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And Eat It, Too - Chapter Five: An Offer

In which Martin plays peacemaker, Elias is creepy, and Michael makes A Very Interesting Offer that sends Jon into one heck of a tailspin...

>>> NOW ON AO3!

There is monster-wooing afoot.

Also, this is the ONLY time Jon smokes a cigarette in this entire fic. He didn't like it.

(Masterpost including playlist)

CHAPTER FIVE

Jon’s charging his phone.

Everyone is hungry. It all smells of smoke. The firefighters are upstairs, and Elias is busy with police and insurance (and, Jon thinks, hopefully not pinning anything on anybody).

The rest sit in his office, staring at each other in the gloom.

His desk is the same—piled with papers, with cassette tapes, with hastily-scribbled notes and a filing system that makes sense only to him.

Tim and Martin sit across from him. Basira, Daisy, and Melanie are all missing, but there’s a reason for that. Nobody asks, so Jon doesn’t tell.

“You,” says Tim, and he’s shaking so hard with rage and bitterness that it practically oozes out of his pores. “You kept this from me.”

“Nobody kept anything from you, Tim. You haven’t been talking to anybody,” Martin tries, placating, gentle.

Jon looks at his phone. Five percent. He wants to get it to ten before he takes it upstairs to listen to his voicemails.

“How dare you do this to me,” says Tim.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Jon snaps. “Nothing’s been kept from you. You haven’t spoken two words to me since I came back, and—”

“Oh, right, and you just happened to keep the Circus out of my hearing, is that it?”

What does that matter to you? Jon wants to say, but he doesn’t, oh no, because it isn’t just a question.

He can feel the statement in Tim, a story untold, and the urge to make him say it is so strong that Jon’s mouth tastes strange.

“Nobody’s kept anything,” says Martin. “Tim, talk to us. What’s going on?”

No, Jon thinks. I won’t compel him. He was my friend. No, you big bloody eyeball.

Tim breaths hard. Runs his hand through his hair. Glares at Jon.

Jon throws his hands in the air. “What do you want me to say? I’m sorry?”

“That’d be a start.”

“Well, fine! I’m sorry I didn’t magically know who killed Gertrude and might be out for me! I’m sorry I had to be sure it wasn’t any of you because I didn’t want to die!”

“I’m sorry, too,” says Tim.

“Oh?” says Jon, allowing the tiniest flutter of stupid hope.

“Sorry I didn’t call the police on you while you were stalking my house!”

“All right, enough, this isn’t helping,” Martin says with more force than usual, and by some miracle, it works.

Or at least, it quiets.

Jon’s face burns. He doesn’t know how to apologize more for his behavior, when he hadn’t realized he was being fed paranoia like air. If he had the words, he’d use them.

He misses Tim. Misses his invasive and unnecessary cheer. Misses his stupid pranks.

He doesn’t know the words.

“Let’s focus, all right?” says Martin. “The Circus. Tim… why does that mean something to you?”

And Jon can feel the story, feel the truth rising up in Tim like volcanic spew, and he wants it, he needs it, he craves it—

Jon literally bites his tongue, locks it down, fights the power that would drag this statement from Tim whether he wanted to speak or not.

“Fine,” says Tim.

Jon exhales in relief. Then Tim starts talking, and Jon forgets to breathe.

“I’m sorry, Tim,” he says, very softly.

“Me, too,” says Martin.

Tim isn’t looking at them. He started crying at some point, but nobody called it out; crying as he described his brother, crying as he touched on the last, brief time he saw him alive, crying as he confesses the shame that if he’d known it was the last, he’d never have just left him there on the living room couch.

Then the rage comes back, and the tears stop coming.

(And fear, oh yes, Jon can feel the tremors of old terror eating away at Tim’s nerves as he describes the thing wearing Danny’s skin, tries and fails to excuse his half-mad flight instead of staying, fighting, doing something, dying for brotherly love.)

“It’s why I joined the Institute. I wanted answers,” says Tim, wiping his face with a napkin from Martin’s impromptu tea service. He wouldn’t accept the tissues Jon offered. (“Oh, for heaven’s sake, they’re not poisoned,” Jon had snapped, and Martin had to calm them both down again.) “I’ve been looking for years. And If you think,” Tim continues, “for one damn second that you can keep me out of this—”

“No one’s going to keep you out of anything,” soothes Martin.

“I am,” says Jon, and they both look at him with equal levels of exasperation—but only one of them is fond.

“Like hell you are,” says Tim.

“This is dangerous! Do you think I want you hurt? Do you think Danny would want you to die for this?” says Jon.

Martin’s face tells Jon that was a bad thing to say.

Tim half-rises from his seat. He’s not as large as Michael, no, but he is a strong, fit man; his fists are clenched, his shoulders tightening.

Breekon and Hope’s handling flashes through Jon’s mind, and he freezes.

“The Stranger is very cruel,” says Michael from the side. “Far worse than me, if you think about it.”

Martin scrambles off his chair and to the opposite wall, trembling.

Tim stands, fist raised. Hesitates.

Jon is so tired. “Hello, Michael. Thank you for getting rid of the book, and… you know.” He makes a snipping motion.

Michael hasn’t decided on its form, apparently—it’s human-like, but too long, too stretched out; the hands are terrifying, and something in its eyes swirls like galaxies. “I can’t have you going mad yet, Archivist. You haven’t stopped the Unknowing.”

“You are working together!” Tim accuses, as if catching Jon red-handed.

“As of two days ago, yes,” snaps Jon, “because no matter what you think, my primary goal is preventing us all being skinned alive without remembering our names!”

“Oh, like they were about to do to you! How clever, Archivist!” Michael claps its hands.

Tim looks confused. “What?”

“Tim,” Martin stage-whispers. “He’s been kidnapped. For a month. By the Circus.”

Tim’s expression hits so many things at once that Jon can’t follow them, and can only hope at least one of them was favorable. “I don’t care!” Tim shouts. “Maybe he was there on purpose! Or maybe he did it to himself, spying on the wrong person!”

Jon can’t do this anymore. Not now, not today. He unplugs his phone and walks out the door.

“Jon!” Martin calls.

Michael laughs.

Jon does not engage.

Jon, did you get a new place? You owe me that address, Oh, and the Admiral says you’ve never fed him once in your life. Georgie.

Jon, call me back. We found Melanie, but... it’s not good. Call me. Basira.

Hey—don’t go quiet on me now, Sims. Not after everything. Georgie.

Jon. She’s killed someone. I don’t know if we can do this. Basira.

Hi… Jon? I… I don’t… I’m scared. Melanie.

Jon, just to remind you, I’ve still got your tapes, so you really need to call me back. Georgie.

Jon exhales. The phone is down to seven percent, is still updating itself over cellular data, and will not last if he tries to make calls.

He doesn't need a phone for his next step, though.

There was a statement from New Zealand in 2014—just one. The good news is he doesn’t have to go there; the bad news is, he has to go chase down a traffic warden.

He checks his phone. Six percent.

“Great. A metaphor,” Jon mumbles, and reaches for a cigarette.

He hadn’t smoked in years before all of this started. He’d been so proud of himself, quitting, but here he is, in the back courtyard, staring at dead trees and puffing tar.

So powerful, me, he thinks wryly, blowing carcinogens into the wind. Remarkable specimen.

“Really, Jon?” says Elias, coming up from behind him. “Smoking, after the place has been on fire? That seems rather pointed.”

“At least it’s only a cigarette and not you,” Jon mutters, unthinking, then stiffens.

Elias doesn’t take the bait. “If, in all this research, you ever find out why Gertrude decided to firebomb the place she’d called her own for fifty years, do let me know.”

Jon pushes. “Pity you didn’t bother to learn how she planned to stop the Unknowing before you killed her.”

“Yes, well. I saw her with gasoline and flame and I… overreacted. I don’t do it often, Jon.”

“Oh, I know,” he scowls, studying the lit end of his cancer stick. “Getting a real reaction out of you is almost impossible. Apparently, it’s this,” he gestures at all of Elias, “or murder.”

Elias smiles. “How nice of you to say.”

Jon sighs, puffing out his cheeks. “Why did she do it?”

“I don’t know. As I’ve repeatedly said, I stayed out of her head as much as possible.”

Jon is not sure he believes that. “How do I earn that honor?”

“You don’t. I’m afraid I learned my lesson with her.”

Yet another sin of Gertrude’s that Jon has to pay for. “To hell with Gertrude, then,” says Jon, toasting nothing.

Elias smiles tightly. “Martin is looking for you.”

Jon flinches. “And Tim?”

“Hiding in the archives. You won’t see him if you go before closing.”

Jon looks at him sidelong. “Go?”

“To Piccadilly. A traffic warden, isn’t it? Don’t worry about any of the forms. I’ll count this as work hours.”

Jon rubs his face. “You know, you could make yourself useful and actually help us.”

Elias smiles again. His coat flutters a little, caught in a low breeze. “I do help—just not in ways you see. It would do little good for me to approach your traffic warden, anyway. I may have some abilities—”

Jon scoffs.

“—but you are the Archivist. You have power to pull the truth from people in a way I never could.”

“You read minds.”

“That is not the same as summoning one’s past, eloquently and without deceit.”

Jon knits his brow.

“You will have such powers as I could never dream, in time. You will thank me someday, Jon.”

Jon doubts all of that.

He stubs out the cigarette (it wasn’t satisfying, and he chooses to blame Elias), starts to leave, stops. “Why did you even hire me?” He stands to Elias’ side, not looking at him. “I was in research, not library science or archival anything. You know I wasn’t qualified for this position.”

Elias turns toward him, gray eyes alight. “Perhaps not in the traditional sense, Jon—but you are qualified for it. More than,” he says, low and strangely warm.

Then he touches Jon’s arm.

Jon jumps back and hurls a scowl.

Elias is smug, getting whatever he gets out of Jon’s stupid little reactions.

But eye contact has yielded things, or maybe that unexpected touch, because Jon knows all of a sudden a thing that makes no sense, that needs context, that sticks out to him like a heated poker. “She was trying to kill you.”

Breeze picks up around them, ruffling Elias’ hair, skittering leaves across the cement. “Oh, Jon, you are improving.”

(Why? What did she know? Why would she place Elias on the same level as a fear-god’s ritual? What did she think burning the place would achieve? Would Elias actually die?)

Jon opens his mouth, unable to stop, unable to keep them all inside—

“Jon?”

Martin has found them.

Jon suddenly fears putting Martin in danger. “Hello, Martin,” he says with poor exuberance, trying to take attention as he marches for the door.

Elias looks amused. Jon ignores him.

“I listened to that pig thing,” says Martin. “What was that about?”

“Fear,” says Jon.

“A monster pig? Really? It’s so weird.”

Because Martin hadn’t read the statement. Martin wasn’t close enough to the Eye to feel some poor vintner’s horror by just listening to a tape. “They’re all weird, Martin,” says Jon expansively, and drags the larger man back inside.

He hasn’t talked to Georgie.

Basira won’t answer her phone.

Neither will Melanie.

Jon will not call Daisy.

He hopes he hasn’t sent them all to their deaths.

“Penny for your thoughts, Archivist?” says Michael from across the Chinese food cartons.

Jon won’t look at it. He feels heavy. “They’re not worth anything, I’m afraid.”

“Poor Archivist.” Michael uses its fingers like chopsticks and steals a few noodles. “Always so worried about all the wrong things. Gertrude was much more focused, you know.”

Jon makes a note not to eat anything from that particular carton. “I don’t care about Gertrude. Though I have to go to Beijing because she did.”

“That is a sentence,” says Michael.

Jon leans back. He hasn’t removed the sheets from the furniture. He may have come back here a second night, but that just feels a step too far. “There’s a… sister organization to the Magnus Institute. Gertrude did something there, and I have to go see what. The flight’s going to be hell,” he mutters.

“I could take you,” offers Michael. “For a price.”

“No.”

“You haven’t even asked me what I want yet.”

“I thought you were a what. Since when do you want anything?”

Michael laughs and offers him the carton.

To hell with it, says Jon, who really likes lo mein, and takes a bite, anyway. It probably won’t kill him.

“All I want is to have an… easier time giving you my nightly gift,” says Michael.

“Mm?” Jon blinks at it, mouth full.

Michael sighs, twists, peers at him upside down. “You do fight me. Constantly, you know. All I want is to be closer while you sleep.”

“I do not fi- closer! You’re already practically on top of me.”

Its fingertips touch his cheek. It moved so quickly he didn’t see it, and he nearly chokes. “You do fight me. Every night so far, Archivist. It is tiresome.”

Should he feel guilty for that?

Should he not feel guilty for that?

“If I make contact with you while you sleep, you will recall I am there. That is all, Archivist.”

“Closer than just in the bed?”

“Oh, yes.”

Jon’s eyes narrow. “You’re asking a lot.”

“I’m giving a lot,” it says with a too-wide smile.

Jon is so tired.

“I suppose it makes sense, in a way,” he says to the fried rice. “The only people who want to be near me are either deluded, or monsters.”

Michael laughs. “And which category would you say I fall into?”

“I’m fairly sure you are in a category all your own.”

Michael finds that absolutely delightful. It’s still laughing as Jon tucks all the cartons into the fridge.

A trip to Beijing for a touch as he’s sleeping.

What is it trying to do? Is it telling the truth?

Surely it would make no difference to his safety. If the thing wanted to stab him through the throat at night, or in the day, there is precisely nothing Jon could do to stop it.

Powerful, he thinks, bitter. So powerful I can make traffic cops confess to taking bribes, but know nothing about the monster asking to touch me in my sleep. Yes, I’ll shake the foundations of the world, for certain.

Wearing someone else’s pajamas, he sits on the settee.

“The bed would be more comfortable,” Michael suggests in a tone too syrupy to be anything but a facetious come-on.

“Oh, good lord,” Jon mutters, and then his phone rings. “Georgie,” he says into it with great relief.

“There you are! Settling in? Got a hotel? Moved in with a monster, maybe?” says Georgie, who is clearly just ranting, but she’s also too close.

“I… it’s a borrowed place. For now. I have to head out of the country.”

A pause. “Did Elias kill someone again?”

“No.” Jon pinches the bridge of his nose. “He’s only done it twice.”

He doesn’t have to be able to see Georgie to know the face she’s making. “Okay,” she says. “You’re not staying with him, are you?”

“No!”

Another pause. “You’re not giving me your address, are you?”

“This is a temporary location. I don’t have an apartment yet. Just… send things to the Institute, and I’ll get them there.”

“Sure.”

He’s hurt her. “Georgie…”

“You’re a big boy, Jon. You can make your own choices.”

