t feel cold?”
Tim and Sasha shake their heads, looking concerned.
“I’m fine,” Jon says for the third time in thirty seconds, and promptly flees the break room.
By late afternoon, Jon is sweltering, and has no choice but to take off the coat. He’s careful to close his office door before he does so, resolving to put it back on if he needs to be seen by anyone for the rest of the day.
Though the garish violet stripe in his periphery is distracting at first, he loses himself in his work soon enough, spending an hour or two tearing through a stack of statements that are, by and large, utter nonsense.
He loses himself in his work so much, in fact, that when there’s a knock at his office door, he says “Come in,” without thinking.
“Hey, Jon,” says Tim as he enters, “d’you have a copy of statement zero-one-three-two . . .”
Tim’s voice drifts off, and Jon looks up, irritated. “Zero-one-three-two-what?”
Tim’s staring at him, an eager expression on his face, and Jon’s stomach goes cold. He looks down at the shirt, remembering, and stops himself from groaning. If he doesn’t react, maybe Tim will leave it alone. “What number were you looking for, Tim?” he says instead, very calmly and professionally.
But of course it doesn’t work. Tim’s face breaks into a smile, and he gives Jon a big, showy once-over. Jon rolls his eyes even before the words are out of Tim’s mouth. “Looking good, boss.”
“Tim, I have even less patience for sarcasm than usual, so if you could please—”
“Who said anything about sarcasm? You look good! Casual, ah, Tuesday suits you, Jon.”
Jon puts his elbows up on his desk and massages his temples. “I ran out of laundry.”
“Ah, been there.” Tim seems to have taken Jon’s resignation as an invitation, because he helps himself to the chair opposite Jon’s desk. “Wouldn’t have pegged you for the pride flag type, though. Don’t even think I’ve seen you with laptop stickers.”
“No,” Jon says, “I’m not. Not usually. This is just the only thing I had lying around. It’s from years ago, I never wear it.”
“Aw.” Tim genuinely looks disappointed. Jon wonders if perhaps he’s losing what remains of his tenuous ability to read people. “That’s a shame. You look good in purple.”
Jon has reached a point in his life, he’s fairly certain, where he ought to have heard such a comment before, or at least know the proper response. In actuality, he cannot recall a single instance of someone in his adult life complimenting his choice of fashion. He looks down at the shirt again. It’s the same as it was before: too-bright and obvious. He highly doubts it could look good on him in any shape or form. “Um. Thank you?” he says, sounding more bewildered than grateful.
“Really! It, like, brings out your eyes, or something. I dunno, but I think it’s nice on you. Not sure why you went through all the trouble to hide it all day.”
Jon shifts in his chair. “It’s . . . I mean, it’s very loud, isn’t it. And obvious. It’ll just attract attention.”
Tim looks at him for a moment or two. “Jon,” he says, “is this just about the shirt? Or is it also about the shirt?”
“That makes no sense, Tim.”
“You know what I mean.”
Jon, admittedly, does. One of the things he appreciates most about Tim is that they can be honest with one another, if only after some customary back-and-forth. He sighs deeply. “It’s—it’s just . . . a lot. I know it isn’t, really, in the grand scheme, it’s just you and Sasha, a-and Martin, too, I suppose. And it’s London, no one’s going to—it’s safe. I know that. B-But it’s a lot, being seen with everything—out in the open. By strangers. To know that they know. And even if they don’t know, they’ll . . . they’ll probably be able to guess.” He stares down at the scratched, cheap wood of his desk. Long ago, someone had carved a tiny pentagram on the lip of it. If Jon’s sense of humor weren’t buried under three layers of anxiety at the moment, he’d probably find it funny. “And I know it’s childish, to care what a bunch of strangers would think. But I can’t . . . I can’t stop thinking about it. I can’t just let it go.”
There’s a painfully long pause before Tim speaks up again.
“Well, I’ve got good news for you, Jon.”
Jon looks up at him warily, and finds that Tim is smiling at him. “What?”
He points at Jon’s coat where it hangs off the back of his chair. “You can put that back on.”
Jon blinks at him.
“At five,” Tim goes on, “you can put your coat back on, button it up, and walk out of here, and when you get back to your flat, Jon, you can do your bloody laundry. And you never have to wear that shirt ever again. Problem solved.”
“But . . .” Jon’s voice peters out before he can come up with a real protest.
“If wearing pride colors makes you feel like that,” Tim says, his voice gentler, “then don’t wear them. Simple as that. Not everybody’s got to carry a flag twenty-four-seven. Or ever. Doesn’t make you any less queer. Hell, even I take the pins off my bag sometimes.” Tim squints into the middle distance, muttering, “I can never seem to get the laptop stickers off, though.”
“But—what about what you said about me wearing purple?” He’s grasping at straws, he knows, but Tim’s argument is quite good. And the thought of never wearing this particular shirt again does sound rather appealing.
“So wear an aubergine button-down every once in a while!” Tim shrugs. “Or don’t! It’s none of my business.” He tilts his head to the side. “Actually, please do wear an aubergine button-down sometime. You’d turn some heads down here.” He pauses. “Figuratively, I mean. I’m sure everyone would be very respectful.”
