#well here you go here's the preslashiest thing to ever preslash

[indebetou-ghost]

I don’t know how I feel about this, but it’s my first attempt at anything involving actual TMA characters, so we all have to start somewhere. (That Lonely Eyes is coming soon)

          86 – Jonmartin – I’ll Walk You Home

       The Institute was quiet, save for the soft squishing noises that accompanied Jon’s every step. It sounded like his shoes were full of water, like he was stepping in mud, but no; that wet noise came from the hundreds of dead worms littering the floor of the institute- the rooms and the halls alike- that Jon was trying very hard to avoid stepping in, but one simply can’t accommodate for the worm-to-floor ratio when moving. It would involve copious amounts of tiptoeing, and though the Institute was mostly empty, he didn’t quite want to lower himself to that.

       It was definitely past closing hours, and Jon told Elias that he would go home just to get the man off his back, but in reality he didn’t really want to leave. The Institute felt like it was in safety limbo, as it were. It shouldn’t have felt safe, given that at any moment, any worm could slither back to life and deign to embed itself into Jon’s flesh like the rest of its kin seemed to enjoy doing. The Institute was full of worm corpses. It shouldn’t be safe, and yet-

       Yet it felt like the only safe place in the world, purely on virtue of surviving the whole ordeal. If the Institute could fortify itself against an eldritch horror of worm-like proportions than surely it could hold its own against any threat. Jon felt like his home just didn’t have that same quality. Sure, it was worm-free, always had been, but… it didn’t have the same warding atmosphere the Institute had. The Institute felt ominous on the best of days, but it also felt enveloping, beckoning. Nowhere else in the world felt like that right now.

       Still. Elias would have his head if he stayed in the Archives, so Jon made to leave.

       And on a stairwell that was remarkably free from worms, he saw Martin Blackwood.

       He looked about as tired as Jon felt, and the effect of exhaustion seemed to make the man physically droop. Shoulders slouched, slightly curled in on himself, even his hair, which was generally comprised of bouncy golden curls, was almost wilting. The day had taken a toll on everyone, after all. Jon was sure he looked a lot worse.

       “Hi, Jon,” Martin said, a few steps up. Jon had to crane his neck to look him in the face. “You heading home too?”

       “I… suppose I am, yes.” He replied. He climbed a few steps, and when he was level with Martin, the two of them wordlessly began walking together. It was more a solidarity thing than anything else, Jon reasoned. The loyalty of co-workers, monster-based trauma notwithstanding. Corridors passed, and the worms gradually started becoming more and more scarce. The silence became the air, and the air became silent, until Martin Blackwood seized the opportunity to break it.

       “This’ll be the first time I’ll be in my flat again since the whole Prentiss thing started.” He mused, voice rising above the silence. Jon probably should have spent less time thinking about the fact that words had been said, and more time thinking about the words, because by the time he responded, it was a beat too late for it to feel natural.

       “Oh, I suppose that’ll be… nice.” Oh, very eloquent. It was the exhaustion, and the will to be polite. He didn’t think either of them had the energy to be anything but civil right now, anyway, but Martin continued talking as if Jon had said something worth responding to.

       “I guess. It’s been more than a month. It’ll probably be dusty. God know what state my houseplants’ll be in.”

       “Better dusty than wormy.” Jon said, mostly without thinking. Martin actually huffed out a chuckle at that.

       “I’m pretty sure I’d prefer anything to the worms right now. I’d take spiders any day of the week.”

       “I think I’d settle for the worms out of those two options, actually.”

       “Spiders aren’t everyone’s cup of tea,” Martin smiled. The smile was quickly followed by a sigh, and the Institute door was in view. “Sometimes I think I see worms out of the corner of my eyes, you know? Even when it’s just light moving, or a cigarette butt on the footpath, or… just a bit of dust on the wind. At least now we know they’re all gone. Well, most of them are gone. Some could still be wriggling around, heaven forbid.”

       Jon hummed in affirmation, a quiet yes, and they were out into the night air. A far different chill to the bone-deep cold of the institute. At the end of their walk side by side, Martin turned to face Jon.

       “Right, well, safe home, Jon. Have a good night.”

       “Wait, Martin,” Jon found himself saying, and Martin took an aborted step forward before turning back to Jon.

       “What is it?”

       God, this was stupid.

       “Would you- that is, if you don’t mind, ah- can I walk you home?”

