#gertrude robinson (briefly mentioned)

[tma-reader-inserts]

Gerard Keay x Lonely Avatar! Reader

Tw: suicidal thoughts; mentioned character death

XXX

You missed Michael. You missed him so much you ached. You missed his breezy laugh and fun sweaters and how he always made tea for the two of you every morning. You missed your best friend, and his absence weighed on you like a stone.

You never worked together exactly; but you were an assistant to Elias, and you took the same route home every day and he was just so friendly it was hard not spend time with the sweet and sensitive man.

You didn’t have many friends. Hardly any except for Michael. And by extension, you were on friendly terms with Gerard Keay, who worked closely with Micheal and Miss Robinson on several statement cases. You were… intrigued by Gerard. Michael had encouraged you several times to “go for it”, to suck down your cowardice and just asked the attractive book-burner out for drinks; but you were so, so awkward; even more bumbling than Blackwood.

It felt like a miracle Elias hasn’t fired you yet. You assume it’s because you’ve memorized his coffee order and know exactly where to buy the biscuits he enjoys so much. You really didn’t do much in the was of assisting. You help take names and numbers of potential statement givers, arranged for them to meet an archivist or archivist assistance, fetch coffee and teas, and mostly just sit at the desk in front of Elias’s office and look busy. Whatever papers Elias gives you usually are meant for someone else and all you do is have the building’s mail system bring them to the specific person, so you don’t really do any actual filing.

Well, it’s a living.

A small reprieve from the hum drum of your boring work life was Michael and his fun stories.

Now you don’t even have that.

You wore all black for three weeks in mourning when you realized Michael wasn’t coming back. He wasn’t the first assistant to disappear, but it was the first that affected you. Elias and Gertrude said nothing about the change of your attire and attitude.

You also haven’t seen Gerard in ages. You had seen him once in passing as he exited the building while you were walking up to the stairs, smoking heavily with a dark look on his face. You have to assume he knows of Michael, you couldn’t imagine telling him, and Gerard always seems to know about everything that happens in the Institute. He eyed you briefly, in your dark clothes and somber expression, and he gave you a pitying look before walking in the opposite direction.

Not a word was exchanged, and you had felt so utterly and horribly alone since.

The loneliness creeps into your chest cavity, hollows it out and curls in there like a fog on a pier. Michael was gone, Gerard hasn’t been back in so long, and you were so alone.

Elias briefly checks up on you, asks about your morning walk and compliments your new shoes, wishes you a peaceful weekend and lends you an umbrella when it’s storming. But he’s no friend, and you are under no delusions that you are replaceable to him if needed.

You had no family to turn to. No more friends. Even the stray cat you were feeding regrettably was hit by a car. You felt so desolate and solitary.

You used to cry about it frequently. Every night even, especially after Micheal’s disappearance. But now you can’t even bring yourself to shed tears, they dried long ago; now all you have is the cold knowledge that you have nothing, and that nobody wants you.

When Gerard comes to the Institute again, you don’t even see him at first. You used to jump at the chance to even look upon the handsome man with his badly dyed hair and plethora of tattoos, but now when you hear the other people in the office tittering over his arrival, you just… acknowledge he’s there in the building. You don’t feel excitement or dread or anything. You meant nothing to Gerard, why would he visit you? You don’t even leave your desk to see him.

You felt it again, the loneliness. The heavy fog settling in your brain where you just stare ahead and register nothing going on around you, not processing anything, just barely existing.

Maybe you’ll kill your self today, your thoughts muse in the back of your mind. Death must be nice. To not have to worry about anything; not about friends dying or abandoning you, about poor strays on the street, about perfectly distant bosses and co workers…

It’d be easy; people kill themselves all the time. The Institute was a rather tall building. A drop from there would surely end you; and you know where all the key copies were to get access to the roof.

You had to cross a bridge over a river to get to work; on your way home you could easily crawl over the railing if you wanted.

You were suddenly acutely aware of the sleeping pills in your apartment, ones you bought months ago to aid with your insomnia. It’d be like taking a long rest, like going to bed.

Someone was shaking your shoulders, someone was saying your name with a rising pitch of desperateness. You felt your office chair swivel to face a dark mass and warm warm hands cupped your face.

Rough thumbs wiped away at the hot tears settling on your face. When your vision focused, you saw Gerard. Black lipstick, teased hair, tattoos and dark, wide, worried eyes.

He says your name again and it sound like it aches in his throat to say it.

Several long moments were in silence as the book-burner wiped your face with his finger and smoothed your hair down, eyes darting around your figure as if to search for an injury.

Finally, your voice croaked. “Hi…”

A sigh of relief escapes him, he visibly sags. Hands rest on your shoulders heavily. “Hey. You were crying, did something happen?”

A part of you wants to be enraged. Of course something happened. Micheal is probably dead. The cat that sleeps in your apartment all winter is dead. You want to be dead. You want to carve out your insides so your body reflects how you feel and this whole time he wasn’t there-

But you can’t even feel the anger within you anymore. The burning spite inside you is snuffed out by the chill of your indifference of the situation.

“… I’m fine…” you eventually mutter, looking to your desk. The files on the surface were meant to be sent out ages ago, you should really get on that.

Don’t want to leave your replacement a messy desk after all.

You see Gerard flinch in your peripheral. “Listen- I’ve been meaning to talk to you…”

He smells like cigarettes and sweat, and you briefly realized you will miss that smell when you kill yourself. He flinched again.

“It’s really kind of important, um, can we talk about it over drinks? Right after you get off?”

This stalls your brain. Sure, suicide was a sudden desire, but it felt like the right decision to make. Drinks would just put off the inevitable.

Gerard’s hands came back up to your face again, warm and solid. “Please?”

… you’ve never heard Gerard Keay say please before. At least not earnestly. Usually it was sarcastic and in annoyance. The sincerity of the word casts off whatever dregs of the fog were left, and now you were hyper aware of yourself and your surroundings.

Your cheeks were wet; when did you start to cry? And your hands were balled up into fists so tight your knuckles changed colors. Your mouth was incredibly dry and your jaw aches which how tightly you were clenching your teeth.

Gerard’s presence was warm, comforting. It almost make you choke a sob, and you felt very suddenly the desire to spill every thought about your plans to kill yourself to him, and the only thing that stopped you was social graces and the idea that Elias was right behind the door beside you both and could probably hear you.

“Drinks?” You inquire, blinking away the swell of cold tears in your eyes “um, it’s Tuesday, though-“

He shakes his head. “Don’t worry about that. Just-just say you’ll come. I’ll walk with you after work.”

It sounded more like a plan for himself but you were always so weak willed you didn’t have it in yourself to contest him. So you nodded. Gerard smiles and breathes out a long breath, like he was holding it in. “Good.” He concludes, rising up from his crouching position and removing his hand from your face. “Good. I’ll see you at five.”

He almost turns to leave, before staring hard at Elias’s door. Thick rubber soles squeaked slightly as he steps even closer to you. He looks down at you, eyes wide and searching. One of his black painted finer nails prodded at your fist until it was pulled apart and relaxed by his ministrations.

“Hey…” he sighs, “I’m… I am sorry for not coming back to you sooner.”

A small frown pulls at your mouth. You never meant to make Gerard feel guilty. “It’s fine.” You assure, voice soft.

His eyes alight with sadness. “It’s not. It’s not okay, you need to know that.” He stresses, before finally turning and leaving.

As soon as the door to the hallway close, Elias’s door opens.

He says something about a meeting he has tomorrow with a Board member, a Mr. Lukas, and he asks you to be sure to brew strong coffee for the gentleman when he arrives tomorrow.

You nod, and plan on maybe killing yourself later in the week; to make it easier on everyone.

—

Five pm rolls around at a snails pace, but surely and dutifully, Gerard is there at the door to the exit, waiting for you.

He looks… not stressed, just anxious. Like he’s itching to leave the building as soon as you’re within reach. And that’s exactly what he does. The second he saw you his face erupts into a smile and one of his pale, tattooed hands reached out and gently grabs your elbow, pulling through the front door and down the steps to the road as he sings praises about the bar the two of you were going to; nothing too stuffy but not overtly casual, and he promises that the cocktails are unique and the music they play is a far better selection than most.

You knew from his description he was probably taking you to a goth bar; you didn’t really mind. The idea of strong drinks and black painted walls and sad music almost seemed like a comfort to you.

The hand on your elbow migrates down to your wrist, and finally your hand. His grip was sturdy, and he never let your digits go, squeezing slightly whenever he thought the two of you might get separated.

Gerard was always affectionate with you before. Casually playing with your hair whenever he passed by you in the hallway, placing a hand on your shoulder as you laugh along with Michael over the latest office mishaps, even a few times bringing his lips to your knuckles when you handed him a well appreciated cup of tea whenever he was staying late at the Institute. The touching was not foreign territory, but it felt like forever since you’ve been there, like walking through your childhood house after having been moved out for decades.

When you finally make it to the bar, which was in fact a hole in the wall goth bar, Gerard lead you to the darken back corner, and huddled up next to you comfortably, as if you’ve done this a thousand times before, like it was a regular thing. His arm was heavy and warm around your shoulders and he handed you a cocktail menu.

True to his word, they all had fairly spooky names and sounded tasty. You didn’t even really know which to pick, but Gerry points to one that seems like it’ll suit your taste just fine. You almost titter at how well he knows you, before swallowing down your excitement. You could just be an easy read.

You don’t even order for yourself; as soon as the waitress, decked in black and spiked black hair, came over, Gerard ordered for himself and you, his voice lilting and he seemed utterly uninterested in even looking at the woman, rather eyeing you as he moves some hair out of your face as he spoke.

While the drinks were being made, he fusses over you, asking small conversational questions like, “How is Elias treating you?” and, “You’ve been sleeping well, I hope?”

After weeks of no one even asking after your health you flush under the attention, answering each question softly and as briefly as you can surmise, shy and bashful as Gerard’s dark eyes roam your face and observes your mouth every time you opened your lips to answer. He nods along and occasionally his hand rubs your shoulder.

You feel like he’s avoiding the obvious. Avoiding Michael. Maybe the loss was felt as keenly for him as you felt it. Maybe he was just as wrecked by the blond’s disappearance and is trying to find solace and common ground in you.

When the drinks do come, the goth man removes his arm from your shoulders and sets a napkin in front of you, moving your cocktail onto it without prompt. A tense moment of silence settles now that you’re alone again, and Gerard heaves a heavy sigh.

“I never should have left you alone for so long after he left.” He chokes out, eyes searching your face for your reactions to his words. When not a muscle twitches in your expression, Gerard continues. “I was… hurting. I was angry, and it had nothing to do with you but I was acting ugly and I didn’t want you to see that side of me.”

You nod, ready to let forgiveness slip past your lips when he cuts you off.

“It wasn’t okay of me, it’s not alright. I should have never, ever, let you go through that alone.” He looks so regretful, so sorrowful, it made your heart ache; it was one of the strongest emotions you’ve felt in a while. “I- I don’t even know how to make it up to you, for abandoning you like that.”

The earnestness in his voice makes you stall. You’re not the kind of person people seek forgiveness from. You just got walked over and forgotten and you were used to it. To have anyone, especially someone as high up and composed as Gerard, beseech you for amnesty, seemed to fully pull you from whatever slump you’ve been in these past few weeks.

Your face finally emoted; you frowned and your eyebrows drew together in sympathy, and you shouldered the darkly dressed man. “Drinks is a good start, but I don’t want you beating yourself up over it. You’re here now.” You tried really hard to show that all was forgiven. “Just… try not and leave me again for so long?”

It felt silly to even ask, like a child begging their parent to return safely from a business trip.

Gerard looked at you very seriously, one of his hands coming to yours that were clasped in your lap. “Not as long as I live.”

—

The night was a blur, your drinks were consumed and you’re not entirely sure when you kissed Gerard on the cheek in gratitude or when he kissed your shoulder in fondness but somehow the two you ended up just… kissing in the dark alley next to the bar.

Gerard was all consuming; the way he leaned into you, how his thumb ran over the pulse in your wrist with one hand and his other thumb pressed into your jugular. He smelled like cigarettes and old books up close, he felt warm and heavy against you, how he sighed and moaned when you grabbed onto the lapels of his leather duster to pull him in closer. Every time you opened your eyes all you saw was his dark and brooding set gaze at you from behind heavy lids and the sight was too much for your heart to handle so you close them again, Gerard pulling you closer.

Any closer and you’d become one.

Maybe you wouldn’t be so lonely then.

His head ducks down, nosing your neck and the hand the occupied your throat drops down to your waist. A hot tongue licks your pulse and you gasp, eyes rolling in the back of your head. A black jean clad leg slips between yours, and you’re effectively pinned against the brick wall.

“Missed you…” he moaned, teeth scraping against your skin. “Missed seeing you, being around you, talking to you…” a hand snaked around and pulled you closer by the small of your back. “Fuck me for leaving.”

You gasp and groan, and come to the realisation. That Gerard was a talker, and that you were easily swayed by words. You didn’t even realise that Gerard even liked you this way until about twenty minutes ago. How long has he harboured a crush on you? Had he thought of kissing you often? As often as you thought of kissing him?

He said other things, salacious things, directly in you ear as his hands moved up and down your body, hot breath puffing against the shell of your ear as he occasionally dipped down to kiss you or give you love bites along your neck.

You desperately wanted to do something besides just being there, allowing yourself to be kissed and bitten and wooed. You wanted to move, kiss back, make Gerard as flustered as you were; but the skin to skin contact, the affection, the confirmation of attraction overwhelmed you so much you almost choked up.

In fact you did.

A small sob crashed through your lips as tears welled in your eyes.

The sound causes Gerard to straighten up, and he quickly took in the sight of you crying and stepped away from you, concern of his face.

“Shit- I’m sorry.” He rushes out. “Fuck I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to make you cry!”

The separation makes you feel cold and lonely again and your stomach swoops in dread because Gerard, beautiful, wonderful Gerard, is now looking at you like some fragile breakable thing and you just can’t stand the idea that you’ve ruined all the ground you covered in the last hour, and that after this he’ll never want to talk to you again. Boys don’t like people who cry when you kiss them.

Fog begins to seep into the alley, coming off from the street and the dead end a few yards away from you. You don’t try to comprehend how fog just manifested from no where, you just sob again because Gerard was going to shun you out for being too damn weird and unapproachable.

You babbled apologies, heart clenching, trying to verbalise that you were fine, that he didn’t do anything wrong, just that you were fucked up about everything and he should probably just ignore you forever after this.

The fog became thicker and you shiver at the coldness it brings. You sob again, hiding your face in your hands so you can stop looking at the man’s beautiful and worried face.