Jon lets out a startled laugh. “Alright,” he says, feeling lighter. He runs a hand through his hair. “Maybe, sometime, I’ll . . . I’ll try it.”
“I know you like your blacks and whites, Jon,” Tim says, “and I’m not here to tell you how to dress. But if you ever need advice, or want to borrow a colorful, strictly nondenominational shirt . . .” He points both thumbs at himself. “I’m your guy.”
“Okay,” Jon says, and is surprised to find that, in this one, specific case, he is.
“And,” Tim adds, pointing a professorial finger in the air, “it’s not childish to care about what other people think of you. Pretty sure it’s the most universal thing there is. Welcome to the human race, Jon. You’re among us peons, now.”
Jon raises an eyebrow. “How unfortunate,” he says, drily, and Tim cackles.
Jon wears his coat home, keeping it carefully buttoned, and when he gets back to his flat he tosses the shirt into the back of his closet from whence it came. He’s not going to throw it away altogether, of course. It has sentimental value. Someday, maybe, he’ll dig it back up, if only just to look at.
For now, Jon does his bloody laundry.
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Beca decided to stay home with Nicholas the following day. She figured she’d call the daycare that had watched Hannah and Gabriel for them and see when they had an opening. Betty said she’d be happy to watch him until they got that straightened out.
Beca got Nicholas strapped into a booster chair she was glad they hadn’t yet put away and was spoon-feeding him some Cheerios when the doorbell rang.
Beca let CR in, and the woman already looked pleased. Crackers got out from his spot under the table and ran to her, tail wagging.
“How was your first night?” she asked, reaching down to pet the dog.
“Tiring. I had to rock him to sleep,” said Beca. “The poor little dude has some seriously bad diaper rash. Cried his eyes out during his bath. Chloe and Rachel got some of that Butt Paste rash cream. Definitely make sure you have a tube of that for when your little one arrives. He already looks so much better.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” said CR. “Has he spoken yet?”
Beca shook her head.
“What a shame,” she said. “Maybe he’ll talk when he’s more comfortable. It looks like he and Crackers are getting along.”
“He didn’t seem to mind when Crackers licked him, so I think they’re already friends. And Crackers has already figured out he drops food the most often.”
“Smart dog. Keep me posted on how the little man is doing, though.”
“I will.”
“This isn’t the first time we’ve been to his mother’s house, although it is the first time for this little guy. She had his two older siblings taken from her. She has a serious drug problem. I’d heard about this little guy, and I hoped she’d straightened herself out. It doesn’t seem like it.”
“It’s a damn shame.”
“I don’t think she sees a way out.” CR sighed.
“We’ll do our best for him. It sounds like he’ll be here for a while.”
“Pretty safe assumption. Can I tell you something, Beca?”
“Sure, I guess.”
“Back when I met Chloe, I’ll tell you I had my reservations. I knew she was right for Rachel, but I wasn’t sure Rachel was right for her.”
“I don’t understand,” said Beca.
“She was twenty-two and single, and she was agreeing to care for a premature baby. I knew she already loved that little girl, but I wondered if she might be single forever. I wasn’t sure there was a person her age that would understand the responsibility she’d have as a mother. I was beyond relieved when I found out she’d gotten married, and thrilled when I found out you’d adopted Rachel and wanted to foster more kids.”
“I knew there was something special about Chloe. I was more than a little shocked when she told me Rachel’s backstory, but I’d already fallen in love with both of them.”
“I’m glad,” said CR. “When did she tell you?”
“A few months into the relationship. Long story, but that backstory just made me love both of them so much harder.”
“Well, I’m happy it didn’t send you running out the door.”
“I already knew she had a daughter. She told me that when I asked her out.”
“And you didn’t mind?”
“I was a little surprised, but I figured I’d roll with it. I asked a few friends and coworkers with kids for some tips, though.”
“Smart thinking.”
“It helps that my assistant producer is basically a child in a grown man’s body, but in a charming way, not an irresponsible way.”
“Right. Jesse.”
“He helped us with Gabriel’s hair before his birth mom let us take him for a haircut. I’m pretty sure he’s going to have to help me tame this one’s mane,” Beca said, tousling Nicholas’s hair.
Nicholas pushed the spoon away as Beca tried to feed him the last bite. “All done?” she asked. The little boy didn’t respond.
“Keep trying,” said CR.
“I will,” said Beca. She unhooked the tray from the booster seat and let Nicholas up. He grabbed onto her tighter as she tried to set him on his feet.
“He seems to have taken to you.”
“Yeah. I don’t mind.” Beca pulled him close and pressed a kiss to the top of his head.
Beca and CR headed to the living room. They sat on the couch, Nicholas in Beca’s lap, resting his head on her shoulder. They discussed a few more things about Nicholas’s case. CR made a phone call and managed to get the elementary school where Rachel attended to see and evaluate Nicholas to determine whether or not he qualified for special education and related services. Beca was glad CR had been able to get them in so quickly.
“Chloe and I were actually just talking last night about whether we thought he had a disability, or if this was all just a product of neglect.”
“It’s not my field of expertise, but I’d probably say it’s a bit of both. Either way, if they can get him into a program, that’s going to help him so much.”
“Right. That’s a good idea. What time tomorrow?”
“10 am.”
