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Chapters: 19/22 Fandom: The Magnus Archives (Podcast) Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist Characters: Martin Blackwood, Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Tim Stoker (The Magnus Archives), Sasha James, Rosie Zampano, Oliver Banks, Original Elias Bouchard, Peter Lukas, Annabelle Cane, Melanie King, Georgie Barker, Alice "Daisy" Tonner, Basira Hussain, Allan Schrieber Additional Tags: Post-Canon, Fix-It, Post-Canon Fix-It, Scars, Eventual Happy Ending, Fluff and Angst, I'll add characters and tags as they come up, Reference to injuries and blood, Character Death In Dream, Nudity (not sexual or graphic), Nightmares, Fighting, Spiders Summary: Following the events of MAG 200, Jon and Martin find themselves in a dimension very much like the one they came from--with second chances and more time.

Chapter summary: The group settles on a course of action much faster than Martin imagined they would.

Chapter 19 of my post-canon fix-it fic is up! Read at AO3 above or read here below.

Tumblr master post with links to previous chapters is here.

***

Martin was still tired as they drew close to Hill Top Road the next morning. It wasn’t surprising; the best sleep he’d gotten, other than the first few hours he’d slept before the spiders, had been in Allan’s car on the way out. He’d slept completely through their stop in Canterbury, where Allan had picked up his lab equipment. He woke up with his head on Jon’s shoulder in the back seat of the car, just a few miles from their destination.

“Ow,” he said as he straightened up, his neck cracking.

“I told you you could stay home,” Jon said. “You barely slept.”

“Don’t.” Martin was cross as he rolled his neck, trying to work out the cramp, and Jon put a hand on his arm.

“Sorry,” he mumbled.

“It’s all right.”

That about doubled the number of words they’d said to each other that morning—and now they were here, back at Hill Top Road. From the street, the house appeared less foreboding than it had the last time; it seemed brighter, somehow, despite the cloudiness of the day. Maybe the owner had been back—or maybe the most recent occupant had left.

Martin waited for Tim to get out of the seat in front of him, then got out of the car himself. He hadn’t really spoken to Tim directly since he’d shown up yesterday, and wasn’t at all sure how Tim was feeling toward him. He was therefore both reassured and taken back when Tim put a hand on his shoulder on his way to the boot of the car.

I must be looking pretty good, he thought. They’re not even asking if I’m ok anymore.

It was just the four of them; Elias and the others had opted to stay together at the house. Jon had of course wanted to go, and that meant Martin went too; Tim had also made up his mind to go once he knew Jon was going. Martin watched as Allan opened the boot and began to pull out a number of padded carrying cases of different sizes, handing a few to Tim as he did.

“I know I fell asleep, sorry—what exactly are you—”

“We’re going to attempt to measure this—gap between the dimensions.” He handed Martin one final bag, and closed the boot as he did. “All of these instruments are designed to measure different types of energy.”

“They’re all from your lab?”

“Most of them,” Allan said, a small grin on his face; Tim shook his head.

“If I get in trouble for any of that—”

“I told you, no one will even know they’re missing. We’ll get it all back this afternoon.”

“So wait—this will show what, that the gap—exists?” Martin asked.

Allan shrugged. “Well—in all honesty, not really. If we get no unusual readings, that doesn’t mean it isn’t there. It could just mean we don’t know how to measure it. And if we do—it doesn’t really tell us why. It would just be—well, consistent with some combination of my ideas about the entities and dimensional travel, really.”

“Um—oh. Ok.”

Jon sighed, and Martin recognized it specifically as Jon’s impatient sigh. It was one he had heard a lot in the past, although not so much recently. He supposed from Jon’s perspective, it was kind of a waste of time to not really prove the existence of something he already knew was there. As far as Martin was concerned, though, they could take all the time they wanted.

As they approached the porch, Martin found his impression from the street had been correct. There were many fewer cobwebs on the porch than there had been the last time. The lock, however, was still broken when Jon tried the door, which suggested the owner had not been back.

“You think she’s gone?” he asked Jon.

“Yes.”

“Who?” Tim looked at them suspiciously.

“Annabelle,” Jon replied casually.

“Annabelle.” Tim halted at the top of the steps on the front porch. “She’s here? Was here?”

“Was. I would have said something if—" He trailed off as he saw the look on Tim’s face. “Yes, well, the point is she’s not here.”

“Sure,” Tim said, in a way that made it clear he was not at all sure, but he did follow the rest of them into the house.

“This way.” Jon led them back to the spot in the center of the house where the scarred floorboards resided.

He’s so confident. Martin remembered how different it had been the last time they were here. Jon had been so sick; he had been grasping at straws for any way to regain his connection to the Eye. Martin certainly hadn’t wanted that to happen, but he also hadn’t wanted him to be miserable. Now, though, Jon was pushing ahead, jumping in—he was eager, excited even. Given the circumstances, Martin didn’t like it much more than he had liked things the last time they were here.

“That’s it?” Allan said, staring down at the floor. “Not really what I was expecting.”

“Well—obviously it’s not the gap itself,” Jon explained with slight irritation, as if he were offended at Allan’s disappointment. “It’s a representation of it. Certainly someone would have reported it if it were a cavernous maw extending into the infinite reaches of—”

“Yes, all right,” Allan, unbothered, set down the equipment he was carrying and seated himself on the floor next to it. “Let’s see—Tim, bring those over here, please.”

“Yes, sir.” Tim set his bags down on the floor next to Allan and stepped back near Martin to observe.

“So I’m thinking—hmm—let’s just start with this.” He unpacked a small handheld meter and held it up for them to see. “This is a Geiger counter.”

Tim raised his eyebrows. “That’s for radiation, right?”

“Yes,” Allan replied, as he pressed a button and the instrument’s screen flickered to life. He looked up in their direction just long enough to catch the anxious look on Martin’s face.

“No need to worry,” Allan said cheerfully as he stood up. “I’ll be looking at this from several angles, and this is just somewhere to start. Don’t let the idea of radiation bother you. There’s some level of radiation around us all the time—background radiation, it’s completely—well, not harmless, exactly, but well within the bounds of what the human body can withstand. This particular instrument is sensitive enough that we should be able to see relatively minor deviations from what we’d expect.”

“Oh,” Martin said, not knowing what else to say.

“All right, here we go.” Allan held the instrument up in the air and pressed a button and waited while it emitted an uneven series of a few clicks, and then checked the screen. He repeated this several more times, then nodded.

“Well?” Tim asked.

“Oh, sorry. I haven’t really done anything yet, just measuring background levels. Nothing out of the ordinary, pretty much what you’d expect for this part of England. But now I’ll know what I’m comparing to when I measure—that.” He gave another unimpressed look at the jagged mark running over the floor before bending over it with the instrument in hand. He moved it close to the mark and repeated the same process of measurements—pressing a button and then waiting for the clicks, then repositioning it to another spot, pressing the button and waiting again. “Huh.”

“What?” Martin couldn’t read Allan’s expression at all.

“Nothing,” Allan said, shrugging as he stood straight again. “I was averaging in my head, of course, so I might not be quite right, but—it would be like taking your temperature and reading 37 degrees exactly.”

Martin was relieved, but Jon, standing apart from the rest of the group, did not seem to be feeling the same way.

“Well, let’s move on,” Allan said, returning to his equipment pile and choosing a new device. “Let’s try this one. It’s for—oh—electromagnetic fields, radio frequencies—it’s sort of a cheap piece of equipment, actually, not very precise—but it should give us a good general picture.” He squatted down next to the mark on the floor again, adjusted a dial on the instrument, and began to move it closer and further away. He adjusted the dial several times as he continued to move it around the floor.

“Still nothing,” he said after a few minutes, sitting back on his haunches.

“Then that’s not the right way to measure it,” Jon said.

“I said when we came in that was a strong possibility,” Allan said, but it was clear Jon didn’t like this turn of events. “I’ve got a few more things we can—"

“It’s here,” Jon said.

“Can’t you just know the right way to measure it, then?” Tim’s tone was sarcastic, but Jon paused.

“Well…” He concentrated for a moment, then shook his head. “No. Apparently I can’t.” His growing frustration was obvious.

“Hey.” Now that Martin was starting to feel a bit easier about everything, he felt a little bit bad for Jon. “That’s—that’s all right. That just means we’ll need more time to—”

Martin’s attempt at soothing him didn’t work. “But it’s right there. Damn it, I know it’s there. I can feel it, it’s like it’s just on the other side of—”

“Oh,” Allan said. Martin’s eyes jumped back to the instrument in his hand, still hovering just over the mark in the floor, and there was some kind of movement on the digital screen. A moment later, it had gone quiet again.

“What was that?” Tim asked.

“I don’t know.” Allan frowned. “It’s like there was a sudden—pulse of electrical activity. A lot of it.”

“Jon,” Tim said, looking over at him, “did you do something? While you were talking?”

“That couldn’t possibly—” Allan started to say, but Jon cut him off.

“Yes,” Jon said. “I—I don’t know, I was looking for the—well, really, the tape—it’s—”

“Oh,” Allan said again, as the numbers on the screen resumed their movement. He walked it intently over different parts of the floor, then moved it further away and then closer again. Martin couldn’t really follow the whole thing from where he was standing, but Allan’s body language was enough to concern him. “This—this doesn’t make sense. Even if—Jon, stop. Whatever you’re doing, stop.”

“All right.”

“Incredible,” Allan said after a moment had passed. “That really shouldn’t be possible. There’s no—” He stood and walked toward Jon, and extended the meter toward him. “Do it one more time.”

“Don’t—” Martin started.

“I’m all right,” Jon snapped, but then softened as Martin felt the slight sting of his tone. “I’m—I’ll be careful. I’m fine right now.”

Allan was concentrating hard as he looked at the screen. “What was—have you done it yet?”

“No, I was—”

“It’s just that—never mind. Do it again. If—if you’re ok.”

Jon nodded, and glanced briefly in Martin’s direction. “I’m ok.”

Martin watched as Allan moved the instrument around Jon for the next thirty seconds or so, again switching the dial several times.

“Well?” Tim asked, as Allan stepped away.

“I don’t know,” he said hoarsely. “Tim, can you—can you fetch the Geiger counter for me again?”

Tim did, and Allan stood back from Jon as he held it up into the air again. They heard the occasional irregular click as he did.

“So for now, don’t, um—just don’t,” he said as he stepped toward Jon. The frequency of the clicks began to increase as he moved the meter closer to his head, and Allan made a small sound in his throat as he flipped a switch on the instrument. “Let’s just—keep the sound off for right now.”

Martin could feel some of the blood drain from his face.

“Ok, now—know something,” Allan asked.