God, you wished that the wall would swallow you up entirely; you wished you could just disappear and stop being such a nuisance; you should’ve just gone home and killed yourself.

So a brief second, the sound of the air about you had changed. The music leaking through the wall stopped, cars were no longer passing by the mouth of the alley, you didn’t hear the wind shake the plastic lid to the dumpster, you even stopped hearing Gerard’s breath in front of you. The silence was deafening, frightening. For that second, you felt utterly, terribly alone. Like you were the only person in the entire world.

And just as soon as the sounds of the world were gone, they were back. Cars hitting the puddle on the road, early aught goth music seeping through the brick, and Gerard saying your name with desperation.

Warm warm hands clasp your shoulders and you finally peer through your fingers to see the man, lipstick smudged and hair frizzy from the fog. He eyes looked wild, fearful, and he gripped your person so tightly like a life line, like you’d runaway if he let go.

Gerard says your name very lowly. And your sobbing ceased at his tone. Oh god, he was going to yell at you or something, you were certain. He was going to call you a freak and that he never should have even bothered with you in the first place-

“You need to breathe.” He commands. “Look at me, and breathe; be here with me right now, get out of your head.”

Your eyes dart wildly around the alley, not wanting to meet his gaze. God, why couldn’t just be normal for once-

A small pang of pain snapped across your brow, right between your eyes.

You look ludicrously to Gerard, eyes moist from tear and voice shaking from crying. “Did you just flick me?” You warbled.

“Yes.” He admits readily. “Now, calm down.”

His word sounded normal but felt… staticky in your ears. Like tv fuzz was playing just under his voice.

Almost instantly your breathing evened out and you no longer felt the desire to cry; your mind wasn’t filled with self-hateful thought but now just focused on Gerard, who was watching you carefully.

Reaching into the pocket of his duster, he pulls out handkerchief, and wipes at your face, sighing. He looked expressionless, and you feared the worse.

“I’m… I’m not great at this.” He says softly, stowing the cloth back into his coat. “I always go too fast, I’m told, It’s just-“ he screws his lips together as he thinks. “I- I feel like if I left you alone for too long, you’d forget about me, and I just wanted to make sure you didn’t think I’ve lost interest in you, I didn’t even think that I’d, well, overwhelm you like I did.”

You swallow thickly, considering his words.

“I never knew you were interested in me.” Was all you can say.

Gerard sighs. “Yeah, I’m piecing that together now.” He winces. “I had it in my head that this was a long time coming for both of us, I never stop to think that I might be surprising you with my sudden infatuation. I’m sorry.”

Your mouth is already opening to forgive him when he silences you with a cool look.

“I… must’ve freaked you out pretty badly, huh?” He questions, moving closer to you, but refraining from touching you again.

“It’s not that you freaked me out,” you’re quick to answer, “it’s just… yeah, it came out of nowhere to me.” He looks down casted and you wait a moment before speaking again. “I like you so much, Gerry.” You confess, voice creaking with emotion. “I’ve just been so lonely, and it’s hard for me to think that you’d like me too.”

He looks to you, sympathetic. And he nods to himself before extending one hand to yours, gently grasping your fingers.

“How about we do this a little more properly?” He suggests. “Would you like to go to dinner with me?”

You almost laugh at how hopeful he looks, like you would say no.

The idea of dinner was nice, but the thought of going back to your empty apartment scares you now. Being alone again scares you; the idea of someone not watching you scares you because what if you get lost in your own head again and this time the silence wouldn’t disappear after a second.

“Tonight?” You ask, stomach twisting. It’s wasn’t exactly early evening any more, by all rights he could deny you.

He nods, decisively and eagerly. “My place?” He suggests.

A smile fights its way across your face. “Scary movies too?”

Highly amused, Gerard smiles, and pretends to think for a moment. “Well, if we do that, you might be too scared to go home by yourself.” He reasons.

“Sounds like I’ll need to sleep over, then.”

“Brilliant.”

#gerard keay #gerry keay #Gerard Keay x reader #Gerry Keay x reader #tma #the magnus archives

[skell3]

So I wrote something for RP.

TMA Multiverse stuff. Jan is Jan Fairchild, avatar of the Vast... And yet Gertrude still manages to get her hands on him to stop the Buried ritual.

TW: sick/getting sick, brief mention of dismemberment

MAG 97 Spoilers

To The Pit

“I need your assistance with something.”

The coffee shop buzzed around the two of them seated in a corner spot, where one Gertrude Robinson had her back to the wall and eyes to the nearest window. Jan Kilbride– Fairchild sat across from her and contemplated his drink nervously. This woman makes him nervous, had made him nervous from the moment she set eyes on him. Maybe that was a sign he shouldn’t have agreed to meet with her.

“...something?” Jan ventures, peeking up again. Today his eyes were deep and a little gray, as the sky was covered in clouds and- fortunately for him- it wasn’t raining. Yet. He would like it to not rain at all, to not deal with that and his hearing aids, but this was London and he had to go without them or stay inside more often than not.

“Yes, well… something important. I believe someone has told you about rituals?” Gertrude was being cryptic, and Jan half wanted to back out already. But she also seemed… how to put it? He sort-of wanted to help her out, just a little bit. The fact that he let out a soft breath when she made a noise of approval at his nodding was a big indicator of something. She was scary, and he did not want to be on her bad side.

“Mm… yeah. Mike mentioned them once- I think. And then Simon and I were discussing them, and that’s why we had the, uh. Meeting,” Jan explained. The meeting that went on among all of the so-called ‘heads’ of each of the fears currently experiencing difficulty with the Stranger and all its children. Never-mind the ‘time shift’ that everyone was experiencing, and the need to gather more information on that. “Is there a… ritual going on now? Or about to? Is that what you need help with?”

Jan tapped his fingertips against the side of his tea mug and waited, watching the old woman look out the window. When she turned her gaze on him, he couldn’t help but reach up to fix his beanie to attempt to look a tiny bit more presentable. His messy blond hair tucked under that would just have to remain hidden for that to be anywhere close to truth. Then Gertrude smiled, to herself, and he gave a nervous smile in return.

“The Buried are up to something, and I need one of the Vast to come assist me in shutting it down.” She made it sound so simple. One of the Vast- that’s definitely him. And a Buried ritual could be… well. Bad. Especially bad for the Vast, if it succeeded. He gets downright dizzy if he even tries to go down to one of the tube stations of the London Underground, so if the world went Buried…

“What would you have me do?” Jan asks, hopefully helpfully. He doesn’t ask the ‘Why me?’ question he has on the tip of his tongue, because it probably doesn’t matter, does it? If she just needs one of the Vast, any of them will do, and honestly he’s probably the least busy at the moment. Gertrude smiles at him again, and this time he smiles more comfortably back. He wants to help. Going to the meeting with Simon had proven his eagerness to be useful to the others, and now that he was part of the Fairchilds… Well, he would want to protect his family, right?

“Come to America with me. We’ll investigate the ritual site, then interrupt them with your presence.” Gertrude sets her cup down and turns it on its saucer briefly. “I’ve already got tickets and a car booked. Would take us… I don’t know, two days? Three, max.” She really does make it sound so simple, and she seems pleased as Jan seems more interested in the idea. He has been wanting to see how he fares with flying, and… to America?

“Should I- um. Do I have time to pack anything?” Jan’s only a tiny bit nervous that she had said she already has tickets, and his smile fades when she shakes her head.

“No, we’ve got about two hours to get to the airport. But we can pick some things up for you after we head out.” Her hand reaches over the table to pat at his arm, and she knows he’ll agree to come, at this point. “Don’t fret, Jan. I’ve got everything taken care of.”

Jan isn’t entirely sure what he got himself into, here. Gertrude was a cranky traveler at best, and while the flight was alright, he felt too… confined. It gave him a headache and he was sick by the time they landed in the US. It took them about an hour to get the rental car, and so far, they haven’t picked anything up for him to change into. The flight had provided a toothbrush and all but his mouth was still tasting a bit sour and he wished he had a chance to clean up.

“Now, you’ll be able to roll down your window here, but try not to do it too much, alright?” The car wasn’t particularly large, and Jan knows he’s going to feel like he’s being packed into a sardine tin riding in that thing. But he was too tired and already too unwell to really argue, so he nodded and loaded into the passenger side. The seat slid back and tipped back to give him as much space as he could manage, and it was that way he was able to get a tiny bit of rest.

It was dark by the time Jan came around again, and they were definitely still driving. Sitting his seat up, he groaned a bit at the motion sickness that came with it and immediately rolled down the window. The stink of farmlands hit him then, but at least he could get some air on his face to not get sick again. “Where are we? Weren’t we going to hit a hotel?” Details were… sketchy, to say the least.

“We’ll hit one once we get there. We’re short on time.” Gertrude has her window cracked, a cigarette between her lips as she drives a fair amount above the speed limit.

“I thought you had this… planned out? Timed?” Jan ventures to ask, then wishes he didn’t for the look he got. Making a quiet, anxious noise, he opted to look out his window and try to get some fresher air. He had agreed to help, so he was here to help, but he couldn’t help but feel like something wasn’t right. Maybe the ritual was happening sooner than she had anticipated?

Fortunately for him, they have to stop for gas and Jan gets the chance to stretch his legs and feel less confined. It does wonders for him, though he’s still jet-lagged and jet-sick and carsick and all the kinds of things one meant for the vastness of the universe would experience being tucked away in essentially differently-sized boxes. They ate dinner at a diner in town and headed out again, and Jan opted to try and sleep some more. Conserve his energy since he’s not entirely sure Gertrude would let him go ‘feed’ on some poor unsuspecting souls who have a fear of drifting into the unknown.

It took the better part of the evening for the duo to make it to their destination. Bucoda, Washington… Not someplace Jan had ever heard of, but the scenery was lovely and he was getting some clearer air than he’d ever had in the city. The sky had a small smattering of clouds, the sunrise had been beautiful to watch. Scenic and enjoyable if he weren’t still riding in the car wishing he didn’t feel the urge to retch every couple hours. The last one was only half an hour ago, and Gertrude had grudgingly stopped to let him do so before handing him a bottle of water to sip from. It helped, but only a little.

The car slowed as they pulled into the sleepy little town, and then off to the side so that Gertrude could consult her map. Jan wanted to ask if he could get out and stretch, but she seemed… on edge. Was he imagining things, or did she keep glancing up and over at him as if she expected him to disappear. He wasn’t too sure, so he stayed put and kept glancing out his open window, checking the place out.

“You’ll do just about anything to help your… family, won’t you?” Her words drew Jan out of a daze, and he looked back to Gertrude with furrowed brows.

“Well… yes? Simon’s helped me out considerably… Even helped me achieve my dream. So I think I would probably do just about anything to repay him and the family for taking me in. He doesn’t like her short ‘hmm’ of a response, and he checks his phone. While he had mentioned going out of town for a bit to Simon, Manuela and Mike… he hadn’t been entirely sure of where, and hadn’t had any time to get a new sim card for it to work abroad. So here he is without the ability to ask anyone anything, and he feels so incredibly daft that he hadn’t done so beforehand.

“You won’t get much out here as far as signal goes, even if you did swap that over,” Gertrude confirms Jan’s thoughts and he sighs and tucks it away. “You can use mine when we’re done here.”

“Can’t I use it before? Just to update everyone? I forgot to when we landed.” He was too sick to even think about it, and he would’ve never have guessed that maybe she anticipated that.

“Can’t. I need to take it to the store to get it swapped. But we’re close, and it shouldn’t take too long. We need to get this done first.” Gertrude’s voice was stern, and Jan winced but nodded. She did say they were short on time, so… maybe it really was happening soon. He didn’t feel too different where they were now.

“Should I… be able to tell where it is?” Being Vast and all, sometimes he gets bad vibes from some people and he half suspects they might be Buried or otherwise.

“You might, but… I think I've got it.” The map gets closed up and the car pulls forward as they continue on their trip. Jan goes from feeling just carsick to worse. Much worse. Gertrude seems to notice but she doesn't slow down or pull over for him, she just keeps on going. “Get used to it, kid,” she digs out a fresh cigarette as they wait at a traffic light. “We're not quite there yet so it's going to get worse. This is the hard part.”

The hard part? Jan swallows hard and tries laying back in the seat again, but it only seems to make him feel worse. He doesn't even see the pit until they pull up to it, and by then he wasn't sure it was safe for him to move. With tears in his eyes and his hand clasped around a pendant at his throat, he feels a tiny bit worried he's not going to be able to handle this. That he won't be able to help at all. The feeling of that trinket in his hand helps soothe him, reminds him of Manuela and has felt like her being there with him the whole time, but it does not ease him out of the sickness.

They arrive at the Pit relatively early in the day, sun shining bright and the whole town nothing but quiet. Jan swears he heard a car go by but he doesn't recall it, stuck in the passenger seat because if he moves he is going to throw up. Gertrude got out of the car a little while ago, looking down and out over the thing with equal measures of distaste and cigarette smoke. What a situation this was, and she didn't think she had anything to do the job with until she spotted a large shovel nearby. That will have to do.

“Jan, I need you to come out of the car now.” Gertrude's voice has shifted to something smoother and more coaxing. “You can throw up wherever, I don't think anyone here will mind.” If there was anyone left. Jan made a noise in his throat but didn't move immediately. When he did, it was first to wipe tears from his face, and then it was to slowly open the car door. Each movement was difficult, as if he was somehow moving through soil. It takes him a moment realize his connection to the Vast is muted here.

“I d-don’t… I don't know if I can do this, Ms. Robinson.” It was a statement that Jan knew was a little too late given that they were here now, and they were short on time. The ground seemed to shake beneath him once he finally got out of the car, and for a long few moments he thought it wasn't just him. When he realized it was just his own legs, he stumbled away and landed on hands and knees to be sick in the dirt. Fortunately for him, he didn't see what was in that pit, nor would he ever. The town was quiet for a reason.

“Unfortunately, we don't have time to deal with that right now.” Gertrude has the shovel now and she tests it's weight in her hands. Looking over, she knows that if she doesn't do this now, she may never get the chance. So we without much feelings to it, she went over behind where Jan was getting sick and struck him with the shovel to the back of his head. He goes down quickly, and she sighs.

*I'm sorry, Jan, but you just being here won't be enough. I had hoped but now I need to do what I came here to do. Thank you for your help.”

It took a lot longer than anticipated to get Jan’s body hacked into enough pieces for it all to fit into the hole at the base of the pit. Gertrude was covered in blood and dirt before she even managed to stuff him down in there. She had noticed a pendant when she beheaded him and had made a mental note to find it when she was done, but as she stuffed the last of him in there, the earth heaved and the Buried complained and she had to get out of there. In the car, out of town… just out of there.