“Great. So, I believe I owe you some cake.”
“Meemaw’s hot milk cake?”
“Of course,” said Beca.
“Good thing. Denise will be thrilled.”
“How much longer now?”
“She’s thirty-four weeks. So, she’ll be full-term in three weeks, but the doctor told us at her last checkup that they wouldn’t stop labor if it happened now.”
“I’m sure she’s uncomfortable, but I hope the little one cooks a bit longer.”
“Me too,” said CR. “It’s going to be a long six weeks if she goes to her due date, though. She’s so uncomfortable. I’ve been giving her a lot of foot rubs and back rubs.”
Beca smiled to herself. Cynthia Rose and Denise had gotten together as a result of working as a team to get Chloe approved to foster and then adopt Rachel. The two women seemed to have quite the soft spot for the Mitchell-Beale family.
CR headed to her car to drop off the cake slices, and she came back inside with some items provided by the DCFS - diapers, a car seat, and a check to help cover expenses.
“Thanks,” said Beca.
“Do you want me to go with you to his evaluation tomorrow?”
Beca shook her head. “I got it.”
“Send me a copy of whatever they give you.”
“Will do.”
Beca took Nicholas to his evaluation the next day. He wouldn’t leave her side to go with any of the evaluators, and he barely did anything they asked. They said he qualified for a preschool program for kids with special needs at Rachel’s school. He would have a bus pick him up from the house in the morning and drop him off at daycare before lunch. Beca inquired about letting him ride the bus in the morning with Rachel, but they said he needed a special bus with a carseat and an attendant.
Beca took the paperwork they’d given her and she assured them that she and CR would both be present at his IEP meeting to set up a specific plan with goals, accommodations, and everything he’d need to be successful.
That Friday night, Nicholas ate his dinner in his booster seat, thrilling Crackers with the amount of food that landed on the floor.
“No five-second rule here,” said Beca, laughing.
“Not when you have a two-second dog,” said Chloe.
“What’s the five-second rule?” Rachel asked.
“It’s not a real rule,” said Chloe. “Some people will eat food that lands on the floor if it’s been there for fewer than five seconds.”
“But that’s not really a safe thing,” Beca added.
“Why isn’t that bad for Crackers?” Rachel asked.
“Dogs are a bit less sensitive to germs,” said Chloe.
“Oh.”
The family sat down to a Disney movie after dinner. Nicholas seemed to be interested in the bright colors and animals on the screen.
Beca took him to his room to get him ready for bed. As he’d done the past two nights, he’d wailed when she’d tried to put him in bed. She sighed and sat in the rocking chair with him.
She sang to him, choosing to sing “Titanium” instead of the array of “kid songs” she’d been singing to him for the past few nights. He seemed a little drowsy after that, and she continued singing, this time choosing “Party in the USA.” He was out cold by the end of the second song, and she was glad he transferred to the bed easily.
She went to her bedroom, knowing she must have looked exhausted, surprised to see an amused look on her wife’s face.
“‘Titanium’, Beca?”
“There’s only so much ‘Row, Row, Row Your Boat’ and ‘Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star’ I could sing before my brain exploded,” said Beca.
Chloe chuckled. “It will get better.”
“I know. I just feel so bad for the little dude,” she said. “What did that mother do?”
“Not much, it seems.”
Beca shook her head. “Poor little dude.”
“Come here,” said Chloe. She pulled her in for a hug and a kiss. “You seem tense. Do you want me to rub your back?”
“That would be great,” said Beca.
They both got into pajamas, but Chloe had Beca take off her pajama shirt when she lay down. She grabbed the massage oil, and Beca couldn’t avoid a moan when she felt her wife’s hands on her.
“Feel good?”
Beca hummed in the affirmative.
Chloe spent a good amount of time massaging the tension out of Beca’s back. “You have great hands,” said Beca.
“They don’t have to stay on your back, you know,” replied Chloe, and Beca could tell she was winking without even looking.
The statement sent a rush through Beca, and her body reminded her that it had been longer than usual that they’d been intimate. Beca flipped over, pulled Chloe in for a deep kiss, and they made up for lost time (repeatedly).
The next morning was Saturday, and Beca looked over at the bedside clock. She immediately sat up with a start and woke her wife.
“Chloe, get up!”
“What’s wrong?”
“It’s 9:00 am!”
Chloe sat up. “The baby monitor is off. I hope the little guy isn’t crying.”
They quickly got out of bed and headed toward the living room, Crackers at their heels. Beca stopped dead in her tracks and motioned for Chloe to be quiet. She gestured toward the couch.
The two moms couldn’t believe their eyes. Rachel and Nicholas were seated on the couch, giggling at the television. It was the first time they’d seen the little guy smile, much less laugh.
They quietly walked into the living room. Rachel looked over. “Hi, Mom. Hi, Mama.”
“Hey, baby girl,” said Chloe.
“I heard Nicky in his room, talking to himself. I walked him down to the kitchen and made him some breakfast. And then I put on Dinosaur Train. I think he likes it.”
“Wait, what? Nicky?” asked Beca.
“Mom, I thought I would try calling him Nicky. There’s a kid in my class with that name. I don’t think anyone ever called him Nicholas,” said Rachel, pointing to the little guy.
