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flamingpudding · 5 months

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Drake's family secret

A/N: Another story idea I had and I probably will keep working on. I kinda want to continue on it I just have no idea how or with what yet.

Tim had a secret. Well, he had many secrets but this was one he had kept closed off for a very long time now. It was one of the reasons he fabricated a fake uncle to avoid getting adopted. After all, if you were put into the system how could you possibly get found or find your last living blood relative? His family didn't know and he never intended for them to know anyway. It was a secret well-kept of the Drake family, one that even the public didn't know about. His parents hadn't thrown around money to keep anyone involved silent for nothing after all.

But Tim had had vague memories as well as found the last remaining documents years ago. The problem had been that he hadn't been Robin yet at that time and couldn't do research like he can now. Tim had often wondered if one of the reasons he had followed Batman around back then was to see if he could help him with that matter too, yet he had never brought it up to Bruce nor any of his other siblings.

In a way it made Tim feel guilty now as he looked over that old piece of paper. The only hint he had until now.

He looked over the security video of Wayne Enterprise again. Watching that group of high schoolers that was there on a school trip visit. His eyes tracked one specific student among them. If things were different Tim would joke about how the boy looked like perfect Bruce adoption material. But as it was, Tim was not going to make that joke.

Because as much as the boy fell into the stereotype of Bruce's adoption problem, the boy had facial features that looked very much like one Jenet Drake. Tim could honestly see it, sure his memories were not the best in regards to his parents but he had kept at least some photos for references. But recognizing that threw in a whole other set of problems.

For one he would need to find a way to make sure the Drake Family secret doesn't get exposed to his family too soon. Second, he needed to find a way to approach the boy without looking suspicious. Third, he was on a time limit, according to what he found the school trip the boy was on lasted for a week. Once the boy was out of Gotham it would be even harder to find a passable excuse to approach him. Fourth, he would also need a blood sample. As much as the boy's looks alone could make Tim believe it, the rest of his family was paranoid and if he was completely homestead, he also would need it for his reassurance that he wasn't wrong. Which again he kind of doubted even with this little amount of evidence. The fifth problem in this was, how was he going to break it to the rest of his family.

Because the best kept Drake's Family secret, he was pretty sure he was the last remaining person in the know, was that Tim had a little brother. A brother that was born when he was around 3 or four years old. A little brother who had never gotten to grow up with him because Jack and Jenet Drake had used their constant traveling as cover so the public wouldn't know about him. They already had an heir with Tim, they didn't need a second child. So the moment his little brother had been born he was given up in a closed adoption. Never to be seen again and never to be connected to the Drake family.

Tim only knew about him because he had vague memories about his mother's pregnancy and also had later found the papers in his parents' office when he was around ten. He remembered how upset he had been at the discovery but also how he hadn't been able to do anything about it. Though it was back then that he had also decided that the moment he could he would do everything he could to find him. Things only started to change when he became Robin and then Red Robin. Now he had the resources and knowledge to find the little brother he had never gotten to grow up with.

But too much time had passed and his parents had been thorough when covering their tracks, which resulted in Tim having been unable to find that little brother of his. Having no name and no idea who adopted him, didn't help either. But Tim had had less to work with before, yet the search had given him massive troubles, to the point that he HAD contemplated getting the rest of his family in on it.

But now that wasn't necessary anymore, there was an actual chance again.

Thankfully he had come in late today, if he hadn't he wouldn't have seen the group of High School students on a school trip in the Lobby waiting for their tour guide. He wouldn't have seen the group of teens that lacked behind their fellow students a bit. But most importantly he wouldn't have seen that kid that looked like adoption bait for Bruce. That then by closer inspection had so many facial similarities to his mother that Tim had first thought he was hallucinating.

Now he was sitting in his office, watching the group of High Schoolers getting a tour through the building through the security cams while trying to come up with the perfect plan that didn't look too suspicious as he watched the boy who could be his blood-related little brother. Oh, Damian would throw a fit if he learned about having another brother, Tim mused for a moment as he noted down the boy's, Danny's, excitement about their aerospace department. He had already decided, if Danny was not living adequately he would pull all the strings he could to get his little brother home.

So far Tim had found out that the boy's name was Danny Fenton. He would dig into that later more. He would also make sure that if Danny was his little brother, he saw to it that he was getting treated right. He had noticed how his little brother appeared overly tired and there was a bandage hidden below his shirt plus through the security camera footage, he had also seen that there was a hint of scarring on his left arm.

For now, though he had sent a message to the tour guide to end the tour in his office, for something like a surprise introduction to Tim Drake-Wayne. He would continue to build up his plan of getting to know and confirm his little brother's status from there.

#dp x dc #danny fenton #dpxdc #danny phantom #dcxdp #tim drake #Danny was born a Drake but got given up for adoption #the Drakes didn't want a second child #Tim knew he had a little brother but couldn't find him yet #The rest of the Waynes do not know about this at all #Now Tim his hatching a plan to see if he can confirm if Danny is his little brother or not #Danny has no idea what was happening #Tim got one week to figure out how to make Danny trust him #than Danny would return to Amity with the rest of his class #Danny doesn't know he is adopted #and Tim just wants to confirm it #he might not reveal it if Danny has a good life #is having your parents hunt your secret identity and having a govermental branch hunting you too a good life?#Tim's going to have a field day (and not in the good way) when he finds out more about Danny's live #unedited #no beta we die like danny

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bibliocratic · 3 years

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I come bearing a sort-of fic idea! (Only if you feel inspired to use it, of course 😊) Back in ep 101, Martin figures out that/where the Stranger has taken Jon, and goes all BAMF to save him, using either Web powers or his developing Backup Archivist powers to do it. (Dealer's choice) Some of that sweet sweet emotional h/c...

Dearest anon, this fic has been so long in the writing, and it’s only distantly related to what you asked for. Hope you like it regardless. :)

Set in an S3 AU, implied JonMartin. Tim-centric.

Content warnings for strongly implied graphic violence, canonical S3 captivity and imprisonment, hospitals and hospitalisation. Rated T for language and implied violence

Jon’s skittering, sprawl-legged slam against the archive door startles Tim from the shadowed walkways of his reveries.

The tilted legs of his chair thump back in a slap to the floor. Almost physically wrenched into the now, there’s a snapback to Tim’s spine, a vice-clench knot tightening in his jaw. His mood cranking up from frosty to furious.

“The fuck?” he barks at the intrusion. His snarling primed with teeth, his temper clawed to rend. He’s up and standing, whereas Jon’s practically handing off the door handle, the impact of his arrival almost knocking his legs out like ten pins from under him. An ugly, airless heaving of his chest. His eyes bloodshot, wild. In the weeks since Tim saw him, his hair has grown out unwashed and limp. His skin shimmering wrong in the light in a way that’s oddly greasy.

He’s a shattering mannequin of a man tending to ruin but Tim’s long pared down his own capacity for compassion. He loads up his questions in their chambers, and he knows where to place emphasis, where to press at the bruising, the soft-tissue targets; where the hell have you been, oh wait, don’t fucking bother, why would you even tell us anything anyway huh, because you don’t even trust us. So why the bloody hell should we care where you go galivanting off to for weeks without a word, fine by us, just fucking peachy.

“Martin,” Jon rasps out finally. His words floundering beached in his mouth, and Tim has never seen this particular mania, this bruise-sick shade of pathetic desperation. “T-tim, please, help, please, god, i-i-it’s Martin.”

Jon’s spasming, quivering hands are staining brown with blood.

“He wouldn’t have just left! Not – not like – like this!”

“You mean without saying anything. Not sharing with the class. I dunno, Martin, sounds exactly like something he’d have done. Classic Jon.”

“I’m telling you, something’s wrong!”

“Ha – everything’s wrong. Narrow it down.”

“You know what I mean! Something’s… He should be here, is all I’m saying, and Elias, well he’s useless but he – he knows something, I’m sure of it. We have to do something.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know! Find him!”

“Maybe he doesn’t want to be found. Huh, what about that? Maybe he’s finally managed to fuck off and leave here, legged it and left the rest of us to rot.”

“You don’t mean that.”

“I do.”

“We should – ”

“No. No, listen, Martin. This isn’t a team sport. Jon made his choice to go this alone. If he’s gone off somewhere, then that’s on him. There’s no ‘we’.”

“There used to be.”

Martin didn’t come in for work, and Tim assumed he’d left. Just like Jon.

He’d stewed in that betrayal, pacing lupine and furious, bricking up the walls of himself with his self-righteous anger. Because he’d been right, hadn’t he, he’d been vindicated in his bitterness, because of course Martin had left scurrying after Jon, of course there was never any loyalty to Tim despite his pretensions to their friendship. Of course, Martin hadn’t fucking stayed, and Tim was glad he was gone, free of his nagging and needling and whining.

Tim was acquitted in all his furies, every one of his poisonous doubts. The rose-thorns of his betrayals tore deeper, and he let the wounds fester.

Elias arrives in the aftermath.

Jon collapsed not too long ago. Shock and dehydration and whatever the hell happened to him threaded through him like blood poisoning. He’d babbled to the ambulance crews, his tongue a senseless oracle of clowns and skin and blood. They’d given him a shock blanket, the foil treating the light around them erratically, but he kept shaking it off and trying to stand, dressed in grubby boxers, an overlong coat, the fabric worn to grey at the pockets and stretched to billowing at the chest, clearly belonging to Martin.

It was hard for Tim to hate him like that, even as he’d barked at Jon to stay down. Jon’s face a theatre mask of ghoulish blood, begging the paramedics to help Martin, manic and spiralling.

The old bastard had had a heart after all.

There’s a bank of chairs outside the part of the ward where they’re keeping Jon. He’s pin-cushioned with IV’s, a set of machines monitoring his vitals. He wakes fitfully, and every waking is a pitiful confusion before he sinks back under.

Martin’s still in surgery.

Elias, deigning to leave his ivory tower, his face formed in an impeccable replica of concern. He wants to speak to Jon. To have, as he put it, ‘a private word’. He talks a precisely ordered stream of bullshit in his infuriatingly reasonable tone, about all this being such a terrible tragedy, such a blow to their little family, if only they’d known. Poor Martin, of course, what a horrible ordeal, we’ll naturally help him with recovery, cover any time off, no expense considered.

Tim watches his mouth move, and knows in his gut that Elias could have stopped all this.

That he chose not to.

Elias doesn’t get within a hundred feet of Jon. Tim makes sure of it.

Jon does not speak for days. Delirious and distraught. Martin’s condition worsens, then stabilises, then lingers at critical. There are several more operations, and Tim does not know what they are doing, only that they are reforming a heap of blood and bone back into a person.

Tim wants to know what happened. Where Jon went, where Martin found him, who he needs to hate.

Tim learns to temper his frustration, the desire for knowing that curls at the bottom of his stomach. It is not a natural wanting, and it’s a spiteful, gleeful action, to deny that rot within him.

“Tim?”

“Stay still, boss,” Tim says. “You’ll pull everything out.”

Jon doesn’t say anything more for a long while. Tim shifts uneasy on the chair provided, thinking, hoping that Jon might have sunk back into sleep, when:

“Martin? Is he…?”

Jon turns his head to look at him. His eyes wide, beseeching, wet with fear. Wanting Tim to make this all ok.

Jon’s eyes in this light are a lot like Danny’s. Tim sucks back a hard breath, and doesn’t meet his gaze, and he knows that only distresses Jon further, who will take the avoidance as a death knell, as a punishment he is expecting to have earned.

“He’s alive, boss,” Tim says eventually. The words hard won. “He’s… he’ll be alright.”

That could be a lie. He doesn’t know much these days.

“Th-there was a room,” Jon stammers one day. He’s sat up, pillows stuffed behind his back. Tim’s bought him an apple juice carton like you buy for children, and he hasn’t touched it, even to push the plastic straw through the top.

His fingers at his lap twist, twist, twist.

“It must have been a … a factory floor, or something. One of those old textile mills or something, up near Manchester. It used to have those big machines for spinning cotton, there were big, discoloured spaces on the boards where they would have sat. There were columns, load-bearing, every fifty feet or so, and t-the chair that they – they had me tied to was anchored against one of those s-so it didn’t – so I couldn’t move it, or knock it over. I-I don’t know how long I was… I.” Jon stops, out of breath. “I don’t even know the date.”

Tim tells him. Jon blinks, and murmurs ‘oh’ like it’s not what he was expecting. His hands are shaking. Tim should reach out, shouldn’t he, it should not be this difficult to provide comfort.

His hands have forgotten how easily reassurance used to come to him.

“Th-they didn’t, they didn’t hurt me. Not, well, not exactly, I-I-I mean, it wasn’t – they wanted me unharmed.” Jon’s voice has crept small and crouched, words tuck under his tongue. “They were waiting. For the right time. They were going to t-take my, um, my skin. For their – for the ritual.”

“Christ.” Tim hisses out, because that is fucked, this whole thing is fucked. How the hell is this the way their lives have turned.

Only Jon’s fingers, his restless hands make noise for the next minute.

“I don’t know how Martin found me,” Jon says.

Tim has a creeping suspicion. It’s the same thing that helps Tim spits out exactly the right seeds to allow hurt to take root. What told Martin that there was something wrong. He could call it intuition, but that’s not how their world works.

Gifts, of a sort. For their faithful service at the temple of their all-seeing god.

“He tried to get me out. Snuck in somehow, cut the ropes with this – huh, this battered old kitchen knife. But I couldn’t… they’d had me tied to the chair for so long that standing up was… I couldn’t walk, and it’s my fault, he was half-carrying me but – I slowed him down, a-and then Nikola came back. And I couldn’t do, I couldn’t do anything, there’s never anything I can do, and they pulled me away and I. I tried, Tim, I-I tried, and I wasn’t… please, Tim, you’ve got to believe I tried to stop them.”

Jon’s fingers are moving to fist in his hair, yanking, tugging, his spine moving to fold himself over.

“Stop,” Tim says sharply. Trying to loosen Jon’s clenched hold.