By the time she made it to her hotel, she was exhausted and frustrated that it had to go that way, because she knew that she wasn't going to be welcomed by some when she made it back to London. But Gertrude did what she had to do, and made her observations as best as she could first before making her decisions after. The Sunken Sky would not come to them all, and they should be relieved of that. But something was nagging at her about the whole thing, and she couldn't quite place the apprehension she had when she flew back home and tucked back into her apartment.

It was only then that she remembered the pendant, but it was much too late. Bucoda, Washington was now a pile of dirt on the map after an earthquake struck it, and that pendant was likely long gone now.

#tma #tma fan content #the magnus archives #tma multiverse #jan kilbride #jan Fairchild #tma fanfiction #writings #creative writing #gertrude robinson #manuela dominguez #the vast #the buried #mag 97 #we all ignore the pit

[trifoliate-undergrowth]

Jonah Magnus begrudgingly becomes a trans ally after putting himself in the wrong body “as a joke” and suffering

Concept: Dramatic Bastard Jonah “Hubris” Magnus decides to put his eyeballs in a female body for one of these bodyhops because he “thought it’d be fun”  (and also perhaps make that snippy young librarian Gertrude stop commenting on the fact that the Institute has never had a female Head and that she feels it’s high time they got their heads out of the Dark Ages and stopped ignoring half the population) and it BACKFIRES HORRIBLY 

(long post under the cut)

For one thing, half of his (actual, unstated) reasoning behind the switch was to spice up his third marriage with Peter, but Peter is Too Gay to Function(TM) and just takes one look at the new body and immediately books a year-long voyage to Siberia and leaves the country without so much as touching Jonah. 

And then Jonah has to deal with having a female body to take care of and absolutely no idea how one works because despite serving the Watcher he is, also, Too Gay to Function(TM) and has not prioritized information on how to handle having a coochie. He didn’t think it would be a big deal. He was wrong.

See, up until now Jonah Magnus has always picked young, twink-ish bodies that have at least a superficial resemblance to the young Jonah Magnus, and has assumed that being able to adjust to the slight differences just fine and even enjoying the changes means that he’s immune to dysphoria. 

Jonah Magnus is convinced that gender dysphoria is bullshit and that he’ll like a female body just fine because he wore drag once and had a fun time. Jonah Magnus has not thought this through. Jonah Magnus has not considered that “wearing drag as a man who enjoys being a man but also likes dresses” is actually different from “actually not being a man or comfortable in a man’s body”. 

Jonah Magnus figures out the difference very quickly. 

Jonah Magnus, King of Denial, writes it off as “needing to adjust to the new body” until he catches himself wishing he had that Leitner that makes you disappear bc he doesn’t want to be seen, or to have to see himself, in this body and he just wants it to disappear. 

The first barista at Jonah’s favorite coffee shop to call him “ma’am” gets to watch a grown woman visibly flinch at being properly addressed and then rush out of the store. The barista then violently remembers something embarrassing that happened to her in high school, and spends the next week suffering from nightmares about her worst memories. 

A man makes the mistake of catcalling some academic-looking librarian dame. She gives him a freezing look and suddenly he’s having violent flashbacks to all his worst experiences at once. He falls down on the street and has a nosebleed and eventually has to be picked up by the police and brought to a mental hospital because he’s raving like a lunatic. 

Jonah “Cannot Admit I Made a Mistake” Magnus, still trying to convince himself this isn’t that bad actually, catches himself making a mental schedule for showering As Little As Socially Acceptable so he doesn’t have to see himself naked. Jonah Magnus is usually fastidiously clean, and can’t stand the feel of going more than two days without a shower. Jonah Magnus suddenly prefers that to seeing himself naked any more than necessary. Jonah Magnus finally admits that he made a mistake. Jonah Magnus is starting to understand what the words “gender dysphoria” and also “male privilege” mean and he’s hating every moment of it. 

And then he forgets to take the birth control that this body was on and its period comes back with a vengeance and he does something he never does and calls Peter, screaming about how he’s LITERALLY DYING and Peter is like “you know women have periods right.” 

“WHAT” 

“Yeah they bleed every month” 

“They WHAT?? EVERY MONTH???” 

“...Jonah you serve the Eye. How do you not know basic human biology” 

Jonah “Too Proud to Admit that the Information on Coochie is Buried Under Years and Years of Occult Secrets and Sexy Robert Smirke Moments” Magnus: “I KNOW!! I JUST--IT’S COMPLETELY IRRATIONAL THAT IT HURTS THIS MUCH” 

“Yes” 

“THIS CAN’T BE NORMAL” 

“Yes it can” 

“I’M DYING AND ALSO I’M STAINING ALL MY SHEETS THIS IS HORRIBLE” 

“All of these are things I’ve heard my sisters say.” 

“NO IT--wait really” 

“They talked way too much. Really weren’t suited for Forsaken. I was so glad when they left. Partly because I was a squeamish little boy who really didn’t want to hear about their girl puberty issues any more” 

“Hang on, I’m NOT dying?” 

“Probably not. Do you have any painkillers? Get in a hot bath and wait it out.” 

“HOW LONG???” 

“Euuughgjs I dunno maybe like a week? Ask a woman” 

“A WEEK?? WHAT?? I’M GOING TO DIE PETER I CAN’T ENDURE THIS FOR A WEEK” 

“You.... didn’t think about this BEFORE you stole the body?” 

“Y-YES OF COURSE I DID” 

“Jonah Magnus, world’s greatest occultist and scholar, forgot to do his research?” 

“THAT’S NOT IT, I JUST DIDN’T THINK IT WOULD BE THIS BAD,,, PETER YOU’RE LYING TO ME PETER PLEASE TELL ME YOU’RE LYING I CAN’T TAKE A WEEK OF THIS PETER” 

“I said I don’t know. A week sounds right but I could be totally wrong. Ask a woman.” 

“I DON’T KNOW ANY WOMEN THAT I CAN ASK AWKWARD QUESTIONS OF” 

“Go to the library” 

“I CAN’T I’M IN PAIN AND BLEEDING ALL OVER EVERYTHING” 

“Oh, yeah, there should be stuff for that. You’re in, uh, the former body’s apartment right? She’s probably got like, what are they called? Feminine pads?” 

“WHAT? PETER I’M AN ADULT I’M NOT WEARING A DIAPER” 

“Okay, have fun getting the bloodstains out of everything you own.” 

“HOW DO WOMEN LIVE LIKE THIS” 

“I don’t know. Rather impressive really.” 

“FUCK” 

He caves and goes to young Gertrude and is like “listen if you tell anyone this I’ll destroy your life but I’m actually an ancient bodyhopping bastard and this is my first time in a female body and I’m in hell please help me” and that’s how this Gertrude finds out who Jonah Magnus is

Elias Bouchard gets snagged for the next transfer because, yeah he’s kind of a weird pick for next Head of the Institute and people might talk but Jonah is Desperate at this point and Elias more or less fits his MO as far as physical traits go at least 

Peter is so relieved to have A Husband when he gets back that he doesn’t even complain about Elias picking a blond just because he knows Peter doesn’t like it. And for once Elias didn’t even do it on purpose, he was just in a hurry to get out of the Hell Dysphoria Body and took the first option he saw. 

The formerly-plagued-by-nightmares barista at Jonah’s favorite coffee shop stops seeing the increasingly depressed-looking woman who’d been coming in, but now there’s a nice young who smiles like the sun when she calls him Sir and it’s such a nice smile that she feels a deep sense of warmth and contentment and only thinks good thoughts for the rest of the day. She falls asleep content in the knowledge that all her friends love and appreciate her and that she makes the best coffee in London and for the next week she has pleasant, restful dreams that she can’t remember but that she wakes up from smiling. 

Elias Bouchard quietly starts offering trans-inclusive health benefits to employees of the Magnus Institute. Martin Blackwood, Broke Trans Guy In Need of a Job, instantaneously appears on the doorstep. 

#elias bastard bouchard #peter lukas #lonely eyes #gertrude robinson (briefly mentioned) #I love trans martin headcanons they're Good #joke post #long text post #the magnus archives #personal #alternate headcanon where Joanna Magnus was actually trans. but this was funnier #raise your hand if you would work for a shady paranormal archive that gave trans health benefits *slowly raises hand*

[bluejayblueskies]

For the Touches Ask Game, if you can, a little Jonmartin with Touching/9?

Thank you so much, I love your writing!!! 😭💕

touches prompt list

9 - holding hands across the table

i did a season two lunch dinner date fic! cw for mentions of paranoia/stalking and murder (in typical s2 fashion)

.

They’ve been having lunch together for two months when Martin asks, with enough stuttering that it takes Jon a moment to process his words, if Jon would like to get dinner with him.

Jon hesitates only briefly before agreeing. Between finding out about Martin’s CV and the newly delivered CCTV footage, he’s almost entirely convinced that Martin did not, in fact, murder Gertrude Robinson and that his various attempts to make sure Jon eats and sleeps and drinks tea are simply a result of Martin being… well. Being nice, he supposes. If overbearingly so.

Why Martin feels the need to coddle Jon, he doesn’t quite know. But if he’s being honest with himself, he’s… not complaining. His frequent skipping of meals often isn’t an intentional thing, born instead of his tendency to get so wrapped up in his work that hours fly by without him noticing, and while sometimes he’s irritated when his flow is interrupted by Martin’s cheery greeting, more often than not it’s… a relief. To step out of the Archives, away from the feeling of eyes on the back of his neck, and pretend like he isn’t working alongside a murderer.

Maybe a murderer. He… he doesn’t know. According to the CCTV footage, Tim and Sasha and Martin and Elias all have alibis. But he still can’t shake the feeling that he gets, sitting in his office or walking down the corridors or reading through statements, that something isn’t right.

That there’s something in the Archives that’s not supposed to be there.

So, it’s… nice to get outside. And as much as Tim may joke about it—or… used to joke about it, at least—Jon does, in fact, try to eat three square meals a day if he can remember to do so. Try being the operative word. He’s been… caught up in work lately, and often he glances at the clock to see that it’s well past ten and he’s accidentally skipped dinner entirely. He hadn’t thought Martin had noticed, given that the man doesn’t live in the Archives anymore and typically leaves promptly at five along with Tim and Sasha, but evidently, he was wrong.

As Jon sits across the table from Martin at the small café they’ve chosen for lunch, he has the fleeting thought that Martin’s been sneaking back and watching him work and that’s how he knows that Jon has been missing dinner. He lets himself feel it, takes a deep breath, and pushes it away with considerable effort. No, that’s not… he trusts Martin. He does. Or he… he wants to. He’s trying.

“Jon?”

“Hm?” Jon blinks up at Martin, who’s clearly waiting for a response. “Sorry, I-I didn’t catch that.”

Martin’s cheeks are dusted a rosy red. He fiddles nervously with the black ring on his finger—a bit thicker in width than Jon’s, the metal smooth and bright where it reflects the sunlight. “Is—is this Friday okay? At—at seven? I-I can, um, meet you at the Institute. U-Unless you’d like to meet there! That’s, er. That’s fine with me too.”

“The Institute is fine,” Jon says, picking at his sandwich with a frown. The bread is damp and squishes under his fingers. “Perhaps we can go somewhere a bit less… soggy.”

“R-Right, yeah. I, um. I was actually thinking… you know that new bistro o-over in Clapham? M-Maybe not, it’s, er. It’s new. But I-I heard it has good South Asian food, which, um. I know you like.”

Martin’s face is fully crimson by this point. Maybe we should sit inside next time, Jon thinks. Or at least in the shade. The sun is rather intense. Martin picks up his mug of tea and takes a long sip, staring resolutely down at the table once he’s done. Jon waits, but it appears that Martin is done rambling, so he says, “Yes, that sounds fine.” Then, because it’s polite (and not untrue): “I am… looking forward to it.”

“O-Oh? Oh!” Martin looks at him, a wide smile spreading across his face. “Y-Yeah, um. M-Me too.”

We should definitely sit inside next time, Jon thinks as the back of his neck grows warm, the tips of his ears surely darkening. Good lord.

He doesn’t think the heat is responsible for the way Martin’s smile makes something in his stomach flutter. He decides to blame that on the atrocious sandwich because… well. It’s as convenient an excuse as any.

Because Martin is just looking out for Jon’s wellbeing. This is no different than him bringing mugs of tea when Jon is recording statements or accompanying him to A&E to get stitches after Michael or inviting him to lunch in the first place. This is not, he tells his ridiculous, over-zealous, butterfly-filled stomach, a date.

Because it’s not. Martin is simply a coworker—an employee—and a friend. Who he trusts. Maybe. Probably. And thinks about sometimes when he’s unoccupied. His hands, mostly, which look very soft and very capable. His smiles as well, each one like a gift meant just for Jon. The way he carries the heavier boxes that Jon can’t quite manage and can reach the top shelves to retrieve statements without even having to clamber up onto the bottom ones.

All completely normal thoughts to be having about a friend

So, when Jon wears the soft maroon button-down on Friday that he’s been told brings out his eyes and takes care to arrange his hair into something other than the haphazard braid he’s been managing lately and digs a bottle of peach nail varnish out of the bottom of his drawer the night before to coat his fingernails with, it’s just because he feels like it. Not because this is a date. Because it’s not a date. It’s just dinner. With Martin.

Who shows up to the Institute at quarter to seven wearing a nicer jumper than usual—cable-knit and mustard yellow, looking incredibly soft to the touch—and with small black studs decorating the lobes of his ears. He smiles widely when he sees Jon, also standing outside earlier than agreed upon, and Jon almost turns around to see if someone’s behind him. But there isn’t. That smile, unfettered and full of joy—it’s… it’s for him.

Surely, Martin is just… happy to see him leaving the office while it’s still light out for once. He’s certainly chided Jon enough times for his habit of falling asleep at his desk. (Which he’s been trying to do less lately, if only because it would be easy for someone to sneak up on him while he’s unconscious and slip a knife into his back or poison his tea or shoot him three times in the chest or—)

“R-Ready to head out?” Martin says, abruptly halting Jon’s train of thought. He tries not to look like he’d just been theorizing about his own inevitable demise as he mumbles his assent and follows Martin away from the Institute and into the still-bustling streets of London.

And if he presses close to Martin’s side while they walk, well. It’s just because every brush of unfamiliar contact against him feels overwhelming, enough so to make him flinch away. And if he takes Martin’s hand for a small period of time, well. It’s just because the crowd has thickened and he doesn’t want them to get separated. And if he feels particularly warm in his jacket when Martin laughs awkwardly at his own joke and rubs at the back of his neck, well. That’s just from exertion. It is quite a far walk to the restaurant.