“Nicky,” Chloe said, and she suppressed a squeal when he turned to her and smiled.
“Why didn’t we think of that?” asked Beca. “What was he saying when you heard him this morning?”
Rachel laughed. “I think he was saying ‘dude’.”
Nicky began to singsong: “Du, du, du.”
“Hey, dude,” said Beca, chuckling.
“And he said: ‘Eat’ and tapped the table when we were in the kitchen,” said Rachel. “I gave him a bowl of Cheerios. He started eating it with his hands, so I didn’t pour any milk.”
“That was a good idea. Thank you for taking care of him. We accidentally shut off the baby monitor. You can always wake us up, you know,” said Chloe.
“I know, Mama. But, I also know that Mom stays up late in his room to try and get him to sleep. I wanted to help. I didn’t change his diaper, though,” said Rachel.
Beca walked over to Nicky and looked in his diaper. “It’s only a little wet, from what I can tell. Chloe, get the little potty out of the closet. Maybe we can see if he’ll go.”
Chloe grabbed the little potty chair they’d used on several of their previous foster kids. Beca sat Nicky on the little potty chair, and he relieved himself almost immediately. Beca, Chloe, and Rachel all clapped and cheered. Nicky began to join them and smile.
They let the kids watch a little more television while Beca and Chloe got themselves some breakfast and took Crackers out to do his business.
Rachel’s birthday party was planned for that afternoon. It was at a pottery painting studio where the children would choose a piece and paint it, and the studio would fire it in the kiln and return it to them the following week. Beca and Chloe knew there was no way Nicky could handle that kind of party, so they decided to leave him with Betty for the afternoon.
“Okay, Betty, he already had lunch. He still hasn’t said a lot,” said Beca.
“It’s fine, sweetheart,” said Betty. “I’m sure he and I will have a great time.”
“Are you sure we can’t pay you?” asked Chloe.
“Positive.”
Beca, Chloe, and Rachel headed to the pottery studio. This party was less chaotic than in previous years. Rachel only invited eight kids this time, and six had been able to make it. Beca was surprised that nobody dropped any pottery pieces, and all of the children had tried very hard to do a good job.
Rachel got a lot of nice gifts, and she’d accepted them graciously.
Stacie, Aubrey, and Bella accompanied them back to the house. Rachel had begged to have Bella for a sleepover. Beca and Chloe had been mildly concerned about overwhelming Nicky with new people, but Bella had done well in the past with their other foster children.
The six of them came back to the house to find Nicky doubled over laughing through a game of catch with Betty in the living room while Crackers ran back and forth between the two of them. He ran straight for Beca and Chloe once he spotted them.
“Ma!” he exclaimed.
Beca and Chloe looked at each other. They’d never had a foster child address either of them as “Mama” or “Mom.” Hannah had called them “Mama Chloe” and “Mommy Beca” and Gabriel had followed suit.
“Which one of us is he talking about?” Beca asked.
Chloe smiled. “He’s looking right at you.”
Beca felt Chloe’s hand on her back as she scooped Nicky up to put him on her hip. “Are you okay with that?”
Beca felt a lump in her throat. She nodded, knowing she’d burst into tears if she tried to talk.
“He’s precious,” Stacie said. She took a hand and smoothed his curls.
“He seems to have really taken to you,” said Aubrey.
“He ate Mom’s dinner with his hands when Miss CR brought him over,” said Rachel, giggling.
“That’s funny,” said Bella. “Why don’t I get to eat with my hands?”
Aubrey turned to her daughter and said, “You’re eight, not four.”
“And we are teaching him to use a fork,” said Beca.
“Who wants pizza?” asked Chloe.
“Me!” yelled both Rachel and Bella. Nicky grunted.
“Betty, do you want some?” asked Beca.
“Oh, no thanks, dear,” she said. “Your little guy wore me out. I think I’m going to go home and eat some soup and head to bed early.”
“Thanks so much for watching him,” said Chloe.
Betty made a motion with her hands to show it hadn’t been a big deal, even though Beca and Chloe knew it hadn’t been easy.
“I think we’re going to head out,” said Aubrey.
“Bye, Mama! Bye, Mom!” said Bella. She gave her moms each a hug as they left.
Nicky began to squirm in Beca’s arms. She put him down and he trotted off to the bathroom. She followed him. He began to fuss with his pants. “Do you need to go potty?” she asked.
Nicky grunted and tried harder to pull at his pants. Beca took his pants down and sat him on the little potty. He immediately smiled and clapped for himself as he sat and relieved himself.
“Good boy, Nicky!” she exclaimed.
Chloe walked in. “Did he ask to go?”
“More or less,” said Beca. “I wonder if maybe his birth mom was working on it before...well, whatever it was that made her slip.”
“Could be,” said Chloe.
Beca helped him clean up and then sent him back to the living room. Rachel and Bella were seated at Rachel’s art table, drawing pictures. Nicky patted the table.
“I think he wants to join you,” said Beca.
Bella shrugged and said, “It’s fine with me.”
“Okay with me, too,” said Rachel.
Beca grabbed some jumbo crayons she’d stashed away after Hannah and Gabriel left and a piece of paper. She let Nicky sit with the girls and scribble on the paper. He proudly showed his drawing to Beca and Chloe after a minute. They praised him and put it on the refrigerator. He beamed.