       Jon could feel the surprise radiating off Martin, and quickly backpedalled. “I-if you don’t want me to that’s fine, but, see, the thing is, after the worms I don’t think I-” Jon sighed and restarted mentally, went back, rewrote the sentence in his head. “I’d prefer not to walk alone, for a while. Just until I’m… far enough away from the institute. Is that alright?”

       Jon really didn’t expect Martin’s look of surprise to change into something more pleased, but he smiled something far too warm and happy to have come from today, and he nodded. “That’s- It’d be more than alright. I’d be glad for the company.”

       They walked.

       It was mostly companionable silence for the first few minutes, while Jon was trying to get his bearings on how, exactly, to actually start a conversation with Martin. They walked between lampposts, the sections of dark between the radius of light the zones of slight tension, the place where the hairs on the back of Jon’s neck stood up, but then Martin would smile at him, and the sudden surge of fear would dissipate.

       “So,” Martin eventually said, “How’re, the, uh, worm wounds? I mean, I assume they’re bad but… are you alright, is what I’m trying to say.”

       Jon could snap back at him, tell him that of course he wasn’t alright, that it was an idiotic question to ask, but… he doesn’t. He bites back a cruel comment, because Martin means well. He’s trying. It’s just conversation.

       “They hurt. But I’ll be fine. I’ll survive.” His answer is succinct and maybe a little sharp (he’ll blame that on the exhaustion) but Martin seems satisfied with it. After a beat, he adds to it. “I’m glad you’re mostly unscathed.”

       “So am I,” Martin says, and then his step falters for a second before he falls back into the same rhythm as Jon.” “Sorry, thought I saw something… moving. Probably nothing.”

       “Probably just a stray piece of string.” Jon says. “Or some particularly mobile dirt.”

       Martin chuckles at that. “Is it a worm, or is it some volatile debris? Place your bets!”

       Jon huffs amusedly in place of laughter, and shoots back, “That piece of plastic looks very like a worm, I think we’d better investigate to be sure.”

       “Be careful, that empty can could be full of them, lurking, waiting.”

       They laugh as they go on, and Jon finds it completely surreal. The sheer amount of stress he’s been through today seems to have come full circle, as now it feels just completely foreign. Hours ago, he decided that he couldn’t trust a soul in the Institute, but here he is now, not twenty four hours after being ravaged by flesh-eating worms, laughing with his equally traumatised co-worker about said worms. He thinks, if you don’t laugh you’ll cry, and that’s exactly the philosophy his tired mind latches onto, because every second spent with Martin is a second he doesn’t need to think about how he could have died today, or about the murder of Gertrude Robinson, or about the hold, the pressure he can feel exerted upon him by the Institute at large. He knows there’s something larger at play, some greater web he’s in the centre of, but at this very moment there is only him, Martin, and the ever-living traffic of London. It’s almost enough to forget about the holes in his skin and the gaps in his knowledge.

       Almost.

       “Watch out, that one looks very worm-like,” Martin starts, jovial, until he squints at the creature and stops. “Actually, I think that is a worm.”

       Jon stops too, and Martin’s right: it is a worm. A normal, pink worm, twisting and writhing on the footpath. “It is most definitely a worm.”

       They exchange glances, and look at the worm, and at each other.

       They cross the road just in case.

       The conversation fades after that, but the night is so filled with the sounds of London that Jon doesn’t really mind. There’s never a silent note to coax unpleasant thoughts from his head and that’s all he could ask for. Walking with Martin is… nice. It’s nice.

       They’re at Martin’s flat too soon, and suddenly there’s distance between them, and Martin’s walking up the stairs and Jon has to crane his neck to see his face again. He’s smiling, and looking so fondly that Jon can’t help but wonder if it’s actually directed at him.

       “Well, this is me. Thanks for walking with me, Jon. I think it did a lot of good.”

       “I… think so too. Thank you, Martin.”

       Before he finished his ascent to his building, Martin stopped and looked pensive for a second before descending the stairs again, and standing level with Jon once more. Quickly, and a little hesitantly, unsure, Martin pulled Jon into a hug, and Jon barely got to register the sensation before it was gone again. Martin was warm. He smelled faintly of lavender, and a little bit like tea bags.

       “Stay safe, Jon. Be careful on your way home.”

       “I will. Thank you.”

       Martin Blackwood disappeared into the darkness of the apartment building, and Jon made his way home. His mind was more at ease, and as he walked alone, the ghost of warmth around his body, he found that he wasn’t plagued by the worries of the past and the future. They were kept at bay for one blessed evening, and Jon thought that was enough.

It was more than enough.

#the magnus archives #tma #jonmartin #well here you go here's the preslashiest thing to ever preslash #it is. mediocre