The bistro is lovely. Jon typically doesn’t go for places like this—tucked between two nondescript buildings with a glass front that reveals soft, intimate lighting within and flowers planted in boxes outside—but once they’re inside and seated at their table, it’s… oddly charming. Jon shrugs out of his jacket, and even though it’s the same shirt he’s been wearing all day, Martin compliments him on it with a flush. The change from frigid winter air to the warmth of the bistro brings heat to Jon’s face as well, and he rolls up the cuffs of his sleeves to just below his elbows. Martin makes a choking sound, but when Jon looks up with a frown, he has his glass of water pressed to his lips.

“Sorry,” Martin says once he’s placed the glass back on the table. “Just, um. Uh. Tickle in my throat. A-Allergies, you know.”

Martin’s face pinches in what looks like a repressed wince, and Jon tries to be reassuring. After all, Martin is taking time out of his schedule to be here with Jon, and Jon doesn’t want to seem ungrateful. His grandmother taught him proper manners, and besides, he is… rather glad to be here.

His commiseration about his own experiences with seasonal allergies turns into a mini-lecture on the species of pollen-producing plants in their area. He only realizes he’s doing it when the waiter comes by with a cheery smile and asks if they’re ready to order.

Jon’s mouth snaps shut mid-sentence. He has not even opened his menu.

“I. Um.” Jon is about to ask for more time—which he strongly dislikes doing, as he’s had the waiting staff forget more than once about his table and he’s had to go through the mortifying ordeal of hailing them down like a-a bloody taxi—when Martin tilts his own menu toward Jon and points to an item in the middle of the page.

“They have chicken karahi and naan. I, er. I heard it’s good if you’re… interested.”

Jon blinks at the menu in surprise. “That… sounds great, actually. Er, medium spice, please.”

Martin orders his own squash curry, and the waiter takes their menus when he departs, leaving the spot in front of Jon oddly empty. Jon taps his fingers on the newly barren tabletop a few times, trying and failing to remember where he’d left off in his lecture. Ultimately, he gives up, deciding that Martin isn’t going to be interested in hearing about all of that and he’s already said enough on the subject.

Then, Martin says, “So, you were saying—about the pollen?” and something in Jon’s chest squeezes, an emotion he doesn’t know the name of. Relief, maybe, as Martin’s words manage to spark his memory and he picks up his train of thought again easily enough. Yes, that’s… that’s probably it.

The first few times they’d gone to lunch, Jon had made an effort to stop himself from rambling, as he was prone to do any time someone gave him the opportunity. He’d engrossed himself in his sandwiches and rice bowls and mediocre Chinese takeaway in order to keep from launching into an explanation of the origins of said folding takeaway containers or the documentary he’d watched recently about the Zhou dynasty. And the first few lunches had been… awkward. It wasn’t because Jon thought Martin was a murderer—he doesn’t think he’d have agreed to go for lunch if he truly believed that Martin might harm him. It was just… how things like this went when Jon was involved. He knows he struggles with casual conversation, and he’s never understood the purpose or execution of ‘small talk.’ He would be perfectly content to eat and exist in silence, except all too often he feels expected to provide some sort of conversation or entertainment, upon which point the silence becomes horribly oppressive and stress-inducing.

But he also knows that talking too much can be just as bad as not talking enough. His grandmother had always told him so. So he suffered through the awkward silences for the first few days, and Martin had let him, clearly assuming that if Jon wasn’t speaking, he shouldn’t either.

Then, around their fourth or fifth lunch together, Martin had begun to ask him questions. They were casual, genuine, and so clearly targeted at Jon’s interests that Jon was convinced that Martin was somehow following him home or searching through his computer history or—or something. On their eighth lunch together, Martin asked Jon about the newest exhibit at the museum—it had been about sharks, if Jon remembers correctly—and Jon couldn’t help asking how Martin knew that he’d gone to see it. He hadn’t explicitly asked if Martin had been following him, but he’s sure the sentiment was clear in his eyes.

The tips of Martin’s cheeks had grown red, and he’d said that Jon had mentioned a few days prior that he was planning on going. All traces of fear and paranoia had left Jon’s mind then, replaced by surprise and, beneath it, something warm and bubbly. Martin had remembered.

Their conversations had gotten a lot easier after that.

Despite how Martin seems to enjoy Jon’s long-winded tangents, he… does still make an effort not to hold a completely one-sided conversation. So, a few minutes into the continuation of his pollen discussion, he finds a natural stopping point and says, “So, er. You… like being outside?”

Not the most… articulated question Jon has ever asked. But Martin doesn’t seem to mind. His fingers curl around the bottom of his water glass, his palms smudging the condensation. “Yeah, w-when I can find the time, I suppose. I-I try to go for walks around my neighborhood if I can, if it’s not too dark by the time I get home, and there’s this park in—”

Martin cuts off with a small cough. He lifts his glass and takes a long sip, while Jon sits and drums his fingers against the table and tries not to bounce his leg too noticeably. “Sorry,” Martin says as soon as the glass leaves his lips, giving Jon an apologetic smile that somehow seems… artificial. Like it’s been plastered atop another, heavier expression. “S-Something in my throat again.” He hesitates, then continues, “There’s a park in Devon that I-I like, whenever I’m in that area.”

Devon’s quite a trip away, Jon thinks but doesn’t say. Why do you go to Devon? he doesn’t say. Is that where you go on Saturdays? he doesn’t say, because—well. It’s rather embarrassing, among other things, to admit to the fact that you’ve gone through your employee’s desk calendar because you thought he might have shot an old woman three times in the chest and had plans to do the same to you. Particularly when you are having dinner with said employee.

Ugh. Probably best not to think about the fact that he is technically Martin’s boss when he’s sitting three feet away from him at a candlelit table on what, to an outside observer, might look startlingly similar to a date.

But it’s not a date. Because Martin didn’t say it was a date, and he’s just trying to care for Jon, in that… over-the-top way that he does. Jon tries to muster up some irritation at the reminder that he’s likely being coddled, just for habit’s sake, but comes up empty.

He hasn’t been truly irritated with Martin in quite some time. He… doesn’t really know when that changed. When Martin became a source of comfort, rather than of annoyance.

“Jon?” Martin says. Right. Martin is still sitting across from him.

“Right,” Jon says, trying to sound like he hasn’t been drifting off in a hundred different directions. “That sounds… nice.”

Martin’s lips curl up into a small smile. “Yeah. I-It is. It, um. It makes the trip worth it, to be able to sit on one of the benches and just… write poetry.”

Jon has read some of Martin’s poetry, though Martin doesn’t know that. Jon doesn’t like poetry. Jon liked Martin’s poetry. These are, apparently, two truths that can and do coexist.

Jon does not mean to say, “Could I hear one?” But it appears that he is weary enough and relaxed enough and distracted enough that his verbal filter has small, critical holes in it. Damn.

Martin sputters. “U-Um, well, I-I suppose… I could, I-I do have a few, er. M-Memorized, if you—you really…” He trails off uncertainly. “You’re. Um. You’re sure?”

Well. Nothing to do but lean into it, Jon supposes. “I wouldn’t have asked if I weren’t sure, Martin,” he says, a bit snippier than he intends. The tips of his ears are hot, and he is deeply thankful that the dimness of the bistro hides the way they’re surely darkening.

“R-Right.” Martin clears his throat, looks down at the table. “I-I suppose I’ll just… do a short one?”

He proceeds to recite, in quiet, surprisingly stutterless lines, one of the poems that Jon already knows from the notebooks he’d left behind in the Archives. It’s… his favorite, if he were forced to pick one. But there is something different—something more—about hearing Martin speak the words aloud rather than simply reading them on a page. Martin pauses in places Jon hadn’t thought to pause, lingers on words he hadn’t thought to linger on, and adds a softness to the ends of lines and phrases that Jon finds himself enraptured by.

Logically, he knows that it’s not good poetry. He’d begrudgingly taken a poetry class during uni, had hated every minute of it, and had donated all of his books to charity shops the moment he wasn’t in need of them anymore. He’s read Dickens and Poe and Whitman—all the works that are considered great representations of their art form.

Martin’s poetry is nothing like theirs. His lines don’t follow the same rhythms; his words are clumsier, his images less profound. But still, even though Jon knows that it is technically not good poetry, he… he likes it.

He tries not to analyze that feeling too closely.

“So, um. Yeah,” Martin says after he finishes, rubbing his thumb over his ring. “I-It’s not really… great work, heh, you know, s-sorry.”

Jon is not the comforting sort. He’s been told that he’s too sharp at the edges, skin too full of spines and thorns. So he surprises himself, and probably his grandmother from beyond the grave, when he reaches across the table and takes Martin’s hand in his. It’s soft and big, the pads of Martin’s fingers lightly calloused from a past history of manual labor, and Jon thinks just for a moment how small his own hands look in Martin’s. He surprises himself even more when he says, honestly, “I enjoyed it, Martin.”

Martin blinks at him, eyes wide and owlish. His hand is rigid in Jon’s, like he’s afraid that if he moves, he’ll frighten Jon away like a skittish cat. “O-Oh.” It’s hard to tell in the dim light, but Jon thinks Martin might be blushing. “Well. T-Thanks.”

Jon nods once stiffly. He does not retract his hand. At first, it’s because he doesn’t think to do so, too wrapped up in the feeling of his skin against Martin’s. Then, it’s because it’s been long enough that doing so would be more awkward than keeping his hand there. He asks Martin about the inspiration behind the poem, for want of another conversation topic, and Martin talks about the trip he took to the countryside once and how it stuck with him, and Jon’s hand remains atop Martin’s. Martin takes a drink from his glass, and Jon takes a drink from his, but both of them use their free hands, as if in unspoken agreement that this is just how things are now. Jon’s hand is resting atop Martin’s and it will be until he has just cause to move it and that is just the way of the universe. Nothing to be done about it.

Their food comes, and looking extremely regretful about the fact, Martin extracts his hand from underneath Jon’s and reaches for his fork. They don’t mention the loss, and it’s quiet for a period of time while Jon eats his chicken karahi and Martin eats his squash curry and Jon tries not to openly moan at how good the food is.

Something must show on his face, because Martin smiles warmly at him and says, “Well? Was that Yelp reviewer correct when they said that the chicken karahi is ‘literally the best food they’ve ever eaten in their entire life’?”

Jon swallows a bite of admittedly very good chicken. “Well. I don’t know that I would quite go to that extreme, but it is rather enjoyable.” Reminds me of the way my grandmother used to make it, he doesn’t say. That feels like a date conversation, and this isn’t a date.

(It feels very much like a date.)

(It isn’t a date.)

“Good,” Martin says. Then, he smiles, wide and unabashed and like a ray of sunlight, and Jon quickly buries himself in his food again so he doesn’t say something foolish like I really like it when you smile at me like that or Is this a date? or I would very much like this to be a date.

They finish eating, and the waiter takes away their plates with the promise of bringing the check soon. Jon’s hands rest on the table, index finger fiddling with the edge of the cloth placemat in front of him. He’s in the middle of trying to convince himself that yes, it would be ridiculous to take Martin’s hand again, you should definitely not do that on this very much not-a-date, when Martin reaches out and takes Jon’s hand in his. Properly takes it, pressing their palms together and slotting his fingers easily between Jon’s and knocking their rings together as he squeezes gently.

“Um,” Jon says eloquently. He should very much not ask if this is a date. “What are you doing?”

Nope, that’s worse. That’s definitely worse.

“Oh!” Martin lets go of Jon’s hand immediately, and Jon does not try to chase Martin’s hand as it retracts, thank you very much. He’s more dignified than that. “S-Sorry, I thought… I, um. Never mind. I-I shouldn’t have… sorry. Again.”

“It’s fine,” Jon finds himself saying. Then, in an effort to do damage control: “I… didn’t mind.”

“You… didn’t?” Martin seems confused, which is understandable. If Georgie were here, she’d tell him that he’s giving, quote, ‘mixed signals.’ He’d never quite understood what counts as ‘mixed signals,’ and he doesn’t know that he ever will.

“I did not,” Jon confirms. “I just… I suppose I…”

He should not ask if this is a date. He really, really shouldn’t.

“Is this a-a date?”

It appears he’s found another one of the holes in his verbal filter. Lovely.

Martin’s eyes grow impossibly wider. He makes a series of sputtering sounds as Jon waits and tries not to bounce a hole through the floor with the heel of his foot. “You—you didn’t…” Martin seems to have a miniature internal debate with himself, his face cycling through a dozen different expressions over the next few seconds. Finally, he sighs and says, eyes fixated on the table between them, “I had… intended it to be. Though I suppose if—if you didn’t know it was a date, that. Um. Kind of defeats the purpose.”

“Does it?” Jon’s mouth says without his permission.

“I-I mean… you can’t really have a one-sided date,” Martin says with an awkward laugh. The waiter is nowhere to be seen, which Jon is grateful for and disheartened by in equal measure. This situation would certainly be easier with a convenient escape.

“I… suppose.” Jon worries at the edge of the placemat, pulling on a loose thread. “Though, it’s… if this were a date—or, I suppose, if I-I’d known it was meant to be a date—I… wouldn’t have acted much differently.” He pulls harder at the thread, feeling a bit bad for the way the fabric bunches around it. “I… would not have been… that is to say, I would have liked it if… rather, to say that I didn’t think about it would be, er… well, incorrect.”

Martin stares at him, clearly unable to make sense of Jon’s admittedly disjointed, half-finished sentences. Jon sighs and says, under his breath, “I am not opposed to considering tonight a date.”

Martin’s cheeks are red enough now that Jon can see the flush, even in the dim light. “U-Um. What?”

“I am not opposed,” Jon repeats, louder, “to considering tonight a date.” Lord, that’s mortifying to say out loud. How do people do this? To emphasize his point, he sticks his hand out, palm-up on the table. It’s stiff and awkward and he probably looks like a cat with its hackles raised. He focuses on the cable knit of Martin’s jumper so he doesn’t have to see whatever amused or mocking or disappointed expression is on Martin’s face as he realizes just how bad Jon is at all of this.

Martin is quiet for a moment. Then, just as Jon is about to pull his hand away and flee for the exit, he feels a touch against his palm. Martin’s hand settles tentatively atop his—not weaving their fingers together, not even properly holding it, just… pressing together, palm to palm. Jon can feel Martin’s heartbeat faintly against the tips of his fingers where they press against the inside of Martin’s wrist. “Okay,” Martin says softly, like Jon has just given him a precious gift. “Then it’s a date.”

It’s a date. Jon’s skin has absolutely no reason to prickle at those words, nor does his stomach have any reason to squeeze and sprout butterflies. He nods, a bit brusquely, and opens his mouth to say something—god knows what—when the waiter appears next to their table, somehow having both comically bad and impossibly good timing.