“I tried, I tried – everything, I offered them anything they wanted, and they just kept – I-I-I tried, Tim.”

“I know,” Tim replies. Quieter. Softer. Separating Jon’s hands from his hair, pressing them back down to his lap, his burnt one held over the other pocked with worm scars. Tim doesn’t move his own away from the fragile tower they’ve made. “I – I know, Jon.”

“Martin – there was more of them. It was easy for them, to hurt him until he stopped struggling. They didn’t tie him up, they knew they didn’t need to. A-and Nikola, she was… she s-s-smiled as they pushed him over onto his back. She – she kept smiling. And she said they didn’t need the two of us. That they could have a bit of fun, a bit of – ” Jon’s voice chokes horrified. “A bit of practise. And wouldn’t I like that. To watch. To give the Eye something to look at.”

Jon crumples into tears then. In on himself like a disintegrating star. Tim feels cold and distant for a moment as he watches this shipwreck as though through the porthole of another boat. Listening to Jon’s hitching sobbing from elsewhere.

The rage is burning off him to reveal something plain and hideous in its humanity, and Tim hates it.

Jon falls apart, and Tim stays.

“You know your Archivist killed them all? He’s got a bit of a temper on him after all. Must be all that repression.”

The newest form of the Distortion still smiles like a headache. Her fingers curve corkscrewing. Tim, who is trying to get a Snickers from the vending machine two wards along from Jon, whips his head around to glower at the unwelcome visitor.

“What do you want?”

The Distortion, who has previously called themselves Michael, and is now still Michael but not entirely, whose face has refracted into a different form – there’s been a sort of change in management, if you like, except, well, that’s not really it at all, but do feel free to call me Helen.

“I was hoping for a teeny bit of gratitude. I was the gallant rescue, after that assistant of yours blundered in and made such a pig’s ear of it.”

Tim snarls. The Distortion’s expression wavers displeased.

“Ooh, touchy, alright. Calm down, firecracker. I bought them both back breathing for you. Your Archivist would be still strapped to a chair in Stockport if it wasn’t for me, to say nothing of that woebegone assistant. Blood all over my carpets.”

Tim ignores her. The glint in her eyes suggests she’s disappointed not to have riled him up.

“What now then?”

“Well, you won’t have to worry about the Circus for a while! Dear Jonathan’s seen to that quite splendidly. Knew he had it in him. Although, I suspect, even he didn’t know he could. The Circus was always good at pushing too far.”

“And you. What about you?”

The Distortion’s smile reflects a hundred alternatives.

“Oh, I’m just waiting to see what happens next.”

Tim’s thoughts have been straying to Danny a lot. Naturally, all things considered, his trauma’s head reared high and made horrifically manifest.

Jon is not like Danny was, too stiff and self-conscious in his own bones. But Danny’s skin had been lit up with that same live-wire intensity that last night, smeared in shadows and exhaustion and tears that shone foreign on his cheeks. Tim had not recognised the crying, silent, shaking stranger in his room, just as he barely recognises Jon.

Watching him finally fall apart holds no victory for any of them.

Martin is not like Danny was. Taller, for one, wound-up over tight in his own clockwork of fears. He’d be about Danny’s age though. Maybe.

Danny went back to the Covent Garden Theatre, alone, and the being that had then gone by the name of Joseph Grimaldi had torn off his skin as easily as wrapping paper.

Martin went alone. He didn’t ask Tim for help, because he knew Tim would have said no, and there’s an ashy shame coating his tongue, knowing it would have been true.

It’s powerlessness that’s snarled him up in barbed wire, toothless and immobile. Tim’s felt powerless for a long time. That is not going to stop.

But his anger hasn’t protected him. Hasn’t protected Jon. Certainly hasn’t protected Martin.

Jon is not in bed when Tim goes back during visiting hours. The nurse directs him to another ward, indicating in few words that this jaunt was neither encouraged nor advised, but the patient was not one to be dissuaded.

Sounds like Jon.

The man himself has dressed erratically in the spares Tim bought. A t-shirt that is divorced from his own style, the colouring drawing him over-sallow, the jeans too short and trailing above his ankle. He’s squashed himself into a chair, his back folded like a shepherd’s crook, his scatter-shot energy spent into exhaustion. His hand in Martin’s wrapped one.

Martin’s awake. The ministrations of the Circus left his face mostly alone, clear enough for tubing to be threaded into his nostrils and down his throat but the bandaging is extensive. Tim would have thought he’d be away with the fairies on morphine by now, and rightly so, but his jaw sets imperious when he sees Tim. He doesn’t let go of Jon’s hand.

“You doing alright there, Marto?” Tim asks. There is another chair nearby that’s been left by a visitor long gone, and he drags it over. Tim chooses to keep his voice low, chooses to squash the anger that sparks up in him at the violence done to Martin’s body.

“What does it look like?” Martin replies. Not snapping, no wisp of anger there, but there’s a pained whipcord strain to his response, a forced pace to his breathing.

“I thought they’d have you on the good stuff,” Tim says after a moment.

Martin gestures with imprecise movements at a remote off to his right, a grey blocky shape with buttons, hooked up to some sort of patient-controlled analgesia machine.

“You not taken any?”

Martin, as best as he can, shakes his head.

“Why?”

“I just don’t want to, alright?”

Tim doesn’t push. The silence between the two of them is protracted, uncomfortable, but Tim can stand to learn some patience.

Martin’s eyes are watery, clearly trying to push through the pain. Jon sleeps on.

“He won’t tell me,” Martin says. “But it’s bad. I know it’s bad. Right?”

“Yes.”

Martin deserves his honesty. Tim doesn’t know how long Martin suffered on that factory floor until Jon ripped the Circus’ sawdust out with his fury. Long enough for the bandages to coat his arms and legs and back like lacquer, changed multiple times a day to make sure the skin grafts take, and the stitching holds.

Tim should have been there. Like he should have been there for Danny.

“God, Martin,” he says, and he’s surprised to find his throat has clenched tight. “It’s… I’m so sorry.”

“What are you sorry for? I went and got myself…” Martin trails off, swallows with difficulty. “I did this, it was all, all me. Fat lot of good it did.”

“You don’t know that…” Tim starts, but Martin looks at him and he seethes without raising his voice.

“What good’s come out of this then? Go on, Tim, tell me. I’m a – I’m a mess, and what the fuck do I have to show for it. What the fuck have any of us gained from this? I just fucked up, and it – I thought I was going to die. And worse, I thought they mightn’t let me, that they might take what they left as scraps a-a-and – ” Martin’s jaw clacks shut as he pushes down his distress.

“You saved Jon.”

“I didn’t though. The bloody – the bloody door monster showed up and did that simply fine without my help!”

“You don’t know that. You don’t know what you changed. God, Martin, this whole, this entire thing is all so, it’s fucked, right, it’s…” Tim’s voice wobbles, cracks. “But you tried to do something. You tried to help. And I’m – I’m so sorry you did it alone.”

Martin doesn’t leap to forgiveness. But he nods and Tim puts his hand on the wrappings up his arm and he doesn’t move away.

“What now?” he asks after a moment.

“I don’t know.”

Martin closes his eyes.

“I’m tired,” he confesses. “I’m just so tired of all… all this.”

“We’ll think of something,” Tim says. Finding that he means it. It’s not a promise, but it’s as good as he’s able to offer these days. “You should take some of that morphine. It’ll… it’ll help.”

“It makes me feel out of it. Like, sluggish. And everything’s far away.”

“That means it’s working, Marto,” Tim says, trying for light-hearted, but Martin’s shaking his head, and the shivering is back in his hands. A wide and trembling glaze to his expression.

“If they come back…”

He doesn’t finish his sentence.

“I’ll stay,” Tim says. Pats Martin’s arm in a way he hopes conveys reassurance.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Martin nods. Tim helps him grasp the grey remote, push down the button. It’s not long before Martin’s drifted off.

Tim sits there for a long while, thinking about the future.

#tma #tim stoker #fic #martin blackwood #jonathan sims #cw violence #cw implied torture #cw hospitals #hurt/comfort #the magnus archives

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phoebenavarro · 3 years

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the fading sun

I haven’t posted any of my writing here in a very long time but I’m rather proud of this piece so, why not. part of my “Jon decides Tim is the only person he can trust in s2″ AU, but can be read on it’s own

the magnus archives, jontim, 1,456 words

on ao3 here

Jon is the most tactile person Tim has ever met. It came as a bit of a surprise to him, because of the general vibe Jon has projected the entire time they’ve known each other, but as they’ve gotten closer, Tim has learned that Jon only allows himself to be like this with people he trusts, and Jon has never trusted many people. Tim feels all warm and fuzzy, knowing he’s one of the few people Jon trusts. So Tim holds Jon, and Jon clings to him like a lifeline. Jon is wrapped around him, with his head resting on Tim’s chest, and Tim is stroking Jon’s hair when a thought strikes him, and he snorts. Jon hums an inquisitive tone.

“Nothing really,” Tim says, “I just realized that this…..” he gestures between them, “Whatever this is. Us. Is the most stable relationship I’ve had in years.” Jon huffs out a half laugh, a little bitter.

“Yeah. Yeah, me too.”

Tim lets that sit in the air for a few minutes, enjoying the calm between them.

“What are we?” he asks, “Are we a couple? Romantically, I mean.”

Jon considers it. “I don’t know, are we?” he replies, lifting his head to look at Tim with a raised eyebrow. Tim pulls Jon up to face him more comfortably.

“Oh no, you’re not turning the question back on me,” Tim says, a little indignant, then, softer, “I wouldn’t ask if I wasn’t interested.”

Jon has definitely thought about it. He’s thought about how his relationship with Tim really isn’t that different from any other romantic relationship he’s had in his life. The main difference is the lack of kissing (or well, snogging, but Jon hates that word), and going out on dates. Tim is handsome, and kind, and funny, and he’s the only person who makes Jon feel safe, the only person who understands exactly what Jon is going through.

So yes, it’s safe to say Jon is interested.

“I’d like that,” Jon says, shyly, “If you would.”

“Oh, I absolutely would.” Tim waggles his eyebrows at him, a large grin spreading across his face. Jon smiles back at him for a second, before his brain decides to ruin the moment for him.

“I’m asexual,” Jon blurts out. He winces, embarrassed at his own self. He’s never been good at this part. Tim sits up a bit, leaning on his elbow. He looks a little surprised, but not shocked at the sudden change in topic.

“I mean, I figured?” he says. Jon’s brain short circuits.

“You… What?”

Tim gestures to the black ring on Jon’s middle finger. “The ring. That’s an ace thing, right?”

“Oh!” Jon looks down at his hand. “Yes, uh.” Georgie gave it to him, shortly after he figured out he was ace. She was the first person to accept that he didn’t really want sex, and she was integral in helping him discover that there was a word for the way he felt. “I— Sometimes I forget I’m wearing it, and that other people know what it means.” Tim nods.

Jon plows on, unable to stop talking. He hasn’t dated in a long time, since before he got the head archivist position, so he hasn’t had to do the ‘coming out to a potential romantic partner’ spiel in a while. He’s always anxious about it, but with Tim, he’s terrified. Not that he thinks Tim will react badly, but… Every person he’s dated since Georgie lost interest after he came out to them. He knows that, statistically, his asexuality couldn’t have been the reason for all of them, especially when he considered his difficult personality, but the last thing Jon wants is to ruin what he and Tim have now.

“I don’t experience sexual attraction, I never have, and I just want you to know that sex isn’t something I’m interested in, except on very rare occasions. An— and it’s nothing you’ve done, it’s just me. It’s how I am.” He wishes he could blame it on a low libido, but it’s a lot more complicated than that.

Tim is looking at him with such gentleness that he thinks he might cry.

“Jon,” he says, “That is okay. More than okay, really. The last thing I want to do is make you uncomfortable.”

“I mean— I don’t—“ Jon sighs, “I know that sex is something that you enjoy.”

Tim laughs a little, because now it’s his turn to explain a complicated subject.

“Yeah, sure, I have been known to enjoy casual sex,” an understatement, “But it’s not something I’ve been doing lately.” He sighs, unsure of how to explain it. “After Danny I was just… Numb, for so long, and hooking up with people was an easy way to feel something. It was a coping mechanism, I guess, but it really wasn’t healthy, so I stopped. Not that I stopped hooking up with people completely, but y’know, going on dates with people first and making more genuine connections instead of just… using them. And then Prentiss happened, and well, I haven’t exactly been sleeping with anybody.

“I know what my reputation was in Research. and I first liked you because you were never all judgmental about that. So if you never want to have sex with me, I’m fine with that.”

“Well, I didn’t say never,” Jon mutters. He knows he gives off a ‘never’ kind of vibe, (and he was, for a long time, until he figured out what he likes and how he likes it), but he genuinely enjoys sex, on occasion. Usually the issue is that he’s too much in his own head, thinking too much about the logistics, the vulnerability required, that it’s too much trouble, but it can be different with someone he trusts.

“That didn’t come out right,” Tim says, “I don’t want you to think that you’re a burden, or something. Because you’re not, and I want to give this a go, with you, because you’re you, and I love you.”

Jon stares at Tim, dumbstruck for a moment, because it is such a painfully Tim way to say it, and Jon once again feels like he could cry.

“Thank you,” he says, “I appreciate you saying that. Other people have not taken it well, in the past.”

“Fuck that,” Tim responds, “I’m sorry people were shitty.”

“Guess we’ve got that in common,” Jon says.

“Yeah,” Tim sighs, “Bi ace solidarity?”

Jon nods and leans in closer to Tim. “Kiss me?”

Tim doesn’t need to be asked twice. He’s been thinking about it fairly often for the past few weeks. He presses his lips against Jon’s, gentle and chaste.Jon melts against him. Tim doesn’t want to push things too far, since they haven’t had a real conversation about boundaries, so they just trade soft, sweet kisses for a while. It feels simultaneously novel and intimate, and Tim finds himself thinking that he would be content to stay in this moment forever.