“What?” Jon said. “Sorry, it’s always difficult to think of—”

“Anything. Just not the—the gap. I want to see if—”

“Did I have coffee or tea this morning?” Tim asked.

Jon thought. “Coffee.”

“Stop,” Allan said. “Stop.” He took a step back, white faced, and looked at Jon as if he had just appeared there.

“What?”

“Can I ask—how long did you say you’ve been doing this?”

“Knowing things? Uh—a few years? I mean—not always like this, at first it was much harder, and—"

“A few years.” Allan turned the thought over. “Ok. I’m going to say this once—because I think you should know. I don’t see—I don’t see how you’re—well, alive.”

There were long seconds of silence before Jon answered.

“I’m fine.”

Martin exploded. “You are not fine.”

“I just meant in the sense that—”

“I know, and—”

“I am alive. That is the point.”

More long seconds ticked by.

“You heal though, right?” Tim said quietly. “Like—after you—like when I found you in front of the Institute.”

“Yes.” A look of sudden understanding passed across Jon’s face. “Yes, that’s right. That—that would make sense.”

“Would it?” Allan looked at Martin. “You, um—sorry to—you’re—well, you’re sharing a room, so—I imagine you’re—close?”

Martin wasn’t sure what Allan was getting at. “Um—”

“Yes. He heals too. Or, he has, in the past.” Oh, Martin thought, after he heard Jon’s answer.

Oh.

“Wait. Are you saying that being near Jon is—”

“I don’t know,” Allan said. “I really don’t know. This is entirely unprecedented. It really shouldn’t—” He started to say something else, but hesitated.

“What?” Jon asked.

“I—” he hesitated again. “I want to do more tests, but I’m not sure if it’s—well, entirely ethical.”

“To ask me to keep going, you mean.”

“Yes.”

“It’s fine.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes.”

Allan looked at Martin.

“It’s not up to me,” Martin said.

Allan looked between Martin and Jon. “I’m, uh—I’m going to run out to the car for some extra equipment. Tim, come with me? I could use your help.”

“Sure,” Tim answered, and followed him out.

Martin waited a moment after they were gone, then said quietly, “I’m not sleeping away from you.”

“Martin.” Jon walked over to where he was standing and reached out to touch Martin’s hand. “Of course not. That’s ridiculous.”

“Good.” He had more to say, but he didn’t.

“Come on. That’s not what this is about. You don’t want me to do this.”

Martin sighed. “Fine. No, I don’t. I don’t want you to do any of this. Not just the tests, or whatever. Like—any of this.”

“I have to,” Jon said. “You know that.”

“Why do you think I didn’t say it? I can’t stop you. And I’d rather you not shut me out.”

“Martin, that—” He stopped himself, and squeezed Martin’s hand instead. “I’m sorry.”

“Yeah.”

Martin let his hand fall away as Allan and Tim returned; Allan had put on a long-sleeved lab coat, and was holding a pair of gloves and a mask. “Just a precaution,” he said. “If you want to go ahead.”

“Yes,” Jon said. “I do.”

Martin watched as Allan pulled out yet another meter from a different bag. “Martin—can you hand me that?” he asked, indicating the case Martin was still carrying. He’d forgotten about it.

“Oh. Sure.” Martin handed it to him and he began to unpack that as well.

“So—this is so I can record the readings,” he said, as he pulled some wires out and began to connect them to the new meter. “And this is—it uses a more powerful method of detection than the Geiger counter. It’s not as sensitive, but that’s, uh—well, that’s not going to be an issue.”

Martin suddenly realized how much he didn’t want to be there anymore.

“I’m going outside. I’ll just be out front.” Without waiting for anyone’s reaction, he made his way back to the front of the house. He stood on the porch, his arms folded and resting on the railing. He looked out over the lawn. The rest of the neighborhood, apart from this house, really was a suburb. It seemed nice enough; maybe not a great neighborhood, but not a bad one, certainly. It hadn’t really done anything to deserve this awful place.

He sat and watched the clouds roll overhead and wondered it if would rain. He tried not to think too much about what was going on inside the house, what they were doing and where it would lead. He had no idea how long he had been standing there when he became aware that he wasn’t alone.

“Hey,” Tim said, as Martin looked over at him.

“Hey,” Martin answered, then went back to looking up at the sky. “So—what’s going on in there?”

“I don’t know,” Tim said. “It’s like some sort of weird playdate? It’s over my head. Allan keeps turning dials and saying things like incredible and amazing and then Jon—”

“Never mind,” Martin said. “Just—is he keeping himself together? Jon, I mean?”

“He seems to be.”

They looked out at the sky and lawn together.

“Martin,” Tim said eventually, “I know I said this before, but I want you to know I meant it. Jon is lucky to have you.”

“Hm.”

“Listen, I know—I know this has to be hard for you. Before we—before we make any decisions, I want you to know that—”

“Don’t,” Martin said coldly.

“All right.” Tim nodded and returned to looking back over the railing. “Do you want to be alone?”

No, Martin thought. I don’t ever want to be alone again. He wanted to scream it.

Instead, he just said, “Not particularly.”

“Good,” Tim said. “I don’t particularly want to go back in there.”

***

“So—wait,” Melanie said, looking at Allan over her half-empty dinner plate. “You’re saying you don’t really know anything at all, then?”

“Well, yes and no.” He was struggling to find words as they sat together in the great room again. “What I’m saying is—from a scientific perspective, which of course is why I’m here—there’s no way to know what any of this means. I’ve never heard of anything like this before. It’s completely unique, as far as I know.”

“So we can’t prove there’s a gap between dimensions, and we can’t prove the entities exist,” Sasha clarified.

“Correct,” Allan said. “I can’t even begin to suggest a mechanism for anything I saw today.”

“But you did see something today,” Melanie prodded.

“Well—yes,” Allan said. “That’s an understatement. We saw massive fluctuations of energy just—across almost the entire spectrum. And—again, I have no way to explain it or understand it, but—Jon does appear to be able to manipulate it, to some extent.”

“Well, that’s definitely something,” Melanie said. “You said you recorded your readings. Do you think you’ll learn anything else from going back through them?”

“Not—not in a way that could help us. It will take years to even begin to make any real sense of this. As—as a scientist. To be perfectly clear, I—I can’t vouch for any particular course of action. I have no way of verifying that there has ever been any travel across dimensions, or that—starting an apocalypse would provide the energy required to do it again, or—or that anything we discussed yesterday is even a possibility.”

“As a scientist,” Georgie repeated. “What about—as a person? What do you think?”

“I’m—I’m not sure that’s really what’s important here.”

“Yes, it is.” It was one of the few things Elias had said at all since they’d come home.

“I agree,” Sasha said. “I’d like to know what you think.”

“Well—personally”—he looked around at the group— “after what I’ve heard from all of you, and after talking with Elias last night—I believe Jon.”

It was quiet for a moment as the group absorbed this. Martin’s stomach, which had already rejected even the concept of any food he’d thought about putting in it that night, tightened painfully.

“Ok,” Georgie said slowly. “Well—for the sake of argument—Jon, do you really think you could do it? Could you—could you really move us to another dimension? In a way that—well, will actually help things?”

“I can do it,” Jon said, without hesitation.

“No,” Martin said.

The discomfort was tangible; Martin could tell nobody wanted to speak.

“Martin,” Sasha finally said, “why—why are you so against this?”

“I’ve already said. It’s too dangerous.”

“So you think he can’t do it? That it won’t work?”

Martin drew his hand down firmly over his mouth.

“Say what you have to say,” Jon urged him. Martin didn’t care for how calm he was. “They should hear it.”

Martin stared at him. “Ok, fine. Fine, I’ll say it. If you think you can do it—I’m sure you can. I’m just not sure you will. What if—what if this time—what if the Eye finally just takes you?”

“It won’t. It didn’t last time.”

“Didn’t it?”

“No. Not—not like that. I still—I still got to choose.”

“And we still don’t know what Annabelle’s been trying to get you to do.”

“She doesn’t matter.”

“Oh, really?”

“Do you believe me that I’ll never let them out of here? The entities? That’s what she wants.”

Martin paused; he knew his panic was coming across to everyone. “Yes. But that’s not—even if you don’t—look, if it fails, that’s it for us. We’re stuck in an apocalypse. This world is stuck in an apocalypse. You said that yourself.”

“And it’s still true. It is a risk. But I don’t think I’ll fail.”

“But what happens to you? What if—what if we lose you?”

Jon looked away.

“Jon?” Georgie prompted.

“It’s—it’s a possibility.”

“How much of a possibility?” Georgie asked.

“It’s—um—” Jon cleared his throat. “It’s not unlikely.”

“I see,” Sasha said.

“That matters, right?” Martin somehow managed to get the words out. “Tell me that matters to the rest of you.”

“Of course it matters,” Sasha said. “I didn’t—"

“No, it doesn’t,” Jon said.

“Jon—”

Several people began to talk at the same time, but it was Tim who won out.

“Listen,” he said. “Listen. I know—I know this is going to sound awful, but—I agree with Jon.”

“It does sound awful,” Sasha reprimanded him. “It sounds completely awful.”

“Just hear me out.” Tim spoke his words slowly and deliberately. “If I were Jon—if I could stop this—if I had this chance to—to save the people they haven’t hurt yet—I would. I wouldn’t hesitate. And I wouldn’t want anyone to stop me.”

“Yes, you would,” Jon said. “You did.”

“And—I know I’ve been angry—but this isn’t about that. It’s not because I blame him. It’s because he’s the only one who can. I think—I think this should be Jon’s choice. That’s all.”

“Thank you, Tim.” Jon was still calm, controlled. Martin hated it.

Tim briefly met Martin’s eyes before looking down to the floor in front of him. “And I wouldn’t wait. I’d—I’d want to just do it. If we really can’t learn anything else, I say we do it soon. Tomorrow, if we can. Prevent as much further damage as possible.”

“I agree,” Jon said.

“No,” Martin said. “That’s insane. Are you insane?” He looked around at the group; none of them would look back at him. “Have you all lost your minds? Are you considering this?”

“I—I don’t know,” Sasha said, finally raising her face. “Are we?”

“Jesus Christ.” Martin got to his feet, not really sure where he was going; he was halfway there before he realized he was headed for the door to the back of the house. Behind him, he heard several people speaking, although he had no idea if they were talking to him; he couldn’t process it anymore. He couldn’t think at all until he felt the cool night air on his face. He stopped, heart pounding, and crumpled onto the porch against the back of the house. For the first time in his recent memory, he wanted to cry; of course, now he couldn’t make the tears come.

Behind him, he heard the door open and close.

“Go away.” He didn’t really care who it was.

“I’d rather not.” Beside him, Jon lowered himself onto the porch; for some reason, Martin had assumed it would be one of the others. He was surprised to find he felt slightly mollified. “We don’t have to talk. It’s just—I don’t have anywhere else I want to be right now.”