They called the kids to the table once the pizza arrived. Nicky made a mess with his pizza, giggling the whole time. He was covered almost head to toe by the time they finished up dinner.
Chloe put Nicky in the bathtub while Beca set up Rachel and Bella with a Disney movie and popped some popcorn for them.
Beca went to take Nicky up to his room after his bath, but he squirmed and fussed.
“I think he wants to watch Descendants with us,” said Rachel. The comment seemed to make Nicky fuss more and gesture more forcefully.
Beca sighed. “Okay, dude, but just because it’s Rachel’s birthday sleepover.”
She sat him next to Rachel on the couch, and Nicky immediately climbed into Beca’s lap as soon as she sat down. “Ma,” he said as he rested his head on her chest. Beca sighed contentedly.
Beca sat through Descendants for what felt like the millionth time (it was a favorite of Rachel and Bella). Nicky clapped and squealed at the movie, especially if Rachel and Bella reacted.
Beca felt herself being jostled awake. She was certain she’d just closed her eyes for a minute, but she saw the credits rolling. Nicky was fast asleep, quietly snoring. Chloe gave her a kiss on the cheek as she lifted the sleeping boy off of her lap. “Come on, sleepyhead,” said Chloe.
“Which one of us?” Beca asked, yawning.
“Both of you,” said Chloe. “You go to bed. I’ll put Nicky down and make sure the girls are settled in Rachel’s room.”
Beca sat up and stretched. “Thanks, Chlo. I’ll take Crackers out while you do that.”
Beca was tucked into bed, playing a mindless game on her phone, when Chloe walked in.
“He sleeps like you, Beca. When he’s down, he’s down. He slept through a diaper and clothing change. He barely rolled over when I tucked him in.”
Beca chuckled. “He also falls asleep watching movies. Maybe I should do that instead of rocking him and singing.”
Chloe chuckled. “I’m sure we can get him into a bedtime routine soon.”
“I think so. I guess I need to work on that.”
“We both do. I know you’ve done most of the work since we got him, but we’re in this together.”
“How did you do this by yourself with Rachel?”
Chloe shrugged. “She wasn’t exactly mobile. And I’d had a lot of time with nurses by my side to help me learn.”
“Right.”
“I want to bond more with Nicky,” said Chloe. “Why don’t I take him with the girls and me tomorrow? I’m sure he’ll love the aquarium.”
“You want to take three kids by yourself?”
“Sure. Besides, Bella and Rachel are eight years old. They’ll probably get a kick out of showing Nicky everything. You can get some rest.”
“This won’t mess you up for school?”
“Nope,” said Chloe. “I’m caught up on my reading. No group projects on the horizon.”
“Okay, if you’re sure.”
“Positive.”
“Thanks, Chlo. You’re the best,” Beca said, giving her wife a chaste kiss before turning off the light.
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suttttton · 3 years
Text
Growing Pains
Febuwhump Day 1: Mind Control
***
“You knew what you would find here, didn’t you?” Annabelle asks, leaning back against her kitchen counter, looking over Jon with eyes far too predatory for his liking.
“To be honest, I expected more spiders,” Jon says. He’s seated at Annabelle Cane’s table, in Annabelle Cane’s flat. Annabelle Cane is making him tea. He came here of his own accord, and even though he can feel his heart in his throat, he refuses to regret this decision. Hadn’t he long ago decided that answers were worth the fear? Isn’t that how he’s made every decision, since Jane Prentiss attacked the Archives? Since he read the wrong book and narrowly escaped being devoured by a monster?
Annabelle smiles, crosses her arms. “Just because you can’t see them doesn’t mean they aren’t here, Jon.”
Jon swallows. “Right.” His voice is faint.
“And yet you came anyway,” Annabelle says. “Do you know why?”
“I, uh… I thought I’d ask you—something. For a statement. Maybe.”
“And you thought I was likely to give you one?”
“Well, you invited me here, didn’t you?” Jon snaps, stiff politeness finally giving way to trembling anger.
“I did,” Annabelle says. She comes closer to Jon, and it’s all he can do not to flinch away from her. “Give me your hand,” she says, holding out her own to take it.
“Why?” Jon manages, even as he’s already extending his bandaged hand toward her.
She gives him a flat look, closes her eyes, takes a breath. His hand is trembling slightly, caged between her two hands. She opens her eyes. “Because our patron is worried about you,” she says. And then, her voice low with anger. “You will not compel me again.”
“Our patron?” Jon says.
Annabelle nods, her attention occupied examining the bandages on his hand. He tries to pull away, but he can’t. He can’t move his hand at all. She runs three fingers over the surface of his palm, and Jon holds back a squeak of pain at the gentle contact. “Jude did a wonderful job,” she murmurs, more to herself than to Jon. Then she looks at him, smiling. “And Martin did a wonderful job with the bandages.”
She releases him, and Jon jerks his hand back, cradling it to his chest. She steps even closer, and he’s frozen in place as one of her hands goes to his throat. Even over the bandages, she traces a line exactly where Daisy’s knife punctured his flesh. “Daisy’s is more impressive, though.”