“Georgie—”

“Let me know when you’re back, at least. Okay? Night.” She hangs up before he can say anything else.

“Oh, Archivist,” thrums Michael, and how did Jon not notice it stretching out like some kind of play-doh, leaning over the table and coming so close that its face is right next to his? “Such uncertainty!”

Jon presses back against the settee. One corner of the sheet comes loose. “What are you talking about?”

“Your friend,” Michael says with a face that is not at all human, all teeth and none, all eyes and none, too many heads or no heads, and every variation makes Jon doubt the one he thought he saw before. “So much uncertainty when it comes to your friend.”

(Did I do the right thing, was it worth it, was I a fool, was she a fool, should I have stayed, should I have never asked for her help, should I have never said yes when she asked me out in the first place, should I just have said yes when she wanted to go further, did I damn her when I did say yes to going out…)

Michael is right, but Jon’s not happy it knows. “M…” He swallows, pressing back further. “My friend is… my life is none of your business.”

“I disagree.”

Jon breathes too fast. “Are you going to kill me right now?”

It’s so close as it sighs. “It seems the subtle approach is useless with you, Archivist.”

“Subtle approach? To what?”

And it practically purrs: “Do you want to be seen?”

Whatever that means, and yet—

Oh, thinks Jon.

“No,” says Jon.

Yes, feels Jon, feels everything inside him that he doesn’t want to be, but is, and he shudders.

“It doesn’t matter in the end,” says Michael, “but I wonder if it is connected: you need to see, to be seen—so why do you resist?” says Michael, and rests its knife-sharp hands on his nightshirt.

Jon is frozen. He swallows. “What do you mean?”

“It Knows You would bless you with all its gifts if you would only give yourself to it fully,” Michael says, smooth, its distorted voice coated in honey. “It likes you.”

“It doesn’t like anything,” snaps Jon, sharper with his rising fear, sharper with his rising confusion because he isn’t asking Michael to stop, and he should be, he should be, but he is so curious. What the hell is it doing? “It’s just an… an eye, a great big… paranoia machine, watching everybody all the time, and… and not giving a flip about any of it!”

“It does, Archivist,” Michael purrs.

Jon swallows. (Is it trying to intimidate him? Is this about getting closer at night? What is it trying to do?) “Nonsense.”

“It likes you very much. Almost as much as I do.” And it kisses the tip of his nose.

Jon startles badly and tries to shove it away.

His hands sink into the shoulders, up to the wrist with the force he put into it, and he wrenches them back with a little cry.

They tingle.

They… both tingle.

Jon stares at his right hand.

The bandages have come loose, pulled by whatever the hell Michael is made of. The old burns are clearly visible through it—burns in the shape of a hand, cruel indentations, marring his flesh like wax.

He never feels anything with this hand. He can’t. Jude Perry saw to that.

“Archivist,” Michael sings at him, ignored.

“I felt that,” Jon whispers, and touches his hand. But no, he imagined it. His right hand feels dead, as always; the Eye healed it enough that he can move it, write with it, do whatever, but it has no sensation where Jude burned him.

Michael draws its fingertips along the ugly valleys Jude’s grip made.

Jon was wrong. It tingles, like the cells are coming awake. He gasps. “How are you doing that?”

“Delusion, Archivist. All sensation is but what is perceived, after all.”

“So it’s a lie, and the hand feels nothing.”

“Oh, Archivist, why do you insist on labels?” Michael sighs again, and draws its claws down his chest.

It isn’t cutting him—isn’t even catching on the sleepshirt—but every scar from Prentiss’ attack suddenly comes to life just like his hand, and he gasps as they light up, everywhere, dancing over his face and torso and legs, brilliant spots of past pain and now…

It feels like stars, he thinks inanely.

Then he panics.

“Get off me!” he says, shoves it again, but this time, Michael is solid, and Michael goes—sliding back across the table, retracting to its position on the couch, smiling at him in elongated-Michael form.

It licks its lips at him.

“What was that supposed to be?” snaps Jon.

Michael tilts its head. “An offer,” it says.

“For what?”

Michael’s look is pitying. “Oh, Archivist.”

Oh.

The penny drops.

Never in his wildest dreams—literally—had he considered that a creature made from fear and nightmares would proposition him.

(Is a monster actually trying to seduce me? Would it get anything out of it? Do they even have parts? Why would it ask for this? Am I misreading this? Will Michael be angry if I answer wrong?)

He knows he’s terrible at picking up that particular kind of clue. He only figured out Georgie was interested when she fisted his t-shirt in both hands and said, I want to date you, you absolute nerd.

Michael is still silent, watching the cogs turn.

It can’t be serious.

The Eye helpfully sends a few key statements through his head, the very few where sex came up in any way, and they are rare—the Entities love trauma, but they don’t seem to care about sexual trauma. Which means the only mentions of sex, anywhere, are about bliss.

No, he thinks, panicking, no, it’s about infesting people, and infecting them, and turning them into something else—

“You are very afraid now,” observes Michael, looking riveted.

“Of course I am! Do you… what does… why would you even offer such a thing?”

“Does it matter?”

“Yes, it matters!” Jon curls his legs on the sofa.

He’s still tingling, faintly, a memory of stars.

Michael just watches him, and right now, Jon can’t do the silence. “I need to know why. Can you even do that? What’s sex, to you? What, turning people’s reproductive organs into corkscrews? Making them think they’re having sex with the wrong people?”

“When asked,” says Michael.

“Someone asked for that?” Jon blurts.

“You are not asking for that,” says Michael as though it’s supposed to be comforting.

“Is your… sleep offer a sex thing?” Jon says, preemptively bristling.

Michael laughs. “No? Do you want it to be?”

“No!” He stammers. “You… what would you even know about sex?”

“At least as much as humans do,” says Michael, who has somehow slithered to lie facing the other direction on its own chosen couch. It peers at John, chin resting on its too-long hands, looking freakish. “You know how humans worship, Archivist. Praise, artistry, destruction, sacrifice, intimacy…”

Jon feels pale.

“Humans give themselves to what they worship,” says Michael, as if Jon’s just not quite getting it.

Jon is getting it. “You’ve had sex?”

“Yes.”

He has to know. “The… worker-of-clay?”

“When asked.”

It looks amused.

Jon is in shock, affronted in a confused and distant way, but…

He’s also curious.

He does not particularly want sex. It doesn’t come to mind at all, usually. Orgasms are fine. Occasionally necessary. Messy and blessedly over quickly. But one of the reasons he and Georgie couldn’t make it work was she wanted sex, and he didn’t.

This doesn’t feel like that. Jon’s not sure he dares to define it. “You swear the… touching me when I sleep isn’t a sex thing.”

Michael tilts its head. “It is not a ‘sex thing,’ Archivist,” it reaffirms.

“You won’t… you won’t touch me anywhere I… don’t want.”

“I will not.”

“Well, good. Well… good,” says Jon, desperately casting about for a subject change. “You said the Eye likes me. It doesn’t have opinions.”

“Of course it does, Archivist. It prefers you, in fact.”

Leitner told him it didn’t think at all, much less have tastes. He frowns. “How would you know?”

Michael tilts its head. “You yourself are a tapestry devoted to its love. It has preserved you through that which should have taken your life—and received so little in exchange.”

Jon huffs, looks down, tensing. “That’s… that’s just….”

Michael laughs. “Do you think just anyone could survive what you have suffered?” And it’s sliding closer again, coming nearer again, and Jon doesn’t move (though he should), but instead he sits there and waits for it to get to him.

Michael pauses over him. It hasn’t rested against him yet, hasn’t lowered its weight. “Do you want me not to touch you, Archivist?”

What a question.

“I…”

Jon isn’t sure.

“I’m…”

Michael has not moved, close, hovering, not making contact. Its human face is unreadable, but whatever lies behind its eyes focuses on him, fixed, intense, waiting.

Jon swallows. “If I say no, you’ll go back to your couch?”

“If you say no, I will withdraw.”

No one—absolutely no one—in the last few years has ever bothered asking Jon’s permission.

He’s been burned, scarred, cut; groped, thrown into the air, threatened.

No one has asked whether he wanted them to touch him. No one has cared if he said no.

For some reason, Jon believes Michael means it.

It makes no sense. Why would the Distortion give a damn about consent? It eats people inside itself, driving them slowly crazy.

But this isn’t the Distortion, he thinks. This is Michael.

Jon isn’t sure what that means. The Eye, maybe, trying to tell him something, but it just doesn’t make sense. It is the Distortion. And yet—

Michael waits.

“What would you do, if I said… what are you going to do now if I say yes?”

“Rest upon you. Acclimate you to my touch, my presence.”

Jon swallows. “Nothing more?”

“Only if asked, Archivist.”

“What if I change my mind?”

“If you say no, I will withdraw.”

Jon wants to know if it means it. Jon wants to know how it feels. Jon wants the power of saying yes or no.

Jon wants to say yes. “All right.”

It settles against him again, neither heavy nor light, neither warm nor cold, confusing his senses, making the room slightly blurry around them. Michael’s fingers are so sharp, so long, so careful. “The Mother of Puppets marked you as a child—long, long ago,” it says, and touches his temple.

It could kill me so easily, he thinks, but does not ask it to stop. “The Web.”

“But It Knows You claimed you before that, did it not?” Michael moves its fingers to just below his eyes.

Jon swallows again, breathing more quickly. “The Eye. I… Elias says so. I was… I was insatiable, as a child. For knowledge.”

“And now, too, I think,” Michael chuckles, and this close, Jon can feel it, shiver with it. It’s not quite the stars of before, but it is… distracting.

That’s when he realizes he’s not wincing at the laugh anymore.

What did that mean? Was it due to exposure? Had Michael done something to him? Was he growing strong as Elias? (He knows that’s not it.)

“I marked you here.” Its fingertips touch his left forearm, where a long, dull scar shows evidence of its attention. “When you tried to… attack me most unwisely,” says Michael, and its amusement is a palpable thing.

Jon scowls. “That took five stitches, by the way.”

“A warning, Archivist, nothing more. I could have done much worse to you.”

“You don’t have to sound so gleeful about it,” Jon grouses.

Michael makes a dreadful sound, a humming, pulsing sound that Jon can feel in every nerve in his body, and it is terrifying, and it is wonderful, and he thinks, Another warning and Maybe that’s what the Spiral itself sounds like laughing and Can a living embodiment of a concept laugh and—

And he’s still not asking it to stop.

“Be careful touching that, Archivist. It is my mark, and it is connected to me.” And then before Jon can parse that little gem, “While I cannot speak for anyone else who’s left you alive, I found I… did not want to kill you just yet. It was a very strange moment for me. Almost memorable.”

It’s more on him now, pressing him into the settee. “I have to wonder why,” Jon says, heart thumping (it feels so good why does it feel so good).

Michael doesn’t answer that. “And look what happened next! The Flesh Hive nearly had you, Archivist, in spite of my warnings.”

Jon swallows, thinking of Prentiss, thinking of Benoît Maçon blissfully embracing his giant cockroach bride while its children ate him. Why was it that the most repulsive of the Fears—the Crawling Rot, the Filth—seemed to engender the most intimate love from its victims?

When Prentiss came, Jon heard their song. Heard them call. He did not listen.

(What if he had? Would they have even let him die? Would he be shambling through the night like Prentiss, dripping worms and hissing weirdly at people and seducing them to death by infestation and horror?)

Michael lets him spin until his heart rate picks up, then slides its fingertips back to his chest, over his shirt, and all those tiny pricks where worms tried to kill him flare back to life.

Jon inhales.

“I would like to continue, Archivist.”

Is it asking for further permission? Why? “Yes. Yes, she—Jane Prentiss. The Corruption. You warned us. Y… your help is the only reason we survived.”

“Yes.” Michael’s almost-human eyes don’t leave Jon’s as it slides those fingertips to his right hand. “The Ravening Burn.”

“Jude Perry,” Jon growls. “The Desolation.”

“Mm.” Michael seems less impressed with the wielders of the Lightless Flame, and moves on. It slides its fingertips back to Jon’s chest, spreading them wide as his lungs. “The Falling Titan.”

Jon does not understand what’s happening. He’s never felt like this in his life, not once; a strange hyper-awareness, nerves a-buzz, skin both too tight and too warm.

He wants Michael to touch him. Actively wants it.

“Th-the Vast.” Jon stammers. “Mike Crew. He... he was….” Jon stops. It had ended so badly.

Michael’s fingertips go to his neck—to the ragged, white scar there that Daisy carved into him after she shot Crew, to the place where she was going through the voice box, until Basira arrived to stop her. “The Call of Blood rarely leaves victims breathing.”

“She wouldn’t have. The Hunt… It was close.” It’s not over, his gut instinct says, it is only delayed.

He won’t listen to that. He has to trust that Daisy won’t kill him. Has to.

“I Do Not Know You has marked you very deeply,” murmurs Michael, “which is why, without me, you would dream them still.”

“The Stranger. The Circus. I know.” It’s a whisper.

“And now, the Slaughter.” Michael touches Jon’s shoulder, which looks like the stitches are ready to come out.

Jon hopes Michael doesn’t do that now. Things feel… good, and that most definitely would not.

Michael’s voice is smooth, penetrative, buzzing under his skin. “I have existed since there has been awareness itself, since the very fear of delusion, Archivist… and I have never seen anyone as broadly claimed as you.”

It’s not smiling.

Jon doesn’t know what to do with that. “I suppose I’m bait for bullies of all stripes, then,” he tries to joke.

It says nothing.

“I’m not lucky,” Jon says, unsure what he’s trying to deny.

Michael laughs, and the sound pulses through him, flickering the edges of his vision, and leaving his whole body humming. (Is it better up close? Is that the secret?) “No, I would say you are not.”

“I’m not… clever. I don’t have any... powers, or—no, don’t you argue with me. The ability to make a… a mailman confess to tax fraud is nothing compared to what everyone around me can do, and I almost think that’s why I’m alive, because I’m just not worth going through with it, because there’s a cost to using powers, isn’t there, and maybe killing me wouldn’t even be enough to fill the vacuum it left behind, and it’s just more fun to hurt me for some stupid reason, and—”

It touches his lips with one sharp finger.

He blinks at it. He wasn’t aware he’d begun to tear up.

The sharpness of Michael’s touch is grounding.

If he moves at all, it will cut him.

He is tempted.

He can’t work out why.

“I have spoken so much this evening, Archivist,” says Michael. “I am trying to give you what pleases you, but it’s not something I am… used to doing, and I do not enjoy it.”

All this reasoning, Jon thinks. “But you’ve given it anyway. Answers. Why?” he whispers, and as he thought, his lips sting as the skin lightly splits.