“Come off it. Go back in and keep explaining why you need to martyr yourself.”

“I’ve said what I need to say. It’s better if they talk without us.”

Martin sighed heavily. “They’re going to go for it, aren’t they?”

Jon didn’t answer him. Instead, he moved closer to Martin, leaning into him and resting his head on his shoulder. Hollow as he felt, Martin didn’t even think; his automatic response was to put his arm around Jon, pulling him in even closer. He pressed his lips to the top of Jon’s ear.

“We never had a chance, did we,” he said. “The two of us.”

“We still might.”

“You don’t really believe that.”

“I never believed we’d be here, either.” Jon said.

“That’s not very reassuring.”

Jon turned so that his back was against Martin’s chest, and Martin did what he always did; he slipped his hand up under the edge of Jon’s shirt, bringing it up to the scar on Jon’s ribcage. Instead of protesting or merely tolerating it, though, this time Jon brought his own hand to rest over Martin’s on the outside of his shirt.

“I loved you here too, you know,” Jon said quietly. “Before this, I mean. In this world.”

“Oh, I know,” Martin said.

“Well. Here I thought I was making a grand romantic confession, but—never mind, I guess.”

“No, it’s—I’m sorry.” He kissed Jon’s temple softly by way of apology. “Thank you. I just meant now that—now that we’ve been together, now that I know what you’re like when you—it’s sort of obvious, looking back. Plus, there was your pin.”

“My pin?”

“You know—when we had forgotten everything when we first—and you couldn’t remember your pin number on your laptop.”

“Oh,” Jon said, and even in the dark Martin saw a smile play across his lips. It had been too long since he had seen Jon smile. “Right. I used your birthday. That’s—is it odd that I feel embarrassed?”

“Frankly, yes.”

“Sasha just—she insisted I set it in front of her, and then she kept guessing them—”

“Because you kept typing 1234.”

“Well—yes, but—anyway, it just came into my head, and I knew no one would ever guess, because—because I was never going to tell anyone how I felt. Especially not you.”

“Yeah, well—I wasn’t going to either.” He held Jon tighter. “We’re a couple of idiots. You know that, right?”

“Yes.” Jon turned his face up and back, and Martin couldn’t help but kiss him.

“Martin,” Jon said, “I know—I know I’ll never change your mind.”

“If it were me, you would never go along with it. You would never let me—you didn’t, actually.”

“I—” Jon paused. “No. You’re right. I’m asking you to do something I couldn’t do.”

“Thank you.”

“I just—I want you to understand. I want you to hear me.” He paused.

“I’m listening.”

“Nothing will ever fix what I’ve done.”

“You didn’t do this. Jonah Magnus did this. The Web did this. The—never mind. Go on.”

“Nothing will ever undo it. Every day I think about—about Sasha. And Tim. And Daisy. The other ones, the ones who—and an entire world of human beings who suffered because of things I did. And then there’s everyone here in this world who—none of them should ever have—” Jon’s voice cracked. “But I can stop it. I can make it so it doesn’t get worse. Or at least—at least give it a real chance. And I have to try.”

“And you have to try tomorrow.”

“Tim was right, Martin. Every day that passes like this is—”

“Tim is just worried about Danny.”

“Is that wrong of him?”

“I—no. No, I guess not. My point is just that it’s not like he’s—it’s still completely selfish.”

“He’s not being any more selfish than you.”

“I know that.” His chest ached as he breathed in, and he sighed reflexively. Jon turned just enough to tuck his head against Martin’s collarbone, and he felt his chest loosen just a little. “Ok, but really—what about Annabelle? That’s not being selfish. We both know what she wants—but we have no idea how she’s trying to get it. And we’re probably walking into it.”

“Probably.”

“Well then, why—”

“Because I don’t intend to give it to her.”

“But that’s exactly the point, we don’t know how—”

“Do you really think that waiting will solve that? Even if she is trying to push me—do you really think that she won’t just—change tactics? Adapt?”

“I—I don’t know.”

“If we wait to—I don’t know, learn something, let something happen that she doesn’t want—do you really believe she won’t have some other plan?”

He hadn’t ever thought that far ahead, to what would happen after they waited, whatever that meant. He realized with a sinking heart that no, he didn’t really believe it.

“But then—why are we doing anything at all? Why are we even bothering? If we can’t ever do the right thing—”

“Because we have to try. I have to try. I just do. Doing nothing would be—and maybe—maybe we’ll get lucky.”

“Yeah. That—that’s our thing, for sure. Luck.”

Jon reached for Martin’s free hand, the one that wasn’t against his heart, and pulled it to his mouth; he kissed each knuckle in turn. “We haven’t been entirely unlucky.”

Martin was out of things to say. Once more, Jon had already won. Everyone in the room behind them was deciding to go ahead with this stupid plan. There was nothing he could do that was going to stop it.

Well—as he thought about it, he did have one more thing to say.

“Jon—I don’t—I don’t want to go into this like—like last time. So—just so you know—nothing’s changed. I’m going with you. Wherever that is.”

Jon held his breath for a moment before answering. “And if I can save you—"

“Then you’d better save both of us.”

“Martin—”

“No. You know what’s out there for me without you, and—I don’t want it. You can’t—" Jon turned suddenly in his arms, so that Martin’s hand slid from his ribs to his shoulder.

He kissed him.

“Jon—”

“Please.”

They were still kissing several minutes later when Jon abruptly sat up; he opened his mouth to say something, but then learned back in toward Martin.

“No,” Martin said, putting a hand up to Jon’s face. “You know something, don’t you? They decided and you know.”

Jon nodded, sliding his hand over Martin’s as he did. “Yes.”

“Ok.”

“They want to do it. Tomorrow.”

***

It was hours later; Martin didn’t know how long he had lain awake. He’d come back to the bedroom on his own at first; he’d stayed for some of the planning, listened to their excitement, their nerves, their arguing—but it had quickly gotten to the point where he couldn’t do it anymore. He knew where he would be anyway, and that was with Jon; he had nothing else to contribute. The looks he’d gotten when he’d stood up had been seared into his consciousness, a mixture of worry and pity.

“Martin,” Sasha called to him as he was leaving, “are you—”

“Yes,” he’d said.

He’d gone to brush his teeth before getting in bed. He didn’t know what possessed him, particularly, but when he saw his reflection in the mirror, he did something he hadn’t done in a long while. He removed his shirt to look at his own scars. They were still there; they were exactly the same as they had been on the day he’d first seen them, dark red to pale white, torn and jagged and alternately smooth.

He was tired, he’d realized. He wanted to sleep, of course, he was still exhausted from the night before—but it was more than that. This was all just enough. Maybe it was all right. Maybe he and Jon had already had more time than they were meant to. Maybe it was time to let it go. Just—just so long as he didn’t end up alone.

He’d gotten in bed. He’d almost fallen asleep before Jon had come in, but after Jon had undressed and slipped under the sheets next to him, the restlessness had begun. Each time Jon moved, or sighed, or breathed even a little bit out of rhythm, Martin’s brain nudged him awake again. And now, here he was, sleepless and empty.

He breathed out, trying to reset his mind.

“Martin.”

“Sorry.” He’d thought Jon had been asleep.

“What—no, don’t apologize, just—go to sleep. You need rest for tomorrow.”

“I can’t.”

There was silence, and for a moment, he thought Jon had drifted off again.

“Martin, I’m—I’m not leaving you. I won’t go without you. You need to sleep.”

“I—I know.” He was lying, and Jon knew he was lying.

“Martin, this isn’t—this isn’t like last time. For one thing, I’d—I’d have to steal a car to get back to London on my own. All right? Can you trust me?”

Martin swallowed; that was exactly the problem, he realized. “I want to. I just—”

“Ok. All right. You’re right, of course you—that’s not fair for me to ask. I—hang on.” He saw the light from Jon’s cell phone; he heard him stand up and rummage through the suitcase on his side of the bed before sitting down on the mattress again.

“Jon—”

“Here. Give me your hand.” He held up his arm; Jon grabbed his hand, and Martin realized Jon was trying something around their wrists in the light from the phone.

“What—”

“It’s an old drawstring that pulled out from a pair of shorts. I never took it out of my suitcase.” He grabbed one end of the string in his mouth and pulled with his other hand. “There. I can’t possibly untie that without waking you up.”

“Are you going to be able to sleep?”

“I think so.” Jon turned off the light on his phone, and Martin felt the tug on his arm as Jon leaned over to put it back on the table next to the bed. “Anyway, I’m—I’m all right. You’re—not.”

“This—” Martin started to laugh. “This is ridiculous.”

“Yes. It is. Does it matter?” Jon interlaced his fingers with Martin’s and carefully folded up their bound arms between them; he brought his head to rest on the pillow next to Martin’s shoulder.

“I—I guess not.” He didn’t even realize he was finally crying until Jon reached up with his other hand to touch his cheek. He felt better for it, somehow; feeling something was good. It was better than the emptiness.

“Sleep.”

He did.

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

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ollieofthebeholder · 3 years

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leaves too high to touch (roots too strong to fall): a TMA fanfic

Tumblr tag || Also on AO3.

Chapter 39: Tim

Of course they don’t believe it. Of course they don’t. Setting aside the fact that Elias Bouchard is a rat bastard who lies like a cheap rug, never mind that Sasha’s attempt to call failed (and it’s not just hers, or just a one-off thing; Martin and Tim both try. Twice), they don’t believe the message because both Tim and Martin know, with a certainty that has nothing to do with the Eye and everything to do with the last several months, that Jon would never go out of town on an errand without letting them know first. He would at least call them to say he was leaving.

Jon Prime assures them that it’s probably fine. Well, maybe assures is the wrong word. He tells them that it’s probably fine, but he sounds uncertain and Tim doesn’t believe him either. They don’t ask what could be going on, not at first; as Martin Prime said, this isn’t the Primes’ story anymore and asking what happened to you is unproductive. The best they can do is put their heads down, plunge ahead with work, and hope.

That lasts about three days.

On Friday afternoon, Sasha comes back from lunch with a funny look on her face and something cradled in her hands, which she sets wordlessly on Tim’s desk. It’s a phone, cracked and battered, looking like it’s been dropped and run over a couple of times. Martin manages to turn it on, and they’re greeted with a cracked, warped picture of two men and a little boy staring raptly at the sky, all three of them utterly content despite everything life has thrown at them. They stare at it for a couple seconds before the phone fizzles and shuts off with a final-sounding pop.