After some time, Jon pulls away, a small grin across his face.

“Alright?” Tim asks gently.

“Very much so,” Jon replies.

“Hey, if we’re dating, is it weird if I still call you boss?” Tim asks, humor back in his voice.

“Only if you’re into that,” Jon deadpans, and Tim laughs that delighted laugh he reserves for when Jon surprises him with a joke.

“Oh Christ,” Jon says, as he thinks about the implications of dating someone who is technically his employee, “HR is gonna be a nightmare about this.”

“I mean… Who says we have to tell them?” Tim says, and Jon stares at him, affronted. “Yes, alright, I’m sure the employee handbook has lots to say on the subject, but this stopped being a normal job the moment we got attacked by a worm lady, so forgive me if I don’t see the point in doing the proper HR paperwork.”

“I suppose you have a point.”

“I genuinely don’t think there’s much we can do at this point that would make Elias fire us. And if he did fire us for dating I would leave a hell of a bad review on GlassDoor.”

Jon smiles. “I don’t think academics really use GlassDoor.”

“Whatever,” Tim shrugs, “I think HR would also have a thing or two to say about me sharing a bed with my boss every night for the past few months.”

Jon’s face goes red at that. “Yes, alright. We won’t tell anyone.”

“I’ll make it up to you. We could go on a real, proper date? Go out to dinner, maybe see a movie?”

“I haven’t been to the cinema in ages,” Jon says, “ ‘Would be nice.”

Tim snickers. “Cinema. Alright, Grandad.”

Jon kisses him again to silence his teasing.

#the magnus archives #tma #tma fic #jontim #jontimweek #mine #my writing

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misterghostfrog · 4 years

Text

A list of TMA headcanons in no particular order

(some of these got very long and a bit rambly)

Elias pre-Magnus hadn’t eaten citrus since he was a small child. As he hated the taste and it ‘made his mouth hurt’. This turned out to be an allergy that grew worse as he aged that never got put on his medical records. Leading to Jonah Magnus making a very unfortunate visit to the emergency room several weeks after taking over his body.

Daisy hates watching those cheesy bbc mystery shows. Because she always tries to guess the killer fist go and is always wrong. Except for the time she watched murder on the orient express.

Basira likes watching cheesy bbc mystery shows, she almost always figures out who the killer is before the episode is over. Except for the time she watched murder on the orient express.

Jon is actually mildly allergic to cats, this has never once deterred him.

Martin was actually a catch-all backup for Magnus’s plans. If his archivist died Martin was easily manipulated emotionally and would be pretty easy to push towards the other entities, and he didn’t have enough family to be missed if Jonah needed a new host.

Jon was one of those kids that was really small until middle school and then hit 5′4 super fast and everyone assumed was going to be ridiculously tall, but never grew past that.

If Tim had survived the unknowing I think he would have had a quiet camaraderie with post-coffin daisy. He wouldn’t be back to his jokey self, he never would be I think, not really. And she had done some scary and kinda unforgivable stuff, but he would still sit with her and help her with exercises.

On that same thread, if he survived the unknowing he would have done as Melanie did and quit. His arrangements would have been different, he wouldn’t be close to anyone outside the institute anymore, and inside the institute he wouldn’t really trust anyone. But he’d make solo arrangements and quit, probably start working on publishing again, or at least try to. The others would visit from time to time to make sure he’s doing alright, he would be pretty aimless though until he gets a guide dog. It’s Melanie’s suggestion, since he doesn’t have anyone to help him out he should get a guide dog to help. It’s expensive of course, but the institute paid out the ass in ‘accident compensation’ so he has the funds.

He considers naming it after Sasha or Danny, but then again reminding himself of two people he couldn’t save every time he needs to call his dog doesn’t seem like the best idea. So he names it spooky instead. Jon hates the word and he’s still mad at him, (though he doesn’t have the energy to hate him anymore.) and it feels fitting.

Spooky ends up being emotional support as well as a guide dog, helping ground him when things get too much. Because things do get too much, often. He’s lost everything, almost everyone he’s ever really considered a friend left or died or ran off or betrayed him and he’s just there. Trying to pick up the pieces.

But he’s free. And sure maybe everything fell apart but he’s done with the supernatural. It’s out of his life forever. And if that’s all he’s got then he’ll take it.

Jon is a sleep-clinger, and Martin is one of those people who always ends up taking up the whole bed when they sleep. Not because he’s big but because he spreads out. He also always kicks off the blankets no matter how cold it is. So safehouse mornings always found them in a weird sort of position of Martin starfished over most of the bed, and Jon curled up wherever happened to be warmest when the blankets vanished.

Sasha tried to knit once and ended up hating it, and gave all her supplies to Tim. Who is absolutely atrocious at it but he loves doing it. He loves to threaten to knit Sasha a scarf one day.

#tma spoilers #hcs #headcanons #timothy stoker #jonathan sims #martin blackwood #jonah magnus #elias bouchard #the magnus archives #Sasha james #I have lots and I wanted to share!#jonmartin #Tim Deserves Better #they all deserve better #except jonah magnus #he can choke #alice daisy tonner #daisy tonner #basira hussain

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janekfan · 4 years

Note

Hello friend!! I thought of a prompt, and if you like it, it's yours!! What if Tim was kidnapped by the circus with Jon?? They're having a bad time together; Tim is hostile. Eventually, Jon starts to get quieter, and Tim thinks he's in a mood. Jon complains of a headache, and Tim thinks he's being a baby. Until he finds out he's burning up and was just too afraid to say anything because he didn't think he could take Tim telling him he didn't care 😭 (but, begrudgingly, he DOES) 💖

oooooooh this prompt! Had me feeling things! Thank you @taylortut!

https://archiveofourown.org/works/26400745

It was Tim who woke up first, unsure of where he was, still with the residual anger he’d had on his way to confront Jon about all of this nonsense still burning incandescent. Hindsight being 20/20, he probably should have taken the anonymous tip on Jon’s location with a grain of salt and a fistful of caution but he was just so angry it was filling him up like a poison, overflowing with nowhere to go, and it was so much easier to focus on his boss because it was his fault they were in this mess.

It was his fault Sasha was gone.

It was his fault they were all trapped.

“T’Tim...” Barely an exhale and if the room they were contained in hadn’t been dead quiet, he’d ignore Jon. Still might. Let him sit in the guilt and shame of having inflicted whatever this was on yet another assistant.

If he even cared.

“Where...are we?” There was some light to see by, but not nearly enough to determine the answer to that even if he’d wanted to speak to him in the first place. Based on his own headache, Tim assumed that Jon had been knocked unconscious as well and corroborated it with the hiss of pain drawn sharply between his teeth.

“Shouldn’t I be the one asking that?” Snapping callously and surprising even himself at the harsh bite in his voice, Jon flinched hard, turning with it to examine the space.

“We’re tied up.” He remarked, nonplussed, and Tim heard him pulling at his bonds. It wasn’t rope, but something softer and before he could think on it further a shaft of light fell upon Jon as a being, not quite a person, stepped through a door. “Nikola.”

“Well acquainted are you?” Tim scoffed.

“Not by choice.” And he didn’t look anywhere except straight at the thing he’d named, vitriol in his eyes, in the firm set of his jaw.

“Oh, Archivist. Don’t be like that.” Her smile was inhuman, too many teeth, not quite right. “And please do stop frowning like that.” Jon turned away from the fingers claiming his chin and Tim had once been so close to him that he knew he didn’t like to be touched unless he trusted you. Like Tim had trusted him. “I want you in pristine condition for the show.” She snapped once and several mannequins surrounded and released Jon from his bonds. They tried to drag him through the door and Jon fought like a beast possessed, wild and feral and loud and no match for their sturdy yet gentle grip as they carried him off against his will. It left Tim alone in sudden silence, a little stunned and more than a little worried and he’d take that to his grave, thank you very much.

With nothing else to focus his attention on, Tim could only think of how awful Jon looked illuminated in that cold beam with that monster leering down at him. Could only think about how hard he fought before he was hauled away in cold, plastic hands and wondered if that was the last of him.

But he was returned, quiet and haunted, still and silent when they tied him back down and resisting the water they held to his lips until they forced it on him by holding his nose, sputtering and hacking as they poured it down his throat. Calm, Tim took his ration, puzzling over his strange behavior and trying to get a closer look, but Jon just hid behind his overgrown hair, using it like a curtain to shield his face and visibly shivering.

“Given up already?” He sneered, trying to get a rise out of him.

He failed.

Time waxed and waned, strained and stretched, dilating like a pupil in the dark whenever Tim tried to keep track of it. Eventually, he gave up. It didn’t seem like there was any rhyme or reason regarding when they took Jon, but he assumed it was at least once a day. Each time he raged against them with everything he had and each time they overpowered him like he was a child and hurried him off to god knows where. Each time he was tied back down he had an odd blank look in his eye that gradually cleared until it didn’t, trembling finely and Tim used it as a way to needle him, goad him, tried to make him do something, anything. Without a response he didn’t know if he was getting through to him, but it made him feel better to take out his frustration on Jon.

Days passed. Inexorably slow with nothing to do save yell at his sole companion. Jon still tried to make his taking as difficult as he could, but he was slowing down, losing strength on a diet of bread and sips of water. Now when he returned he shook with the effort of weeping without sound, turned away as far as he could and spilling sorrow down the front of his shirt.

“Oh, little Archivist.” Nikola purred one day, lifting his face with a delicately placed fingertip. “Do you know why he hates you?” A new game they were forced to play. Because they were held captive by the Circus. And the Circus had taken Danny. And Tim screamed himself hoarse demanding answers from Jon when he'd been told.

“You’re lucky I’m tied down, Jon! I would take my answers by force if these fuckers would let me!” Jon never said anything other than apologies and it wasn’t enough. It wasn’t fair and when Jon cried it made him that much more furious because what right did he have to be upset when he was the one doing all this to them!

“We can’t have that, Tim.” She would smirk, placing her hands over his shoulders in a mock massage, tone soothing and so understanding. “We need him to be perfect.”

“Perfect.” Tim spat. Perfect. And Jon shook harder at Nikola’s cryptic words until she turned her machinations toward Tim because, after all? If he’d kept a closer eye on his precious family, would he have lost him at all?

“It’s really your fault if you think about it.” Tim tried his damndest to get closer, grappling so hard with his bonds he fell over and still tried to take a chunk out of her with his teeth. She merely laughed, ridiculing them both.

“Leave off!” Jon shouted, Tim’s chest was heaving against the floor as he twisted and bent himself into all manner of shapes in a fruitless attempt to attack her again, blind with rage and hate.

“Only because you asked so nicely.” Nikola caressed his skin and Jon bit his lip until blood ran in rivelets but she left.

“I’m so sor--”

“Save it. Don’t think this changes anything.” Uncomfortable and sore and still seething, Tim laid there until they came for Jon.

Whatever they were doing was taking a visible toll and Jon’s resistance began tapering off and he became too tired to put up a fight. He’d developed a cough that kept them both awake. It began small, chronic and dry, but no less obnoxious and only Jon could find more ways to make this captivity more difficult.

“Stop it.” Clipped and bitter.

“Sorry, sorry. Smoking, you know.” Tim didn’t answer and Jon’s attempts to stifle it were sorely lacking, bursting from his chest like a gunshot.

“You know what they want, don’t you.” Surprised, he looked up, nodding slowly, brow furrowed. “Well?”

“It’s. It’s.” Real fear raced across his face before he could stop it and he swallowed thickly.

“Lemme guess. It involves you.” Tim’s ire began to rise because of course it did.

“Yes.”

“And you won’t just give it over to save us?” Jon looked away, eyes shut tight.

“No.” He tried to take a deep breath and it lodged somewhere in between. “But it’s becau--”

“Save it. Coward. It’s enough that you won’t consider it.” Resentful, Tim again wanted to get his hands on him because of course he’d refuse. There wasn’t a more selfish man in the archives. “So this is it then? We go the way of Sasha?”

“I--”

“Because you didn’t help her either. Didn’t even notice.” It was his turn to hide because he’d be damned if Jon saw him cry. “Maybe if she’d been the Archivist, it would have been you.”

Jon didn’t, couldn’t fight this time and was more lifeless than any time before when they secured him which seemed to please Nikola and she praised him, dragging fingers through his messy hair, pulling sharply on the tangles.

“Ah, you’ve finally learned, Jon." And she tapped his cheek, sickeningly tender, before finally leaving him alone.

“Giving up so soon?” Tim scoffed; ‘so soon’ being weeks into their capture when Jon was clearly exhausted, sleeping more and more in between waking enough to hack up a lung. He could hear the wheeze on his breath from where he was across the room. “Figures.”

“Jus’… m'head hurts.” Laughing bitterly, Tim told him to keep it to himself. Dealing with Jon when he was in a mood or whining for the sake of it hadn’t made it onto his agenda. But the part that cared, that he’d tried to stamp out and fill with hate, reminded him that they were both dehydrated and hungry.

Reminded him that Jon was getting quieter and quieter, going long stretches between speaking and this time when he was carried away, he was frighteningly lax and loose, head thrown back and gasping, overbright eyes half lidded. This time, when they dragged him back and tied him up, he was crying openly, shaking fit to fly apart and eerily quiet. But the tears were there, streaming down his face and gathering on his chin before his trembling got the better of them.

“Jon?” If anything, he sobbed harder, the sound choked off as he tried so, so hard to be quiet.

“Please s’stop, Tim.” And his whisper was so broken, so small and sad, that Tim shut his mouth, because Jon was at his breaking point and he’d helped push him to it.

Now Tim couldn't stop looking at Jon and it made the other man self conscious when he was awake enough to notice, trying to keep his head turned away when he had the strength and it wasn't thrown back over the chair while he gasped like a fish out of water.

The few times Tim caught him looking his way were fraught with weariness. Jon's red rimmed eyes, bruised and ringed with shadow, held a constant question and reminded him too much of his paranoia. Truthfully, the stare was heavy and he was uncomfortable with the weight of it leveled across his shoulders.