He makes a small sound.

It doesn’t feel like normal pain.

It echoes the stars all over his chest, the line of gleaming white across his throat, the valleys in his hand where Jude burned him. It hurts, but it doesn’t. It feels…

(Good? Can pain feel good? I’m not a masochist—what is happening? Is Michael messing with my mind? Is this its fault? What is wrong with me?)

He still doesn’t ask it to stop.

Michael brings its fingers to its own mouth and licks off the tiny spot of blood.

Jon stares. The intensity of his own feelings is beginning to scare him.

And Michael suddenly changes tack. “I tire, Archivist. Tomorrow, I will make you your door to Beijing.”

What? “You get tired?” More questions.

“This form, this mortal uselessness bound to me, using it to communicate in ways you seem to find titillating.”

(All of this was flirting? Giving him knowledge was certainly more appealing than flowers or something, but still—)

“I…” Jon licks his lips, tastes himself, tastes something else he could never name. “I’m sorry.”

“Do not be. I consider it a worthy investment. After all, I am trying to woo you.” It touches his mouth again. The tingling resumes, eating the pain.

Jon sighs a little, and without thinking, parts his lips. “B… but.. this is coming out of nowhere.”

“I have been indicating such an offer for a while now, you know.”

Jon stares. “You have?”

Michael finds that hilarious. “Oh, Archivist.”

“Then what was all that in the warehouse?” Jon says. “Killing me, revenge, all of it?”

It won’t answer that, but iInstead, withdraws. Back to its own couch, looking at him, just watching, probably scouring his thoughts, doing who knows what else with its cosmic horror self.

Jon touches his own lips. There’s only a little blood. It doesn’t hurt.

Nothing hurts. That’s not the word for any of this right now. Jon frowns. “Are you still going to kill me?”

Michael actually looks confused. “Yes. What does that have to do with it?”

It doesn’t add up. He bristles. “Everything, unless you’re a necrophiliac.”

“Time is an illusion, Archivist. Today, tomorrow, what does it matter?”

It’s changing the subject, he knows it is, but—“The Unknowing is time sensitive, I’ll have you know.”

But Michael is done. “Rest well, Archivist. I shall come to you when you sleep.”

Whatever is wrong, whatever is going on (Internal conflict? In a concept?), Michael has clearly reached its limit. Jon blinks at it. “Are you sending me to bed?”

“Yes,” it says, almost primly.

And for the first time in his memory, in the presence of Michael, Jon laughs.

Shocked at himself, he flies to brush his teeth.

And he wonders.

His physical response is definitely… intense.

Georgie didn’t feel like that, he thinks, and that is unfair, and he kicks himself for thinking it. Of course she didn’t. She’s human.

Still. He didn’t respond like this to her—and he loved her.

It is so new. Jon wants to run his hands over himself, feel his own skin, see if it’s as good to touch as it is to wear. See if an orgasm would be worth the trouble, now.

Like hell he’s doing that with an audience.

Jon stares at himself in the mirror.

He doesn’t like what he sees. What’s going on behind his scarred face. “There’s something very wrong with you,” he whispers, and is only half relieved his reflection won’t answer him.

The lights are out when he returns. He is grateful.

He lies down. Pulls the borrowed duvet over him.

Wonders.

A wide-eyed, hungry part of him wants to see what it would be like, and Jon faces that part with panic.

Is it the Eye? Is that doing this to him? Giving him desires completely not his own?

No. It’s not the same.

If he listens, if he stills, he knows the Eye would certainly love him to do all sorts of things to and with other people.

It would enjoy him if he were a torturer.

It would enjoy him if he just had sex.

Fear is what it feeds on, but all his experiences are things it… well.

Say it, Sims: LIKES.

This flies in the face of everything he thought he knew about the Dread Powers.

And here’s why he knows this weird, niggling curiosity about Michael doesn’t come from the Eye: there is absolutely no revulsion or numbness with the idea.

Sex with humans—even one he once cared for very deeply—leaves him uninterested, not repulsed, but off, no matter how the Beholding nudges him.

He does not feel that way about Michael. Jon is unsure what that says about him.

And then he realizes that Elias’ little comment about inviting it into his bed meant it had been obvious even then what Michael was doing.

Jon pulls the spare pillow over his head and groans.

What was the giveaway? Just being on the bed? The way it lay there?

Had Michael tipped Elias off in its note, like some kind of courting rite?

Jon knew he’d never figure it out. Whatever hints were dropped, he just couldn’t see them.

Speaking of which—

Michael settles on the floor beside the couch. “Yes?”

Jon swallows loudly. “Yes.” This being-asked-first thing is… heady.

Instead of crawling on him, grabbing him, poking him, doing any of the things he fears, it just rests one sharp hand on his right arm.

Jon waits. Nothing else happens.

It shouldn’t be comforting. It really should not.

Somehow, it is. Makes all the rest of the world slide just a little into unreality. Feels… grounding.

Feels safe.

Something is very wrong with me, he thinks again, and does not ask it to stop.

Sleep is slow to come, after that, but it finally does.

Tonight, when Breekon and Hope arrive, with thick and cruel hands, and grins and smelly gags, and ropes that burn and cut too tight, Michael follows to snip each rope with a bored expression, and then it tells a joke.

Jon can’t remember the joke in the morning, but it made him laugh, and when he did, Breekon and Hope vanished into mist.

(part six)

#tma fic #tma fanfic #the magnus archives #jonathan sims #tma michael #michael distortion #jonmichael #fanfic #long fic #finished

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karliahs · 3 years

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hello! this is over 500 words, i hope you don't mind. i just like this whole part so much i couldn't cut it XD if it is a bother just cut from the end until it's 500. love you!

Tim had always noticed people, collected little details about them in his head whether he intended to or not, but he thinks his observations used to be about happier things, though it’s hard to remember exactly how he was, how he felt, before - it wasn’t the kind of thing he ever tried to memorise, the kind of thing he ever thought he could lose. Now he finds himself taking note of the coworker who comes back from their lunch break with faint puffy red marks around their eyes, or the older guy who checks his phone with something like dread in his eyes. Danny would have called it his older brother instincts (but what good did those instincts do him? ).

Tim blinks back to the present, realising he’s been pushing a napkin over the same spot of floor for a while now. Jon offers him a hand up, though he braces himself on the bar with his other hand before he does. Tim takes care not to let Jon take too much of his weight as he’s hauled back up.

“Ah, thank you. And apologies, again,” Jon murmurs, gesturing awkwardly at Tim’s lightly-beered clothes.

“Happens to everyone,” Tim says easily. Jon still looks lightly anguished, and Tim silently wishes this could have happened to someone else, someone with the confidence to laugh it off. “I’m always convinced I’m going to drop something when I go in the silent study bit of the library,” Tim offers.

“Ah...that worry hadn’t actually occurred to me,” Jon replies, solemn enough that Tim can’t really tell if he’s joking.

Tim finger-guns. “Any other anxieties I can stir up while you’re over here?”

“I’m quite capable of stoking my own neuroses, thank you.”

Jon glances over his shoulder at the tables the rest of the department are occupying, perhaps doing the same thing as Tim and trying to psyche himself up for some more hollow smalltalk. Tim notes that his jacket seems slightly large on him, but in a way that kind of works. The collar of his shirt is slightly out of place beneath it. There’s a lump forming in Tim’s throat, even though nothing is happening - nothing but standing close to someone, noticing the little signs that they’re real and alive entirely independent from him. He’s aware, as he always is, of the hollow pit in his stomach, pain ebbing and flowing but never gone, new flares thrown off from a familiar wound, now pulsing with a kind of loneliness. All this, just from standing close to someone and trying to make them feel better about a mistake that didn’t matter.

“I...might go out for a smoke,” Jon murmurs eventually.

And here’s where Tim could say sure, wave him off and go back to moping, buy everyone an obligatory round, flex his meaningless chat muscles and be home by half 9. “Mind if I join you?” he asks instead, and to his surprise Jon nods immediately, as if he’d been hoping Tim would say that.

They duck outside to find dark clouds have given way to an anticlimactic drizzle. They stay close to the pub, shielded from the rain by the slight overhang of the roof. Jon fumbles with a lighter and Tim finds his gaze drifting over the rain-slick streets. It’s been a while since he’s been...anywhere, really, other than work and his flat. Longer than he can remember since he was outside in the never-quite-dark of the city.

Despite himself, Tim finds himself admiring the buildings across the way, modern painted shop-fronts on the ground floor giving way to weathered brick and occasional stone carvings above. It was the first thing he’d loved about London, how you only had to look up to catch a glimpse of its history, and it almost wounds him all over again, that that love isn’t gone too. It would be easier if he was just one thing, all the way lost. It would be easier if he didn’t still love the world that killed Danny.

Jon lights his cigarette, and silently holds the lighter out to Tim. Tim shakes his head, and Jon doesn’t question him about why he’s come out here if he doesn’t smoke. Doesn’t press about the way Tim must be looking; he knows he’s never had much of a poker face. Danny tried to teach him poker, on a visit home from uni; Tim left for six weeks and came back to playing cards and strategy guides everywhere - his brother, who never sit still even in his own head -

“Where were you, before this?” Jon asks. Tim wouldn’t have pegged him for a smoker, but he looks immediately more relaxed with a cigarette in his hands. Nice hands, too. It would be easier, if he didn’t-

“Publishing,” Tim answers, before he can drift again. He wants to say more, to make sure this undemanding presence isn’t going to leave his side, but his throat is still tight. “You?”

Jon frowns, as if debating something to himself, then gives a tiny rueful smile. “Tesco.”

Tim grins. “Was it a haunted Tesco?”

“Only by customers,” Jon replies, dry as bone.

from: please leave a light on when you go

HELLO, this is 1000 years late and for that i apologise!! i absolutely do not mind that it is over 500 words. tbh i'd do these for whole fics if enough people were interested!

i think i've talked about my tim just genuinely loving people in general feelings in another one of these answers, but it continues to be true. makes sense to be for a character demonstrated to be both smart and gregarious. i also wanted to muse on how formative traumatic events both change us and don't - tim still cares about the people around him, but now he's unconciously looking for pain

i am not immune to older brother tim feelings...i am especially not immune to them being directed at jon...

part of the reason pre-series jontim is so fun is thinking about what would draw these two together. one answer is that i imagine jon as someone who would want/need a particular kind of consideration from those he's friends with, and i imagine tim as someone who's very good about noticing what people need and working around it without it being a huge thing

i was surprised that dyspraxic jon is not already a tag! or even just 'dyspraxia' does not seem to be a tag. i've read a lot of good fic involving various mobility issues for jon and this is a hc that i think makes sense (and that i hope i portrayed sensitively)

apparently the only tims i write are just regularly dissociating. i have no justification for this except that grief is really good at displacing you from time and also it's a convenient narrative device for dipping in and out of internal monologue

“Ah, thank you. And apologies, again,” Jon murmurs, gesturing awkwardly at Tim’s lightly-beered clothes.

“Ah...that worry hadn’t actually occurred to me,” Jon replies, solemn enough that Tim can’t really tell if he’s joking.

Tim finger-guns. “Any other anxieties I can stir up while you’re over here?”

“I’m quite capable of stoking my own neuroses, thank you.”

lifting tim's fear here directly from my uni days. quiet libraries...so good at making me feel like i'm about to start emitting 1000 noises (i now work in a library but it's not a quiet one so we're mostly good)

jon who is jokes in a v specific deadpan way that a lot of people don't get...a good headcanon

trying to inject the right amount of slightly awkward formality into jon's dialogue is hard but fun...that last sentence i think i thought about a lot even though it's a short/simple thought. gotta make it sound like a short/simple Jon thought

another reason they would like each other right off the bat - banter

jon in big jacket...as the kids say, hot jon rights

i've also talked about this in another one of these but man. the little details that make it feel real that someone is there close to you. when you are lonely the reality of other people right there just out of your reach suddenly drives home

"a mistake that didn't matter" tim is always thinking about the mistakes that did matter :(

“I...might go out for a smoke,” Jon murmurs eventually.

i think jon here is like i think i am enjoying talking to this person but on some level would be relieved to stop, so i will take a punt as to whether or not he is also a smoker and let fate decide. luckily for him tim is not a smoker but he does crave human connection

mostly my reaction when i have had to be in london is some level of :/ but maybe i do think fondly of some of it. cities at night...the weird mash up and modern & ancient in uk buildings that i always took for granted until i didn't. also hello architechture-buff tim

rereading this it's just very obvious to me that i wrote this during lockdown...like oh imagine going to a place and seeing a person. magical. effervescent

i do love them huddling close to keep out of the rain here...thematically appropriate, it is sad battered people against the world time, and also circumstance bringing you literally close to someone and having that change/spark something

the last line distresses me, the person who wrote it. i don't know if i have much to add to it really. sometimes the most painful part of living through something is waking up the next day and finding that you are still alive and a real person capable of being touched by the world

tim blames both himself and the world for killing danny. sure hope that blame and hatred doesn't rise up and send him into a spiral of self-destruction some day. would be a real bummer if that happened and ultimately led to his death via clown murder explosion

“Publishing,” Tim answers, before he can drift again. He wants to say more, to make sure this undemanding presence isn’t going to leave his side, but his throat is still tight. “You?”

Jon frowns, as if debating something to himself, then gives a tiny rueful smile. “Tesco.”

Tim grins. “Was it a haunted Tesco?”

“Only by customers,” Jon replies, dry as bone.

thank you for choosing this passage because now i have noticed/will edit the last sentence in the first paragraph, which is missing a word and does not scan right (should be 'who could never sit still even in his own head')

'Nice hands, too. It would be easier, if he didn’t-' hot. jon. rights. also connecting the 'maybe it would be easier if i wasn't still alive and real and capable of feeling' thing to noticing, appreciating, wondering if he wants something with jon

jon has definitely not told anyone else at the institute that he was in customer service before this. proud of him for this brief moment of trust. also between this and martin having told tim about his CV, i think people just look at tim and are like yeah here are my career-related secrets

i also just love imagining jon in customer service. and as someone who did not work in customer service at the time of writing this fic but now does, i mostly do not view customers as hauntings (library patrons are mostly chill) - unless it is 10 minutes until we close, in which case they are the absolute bane of my existence

#asks #anonymous #please leave a light on when you go #jontim #tma /#talking #no you cannot use a computer no you cannot start a long conversation about brexit we are CLOSING #long post

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captaincravatthecapricious · 3 years

Text

Things You Said at the Kitchen Table- Prompt Fill

Jon's ill, Tim makes dinner. After the Unknowing. Kind of a follow up to Can’t get up, Is that all your blood, and Feverish and teary/how long has it been since you’ve eaten. Sort of a follow up to the first two chapters of @janekfan‘s Too Much before more beautiful chapters were added to that verse.