Martin pays, despite Jon’s insistence that he can cover his own share, and then they’re back out in the cool night air, making their way toward the tube station. The first few minutes are quiet. There’s a tension between them that feels more anticipatory than awkward. Their hands brush once, twice. Then, on the third time, Martin hooks his fingers around Jon’s and clasps his hand in his, and Jon lets out a breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding.

They hold hands all the way to the tube station, up until they have to part ways to take separate lines. Jon runs through all the things that he thinks he’s supposed to say in a situation like this—I had fun tonight or We should do this again sometime or… something—but ends up saying instead, “How long have you…?”

He trails off, squeezing Martin’s hand a few times thoughtlessly, like a warm, bony stress ball. Martin seems to infer the rest of his question, however, because he squeezes Jon’s hand in return and says, “It’s… new for me too, if that’s what you’re asking.”

Jon nods and squeezes Martin’s hand again. He thinks that’s going to become quite a habit if they keep this up. “Right.”

Martin hesitates, before letting his grip on Jon’s hand loosen slightly. “We… we don’t have to do this again if you don’t want to. I-I know things are complicated right now, and I…” He worries his bottom lip between his teeth. “I want to do this again, for… for what it’s worth. But I get it. If you don’t, that is. For—for any reason.”

“I do,” Jon says, surprising himself with his conviction. “I-I don’t… you’re right. Things are… complicated.” That’s certainly a word for it. “But I… I trust you, Martin. O-Or… I want to trust you.” He takes a deep breath. “I am making the decision to trust you.” It’s hard and it’s terrifying and there’s an animal instinct deep within Jon that’s telling him not to expose his vulnerable side, but… somehow, despite all of that, Martin makes him feel… well. Not safe, but as close to safe as he can get right now. Which is an accomplishment in its own right.

Martin exhales slowly and gives Jon a small, hesitant smile. “Thank you. I-I know that’s difficult, and I…” Martin squeezes Jon’s hand, just once. “I-I’m happy.”

And Jon finds that he means it when he says softly, “I’m happy too.”

Martin gets on his train, and Jon gets on his. And despite the ever-present itching beneath his skin and the persistent belief that something isn’t right and the knowledge that he is likely a hunted man, from the moment he lets go of Martin’s hand to the moment he closes his eyes and curls onto his side in bed, that happiness remains.

#tma #the magnus archives #jonathan sims #martin blackwood #jonmartin #ask #anon #this got so incredibly long... i hope you like it! #my writing #my fic

[gerrydelano]

two ships passing

chapter seventeen: whistle for the wind

Chapters: 17 / 17 Words: 12.7k Characters: Gerard Keay, Jonathan Sims, Miriam Sims (mentioned), Michael | The Distortion (mentioned) And then all of these next guys are more briefly mentioned: Tim Stoker, Sasha James (as far as they know), Martin Blackwood, Gertrude Robinson, Literally Every Single OC That Made An Appearance Before Now And Then Some

Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Childhood Friends, Fix-It, Recovery, Humor, Fluff, Jewish/Indian Jon, Jon is an autistic/nonbinary/OCD cane user, Gerry has POTS/EDS and is transfem nonbinary, (Jon’s in a shalwar kameez and Gerry’s in a nice bralette), Even more dramatic irony than all the chapters previous, Seriously there will be times you want to punch both of them and also me, Lots of entity talk (particularly Spiral/Beholding/Vast), Closure, Open Ending, But a hopeful one

Chapter Summary:

Jon is still covered in old marks, too, like mist fogged over the ancient fingerprints on an hourglass. Faint enough now that Gerry wonders if they stand a chance at wiping them away. The way Jon is talking now, he thinks they just might.

NOTES: the ship has reached the shore! it’s time for the next journey.

READ HERE

#jongerry #gerard keay #gerry keay #gerry delano #jonathan sims #the magnus archives #magnuspod #magpod #tma fanfic #tsp tag #r.txt #r.writes #michael #miriam #tim #sasha #gertrude #tma ocs #paraphrasing the tags a bit for this post alone

[ao3feed-themagnusarchives]

Skins Shed Like Feathers And Light Combined

by celestialcello

Many years ago, on the impossible shoreline of Sannikov Land, Michael Shelley briefly saw the silhouette of a man with green eyes from the helm of the boat. He was too young for his job, kept in the darkness for too long.

And now Michael has a choice to make, so does Jon.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------- I am bad at writing summaries. Perhaps the best I could try to describe the idea behind this story is just what if in defiance, Michael and Jon fight to claw back the choice that was taken from them, by fate or by schemings. This is a tale of two people trapped in the web showing the prying crowds that they can still eat through their prison.

Words: 2421, Chapters: 1/9, Language: English

Fandoms: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences

Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death

Categories: M/M

Characters: Michael | The Distortion (The Magnus Archives), Michael Shelley, Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Sasha James, Martin Blackwood, Elias Bouchard | Jonah Magnus, Tim Stoker (The Magnus Archives), Gertrude Robinson (mentioned) - Character, Jane Prentiss, Peter Lukas (mentioned)

Relationships: Michael | The Distortion/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Michael | The Distortion & Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist

Additional Tags: Canon-Typical Violence, Canon-Typical The Lonely Content (The Magnus Archives), Canon-Typical The Vast Content (The Magnus Archives), Canon-Typical The Buried Content (The Magnus Archives), Canon-Typical The Dark Content (The Magnus Archives), Body Horror, time paradox, Season 1 canon divergence, Angst With Some Comfort, Sad Ending, Character Death, But not like an actual death and I promise as many fluffs as I could!, For my beloved dysfunctional child Michael, He/Him and It/Its Pronouns for Michael | The Distortion (The Magnus Archives), A lot of the plots take place in dreams so Jon was not physically harmed as much as in canon, Eye Trauma, Michael-on-Elias violence, Eventual Eye Avatar & Distortion!Jon, Jon involuntarily wander into others' nightmares

source https://archiveofourown.org/works/36028813

#the magnus archives #ao3feed #fanfiction

[beholdme]

All the Many Shades of Gerry - Chapter 2

Chapters: 2/19

Fandom: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

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

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

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

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

He happens to love them back.

Find it on Ao3

[1]

Gerry doesn't even regret showing up to a first date with dye-stained hands. After all, stained by hair dye, stained by paint. Much of a muchness.

He sincerely hopes between his height and new shock of bright green hair, Jon will be able to spot him through the modest Wednesday crowd.

(Jon had pleaded that they were too old to brave the London weekend crowd that starts on Thursdays, Gerry had simply grinned and said he knew a great place to go).

And he certainly can. By the time Gerry spots Jon sitting in a corner booth, Jon is already watching him intently. Jon doesn’t yet have a drink, so Gerry throws him a grin and tilts his head towards the bar.

"I pegged you for more of a whiskey, neat man," Jon tells Gerry when he arrives at the table, frowning dubiously at his selection of a strawberry daiquiri, two shots of vodka, and a jug of margaritas.

Gerry takes the opportunity afforded by his distraction and picks up Jon's hand to press a kiss to the center of his palm. "I'm a man of diverse tastes Mr. Sims. You should never try to predict what I might be tempted to put into my mouth."

Between the kiss and the ribbing, Jon is broken out of his consternation, and he stands to greet Gerry with a familiar hug. "Maybe so, Mr. Delano, but just how drunk are you planning to get on a work night?"

"That is still to be determined, but considering my workday normally starts at about 3 A.M., this is just breakfast."

***

By the time all the drinks are gone, Jon having happily participated in all of them, despite his initial grousing ("But why did they have to be pink, Gerard?"), they're both warm, and open, and things are easy with them in a way even Gerry couldn't have predicted.

After all, two closeted teen boys from strict homes don't really make for the smoothest of teen relationships. Nevermind the pair of them trying to navigate barely understood sexualities. Asexual was the word Gerry had offered Jon, laying together in Jon's cramped teen bed. Biromantic was one he had arrived at all on his own in the years since. Gerry simply uses the word queer now, and people rarely bother him about it.

"Quite a lot of people recognize you here." Jon finally notices as the fourth person in an hour greets Gerry in the easy way of affectionate drunks.

"Never fear, old chap," Gerry intones, briefly stealing Jon's Oxbridge accent, "I'm not a raging alcoholic artist, only a bartender."

"You work here?"

"Yup," Gerry confirms, cheerfully popping the 'p'. "Thursday through Sunday graveyard shifts."

"And you felt an all-encompassing desire to attend on your day off?" Jon asks, one eyebrow quirked.

Gerry shrugs, smiling and leaning over the table meaningfully, "Starving artist, employee discount, close to both our flats. Seems perfectly logical to me. Besides, a man should be able to rely on the quality of first date alcohol."

"It's hardly a first date, Gerry! We've seen one another naked." Jon sounds rather scandalised, as if he suspects Gerry has forgotten. Which he certainly has not.

"I rather think the quality of our nudity has improved enough over the years that it merits rediscovery." Gerry shoots back, and Jon blushes hard enough to melt the remains of their ice.

"Well, regardless. How's the food? You should probably eat something solid if this is actually your breakfast." Gerry has to chuckle that it's taken so much alcohol for Jon's natural mothering instincts to finally emerge. Regardless, he flags down a waitress and she gets Jon a menu.

Hiding partially behind it, Jon frowns. "I do think I should mention that I've been seeing someone for a few weeks now. We're not exclusive at this point, though."

Gerry, somewhat delighted by this new development, having imagined that Jon was something of a spinster, chuckles and asks, "Oh yeah, do tell?"

He's donned his most winning smile and gently nudges the menu so he can see Jon's face better.

"You want to hear about the other man I'm dating on our first date in almost a decade?"

"Obviously," Gerry scoffs, adopting a long-suffering attitude. "I might decide I prefer him."

"Of course you might." There's a bit of lovely bite in his voice, and Gerry begins to truly enjoy himself.

"He used to work with Sasha and me at the library." Gerry hums in acknowledgment. "He was one of the assistants when I was promoted to Head Librarian. We didn't get along very well in the beginning."

Jon's stormy expression tips Gerry off to the fact that this is a gross oversimplification.

"With you, that could mean anything from a small tiff over the proper use of the Dewy Decimal system to attempted murder."

"Hrmph. If you must know, it means that I treated him very poorly for several months because of my own glaring insecurities." Jon's words are guilty, and he stares intently at an empty glass while he speaks, as if Gerry is less likely to judge him if eye contact is avoided. "Eventually I realized what a twat I had been and apologized, but it wasn't too much later that he quit."

"Because of you?" Gerry huffs, although he does know Jon can have a razor-sharp tongue, and it doesn't take all that much to inspire it.

"Oh! No, he says not. He had put together a great business plan and even managed to get a partial investment, on top of a loan. He's opened a bookstore with a little tearoom inside of it. Even took one of the other assistants with him." Past the painful part of his small tale, Jon's expression has lightened and he seemed quite delighted by the end. "When I went in to offer some support, Martin was actually happy to see me. He asked me out for dinner practically before I could finish taking my coat off."

Gerry was hardly ever possessive, and generously tactile with almost everyone, and seeing the open affection in Jon's typically closed-off expression warms his gothic little heart. He decides he can appreciate anyone who takes the time and (sometimes monumental) effort it requires to make Jonathan Sims happy, instantly opening a special place in his heart for one Martin Blackwood.

***

They end the evening with gloriously good fried food and laughing themselves giddy over tales from their teen years. Including the time Jon's Gran caught them smoking weed on the roof (Gerry shirtless, obviously) and had almost taken one of Jon's eyes out with the book she threw at his head.

By the time Jon realizes that he hasn't been allowed to pay for a single thing, he's been bundled into a cab and is on the way home. He knows he should feel indignant at being so smartly handled, but all he can muster is the warm, satisfied sleepiness of someone shown a very good time, and halfway to being back in love already.

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

[ieatmypizzawithaforkandknife]

TMA: Episode 4, “Page Turner”

Summary: Jonathan reads the statement of Dominic Swain, regarding “a book briefly in his possession in the winter of 2012.”

And now things are getting good. We’ve finally hit things that even I can tell are going to be part of the larger plot - specifically, the introduction of Jurgen Leitner. I am incredibly curious about the 1994 “incident” Jonathan mentions at the end of the episode that lead him to believe all the Leitner books had been “dealt with” (although with all the shady af stuff going on I wouldn’t be surprised if he was intentionally mislead to believe that). The most unsettling thing for me in this episode, as it always is, was the body horror - as soon as Dominic described the binding as possibly “real leather, probably calf”, I had an intense reaction of Put That Thing Back Where It Came From Or So Help Me. The details about Mary’s tattooed vs. untattooed skin and her murder were entirely unnecessary, my mind had already supplied all the detail I needed, thank you very much.

However, I was very happy that not immediately putting the book down and leaving that shop was probably the only really dumb move Dominic made in this story. He immediately tried researching the title and the name in the nameplate, he consulted some booksellers, he researched Mary and Jared Key as soon as he could. He made all the right choices (besides that first one) to lead him to surviving this incident not only unscathed but, honestly, better off than before (since he got a couple thousand pounds out of it at the end).

When I first noticed that so many of the protagonists were surviving these seemingly perilous stories, I was actually a little put off, because doesn’t that mean that things aren’t actually as perilous as they seem? Then I remembered survivorship bias (which I first heard about here on tumblr in that post about WWII planes - who ever said tumblr isn’t educational?). Which puts everything in an entirely different light, because if someone needs to survive the incident in order to make the statement, then how many more paranormal things are happening that the Archive (and the audience) have no idea about? Half a dozen people went missing in the “anglerfish” episode, and we wouldn’t have heard of a single one of them if it weren’t for that one guy who did survive. Not a comforting thought.

There were so many little clues and interesting tidbits in this episode that I don’t know if I’ll remember to mention everything (and I’m sure I missed noticing some). The first one that comes to mind is that eBay listing - in 2007, for “Key of Solomon, 1863, owned by MacGregor Mathers and Jurgen Leitner”, sold to deactivated user GRBookworm1818. I started a timeline of events and I’m earmarking 1863, even though I have no idea what the significance of “Key of Solomon” or MacGregor Mathers is yet. I’m thinking the deactivated eBay user has to be someone from the Institute, since it was founded in 1818 (according to Jonathan in the first episode), but “GR”? No clue. Also, if it was someone from the Institute, then that means someone there knew there were still Leitners floating around post-1994. I don’t like it. I don’t like any of it. (Edit, like, 10 minutes after posting this: I’m a fucking idiot. GR is Gertrude Robinson. This sucks.)