"What're you staring at?" But it was a half-hearted attempt at inflicting hurt and Jon shrugged, blinking and a few times as if to clear his vision.

"You okay?" It sounded like he'd been swallowing gravel, rough and low and painful.

"What do you think?" And Tim couldn't stop responding in anger, swearing to himself that Jon's defeated expression meant less than nothing.

Jon wasn’t well.

He’d been unconscious for the better part of a day and Tim hadn’t been able to rouse him; shouting at him from the other side of the room wasn't enough but he tried once more out of desperation.

“Jon, buddy. Jon!”

“Mmwha'Tim?” Cracked right in the middle, it was forced through a deep wet cough that sounded bad. Really bad. The effort left his narrow chest heaving with every difficult pull for air, like he was breathing through a straw.

“Oh, thank god.” Even with the distance between them Tim could see his face twist up in confusion. “You weren't answering me.”

“Talkin t'me?” Panting and pale in the weird light, Jon’s features seemed carved from shadow and sweat.

“Yes, who else??” More than used to Tim’s frustration and annoyance, Jon just let his chin tip forward on his chest. “Jon, what's wrong.”

“Head hur's.” Slurring badly, Jon gave up words altogether in favor of letting his dark lashes flutter closed.

“You've said! What else?” Yelling and angry and helpless, the guilt rose in him like a slow and deadly tide when he saw tears slipping down his face. Tim was scared and he was mean, shouting and demanding, because of it. Because he thought he was done caring about this paranoid menace who had posed as his friend and gotten them into this mess. And he wasn't, oh he wasn't and something was seriously, seriously wrong and he was tied to a chair two meters away and couldn’t do anything about it. “Jon! Don’t, hey! Don’t go to sleep!” But it didn’t matter, he was already gone.

“Well, don’t you look tetchy.” Tim ignored Nikola’s jab the next time she and her clowns came to visit and through a surge of protectiveness he hadn’t felt in so long for anybody, he spoke on his behalf.

“Please. Jon, he. Something’s wrong.” She didn’t look impressed.

“He’s stopped his fighting.”

“Let me check on him. Whatever you need him for, he won’t be any use if he’s dead, right?” Nikola laughed, cruel smile striking fear into Tim’s heart for the first time.

“It wouldn’t matter, truly. But. Well," grabbing a fistful of hair, she forced his head back and forth to get a good look at him. "I just don’t think he’s done yet. And that would be a shame--I do so wish to look my best.” Tim was no closer to figuring out what was happening but it didn’t matter anymore. “I assure you, if you try to run.”

“I won’t.” Swiftly promised, they’d escape another time. Somehow, someway. “Untie us?”

“Us?” She chuckled and in the end, only released Tim but it would have to do, and once he was sure she was well and truly gone, he stumbled on numb legs to stand over him.

“Jon?” Gently, like he might break under the weight of his hand, Tim laid it over his forehead, brushing back through his tangled hair when the heat of it met his palm. He was a furnace, burning away to nothing and very sick. “Jon?” He tore a strip off the bottom of his shirt, wiping away the sweat because there was nothing else he could do until he finally came around. “Hey, Jon.” Jerking away with enough force that Tim had to catch the chair, he coughed with his shoulders hunched around his ears like--

Like Tim was going to strike him.

“Oh, no, no.” What a mess they’d made. “Hey, none of that.” When he went to apply the compress again, Jon flinched, shaking, muttering breathlessly:

“Don’touch, please, don’touch me any’anymore. Pl’please.” So now he was free, free to see up close the terror and fear, faced with it plainly enough to question that Jon wanted any of this at all, or if he was just as caught in it’s spiraling web. He wore himself out, body slumped uncomfortably where he was tied as he lost consciousness and Tim was at a loss as to what to do. He wasn’t able to pick apart the knots, didn’t have anything to slice through his bonds. No medicine, no water. Nothing, and so he finally relegated himself to pounding on the door, shouting, pleading for water because Jon was out of his mind with fever and wouldn't let Tim touch him. Of course it went unanswered, and instead he found himself sitting crisscross at Jon’s feet. “Don’...don’touch…”

“I won’t, I promise. Not, not until you say I can.” Wringing his hands, remembering every time they'd helped each other through a sick day at the institute. Remembering when he was free to touch and free to comfort. Jon ruined that. But it shouldn't mean he was afraid of him.

“T’tim?” The whimper of recognition made the fist around his heart squeeze. “They...they’re. My skin. Take it. G’g’gonna take it.”

“Calm down, you’re not making sense.” And shaking so hard with chills his teeth were chattering.

“It’s going to, to hurt. She, Ni-she.” Worked up, Jon was hyperventilating, barely getting any air between his coughing and rambling but he wouldn’t listen to Tim. “It’s, it’s. I, I, I don’wan’to h’hurt anymore…” Delirious, he had to be, paranoid and ill and delusional and he said as much.

“Okay, Jon? That’s not going to happen.”

“Why Tim!” Nikola’s delighted voice rose up behind him and he startled. “He didn’t tell you? This ritual requires a special ingredient, a costume! Of special power and distinction and you,” she tapped his forehead sharply, “just don’t fit the bill!”

“Costume?”

“Of course!” When she clapped her hands together it made a sharp plastic clatter. “Our Archivist here will have the most lovely skin when we’re through with him.” Tim felt sick to his stomach. Jon. He’d. He’d called him a coward. Wished awful things on him and maybe it would be impossible to be friends again but, but they’d been friends once. Been close once. And.

“Please. He, he needs water.” His voice shook. “His--” skin “It’ll be better if he’s had enough water.”

“A wonderful idea!” She turned away from where she was tracing lines over his body, “to think I wanted to kill you upon arrival, when you’ve been so useful in keeping our mutual friend in line!”

“Slow, slow Jon.” He pulled the cup away when it seemed he’d try for the whole of it at once, “you’ll make yourself sick.”

“T’Tim...need.”

“I know, be patient.” Jon’s brown eyes were piercing even glassed with fever, all his limited focus directed at Tim.

“N’no.” He paused to get enough breath to speak. “Run. You n’need to run.” Days ago, Tim would have done so in a heartbeat but the thought of abandoning him now. He couldn’t.

“I cant.”

“Tim”

“No, not without you.” His gaze was devastating and he dropped his head.

“Why?” He didn’t have an answer and thankfully didn’t need one because at that very moment a yellow door appeared where one had never been before and through it stepped a man who both was and wasn’t, face ever changing, limbs elongating in strange intervals and he had to look away.

“I’ve come to kill you, Archivist.” A distorted echo that was also not an echo filled up the room.

“Get in line, you’re not the only one who wants a piece.” The being seemed taken aback, tickled that a human would even dare, and Jon used the gap in their conversation to draw its attention.

“Michael.” The thing that was Not What It Is shifted focus, oil on water. “Tell me.” And while Jon couldn’t say anything more than that, he did and instead of killing the archivist, Helen saved him, using sharp fingers that warped and writhed to slice the bonds and send him sprawling to the ground. Or would have, if Tim hadn’t caught him. He wouldn’t respond to Tim’s shaking and shouting and when Helen offered to grant them both safe passage as a favor to her favorite Sims (her only Sims, Tim figured) he lifted him into his arms and stepped through the door.

And into his own flat.

“Do tell him I say hello, would you?”

“Uh, yeah. ‘Course.” Awkwardly, he waved with his arms still full of Jon. “Thanks.” When he was sure his flat had only the same number of doors it came with, he laid his burden down on the couch, heading to the medicine cabinet for any fever reducer he could find and filling a glass with water on the way. It took too much time to wake him and he wasn’t aware enough to parse the instructions Tim was trying to explain, that dreadful whistling almost deafening this close and the crackling in his lungs like dry leaves in autumn. So he propped him up against his shoulder, body blazing through their clothes, and slipped the pills onto his tongue one at a time so he could swallow them with small sips. Replacing himself with several pillows shoved behind him, Tim wrung out a cool flannel and smoothed it over his forehead, ignoring the sluggish, enquiring gaze until it disappeared behind heavy lids and his face relaxed into sleep.

There wasn’t anything in the fridge that survived his absence save for the bicarbonate of soda and beyond that, Tim didn’t want to take a chance opening anything. The bread was moldy, but a packet of biscuits with peanut butter helped dull the hunger and, though he would never admit it, gave him a reason to stay up to watch over Jon. Flushed and fevered, he mumbled nonsense in his sleep, and Tim recognized enough that he soon decided not to listen, the horror of it too much to bear just yet. He fell into his own bed, relaxing sore muscles and glanced at the clock blaring too bright numbers that he didn’t want to read, his last conscious decision that they’d been gone this long, what was one more night before telling everyone else they weren’t dead.

The sun, blessed sun, fell across his face and he let himself have a lie in until he remembered who was passed out on his couch and he dragged himself towards responsibility, a knot of apprehension tight in his throat, relaxing when Jon looked, well, not well, but better. Apparently sensitive to being watched, their eyes collided briefly before ricocheting away and Tim was irritated by it and the way Jon was avoiding him again.

“Why didn’t you tell me you were that sick?” Though Tim stood over him, Jon continued to look at his hands, tracing a finger over the rough scar spanning his whole palm. He took his time, thinking, so long that when Tim shouted “well?!” he jumped, eyes wide, breath catching.

“You. You said.” Coughing into his elbow, he needed a moment to recover. “Said t’to keep it to myself.”

“When you were complaining about a headache!” Jon shrugged with one shoulder, curling into himself small and fragile, somehow more so in the late morning light.

“Didn’t think--”

“No, you didn’t, you never do, Jon!”

“--you’d want to know.”

“Jon.” But would he have wanted to know? Would he have ignored it like he had his anguish? What reason had Tim given him when he’d used everything he experienced in that room and out of it as a weapon against him? Jon was looking up at him, wan and pallid, waiting for whatever Tim had to say and he knew he would take it like he’d taken it in their captivity. He sat on the low table in front of the couch. “Jon. I’m. You know I’m angry with you.” He nodded. “I’m sorry for, I took it too far. But, I’d still have wanted to know.” He pressed the next dose of medicine into his unblemished hand and made sure the water glass was within reach. “Take those.” Before he slipped into the kitchen and away from their shared mistakes, but he could still hear.

“Thank you, Tim.”

“Oh,” he popped his head back into the sitting room. “Helen says hello.” And chuckled when Jon threw an arm over his eyes with a groan.

#Tma #the magnus archives #sick jon #Jon Sims #tim stoker #Headache #Fever #non con touching #Kidnapping #Threats of bodily harm #Prompt

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haberdashing · 3 years

Text

open your eyes (i see your eyes are open) (2/?)

Jon, faced with being the last one left in a dying world, sends his memories back in time to someone who might be able to fix things before the worst can happen.

Sasha James, for her part, is very confused.

Chapter 1 / Chapter 2

on AO3

The night before had been ordinary enough, the only quirk being that Tim had used it being the Friday marking the end of their first week in the Archives as an excuse to invite Sasha out to the pubs that night, as opposed to any of the other excuses he always managed to find to do the same.

Sasha’s head was pounding from the beginning of a hangover, though it was early enough in the morning (and her drinking had ended late enough at night) that she could still feel the tail end of her drunkenness in her system, a few drops of alcohol still sluggishly coursing through her veins.

The memories that filled her head now weren’t a mere drunken vision, though, Sasha knew that much.

It was a bizarre feeling, seeing the world through another person’s eyes, another person’s memories. Seeing herself through Jon’s eyes might have been worse still, but Sasha was spared that particular awkwardness... if only by having her place in all of his memories taken up by somebody else entirely, which was just as awkward in a different way that Sasha wasn’t sure she actually preferred.

A small part of Sasha wondered dimly why now, why her, but most of her mind was focused instead on analyzing the treasure trove of future memories that now lay before her.

This wasn’t a dream, a vision, a hallucination. The details were too clear, too specific, too vivid. This was real. This was supernatural, and this was real.

...Sasha wasn’t so sure anymore that her pounding headache was anything so simple as a mere hangover.

She groaned a little as she sat up, taking in her surroundings. They hadn’t changed since the night before, of course, even though Sasha had. She’d ended up getting a little too drunk accidentally-on-purpose and spending the night at Tim’s flat, on the couch that was probably beginning to form an outline of her prone body on it after all this time. (Tim would’ve let her have the bed if she asked, but Sasha didn’t dare; that’d mean either inconveniencing Tim or sharing the bed with him and neither were palatable options for her, not when she hated the idea of imposing on others, not when their friendship was still being rebuilt from the last time they’d been in a bed together.)

It was early still, too early, and part of Sasha wanted nothing more than to curl up in the haphazard pile of blankets Tim had assembled for her and go back to sleep, but she knew that would be a lost cause. Her thoughts were moving a mile a minute now, ideas flowing quickly and steadily even as Sasha stared blearily out at Tim’s living room, and her mind showed no signs of slowing any time soon.

(Unless she encountered a certain web-covered table, perhaps...)

What was she going to do with all this information? Where should she start? How much of the worst of it could she prevent from happening all over again?

Sasha was just grabbing a notebook out of her bag to jot some initial thoughts down when she heard footsteps coming her way, looked up to see Tim entering the room.

“You’re up early.” Tim’s face was covered in a grin, but his eyes told a different story, bleary and glossed over, though he still didn’t look as bad as Sasha felt.

One benefit to being up earlier than her usual, Sasha supposed: Tim was always a morning person, something she could never quite understand, so she’d have someone else to bounce ideas off of, someone who was probably more awake than she’d managed to become so far.

“I am, aren’t I?” Sasha cracked a smile as best she could manage.

“What’s the story, morning glory?”

Sasha hesitated for a moment, biting her lip before finally speaking up. “Can I tell you something weird, something that might sound crazy?”

Tim blinked a few times, and the bleariness faded from his eyes, leaving only that strange early morning energy of his. “Of course. It’d only be fair, right?”

“...right.”

Neither of them mentioned Danny’s name. Neither of them needed to. The grim story lingered over them just the same.