@laurawatchesthebees

cw fever, nausea (mentioned), dizziness, past suicidal ideation, grief, references to death, food

Jon at his kitchen table.

Hardly the first time for that. Not even in recent months.

But Tim isn’t used to it yet.

It might be that he had meant to die a couple days ago. Not officially, but he was fairly certain he wouldn’t be coming back, no matter his intent.

Hasn’t quite accepted that he is still living and breathing and existing in this flat.

He’d cleaned. Really cleaned. Didn’t box anything up, because he knew Martin would hate it. Knew Martin would know what that meant.

Martin had still glared at him in suspicion when he tossed out a lifetime of stuff. His clothes are still there. His books. And Danny’s room is still untouched. But Everything is too pristine. Making it easy for whoever had to clean it out after he was gone.

Except he isn’t gone.

And Jon isn’t gone. (Even if that fever has been wasting him away to nothing, but Tim is pretty sure that it’s mostly stress and exhaustion).

And Martin isn’t gone.

The opposite of gone.

Halfway moved in with him. Both of them.

Jon still has half his things at the institute, but Tim is certain that at least half his clothes are here. And his weighted blanket. Certainly all his toiletries.

And Martin has slowly been taking over corners of his too-empty flat over the last couple days, which is baffling to Tim, because Martin rarely leaves. Has rarely left these last few days.

Tim doesn’t exactly know what Martin went through. Martin hasn’t really been up for talking about that. And Tim can’t fault him, because Tm very much doesn’t want to talk about… all of that.

Jon has been the perfect distraction. Fever flushed, and limp. Clinging weakly to whoever has been in reach.

They haven’t been to the Archives in a few days. So far no one else has been ill, so Tim has to assume that Elias being arrested has done something to postpone or stop the if-you-are-gone-too-long-you-will-suffer thing. Which. Good riddance. Fucker.

Jon is sitting at his kitchen table while Tim makes dinner. They’d been living on takeout, but Jon’s uneasy stomach hasn’t been up to much, so Tim finally dug himself out of the depression-confusion-fog of not really accepting that everyone is still alive. (Everyone except Sasha.)

He’s fine. Fine enough to make dinner. Martin brought back groceries. Enough to fill out the too-clean too-empty cabinets. Making Tim’s flat stop looking like a real-estate showing that just happened to have some extra homey touches, but not lived in.

Martin is off puttering around, possibly unpacking? It’s all gone a bit unsaid. Something that needs to be resolved, because Tim knows that Jon and Martin Need the verbal reassurance that they are welcome. And honestly… if this is going to happen…. Tim’s going to need a new flat. With more bedrooms. And one that doesn’t have a shrine to a dead brother taking up one of the bedrooms. Unless… unless sharing a bedroom is now just going to be a thing? His flat has three… well one spare… one… one he doesn’t have the strength to open the door anymore… and one his. They could share? Or have an extra for whoever needs a bit of space. It’s all… He doesn’t know. There aren’t edges to this friendship? Relationship? Fucked it he knows. And it doesn’t really matter… does it?

Then again, he doesn’t Need those kind of labels.

Later.

But not now.

When Martin and Jon need those labels.

And honestly it might be just those two. Which Tim doesn’t mind? Unless he does?

Not a thought for now.

His thoughts are making a soup for Jon. One of those big soups that he can freeze part of and still have food for days.

Because it isn’t like he has the mental fortitude for cooking often these days…

Or he might now? He hasn’t really accepted that his quest for revenge was successful.

He expected to be dead, or maybe not expected, but half-expected… or maybe just to have this huge wight lifted. But… but he’s having a really difficult time comprehending that it’s really over, you know?

Like he doesn’t feel quite real. Like nothing really happened.

But Jon…

Jon who really ought to still be in bed. Tucked up with medicine while Martin slowly takes over a third of Tim’s closet.

But Jon never could sit still. Even clearly feeling like shit, he wants to be helpful.

Of course Tim shooes Jon back to the bedroom. Managed to get the rest of the chopping done before he wanders back. Trailing on hand along the wall, dizzy and small, draped in his weighted blanket. The one that Tim bought for the holidays back in Research.

Tim is honestly astounded that extra weight doesn’t take Jon right down… Jon can hardly hold himself up.

“All that’s left to do is stir, bud.” Tim gestures to the few bowls full of chopped veggies on the counter, all the cutting boards washed, everything else in the pot already. Tim wished he was adept at making bread… he might be able to sweet talk Martin into making some later.

Jon’s the real chef here, but Tim is pretty competent. Martin decent enough, but Martin is the one who can work some magic with the oven. Cakes and pastries and bread.

There is nothing better than Martin’s baking.

(Sasha was the best at grilling).

Tim needs to be better at shutting thoughts of her out. Or maybe just letting himself think them.

Not now. Soup. Now is for soup. And maybe talking to Jon, assuming Jon isn’t going to be smart and go back to bed (hah). He isn’t… not quite up to listening to his thoughts just now. And music… well let’s just say he’s been listening to one of his two deep depression playlists. Probably not a good thing.

Instead of heading back to bed, like Tim had hoped… but not expected. Jon plunks himself down at the table. Shivering a little as he draws the blanket close.

It has a fleece cover that Tim and Sasha and Martin made one evening early Archives days.

One of those knotted covers. Easy to make. And Martin suggested because… well Tim is pretty sure that Martin might practice witchcraft. Or at least, doesn’t dismiss the idea that knot tying might hold some sort of power of intention. (Then again he might have seen Martin clip a little packet of herbs and stone chips and sigils on the inside of the cover… but that is none of Tim’s business. It might be though, if Martin is going to be living here. Tim can’t say he minds… it’s… it’s nice. Nice that he believes that intentions have meaning and that even if it does nothing… it’s still doing something. Tim understands the need to do something even if… even if it means nothing in the end. Or… maybe he doesn’t understand. he understands the urge, but hasn’t let himself believe.)

Jon feels utterly useless. And disgusting. He needs a shower. But the gummy feeling of fever sweat and exhaustion cling to him… no matter how many times he scrubs himself dizzy on Tim’s shower floor.

He wants to help.

He’s been mooching off of Tim and Martin’s kindness for too long.

But he’s been… weak and ill and helpless. And it’s been… nice to be looked after.

He wants to help, though. He’s never been good at sitting around and recovering, which is probably about half of his troubles right there. And he needs to be useful. Needs to not be a burden.

Not to mention keep an eye on Tim, who… who hasn’t been doing well… As far as Jon’s fever-addled brain can figure. (Martin is keeping himself busy to avoid thinking, Jon is positive, but he seems to be handling things better than Tim right now, so Jon will focus on Tim for now. Besides there is only so much he can do feeling like crap… and if he stays in bed any longer, he will either explode from sitting around with his thoughts too long, or he will fall asleep and be useful to absolutely no one.)

So he joins Tim in the kitchen, not surprised and rather thankful, but also rather annoyed that he can’t actually help with food. But.. that’s probably for the best. He’s still a little queasy. And standing for more than a couple minutes makes his head swim. ...More than usual, that is.

The weighted blanket feels like it’s going to drag him through the floor… but not in a bad way. Entirely.

The weakness and shakiness is bad. But the pressure is good. And he would have the first two even without the blanket adding an extra weight.

He shuffles over to the chair and sits heavily. Pressing his face against the cool wood. He will worry about the skin grease on the table later. Hhhhhhh he feels disgusting.

Tim sits down perpendicular to him at some point. Reaching over slowly to feel his forehead.

“Mmmmmm.” Undignified sound after undignified sound. That’s all Jon has to offer.

Tim chuckles. “Feels good, doesn’t it, cooling you down, huh?”

Jon glares halfheartedly. He knows this is some sort of jab about not resting. Probably.

Actually, he isn’t sure.

“Has Martin gotten you some medicine recently?”

Jon nods. Still more-or-less face down on the table.

“How ‘bout some Lucozade?”

“‘M fine.”

“I’ll get you some. How does… uh blue? Sound. Think Martin got you some blue.”

Jon shrugs.

Tim’s hand retreats. Tim retreats. Then he is back. Setting a glass at his elbow.

“Think you’re up for some soup?”

Jon shrugs.

“Not super chatty, huh.”

Jon shrugs again. He wishes he had more words for Tim. But Tim is tired of apologies, and Jon can’t think of much else to say.

“Thanks for …” He doesn’t want to say it. He wants to thank. He wants to apologize. But he really doesn’t like that he needs the help. But Tim deserves the thanks. Especially if Jon has been a dead weight around the house. “Looking after me.”

Tim laughs again. “Bud, that sounded like it hurt to say.” Tim nudges him.

It’s nice. Jon doesn’t flinch. “Don’t like that I need looking after.”

“I know, bud.”

Tim’s hand on his back. It’s… gentle and grounding. And warm. Although Jon is probably imagining that through the blanket. The blanket is warm, though. Jon yawns against the table.

Tim is rubbing small circles on his back now.

“Sure you don’t wanna go back to bed?”

Jon shakes his head. Moving sounds bad.

“I can carry you.”

“Mmmm. Here’s fine. With you. Thought you might want company.” Jon tilts his face slightly, trying to catch a glimpse of Tim’s face.

Tim’s face does a couple odd things. Jon doesn’t know what they mean. He hopes they are good.

Tim sounds a little… choked up. “Thanks.”

Tim drapes himself over Jon in an awkward side hug. Until he gets up to add some more veggies and give the soup a stir.

Jon sits up far enough to have a bit of the sports drink. Then slumps back down.

“About a half hour until the soup is ready. Maybe you can look sick and pitiful enough that Martin will take pity on us and make us some fresh bread tomorrow with leftovers, you did Am Dram, I bet you can convince him.”

Jon snorts.

“Half an hour then we are getting you to the couch. Unless you want to shower now then we can get the soup and some telly. Should be ready by the time you’re done?”

“Mmmmm. Feel gross.”

“Yup. Okay. Up with you. Think you can manage by yourself?”

Jon shrugs.

“Well. Give a shout if you need anything, okay? I’ll be right here. Then we can take it easy this evening.

Curled up on the couch with soup and Martin and Jon, Tim is somewhere, tangentially approaching happy.

#the magnus archives #tma #jonathan sims #tim stoker #timothy stoker #cw fever #cw grief #cw suicidal ideation #cw food #cw nausea #my writing #my art #fic #my words

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ollieofthebeholder · 3 years

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

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Chapter 30: Tim

Tim still feels guilty a week later.

Not, it has to be said, that anyone is making him feel guilty. Quite the opposite. The group hug in the Primes’ unofficial bedroom seems to have cleared the air. They don’t exactly say anything about forgiveness or accepting one another’s apologies, but Sasha comes with them when they leave work and ends up spending the night; they build a massive fort in the living room using every pillow and blanket in the house, have popcorn and hot chocolate for dinner, and swap stories about their childhoods until way too late in the evening considering they have work the next day. When Martin hesitantly admits the next evening that he’s been having trouble sleeping, Jon reminds him of his promise that Martin doesn’t have to be alone anymore, and the three of them curl up together in Tim’s bed for the first time since Jon’s stabbing, this time with Martin in the middle. They agree after that to assume they’ll keep doing that unless one of them has a genuine need to sleep alone.

But Tim still finds himself occasionally waking up in the middle of the night and studying the peaceful look on Martin’s face as he sleeps, or watching Jon mumble and shift restlessly as he watches whatever horror the Eye is forcing someone to relive, and feeling like the world’s biggest heel. While he knows he doesn’t have anything to do with Jon’s nightmares, he still feels like they’re not so bad when Jon isn’t isolating himself, and God knows Martin’s sleep is probably better when he doesn’t feel like he’s being shut out. And while, again, Jon was the one to insist at first that it would be better for him to sleep alone while he had the stitches in and Martin had quietly gone to his own room as well, Tim still feels like he pushed them away, even if it was unconsciously. He hurt both of them and he doesn’t know how to fix it.

He knows he should say something. That’s the whole point of all this; they’re trying to communicate. If something is bothering him, he ought to tell the others. But what he doesn’t want is for Martin—or Jon, for that matter—to spout platitudes and reassurances that he won’t believe. Even though he can tell from their actions that they’re genuine.

At the root of it, that’s the issue. Jon and Martin have forgiven Tim for the way he treated them when he was angry. Tim can’t forgive himself.

Tim taps his pen against his jaw absently as he studies the file in front of him. He’s quizzed Martin Prime on the “feeling” he once mentioned getting about which statements were real or not, and in the last few days he’s been trying his hand at it. It’s slow going, and he knows it’s probably at least partly because he’s resisted the Eye harder than the others, but ever since Sasha’s intervention, he’s decided, screw it. He’s trapped here, for better or for worse, and if it means he maybe gets freaky psychic powers, maybe he can at least use them to help keep his family safe.

This one feels real. It feels bad. Tim hates it on sight, which probably means it’s a Stranger statement; he tends to react badly to those for obvious reasons. And this one deals with taxidermy, which definitely doesn’t help matters. Still, he grits his teeth and digs into it, and what he finds…isn’t comforting. The name Daniel Rawlings is one he remembers—that was one of the people who went missing near Old Fishmarket Close, the very first statement they ever researched that had to go on the tape recorders. And the description of the thing in the basement sounds a hell of a lot like the thing Nathan Watts saw—holding bodies, luring people down with creepy, repetitive phrases. The guy’s lucky to be alive. The fact that the Trophy Room apparently still exists, and is still under Daniel Rawlings’ ownership, is…not great. From a research standpoint, it’s a boon they don’t usually get, but from a practical, this-is-probably-something-set-to-destroy-the-world standpoint, it’s fucking terrifying.

Tim stares at the statement for a long moment. Whether they need to follow up on it or not is almost academic at this point; they will follow up on it, because it’s what they do. They’ll do what they can from the office, but Tim doesn’t need any kind of special powers to know that eventually, someone will go out there to investigate in person. And it’s dangerous. Someone could get seriously hurt.

Which means there’s only one choice, really.

Sasha comes back from her lunch break and smiles at Tim; he smiles reflexively back and goes through the usual routine of how was your lunch, what’s the weather like, anything interesting come up while I was out. He assures Sasha that everything is fine on their end, shuffles the folder under some of the others on his desk under the guise of neatening things up, grabs his jacket, feels to make sure his phone is in the inner pocket, and heads out of the Archives.