Hope dies with Jon’s phone, and Tim shuts down a little. He spends the rest of the day looking at Gertrude’s tapes, squinting fiercely at them, drawing on every scrap of power he can, trying desperately to see through the green to the colors beneath. The best he’s able to do is sort them into piles that are sort of the same color blend, and it leaves him shaky, drained, and irritable. That night he sits up at the kitchen table with the box of Gertrude’s books they’ve never actually gone through and carefully, methodically, sorts them out. He tries to look at them, too, the way he did the tapes, but either he’s too tired or they don’t actually have anything of any of the powers on them. Instead, he begins going through them, one at a time, notebook and tape recorder set up in front of him as he jots down observations, notes, anything that might be helpful.

He doesn’t know what he’s looking for, other than the generic “answers”. Something that might provide a lead to where Jon is, he guesses, even though in the back of his mind he can’t imagine why something like that would be in something belonging to Gertrude Robinson. Maybe there’s a part of him that suspects Jon is off on some madcap adventure, that he dropped his phone like Tim forgot his, and that if they can only find a clue to where he is they’ll be able to find him and get him home.

He’s at it all weekend, and by Monday, he’s frustrated and angry about the lack of answers. When Sasha asks him why there are fifteen piles of tapes instead of only fourteen, he snaps at her and can’t bring himself to apologize for his tone as he tells her that the fifteenth is the ones he isn’t sure about, the ones he can’t tell the underneath color of.

Sasha doesn’t react to his tone. She simply shrugs, points at the Document Storage room, and tells him to go listen to some of them then.

Tim is annoyed with her, at first, but three tapes later he realizes he’s stopped shaking. He’s still upset, but he’s not so angry, and he’s definitely feeling a bit stronger than before. It’s only then that it occurs to him how much energy he’s been using. And it’s not until he comes out, ready to apologize for his temper, that he realizes how pale and drawn Martin looks and it occurs to him that he hasn’t slept since Friday. Which, apparently, means Martin hasn’t either.

Martin confirms as much that night, while he’s making tea for them both (Tim only realizes then he’s been drinking Martin’s tea all weekend without even noticing). He says he’s tried, a couple of times, but he can’t seem to rest for worrying, both about Jon and about Tim, which makes him feel horrible. Tim actually goes to bed that night instead of working himself to exhaustion over the books, and he and Martin both manage to get some rest even though they’re both horribly conscious of the fact that there’s something—someone—missing from their bed.

It’s not until almost lunchtime on Tuesday that the little voice in the back of Tim’s brain asks him when it became their bed rather than his bed.

After that, he tries to get back to work, tries to buckle down to doing their duty—Jon will be back, he tells himself, and they’ve got to keep things moving for him—but he’s distracted, and from the way Martin’s eyes keep drifting to Jon’s closed office door, he knows Martin feels the same. And while they’re trying to talk about it, they’re both still tense.

By the time Jon’s been gone almost two full weeks, Tim decides he’s had enough. He glances at the clock on the corner of his laptop, then shuts it with a snap that startles the other two and pushes back from his desk.

“I can’t stand this,” he says, barely controlling his tone. “I’m going to run this down.”

Martin seems to understand. He closes his own laptop. “I’m coming with you.”

“Martin—”

“No. I’ve been—I need to know, too. And I need to hear it directly, I think. Otherwise—” Martin shakes his head.

Tim thinks he understands what Martin isn’t saying. “Sasha, can you hold things down up here?”

Sasha nods, her eyes sympathetic. Tim manages a half-smile, then heads over to the trapdoor.

The Primes are in the middle of eating—probably breakfast, given their odd sleep schedule—but Jon Prime looks up when the light of Martin’s torch plays through the door and sets aside his plate. “Tim. Martin. Any word?”

“No. Nothing.” Tim hesitates, trying to figure out how to phrase it, or even what it is he’s there to ask.

Martin beats him to it. “We were hoping you could tell us where he is.”

“I don’t—I can’t be sure,” Jon Prime says gently. “Things aren’t—”

“No, we’re not asking where you were this time around,” Martin says, unusually to the point for once, which either shows how comfortable he’s grown with them all or how absolutely stressed and terrified he is. “We’re asking if you can—Know where he is.”

“Oh,” Jon Prime says softly.

Martin keeps talking, words tumbling out almost desperately. “We’ve been—we were trying to figure it out, if, if he left on his own after all and just dropped his phone, maybe if there was some clue. But there’s nothing. Sasha tried to Know—”

“When?” Tim asks, surprised.

“Yesterday, when you were picking up lunch. But she couldn’t find him. She’s not sure if it’s just because it’s the wrong kind of Knowing or if it’s because she’s not strong enough or what, but—” Martin gestures helplessly with both hands, making the torchlight bob about. “It’s been two weeks. And we can’t—we need to know if he’s okay.”

Martin Prime touches Jon Prime’s shoulder gently. “I think he’ll forgive you for looking, Jon. I know you’re trying not to, but…if it was me, I’d want to know you were okay. Remember…” His face darkens slightly.

Jon Prime turns and hugs Martin Prime tightly, and Tim’s stomach lurches. He remembers the day after Jane Prentiss’ attack, when the Primes gave them the basic rundown of everything that happened to them—remembers Jon Prime mentioning being kidnapped and held prisoner by Nikola Orsinov. Could that…? No. No, he can’t let himself imagine…

Oh, God, Jon’s been kidnapped.

The thought must hit Martin at the same time, because he reaches over and grips Tim’s hand tightly. Tim squeezes back as hard as he can. It seems like an eternity before Jon Prime whispers, “All right. All right.”

He eases back from Martin Prime, straightens up, closes his eyes, and takes a deep breath. Static fills the little room, softly at first, then louder and louder. Tim isn’t trying to look, he isn’t, but apparently the Eye’s power is too strong with Jon Prime calling on it like this, because he sees the glow, Jon Prime’s closed eyes and a third eye on his forehead and another on the back of each hand, all glowing green, faintly at first, then a bit stronger. Not as strong as Tim might have expected if he’d been expecting it at all, but bright anyway.

Jon Prime’s eyebrows knit in a frown. The static fizzles out, the glow fades, and when Jon Prime opens his eyes, they’re perfectly normal, if worried. “I can’t See him.”

“The tunnels—” Martin Prime begins, his own expression worried.

“Make it more difficult, but not impossible. And I’m a bit…hungry, I suppose, so that might—but I should at least be able to see something.” Jon Prime looks up at Tim and Martin. “He’s not dead. I’d Know that. But—but I don’t have anything more than that. I’m sorry.”

Martin makes a small sound of distress, then screws his face up tightly for a moment before huffing out a sigh and squaring his shoulders. His eyes are wet when he opens them. “But you know—he’s been kidnapped, hasn’t he. Orsinov’s got him.” It’s not a question.

“I—I don’t know that for sure,” Jon Prime stammers. “I—it’s possible, but I—but we can’t know that for sure. Not right now.”

“F-fine. Fine! We don’t know, but we’re pretty sure, right? So—so where would she be holding him?”

“I told you, I can’t—”

“I’m not asking you to use the Eye! I’m asking where she was holding you.”

Jon Prime inhales sharply, but Martin Prime wraps an arm around his shoulder and pulls him close and answers first. “What could you do with that knowledge, Martin? The police aren’t going to do a raid based on your say-so. Not so soon after the Brodie operation, not with so little to go on. Not for a missing adult. Especially if Elias has a good story to spin them about where he is.”

Martin sputters. Tim clenches his jaw. “Yeah, but we can go after him.”

“No!” the Primes shout in near-unison. Tim and Martin both jerk back in surprise.

“First of all, we don’t know for sure that’s where he is, or who has him,” Jon Prime says, a bit more calmly. “If you walk into the Stranger’s domain and he’s not there, what then? You’ve tipped your hand, again, that you know where they are. The Unknowing isn’t going to be ready for another five months, and where I was held was where they planned to do it. Gertrude had a—a reputation for stopping rituals, by the end, so the Stranger might move the site to somewhere else, and it might be harder to find.”

“And that’s assuming,” Martin Prime adds sharply, “that they let you leave at all. You’ve managed to escape them twice, Tim, there’s no way they’ll let you walk away a third time unchallenged. And if the Not-Diana left the memory of the original Diana in your mind, Martin, you’re marked by the Stranger, too. It’s going to be that much harder for you to get in unnoticed, let alone get out unnoticed, especially not with the Archivist. If he’s there.”

“We’ve got to try,” Martin says angrily. “We can’t just let him suffer because—”

“You think he’ll suffer less if you get hurt? Or killed?” Martin Prime interrupts. “And—okay, fine, say you don’t. Say you get in and out unscathed. If he’s not there, you really think they’ll risk holding him for another five months? They’ll kill him then and there rather than risk you finding him and disrupting her plans for the Unknowing.”

“Martin,” Jon Prime says, sounding pained. He lays a hand on Martin Prime’s arm, but Martin Prime shrugs him off.

“Do you honestly think I don’t know how much it hurts?” Martin Prime’s voice cracks at that. “What it’s like not knowing where he is but knowing he’s probably in danger and you can’t do anything about it? You think I wouldn’t have given everything to know where to find him? But if you’re wrong and he dies, I know what it’ll do to you.”

Jon Prime wraps his arms around Martin Prime; Martin Prime resists for a moment, then slumps and clings to Jon Prime in return. Tim, slightly numb and feeling like the bottom has dropped out of his stomach, sees a few tears squeeze their way out of the corners of Martin Prime’s eyes.

He’s not wrong, that’s the hell of it. As badly as Tim wants to storm…wherever it is, as much as he desperately wants Jon to come home, he knows Martin Prime is right. They can’t risk putting Jon in danger by going to the wrong place to rescue him, and the Stranger is probably almost as bad as the Spiral about misdirection and concealment. Until they’re sure, or as close to sure as they can be, they can’t chance it. And more than that, Tim knows he can’t risk putting Martin in danger. He hadn’t thought about Martin being marked by the Stranger, but now that the thought’s in his mind…he refuses to lose anyone else to that thing. Refuses. Scylla and Charybdis for sure.

“At least wait until we’re sure,” Jon Prime says. He looks over at Tim and Martin, and Tim can see how much pain he’s in, how utterly scared he is. He knows, more than the rest of them, what Jon might be going through and he probably feels it down to his toes, as much as he feels their pain. And that’s assuming the Eye isn’t channeling all their fear through him also. “Once the Institute is closed for the weekend. Maybe I can get better…reception aboveground, in the Archives, closer to the Eye. Consume a statement or two or something, but—please. Don’t risk it until we know exactly where he is.”

Tim looks over at Martin, sees the conflicted look and the suspiciously wet brightness in his eyes, his lips pressed tightly together in an evident bid to stop them from shaking. He’s going to follow Martin’s lead on this one. Martin stares at the Primes for a long moment, then nods once and hisses out a single word. “Fine.”