Sasha considered her words carefully. She trusted Tim with the truth, would trust him with her life, but... but she wanted to make sure too much didn’t get out too fast, that her efforts to prevent the end of the world weren’t ruined before they could begin, and even speaking everything aloud here and now wasn’t entirely safe.

Tim sat down on the couch next to Sasha, her scooting over to make room for him as she lay there, planning out her next move.

“I just got hit with this weird wave of... information, I guess? Just this knowledge pouring into my head about the Archives, the Institute, the supernatural in general. And most of it’s not good. We’re really in over our heads here.”

“...you’re not just talking about how Jon doesn’t know the first thing about archiving, are you.” A statement, not a question.

Sasha snorted. “No, though I suppose that bit doesn’t help any. But it’s so much bigger than that. All these things out to get us, ways loads of people could die along the way... I saw a way you could die, Tim.”

Sasha watched Tim’s reaction to that news carefully. He didn’t look happy about it, which Sasha supposed was a good thing, but he didn’t look especially surprised, either. His eyes were dark and hard to read.

“But you’re going to fix it, right? Make sure nothing too bad happens?”

“I’m damn well going to try.” Sasha leaned her head, filled with sleep-time fog and racing thoughts and far too much knowledge now, against Tim’s shoulder; it was firm and warm and comfortable against her cheek. “But I don’t know how much I can do, or even where I should start.”

“I’m sure that big brain of yours will figure out some master plan soon enough.” Tim turned his body a bit, and Sasha adjusted her position in turn to match. “Especially if I have anything to say about it.”

“I think- no, I know I could use the help.” Sasha rested her hand on top of Tim’s. “It means a lot, really, not being alone in figuring it all out.”

“Of course.” Tim squirmed in his seat a bit, and Sasha lifted her head, not wanting to bother repositioning it yet again--where did he get all that energy so early in the morning? “Want me to start making breakfast while you think it all through?”

Sasha’s laugh was shaky but clear just the same. “That’d be lovely.”

#tma #tma au #tma fic #tma fanfic #the magnus archives #the magnus archives au #the magnus archives fic #the magnus archives fanfic #personal #my writing

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mira-eyeteeth · 4 years

Text

That’s an interesting prompt! I’m going to modify it a little, and have this be a AU divergence from Chapter 38.

"Look, Jon, you seem pretty lucid now. Forget about going to go talk to Jude; just get as far away from here as you can."

Jon sighed. "I couldn't even if I wanted to, and I don't want to. Thank you for caring. Really. But I'm all right. I'm not being coerced or controlled," Jon said, then smiled bitterly. "Well, not by Martin, at any rate. And if you still don't believe me, then you can just remember that I'm a monster, too. You don't need to feel badly for monsters. Now, go. Stay at the hotel, consider it a vacation. By the day after tomorrow, I'll be back. ...or they'll at least likely have found my smouldering corpse."

Tim looked like he wanted to say something else, but just sighed and got to his feet, taking the offered money. "Try not to die."

"I'll do my best. Thank you, Tim."

When Jon stepped outside of the Institute, a hand wrapped around his arm and yanked him down a side street. Jon instinctively tried and failed to pull away from the grip, and instead had to stumble along to avoid being dragged across the ground.

"Let go of m-- Tim?" Jon asked.

"Shut it. We're getting out of here, both of us," Tim replied, not slowing.

"What? What are you talking about?"

"I'm not going to just leave you here with that thing, especially not now that I know what it's been doing to you."

"That thing-- you mean Martin? Martin isn't doing anything to me, Tim."

"No, it isn't Martin, and you still thinking that it is him is a pretty clear sign that it's been messing with your head. You're already planning on defying it right now, so that probably means it’s loosed its grip a bit. You probably won’t get a better chance than this to get away, not after it realizes that you’ve been managing to act independently. So we need to go, now.”

“So you’re saying that, in order to protect my free will, you’re going to kidnap me?” Jon asked flatly.

“It’s not… Fine. You know what? Sure. If that’s what it takes, then yes.” Tim said, and continued to drag Jon away.

“So what now? Do you even have a plan?” Jon asked, as they sat in the train compartment. “You know that we can’t stay away from the Institute forever.”

“Hopefully, we won’t have to. It seems like whatever grip it has is weakening, a bit. I figure it might wear off, and then... we can work out what to do from there,” Tim replied.

“And if it doesn’t wear off?”

Tim shrugged. “I guess I’ll cross that bridge when I get to it. Maybe if we’re gone for long enough, the thing will get bored and move on.”

“Martin isn’t just going to move on, Tim. He’s going to be worried about me. You should give me back my mobile; we should at least let him know that--”

“No. We aren’t talking to that thing. You said it can do its mind control shit over the phone. Not gonna be risking that.”

Jon let out a long, exasperated sigh and slumped in his seat. “This is a terrible plan, you must know that.”

Tim set his jaw and shrugged. “If nothing else, it’ll at least be a period of time where the two of us aren’t being manipulated as a part of some evil, spooky plan. Where you aren’t subjected to whatever the hell that thing has been doing to you. If a delay is all I can cause, then a delay is what I’ll settle for.”

Jon let out a humorless huff of a laugh. “You know, I think you’re the first person to follow through on a threat to force me onto a vacation.”

“Maybe if someone had done it sooner, you wouldn’t be caught in a web.”

“Maybe. But this is the path that I am on now. And I’m not caught in any web of Martin’s.”

“Sure,” Tim replied, and lapsed into silence.

Jon stared out the window and considered his options. This could only ever be a temporary situation, and as much as Jon itched to get back to his research, escaping back to the Institute would probably cause more problems than it solved. Tim was desperate, and angry, and he likely felt that he had nothing left to lose. Escaping would lead to either Jon being dragged back and held under closer scrutiny, or force a confrontation between Tim and Martin. Tim might try to hurt Martin, or drive Martin to act in self-defence. It was unlikely to end well for either of them. But if Jon stayed, maybe he could talk Tim around. In the worst case scenario, they would be back at the Institute within two weeks or so anyway.

Martin would be worried, but he could take care of himself. Jon could try to get a message to him after Tim dropped his guard a little.

Jon changed his mind. Tim was clearly trying to murder him.

“You’re not supposed to roll the kayak like that!” Tim called, as Jon sputtered and shook the water out of his eyes.

“Tell that to the waves!” he yelled back. “This is an absurd pastime and I never should have let you talk me into it!”

“Don’t be like that! You’re doing great, boss!” Tim replied with a laugh.

Jon grumbled, but he still couldn’t help but wonder when was the last time that he had genuinely heard Tim laugh.

Jon woke up feeling awful. The feeling had been building for the last few days, but now it had really hit him. He was tired, and shaky, and a headache was beginning to pound through his skull. He groaned and rolled into a miserable huddle.

“You all right?” Tim asked from the other side of the hotel room.

“No,” Jon replied. “I think it’s… we must have been away from the Archives for too long.”

“That’s weird. I feel fine,” Tim said. “I wonder… you said you belonged to the Eye, right? Like, proper belong, not just sort of shackled to it like the rest of us.”

“That’s my understanding, yes,” Jon replied, trying to focus.

“I wonder if being around you is like being in the Archives. If you’re considered an extension of it now, or something.”

“If I am, why am I feeling like this?”

“I’m not sure. Maybe you’re just coming down with something normal, like a cold?”

“This doesn’t feel like a cold. It feels like… like I’m running on empty.”

“Then maybe you need stories. Horrors, like the rest of that place.”

“A statement. I’ve got some kind of a… dependence, now?”

“It’s a possibility.”

“I… I need to go back, Tim.”

Tim sighed. “Suppose it never could have lasted, could it?”

“You knew that as well as I did.”

“What about Martin? Are you still…?”

“In love? Yes. Brainwashed, no, because I never was brainwashed. I don’t know how to convince you of that,” Jon grumbled, unable to come up with a more convincing argument through the discomfort.

“This was all for nothing, then. Story of my life, I guess,” Tim said, apparently to himself. “Well, it’ll all be over soon. I’ll get us packed up.”

They were making their way back to the train station when a voice startled Jon out of his half-daze.

“Jon!”

“Martin?” Jon turned to see Martin just down the perpendicular street. There was a brief moment where they just stared at each other. Then the moment broke and Jon rushed forward to meet Martin.

“Jon, get away from him!” Tim exclaimed, but Jon didn’t slow.

Martin ignored Tim entirely, closing the remaining distance between them in several long strides and bundling Jon into his arms. "I found you. You’re all right. You, you are all right, aren’t you?"

"I’m fine. A bit… hungry, though,” Jon replied, wrapping his arms around Martin and nuzzling in close.

Martin’s grip tightened on Jon a bit. “He hasn’t been giving you food?” he asked, his voice dangerously soft.

“No, he has. It’s not… I need the statements, now, I think. Part of what I am.”

“We’ll get you back to the Institute, then. Get you sorted out,” Martin said, cupping Jon’s cheek with one hand and touching his forehead to Jon’s. “I was worried about you.”

“I know. I’m sorry, I just…”

“It’s not your fault. Tim’s the one who…” Martin trailed off and shook his head before hugging Jon again.

“So. Should I expect to be taken care of here, or are you going to wait until Jon’s out of sight before you do it? Don’t really see why you would bother, but maybe lying is easier than just making him forget,” Tim said.

Martin reluctantly loosened his grip on Jon. “What?”

“Not too hard to figure out what’s coming next. You’re a monster, and I took your property.”

“Tim, I’m not… I mean, I, I am a little angry with you, but I understand why you acted the way you did. You were trying to look after Jon. I’m not exactly crazy about the fact that you decided that kidnapping was the best way to go about things, but I’m not going to hurt you.”

“Right. So later it is then. Good to know.”

Martin sighed. "Do you happen to know what Jon can do, Tim?" he asked.

“Do how?”

“He can make people answer his questions. You know, supernaturally. Go on, Jon. Ask him something.”

Jon blinked, not sure where this conversation had gone. “I, ah, what, what made you want to join the Institute, Tim?” he asked.

“Thought it might be a way to figure out what happened to Danny,” Tim replied, then his eyes widened. “What the--”

“There, see. You can’t help but answer. Now ask me if I forced you into this, Jon.”

“Oh. Right, that’s a good idea. Martin, did you in any way coerce me into this relationship?”

“No, never.”

“Did you supernaturally alter my emotions?”

“No.”

“There you go, then,” Jon said, letting go of Martin to turn to face Tim. “That should clear things up.”

“I don’t… How can I believe you? How can I believe any of this?” Tim asked.

“I mean, you don’t have to trust either of us, if you really don’t want to,” Martin replied. “But not trusting anything, not being able to rely on anyone, it’s not good for you. You don’t need to trust us, but you should trust someone. We aren’t your enemies, Tim. And, and if I really am as bad as you seem to think, what difference do you think that distrust is going to make, anyway?”

“I…” Tim trailed off, looking tired.

“Here,” Jon walked back toward Tim and reached out a hand. “Would you let me…?”

Tim swallowed and nodded minutely. Jon took him by the hand and drew him toward where Martin still stood. The both of them hugged Tim together, who was tense but unresisting.

“I can’t promise that things will be okay. They probably won’t be. But you’re not alone,” Jon said.

“Mhm,” Tim replied noncommittally, but he sagged a little bit into the hold and rested his head on Jon’s shoulder.

#patchwork #well this was less shenanigan-y than I expected it to be but I got a little bit #I just want Tim to be happy #prompt #fic #tma #the magnus archives #jonmartim #if you squint

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chronicbatfictioner · 6 years

Text

Theater of the Soul - Chapter 9

Bright red. He saw flashes of red. Most things around his world were red. His blanket is red, he knew. Not a blanket, really; but once upon a time, it was red. His shirt was red - he thought. Whatever color it was today, he was quite sure it was red. Probably some time when he'd acquired it from the trash can, before the dirt and grime from the street stained it.

There was a red-breasted birdy in his pocket. There was once a little bird in his life. Both were gone, and he did not know where they went. But he was quite sure that it had been his fault. Everything were his fault. He was not strong enough. He wouldn't follow orders. He wasn't smart enough..

Thoughts jumbled to and fro in his brain today. There have been too many noises around that had disrupted his day. He hated the loud noises - police cars passing by, voices screeching somewhere in the distance, bangings of god knows what. He'd been keeping himself safe, under the blanket. Things can go by over the blanket and he would be okay.

There were noises of people talking near him. They sounded like they were under water. Or maybe he was the one under water.

He could hear the person calling him, thinking that the voice had come from the person he usually shared his space with - the one with the little kid. He peeked out from under the blanket, and immediately focused on the male voice. He recognized the male's form, curly hair, brown skin, kind hazel eyes. There were other forms that were mere human-shaped blurs in his eyes.

One of the blurs knelt in front of him. There was something about it that didn't scream 'danger' to him, and he waited. The blur showed him something. Something in a rectangle it was holding in its hand. Something with long, soft, flowy red hair.

Something that felt like home.

He tentatively reached for it.

Surprisingly, the old man was right. Just a few corners from the Art Districts, Tim noticed a few lumps of... something? someone? -- covered in tarps. On impulse, he approached the reddish colored one and tapped the foot area. Or at least the spot he thought where a foot would be.

Somebody else called out, "hey, don't bug him!"

Tim startled a little, but then noticed that the guy calling out to him was only a kid around his age, with a messy afro and brown skin, wearing several layers of clothes and probably pants, too - likely to make himself look bigger. "Hi," Tim greeted him politely, and noticed Helena a safe distance away behind the guy. "I'm not planning to bug him. Can you... have you seen this guy?" he offered Jason's photo again.

The boy studied the photo for a moment and then snorted. "Can't believe that's him... but yeah, he's the Red Hoodie kid." he pointed to the red tarp. "But you don't wanna bug him, really. He gets vicious." he added.

"Why?" Tim was more startled at the meekness of his own voice. "He's... he's my brother... Is he okay?"