It’s the warmest it’s been all month, but there’s just enough of a breeze to keep his jacket on as he walks to the Tube station. Sloane Square is the nearest stop to the Institute, but it’s not on the right line, so he’ll have to change trains at Monumental, and God, this is stupid. Jon hasn’t told him to look into this statement like this, hasn’t sent him to investigate. He doesn’t have to do this, job-wise.

It also occurs to him, belatedly, that he hasn’t told anyone he’s doing this. Well, there’s a reason for that, really; Jon would either try to forbid him from heading out there or insist he bring someone along, neither of which are happening. Tim’s not exposing anyone else on the team to this, even if he’s right there with them. Better that it just be him risking…whatever he’s risking by heading up to Woodside Park. But he should at least warn someone he might be a bit late getting back from lunch. He doesn’t have to say where he’s going exactly, he rationalizes, just say he’s investigating a statement. There are four or five on his desk, and even if Sasha goes snooping through them to see what he’s working on, there’s no way they can be sure this is the one he’s poking into. They’ll probably think it’s any statement but this one. They all know how Tim feels about the Stranger.

When he sits down on the second train just before it pulls out of the station, he reaches into his pocket to pull out his phone. What he pulls out…is not his phone. It’s a small handheld tape recorder, the sort of thing you’d find in an amateur spy kit, looking like it’s brand new out of the package. Tim stares at it in stupefaction for a moment, then quickly pats himself down. His phone is not in his pocket, and he suddenly has a clear and vivid picture in his mind of it sitting on the corner of his desk, charging, because he forgot to plug it in last night.

Great.

For a moment, he’s tempted to go back. Turn around, head back to the Institute, grab his phone, come back another time. Maybe give Jon a heads-up that he’ll be a bit late getting back, if Jon’s back from lunch by the time he gets there. He doesn’t have to say where he’s going, just that he’s following up on a statement or something like that. No need to specify, right?

He doesn’t, though. For one thing, he’s pretty sure if he goes back, he’ll lose his nerve and either not go back or bring someone back with him…or worse, let one of the others go instead. He’ll never be able to live with himself if he puts anyone else in danger like that. And for another, he knows Jon won’t accept a half-explanation. Tim will either have to tell him nothing or everything. And if Tim tells Jon everything, Jon will forbid Tim to come out here.

“I can hear him now,” he mutters, still staring at the recorder in his hand. “‘There’s no need for you to put yourself in that kind of danger, Tim, and certainly no need to expose yourself to that. We can do this over the phone if we have to.’”

Except they can’t; the Stranger is at its best when it’s hidden, so if they’re not looking it in the—well, looking it in the eye, Tim guesses—it’s going to lie to them. It might lie to his face, too, but at least he’ll have the evidence of his senses. And at least he can put it on alert, maybe. The Eye sees you. The Institute is aware of you. Timothy Stoker knows where to find you.

Yeah, right. This is the stupidest thing Tim’s done since he tried to jump off the roof using his grandmother’s umbrella with the bird handle as a parachute.

He turns the recorder over a couple of times in his hands. The Primes mentioned once that their Tim hated these things—the way they kept turning up without warning, the way they would turn themselves on at random times, what they might mean. Tim’s not exactly thrilled about this one just turning up in his pocket either, if it comes down to it, especially in place of his phone. A tape recorder won’t enable him to get in touch with anyone if things go tits-up, or if he’s running late or something. On the other hand…well, it’s better than nothing. And he has to admit it’s a little bit of a comfort to know he’s not technically alone. The Primes both swear they aren’t a tool of the Eye, and he has to admit their logic is sound as to why not, but still, someone or something is listening to him, which means he won’t disappear into nothing. If, God forbid, something goes wrong, at least there will be a record. Some kind of witness.

Tim pats down his pockets and locates a pen, then pops open the recorder. Nestled inside is a microcassette tape, ready and waiting. He considers for a moment, then writes RETURN TO ARCHIVES, THE MAGNUS INSTITUTE, LONDON on the label as neatly as he can. There isn’t anywhere on the recorder’s surface to write, and he doesn’t have any tape or anything, but he hopes that will be sufficient, should someone find it and need to send it back. He considers writing his name and the address of the Institute on his arm or something, the way his parents used to do with him and Danny whenever they went out someplace they might get separated, but decides against it. Based on where he’s going and what he knows about what’s there, the balance of probability is that if he dies, they won’t leave any skin to identify him. He’ll have to settle for tucking his wallet in the same pocket as the recorder and hoping they dispose of his jacket without going through it.

Tim is beginning to wish he put a little more forethought into this. Or, you know, any forethought at all.

Woodside Park is almost at the end of the Northern line, which gives Tim way too much time to think about turning back and consider that there’s no turning back now. He’s the only one who gets off at that stop, which is certainly not eerie at all. Nope, nothing to be concerned about here, perfectly normal. (Logically, it probably is perfectly normal, but Tim is so addled right now that everything looks spooky.) He fishes out the recorder and turns it on.

“Right,” he says. “Uh, this is Timothy Stoker, Archival Assistant at the Magnus Institute, and…if you’re listening to this and don’t know what that is, well, uh, stop listening and get this back to Jonathan Sims, the Head Archivist. You, uh, you should be able to look it up. Stop listening now.” He pauses a second or two, then continues, “Okay, should be Archival staff listening now…Jon, Martin, if it’s you, I’m sorry, but I had to do this. I’m, uh, I’m at Woodside Park right now, I just got off the Tube, and…well, I’m about to go into the Trophy Room. This statement is just…it’s too freaky to leave alone. I can’t risk any of you if it’s something serious and…I’m sorry. Anyway, I’m…going to leave this thing going in my pocket, kind of try to get a recording, so that if I can’t explain for whatever reason, you’ll know what happens. I don’t know what’s going to happen. Hopefully nothing too bad, but…well, we’ll see.”

He pauses for a moment, then tucks the recorder back in his pocket and says under his breath, “Fuck.” Then he takes a deep breath, squares his shoulders, and heads down the block.

The Trophy Room isn’t hard to find. It’s exactly as the taxman described it in his statement—an aged, grimy building with faded gold lettering and a dirt-streaked olive green awning. There’s even a stuffed big cat in the window, and the only reason Tim knows it’s a tiger and not a lion, apart from the statement, is because big cats were something of an obsession of his when he was nine or ten, back when he’d considered a career as a wild animal tamer for a circus, and he made a study of the physiology of them. This is unmistakably a tiger, long-faded stripes notwithstanding. That seems to him a somewhat irresponsible way to care for something you ought to put pride in, but what does Tim know?

The bell over the door clangs raucously when Tim pushes the door open, and he is suddenly confronted by hundreds of staring, glassy eyes. Tim quite likes animals and he’s seen many of the ones in the shop live and in person, including an up-close-and-personal encounter with a moose (this one must be a juvenile, he thinks, a full-grown bull wouldn’t fit in the space it’s crammed into), but the concentration of them looking at him, all at once, is disconcerting, to say the least. But it’s not nearly so disorientating as the smell. Danny once declared he was going to buy their mother something “unique” and purchased a titan arum for her before learning that it was more commonly called a “corpse flower” for a very good reason. This place smells like they’ve got an entire greenhouse of them under the floor.

Which is better than the alternative, really.

A man comes out of the back. True to the description in the statement, he’s a “fresh-faced twenty-something”; if he’s even Jon’s age, Tim will eat the entire taxidermied moose. He raises his eyebrows in Tim’s direction. “Can I help you?”

A nagging, persistent voice in the back of Tim’s head that sounds an awful lot like Martin suggests that declaring himself to be from the Magnus Institute would be the worst decision he’s made all day, which is saying a lot. Time to fake it. Luckily, Tim’s good at that. He switches on his most charming smile. “Hi! I sure hope so. I’m looking for a Christmas present for my sister.”

Is it Tim’s imagination, or does the man he presumes to be Daniel Rawlings relax, just a fraction? “Bit early for that, aren’t you?”

“Well, I mean, I didn’t know if you’d have something on hand or if I’d have to wait for you to get something in or bring something in,” Tim says, waving at the assorted animals. “I mean, she’s kinda picky sometimes. I don’t know how this works.”

“Ah. Well, let’s see what I can do to help you.” The man extends a hand and grins. “I’m Daniel Rawlings. And you are…?”

“Nick DiAngelo.” Tim Anglicizes his grandfather’s name; it feels safer than giving his real one. He accepts Rawlings’ hand; it’s cool, hard, and very dry.

“Mm.” Tim can’t tell if Rawlings believes him or not, but he shakes his hand and lowers it. “Well, all of these pieces are for sale, unless you brought something in. You’re not a…hunter yourself, are you?”

Tim doesn’t like the emphasis Rawlings puts on hunter, but he keeps up his smile. “Nah, not my thing. Never been one for guns or the like. I like my nature alive.”

“But your sister doesn’t?”

“She’s an animal lover, but she can’t have pets at this new place she’s moving to. So, stuffed it is.” Tim waves a hand at the room. “Don’t think there’s room in her flat for a whole moose, of course, but…”

“Of course, of course. Well, feel free to look around and see if anything catches your…eye.”

Tim manages not to react to that word. Instead, he, smiles again and ambles towards a shelf full of squirrels. The animals’ eyes seem to follow him as he walks, and he knows Rawlings’ eyes follow him, too.

“So how long have you been doing this, anyway?” he blurts after a moment, turning back to face Rawlings. “It must have taken ages to do all this.”

“Oh, I inherited it,” Rawlings tells him. “An old friend of my father’s left it to me. Apparently he didn’t have any other family.”

Mentally, Tim ticks off the first item on the list—the stories tally. Which, well, of course they would. “Do you like all this?”

Rawlings shrugs. Tim tries again. “You’re lucky, you know. Falling into a business like this. I’ve been having to work my way up from the bottom. Is it hard?”

“Not so hard as it could be, I suppose.” Rawlings looks around him. “At least it’s a good, steady business. No heavy lifting.” He smiles. “I’ve got people for that.”

“Hey, are you hiring?”

“Hmm.” Rawlings tips his head to one side, studying Tim. A prickle of unease crawls up Tim’s spine. The man won’t make eye contact, but something about that regard unsettles him. “I think we might be able to find a…fitting position for you. If you’re interested.”

Tim pretends to consider it. “Tell you what. I’ll let you know after the new year? Got a big project I’m in the middle of now.”

“Of course. There’s plenty of time.” Rawlings smiles. “It’s not like the animals are going anywhere.”

Tim laughs, despite the creeping feeling of dread. “That would be…strange.”

The word slips out before Tim can stop it, but Rawlings laughs, too. He seems genuinely delighted, and even comes closer. “Here, let me help you find something that would suit your sister.”

He lights a cigarette. Tim raises an eyebrow. “Aren’t you worried about these old things going up if you drop that?”

“I’d be desolate if they did.” There’s no doubt about it; Rawlings is dropping those words deliberately, but this time he sounds amused more than taunting. He either realizes Tim knows something, or he’s just showing off his own knowledge. Neither of which is good. “But no, they’re remarkably well-preserved.”

“That’s what they said about our uncle,” Tim quips. He does get another laugh out of Rawlings for that one. “How old are they, anyway? I know you said your dad’s friend did them…”

“He owned the shop. Many hands have worked these creatures.” Rawlings strokes the moose’s nose almost reverently. “Tell me, Mr. DiAngelo, what is your field?”

“History,” Tim lies easily. “Eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, with a focus on arts and industry.”

“Ah.” Rawlings still doesn’t meet his eyes, but there’s a glitter in them. “Then I think I have something worth showing you.” He gestures towards the back.

Tim’s not stupid, despite all current evidence to the contrary. He knows from the statement that the workroom is back there, behind the office. There’s a distinct possibility that he’s letting himself be lured into a deadly trap. But in keeping with his persona, and also in the interest of getting the information he needs, he says brightly, “Great! Lead on, then.”

If he survives this, Jon’s going to kill him.

The office is small, largely dominated by an old oak desk. Seated behind it is a petite woman with close-cropped brown hair, wearing a grey t-shirt and a light jacket, bent over what look like account books. Tim has a nasty feeling he knows who this woman is.

“Sarah,” Rawlings says, confirming Tim’s suspicions-slash-fears, “this is Nick DiAngelo. I brought him back to show him the skins…Mr. DiAngelo, this is Sarah Baldwin, one of my fellow employees.”

“Pleasure,” Tim says cheerfully. This is officially too much, but he’s got to see it through now. The smell of Death By Flowers is stronger here, and he remembers suddenly Melanie King mentioning in her statement that the Sarah Baldwin who did sound work for her Ghost Hunt UK episode had a sharp, faintly floral perfume, or something like that. He wonders if she’s been living here—so to speak—all this time, if the smell of the building has soaked into her skin or if it’s something that comes from her and Rawlings and whatever else might be part of all this.

“Hi,” Sarah says succinctly. Tim also remembers Melanie saying she was a woman of few words.

“Come look at these. She won’t mind,” Rawlings assures Tim. Sure enough, Sarah seems scarcely aware of their presence as Rawlings begins showing Tim the skins hanging on the wall. And if they’re genuine, if he’s telling the truth about their origins—and Tim has no reason to doubt him—they are impressive.

One skin seems to be missing, though. The man from Internal Revenue described a gorilla skin, alleged to be from the fifth century B.C., the oldest bit of taxidermy in the world. There’s nothing like that in this room. Tim’s not sure why that bothers him so much, but reluctantly, he has to admit that he probably shouldn’t ignore it.

“…And this,” Rawlings concludes, indicating a stuffed figure on the desk—a white hare in a waistcoat, “was part of the Great Exhibition of 1851. It helped drive Victorian England mad for the craft.”

Tim doesn’t like the emphasis he puts on mad, but since this is supposed to be his specialty, he says, “I am impressed. There was a lot of fantastic craftwork at the Great Exhibition. I saw a stereoscope card once while I was doing my graduate research, but I never dreamed I would ever see something that was actually displayed there.”

“Would you like to touch it?” Rawlings asks. “You can, you know. It’s quite safe.”

Tim tries very much to look like he’s hesitating out of reverence for the age of the piece and not because he wonders if he’s going to end up poisoned, sucked into an alternate dimension, or triggering a trapdoor to the mouth of a hungry monster, but he can’t actually think of a good reason why a historian would refuse to touch, well, actual history. So he reaches out, slowly, and runs his hand over the hare’s fur. It’s stiff and wiry, the effects of almost two centuries of existence, but still feels mostly soft under his palm. The body is solid and firm. If he didn’t know better, he would swear it has a heartbeat.

“That’s brilliant,” he breathes. Hopefully he still sounds awed and not terrified. He takes a risk. “Is this the oldest piece you have?”