The kettle screams, and she steps away to finish preparing the tea. Jon can suddenly move again, and he curls his arms around himself. This isn’t like meeting Jude Perry or Mike Crew. He wasn’t on even footing with them, either, but with Annabelle, it isn’t even close. He considers running, but he’s terrified that he’ll find himself unable to move if he tries to act on that thought.  
“Why am I here?” he asks. He’d grown used to the small sliver of power his questions gave him. It’s terrifying to lose that.
Annabelle sets a mug of tea in front of him. He picks it up, takes a sip. He didn’t decide to do that, but it’s happening anyway. She sits down across from him, takes a sip from her own mug. “The Mother of Puppets is fond of you,” she says. Like that explains anything.
“You mean, the—spiders?” Jon asks, dread growing in his stomach.
“Knock, knock,” Annabelle says, smiling at him over her mug.
A jolt of fear rushes through Jon, and he takes a deep breath, steadying himself. “But that isn’t—I belong to the Institute, the, the Eye.” Jon still has so many questions about the Entities, so many things that he doesn’t know, puzzle pieces that don’t quite fit together. But he knows that he doesn’t belong to the spiders. He escaped them. 
“Sure,” Annabelle says. “But the Web claimed you first. You’ve been running around, collecting your marks like a good little Archivist, all inspired by your desperate curiosity, your gnawing fear that you won’t be able to put all the pieces together in time. It’s all very Beholding-flavored.” She wrinkles her nose, and looks at Jon, still with that sly smile. “Much better for you to strengthen your connection to the Web. Your fear will feed us. You’ll have our gifts.”
“So this is, what, an invitation?”
“Sure,” Annabelle says. “If you want to think of it that way.” She pauses. “Of course, invitations presume that you can deny them, and free will isn’t exactly the Web’s strong suit. The Mother of Puppets wants you to be ours, so you will be.”
Jon opens his mouth, to ask what the hell that means, but Annabelle cuts him off. “You should probably be going now.”
Jon stands up, not of his own accord, and starts toward the door. Annabelle follows. Before he leaves, she plants a hand on his shoulder, and he just barely manages to not flinch away. “Jon,” she says, and there’s something different in her eyes now, replacing the sly teasing tone she’d taken before. She looks… concerned. Sad, even. “There will be some growing pains,” she says. “Just do what the Mother wants. It’ll be alright.” She squeezes his wrist, and then shuts the door.
He doesn’t decide to go back to the Archives. The Web decides for him.
***
“Good morning,” Martin says, bringing in tea, as he does every morning.
Jon smiles at him. “Good morning, Martin.”
Martin looks at him for long enough that Jon starts to frown. “Martin? Did you need something?”
“What?” Martin blinks. “No, sorry, I—You just look… really good. Better than you have since—Well, since you got back from your… vacation, I guess.”
“I suppose there’s no snappy way to say, ‘time when you weren’t coming into work because your boss framed you for murder and the cops wanted to kill you,’” Jon quips. “But yes. I feel better.” He lifts the statement on his desk. “Feels like we’re finally making progress towards something.”
“And your hand, and—It’s all healing well?” Martin asks.
Jon nods, flexing his hand slightly beneath the bandages. “I think I’m starting to get a bit of feeling back? Which is probably a good sign.”
“Probably,” Martin agrees. “I still think you should’ve gone to A&E.”
Jon nods, a little embarrassed. “Yes, well… if it gets worse, I’ll take your advice.”
“Alright,” Martin says. “Well, I’ll let you get back to it.” And then he leaves, smiling because, for the first time in recent memory, Jon actually seems as fine as he claims to be.
Jon wants to scream. He wants to curl up beneath his desk, arms wrapped around himself in some semblance of comfort. He wants to be held—Martin or Georgie or Tim, or someone. He wants the release of it, warm arms grounding him as he shakes apart entirely. He wants to beg the others to please, please help him.
Instead, he smiles at them when he sees them in the break room, when he asks them to look into certain details for him. He sits in his office, calmly reading statement after statement, finding as much information about the Unknowing as possible. He goes home and watches movies with Georgie, and laughs at all the right parts. None of it is his choice, and he is so, so scared. Scared of what the Web is planning. Scared that he will be nothing but a puppet for the rest of his life.
It’s strange, being so constantly terrified, but showing no physical symptoms of fear. His heart rate is normal. His hands and voice are steady.
It doesn’t escape his notice that they all like him better, like this. Unburdened by the weight he carries with him. He desperately wishes for one of them to notice that it’s wrong, that he’s wrong, but he knows they won’t. Even if they did notice, he isn’t certain they would want him to go back to what he was before.
It’s almost a relief when Breekon and Hope grab him. He chooses to fight them, kick out his legs uselessly as they tie him up and toss him in the back of their van. His heart is hammering, adrenaline firing. It’s exhilarating, but there’s no room to rejoice in his newfound freedom. He has to find a way out of this, but—
There is no way out. Nikola delights in reminding him of this, whenever she comes to see him. They tie him up in a dimly lit room, surrounded by horrifying mannequins that sometimes move. His binds are tight, as is the gag in his mouth, and though he can struggle against them, it’s clear he’ll never manage to wriggle out of them.