The boy looked only slightly skeptical before he shrugged. "Not really. He was like that when he got here. Snorted some bad drug, prolly. But he ain't hurtin' us and gets vicious when people nag us." he said proudly. "Up all night to watch out for us and sleeps all day while we watch out for him."

"Who's we?" Tim asked curiously.

"Me and my lil sis. He did good by us."

Tim studied the boy, seriously couldn't be much older than Tim. "Are you here with your folks?" Tim asked carefully.

Maybe it was because Tim was as young as he was, maybe he didn't notice Helena loitering nearby, but the boy seemed relaxed. "Naah, our mom got busted coupla months ago for hooking. No dad, ever. She'll be outta jail next week and we're good. Red's been lookin' out for us." he said, adding, "He your brother?"

"Where do you live, usually?"

"Compton, baybeeh. But don't sweat it, buddy. We been on the street before. Mom was hookin' 'cause she was lookin' for some cash for food. She got fired, y'see." he explained. "I'm Danny."

"I'm Tim," Tim accepted the extended hand. "Where's your sister now?"

"At Hope, they have a daycare there."

Tim definitely gulped, silently hoping that the boy meant the sister was working there instead of being cared for in there. "How old is your sister?" he croaked, inwardly cringing at the obviously illogical thought: if the sister was working, the boy wouldn't need to be on the streets now, would he?

"Four. She's not like, really my sister. Just like, half sister, right? But her dad is an asshole and got himself killed in a drive-by and my momma gotta support her and me. She got fired from her school - she was a teacher, see. Not that it paid much, but without it, she's got nothin'." he shrugged. "What's your deal, man?"

"I..." Tim hesitated, looking at the lump that was supposed to be Jason. "I'm looking for my brother. We're... not related. But we're both adopted. And he... I guess he was angry when I got adopted, too, he thought I was there to replace him." he explained, deciding as he went to give just about 75% of the truth, "he ran away. Our dad's been looking for him, and I finally decided to come here with a family friend. I was hoping I'd get a better luck..."

"Lucky," the boy - Danny- said. "I'm too old to get fostered and would end up in a group home. My sis could end up at some random pedo's house." he shrugged. "But anyway, mom'll be out next week, anyway. He's been helping me get some cash for the bus fare to county jail. So we're good. --hey Red! Somebody's here to see you."

The bundle shuffled, and the head part finally uncovered itself, showing a bush of jet black hair and a white streak on the bangs. Tim almost thought it was not Jason, until the guy opened his eyes.

And Tim swore he would never be able to forget those eyes. In spite of both their eyes being blue, Tim's were more indigo whereas Jason's were more turquoise. Thanks to his camera, Tim also knew that there was a little imperfection in Jason's right eye, a fleck of hazel among the blue-greens.

He was more alarmed at the blankness of the eyes, though, although he knew that behind the scruffy beard, the guy was definitely Jason. A lot bigger than the last time he saw him, but still Jason.

"Jason?" he called out tentatively, surprisingly calmly considering he wanted to yell and jump and maybe high-five Helena or something. "Would he run...?" he asked Danny carefully. Jason was still staring at him blankly.

"Naah, he knows he's safe here. We look after our own, right, Red?" Danny replied. But there was a note of pensiveness that was audible enough to make Tim turn and look at him.

"You're scared that I'm gonna take him away and leave you and your sister unprotected." Tim hypothesized.

Danny gave him a nervous laugh. "We'll get by. Just a week, right? At least he'll get healthcare or something."

Tim finally met Helena's eyes. "No, it's not right." Tim said. "Can you do something? If not, I'd rather have them in Bruce's place." he asked Helena. He noticed that at the mention of 'Bruce', Jason's eyes started to blink rapidly.

Helena sighed. "You know what? Why don't I go get my car and we'll think about this later..." she said. "I got the feeling that you're just like daddy, Tim... you can't just let something like this pass."

"Absolutely not. Hey, Danny, how far is Hope daycare?" Tim asked, deciding something in his mind.

"Not far, why?"

"Right. Here's the thing. Jason trusts you, and he probably doesn't remember me - he's been gone for over a year, after all. I've probably physically changed than the one he remembered. Miss Helena here will go grab her car, and then you'll help me load Jason into the car, and then we'll go to where I'm staying." Tim said. "You and your sister can come, too, and you can stay there with me until your mom gets out of jail. Or, maybe with Helena. I don't know yet. I'll figure something out on the way and set something up. I'm not gonna leave you here on the streets alone."

Danny glared at Tim contemplatively for a good long while with one crooked eyebrow, as if trying to decide if Tim was nuts or lying.

"I'm not nuts, I'm not lying. Helena, please? The soonest we can get Jason out of the streets the better." Tim prompted as he pulled out his cellphone and called Barbara. "Babs? I found him." he said immediately as soon as Barbara picked up the phone.

"Tim, you're a magic worker, I swear. Can I talk to him?" Barbara replied, the relief in her voice palpable.

"I'm putting you on video call. Maybe he'll recognize you."

"Recog-- wait, what?"

Tim predicted that Jason would react strongly to Barbara's face, and he did. Jason's eyes began to tear up as he saw Barbara's face in the phone. He reached for it, and Tim handed it over, watching as Jason cradled the phone in his hands. Barbara reacted just as Tim hoped, she continued talking to Jason - saying whatever it was in her mind, probably, that calmed Jason.

While Jason continued cradling the phone in his hands and looked blankly at Barbara's face, Tim turned to Danny and Helena expectantly. "You guys have a problem with my other plans?"

Helena smirked fiendishly. "Tim, buddy, at this point in my life, if your plans include the invasion of Normandy, I'm just gonna start rolling my sleeves and pack an overnight bag."

#Jason Todd #Tim Drake #JayTim #helena bertinelli #OC #SoulTheater!AU #BatFam #barbara gordon

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ollieofthebeholder · 3 years

Text

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

Read from the beginning on Tumblr || Also on AO3

Chapter 52: Tim

Charlie is exactly as pleased to see Jon as Tim thought he would be. He attacks Jon in a huge bear hug and readily accepts the offer of ice cream. He wants to hear all about Jon’s trip, which, well, they all should have expected. Somehow, Jon manages to satisfy his curiosity without telling him about his research, or about being kidnapped.

“Will you take me with you next time?” Charlie asks as they’re walking back home. There’s not enough room for them to walk four abreast, so he’s holding Jon’s hand, swinging it back and forth as they walk just ahead of Tim and Martin. He’s almost skipping, half-turned so he can see Jon but also see the others.

“Next time?” Jon repeats.

“Next time you go on a trip. Can I come, too?”

Jon looks momentarily stuck, and Tim finds himself reaching for Martin’s hand. “We—we’ll see.”

Charlie’s face falls. “That means ‘no.’”

“That means ‘we have to make sure it’s okay with your grandmother for us to take you out of town,’” Jon corrects him. “And that you aren’t in school. And, depending on where we go, that you have a passport. But we’ll see. All right?”

Just like that, the smile blooms on Charlie’s face again. “Okay!”

Jon manages to redirect the conversation to school and books, and Charlie chatters for the remainder of the walk, only falling silent when they reach his door and his grandmother stands in the doorway and orders him inside. As usual, she addresses him clearly and deliberately by the wrong name, and Tim, still a bit raw from the revelations of the day, almost blows up at her before Martin stops him with a gentle hand to the arm and a shake of the head. Tim fumes, but he respects Martin enough to withdraw.

“Tim, it won’t be any help if you tell her off,” Martin says once they’re safely inside. “Especially if you yell at her. It won’t change how she treats Charlie, and honestly she’ll just take it out on him. Trust me.”

Jon, who’s been in the act of shrugging out of his jacket, freezes, and he and Tim exchange horrified looks. Jon opens his mouth, then shuts it and gestures for Tim to ask—which, Tim realizes, is sensible. Jon’s afraid of compelling an answer out of Martin, and if he doesn’t want to answer…

On the other hand, Tim doesn’t beat about the bush. “Did your mum hit you?”

Martin sighs heavily. He looks knackered. “Only once or twice. She didn’t need to, really. It usually cowed me enough when she just shouted.”

Tim wordlessly crosses the room to hug Martin just as Jon does the same.

It’s Martin’s turn to cook, so he fixes dinner while Jon tells them in more detail about his trip. Tim sincerely hopes that Julia Montauk and Trevor Herbert don’t actually turn up looking for Jon, especially since they have neither Daisy Tonner nor the Not-Them available to unleash on them, but mostly because he really doesn’t want Jon getting any more hurt. Martin’s hands are shaking and he drops something twice, which isn’t like him. At first, Tim thinks the story is scaring him, but by the end of dinner, he realizes that Martin is absolutely exhausted.

“Martin,” he says gently, “are you okay?”

“Hmm? Yeah, yeah. Just—” Martin waves a hand. “Bit tired. You know how it goes.”

“Have you been sleeping?” Jon asks. He glances at Tim, like he expects Martin to lie.

Martin has been sleeping, that’s the thing—and then it hits Tim. “You took two statements in a row this week. And Peter Lukas showed up. Then the tape…you’re overloaded.”

Immediately, Jon gets up and begins gathering the plates. “Go lie down,” he tells Martin. “We’ll clean up in here and join you in a minute.”

It’s got to be a measure of how tired he is that Martin complies right away. Tim puts away the leftovers while Jon puts the dishes in the sink to soak. He gives Tim a worried glance. “I’ll wash them in the morning, but you know our Martin, he won’t even try to rest until we’re there.”

Tim nods; he knows how Martin is all right.

They get the kitchen at least a little buttoned up, then head to the bedroom. Sure enough, Martin is still awake, but he is at least in bed, sitting with his back against the headboard and his arms on his knees, staring vacantly at the wall opposite him. He looks up and manages a smile when they come in. Tim automatically smiles back. The three of them settle down with Martin in the middle this time, and apparently they’re all tired, because they drop off in a matter of minutes despite it being barely dark.

Tim wakes up early from a nightmare that’s eerily reminiscent of the statement he took last week to find himself curled close to Martin, his face buried in the soft, warm skin at the back of his neck. As his eyes come into focus, for a moment, the scars glow their eerie yellow-green, and Tim has to look away. He starts to roll out of bed, only to be stopped with a gentle touch to his arm.

He looks back. Jon has reached over Martin for Tim. His head is half-raised from the pillow as he looks at Tim. Tim’s breath catches in his throat, because his eyes are still apparently firmly in Fear-O-Vision. Jon’s eyes, or what of them are visible through his long, dark lashes, glow a deep and vibrant green; the purple threads of the Web overlay his face, and on his bicep is what looks to Tim like a bright red handprint. The soft, sleepy smile on his lips is one hundred percent Jon, though. “Hey,” he murmurs.

“Hey,” Tim murmurs back. It’s impossible not to return the smile, even if it hurts. “Go back to sleep, Jon. It’s okay.”

“Don’t leave.” Jon’s smile melts off his face. “’S not safe.”

“I’m just going to the bathroom. I won’t leave,” Tim promises.

“’Kay.” Jon’s head drops back onto the pillow, and his fingers slide off of Tim’s arm. Tim wonders if he actually woke up at all or if that was done in his sleep.

He slips out of the bedroom and into the bathroom, braces himself against the sink, and stares at his face in the mirror. His eyes glow green, too—maybe not as intense as Jon’s, but still vivid—but what catches his attention is the left side of his chest. There’s a mark there, glowing like a neon sign on a rainy night—a bright indigo slash, almost a fissure, crossing in a jagged line directly over his heart. Like someone has tried to cut him open and drag it out.

Which, he supposes, it has. First Danny, then Jon being snatched off the street, then Martin and the Not-Diana…three times the Stranger has gone for someone Tim loves. Once it has succeeded. He vows anew that it won’t succeed again.

The statement pops into his head. The list Walter Sims saw, twenty-seven years ago. Tim’s not stupid. He’s figured it out. The names are in order of death, and his name is ahead of Jon’s and Martin’s, which means he’s going to go first. It’s not unexpected; he is almost three years older than they are, and even if that isn’t that big of an age gap, he’s still older and it’s natural he’ll die before they do. But he doesn’t think he’s going to have the luxury of dying of old age. He’s almost completely sure that the Unknowing is going to kill him, and that the reason the date of his death was obscured on that list is that the Unknowing isn’t a fixed date.

So be it. If he’s going to burn, he’ll burn bright, and he’ll take as many of them down as he can while he does.

He rubs a hand over his face and glances over his shoulder towards the bedroom where the men he loves—the men he’s willing to die to protect—are sleeping wrapped up in one another. He knows he can’t tell them how he feels about them now; he has no right to drop that on them and then leave them to deal with it forever. They’ll have…whatever they can get between now and the Unknowing. That will have to be enough.

He ought to go start breakfast, or make tea, or, hell, do some laundry or something. Anything to avoid going back to the bedroom. He ought to start cutting the cord now, setting up some distance. Make the break, because the longer he lets himself cling to them, the harder it’s going to be to let go, even though he knows he has to. And even if they don’t feel the same way about him that he does about them, they still care, and the last thing he wants is to make it harder on them when he does die.

Instead, he glares at his reflection until it goes back to normal, then returns to the bedroom and tries to wrap himself around both of them.

Somehow, he’s able to put it out of his mind for the rest of the weekend. They have exactly the weekend Jon asked for—a time to relax, to enjoy being in one another’s company. Saturday, after they all fully wake up, they collect Charlie and take him for a picnic by the Thames. Charlie is fascinated by the people rowing boats down the river; Martin offhandedly answers one of his questions, seemingly without thinking, and when pressed admits that he joined a rowing club as a way to pass the time after his mother went into a care home. It ends with them renting a boat and Martin rowing—he calls it “sculling”—them down the river. He even teaches them one of the shanties he learned as a boy so they can help him keep time with his strokes. Charlie’s got a good voice for his age.

Sunday they decide to go to one of the farmer’s markets set up in London rather than their usual grocery store run. Jon spots a used bookstore on their way and Tim and Martin indulge him, trailing after him while he roams happily through stacks of well-read tomes. Tim notices he avoids the more antiquarian sections, hesitates, and lets his focus relax, just slightly—just enough that he can see any of the marks that might be around. Fortunately, while the bookseller himself has red-orange striations dripping down his hands, none of the books appear to belong to any of the Fears.