“Okay,” Jon Prime says softly. “Okay.” He closes his eyes and drops his head onto Martin Prime’s shoulder.

“We’ll see you after hours then,” Tim manages. He reaches for Martin’s arm, but Martin jerks away and simply leads the way out of the tunnels without speaking. He’s pale and shaking and way more upset than even Tim would expect, even knowing how Martin feels about Jon, and he doesn’t know what to do about it.

Sasha looks up when they come out of the trapdoor, but evidently they don’t need to say anything, because a series of emotions plays over her face and her shoulders slump. Tim shakes his head anyway. Martin stops at his desk long enough to set the heavy-duty torch on it. “I need to—I’ll be back.”

“Martin—” Tim’s heart seizes. He grabs Martin’s arm, fear coursing through him. He let Jon go out alone and Jon—

“I’m not leaving the building, Tim, I just—I need to walk for a minute.” Martin looks at him and his face softens. He squeezes Tim’s arm with his other hand before removing it from his own. “I promise. Not going outside.”

“Okay,” Tim says softly. “I’ll wait for you.”

As soon as Martin leaves, Tim drops to his seat and sighs. “They’re not sure where he is. Jon Prime said he’d come up after we close and see what he can do.”

Sasha glances at her computer. “That won’t be long.”

The door to the Archives opens, and Tim looks up, preparing to try and tease Martin about his short walk. It’s not Martin who comes in, though, but Basira. She raises an eyebrow at Sasha. “Hey. What’s with your friend?”

“Martin? He’s…it’s a long story.” Sasha gestures at Jon’s closed office door. “Jon’s been missing for a couple weeks now.”

“Hm. Wouldn’t have figured him for the flaky type.” Basira slips her hands into her pockets. “Came to see if you wanted to grab a drink. Been a hell of a week.”

“You, too, huh?” Sasha glances hesitantly at Tim. “I’d love to, but you mind waiting a bit? We’re technically here another twenty minutes.”

“Nah, you go ahead,” Tim tells her. “Martin and I can close down here. Take some time. You deserve it.”

Basira grunts. “You think he’ll be back in time? Where’s he heading?”

Tim rubs his forehead. “Probably up to the library to torture himself by dealing with the Not-Diana. I love him, but he’s so damn prone to punishing himself for things he doesn’t need to.”

Sasha gives Tim a funny look that he’s too tired and stressed to really parse out, but only says, “If you’re sure. Might want to make sure those kids are out of here by closing time if the others are coming up.”

“What—oh, right.” Tim honestly forgot about the pair of students back in the stacks doing research for some joint project. They first came the day before, but several of the cases they need are on tape and one or two of them are live statements; Tim keeps meaning to do transcripts of those, but hasn’t got around to it yet. They’ve been so quiet he honestly hasn’t thought about them since they walked in earlier that afternoon. “Didn’t realize they were still here, but yeah, don’t worry. Have fun.”

“Sure. Have a good weekend, Tim.” Sasha pats his shoulder, shrugs into her jacket, and heads out the door with Basira. Tim watches them go, glad Sasha has a friend, then heads back into the shelves looking for the students.

They’re not hard to find, seated at one of the tables tucked in an odd bend in the Archives, which is scattered with books, papers, and a small stack of cassette tapes. Sitting on the table between them is a battered white plastic tape player that looks exactly like the one Tim had when he was three—rounded at the edges, with a soft rubber grip at the handle, brightly-colored buttons on top, and two tiny microphones with coiled cords, one on either side. Plugged into the headphone jack is an adapter, then a splitter, then two pairs of headphones leading to the two students, who are listening intently and alternately scribbling in a notebook they’re passing back and forth.

One of them looks up and spots Tim coming closer, then pokes the other and points at him. The other sees Tim and hits the big red button on top of the recorder, stopping the playback with a loud CLUNK.

“Getting close to closing time, guys,” Tim says.

“Aww, it’s just getting to the good part,” one of them complains with a humorous texture to her voice. Tim’s pretty sure she introduced herself as Helena.

The other one gives him pleading puppy dog eyes. “Can we just finish listening to this tape? I don’t know how much we have left in it, but it’s the last one that—um, Martin—pulled for us. We’re almost done. Please?”

Jaz, Tim remembers. With one Z. He’ll be the first to admit he was a hair distracted when they turned up yesterday, but Jaz is a distinct enough name that it’s stuck in his mind. “Sure, no problem. We can wait around until you’re finished.”

“Thanks.” Jaz flashes him a grin and returns to the notebook. Helena pushes the bright green PLAY button and they go back to listening.

As Tim turns away, he happens to catch a glimpse of the last note in the shared notebook—judging by the color of the ink, Jaz is the one who wrote it. Bet this guy’s as hot as his voice.

He suppresses a smile, even as his heart aches, as he heads back to his desk.

Martin’s still not back, and Sasha didn’t finish putting her files away before she left, so Tim busies himself for a minute neatening everyone’s stacks. After a moment’s thought, he tucks the files into their drawers. It will make things easier in the long run. He hopes.

He packs up his laptop and is about to start on Martin’s when something…twists. It’s the best way he can phrase it. It’s like the worst tinnitus he’s ever had, but outside his head rather than inside his ear, and it makes his head pound. He looks up in time to see a glowing yellow door in the wall suddenly open and Martin comes stumbling out, chased by warped, weirdly echoing laughter that makes the headache worse.

“Tim. Run,” Martin gasps. “We have to—go.”

“Why? What’s going on?” Tim’s stomach lurches, even as his headache subsides.

“The Not-Diana. It’s coming, Tim.”

“This way.” Tim grabs Martin’s arm and starts towards the door leading directly to the grounds, then pulls up short. “Shit. Those kids.”

“Wh—oh, God.” Martin turns pale. “They’re still here?”

Tim takes off in the direction of the two students, Martin hard on his heels. “Jaz! Helena!”

They don’t answer, but Tim rounds the corner just as their tape player shuts off. Jaz pulls off their headphones and looks up. “Oh, hey, we just finished—”

“Time to go,” Tim cuts them off.

“Yeah, just let us pack up—”

“No, now. You can come back and get all this later, but right now, we’ve got to evacuate.”

Helena’s eyebrows go up. “Is there a fire? I didn’t hear the alarm.”

“No, just—” Tim begins.

“Maaaaaaaaaaaaaaartiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiin…”

The voice from the direction of the stairs sounds like Diana’s—or at least the Diana Tim remembers, which means it’s the Not-Diana—but distorted, warped. Martin turns, somehow, even paler.

Jaz’s eyes widen. “What the fuck?”

“Yeah, going. Going sounds good.” Helena starts to push back from the table, then stops and mutters something that sounds very much like “Horror Movie 101” before slithering out of her seat and sliding under the table.

“Good girl,” Tim mutters. “Let’s go. Quietly.”

Jaz grabs Helena’s arm as she crawls out from under the table. Tim leads them as quickly and quietly as he can towards the exit. They can probably get there, and if they’re outside, they’ve got a better chance, but down here without cameras, he doesn’t want to risk whatever might happen.

“Maaaaaartiiiiiiiiin,” the Not-Diana sings out again. “Come out, come out, wherever you are…I just want to thank you, that’s all.”

There’s a rustle from up ahead. Tim checks and shoos the others in a different direction, which means Martin is leading now, the two students still between them. Maybe they’ve got a better chance with Martin in the lead, him having lived in the Archives for so long…Tim sincerely hopes that Martin’s still got his mental map of escape routes. Surely he has one.

“It’s okay, Martin, it’s just Diana,” the Not-Diana calls, voice gooey with insincere reassurance. “Kind old Diana. Nothing to be afraid of.”

Helena is muttering under her breath, something Tim can’t quite catch or understand, but it’s probably a mantra or a prayer given the panicked look in her eyes. Martin halts at a gap in the shelves, looks both ways, then indicates for the others to come with him.

“You seem tense, dear.” The Not-Diana’s voice is impossibly close, coming from absolutely the wrong direction to have been where it was before. “You should have a nice cup of tea. You like tea, don’t you? Always the tea.”

They’re at one of the intersections where the shelves branch off, the gap between the nineteenth and twentieth century statements. Martin glances over his shoulder, then points to the left. “Go. That way. Should be able to get out. I’ll draw it off, it’s me it wants—”

“Absolutely not!” Tim hisses through clenched teeth. “I’m not leaving you to that thing—”

“I’m going to wear you, Martin,” the Not Diana calls. Ice water runs down Tim’s spine. “I’m going to wear everything you are. Like you never existed. Nobody will even know. And it will hurt, oh, yes. It hurt Diana.”

“What the fuck, what the fuck, what the fuck,” Jaz whispers, clutching Helena’s arm hard enough it has to hurt.

“Yeah, definitely not leaving you to it now. Come on.” Tim grabs Martin’s arm and drags him with them to the left.

A tall, twisted figure suddenly looms up at the end of the row they’re running down. To Tim’s eyes, it’s bathed in a glow of indigo light, almost bright enough to drown out the green on the shelves around it. “There you are. And you brought friends.”

Helena screams. Tim skids to a halt, pivots, and shoves the other three ahead of him. “Run, run, run!”

Menacing laughter follows them as they try to flee. Tim’s mind whirls as they stumble desperately towards what he hopes is freedom. Diana never comes down to the Archives, unless the Not-Them has been exploring when nobody else is around. It might be at a disadvantage, not knowing the place like they do. Or maybe not. Beholder versus Stranger, the known versus the unknown…something with centuries of experience versus two people with eight months’ worth of knowledge and two university kids who’ve barely scratched the surface of all of this. He honestly can’t say which way this is going to go.

“I’m glad we’re getting to run, Martin,” the Not-Diana says. “It makes this so much more…satisfying.”

Document Storage is up ahead, but Tim’s not about to lead them in there; if that thing follows them, they’ll be trapped in there, and it kills Martin. Of course, it’s perfectly possible, even logical, that it will kill Tim and the two students too, but he’s not sure if it would feel worse to have to watch it tear Martin to pieces and then live with that for the rest of his life. Actually, screw that, he knows that will be infinitely worse and he isn’t going to risk it. Instead, he steers them towards the steps. It’s not optimal, he really doesn’t want to lead this thing up to the main floor if people are still up there, especially since he has no idea how this thing got past them all (oh, God, he hopes it was too intent on going after Martin to worry about anyone else), but it’s better than nothing.

Except there’s an open expanse between the end of the shelves and the steps, no cover, and Tim hesitates three rows back, not sure if they can make it.

“I knew it would be you, in the end.” The Not-Diana sounds satisfied and delighted, its voice somewhat distant, and Tim fervently hopes it stays away. “Always so helpful, always so eager. Anything to get approval, to show you deserve to be there…”

“Shut up,” Tim grinds out. Martin shushes him.