“Wolf,” Sarah grunts, jerking a thumb over her shoulder at the wolf pelt hanging on the wall.

“It dates back to the Middle Ages,” Rawlings explains. “We had one even older, but, well, it was stolen some years ago.”

“Stolen?” Tim is genuinely taken aback by this. “Did they ever find it?”

“No, sadly. It was never sold, at least not publicly, so who knows?” Rawlings sighs. “It was a gorilla skin, from Carthage. Brought over by Hammo in the fifth century B.C.”

“It must have been worth a pretty penny,” Tim whistles.

“Its value is immeasurable,” Rawlings says earnestly. “It means the world.”

Something about that phrase makes Tim’s blood run cold. Not it means the world to me, or to my dad’s friend, even though he guesses that’s a fiction. Just it means the world. Whatever that means, it can’t be good for humanity.

“Well,” he says, as sympathetically as he can. “I hope it comes back to you in the fullness of time.”

“Oh, I’m sure it will. If it hasn’t been destroyed…I’m sure there’s someone out there who knows where to look.”

Tim would like to go now, he decides. He’s pretty sure he has all the information he needs, and surely the Primes can fill in anything he’s missing. “I’m glad you showed me these. They’re really impressive. But I’m sure they’re well out of my price range.”

“Maybe,” Rawlings says. “But that could change. We’ll discuss that later, if you’re still interested in that job.”

Tim definitely does not like the sound of that. “I’ll be in touch about that. And I’ll be back for sure about something for my sister, once I’ve had time to…reassess things a little. You know, get an idea about her flat layout and what sort of thing would work best for her.”

Rawlings smiles. It sends chills down Tim’s spine. “Don’t be a stranger.”

He holds out his hand. As they shake again, for the first time, Rawlings looks Tim dead in the eye, and Tim realizes two things. First of all, the taxman wasn’t kidding; Rawlings’ eyes are as dead and lifeless as the animals’, and like theirs are made of glass, fixed in place where his real eyes should be. They should stare without seeing, but unlike Martin Prime’s eyes, which are still warm and expressive but stare right past or through you, these bore into Tim’s and he is one hundred percent aware that Rawlings can see him perfectly clearly.

Second…his eyes are glowing faintly, a deep and vibrant indigo, like they’re lit from within. Which is frankly beyond disturbing.

“I won’t,” Tim assures him, and means it.

He comes out of the office ahead of Rawlings and is about halfway to the door when it happens. The bell jangles again, and two men come in—two men Tim would prefer never to see again, dressed like deliverymen and crossing into the shop.

It’s Breekon and Hope.

One of them notices Tim and stiffens. “Hey, you.”

“What are you doing here?” asks the other, eyes narrowing suspiciously.

“Come to spy on us?”

“See what we’re doing?”

“What?” Rawlings asks sharply.

Tim bolts. He has surprise on his side and manages to get out the door before anyone can grab him, but unlike the man who gave the statement, he knows they’re not just going to let him get away. He considered a lot of possible fates for himself should he visit the Trophy Room, but somehow, Breekon and Hope turning up while he was there, and recognizing him, never occurred to him. Stupid. Stupid.

It’s a good stretch to the Tube station, and Tim expects every step to feel them on his heels, but either they can’t move as quickly as him or they’re not chasing him for their own reasons. Still, he hears a rumble behind him and doesn’t stop to check if it’s them or not. Instead, he sprints for the entrance to the station and leaps down the steps three at a time. He lands wrong at the bottom and his ankle buckles, but he shakes off the pain and manages to just make it to the train before it pulls out, which at least has the advantage of giving anyone who saw him come flying in a possible explanation for his hurry beyond “being chased by something out of a horror film”.

He collapses into his seat and catches his breath as the train pulls away, heading back towards central London. Once he’s breathing normally, he takes stock. His ankle throbs, but the pain is relatively mild. He’ll live and, most crucially, he’s not in the back of an ersatz delivery van…or worse. Tim honestly can’t say what he would have done if they’d caught him, but he’s glad he doesn’t have to think about it.

After a moment, he reaches into his pocket and checks for the recorder. It’s stopped, which might mean it cut itself off when the danger had passed, or might mean he hit the end of the spool, or might mean he screwed up and turned it off and it didn’t catch what happened in there at all. He’s going to have to hope he got everything, though, because no way is he risking playing this on the train. There are other people here, after all, although not many. He does rewind it, though, and he’s comforted to hear the length of its backwards spool. There’s something on it at least.

He makes the connection with seconds to spare; the Central line is a bit more crowded, so he ends up standing near the door, which does at least mean he’s the first one off at Sloane Square. He tries to hurry without running—the last thing he wants is to draw attention—but even now, he finds himself glancing over his shoulder periodically to see if anyone is following him. Luckily, it appears he’s managed to give them the slip. For now, anyway.

As he gets closer to the Institute, he slows up and tries to straighten up his appearance. The last thing he wants is to make it look like he had to run for his life, or might still be running. He’s got the tape if Jon doesn’t believe what he says, but maybe he’ll get lucky and he can avoid having to play it, so Jon—and Martin, for that matter—don’t have to know how close a shave he just had.

Yeah, right. And maybe he’ll finally get that phone call about his audition for Jersey Boys.

He’s still limping as he reaches the Institute and lets himself in the door to the Archives. For just a minute, he pauses when he comes in, wondering why they swapped out the light bulbs for novelty green ones…but no, he blinks hard and the lighting goes back to normal. Just the regular old Archives, rows of shelves littered with files, pod of desks in the work area, three people grouped around it. Tim’s not sure what’s going on, but from the looks of it, Sasha and Jon are sitting down and Martin is fussing.

Martin looks up as Tim comes closer, and his face goes slack with relief. “Tim!”

Sasha’s head whips around. “Are you all right?” she asks.

Tim tries for a grin. “I’m not dead.”

“Yeah, that’s not exactly comforting. You get why that’s not comforting, right?” Martin tugs at his hair in evident frustration. “Wh—” He stops and presses his lips together tightly for a second.

“You’re late.” Jon’s voice is soft but accusing. He gets to his feet and wobbles for a second before steadying himself against the back of the chair.

Suddenly worried, Tim takes a step towards him. His ankle chooses that moment to remind him that he’s already fucked it up and buckles under him, nearly sending him to the floor. He doesn’t fall far before Martin is there, catching him and half-dragging, half-carrying him over to his chair. “You’re hurt.”

“Master of the obvious,” Tim tries to joke, and then he sees the look on Martin’s face and realizes what’s going on. They’ve all realized that Martin has acquired the ability to compel people to tell him things, especially about how they got hurt or why they’re scared; he’s trying to learn how to control it, just like Jon and Sasha are trying to learn to control their new powers, but Jon Prime warned them already that it will be harder for them to not let it slip in involuntarily when they’re upset or stressed. Martin is trying very hard not to force Tim to tell him anything. It’s a courtesy Tim doesn’t think he deserves, but he swallows down on the guilt. “Just twisted, I think. No big deal.” He eases away from Martin and stands; it hurts a bit, but he’s at least able to do it on his own.

Martin lets him, but he’s still hovering, around both him and Jon. Jon stands facing Tim, looking grim. “You didn’t have your phone with you, Tim. We couldn’t contact you. It’s been two hours.”

Tim winces. “I didn’t realize I’d left it behind until it was too late to come back, and then I just…I thought I’d be back sooner. Sorry, boss. I’ll make up the time.”

“I’m not worried about the time, Tim!” Jon throws his hands up in frustration. “I’m worried about you. You were gone longer than you should have been, and we had no way of getting in touch with you, nor any idea where you were.”

“I—I was going to text you, but—”

“No, Tim, we didn’t know where you were,” Martin emphasizes. “Sasha tried to Know where you’d gone and gave herself a nosebleed. Jon tried and passed out! I-I finally asked downstairs, and all he’d say was that you were safe and on the way back, but that’s really not as comforting as he made it sound.”

“I know how you feel about…all of that,” Jon says, his voice sounding strained, “but we were worried. We were scared. Especially since…” He gestures at the files on Tim’s desk. “I wasn’t sure which one you were investigating.”

And Jon’s avoiding actually asking questions, too, out of fear of forcing Tim to answer against his will. They’re all better than he deserves, he thinks distantly, and it would serve him right if—no. He’s hurt them enough.

“The Trophy Room,” he says quietly. He reaches into his pocket and fishes out the tape recorder, which he hands to Jon. “Pretty sure I got the whole thing on there, but I haven’t had a chance to check.”

“The Trophy Room? The taxidermy shop in Barnet? The one we’re pretty sure is a stronghold for the Stranger?” Martin’s voice rises in pitch. “Are you out of your mind?”

“What were you thinking?” Jon says, clearly upset. “You’ve read that statement, you know how dangerous it is. If I had wanted someone to go there to investigate, I would have sent someone, and you would have been the last person I would choose—”

“I wasn’t going to let any of you go out there,” Tim argues.

“Tim, you’re already marked by the Stranger,” Jon says sharply. “Remember what they said? The marks make you a bigger target. It means they’re more likely to try something on you. That—whatever it was in the basement, the anglerfish thing—if Rawlings had opened the door, it might have lured you down. My God, Tim, you could have been killed and we would have had no idea where you were.”

If Tim did this to make himself feel less guilty, he failed spectacularly. He inhales sharply and tries to meet Jon’s eyes. For just a second, they seem to glow a vivid and vibrant green; Tim blinks and they go back to their normal brown. “I—I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking about that, I just—all I could think about was that I needed to protect you all. I knew someone was going to end up investigating all this, we couldn’t get the truth over the phone, and I—I didn’t want to risk one of you going over there. I knew it was dangerous, but…I haven’t done enough, so I thought it had to be me.”

“Tim.” Jon’s jaw works for a moment, and then he just surges forward and hugs Tim tightly.

Tim hugs him back, feeling the tears pricking at his eyes. A moment later he feels the comforting weight and warmth of Martin’s arms around them both, but instead of making him relax, it just makes the tears flow harder. He doesn’t deserve this.

He must say that aloud, because Jon releases him and steps back to frown at him. “Don’t deserve what? What are you talking about?”

“This.” Tim gestures to Jon and Martin hovering around him, then to Sasha, who evidently was part of the hug, too, at least peripherally. “I didn’t—I fucked up, Jon. I shoved you all away and I made you feel—I was hurting, so I hurt you without any reason, and I—”

“We were all hurting,” Martin interrupts him, his face tight with sympathy. “And we all did things to hurt each other—”

“You didn’t,” Sasha points out.

“I could’ve stepped in any time, or spoken up about what was bothering me, instead of acting like I thought you’d hurt me if I tried,” Martin says. “I didn’t. I let myself class you all in the same category as my mother, and that isn’t fair to any of you. I know better. What happened this month between us is as much my fault as anyone else’s and I’m not going to sit by and act like I’m the victim in all this, because that isn’t fair to anyone. Including me.” He takes a deep breath. “We’re a team. We’re a family. We’re supposed to work together, right?”

“Right.” Tim swallows hard and wipes his eyes. “No more unauthorized field trips. Promise.”

Jon nods. “Thank you.” He glances at the tape recorder. “I’ll listen to this later, if you need me to, but meanwhile, why don’t you tell us what happened?”

Tim sighs. “Might want to sit down. This could take a while.”

#ollie writes fanfic #leaves too high to touch (roots too strong to fall)#tma #the magnus archives #canon typical stranger content #guilt tw #implied past emotional abuse #tim stoker stop being a dumbass challenge

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dustedmagazine · 4 years

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Dust Volume 6, Number 8

Angel Olsen

Now half a year in the pandemic, we’re starting to see the emergence of quarantine records, whether in the trove of reissues hastily assembled to stand in for new product or home recorded projects made with extremely close friends and family or albums that are conceived and written around the concept of isolation. Music isn’t real life, exactly, but it lives nearby. And in any case, it’s still music and can be good or bad whether it’s been unearthed from a forgotten box of tapes, recorded at home without collaboration or side people or technologically gerry-rigged so that distanced partners can work together. So, as long as you all are making music, we will continue to listen and find records that move us, as the world burns all around. This edition’s contributors included Patrick Masterson, Andrew Forell, Tim Clarke, Jennifer Kelly, Bill Meyer, Jonathan Shaw, Justin Cober-Lake and Ray Garraty. Enjoy.

+ — #playboy (Deluxe Edition) (self-released)

#playboy (deluxe edition) by +

One of the most genuinely confounding records I’ve heard this year comes courtesy SEO-unfriendly artist + aka Plus Sign fka Emanuel James Vinson, a Chicago rapper, city planner and all-around community activist who spends his time helping with the city’s Let’s Build Garden City initiative when he’s not making music (which is frequent, by the way — take a look at the breadth of that Bandcamp discography). The concept with #playboy, originally released in April but deluxed in late May, is simple: Two kids find a music machine called #playboy in their basement and start tinkering with it. Its childlike whimsy is conveyed in the song titles (“Getting the Hang of It,” “Wake Up Jam (Waking Up)”) every bit as much as it is in the music, with occasionally grating indulgences, the odd earworm and a brief appearance by borderless internet hip-hop hero Lil B that makes perfect sense in context; the kindred spirit of that community-building cult auteur is strong here. You may wind up loving this record or you may wind up hating it, but I can promise you this: You’ll be thinking about it and the artist behind it long after it’s over.

Patrick Masterson

Actress — Mad Voyage Mixtape (self-released)

I once suggested Darren Cunningham mucks about with his music because he can’t help himself. That was about six years ago on the occasion of his purported “final” album Untitled; with the benefit of hindsight, we can see he was (like so many others, to greater or lesser consequence) just pulling our leg with that PR. Hell, he’s released two albums worth of music in July alone: The first was the mid-month surprise LP 88, which follows in the vein of his acclaimed high period as an often brilliant, occasionally frustrating patchwork of submersible beats best played at high volume with a low end. The second came at the end of the month in an m4a file shared the old fashioned way on a forum via Mediafire link, nearly an hour and a half long, and per the man himself, “All SP-303, sketchbook beats, recorded this past week [the first week of July] straight to recorder or cassette.” It feels very much like a homespun Actress mixtape and is probably best thought of as livelier accompaniment to 88 but, even still, there’s no noticeable drop in quality — once Actress, always Actress. If headier lo-fi beat tapes are your beat, this will slot comfortably in line.