It’s a nice, relaxing weekend, exactly what all of them need. Tim is admittedly less than enthusiastic about going back to work on Monday, but he figures he needs the reality check. He needs to remember that there’s no happy ending here. Not for him, anyway. He can’t stay in the cozy little domestic haven he’s built with Martin and Jon, pretending that’s what life has in store for him.

Sasha and Melanie both appear to have had good weekends as well. Melanie will only say that she “had a date” and refuses to elaborate, but Sasha enthusiastically tells them all about how she and Basira—whom she’s apparently become quite close to—have been setting up space in her flat for her uncle.

“By the way,” Sasha adds, pointing at Jon, “Basira says she and Daisy will help.”

Jon looks confused. “Help?”

“With the Unknowing. With…whatever the plan ends up being. You know, if we need a little extra muscle or expertise we don’t have or something.”

“O-oh. Right. Right.” Jon swallows hard. “We’d best go check out Gertrude’s storage unit, I suppose.”

“All of us?” Melanie asks.

“No…no, someone ought to stay here. Provide a distraction. I don’t want Elias knowing more than he has to.” Jon says this quietly and quickly.

“I’ll stay,” Tim says.

All four of the others look at him, startled. Tim tries not to look embarrassed or defensive. After a moment, Jon says, “I—I was rather hoping you’d come with us. After all, this is largely…this affects you far more than the rest of us. I’d like you to be at the forefront of the planning.”

“All the more reason I should stay here,” Tim says. “Elias knows about Danny. He’s got to. He knows how bad I want to take out the Unknowing. Which means that if I stay here…he’ll be less likely to think that’s what you’re off dealing with. I can be a distraction. I’m good at that.”

“I’ll stay with him,” Sasha offers. “Two heads are better than one.”

Jon looks unhappy, but takes a deep breath. “Right, okay. Melanie, you coming with us, then?”

“Yeah, sounds like a party.”

“Right.” Jon exhales. “We shouldn’t be too terribly long. If we’re not back by lunchtime—”

“Text Melanie and ask if she needs help hiding your body. Right.” Sasha winks. “It’s fine, Jon. We’ll see you when you get back.”

Jon smiles, reluctantly. “Right.” He squeezes Tim’s shoulder briefly, then heads to the door. Martin touches his arm and gives him a slightly worried look, then trails after him, Melanie stomping alongside him.

Sasha watches them go, then turns to Tim. “So, want to go set fire to the break room?”

Tim has no idea if Sasha is joking or not, but he shrugs. “Sure. I’m always down for a little light arson.”

The break room isn’t as crowded as it will be later on in the day, but there are enough people that ignition without detection is going to be difficult. Tim holds the door for Manal, who’s rushing out and looking a bit harried, salutes Rosie as she holds the powdered creamer up to the light suspiciously, and saunters over to the counter. Lacking any other reason to be there, he’s going to make a cup of coffee and either wait for a good opportunity or wait for Sasha to figure out how to start her fire unobserved.

There are already two people at the coffee pot, clearly in no hurry to be about their jobs. Scott, a Researcher who started the same week Tim did, leans casually against the counter with his mug in hands while chatting with someone Tim remembers seeing in the library the last time he was up there. Tim ignores them, mostly, as he fishes around in the cupboard for a mug…until he catches Jon’s name.

“—honestly don’t know why he bothered coming back,” Scott is saying, sounding derisive. “Not like he’s going to be here much longer.”

Tim whirls around. “What did you say?”

“Oh, come on, Tim,” Scott scoffs. “You work for the guy—well, when he bothers to come into the office anymore. How long’s he been gone this time? A month?”

“Two weeks,” Tim says tightly. “He was on a business trip.”

“Is that what he told you? Please. He probably fucked off to another country and left you all to deal with the chaos. Did he come back and complain about you messing up his precious system?”

“I was there when Elias sent him on the trip,” Tim bites off, setting a mug on the counter with a thump. “I know where he was, Scott.”

Scott’s eyebrows lift, and the curl of his lip gets more pronounced. “Oh. That explains it.”

Tim stares at Scott. “Explains what?”

“Why he gets so many privileges. Why he got that damned job in the first place. Sims is sure as hell no Archivist,” Scott says with a sneer. “And he practically gets away with murder down there, leaving you lot to take the fall, I’m sure…if there is any fall-out. But it all makes sense if he’s blowing Bouchard or—”

Tim hits him.

There’s no science behind it, no worrying about whether his thumb should be inside or outside his fist, no reaching for the forms he learned back in school where boxing was part of the curriculum. Just a sheer, forceful hook, straight from the shoulder to Scott’s jaw. The mug in his hand falls to the floor and shatters, sending hot coffee splashing all over the place, but Tim ignores it and launches himself at Scott.

A few people scream, others yell, and Scott tries to defend himself, but he’s no match for Tim, fueled by a combination of nervous tension and righteous anger. Scott fights back, but if he lands any blows, Tim can’t feel them. Chairs clatter, tables scrape, footsteps clatter, and several people are shouting suggestions about either who to fetch to stop this or what one of them should do to the other.

“You’re breaking my arm!” Scott screams, twisting about on his stomach and trying to shove Tim away with his feet.

“Only because I can’t reach your neck!” Tim shouts back.

“Break it up, break it up!” someone says gruffly from overhead. Somebody catches Tim’s fist when he pulls it back for another blow, someone else grabs him by the back of the shirt, and they drag him back from Scott, who scrambles away from him and manages to get to his hands and knees, breathing hard. Blood and coffee are smeared all over the floor of the break room; most of the former is still dripping from Scott’s face, but Tim is suddenly aware that his knuckles are torn and he can’t breathe out of his left nostril.

“What is going on in here?” The firm, crisp voice can only belong to Elias Bouchard, and Tim turns to see the man, crisp as usual in his well-pressed charcoal suit and narrow tie, looking at the mess of the break room and seeming faintly annoyed.

Scott snuffles and wipes his face with the back of his hand. Struggling to his feet, he points accusingly at Tim. “He attagged be!”

“Tim?” Elias turns his gaze onto Tim, one eyebrow raised.

Tim glares at Scott. “Damn right I did.”

Elias gives a long-suffering sigh. “Would anyone like to tell me why?”

A soft voice pipes up from somewhere in the direction of the coffee pot. “Mr. Tucker accused Jonathan Sims of sleeping his way to the top.”

The break room goes utterly still. A chill descends on the air. Elias stares unblinkingly at the library assistant Scott was talking to earlier, who is wide-eyed and looks like he can’t believe what he just said, but manages to meet Elias’s gaze anyway. Slowly, ever so slowly, Elias turns to look at Scott.

“Is that true?” he asks, every word falling with deadly precision.

Scott has gone white as a sheet. He opens his mouth and closes it several times, but Elias doesn’t give him the chance to speak. “My office. Now.” He turns to look at Tim, his expression stern. “Tim, go get that tended to, then go home. Take the rest of the day off.”

Tim doesn’t trust himself to speak. He simply nods.

Elias turns on his heel and strides out of the room after Scott, his soles unnaturally loud against the floor. The room stays silent for a long moment. Finally, Tim turns to look at the library assistant and says, a bit roughly, “Thanks.”

The assistant swallows and turns to look at him. “Sure. Uh—you need a hand?”

“I’ll get him to the clinic,” Sasha says, touching Tim’s elbow. “Thanks, though.”

The assistant nods, then turns and grabs a wad of paper towels off the rack. The noise in the break room starts up again, but subdued, as Sasha escorts Tim out of the room, cradling his right hand, which is beginning to throb with pain.

“Well,” she says at last as they exit the Institute. “That’s one way to cause a distraction.”

“Shut up, Sasha,” Tim says tiredly. He stops at the corner. “Look…you’d better get back to the Institute. In case the others call. I’m going to go to the clinic, and then I’m heading home. I promise.”

Sasha eyes him uncertainly, but either she reads his mind and knows he means it or she decides to take it on faith. “Okay. Just…take it easy, Tim. And please don’t get kidnapped or anything. I don’t want to have to explain that to Jon and Martin.” She hesitates, then kisses his cheek. “Also, that was so satisfying to watch. I’ve wanted someone to lay that dick out for years.”

Tim manages a laugh and makes his way down the block.

Zig at the front desk takes one look at him and waves him to the back. “You remember where to go, right? Where’s Martin?”

“Running errands with the boss. He doesn’t know about…” Tim gestures at himself and immediately regrets it when the movement jostles his hand. Damn, he broke a bone. “It’s nothing spooky this time, Zig. Just a fistfight.”

Zig looks skeptical, but nods. “Still. Best get that looked at.”

Dr. Early actually seems relieved Tim can accurately say what caused his injuries and that it isn’t usual Magnus Institute bullshit. He cleans up a few cuts Tim hasn’t noticed, assures him his nose isn’t broken, and sets his hand. Manipulating the broken bone causes a stab of pain that makes Tim’s vision flare for a moment, and when the blinding flash fades, the corners of the room and Dr. Early are all suffused in a green glow.

Great.

Tim leaves a few minutes later with his hand encased in a hot pink plaster cast and gets a thumbs-up and a grin from Zig, whose face and hands are striped with a mix of green and brown; his vision hasn’t settled, despite his best efforts, and he wonders idly when they fell afoul of the Buried. He returns the gesture as best he can and holds the door for a man who shuffles out, looking bone weary, and with wisps of indigo clinging to his shoulders.

“Thanks kindly,” the man says. “Bit of a shame, a guard not able to open a bloody door.”

“You’re a guard?” Tim asks politely.

“If I ain’t lost m’job, after last night.” The man rubs his shoulder, the one where the indigo glow is strongest. Tim clenches his jaw, trying to force the colors back. “Not a good look for a cemetery guard, is it, lettin’ someone get the drop on ‘em.”

A chill runs down Tim’s spine and he doesn’t know why. “What cemetery? What happened?”

“Roding Lane Cemetery. Been there nigh on fifteen years and nary an incident.” The man sighs heavily. “Then last night, I was doin’ rounds when I spotted some folks, bold as brass, diggin’ in one of the graves. Two big men and a woman. There was a coffin there with ‘em, so I reckoned as they were doing a burial, but after dark? I called out, and one of ‘em swung out at me with his shovel. Knocked me out good and proper. Didn’t come round for a couple hours.” He shakes his head sadly. “Proper shame. Proper shame. You hear of resurrection men and the like, but I thought those days were long past.”

Tim swallows hard. “Yeah. Did you recognize the people?”

“Nah, not as such. Remember seeing the van, though. I thought it odd. Most people bring bodies in a hearse, not a delivery van.”

The man heads off when they reach the corner with a friendly wave, but Tim’s head is buzzing. Two men and a woman, with a delivery van and a coffin, digging up a grave in the middle of the night and leaving the trace of the Stranger on a man who interrupts them? There’s only one possible explanation.

Orsinov, Breekon and Hope.

Tim should go home like he promised. He should go home and rest and…but he can’t. Not if getting this answer will mean a difference to Jon and Martin.

He turns and trudges towards the nearest Tube station instead.

Getting to Roding Lane Cemetery is a bit of a job, but Tim manages it. It’s relatively small, but it still might take him a while to find what he’s looking for. Taking a deep breath and slipping his good hand in his pocket to make sure his phone is actually there, he starts walking the rows. After a few minutes, he hears grunting and grumbling, punctuated by a metallic scraping, and instinctively knows it’s the sound of a shovel in dirt. Someone is either digging a grave…or filling one in.

He homes in on the sound and finds a weatherbeaten old man muttering to himself as he spades dirt into a hole. The man pauses and looks up at Tim with an unfriendly expression. “Here to gawk, are you?”

“Visiting family,” Tim lies easily. “Or trying to. Can’t quite remember where she’s buried.”

“Oh. Sorry.” The man relaxes a bit and goes back to what he’s doing. “Just got to fill in the hole, that’s all, sir, and I’ll be out of your hair. Hope this ain’t who you’re here to visit.”

Tim looks at the tombstone, and his stomach turns over. He really should have expected this. “Well…it was.”

“Oh.” Now the man looks uncomfortable. He hesitates, then sets the shovel aside. “I’ll…leave you to it, then, sir. Take some time. I’ll be back in five minutes.”

“Thanks.” The last thing Tim wants is to be left alone with a half-open grave, but that’s what he gets.

He stares at the tombstone for a minute. It’s simple and tasteful, bearing a name, a pair of dates, and a Bible verse. Matthew 7:7: Ask, and it shall be given ye; seek, and ye shall find. It’s either her favorite verse or darkly ironic or someone’s idea of a joke, and Tim’s not prepared to bet one way or another.

He genuflects, a reflex from childhood, and looks down into the grave. The casket is still partially exposed, a cheap wooden affair, and he can see the cracks and splintering on its lid. They really did a number on it trying to break it open.

“Is she still in there?” he asks the gravedigger when the man comes back. “Or is the casket empty?”

“She’s still in there, sir.” The man looks uncomfortable. “Well…most of her. I don’t want to be…” He trails off.

Tim stands, brushing the dirt off his knee with his good hand, and slides his other hand into his jacket to keep from using it. “She was my partner’s grandmother. He’s a horror writer,” he adds, hastily inventing an excuse. “Trust me when I say, family or no, there’s nothing you can tell me worse than some of the things he’s concocted.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that.” The man looks around, then shuffles closer to Tim and whispers, “They took her skin, they did. At least we assume it was her. They had what was left on top of the casket, her clothes next to her. It were a right mess.”

“Did they call the police?”

“No, sir. No, sir. No bad publicity. They’d shut us down, sir, and where would the mourners be?” The man shakes his head vigorously. “No, no coppers. Won’t never catch them anyway.”

“No,” Tim murmurs, tracing the name on the stone. “No, I’d imagine not.”

He stops at the office for a few words, then heads home to think.