“It’s a shame you’ll miss the Unknowing,” the Not-Diana says. “You would have loved to see it. But oh, maybe you will be there after all. Won’t you be a lovely partner for the Dance?”

Anything is better than nothing. Tim gets the other three moving again.

“And I can wear you to find your Archivist.” The Not-Diana laughs, cruel and malicious. “Oh, yes, I know where he is, and of course he hopes for a rescue. Won’t he be surprised when kind, helpful Martin is the one to skin him in the end?”

Martin lets out a frightened half-gasp, half-sob. Jaz’s chest heaves with panicked, stuttering breaths. Fear and fury mingle in Tim’s chest and he starts wishing he had a weapon of some kind, but he’ll tear this thing apart with his bare hands if he has to. For right now, though, his primary focus is on getting Martin, Helena, and Jaz away.

“Tunnels,” he gasps to Martin. It’s their last hope. Not a great one, but it’s better than nothing.

They break from the shelves and dash for the trapdoor. Martin flings it open and shoos the others down it; Tim grabs his arm as he passes, forcing him to come with. “Not leaving you behind,” he grinds out.

Their terrified breathing echoes in the tight confines of the stairwell, and somebody swears in what Tim thinks might be Portuguese as they evidently miss their step. He fumbles for his phone, thinking any light is better than nothing, when a torchlight beam suddenly sweeps the ground in front of them. Helena screams, louder this time.

“Tim? Martin? What’s going on?” Jon Prime sounds concerned.

“You can’t escape me now.” Not-Diana’s voice floats down from behind them. Tim throws a frightened glance over his shoulder and sees the shaft of light from the Archives, blocked by a shadow, spill down the steps; the light abruptly vanishes. “Nowhere left to hide.”

“Shit,” Martin Prime hisses.

“Get behind me, all of you.” Jon Prime strides past Tim, sounding determined.

Tim grabs Martin and drags him forward, then finds the two students and pulls them all into a tight huddle. He and Martin do their best to shield Jaz and Helena from the Not-Diana, and Tim can only hope it will be enough.

“I see you,” the Not-Diana sing-songs, then hisses. “You!”

“Leave them alone.” Jon Prime’s voice is low and laden with menace, the way it was when Breekon and Hope first came to the Archives.

“What are you doing here? You’re supposed to be—” The Not-Diana sucks in a breath. “You’re not Jon. What are you? What have you done?”

“Feel the pain of your victims.” Static builds as Jon Prime speaks, and the green glow builds. Like before, it starts with eyes, but not just Jon’s real ones, not just two or three extra ones—eye upon eye, popping into existence around him, all glowing brighter and brighter green and staring directly at the Not-Diana with an intensity that makes Tim’s entire being hurt. He squeezes his eyes shut and holds onto Martin and the students tighter.

“No, please,” the Not-Diana begs. “I’m sorry—”

“Understand it,” Jon Prime continues. The static is growing in intensity. “You have drawn out so much despair, and now, finally, it is your turn.”

“Don’t—I’m sorry,” the Not-Diana says. Then its voice changes, something higher, softer-pitched, with a roll to the R’s. “Please—don’t hurt me, please!”

Martin gasps again, and Tim realizes it’s the original Diana’s voice. The thing that stole her life is using her last words to plead for mercy, or perhaps to get one last taste of fear from them. It fills him with rage, and he guesses, from the intensity of Jon Prime’s next words that he’s thinking the same. “You have never truly understood. So much more suffering than you have ever known, and now—you will know. Ceaseless Watcher, turn your gaze upon this wretched thing.”

There’s a loud, high-pitched, discordant squeal that Tim can feel in his teeth. The green glow is so bright, so intense, that Tim can see it in detail even with his eyes—his real eyes, anyway—closed: hundreds of eyes forming the shape of a person, some floating around the head like a crown, others hovering around it like an arch, and one huge one appearing from behind, like a giant peering through the window of a house, and in between them, stretching and shifting and twisting into all sorts of humanoid shapes, a rapidly dimming glow of indigo. A roar mingled with a scream echoes through the tunnels, and then—

Silence. Darkness. Nothing but the ringing in Tim’s ears and someone hyperventilating.

He opens his eyes and eases up his grip on the others. Jon Prime stands where he was, unmoving, shoulders stiff, staring at the spot where—Tim assumes—the Not-Diana was a moment before.

“What,” Jaz says, voice shaking, “and I cannot stress this enough, the fuck.”

“We’re alive, we’re alive, oh, my God, we’re alive, I thought we were dead,” Helena whispers.

Jon Prime relaxes, at least marginally, and turns around to look at them. He seems…normal is the best way Tim can think of it. There’s nothing in his eyes but concern. “Is everyone all right?”

“I think so,” Tim says, uncertainly. His body aches like he’s been kayaking all day, and he’s still definitely more than a little terrified. The mental image of Jon being skinned alive by something pretending to be Martin isn’t going to leave his mind for a good long while. But, as Helena said, they’re alive. And nobody appears to be injured.

“Is it, um, is it safe to get our stuff and go now?” Jaz asks.

“Yes,” Jon Prime says without hesitation. “There’s nothing else out there. Not now.”

“Um. Good? Thank you?”

Jon Prime leads them out of the tunnels; Martin Prime brings up the rear. Once they’ve all emerged into the Archives, Helena turns to Tim and Martin, looking a bit hesitant. “I…think we got everything we need? We’ll, um, we’ll be back to let you know how the project goes, if that’s okay.”

“That’s fine,” Martin says softly. “We’d like to hear about it.”

“Okay. Cool. We’ll just—get our stuff and go then.” Helena pauses. “We didn’t rewind the last tape, but—”

Tim can’t help the bark of laughter that slips out. “We’ll take care of it. Don’t worry.”

Helena nods and turns away. Jaz starts to follow, then stops and looks back. “Thank you. For saving us.”

“Of course,” Jon Prime says quietly.

The two students head back into the shelves to get their things. As they go, Tim hears Helena whisper, “You were right, he is hot.”

“Oh, my God, Helena, shut up,” Jaz hisses, elbowing Helena sharply.

None of them speak, or indeed move, except for Martin Prime stepping over and resting his hand on Jon Prime’s back. Once the door closes behind the two students, though, Jon Prime whirls on Tim and Martin. “What did you do?”

Tim is about to deny that he did anything, then decides to accept blame; after all, it’s logical that it would be him, and while he doesn’t know what precipitated all of this, it can’t be that bad. Before he can, Martin speaks up in a small voice. “It wasn’t Tim. It was me.”

“Martin?” Jon Prime says in amazement, turning to look at him.

Martin crosses his arms over his chest. “It just—I know I shouldn’t have, I know what you said, but I was just—I was so angry. I felt so helpless. Knowing Jon’s in danger and we can’t do anything about it, a-and just, just the not knowing, it’s getting to me. And all I could think about was just—everything the Stranger’s done. What it did to Tim, what it’s doing to Jon, what it did to your Sasha—what it did to you. It just all boiled up. I-I went up to Artifact Storage and…and the table was there, and…”

“We told you what happened when I destroyed it,” Jon Prime says.

“I know! I just—I thought maybe if I did something different, it would…” Martin takes a deep breath. “I had Jon’s lighter, the one with the spiderweb design on it, I-I don’t know how it got in my pocket, but it was there. I thought it was a recorder at first. Then I pulled it out and—and I lit it and…it went up so fast. It was weird, it just—it caught and it burned and I had to jump back, and I was just thinking God, that was stupid when the fire went out and it was just a pile of ash and…”

“Martin.”

“I know. I know. It was stupid. You should be angry.” Martin isn’t looking at Jon Prime, though. He’s looking at Tim.

And he’s right, Tim should be angry. He wants to be angry. Martin’s expression says he wants Tim to be angry, too—no, he expects Tim to be angry.

Instead of yelling, Tim steps forward and pulls Martin into a hug.

Martin clings to him tightly, burying his face in Tim’s shoulder. Tim feels hot tears soaking into his shirt as Martin cries silently and gathers him closer, one hand cupping the back of his head and the other at the small of his back. He starts crying, too, as it finally sinks in how close a call it was. How close they both came to dying—worse, how close Martin came to dying.

“Non posso perderti anche io,” he whispers. “Please, Martin.”

“Sorry. I’m sorry,” Martin half-sobs, half-gasps. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t—I’m sorry.”

Martin doesn’t speak Italian, but he probably doesn’t need to. And Tim doesn’t say it’s okay, because it isn’t. It isn’t and they both know it. But what he does say, and what is equally true, is, “I forgive you.”

After a few minutes, they pull themselves together and separate. Tim’s face feels sticky and hot, and Martin’s is still blotchy, but they’re mostly okay. Martin snags a couple tissues off his desk and tentatively offers one to Tim, who accepts and turns to see the Primes holding one another, their foreheads resting together. Jon Prime looks…conflicted is the best way Tim can think of to phrase it. He guesses it has to do with Martin having destroyed the table and unthinkingly freed the Not-Them.

Martin evidently thinks the same thing, because he clears his throat. “I’m—I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault,” Jon Prime murmurs. He takes a deep breath and opens his eyes. “Well…maybe it is. This time. But I’m starting to think a lot more things are inevitable than we previously thought. Someone would have let it out eventually.” He lets his hands slide off Martin Prime’s shoulders and takes a half-step back.

Martin Prime lets him go with obvious reluctance. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

“I’m fine, Martin. Honest.” Jon Prime gives him a fond smile, then squares his shoulders. “Right. Let’s see about finding your Jon now.”

A guilty look crosses Martin’s face. “You don’t—I mean, after—you’re not tired or—or drained?”

“No,” Jon Prime says quietly. “I’m feeling rather…full, actually.”

“You—oh.” Tim swallows. “That was, ah—that was pretty—it was a lot. Did you know you could do that?”

“Yes and no. I’ve done it before, just…not here. The first time was Peter Lukas, and it was actually in the Lonely’s domain rather than, well, the real world. All the other times I’ve done that were after the world ended.” Jon Prime huffs. “To be honest, I wasn’t entirely sure it would work. Especially down in the tunnels, even with the trapdoor still open.”

“It was looking over the Not-Diana’s shoulder,” Tim says slowly, remembering the light show. “It was—it Saw, all right.”

Martin touches Tim’s shoulder softly, almost hesitantly; Tim reaches up to grab it and holds on tight. Martin Prime’s lips are in a flat line. “What would you have done if it hadn’t worked, Jon?”

“Tried to lure it deeper into the tunnels,” Jon Prime says, obviously trying for casual, but there’s a worried look in his eyes again, like he knows Martin Prime isn’t going to like his answer, which he probably isn’t. “Draw it away from all of you, give you a chance to escape. Leitner’s still down there somewhere with that damned book of his, he’d—probably have trapped it in the end. It would have been all right.”