Patrick Masterson

bdrmm - Bedroom (Sonic Cathedral)

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Hull five-piece bdrmm play a satisfyingly crepuscular version of shoegaze on their debut album Bedroom. Ryan Smith, his brother Jordan on bass, guitarist Joe Vickers, Danny Hull on synths and drummer Luke Irvin combine the widescreen sound of Ride with a cloak of gothic post-punk. Like the late, lamented Girls Names, bdrmm find a sweet spot where atmosphere and dynamics either build to euphoric crescendos or bask in bleak funereal splendor. Bedroom seems deliberately sequenced from celebration to lament. “A Reason To Celebrate” evokes Ride at their most anthemic, the tripping staccato driven “Happy” summons the spirit of The Cure of Seventeen Seconds before the pace drops for the second half, the songs become quieter and darker as the band finds a more personal voice. “(The Silence)” is an ambient whispered wraith of a thing, “Forget The Credits” impressively mopey slowcore. bdrmm don’t always transcend their influences, but this debut is an atmospheric treat if your taste runs to the darker end of the musical buffet.

Andrew Forell

Circulatory System — Circulatory System (Elephant 6 Recording Co.)

Circulatory System by Circulatory System

Nearly 20 years after its initial release, the excellent eponymous debut album by Will Cullen Hart’s psychedelic chamber-pop band Circulatory System gets a long overdue vinyl reissue. While his previous project, the undeniably great Olivia Tremor Control, tended to lean more towards classic psych-pop’s traditional tropes — hard-panned drums, loads of disorientating tape effects, wonky harmonized vocals — Circulatory System taps into something utterly uncanny. Both Signal Morning (2009) and Mosaics Within Mosaics (2014) have their moments, but this is front-to-back brilliant, conjuring a sublime atmosphere of reflective estrangement. The music is a thick, grainy soup of shimmering instrumentation, from the eerie (“Joy,” “Now,” “Should a Cloud Replace a Compass?”) to the joyful (“Yesterday’s World,” “The Lovely Universe,” “Waves of Bark and Light”), but part of the album’s magic is the way everything flows into a seamless whole. As is vinyl’s tendency, the rhythm section really comes alive here, the fuzz bass and tom-heavy drum parts booming out, with plenty of vivid details in the mix swimming into view. A worthy reissue of an essential album.

Tim Clarke

Cloud Factory — #1 (Howlin’ Banana)

Cloud Factory #1 by Cloud Factory

Cloud Factory, from Toulouse, France, overlays the serrated edges of garage pop with a serene dream-pop drift. It’s an appealing mix of hard and soft, like being pummeled to death by pillows or threatened gunpoint by a teddy bear. “Amnesia,” for instance, erupts in a vicious, sawed off, trouble-making bass line, then soars from there in untroubled female vocals. Later, “No Data,” punches hard with raw percussion, then lays on a liquid, lucid guitar line that encourages middle-distance staring. None of these songs really up the ante with memorable melodies, sharp words or that intangible R’NR energy that distinguishes great punk rock from the so so. Not loud, not soft, not great, not bad. Cloud Factory resides in the indeterminant middle.

Jennifer Kelly

Entry — Detriment (Southern Lord)

Detriment by Entry

Nuthin fancy here, folks. Just eight songs — plus a flexing, fuzzing intro — of American hardcore punk. Entry has been grinding away for a few years now, and Detriment doesn’t advance much past the musical terrain the band marked off on the No Relief 7-inch (2016). That’s OK. The essential formula is time tested: d-beat rhythms, overdriven amps and Sara G.’s ferocious vocals delivering the necessary affect. That would be: pissed off, just this side of hopeless. Detriment sounds like what might happen if Poison Idea (c. 1988) stumbled into a seminar on Riot Grrrl; after everyone got tired of beating the living shit out of one another, they’d make some songs. “Selective Empathy” is pretty representative. Big riffs, a breakdown, and more than enough throaty yelling to let you know that you’re in some trouble. You might recognize the sound of Clayton Stevens’ guitar from his work with Touché Amoré — but maybe it’s better if you don’t. This isn’t music for mopery. Watch out for the spit, snot and blood, and flip the record.

Jonathan Shaw

Equiknoxx — VF Live: Equiknoxx (The Vinyl Factory)

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There’s nothing like a little roots music to get you through the sweltering summer heat, and this early July mix by Gavin “Gavsborg” Blair (half of forward-thinking Kingston dancehall unit Equiknoxx) was a personal favorite of the past month for hitting that spot. The group tends to throw curveballs at the genres it tinkers with, and Blair’s mix highlights why they’re so good at it: The crates run deep. Spanning everything from legendary producer and DJ Prince Jazzbo to in-house music fresh out the box (e.g., “Did Not Make This For Jah_9” was released in late May), Blair sets the mood and educates you along the way. Like everything else these cats do (and that includes the NTS show — support your independent radio station!), it’s hard not to give the highest recommendation.

Patrick Masterson

Ezra Feinberg — Recumbent Speech (Related States)

Recumbent Speech by Ezra Feinberg

Knowing that Ezra Feinberg is a practicing psychoanalyst, it’s tempting to read meaning into the name of his second solo album. But be careful to think twice about the meaning you perceive and ask yourself, is it the product of Feinberg on the couch or your own projection? His choice to name one of the record’s six instrumentals (there are voices, but no words) “Letter To My Mind” certainly suggests that there’s an internal dialogue at work, but the music feels most like a layered deployment of good ideas than an exchange of intrapsychic forces. The synthesizers shimmer and cycle like something from a mid-1970s Cluster record, resting upon a pillow of vibraphone and electric piano tones, which in turn billow under the influence of undulating layers of drums. Feinberg’s guitar leads are bright and pithy, like something Pat Metheny might come up with if he knew he was going to have to pay a steep price for every note he played. Ah, but there I go, projecting an implication of adversary process where there may be none. Might it be that Feinberg, having spent a full work week immersed in the psychic conflicts of others, wants to lay back on the couch and exhale? If so, this album is an apt companion.

Bill Meyer

Honey Radar — Sing the Snow Away: The Chunklet Years (Chunklet)

Sing the Snow Away: The Chunklet Years by Honey Radar

Jason Henn of Honey Radar has a solid claim at being his generation’s Bob Pollard, a prolific, absurdist songwriter, who tosses off hooky melodies as if channeling them from the spirit world. His least polished material glints with melody hidden beneath banks of fuzz, whispery and fragile on records, but surprisingly muscular in his rocking live shows. This 28-song compilation assembles the singles, splits, EPs and bonus tracks Henn recorded for Chunklet between 2015 and the present; it would be a daunting amount of material except that it goes down like cotton candy, sweet, airy, colorful and gone before you know it. Like the Kinks, Henn has a way of making strident rock and roll hooks sound wistful and dreamy. In “Lilac Pharmacy,” guitar lines rip and buck and roar, but from a distance, hardly disrupting Henn’s placid murmur. “Medium Mary Todd” ratchets up the tension a bit, with a tangled snarl of lick and swagger, but the vocals edge towards quiet whimsy a la Sic Alps; a second version runs a bit hotter, rougher and more electric, while a third, recorded at WFMU, gives an inkling of the Honey Radar concert experience. A couple of fine covers — of the Fall’s early rant “Middle Class Revolt” and of the Monkees rarity “Wind-Up Man”— suggest the fine, loamy soil that Henn’s art grows out of, while alternate versions of half a dozen tracks hint at the various forms his ideas can take. It’s a wonderful overview of Honey Radar so far, though let’s hope it’s not a career retrospective. Henn has a bunch of records left to make yet if he wants to edge out Pollard.

Jennifer Kelly

Iron Wigs — Your Birthday’s Cancelled (Mello Music Group)

Your Birthday's Cancelled by IRON WIGS

As an adjective, “goofy” had gotten a bad rep in hip hop. Anything that is unusual, inventive and not in line with “keeping it real” is immediately stigmatized as goofy, weird, nerdy and bad. Iron Wigs is goofy but hold the pejorative connotations. Chicago representatives Vic Spencer and Verbal Kent team up here with Sonnyjim from the UK to do some wild rhyming. They collaborated before, but Your Birthday’s Cancelled is a complete, fully fleshed project, masterfully executed from start to finish. Instead of the usual gun busting you get a fist in the ribs. Instead of drug slinging, a blunt to activate your rhymes. Each member of the group has a distinctive delivery which makes you to listen carefully for every verse, no skipping. It’s a relief to listen to rap artists who don’t pretend they’re out in the streets while they’re at home enjoying a favorite TV series. The standout track here is “Bally Animals & Rugbys” with Roc Marciano dropping by for a verse.

Ray Garraty

Levinson / Mahlmeister — Shores (Trouble In Mind)

Shores by levinson / mahlmeister

Jamie Levinson and Donny Mahlmeister’s Bandcamp page indicates that they’re based in Oak Park, a suburb of Chicago. This goes further towards explaining their association with Trouble in Mind Records, which is located in the same county, than their music, which brings to mind something much further north. The duo’s music is mostly electronic, with modular synthesizers setting the pulse and sweeping the pitch spectrum while lap steel guitar adds flourishes and a shruti box thickens the textures. The album is split into two, with each track — one is named “Ascend,” the other “Release” — taking up one side of a 50-minute cassette. The first side trundles steadily onwards, and the second seems to bask in a glow to that never totally fades. Since there’s no “Descend,” it’s easy to imagine this music sound tracking a drive into the Canadian north, the journey unspooling under a sky that never darkens, its progress towards Hudson Bay unhindered by other traffic or turns in the road. Perhaps that’s just one listener’s fantasy of easy social distancing and escape from the present’s grim digital glare into a retro-futurist, analog dream. But in dreams we’re free to fly without being seated next to some knucklehead with his mask over his eyes instead of his mouth, so dream on, dreamers. This tape is volume one of the Explorers Series, Trouble in Mind’s projected program of limited edition cassette releases.

Bill Meyer

Klara Lewis — Ingrid (Editions Mego)

Klara Lewis’s latest recording shows a narrowing of focus. Previously she seemed to be trying ideas and methods on for size, investigating ambient electronics or hinting at pop melody without completely committing. Given the approach to music modeled by her father, Graham Lewis of Wire and Dome, she probably does not feel the need to do just one thing, and that’s a healthy angle if one wants to stay interested and flexible. But there’s also something to be said for really digging into an idea, and that’s what she has done here. Ingrid is a one-track, one-sided 12.” Burrowing further into one-ness, it is made from one looped cello phrase, which gets filtered and distorted on each pass. The effect suggests decay, but not so much the gradual transformation of a William Basinski piece as the pitiless abrasion of a woodworker going over a plank with sander. The combination of repetition and coarsening hits a spot closer to one that Tony Conrad might reach, and that’s an itch worth scratching.

Bill Meyer

Luis Lopes Humanization 4tet — Believe, Believe (Clean Feed)

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The cruel economics of contemporary creative music-making favor an ensemble like Humanization 4tet. At a minimum, the filial Texan rhythm section of Stefan and Aaron Gonzalez (drums and bass respectively) and Lisbon-based duo of Rodrigo Amado (tenor saxophone) and Luís Lopes can each count on having the other half of a band on the other side of the Atlantic. But any project that’s on its fourth record in a dozen years has more going for it than the chance to save on plane tickets. For the Portuguese musicians, it’s an opportunity to feel an unabashedly high-energy force at their backs, as well as a chance to drink from a deep well of harmolodic blues. And for the Gonzalez brothers, it’s the reward of being the absolute right guys for the job; it has to be a gas to know that the heft they put into their swing is so deeply appreciated. While Lopes’ name remains up front, everyone contributes compositions, and everyone gives their all on every tune.

Bill Meyer

Joanna Mattrey — Veiled (Relative Pitch)

Veiled by Joanna Mattrey

This solo CD, which closely follows a collaborative cassette on Astral Spirits, is only the second recording with Joanna Mattrey’s name on the spine. But Mattrey is no newcomer. The New England Conservatory-trained violist has been playing straight and pop gigs for a while. If you caught Chance the Rapper on Saturday Night Live, Cuddle Magic with strings or a host of classical gigs around New York City, you’ve seen her. But if black dress and heels gigs pay her bills, improvised music nourishes her heart. And if sounds raw enough to scrape the roof of the world nourish yours, this album is new food. The premise of Veiled is finding veins of concealed beauty concealed, and that search impels Mattrey to tune her viola to sound like a horse-haired Tuvan fiddle, clamp objects to the strings and blast her signal through some satisfyingly filthy amplification. And whether it’s a slender tune or a complex texture, the reward is always there.

Bill Meyer

Angel Olsen — “Whole New Mess” single (Jagjaguwar)

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Everyone processes a breakup differently (though, to be fair, that’s probably less true now than ever). For Angel Olsen in 2018, it meant retreating to The Unknown, a century-old church in Anacortes, Washington, that Mount Eerie’s Phil Elverum and producer Nicholas Wilbur made into a recording studio. What ultimately came from those sessions was All Mirrors, but Whole New Mess is a chance to revisit that album (fully nine of these 11 songs are ones you’ve heard before; only the title-track and “Waving, Smiling” are new) in a more intimate framework — just Angel, a guitar, a mic and her reverberant heartache. The most cynical view to be taken here is that it’s a stopgap capitalizing on people’s vulnerability amid a pandemic quarantine, but it could also be a corrective for the bloat of All Mirrors, a record I listened to once and haven’t thought about since. Late Björkian excess doesn’t suit her nearly as well as the light touch delivered herein, and your interest will similarly hinge on how much Whole New Mess sounds like the old one.

Patrick Masterson

Ono — Red Summer (American Dreams)

Red Summer by ONO

Ono, the long-running noise-punk-poetry-protest project headed by P Michael Grego and travis, tackles the Red Summer of 1919, evoking the brutal race riots that erupted as soldiers returned from World War I. During that summer, conflicts raged from Chicago to the deep south, as white supremacists rioted against newly empowered returning Black veterans and an increased number of Black factory workers employed in America’s northern factories. Ono captures the violence—and its links to contemporary race-based conflicts—in an abstract and visionary style, with travis declaiming against an agitated froth of avant garde sound. “A Dream of Sodomy” lurches and rolls in funk-punk bravado, as travis declaims all the nightmarish scenarios that haunt his nocturnal hours, while “Coon” natters rhythmically across a fever-lit foundation of hand-drums, mosquito buzz and flute. “26 June 1919” wanders through a blasted, rioting landscape, sounds buzzing and pinging and roaring around travis’ fractured poetry. “White men, red men, Manchester town, send ‘em home, Oklahoma, send ‘em home, in a Black man house, send ‘em home, send ‘em home,” he chants, ominously, vertiginously. The center isn’t holding, for sure. The disc closes with the uneasy truce of “Sycamore Trees,” where steam blasts of synthesizer sound rush up and around travis’ vibrating, basso verses about meeting under the sycamore trees, a metaphor like the blues and gospel and nearly all Black music is full of metaphor about reuniting in a better place. Powerful.