For a while, he expects someone to come rescue him. Maybe Annabelle, although if he really thinks about it, it’s more likely that the Web would simply manipulate someone else into coming. Maybe his assistants would come, if they can find him. (If they decide he’s worth rescuing.) He’s wanted by the Eye and the Web, and clearly that counts for something. Surely they wouldn’t just abandon him to be skinned alive by the Stranger.
But no one comes. It’s hard to keep track of time, but Jon knows it’s been a few weeks, at least. Long enough by far for a rescue party to come, if they ever planned on coming. He wonders if the Web is enjoying this, if this fear is Web-flavored enough for it. Maybe it set him up for this. Maybe it’s actively preventing him from escaping.
He’s allowed to cry now. He can even scream, if he wanted to, although the gag makes it kind of pointless. Nikola enjoys when he cries.
Michael comes, and then Helen replaces him, and Jon can see the spidercracks of the Web behind it. Helen opens her door to him, and even if he wanted to take his chances with the Stranger, the webs in his mind give him no choice but to accept her offer.
At least Helen only toys with him a little bit before depositing him back in his office.
He lays on the floor for a long time, staring at the ceiling, expecting at any moment for the vise-like grip of the Web to take hold of him once more. It keeps not happening. His breath starts to come faster and faster, so he forces himself to take deep breaths, but that only makes his shaky breathing sound louder in his ears. It’s all so loud, his breathing, his heartbeat. Even the electricity humming in the walls, the soft rattle of the air conditioner.
He brings a hand to his face, and his eyes are filled with tears that immediately start tumbling over his cheeks. A sob hitches in his chest, and he almost smiles. He’s wanted to have a breakdown for so long, and now—it’s almost pleasant, losing control of his emotions in the safety of his office. No one around to jeer and laugh at him. No spiderwebs forcing him to keep smiling.
Another sob hitches, and he suddenly feels much too exposed. He pulls himself under his desk, relishing the darkness, the smallness. He brings his knees to his chest, wrapping his arms around himself. Lets himself cry, burying the sound as much as he can. He doesn’t want the others to hear.
The door opens, and he lets out a soft gasp, biting down on his sobs. He holds his breath, willing himself to be quiet, to not be heard, not be found. He’s petrified that being found will mean his break is over, will mean the Web comes back, invading his mind.
It’s Martin. He comes in, humming quietly, and sets something on Jon’s desk. He starts to leave, and then—
Jon suddenly takes a sharp inhale, unable to hold his breath any longer.
Martin’s footsteps pause, hesitantly.
Something in Jon’s brain—the spiderwebs, he knows—pulls at him to be quiet, to let Martin leave, to not bother him with this. But it’s been so long since Jon’s seen Martin, and he just—He just wants to see him. Even if it means he has to smile. Surely, surely Martin will see that something is wrong, won’t he? The thought brings fresh tears to his eyes, and he says, “Martin?” His voice is thick with tears and rough from disuse. 
“Wha—Jon?” Martin says. His footsteps move quickly to the other side of the desk, and he crouches down. “Oh my god, Jon! What happened? Where have you been?”
“Circus got me,” Jon says with a watery smile. The Web hasn’t taken hold yet. And it’s so nice to see Martin, soft and warm and safe.
“This—this whole time, you’ve been with the Circus?” Martin says, sounding horrified.
Jon nods. “How long have I been gone?”
“A month,” Martin says. “Christ, are you alright?”
The spiderwebs tell Jon to send Martin away, to claim that he’s fine. But the compulsion isn’t as strong as it was before. It’s a request, not an order. And Jon is… He isn’t fine. He hasn’t been fine in a long time.
Besides, it’s not like Martin somehow missed the dirty tear tracks on his face.
“No,” he whispers, curling up tighter into himself. The shaking is back now. A month. A month of intruding hands rubbing lotion into his skin, constantly reminding him of their plans for him, telling him how much it would hurt, letting him hear the horrible screams of their other victims.
“Can I touch you?” Martin asks, and Jon nods.
Martin pulls Jon into his arms, both of them still partially under the desk. He’s warm, and his words are soft as he runs a soothing hand up and down Jon’s back. Jon buries his head in his chest, crying until he’s all wrung out, until nothing remains inside of him.
“Sorry,” Jon says, still sniffling slightly, his voice thick. There’s a damp patch on Martin’s shirt now, and Jon flushes a bit, looking at it.
“It’s alright, Jon,” Martin says, still holding on to him. He isn’t shifting impatiently, or acting like Jon should move away, so Jon doesn’t. He rests his head on Martin’s shoulder, exhausted, and Martin continues rubbing soothing circles into his back.
***
Jon wakes up on the cot in document storage, tucked in under several blankets. He spends a hazy moment wishing Martin were there with him, and then the spiderwebs re-exert themselves in full force and he is getting out of bed. Well. He hardly expected the break to last forever. He was lucky to get this much, really. The terror has lessened, and it feels like he can think in a straight line for once.
He heads out of document storage and towards the break room. It’s dark in the Archives. Everyone has left for the day, except for Martin, who didn’t want to leave Jon alone. He’s run out to fetch them both dinner, and will be back shortly.
The Web steers him to the utensil drawer, which is a disorganized mess, as always. He thinks about his feelings for Martin as he digs through it, the deep fondness he feels for him. He’s still holding on to a bit of hope that Martin will save him from this, he realizes.