Martin shivers. “She—it said it was going to wear me for the Dance.”

“It said what?” Jon Prime growls.

Tim hesitates. “Do—actually, do you want our statements?”

For a second, Jon Prime looks like he’s considering that, then shakes his head. “No. No, not right now. I don’t want to overdo it, and that was…a lot, considering I’m not quite as close to the Eye as I was. I at least need to siphon off a bit of power first. Let me take a look for your Jon.”

He rolls his head from one side to another, squares his shoulders, and takes another deep breath, closing his eyes. Again there’s the rush of static, again the glow, sudden, swift, and bright. Tim tries to stop himself from seeing it, but it’s too much and he’s too tired, and then it’s not just the Eye glowing on Jon Prime but all his other marks as well, some barely visible beneath the green and others impossible to miss. Faint hints of old marks still cling to Martin Prime, and Tim doesn’t want to look at Martin, doesn’t want to expose his trauma, but Martin wraps his arms around Tim from behind like he knows Tim’s about to collapse, which he probably does because it’s Martin, and Tim clings to his arms and closes his eyes tightly, but he can still see the green…

And then the static rushes out, as suddenly as it came, and the glow fades. Tim gasps as the last of his energy drains away, and he sags against Martin’s chest. God, he’s worn out.

“So?” he says tiredly. “Where is he?”

The look in Jon Prime’s eyes—mingled sympathy and fear—tells Tim the answer, even before he says, “I don’t know.”

“You don’t know,” Tim repeats. “After all that—you still don’t know?”

“I’m not omnipotent, Tim. I never was, even after the world ended. There will always be things that are beyond my knowledge, things I can’t just see. Blind spots.” Jon Prime hesitates. “I can—there are four that I can see. He’s in one of them, I can guess that much, I just—don’t know which one. He might be at the Waxworks, the one I was held at. He might also be in the Trophy Room—it’s shielded from the Eye, they’re still using it. They may have only stopped in our time because I questioned Sarah Baldwin directly. He might be in Wales—the Gwydir Forest—h-have you listened to that tape yet?”

“No,” Tim and Martin say in unison.

“I suppose it’s in the ones Basira gave you. Somewhere. Or Elias may have had it, I suppose, he’s the one who sent it to me, but…anyway. That’s a blind spot as well. I-I thought it had burned to the ground, but evidently something survived.”

Tim waits for a moment for him to continue, then prompts, “And?”

“Hmm?”

“You said there were four you could see. Or—not see. Where’s the fourth?”

Jon Prime winces. “You won’t like it.”

The bottom drops out of Tim’s stomach, and he’s even more thankful for Martin holding him up. “Covent Garden Theater.”

“Yes. It—th-they must still be using it, Tim. I’m so sorry.”

Martin’s arms tighten around Tim, and he gives a ragged sigh. “We—we can’t. It’s too dangerous, you’re right. W-we can’t take the risk. If we pick the wrong one…either he dies, or we do.”

Tim closes his eyes for a moment. He wonders how he has any tears left after the evening he’s just had. “But you can’t—is he okay?”

“He’s…alive.” Jon Prime inhales quickly. “Scared. M-maybe not the most scared he’s ever been, but definitely in the top five. I know what they did to me, but I can’t tell you for sure if that’s what they’re doing to him. It’s too…muted. Hidden. I have a strong suspicion that the only reason I can see as much as I can is because in some ways, he is still me. We’ve still got some connection, so it’s like looking for a part of myself. But I can tell you he’s alive.”

“I guess that’ll have to do,” Tim mutters.

“At least for the weekend,” Martin says. “We—we can regroup on Monday. Ask Sasha—oh, God, Sasha—”

“Left just after you did,” Tim assures him. “Basira invited her out for drinks.”

Martin Prime, who’s been unusually silent, gives a small laugh. “I always kind of wondered if they’d have been friends.”

Tim tries to stand on his own, but his knees buckle and Martin catches him. “Ugh. Think we can take one of those unmarked tapes home?”

“Yeah, sit down and I’ll grab a couple.” Martin eases Tim into his chair and brushes a light kiss against his forehead, seemingly without noticing, before heading over to the neatly sorted piles of tapes. A moment later he comes back and offers Tim his hand like nothing happened. “Come on. Let’s go home. You need food, a statement, and bed, not necessarily in that order.”

“No, that order sounds perfect, actually,” Tim mumbles. He lets Martin pull him to his feet and leans against him heavily, then looks at the Primes. “Thank you, by the way. For…everything.”

Jon Prime gives him a look of understanding. “I only wish it could have been more.”

#ollie writes fanfic #leaves too high to touch (roots too strong to fall)#tma #the magnus archives #canon typical stranger content #arguments tw #threats tw #oops forgot to post this one last night

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littleladymab · 4 years

Text

tiny cracks of light - chapter nineteen

(master post)

Prelude- There's a knock at the door to the Archives.

Sasha sets down her pen and listens — wondering if perhaps it's her imagination filling in the silence with memories of Michael and Gerry. Or perhaps it could be Tim, two days earlier than he said he would be, but he's been known to surprise her.

The knock comes again.

No, not Tim. He doesn't knock, he just swans in like he owns the place. And the door is never locked.

So she pushes out her senses, following the well-worn path down the hall from her office, down the stairs and to the door. Pulling at the threads until a picture forms of a man standing outside the doors.

Sasha gets the door before he can knock a third time.

The man is a little older than her, though the bags under his eyes make it hard to really tell. Relief almost washes out the nervousness that clings to him. "Oh, good. I was hoping someone was here."

She steps aside to let him in, giving him a closer inspection as he passes. He has a mark of the End on him, and perhaps it could be said that he looks quite near to death, but there doesn't seem to be anything otherwise remarkable about him. "Can I get you something? Tea, or a biscuit?"

"What? Oh, no. Thank you though." He lingers just inside the door, not far enough that Sasha can close it without feeling rude for pushing him out of the way. "Are you the Head Archivist?"

Her emotions do some sort of complicated dance inside of her chest. "Sorry, I'm not. She just left this morning. I'm her assistant, though, if you wanted to leave a statement…?"

She is the only assistant left.

Sometimes, she wonders if that's why Gertrude finally started to train her in the Head Archivist's duties, because she's the last one standing.

This seems to distress him, so Sasha leads the man further into the Archives to find a chair for him. "Do you know when she will return?"

"Not for at least another week." Sasha takes a seat at his side. "But I assure you I am just as capable as she is in respect to the duties of the Archivist."

The man sighs and scrubs a hand over his face. When was the last time that he slept? "I'm afraid this… is a personal matter."

"Is it about the End…?" she hazards.

He gives her a startled look. "Yes. You're able to tell, then?"

"I can only read the marks left behind, but I'm great at putting the pieces together."

This manages to get a wry smile from him, so she counts it as a victory. It does, however, fall away just as quickly as it arrived. "I wanted to inform her about the death I saw. Her death.”

She should have expected this. She should have expected Gertrude to be the subject of his concern in such a fashion, but it still knocks the air out of her lungs. "Oh…" is all she can muster.

He remains silent and lets her process this.

Finally, Sasha gathers herself and goes to fetch paper and a pen for notes. "Do you have any additional details you can provide? A timeline, or a method?"

"Within the week, I'm afraid," he says softly. "I suppose it will be of some reassurance to know that it will be here, but…"

She forces herself to write it down, because it will be easier to deal with as data. "Anything else?"

He studies her before speaking, seeing something that she cannot. "It will not be a pleasant end," he says, voice distant and floating. "I do not have the exact details, only impressions."

She writes this down as well. "Thank you. I… I will look into this, see if there is anything in the Watcher's statements that might help." Sasha makes a vague gesture over her shoulder, deeper into the Archives. "Would you… like to stay for awhile? Perhaps take a nap?"

His laugh is pleasant but exhausted. "I must be getting on, but thank you for the offer." He rises to his feet, and Sasha jumps to follow. "I can see myself out."

"Are you sure there isn't anything I can do?" she asks, hurrying the few paces he has gained in the direction of the door.

Again, he pauses and turns his heavy gaze upon her. "What is your name?" he asks.

"Sasha."

He considers this, then nods. "My word of advice: Find a way to make yourself scarce when the time comes. I would hate for your end to come too soon."

With that, he leaves her standing there, shocked into silence.

It is only after the door closes behind him that she realizes she never got his name.

Sasha steps out of the Lonely and back into the Archives.

Water drips from her skirts, and fog clings to her ankles, but she barely notices.

She tests her marks, running through them one by one, ensuring they're still there. Then she checks the binding on the Stranger, satisfied that it's secured.

The Eye hums in warning, and she turns to find Elias standing directly behind her.

"You've had quite an impact in a very short span of time, Miss James," he observes. His eyes glint green as he looks her over, and a wry smirk graces his lips. "Amazing. I had to wait so many years for Jonathan to start obtaining his marks, and you just threw yourself right into the fray."

"I've always been an impatient woman."

Elias laughs, thin and breathy. "And I've always been a patient man, but I fear that you have overstepped far too many lines since you've returned." He takes a casual step forward, and the constant hum of the Eye grows louder, tenser.

Sasha keeps her feet firm on the ground. She listens to the whispers, the knowledge that the Eye feeds her. "You always did have a fear of powerful women, didn't you? Is that why you killed Gertrude?"

His eyebrows lift and there is a delightful moment of shock before a cruel smile takes over his expression. "I see. It seems the Eye has taken quite a liking to you this time around."

The Eye continues to whisper into her ear, but all she can focus on is the implication behind his smile and the greed in his eyes. "Your Head Archivist has returned, like I promised. I was only ever temporary."

"Sasha," he says and laughs. She doesn't like the way her name sounds from his mouth. "Sasha, you've made yourself a valuable asset, and you did not have the common sense to just stay away."

He advances another step, and now the humming is like a physical presence ringing in her head.

She shifts her weight back, but too late she realizes that the water pooling around her from the Lonely makes the marble slick and dangerous.

"It's rather a shame that Gertrude caught on so quickly. And she was so subtle about it, too. At the time, I thought I couldn't use you. You're too like her. She must have told you everything." Elias maintains the distance between them, though it's close enough that he could reach out and grab her if he wanted to.

The humming folds itself into a knife, digging into her ribs with frantic urgency. The knowledge pushes on the back of her mind, but she doesn't need the Eye to tell her what is about to happen.

She's always been great at putting the pieces together.

Elias continues, like he's holding a casual conversation with a coworker. "There was one good thing about her, and it was that she could not trust anyone. I didn't realize how little you actually knew until your stunt with the Eye. Just as well. You're all spark and no substance. You'll burn out quickly."