This is the second episode that I recall where the protagonist has some kind of sleep disturbance - the first one was episode 2, “Do Not Open”, where the protagonist started sleepwalking because of the creepy coffin in his living room. This could just be a general “dreams/sleep disturbances” theme found in horror stories, but it’s coupled in both cases with the protagonist becoming preoccupied mentally by the thing that we’re led to believe is causing their sleep disturbance. So it’s interesting.

This is the first episode that I recall with “eye” imagery. Unfortunately it’s hard to avoid THAT as a spoiler, so of course I’ve been keeping an eye out for it. (Get it? Get it?) There was a detailed picture of an eye on the wall in Mary Key’s apartment with a cryptic message below it: “Grant us the sight that we may not know. Grant us the scent that we may not catch. Grant us the sound that we may not call.” No clue how that’s going to come back to haunt us, but I’m sure it will.

This is the second time we’ve seen Latin in connection with the paranormal (the first being the three words in the trailers) and the first time we’ve seen Sanskrit. I don’t have anything else to say about it - I just get excited any time fiction breaks out the dead languages. I want to say it’s going somewhere, but that could always just be wishful thinking.

I think I’ll end it there. There was just a TON to this episode and it’s probably the reason I’m doing these posts at all. Hope anyone reading this is enjoying it and as always feel free to jump in with non-spoilers as you wish!

#personal #liveblogging #is this liveblogging? #The Magnus Archives

[papermoonloveslucy]

ANGELA CARTWRIGHT

September 9, 1952

Angela Margaret Cartwright was born in Altrincham, Cheshire, England, in 1952.  

Shortly after Angela’s birth, the family - including older sister Veronica, also an actress - moved to Los Angeles. 

She made her first film appearance at the age of three years as Paul Newman's character's daughter in Somebody Up There Likes Me (1956)...

and appeared with Rock Hudson and Sidney Poitier in Something of Value (1957), which was labeled ‘Adult Entertainment’. 

Cartwright joined the cast of “Make Room for Daddy” (later “The Danny Thomas Show”) in 1957 at the age of five. 

“Make Room for Daddy” (aka “The Danny Thomas Show”) ran from 1953 to 1957 on ABC and from 1957 to 1964 on CBS. In March 1953, Danny Thomas chose Desilu Studios to film it using its three-camera method, perfected on “I Love Lucy,” which ran concurrently on CBS.

Shortly after the third season finished filming, Jean Hagen (who played Margaret, the Mother) left the show. It was explained that Margaret had died suddenly off-screen. In a four-part story arc that began in April 1957, son Rusty fell ill with the measles and Danny hired Kathy O'Hara (Marjorie Lord), a young Irish nurse, to look after him. Kathy was a widow with a little girl named Linda (then played by Lelani Sorenson). Not surprisingly, Danny quickly fell in love with Kathy, as did the kids. 

When “I Love Lucy” went off the air (in its half-hour format) in 1957 and “Make Room for Daddy” was facing cancellation, CBS acquired the show and moved “Make Room for Daddy” into “Lucy's” old time slot. With the change of network, the producers also changed Kathy's daughter. Lelani Sorenson was replaced by Angela Cartwright as Linda. Linda was adopted by Danny, and the show's ratings dramatically increased. Never underestimate the ‘cute’ factor!

In “Lucy Makes Room for Danny” (LDCH S2;E2) on December 1, 1958, Lucy and Ricky sublet their Connecticut home to the Williams family (of “Make Room for Daddy”). When Lucy proves an over-protective landlady, the arguing families end up in court!  

The night this “Comedy Hour” premiered, “Make Room for Daddy” also aired and concerned Little Linda’s tonsillitis, a subject previously covered by “I Love Lucy” in “Nursery School” (ILL S5;E9).  Despite only a half hour passing for viewers, Linda is in perfect health when she arrives on the Ricardo’s doorstep at 9 o’clock!    

This cross-over sets in motion a curious anomaly:

Lucy Ricardo meets Danny Williams (Danny Thomas) and his TV family on this episode of “The Lucy-Desi Comedy Hour”;

Danny Williams drives through the small town of Mayberry and meets Sheriff Taylor, which spawns “The Andy Griffith Show”;

“The Andy Griffith Show” is where the Gomer Pyle (Jim Nabors) character began, before getting his own show;

Gomer, although unnamed and uncredited, turns up on “The Lucy Show,” although here she is Lucy Carmichael, not Lucy Ricardo (even though both women share the maiden name McGillacuddy);

The upshot of all of this is that Lucy Ricardo and Lucy Carmichael both exist in the same world.

Along with her TV brother Rusty Hamer and Keith Thibodeux as Little Ricky, the young stars are called to testify in court about their parents’ poor behavior!  Unexpectedly, the children are more polished and reasonable than their elders. 

Linda gets some personal time with the judge, played by Gale Gordon. Linda suggests the final verdict: that Fred take Ethel to Florida for two months. She reasons that it will (a) cure him of being a miser, and (b) thaw his frozen ears!

RICKY RICARDO (about Linda): “She’s a regular Lucy Junior!”

In a quid-pro-quo programming move, Lucy and Desi played Lucy and Ricky on “The Danny Thomas Show” on a January 6, 1959 episode titled “Lucy Upsets the Williams Household.”  While rehearsing a nightclub show together, Danny Williams invites Ricky and Lucy Ricardo to move in to his apartment. Lucy and Kathy, meanwhile, are spending up a storm at the department stores. To curb their spending, the boys cut off their charge accounts in this battle of the sexes. The character of Linda is only briefly in the story and has no scenes with Lucille Ball.  

Cartwright again played Linda Williams in “Make Room For Granddaddy” (1970-71). In January 1971, once again “Daddy” and “Lucy” cross-over, with Lucille Ball playing Lucy Carter of “Here’s Lucy”, Kathy’s old friend, coming to New York for a visit. 

When Danny comes home from a trip, there is a series of accidental flirtations between Lucy Carter and Danny that make her believe he is being unfaithful to Kathy. The episode is alternately titled “Lucy and the Lecher” and (less controversially) “Lucy, the Houseguest.” Angela is then 18 years old. This time she gets to stay in the room for Lucy’s arrival! 

In 1965 Angela played the role of Brigitta Von Trapp in The Sound Of Music, perhaps her most recognizable role, in one of the most famous films of all time. The film also featured “Lucy” alumni Norma Varden (as housekeeper Frau Schmidt), as well as background actors Leoda Richards, Bert Stevens, Norman Stevans, Bernard Sell, Monty O’Grady, William Meader, Sam Harris, Gertrude Astor, Leon Alton, and Steve Carruthers.  The original stage musical (which did not feature Cartwright) was on Broadway at the same time that Lucille Ball was doing Wildcat. The musical’s composers, Rodgers and Hammerstein (aka Dick and Oscar) were frequently mentioned on “I Love Lucy.” 

Also in 1965, Cartwright returned to television to play Penny, youngest member of the Space Family Robinson, on “Lost in Space” (1965-68). The Irwin Allen science fiction series went from a black and white drama in its first season, to a color comedy in its second and third. In the season one opening credits, the only character identified by name is Penny. Cartwright was 13 when the series began. “Lucy” alumni who made guest appearances in “Space” include Fritz Feld, Reta Shaw, Wally Cox, Michael J. Pollard, Strother Martin, John Carradine, Hans Conried (who also played her Uncle Tonoose on “Daddy”), Al Lewis, Stanley Adams, Arte Johnson, Norman Leavitt, Helen Kleeb, and Janos Prohaska.  Cartwright has remained involved in the franchise, doing cameo appearances in the 1998 re-boot and the 2019 TV series.  

Cartwright was back on the Desilu lot to guest star on two episodes of “My Three Sons” in 1965 and 1969. 

Angela’s older sister Veronica made two appearances with her sister on “Make Room for Daddy” in 1959 and 1961, one with Lucy’s good friend and co-star Bob Hope. Veronica also appeared on “The Twilight Zone,” a show introduced on “The Westinghouse-Desilu Playhouse” in 1958 with Desi Arnaz standing in for Rod Serling as host. 

Angela Cartwright married actor Steve Gullion in 1976. They have two children.

She has been a photographer for 30 years. She is also a fashion designer. Her work is displayed at her studio in Studio City, Los Angeles.

#Angela Cartwright #Make Room For Daddy #Danny Thomas #Lucille Ball #The Lucy Desi Comedy Hour #Lost in Space #The Sound of Music #The Danny Thomas Show #Veronica Cartwright #Steve Gullion #My Three Sons #Barry Livingston #Twilight Zone #Billy Mumy #Desilu #Linda Williams #TV Guide #Somebody Up There Likes Me #Something of Value #Jean Hagen #Here's Lucy #Gale Gordon #Make Room for Granddaddy #Marjorie Lord #Keith Thibodeaux #TV

[tim-stonker]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: The Magnus Archives (Podcast) Rating: Not Rated Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims, mentioned Georgie Barker/Melanie King Characters: Jonathan Sims, Martin Blackwood, Tim Stoker (The Magnus Archives), Sasha James, Elias Bouchard, Melanie King, Alice "Daisy" Tonner, mentioned Basira Hussain, im sorry queen it was a 5+1 and u were number 6 Additional Tags: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - No Powers, more like AU elias isnt a bitch, 5 Times, Mutual Pining, implied Nonbinar Jonathan Sims, he's gnc, Getting Together, Comfort No Hurt, bc we need that, Just Pals Being Soft, dimples as a plot point Summary:

5 times people didn't see jon's smile plus the 1 time someone did

i wrote some gay shit about jon smiling and it became this. whole thing is under the cut, check it out on ao3 if u wanna !

-5

Jonathan Sims was an unexpected candidate for the position of Archivist, following Gertrude Robinson’s rather abrupt retirement (Elias still wasn’t sure if she was actually telling the truth when she said she wanted to spend more time travelling with her grandson. He didn’t even know if she actually had a grandson.) When word got out that there was an opening for head archivist, it surprised both Elias and Jon’s manager when he put his application into the pool. While Jon wasn’t the highest position in Research, he wasn’t at the lowest tier either, and everyone knew that being Head Archivist was much like being the mayor of a ghost town. Sure, you had a fancy title, but not much else. The Archives were in the basement, they were cold and dusty, and typically, if a budget needed to be cut, it was the Archives that took the brunt of the slashes. But, Jon was organized, faked his confidence well enough, was willing to put in the work, and, if Elias was being honest with himself, there wasn’t exactly a queue out the door to take over the vacancy that Gertrude left. 

The interview went well enough, though Jon was clearly filled with nervous excitement. He kept reaching up to tuck his hair behind his ear - it was too short to stay in place, but much too long to not be a bother. His voice almost echoed in Elias’ office, strong and precise, even when he struggled with some questions that Elias asked about his strengths and weaknesses. Elias appreciated the way that Jon carried himself, the slight aura of grandeur and pride that he seemed to give off, contrasting starkly with his awkward attempts at being personable. 

Though Elias told Jon that he’ll be in touch within a few days to inform him whether or not he’ll be transferred to the Archives, he’s already certain that there’s no better candidate, and, if nothing else, he loathes having new hires from outside the Institute. He can overlook a few missing qualifications if it means he can cut down on the number of interviews he has to conduct. 

Elias waited a few more days, finished up more interviews, and found his suspicions were correct. Jon - despite the roughness around his edges, and his lack of a library sciences degree (an aspect that makes Rosie raise her eyebrows at Elias when he mentions it) - is the best fit for the archives that Elias has. He calls Jon into his office again, watching as Jon delicately maneuvers into the chair on the other side of Elias’s desk, fingers picking at the sleeves of his cardigan.

“I’m happy to tell you, Jonathan, that after much consideration, that you have been promoted to Head Archivist. Your transfer from the Research department will be put through promptly, and - unless you have any objections - you can begin your new role as soon as next Monday. Congratulations.”

As Elias spoke, he watched as Jon’s eyes widened, eyebrows raise, as the tension melted out of his shoulders. The corners of his lips seemed to flicker, wanting to curl upwards, but not quite able to.

“I, oh, wow. Thank you, Elias. I, uh, I’m really excited to be working in the Archives.” Jon stammered out. His voice had less of the confident bravado that it had during his interview, and while that would usually make Elias reconsider his choice, the fact that all of Jon’s nervous ticks seemed to have disappeared sated his concern.  

Elias nodded, hummed, and launched into the less fun aspect of promotion, namely discussion of new contracts, pay raises, the fact that Jon would be able to ask some of his co-workers to become his assistants, but any vacancies will be filled at Elias’s discretion. Jon nodded along and asked the appropriate questions at the right time.

Perhaps he’s just bad at expressing emotions, Elias thought, though the thought is both fleeting and insignificant. It gets pushed out of the way, quickly, and is discarded, not to be thought again. 

When the meeting was over, Elias stood up to show Jon to the door. Just before Jon left, Elias stuck his hand out, and once again said, “Congratulations, Jon.”

Jon looked startled for a second, before reaching out and giving Elias a hearty handshake.

“Thank you, Elias, really,” Jon replied. While saying that, the corner of his mouth twitched once again, and for a moment, Jon’s face began to break out into a smile. Eyes excited and bright, before he schooled his expression back into one of vaguely happy neutrality. 

Elias released Jon’s hand, and when his office was once again empty of everyone except himself, he briefly wondered why anyone cares enough about smiling to prevent themselves from doing it.

Like most intrapersonal thoughts, though, Elias waved it away, going back to his own work, just glad that he didn’t have to get Rosie to put up any more job listings on Linkedin. 

-4

Tim was surprised when Jon approached him with the job offer. Sure, he and Jon had worked together for a few years and Jon frequently complimented Tim on his work and whenever Jon actually showed up to work get-togethers, he seemed to awkwardly stick to Tim’s side like glue until the event was done. But Jon always declined Tim’s invites to non-work social gatherings, and sometimes it was hard to tell if the snark in Jon’s voice came from malice or…. Something else. 

Tim had chalked all that up to awkwardness or to Jon’s work ethic, but for some reason, he never thought that Jon actually considered Tim to be a friend, even though he did tentatively think of Jon as one. So it was rather shocking when Jon marched up to him, a small stack of papers in his hands at the end of the workday, and announced, 

“I’ve been promoted to Head Archivist.”

“Oh, well, congrats, Jon,” Tim said, smiling. He clapped Jon on the shoulder. “Yeah, I heard you put your application in.” Tim didn’t mention that he heard because some of their co-workers were making jokes about hoping to see the last of Jon, with his insane work ethic and snappish remarks. 

Jon nodded. “I’m also allowed to pick my own assistants since many of Gertrude’s have quit or been reassigned since her absence.”

“That’s cool.”

“I was wondering if you would like to join me in the Archives, Tim.”

“Oh,” Tim said, eyes widening. Jon looked straight at him, unflinching, though his hands were curled into tight balls at his sides. This was certainly unexpected. 