When Jon and Martin come home several hours later, Tim sits on the sofa with his stocking feet kicked up on the coffee table, his laptop propped on his knees and the playlist from the day they moved in softly playing through the sound system. He doesn’t bother to fake a smile for them; they know he’s glad to see them and he doesn’t need to pretend to be all right. “Hey.”

“Hey.” Jon comes over and touches his cheek gingerly. “Are you all right? Sasha told me—Tim, when I said we needed a distraction, I didn’t mean ‘start a fight in the break room.’”

“That wasn’t my plan. I didn’t really have one. Sasha wanted to set it on fire.” Tim resists the urge to lean into Jon’s hand.

“Let me see.” Martin sits down on Tim’s other side and reaches gently for the casted hand. Tim lets him have it and turn it over gently. The whole hand is immobilized past the wrist. “One of the metacarpals?”

“Yeah. Don’t ask me what part of his face I broke it on.”

“Are you hurting? Do you need some paracetamol? Tea?”

“I’m okay,” Tim assures him. “It looks worse than it is. And, hey, it worked, right?”

Jon sighs. “I’d rather it didn’t involve you needing medical treatment, but yes. We got in and out of Gertrude’s storage unit without issue.”

“So what was in there?”

“Apart from quite a lot of miscellaneous junk and the remains of the gorilla skin? A large quantity of plastic explosives. Apparently her plan to stop the Unknowing was the one that involves blowing it to hell.” Jon rubs a hand over his face. “I was hoping it would be safer, but…well, here we are. We’ll have a planning session later this week, when Sasha can get hold of Basira and we can maybe get Daisy involved, and work out the logistics. Of course, a lot of it’s going to be theoretical at this point. We still don’t know when they’re going to be doing this. It could be months, it could be weeks.”

Tim clears his throat. “I think it’s going to be soon.”

Martin runs a gentle hand through Tim’s hair; he resists the urge to lean into it like a cat. “Why don’t I like the way you said that?”

“What makes you think so, Tim?” Jon asks gently. His eyes are worried.

“They were waiting on a skin, right? They wanted the gorilla skin, then they wanted yours, and when they couldn’t do that…” Tim swallows. “When I was at the clinic, there was a man leaving—he had the mark of the Stranger on him, and he told me he was a night guard at a cemetery and he’d been attacked by a couple of people digging one up. I went to check it out—”

“Tim!” Jon and Martin exclaim in unison.

“I know, I know! I just—it felt important,” Tim says. “It was important. I thought from the beginning it sounded like Orsinov with Breekon and Hope, and then I got there. The gravedigger was just filling it in again, and he told me the body had been skinned, and…” He rests the fingertips of his casted hand on Martin’s leg gently. “I saw the tombstone. It was Gertrude’s. They’ve got an Archivist’s skin after all. Guys…I think they’re almost ready.”

#ollie writes fanfic #leaves too high to touch (roots too strong to fall)#tma #the magnus archives #love is stored in the jonmartim #violence #mention of skinning #graverobbing #implied transphobia #mentions of emotional abuse #death thoughts #suicidal ideation tw #(sort of but it's close enough that I'm tagging it)#implied workplace abuse #slight misuse of beholding powers

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symbianosgames · 7 years

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The following blog post, unless otherwise noted, was written by a member of Gamasutra’s community. The thoughts and opinions expressed are those of the writer and not Gamasutra or its parent company.

This year marked my first year attending Game Developer's Conference in San Francisco, California. Needless to say as a Game Design student in Canada whose never left my country on my own before, I was pretty stoked.

In a nutshell, Game Developer's Conference was an amazing experience. I met so many cool new people as well as some industry professionals who I admire very much. I even got interviewed by IGN for the game I'm working on for my co-op! (It's called Riverbond you should totally check it out it's going to be rad /shamelessplug)

Anyway, I thought it'd be helpful for some people to write some Hot Tips™ I found useful about networking at an event like GDC from the view of a student.

Here goes!

Tip 1: You're Not A Student

Weird right?

Let me elaborate. Obviously you're a student (why else would you be reading this?) But being a student is different than announcing to the world you're a student. GDC is full of industry folks and for all intents and purposes you're at this event so you're an industry folk now! I know students who refer to themselves as 'aspiring game developers' but no, if you've developeed a game - any game, no matter how crummy - you're a game developer. So drop the mindset that you're any less than others by virtue of your status.

There's nothing wrong with going to GDC as a learning experience, but if it negatively affects the way people treat you don't be afraid to dial it down a notch, you're as much a game developer as anyone else there.

Some of the more disappointing interactions I had at GDC were a result of someone finding out I was a student.

The first was when a promoter for a sponsor came up to our table at an event and was seeking industry people to pitch their product to. This made sense - they're sponsoring it, so why not? She took turns asking everyone at the table what company they work for, but when she found out we were students she gave us the cold shoulder.

The other was when I was meeting with a fairly accomplished indie developer who took time out of his trip to give me some advice. Our conversation was interjected by an disgruntled-sounding developer who decided to impart some wisdom on me which I was already well aware of (and wasn't relevant to our conversation). He told me "to get hired you have to make an indie studio and ship a game" and then lectured me on how to do so for the next ten minutes. In my 3+ years of schooling trust me, I've heard it before.

Also, note to any senior industry folks reading this: Please refrain from giving advice to students unless they ask for it. You'd be surprised what we've heard already!

Tip 2: You're Absolutely A Student

I know, I'm a hypocrite.

But really, as much as being a student can hinder some of your experiences, it can be a very useful crutch to lean on. You'd be surprised how much time people are willing to take out of their day for you to mentor students like you .

I managed to talk to a few very kind developers at GDC who were willing to take time out of their busy schedules to just sit down and chat with me about their journey and offer wisdom for my road ahead, and all it took was me saying "Hey, I'm a student. Wanna get a coffee?" (I think I said it much more professionally but you get the jist).

Being a student has its ups and downs, but it can definitely be a useful card to be able to speak to industry professionals. After all, who doesn't love to mentor others!

Tip 3: Don't Get Starstruck

Depending on the type of person you are, this may or may not be much of an issue.

Personally I found seeing industry figures at GDC humbling - for someone who follows a lot of devs on the World Wide Web™ it was sobering to see they were just people too which really helped me be less intimidated by the idea of introducing myself to them. Besides, if I didn't let them know I appreciate the work they do then I might never have had another opportunity to do so!

I recall an instance where a few of us were talking and my friend couldn't stop looking over my shoulder. I asked what she was looking at and she responded, "Tim Schafer is right over there". Sure enough, he was ten feet away checking out some board games. One morning as I was waiting for the expo hall to open I was watching someone play Ooblets and looked to my right only to see Danny O'Dwyer having a coffee. Nina Freeman (who hosted the IGF awards this year) was also just hanging around at an event I had attended. I told William Pugh I liked his work and he thanked me and asked if I knew where the bathroom was. Criken waited in line to play a game right after we did. I think I passed Stever Gaynor like eighty times throughout the week and turned around only to lose sight of him.

Dude's a ghost.

The number of prominent industry people can be staggering, especially as someone who's new to seeing it all in person. But avoiding the temptation to beg for a photo op and instead just saying 'Hey, just wanted to say your work is super cool' and maybe handing them a card will make the experience feel less awkward for everyone involved. At the end of the day, cool people are still just people.

Oh wait! That reminds me:

Tip 4: Print Business Cards

The best way to remember someone is to give them a business card, often with your face or a nifty design splattered all over it. It's also good to collect these - you never know when you'll be hiring people for a project in the future.

Handing out cards does take some getting used to (avoiding the 'I'm a slimy businessman' feeling took me quite a while) but at GDC it's common practice, most people are here for business and to meet people after all. Take about a week to work out a colourful, interesting design and ask others what they think of it and don't leave it till the last minute - getting a card people will remember is arguably more important than just having a card itself.

Tip 5: Reach Out

It's surprisingly easy to find who's going to GDC. A simple Twitter search of GDC a month beforehand will yield lots of resultsm, and the GDC connect app essentially catalogues most people attending the expo (which is actually pretty creepy now that I think about it).

With a bit of searching it's not hard to find people who you's be interested in meeting up with. Following that all it takes is shooting them a simple email asking if they'd be interested in meeting up to impart some advice on a student and chat a little (See Tip 2). Before I went I sent emails to some people a few weeks beforehand which was too early for most of them to schedule anything, so I followed up again during the week and actually got to sit down with a few of them.

Reaching out can give you the opportunity to meet with some very cool people, and all it takes is a little initiative. The worst they'll say is "No". Don't forget to thank them too, even if they reject you they still took the time to do so.

Tip 6: Manage Your Time

Most of the time at GDC everything is happening at once. You won't be able to go to every panel, every party or every event, and that's okay! Here's what I found to be a useful breakdown:

Go To Parties

Parties are by far your best means to meet new people at GDC, but finding the right party is something else entirely. Usually, you'll know if a party is good for meeting folks with a simple Google search or at most within a half-hour of getting there. GDC parties cover a wide spectrum, from huge club bashes like That.Party to smaller more intimate get-togethers.

Usually, anything at a club or a dark, loud venue is (as you'd expect) bad for meeting people, so unless you're going to the party have a good time with your friends, these might not be your most time-effective events to check out. Some parties like itch.rl were phenominal for meeting people from all walks of game development, smaller get-togethers focused around local devs from my area like the Ontario Media Development Corporation party (it's a mouthful, I know) were also great for introducing me to cool new folks from my area and made it feel like I wasn't so far from home.

There is a caveat to this - try to avoid drinking. Waking up with a hangover would certainly put a damper on the GDC experience and chances are you'll need to go to bed at a reasonable time if you want to make the most of the next day!

Go To Some Talks

If a talk is going in the vault you can always watch it later. In fact if you're paying for your own pass I'd say its better to buy an expo pass and just stay for the week instead of filling your schedule with talks and panels.

Of course, I say 'some' since if there's a talk you really want to see there's no better way to experience it than in person. Also I was tipped off by a Microsoft employee to check out one of the free sponsored talks Microsoft was offering since he claimed, "it would definitely be worth my time"...

I got a free Mixed Reality devkit out of it so...uh...that was pretty cool.

The way I see it though, most of the opportunities GDC presents are the ones you can only get by going to the venue, like meeting people, talking with business representatives and learning about new games old and new so to me, the talks didn't seem like an overall good use of my time (also it was more expensive to go to talks and I'm already going broke so there's that).

Go To The Show Floor

Oddly enough, most of the people I met at GDC were strangers I chatted with while watching games at the Indie Megabooth, trying Train Jam games or even loitering around the Expo Hall. It was as simple as making a comment about the game you're observing and opening a conversation with any who respond. It felt surprisingly natural - after all, most attendees are there to meet new people, so what better way then to bond over new games.

Care For Yourself

There were a few days at GDC I went without eating, drinking or even going number two for most of the day. With so much going on, it's surprisingly easy to forget your basic survival instincts.

Hand sanitizer is a must as well - with most of the devs who attended GDC I know now being sick the week after I feel like the only way I even survived was by wiping my hands down after every time I touched someone or something.

Personally I tend to do fairly well when I need to be 'On' all the time, but my girlfriend needs a little more quiet time than I do. If you're like her, some days you'll find yourself so tired that you might choise to turn in early and spend the evening watching Netflix. At some point it might feel like you're wasting time, but in reality you're building much needed energy for the next day at the show and by the end of the week that energy is valuable. Don't push yourself harder than you can go, at GDC or otherwise.

Tip 7: Follow Up

I know, I know, I can hear you shouting: "But Devon I met so many sweet folks, how do I possibly let them all know how rad they are?!"

Emails, my friend. Lots. Of. Emails.

Or Tweets. Or LinkedIn. Basically anywhere their business cards direct you to.

Following up is an important step in networking, a simple "Hey it was great meeting you" not only helps remind someone else of your conversation but also of who you are and shows you -actually paid attention- to them. But avoid using form letters or anything that sounds too generic, make it personal. The last thing anyone wants to read is "Hello [their name], it was nice meeting you at [event] and am looking forward to seeing where your journey takes you. Follow me on Twitter."

This leads into my final (and most important) Hot Tip™:

Tip 8: Qualify, Don't Quantify

There was a moment of awe at the end of my GDC trip when I was packing the business cards I gathered from the event - the stack was as fat as a hamburger. I felt like I achieved something by meeting so many people!

I turned to my girlfriend and said "Look at all the cards I got!", then I mentioned I was thinking about taking a picture of it to commemorate the occasion which she aptly told me not to do because it was really tacky.

It was a pretty powerful lesson that struck me: I had quite a few people's contact information, but that didn't necessarily mean I valued them all equally. There were certainly some people I distinctly remember from GDC who I loved speaking with and even others who made me feel like I had known them my whole life.

But most of the cards I had weren't any of those people.

Most cards I had were people who I exchanged cards with as a courtesy, meeting them briefly in passing and only saying a few words to.

When I started practicing networking it was a year before I had to find a co-op position for my schooling and the idea of talking to people to get something from them was (and still is) completely abhorrent to me.

I believe the primary purpose of networking should be getting to know people. Everything else is secondary.

The people I want to follow up with are the people who make me feel like I've known them forever. Anyone I want to stay in touch with is someone I want to hear more from, whose work keeps me interested and wanting more. Not the people who I talked to for half a minute in passing. I'm not saying those people have no value, but I think the relationships built out of meaningful conversations are more worth pursuing than those made for the sake of getting another LinkedIn connection.

By fawning over my business cards I got very close to considering all those people who I enjoyed speaking to just another number in a big ol' stack of numbers which is a terrible thing (to me, at least).

When I returned home I made every effort to make sure I'd never forget the people who made an impact on me.

Boy that got pretty heavy! Yikes.

Anyway, I could probably talk about GDC and networking all day but I'm not going to because you have bigger, better things to do. I hope these Hot Tips™ helped you as much as all the GDC-centric articles I read before going helped me.

Thanks for reading and good luck on your networking, folks!

#IFTTT #Blogger

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