Sasha clenches her hands into fists, but doesn't give into the fire. "I have already taken care of the Lonely."

"I'm aware. Splendid job. Peter never did know his limits — thought he could turn Martin to his side. Save the world from me." Elias shrugs, and the first of the eyes opens just beneath the collar of his coat. And then another, up his neck, and another until they bloom across his hands like flowers. "You even ignored his warning."

The hums turn to whispers turn to the buzz of insects and try as she might, Sasha can feel her focus threatening to break. "I thought it was obvious, Jonah Magnus," she says, unable to look away from the thing made of Eyes. "I'm stopping you next."

The scene around her turns to a dark lake beneath a starless sky and she feels weightless, buoyed by unseen waves.

He has no mouth to smile. But the thousand voices carry the image as they worm their way into her ears. "I never did like to rush a job, but you know what? You'll have to do."

He covers her eyes, and Sasha inhales sharply.

She can feel the first Eye open, and the next and the next as it consumes her, following the threads that she has gathered. Something takes her hand, or what was her hand, she is nothing but knowing and everywhere and nowhere at once and she can see the edges of herself — dispersed and limitless and the tethers that bind her to the others burn gold — and the compulsion curls her fingers around each of them.

"I promise this is the hardest part, but you'll forget soon enough," the voices say. "There won't be enough of you to remember."

One by one, she rips them off.

One by one, the Eye severs her connections, and she is left floating in a sea of darkness.

Soon, she forgets.

#the magnus archives #verse: every open eye #fic: lifeline #a lil miss fic

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stressedoutteenager · 7 years

Text

Anything for the Bakkoush siblings

Biology, and science in general, is very interesting to Sana. She likes learning how organisms work, she likes learning about the reasons why processes, things and begins are the way they are. She likes learning all that because it helps her make sense of the bigger picture. Sana loves that but what she doesn’t love is the pile of homework her Biology teacher always gives the class. Essays to write, experiments to do and pages over pages to read. Sana wonders if her biology teacher doesn’t know that she, and every other student, has other subjects to do work for.

Staring at her laptop she sighs and closes it. Sana thought having the house completely to herself, silent, would help her concentrate. Actually, it did. But she has been sitting at the kitchen table, completing task after task, for about three hours now. It’s about time to take a break. Her brain needs a rest. She gets up, stretches and walks over to the window to open it. Her mother had closed it before she left three and a half hours ago because she didn’t want Sana to get cold. The problem: the lack of fresh air gives Sana a headache and she was so invested in her work that she didn’t even realize it at first. Her eyes wander down the street, as far as she can look from her spot at the window. Now that she doesn’t drown in school work, her thoughts promptly go back to that one thing she can’t stop thinking about. Or better said, that one person. Especially the absence of noise, usually produced by Elias’ friends, reminds her of him. Pretty much every Saturday, for too long to remember when it started, her older brother and his friends spend their day here. Even before they started that whole YouTube thing.

The absence of noise helped her study better but when she’s not doing that, there is nothing to distract her from her thoughts about Yousef. Spending an entire evening with him, just talking and with that getting to know him more… The way they teased each other first, but then could talk about such an important topic to her and obviously to him too and how effortless the transition was. Yousef listened to her and she listened to him. None of them was judging the other even when they were of so opposing opinions. Sana doesn’t have conversations like that with many people; she barely ever has conversations like that with anyone. So her inability to stop thinking about him is partly due to yesterday evening.

While Sana is still deep in thoughts, contemplating how to deal with her situation and weighing the options in her head, the doorbell rings. Elias has probably forgotten his keys. He left in a bad mood after arguing with their mother and his keys probably weren’t the most important thing on his mind. Sana still wants and needs to talk to him but she also knows it’s better to give him space first.

Lazily she walks to the door and rubs her eye. One of the ups of not wearing make-up. All that studying has exhausted her.

Opening the door, Sana is greeted with a familiar face but not that of her brother.

“Hey.”, he says at the same time she does. Sana didn’t expect Yousef. He’s only here when her brother is.

“From the surprised look I assume that Elias didn’t tell you I’d be coming over?”, Yousef asks, a small smile on his lips, his eyes trained on Sana.

To recollect her thoughts she shakes her head and stands up a little straighter. Yousef is still standing outside, just standing there with his hands in the pockets of his black jacket. The one he wore yesterday too. “No,..”, Sana begins and is very aware of Yousef’s eyes on her. “He doesn’t need to tell me that.” Sana notices Yousef smile getting a little bit bigger and tries not to smile too much herself. “But Elias is not home.”, she concludes.

Apparently Yousef didn’t know. He wouldn’t be here if he did but his eyebrows shoot up in confusion.

“Oh, he texted me this morning to come over around 5 so I thought he’d be here.”, Yousef explains. Well, it was not up to Elias if he could spend the day at home.

Sana thinks about it for a second, in which Yousef presses his lips together and waits. When they talk, he never pushes her. He doesn’t make her feel like she has to be a certain way or act a certain way. Sana tells him:“Eh.. Mom was kind of mad at him for spending the night out and not telling her where he was.. so she made him go run every possible errand.”

Sana thinks that Yousef should know this because he was the one to save Elias from a bigger catastrophe and called Sana to find a solution. Sana still doesn’t know why Elias got drunk that bad and that so early but they haven’t had a chance to properly talk. Yousef looks worried for a second. Eyebrows furrowed, he bites his lip in concentration. Sana cannot help but to notice it and get distracted for a millisecond.

Yousef starts talking and Sana quickly averts her eyes. She hopes that he didn’t notice. Usually Sana is able to focus, not let herself get distracted but when it comes to Yousef, it’s a little different.

“O god, how did it go this morning? I only talked shortly to Elias. He only told me that he’s going home and to meet him here later.”, Yousef rambles. He has his right hand at his neck and his gaze is fixated on Sana. Never looking away.

Sana doesn’t know how much Yousef tries to look at her without her or anyone catching it. Yousef isn’t sure how successful his attempts were because he assumes Elias kind of suspects something but he can’t help it. As soon as Sana walks into the same room as him, his eyes find her immediately. She is beautiful, everybody knows that. With her make-up and without it, like right now. As Sana opened the door, Yousef directly noticed the difference. Usually, Sana wears dark make up, it’s part of the tough-girl facade she has built up for herself. Sure, she is tough. But at the same time, she can be so innocent and cute. And Yousef likes her either way. More than he should, she is his best friend’s little sister. But at this point, it’s too late. He knows that he won’t ever be able to see Sana as just his best friend’s sister.

Even when he’s always reminded of it. The topic of their conversation is Elias after all. Yousef realizes that he was so deep in thoughts, that he probably looked her in the eyes a little too long. No, Sana is looking at him like she was yesterday. Smiling but trying to contain it. Always trying to be in control of everything. But once in a while she forgets that, like right now. The longer they stand there, the bigger her smile gets. Her dimples show and Yousef feels the need to cup her cheek but refrains. He knows his limits, her boundaries.

Someone, one of the neighbors, slams their door which makes both Sana and Yousef jump. This bursts the small bubble they were in. They always seemed to be in, when they look at each other like this, expressing more with their eyes than with their words.

Again, Sana lightly shakes her head. That is something Yousef has seen more than once and she clears her throat.

“Mom..”, Sana starts talking and Yousef blinks a few times to concentrate on her words, “.. interrogated him and asked where he was and such. You can imagine.” Yousef nods, which Sana shortly mimics. It makes Yousef smile but Sana looks worried and the small smile on his lips vanishes.

Sana looks up at him again and hesitates a little, before finally saying:“He said he was at your house.” Yousef nods again. He assumed that that would be the excuse and is fine with it. “But mom said she saw you outside… with me.”

Unsure what he is supposed to say to that, Yousef waits. Yesterday, he couldn’t care less that Sana’s mother interrupted them. He would’ve loved talking to her longer but the day they spend together was more than he had imagined for him and Sana. Especially, after his confession and her reaction being not talking to him for a week. Yousef understood, didn’t like it, but understood. That she felt so comfortable around him yesterday made him happier than he wanted to admit to himself.

Sana smiles. It’s barely there. But it’s enough for Yousef to notice. “I just wanted to tell you. I don’t want you to get in trouble because of Elias and I.”, she thinks for a second, “In more trouble than you already got because of us.” The faintest smile on her lips is gone now, Sana frowns and Yousef’s hand itches to reach out and straighten that worry line in between her eyebrows.

“Don’t worry. I’ll be fine.”, Yousef says and smiles at Sana. She is back to avoiding his eyes and instinctively he tries to make their eyes meet. “Hey.”, he says smiling and hoping that she’d do the same. She looks at him again and irks an eyebrow at him. She presses her lips together and Yousef knows it’s because she tries not to give away too much of what she feels. Yousef waits a few seconds, in which Sana and he look at each other. It’s innocent and playful at the same time.

Finally, when she looks him in the eyes, Yousef says:“Anything for the Bakkoush siblings.”

Sana laughs a little at that. Yousef can’t help but grin at that. Making Sana smile is one of his favorite things. She’s always so tough, breaking that facade for even a second is pretty satisfying to Yousef.

“Hmm.”, is all Sana says at first, smiling and with her eyebrows raised.

“Hmm.”, Yousef mimics her and also raises his eyebrows.

“Anything, hm?”, Sana asks smiling widely. Her dimples make an appearance and Yousef looks at them and back into Sana’s eyes.

Yousef nods, his smile almost too wide to fit on his face:“Anything.”

If somebody didn’t close another door loudly, Sana and Yousef would have been standing there, smiling at each other for who knows how long. Again, they both jump at the loud sound and turn around at the same time, when Elias says:“Hey.”

He was the one that closed the main door and walks up the stairs. He stops next to Yousef who is still standing in the hallway outside of the apartment. Yousef didn’t even notice nor care about that.

“Why are you standing at the door?”, Elias asks and looks from his little sister to his best friend. Elias has too many bags in his hands to carry and Yousef and Sana go to take some from him at the same time. Elias smiles tiredly at both.

Sana answers:“Yousef came by like you two talked about.” Elias nods, Yousef observes the looks between the siblings and smiles to himself. Even if everything goes wrong, Sana has Elias and Elias has Sana.

Now, Sana opens the door more and lets the two boys in. Yousef smiles at her while passing her and then going straight to the kitchen to put down the bags.

Yes, he’ll do anything for the Bakkoush siblings. For Sana, he’ll stand at the door as long as necessary if it means that she is comfortable and he can talk to her.

#skam #it's probably not the best thing ever #english is not my first or second language #so bear with me #might delete later #yousef acar #yousana #yousef x sana #elias bakkoush #sana bakkoush #i don't like publishing my writing much #but here it is #skam fic #yousana fic

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