“I think we work well together. You do really good work, and while I’m not exactly sure what… extra work transferring to the archives will entail, I’m that your presence will be beneficial.” Finally, Jon broke Tim’s gaze. “Also, I… quite enjoy your company.”

“Wow, well, thank you, Jon,” Tim managed to stammer out. He looked at Jon’s now sheepish expression and how his cheeks had taken on a slightly red tinge from the honesty. “Uh, can I… think about it? For a few days? It’s just… kind of a big change.”

“Oh, of course, Tim,” Jon nodded earnestly, passing Tim the stack of papers, which Tim now saw as a would-be employment contract, with different sections highlighted, presumably the parts that Jon thought Tim would find important. Jon made like he was about to turn to leave before he paused and said, “Also I. I won’t be offended if you decide to stay put.”

“Oh, I know,” Tim said, even though he wasn’t sure why he knew. Jon nodded again.

“Well, see you tomorrow.” And with that and a brief wave, Jon walked away, leaving Tim to stare at the employment papers and to think about what to do. And Tim did consider it. He had a pretty good thing going on in the Research department. He was well-liked, and many of his managers said that he could probably get promoted to a higher position with a better salary in a few years, and though the entry position of archival assistant was better paying than his current gig, Tim knew he was never going to get promoted from that role. 

Tim had friends in Research, but he also had friends in artifacts, and finance, and HR. The more he thought about it, it wasn’t like his work-social life would end if he went to the basement. And, as much as his co-workers liked to poke fun at Jon, Tim did genuinely enjoy his company. He liked his wit, and snark, and the way he tried to play off his awkwardness and usually failed. And despite his somewhat clumsy attempts at socializing, anytime Tim talked about his life outside of work, Jon listened, made jokes, and was friendly. 

Jon was also quite easy on the eyes, in his own strange way. 

Tim found it wasn’t really much of a hard decision after all. So when he walked into work the next day and tossed the signed contract on Jon’s desk, all he said was, “It better not be as dusty as everyone says it is.” 

Before walking off to his own desk to finish up his own projects, for a moment he thought he saw Jon duck his head to smile. But when he looked back, Jon was just holding the contract, and though his eyes were happy, his face was straight. 

-3

Sasha enjoyed her work as an archival assistant, despite all the dust, and Jon’s moodiness, and the strange errands that the statements sent everyone on. It was an unorthodox job, cleaning up the decades of bizarre filing that Gertrude left, hunting down follow-ups from people who were clearly drunk, sick, or delirious at the time that these ‘occurrences’, well, occurred. 

She certainly enjoyed her co-workers, basement dwellers that they were. While archives and research had many employees and had been on floors where different departments mingled, the four of them - Tim, Sasha, Martin, and Jon - were stuck down in the cool basement, surrounded by files, and books, and old foundation. While she had been on amicable terms with Tim before, the forced proximity brought them much closer, and she was happy to meet and befriend Martin. Pretty quickly the three of them began to go out for drinks after work, plan dinners, and movie nights, and get-togethers on weekends. They sometimes invited Jon, but the answer was also unanimously no.

Still, despite Jon’s rebuffs at having a social life, Sasha always felt like her relationship with him was… different than the others. While Tim and Jon had prior acquaintanceship, Sasha only briefly knew Jon in research; and Jon was either oblivious or blatantly ignoring Martin’s crush on him, rebuffing his attempts of flirting and courtship with harsh words and mumbled, unfocused ‘thank yous’ when Martin brought him tea. 

It surprised her how highly Jon thought of her, and how well they got on. 

“Here’s that statement you were after,” Sasha said, after knocking on Jon’s office door. Jon turned in his chair to face her, hand outreached to take the folder when she got close enough.

“Thank you, Sasha,” Jon said, as he grasped the folder. Sasha nodded and was about to let go when she glanced down and saw Jon’s hand.

“Is that nail polish?” She asked suddenly, voice coming out more accusatory than she intended. Jon snatched the folder away from her, curling his fingers into his palms as soon as the paper hit the desk surface. He still wore his face of neutrality, but his jaw was tense. Sasha was surprised at how defensive, and how quickly, Jon reacted to the question, but immediately saw she needed to remedy it. She quickly added, “It looks nice.”

As soon as the compliment was said, Jon seemed to relax a bit. His jaw unclenched and slowly he unfurled his fingers. His nails were a simple black, though it was a messy job and they were already chipping. 

“Oh, thank you.” He said softly.

“Did you do them yourself?” Sasha asked, even though she couldn’t imagine Jon asking for help to do his nails.

“Yes, er. As a child, I always wanted to paint my nails but I couldn’t, so.” He held up his hands, wiggling his fingers. “They’re not very good, are they?”

Sasha shrugged. “Pretty good for a first time, though. Next time you’ll want to push your cuticles back first, and you should probably get a varnish too. It’ll stop them from chipping so much.”

“Oh, okay. Thank you, Sasha,” Jon said, clearly not expecting advice. Sasha gave one last nod, and a, “No problem.” before leaving Jon’s office. 

After that - or maybe Sasha just noticed it more afterwards - Jon seemed to come to work ‘prettied up’ more often. He seemed to listen to her nail advice, and while he often sported plain, black nails - sans chipping, thanks to the nice clear coat he put on - a few times he came into work with blue, or red, or green nails. While Martin and Tim always complimented them, if they noticed, Jon began going up to Sasha to show her every fresh set. Often it would be a week or two between appearances; Jon seemed to just let the previous coat chip off completely before repainting them, approaching Sasha with his hands curled in a way so that he could view his own nails before showing them off to her. Sasha always made sure that she seemed excited to see them, even if they weren’t always that good. The way that Jon seemed to loosen after every compliment, the way his face would soften just a tad made it worth it. 

Soon it became their little routine, even as Jon’s habits changed. While it started with nails, soon Jon would awkwardly approach her to show off the fancy braid he just learned how to do with his growing hair. Often, they were messy and uneven, large strands falling out of the cheap hair ties, but Sasha would say it was nice, before offering to fix it for him. Jon always declined, disappearing into his office and coming out later, braid abandoned and hair in its usual neat bun, but Sasha always offered. For a while, Jon had taken to looking at the clothes Sasha came to work in, awkwardly complimenting her on whatever coat or blouse or shoes she had worn. It took Sasha a few times to realize what he was saying - or at least thinking. 

“I like your skirt,” Jon mumbled one day, as he and Sasha walked into the archives. “It’s very pretty.”

Sasha hummed, looking down at it. It wasn’t anything fantastic, just a black a-line skirt with a vaguely plaid pattern, long enough to be work-appropriate without annoying her. She mostly wore it because the growing pile of dirty laundry in her flat left her few other options. 

“Thank you, Jon,” she replied, before pursing her lips. “You know, I think you would look quite nice in a skirt.”

A bold move, Sasha knew, but after Jon sputtered for a moment, he managed to choke out, “You… you do?”

“Oh, yes. You got nice, slender legs, and if one a little longer it would just add to the frumpy librarian look quite nicely.” Sasha laughed a little, unable to resist the urge to tease a little. Jon gave a polite chuckle and nodded. 

They repeated this process a few more times, over a few weeks. Jon would give Sasha a sincere, if not a bit bumbling compliment on her wardrobe or appearance (often for items Sasha did not care for that much) and after thanking him, she would flip it around and say, “I think this lipgloss colour would suit you better than me” or " a blouse like this would make your collarbones look good” or even being as bold as saying “You should get a dress like it, then we can match.” 

Jon would brush the comments off with a laugh or a denial, but Sasha could see the wheels in his head-turning, the way he would occasionally look at whatever pair of pants he was wearing that day and frown. 

Eventually, Sasha’s hard and not-so-subtle work paid off when she saw Jon shuffle into the archives, not in his usual attire of plain cardigan and button-up, tucked into a pair of boring pants, but with a new look: a cardigan and plain button-up tucked into a shockingly boring skirt. It suited him, though; the long grey fabric skimming his ankles, the way it would flow behind and the way his feet would kick it in front. Jon’s fingers seemed to be absent-mindedly twisting themselves into the fabric, as he made his way towards his office.

Sasha was right; Jon did rock the frumpy librarian look.

“Good morning, Jon,” Sasha greeted, cheerfully. Jon looked up.

“Morning, Sasha.”

“New wardrobe?” She asked, nodding at his outfit. Jon seemed to falter a little, standing still, waiting for her assessment. “I like it! Really suits you.”

And while that was a bit of a lie - Sasha found it to be a bit boring, and she would never have even considered buying herself, though it did quite Jon wonderfully - Sasha couldn’t bring herself to feel the least bit bad, when she heard Jon mutter a soft, “Thank you,” before hurrying to his office. For a split second, Sasha would have sworn that his lips were pulled into a smile, thought for a moment she saw a flash of his teeth, but he was opening and closing his office door before she could confirm.

-2

Despite all her grumbling, thrown insults, and jabs, Melanie didn’t actually dislike Jon. Well, no, she did dislike him, immensely. He’s smug, and rude, and has a know-it-all attitude, and he absolutely did not take her show seriously. But, behind all of that, he respected her abilities and her competence, if not the way that she uses it. She thought of it like she wouldn’t want anything to hurt Jon unless it was her giving him a good slap around the head. 

Still, when she ended up hanging around the Archives more - and shockingly, no one, not even Jon, tried to stop her - after her show fell apart and took most of her professional network with it, she’s surprised how much common ground she shares with Jon. At first, they needed someone else in the room with them, to grease the wheels of conversation - either Sasha siding with Melanie every once in a while, or a well-timed joke from Tim, or Martin’s placating tone - but every time they found themselves able to stand each other without any assistance, even starting their own conversation. Without her show, with its staged dramatics and clickbait titles to feed Jon’s antagonisms, they find that they have similar opinions and histories with the supernatural. 

“Most statements and stories are completely false,” Jon had repeated many times. But soon he began to add, “But the ones that are real are… deeply concerning, and hard to come by.”

More than a few times Jon had caught Melanie digging through filing cabinets, looking for a statement with a shred of truth in it, anything to follow up or make a story out of. After the third time that Jon threw open the door to the filing room and nearly gave himself a heart attack when the light illuminated Melanie’s hunch over figure, reading through a pile of folders that she most certainly was not going to put away properly, Jon sighed and asked, “Why don’t I just give you some statements that seem real.”

Melanie looked up from the file in her hand that she was about to discard. “You’d do that? Isn’t that against ‘policy’ or something.”

Jon rolled his eyes. “I’m sure it’s no more breaking rules than allowing you in here in the first place.” He eyed the pile of statements on the floor, the open drawer with crumbled papers shoved in. “Besides, I’m tired of having to spend an entire day refiling after you pop in.”

And so, Jon started keeping track of statements he believes. First on sticky notes, then on looseleaf paper, and eventually in a notebook so that Melanie can keep track as she goes along, Jon wrote down the name and case number of what he believes are credible cases, and Melanie dug them out of their dusty tombs. Even if she didn’t put them away - which she rarely did, can’t go making Jon’s life too easy, she thought with a grin - it was clear that he appreciated knowing exactly where they came from. She still browsed around, skimming through statements that Jon doesn’t believe, but she puts those ones back where she finds them if they weren't worth her time. 

Their strange friendship continued like that for a few months. They steered clear of personal topics, even, no, especially,  as Melanie began going on dates with Georgie. Occasionally, a personal detail would slip in; Jon mentioned that he hates denim skirts after telling Melanie about a statement that, for some reason, explicitly mentions them (“And what makes you an expert on what women should wear?” Melanie asked, annoyance clear in her. 

Jon furrowed his eyebrows. “What? No, I’m talking about me. I hate wearing denim skirts.”

“Oh,” Melanie says, the wind coming out of her sails. “Uh, me too.”). At one point Melanie mentioned that she loves artificial blue raspberry, which made Jon scrunch his nose in disgust. Before they knew it, Melanie and Jon knew about the other’s thoughts on movies, books, fashion, the weather, politics, animals, food, and whether or not Rosie is dating that one woman from HR.

It was a slow and gradual shift, one that caught both of them off guard. But neither was anxious to prevent it and really, Melanie was kind of interested to see where it would go. It’s with that thought in mind, seeing how this will go, that she throws a folder onto Jon’s desk. He hadn’t looked up when she knocked and entered without waiting, but with the manila folder obscuring whatever paperwork he was doing, he sighs and lifts his head. 

“Yes, Melanie?”

“This statement was misfiled,” Melanie said, glee and gloating oozing out of her voice. She cackled when she saw Jon scowl, arms crossing automatically. He glanced down at the casefile.

“It most certainly was not,” Jon huffed, picking it up. He doesn’t even mention how it wasn’t a file he gave her, so keen to prove her wrong. “It was filed by year, 2006, subsection ‘non-human creature’, subsection ‘false’ and-”

“Exactly,” Melanie interrupted. “It’s not fake.”

“What do you mean it’s not fake.” Jon narrowed his eyes. “It’s about a bloody sea monster!”

“A sea monster which is described in another statement from 1984,” Melanie threw another folder onto his desk, which Jon hadn’t noticed in her hand in his haste to disagree, “And, one that causes damage similar to this accident report,” Melanie unlocked her phone and shoved it into Jon’s face. His eyes crossed and squinted as he tried to read the news article on the screen. “Which, by the way, all occur in the same region of the Barents Sea.”

Jon lifted his eyes from the phone screen, still slightly glaring at Melanie. He looked away after a second, raising a hand to scratch the side of his face.

“Well, then, I guess we will have to look into it some more,” his voice was different than what Melanie was used to. Behind the movement of his hand, Melanie thought she saw some falses of teeth and saw a slight twinkle in his eye. He quickly dropped his face, expression and voice back to normal, “But, this is not permission for you to go back to rummaging through my files!”

Melanie grinned wolfishly, putting a hand on her hip. The gentle voice and expression were already leaving her mind. “Like I ever needed your permission, Jon.”

-1

It was almost surprising how well Daisy got on with Jon. She supposed it was because they were both a bit quieter than the people around them, got a bit more drained from human interaction than others, a bit more like old souls. Only, Daisy was more of an ‘old soul’ because the thought of all the therapy she had to go through years ago still made her tired and because she was literally about fifteen years older than everyone else in the Archives. 

“Why is it that your joints hurt more than mine even though you’re a baby?” Daisy asked, after finding Jon laying on the floor of his office, hair and dress fanned out on the floor. When she had questioned his state, he just mumbled, “m’back hurts.”

Calling him a baby made him grumble more. “I’m not a baby, I am a grown man-”

“More like an old man.” Daisy joked, sitting down cross-legged by his head. “Seriously, you’re too young to be aching this much.”