He finds a knife, and pulls it from the drawer, and suddenly he is very focused on what the Web wants from him. He sets the knife on the counter, and then rolls up his left shirt sleeve. With horror sinking into his gut, he sets his arm on the edge of the sink, picks up the knife again in his right hand. He holds it firmly, tight enough that it makes his newly-healed scar ache.
He knows what’s about to happen. He tries to stop it, but it’s like trying to stop gravity. His hand doesn’t so much as tremble as he slices into the soft skin just below his elbow.
He lets out a cry of pain, or fear, but continues to carve into his arm with the tip of the knife. He’s cutting deep into his flesh, and he doesn’t want to look as blood pours out of him. But he can’t look away.
After an eternity, Jon is finally allowed to drop the knife. It clatters into the sink, leaving a trail of blood droplets behind it. He stares at the wound for a second. Even obscured as it is by blood, he can tell it’s a spiderweb. A message. A punishment.
He feels suddenly nauseous, salt flooding his mouth, and he sinks to the floor, breathing deeply, trying not to be sick. There is so much blood.
A soft pull at his mind, almost gentle. Don’t let Martin see.
He doesn’t want to know what the Web will do to him, if he refuses. There isn’t much time before Martin gets back, so he has to hurry.
He’s still dripping blood everywhere, so that’s the first step. Stop the bleeding. The first aid kit is nearby, well-stocked as always. He grabs it down from the shelf, and then wets a few napkins, which he uses to clean off as much of the blood as possible. It hurts, and he has to sit down before he finishes. It’s a bit tricky, wrapping his own arm in gauze, especially with his right hand injured as well, but he manages, adding layer after layer until he can no longer see the blood soaking through.
He rolls his sleeve down. The bulk of the gauze is visible through his shirt, but hopefully Martin won’t notice something he isn’t looking for.
Jon wipes down the table, the floor, the sink, until he can no longer see any blood anywhere. He washes the knife and drops it back in the drawer. And then he sits down, taking deep, even breaths. He should probably go lay down again, but he doesn’t think he can make it all the way back there. Not on his own.
He puts his head down, and a few minutes later, he hears the stairs creaking with Martin’s return. He hears his footsteps receding as he heads towards document storage, hears the soft creak of the door. And then the steps get louder, until Martin pokes his head into the break room.
“Oh, there you are,” he says, a relieved smile on his face. “Sorry for leaving you. I didn’t think you would wake up. I brought dinner,” he says, holding up the bag of takeout clutched in his hands.
Jon smiles in return. “The Eye told me,” he says.
“Oh, that’s—creepy,” Martin says.
“Sorry,” Jon says, his eyes flicking back to the table.
“It’s fine,” Martin says, sitting down across from him. “How are you feeling?”
The Web isn’t controlling him, but it hardly matters. “I’m fine,” he says. “Feeling better.”
***
They finish eating, and Martin insists on staying the night with Jon in the Archives. He insists that Jon sleep on the cot, even though the break room couch is much too small for Martin to sleep on comfortably.
Jon wakes up, and the fresh wound on his forearm has bled through the gauze, staining not only his shirt sleeve, but also the rest of his shirt. He’s covered in blood, so much that he can’t possibly hide it.
And he can hear Martin, already awake and moving around in the Archive.
Jon stands up, trying to decide what to do. If Martin sees the blood, he will ask questions, and there is no good way to explain the design so intricately carved into Jon’s arm. He needs fresh gauze, and a fresh shirt, but his extra clothes are in his office, and the first aid kit is in the break room.
He decides to make a break for his office, wrapping a blanket around his shoulders to hide any blood Martin might spot. Before he can move, however, the door to document storage opens, and Jon freezes.
“Hey Jon, I wanted to ask—” Martin stops, and for a moment they’re just staring at each other. Martin opens his mouth again, panic writ large on his face. “Jon, is that blood? What happened?”
“I—um—”
“Was it the Circus?” Martin asks, stepping closer. Jon flinches away from him, and he stops. “Okay, just—Jon, that looks really bad.”
“Yeah,” Jon manages, his voice coming out in an almost-laugh. Martin’s look of concern only grows deeper.
There’s no way for Jon to salvage this, no explanation that Martin will accept. Martin can’t know about this, can’t know about any of this. The Web might hurt him, if he becomes a danger to it.
And then—
He suddenly can see the exact strings he needs to pull in Martin’s mind, to make him ignore this. It’ll be easy. Martin won’t even know he’s done anything.
It’s the only option.
For the first time, Jon uses the spiderwebs. Martin’s eyes go blank and glassy for a single horrifying moment. And then he blinks, and looks at Jon. Jon is still covered with his own blood, but Martin doesn’t notice it at all. He looks vaguely confused for a second, before he gathers himself. “Sorry, lost my train of thought,” he says with a small laugh. “I was going to ask if you wanted to go get something for breakfast. I know you usually just skip it, but there’s a nice cafe not to far from here, and I thought it would be… good.”
Jon wants to cry. He wants to tell Martin everything, ask for his help. But Martin can’t help him. Asking will do nothing but hurt both of them.
Instead, Jon smiles. “Sounds wonderful,” he says.
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