Jon shrugged, shirt rustling against the carpet. “I’ve always ached. I guess having a desk job just made it worse.”

Daisy nodded. She couldn’t really relate; all her old aches hadn’t been physical, and before the archives all her jobs involved in a lot of moving - whether it was fast food as a teenager, or retail as a young adult, and then the police. 

“You should go to a chiropractor, get a massage.” She suggested.

“Chiropractor and masseuse are two different professions.”

“Piss off, you know what I’m saying.” Jon rolled his eyes and squirmed a bit on the floor. 

“I don’t like the thought of someone… massaging me.”

“It feels really good,” Daisy replies, thinking back to the few massages she had gotten in her life. “And chiropractors don’t really massage, they just snap your joints back into place and then give you weird exercises to do.”

Jon shrugged again and didn’t say anything. Daisy wasn’t sure if it was because he didn’t have anything to say, or if his previous movement made something along his spine twinge. After a minute of silence, with Jon’s face occasionally morphing from boredom to discomfort, Daisy got an idea. 

“Stand up,” she said, getting to her feet herself. Jon looked up, startled.

“Why?”

“Just do it,” Daisy stuck her hand out for Jon to take. With a little effort, Jon sat up, groaning a little, before taking her stand to stand. As soon as he was upright, Daisy reached down to hold Jon from under his armpits.

“Uh, Daisy, what are you doing?” Jon asked, arms sticking straight out, stiff, as Daisy brought his body closer to her.

“I’m going to reset your back,” Daisy said, as Jon’s face squished against her shoulder. “Don’t worry, I’ve done this a few times, it usually helps.”

Jon mumbled something, before yelping when Daisy stood closer to her full height and he was lifted a few inches off the ground. Jon’s arms instinctually went around Daisy’s shoulders, even though she was fully supporting his weight. 

“Okay, you gotta relax your body, untense your muscles- Jon that is the opposite of untensing. There you go, okay, you’re going to hear a crack,” She said, before squeezing Jon into her body, forearms pressed across different parts of his back. There was a loud crack as she felt Jon tighten his arms around her and give a little yell into her shoulder. 

She loosened her grip, but still held him close for a second, just in case. She felt his mouth move against her shirt, and at first, she thought he was mumbling something, but then the movement ceased for a few seconds. Another small movement, and then no motion once again. Finally, she lowered Jon to the floor and released him. He stood, and quickly went to smoothing out his shirt.

“How’d that feel?” Daisy asks, noticing how he wasn’t automatically going back to lie on the ground. Jon stilled for a second, before saying,

“It feels a lot better. Thank you, Daisy.”

+1

Martin knew he wasn’t subtle, at least not when it came to Jon. He knew practically anyone who came down to the Archives could tell he had a crush, knew that his attempts to coddle, and talk to, and make Jon proud were just about as sly as painting a banner that said: “I WANT TO DATE JONATHAN SIMS.”

He almost couldn’t help it. Sure, he had gotten a bit better at not letting Jon treat him like a doormat over the years - sometimes Jon even seemed pleasantly surprised when Martin told him off for being mean - but there was still an undeniable urge to be gentle with him, to treat him kindly, to make him smile. 

Not that anyone had any recollection of Jon smiling - hell, Tim even made a few jokes that Jon was probably in a terrible accident as a smile and ‘broke his smile muscles, but left his annoying muscles intact’. It wasn’t very funny, but Martin and Sasha still laughed. 

Still, in some masochistic kind of way, Martin enjoyed this prolonged courtship. And even though his friends were sure that nothing was advancing, that Martin was still being a pining fool (which wasn’t an inaccurate description) and Jon was still being an unrequiting idiot, Martin was sure that he was making progress. Jon and he were having more… moments. More times where they would make eye contact and Jon’s face would soften, more conversations where Jon would ramble off-topic, at ease and relaxed, before remembering himself and Martin and roping him back into the conversation. There would be times where Martin would pass Jon a cup of tea, mug angled so that Jon could easily grab the handle, and yet Jon would take the mug in such a way that their fingers would brush. Sometimes they even lingered there, the heat of ceramic burning his hand, almost unnoticeable in comparison to the heat of his face as Jon glanced at him through his eyelashes, saying, “Thank you, Martin.”

Maybe it was just because no one else was privy to these moments, or maybe Martin really was just a yearning fool, desperately grasping at anything that suggested Jon returned his affection, but no one else seemed to understand these moments or take them seriously. 

“Your crush is getting out of control,” Tim said one day, after watching Martin bring Jon tea in a mug covered in hearts. “Like, legally speaking, I think it’s too much.”

Martin rolled his eyes. Jon had stared at the mug for a few seconds before taking it, and even though it was still piping hot, much too warm to comfortably drink, he took a sip as soon as it was in his grasp. “This is lovely, Martin. Thank you.”

“Leave it alone, Tim, it’s fine,” Martin replied, going back to sit at his desk. 

“No, it is getting a bit ridiculous,” Sasha agreed. “I mean, how long have you been after him? Like, I love Jon, trust me, but he’s either oblivious or ignoring your, uh, flirting attempts.”

“He’s not ignoring them.”

“So he’s just oblivious?”

“I don’t think so.” Sasha and Tim looked at him strangely. He sighed. “Look, things are fine, okay? It’s fine, just let me… do my thing.”

“Fine, we will ‘let you do your thing’ but, for the record, you probably could have gotten with at least three people in the time that you’ve been lusting after Jon,” Tim said, earning a laugh from Sasha. 

But it was fine, whatever he and Jon had. It was certainly more than what he had been getting before, and even though he wanted more - chest aching at the sight of a frazzled or tired Jon, feeling the need to brush his hair out of his face, to press tender kisses to his eyelids, the near unbearably desire to just hold him, and care for him - Martin wasn’t unhappy. And somehow he knew Jon wasn’t either. 

Sometimes Jon even sought Martin out, intentionally leaving his stuffy office only to walk over to Martin's desk and chat with him for a few minutes before returning. Often he would have to return a minute later, muttering about leaving a pen or a pencil or a hair tie. (One time, as Jon turned around to leave, Martin saw the pen on the edge of his desk, and said, “You left your pen.”

Jon had turned around, looking almost disappointed. “Oh. Yes, thank you, Martin.”

He collected his pen and returned to his office. Martin didn’t see him until he said goodbye for the night. The next time he saw Jon dropping something at his desk, he didn’t mention it.)

When Jon actually remembered to eat lunch now, he would only come out to eat if Martin hadn’t eaten already, as he had taken to sitting either across or directly next to him during meal times. If Jon was sitting next to him - usually because Melanie or Basira were sitting across the shifty breakroom table - Martin could feel Jon gently, almost shyly, pressing his knee against Martin’s leg. Jon’s face was always blank, but if Martin made any move to shift away, Jon’s head would snap towards him until contact was either completely broken or restored. 

Of course, there wasn’t an easy way to explain this to anyone else. How could Martin have possibly hoped to quantify glances, and touches, and the new intonations when Jon said ‘Martin’, the name now completely different than what Jon used to call him, despite no letters changing. How to explain it when no one else seemed to notice the magnitude of these changes if they noticed the changes at all?

So Martin rolled his eyes and made jokes with the others as they teased and prodded him about his ‘crush that was going nowhere on the boss’, and hoped, like so many times before, that Jon couldn’t hear them through his office door.

As pathetic as it sounded, Martin was prepared to play the long game, to continue this dance he and Jon had begun as long as it took, to tolerate the unbearable loneliness that crept up on him at home so long as he got to see Jon at work, to keep bringing him tea every day until, well, until something happened, or until one of them left the archives. Martin had made peace with that fact, though he loathed to admit it, even to himself. 

And then, Jon asked for his help one day. 

“Can you stay late with me this evening? I need some assistance looking into a statement.” Jon had been formal, professional when he asked. 

“Of course,” Martin said, if not because any time spent with Jon was a good time (usually, not even Martin was in deep enough to enjoy some of Jon’s moods), then because he did take his job seriously. “Anything you need.”

“I can stay behind too if you need extra help,” Basira offered, turning to look at Jon.

Jon nodded at her. “Thank you for offering, but I’ll only be needing Martin.”

And he has to admit, hearing that did bring warmth to his face and to his chest.

The help that Jon needed was minimal. Some of it was just reaching a file of a self that was too high since the stepladder that he used to use had broken, and Martin knew that Jon had too much pride to ask for help reaching something when everyone was in. Otherwise, all he needed assistance with was looking over a few files to see if a name popped up in all of them. All in all, it only took about half an hour, including the time it took to re-sort the files and put the relevant ones on Jon’s desk. 

As Martin was preparing to leave, Jon approached him one more time, also clad in his winter coat and bulky scarf tucked under his chin. He stood in front of Martin, looking intently. Martin waited for, well, something. Jon took a deep breath.

“Would- Are you- Do,” Jon scowled at himself, took another breath and reached up to tug his scarf lower again so that more of his face was visible. “Martin, would you like to go out to eat with me?”

“Yeah, of course,” Martin replied, cheeks reddening slightly. Jon paused for a moment.

“I mean this as a date.”

Martin looked at Jon, bundled in his winter wear, hair slightly tangled, fumbling over asking Martin out!

“I knew that’s what you meant,” Martin said with a smile. He looked down at Jon’s hands, clenched tightly into themselves. He reached a hand out and carefully brushed a finger along the knuckles of on. “Of course, I would like to go on a date with you.”

And when he looked up, he saw Jon smiling, and it felt like seeing the stars for the first time. Jon always said he looked much older than he was, which Martin was inclined to agree, but when he smiled, he looked more his age. The tiredness and stress that plagued his expressions disappeared under the glow of his grin, eyes crinkled, and. Dimples. 

Jon had dimples, nestled in between his smile lines, a secret that Martin knew he was now the only one in the Institute besides Jon who knew they existed. 

“You have dimples,” Martin said, a smile creeping onto his own face. “They’re cute.”

Jon sputtered a, “No they’re not!” and Martin could see he was trying to return his face to its usually impassive expression, but it seemed that every time he got close, his grin would break through. Eventually, Jon tugged his scarf up to cover his mouth, but Martin still saw his eyes crinkled, somehow still felt Jon smiling through the layers.

“They’re cute,” Martin repeated, wanting to pull Jon’s scarf down again. This want was different than what he usually felt, a desire not tinged with sadness or loss. Maybe it was presumptuous, but Martin knew that this urge would be met. Maybe not now, but soon. 

And Martin thought about Jon’s smile, even when he asked, voice muffled behind the layers of wool, where Martin wanted to go to eat, and would Martin like to walk, transit or take a cab there, and, and and.

Martin thought about Jon’s smile, knowing he was one of the few people to see it, knowing that he would get to see it again

#jonmartin #jonathan sims #martin blackwood #tma #the magnus archives #tma fic #fanfic #links #jon x martin #i hate having to share fics to tumblr idk why but they always look so UGLY

[magnusmusings]

Mag 11 - Dreamer

“Antonio Blake” 14.03.2015, London, England. 

“Antonio” describes a series of unsettling dreams that he begins having after leaving his job following a mental breakdown. He sees coiling strands of some dark material winding around people who appear distorted - all attaching to different parts of them. He can move around and apparently get hurt, but doesn’t feel pain and can’t affect his surroundings. He eventually finds his old manager John in the office suspended by a black tendril holding him by the neck.

He later finds out that John had hung himself following losing a custody battle with his ex wife. He realises that his dreams foreshadow imminent deaths, but is unable to stop them or warn folks. Eventually he sees one entering the chest of his father, who dies of a heart attack a month and a half later. 

What brought him to the institute was a dream he had two nights previous. The tendrils in his dream pulsed red, choking the streets, and he thought he might be able to see briefly illuminated shadowy faces within them. He followed them to the institute - and all converged on Gertrude Robinson - who has this light pouring into her. He submitted this statement hoping she would read it. 

Notes: This is incredibly early foreshadowing to the events of MAG160! Wow!!!! (Talked about under the cut).

Entities: The end

Names mentioned:

“Antonio Blake”

Graham (Ex-boyfriend of “Antonio” - likely the same Graham from MAG 3 - as they broke up around 2005-2006, and Graham was replaced in ~2006.)

Anahita (Friend of “Antonio” - he crashes on her couch after his breakup and mental breakdown)

John Uzel (”Antonio”’s manager)

Rosie (by Jon re: followups - another employee of the institute)

Spoilers for s4 under the cut

Oliver Banks is revealed to be the real name of “Antonio” in MAG121. 

This foreshadows that ultimately because of Gertrude’s death - the events that culminate in the Watcher’s crown/the apocalypse come to take place. Unfortunately, Antonio’s warning was not enough to save the world/Gertrude.

#the magnus archives #ys: 2015 #y: 2015 #y: 2005 #p: england #c: london #e: end #john uzel #uzel #antonio blake #blake #oliver banks #banks #anahita #rosie #tma #gertrude robinson #robinson #st: j #mag 11 #graham folger #folger

[ao3feed-themagnusarchives]

you matter to me (i promise you do)

by smallzita

Martin has a crush on one of the regulars that comes to The Magnus Java, the cafe he works in, will he ever be able to talk to him? If his co-workers have a say in it than yes!

Words: 6398, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English

Fandoms: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences

Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Categories: M/M

Characters: Martin Blackwood, Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Tim Stoker (The Magnus Archives), Sasha James, briefly Jurgen Leitner

Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist

Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Awkward Flirting, bookshop owner jon, Fluff, Martin and Jon Are Awkward, Tim and Sasha Try To Help, Jurgen Is Angey, trying to flirt through literature, Mentioned Gertrude Robinson, Gertrude Is Jon's Grandma

source https://archiveofourown.org/works/26167894

#the magnus archives #ao3feed #fanfiction

[ao3feed-themagnusarchives]

Afterimage

by mystery_deer

Peter meets a woman, briefly. Peter meets a man, briefly. Imprints of a picture that's been torn from a notebook. (AKA: Peter mopes and is lonely while James/Elias goes about his day)

Words: 1935, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English

Fandoms: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Categories: M/M

Characters: Peter Lukas, Elias Bouchard, James Wright

Relationships: Elias Bouchard/Peter Lukas

Additional Tags: Peter refers to Elias as James the entire time bc that's how he knows him, Elias bodysnatched a woman but it doesn't really matter, Light Angst, of course, gertrude robinson is mentioned, Mentions of Sex, Elias has a woman's body but make no mistake this is very gay, peter interchanges he/she pronouns for elias, Possibly Unrequited Love, hard to tell with these two, peter goes on rants in his mind as opposed to out loud here, typical of my fics nothing much happens just a lot of feelings

source http://archiveofourown.org/works/22638592

#the magnus archives #ao3feed #fanfiction