Jennifer Kelly

Julian Taylor — The Ridge (Howling Turtle, Inc.)

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Singer-songwriter Julian Taylor does the little things well. That's not to say that he doesn't do the obvious things well, too, on his latest release The Ridge. His easy voice fits his songs, letting autobiography come with comfortable phrasing. As a writer, he tends toward the straightforward, avoiding extended metaphors or oblique references. The title track considers a particular form of life, and Taylor sticks to the tangible, singing about the stable, “Shovel manure, clean their beds, and prepare the feed for the day.” Taylor's songs make sense of the immediate world and relationships around him, but they avoid woolgathering. The album feels a bit removed from the current climate, but that's no complaint when Taylor's developed a welcoming place to visit. It isn't always easy here, but it's always companionable.

But back to those little things. Each song has carefully detailed orchestration and production. The record goes down easy whether tending toward James Taylor, Cat Stevens or something closer to country, and much of that easiness comes from the precise placement of every note. Burke Carroll's pedal steel, for instance, never exists for its own sake, but to serve the lyric that Taylor sings. The album contains enough space to feel like a rural Canadian ridge, with details drawn into to support Taylor's direct stories. The Ridge could easily go unnoticed (unobtrusiveness not being a highly rewarded trait), but its subtlety and care make it worth taking your boots off and sitting down for a minute.

Justin Cober-Lake

Various Artists — For a Better Tomorrow (Garden Portal)

For A Better Tomorrow by Various Artists

Compilation albums loom large in the American Primitive Guitar realm. Takoma, Tompkins Square and Locust all had larger ambitions than merely offering a sampling of wares, and to them, Garden Portal says, “hold my beer. I’ve got some collecting and playing to do.” For A Better Tomorrow started out as a Bernie Sanders fundraising endeavor. But when Bernie bailed and COVID-19 came on the scene, Garden Portal pivoted to support Athens Mutual Aid Network, an umbrella organization that coordinates aid to the underserved in this trying time. But in addition to good works, there’s some good work going on here. Not all of it is guitar-centric, but even the tracks that aren’t are close enough to the strings and heart template of the aforementioned parties to merit consideration under the same rubric. Joseph Allred’s been ultra-productive recently, so it’s actually helpful to be reminded of the spirit that infuses his playing by listening to it one track at a time. Rob Noyes’ “Diminished” takes the listener on a deep dive into the construction of sentiment and sound. And Will Csorba’s Pelt-like blast of fiddle drone, “Requiem for Ociel Guadalupe Martinez,” will put your hair up high enough to make that self-inflicted quarantine do a bit easier to execute.

Bill Meyer

Various Artists — The Storehouse Presents (The Storehouse)

The Storehouse Presents by The Storehouse

The coronavirus pandemic put the brakes on many things. You doubtless have your own list of loss, but for the proprietors of The Storehouse, the catalog of things kissed goodbye directly corresponds to their endeavor’s inventory of reasons to be. Over the past few years, the Storehouse has invited audiences out to a West Michigan farmhouse to enjoy a potluck meal and a concert played by some musicians of note. If there had been no lockdown, listeners could have enjoyed the Sun Ra Arkestra last April. Instead, no one’s playing, and no one’s getting paid, so the Storehouse has compiled this set of live and exclusive studio tracks to sell on Bandcamp in order to benefit the musicians and the Music Maker Relief Foundation. The cause, is good, but so are the tunes. Want to hear Steve Gunn and William Tyler in sympathetic orbit? Or Joan Shelley pledging her love? Or the first hints of Mind Over Mirrors’ new direction? Step right this way, preferably on one of 2020’s first Fridays.

Bill Meyer

Z-Ro — Rohammad Ali (1 Deep Entertainment / Empire)

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On one of his previous tracks, Z-Ro admitted that he’s basically just writing the same song over and over again (that’s how meta he is now, writing songs on writing songs). While he exaggerated a bit, he was not that far from the truth. In the last half dozen years he’s been writing the same three or four songs in various combinations, reconfigurations and forms. Rohammad Ali follows the same template: haters hate him, but he’s OK and is counting his money. Multiply this by 17, and here is the album. Despite this self-cannibalizing (lots of poets did that), Z-Ro with every new album sounds fresh and far from tired. The self-repeats just fuel him. Rohammad Ali has only one rap guest, and it’s Shaquille O’Neal whose rap career didn’t jump off in the 1990s. A lack of guests only proves that Z-Ro can self-sustain without support from the outside. The only thing from the outside he needs is hate.

Ray Garraty

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theworstbob · 7 years

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yellin’ at songs, 4.14.2007 + 4.15.2017

the songs that debuted on the billboard chart this week and ten years ago this week. today: buttrock confessions

4.14.2007

40) "Ticks," Brad Paisley

So I watched the whole entire CMAs instead of Game 7 of the World Series and don't regret a single choice I made (the game went into extras, you don’t really have to watch baseball until the ninth inning tbh), and it struck me how much of a dorky theatre kid Brad Paisley was. He's objectively a great guitarist, like hokey as this song is and as little I know about music I think that's a dope fucking guitar line, but gosh darn, he was trying so hard the whole time at those CMAS! And that puts a song like this in perspective, because, like I said, it's hokey as fuck, but if you can just understand that Brad Paisley's sense of humor is that of someone who understands that being funny is a way to be Liked and is trying his best to be Liked, it sort of comes together and you can brush it off.

75) "We Takin' Over," DJ Khaled ft./T.I., Akon, Rick Ross, Fat Joe, Lil' Wayne, Baby

FUCK DUDE LIL' WAYNE USED TO BE GOOD. Like OK I think we all know I wanted to come here and be like "look at the humble beginnings of the meme man! He wasn't such a meme in these days!" but then there was a Lil' Wayne verse where he wasn't fucking around with Auto-tune, he was just rapping, and he was such a good fucking rapper that I'm actually angrier at the two "verses" he had on those Nicki Minaj songs a couple weeks back. It's not even one of his more notable verses, I don't think, it was just a normal 10-year-old Wayne verse, but I'm still here like, what a treat, a Lil' Wanye feature I don't mind! How lucky we were in 2007!

78) "Little Wonders," Rob Thomas

it is good to remember things that are nice! the lyric video i watched for this song ended with this message from the editor: "Believe in yourself, follow your dreams, and never, EVER give up =)." i would have much rather someone had just repeated those words over and over for three and a half minutes than listened to this song. DANNY ELFMAN?! fuck are you doing here, danny elfman? are you lost?

79) "Hey There Delilah," Plain White T's

There is nothing I could say about this song that would be worth saying.

82) "I Tried," Bone Thugs-N-Harmony ft./Akon

a'ight, see, now i feel better about bumping pink and jordan pruitt from the top 20, because it won't be some buttrock heroes what bumps 'em, it'll be a legit impressive, heartfelt song. i'm kinda surprised i don't remember this! now i just gotta contend with the fact most of both top 20s are gonna be dudes. but like most of these songs are dudes. this week is all dudes. next week is a 7:2 dude-to-lady ratio. last week was 2:1. maybe less dudes? idk, recency bias is doin' work, but at least two weeks from now, we're gonna get some dope tunes.

87) "Get Buck," Young Buck

HOLY SHIT THIS FUCKING BEAT THE TUBA HAS NEVER HAD A BETTER DAY IN ITS LIFE. OK, this is the first 2007 track I think has been unjustifiably forgotten by time. “Say OK” hit me, but I think that was just a moment for me. This is objectively a classic, this fucking beat, man. Young Buck doesn't add a ton to the proceedings, but he doesn't ruin anything, his gruff, shouty flow is perfect for the beat, and I'll admit, I got a dark chuckle out of the "I can serve Whitney Houston and Bobby Brown" line. This was fuckin' rad, y'all, the best "new to me" song I've heard so far. Seriously this beat, how have we not found a better home for it, how did no one else latch onto it. A strong silver medalist in the "Southern rap songs with the word 'buck' in the title" category.

89) "A Woman's Love," Alan Jackson

Alan Jackson, last seen walking out on Beyonce's performance at the CMAs, is here singing a jaunty tune about how one time he fucked.

91) "Love Today," MIKA

i mean it's just a good song, man, i dunno. i'm allowed to just say when a song is solid and something i can jam to, right, when i don't think i have anything to justify? it's low-rent scissor sisters. I'LL TAKE THAT ANY DAY OF THE WEEK. solid week.

95) "Forever," Papa Roach

...oh goddamnit i love this song. No, you don't... Lemme explain. I need to explain, so lemme. So, I listened to a lot of the local buttrock station in my teens, because that's what the radio at the auto shop where I worked was always tuned to, was 93X. And, I dunno, there's a lot of bullshit I forgot and a lot of shit too horrible to purge from the mind, I've heard the acoustic version of Staind's "Outside" more times than any man ever should, but there were some songs where the Stockholm Syndrome hit, and you were like, "Well, maybe Chevelle isn't ALL bad." This was definitely the point where I was like, "Hey, this is the one decent Papa Roach song!" I was legit angry when I realized this was that song, I forgot I ever loved a Papa Roach song, I was 10000% sure this was a cover because there was no way I was going to go anywhere but IN on this song, but no, this is a song I shouted in the shower at least five times. I'm so disappointed in myself right now, but... But, yeah, this is, I can’t quite place where they cribbed the verses from but they cribbed well, the chorus is shouty and fake-deep like all the great buttrock songs, and I love that ending, the “one last kiss” thing over that bass line, without reservation. We have to be true to who we were, and who we are is never fully removed from who we were. I hate this. I hate having to admit this. THE ONE PAPA ROACH SONG I FUCK WITH, AND IT HAS TO BE PART OF THIS PROJECT. I HAVE TO TALK ABOUT A KENDRICK LAMAR SONG SOON, AND HERE I AM, FUCKING WITH A PAPA ROACH SONG, THROWING MY CRITICAL AUTHORITY OUT WITH THE BATHWATER.

97) "Breath," Breaking Benjamin

I have less reservations about loving a Breaking Benjamin song, though, because Breaking Benjamin wasn't fake-deep like Papa Roach. ("My feelings for you are forever." God, that's stupid. I love a very stupid thing.) No, Breaking Benjamin was legit dark, they were a buttrock band I knew was OK because my friend who ended up going to a semi-prestigious art high school of some renown was into them. Is it the same song as "The Diary of Jane?" Yeah, kinda, there's more than a little resemblance, "THE DIARY OF JANE" IS A LEGIT GREAT SONG AND BITING THAT SONG IS A SMART MOVE.

At least Papa Roach couldn’t crack the Top 20. 2007: gaining strength! 20) "Get it Shawty," by Lloyd (3.31.2007) 19) "Break 'Em Off," by Paul Wall ft./Lil' KeKe (3.10.2007) 18) "My Oh My," by The Wreckers (1.27.2007) 17) "Mr. Jones," by Mike Jones (1.27.2007) 16) "Settlin'," by Sugarland (2.17.2007) 15) "I Tried," by Bone Thugs 'n Harmony (4.21.2007) 14) "Movin' On," by Elliott Yamin (3.17.2007) 13) "U + Ur Hand," by P!nk (1.13.2007) 12) "Doe Boy Fresh," by Three 6 Mafia ft./Chamillionaire (1.20.2007) 11) "Breath," by Breaking Benjamin (4.21.2007) 10) "Beautiful Liar," by Beyonce & Shakira (3.31.2007) 9) "Cupid's Chokehold," by Gym Class Heroes ft./Patrick Stump (1.13.2007) 8) "The River," by Good Charlotte ft./M. Shadows & Synyster Gates (2.10.2007) 7) "Say OK," by Vanessa Hudgens (2.17.2007) 6) "Alyssa Lies," by Jason Michael Carroll (1.13.2007) 5) "Get Buck," by Young Buck (4.21.2007) 4) "And I Am Telling You I'm Not Going," by Jennifer Hudson (1.13.2007) 3) "Candyman," by Christina Aguilera (1.13.2007) 2) "Because of You," by Ne-Yo (3.17.2007) 1) "Dashboard," by Modest Mouse (2.17.2007)

4.15.2017

22) "The Heart Part 4," by Kendrick Lamar

I mean, with the way I do this thing, everything that's been said about this song has been said, and I'm hella late to the party, trying to get another round of Pin the Tail on the Donkey started. "You didn't have fun without me, I'm about to have fun WITH you!" No Bob! we already played that game Bob!. "BLINDFOLD ME!" I think it's vitally important that Kendrick Lamar remind everyone that he's the best MC alive right now, because he is, and gosh, he just fucking raps for four minutes. Barely a hook, just Kendrick Lamar verses and flows for a solid four minutes, and I'm really curious how many rappers could sustain a song for four (mostly) uninterrupted minutes just on their own. Minimalist production, it's just your voice and your words. I'd put Danny Brown in that category, but it'd be a bleak-ass four minutes. I want to put Killer Mike in that category, but I have to think there's a reason he works best in a duo. I'd want to listen to what four minutes of undiulted Young Thug would sound like?, but more out of curiosity than belief in his ability. And I mean Kendrick's the only one in the popular consciousness who could do it, no fuckin’ question, there's no one in the mainstream rap world anywhere NEAR his level. (Kendrick Lamar is barely mainstream, of course, and that fact is a source of much consternation on this song, like there's no way the entire Kendrick album breaks the Hot 100 like the entire Drake album did, but he was in a Tay Tay song the one time and that's enough.) Just listening to Kendrick Lamar rap is one of the most thrilling songs I've heard for YAS 2017. Honestly, I'm ranking it too low in the Top 20, but only because I have to think better things are on their way and am wary of that recency bias wave.

49) "XO Tour Lif3," by Lil Uzi Vert

Congratulations on being the modern rap song which followed "The Heart Part 4!" You were always going to suffer in comparison, and while I regret that it happened to you, I hope you understand it had to happen to someone. I mean, this is a three-minute song, and at some point I got bored enough that I forgot I was supposed to be paying attention to come up with an observation and/or a joke and did other things. Not even shit I needed to take care of, I checked Facebook and thought about getting a glass of milk until he started saying all his friends are dead, like what?, oh okay I guess that's how this song ends then, OH FUCK well prolly not worth dipping back in if I got that distracted.

61) "Speak to a Girl," by Tim McGraw & Faith Hill

So over the last four weeks, only three women have had tracks debut on the Hot 100. That's pretty cool. One of the three dudes who wrote this song, about what a girl REALLY wants from a man, was also a co-writer on Jason Derulo's "Wiggle," which is, I mean, I'm going off Wikipedia, I'm hopeful this is too awful to be true, but if it isn't, how does that dude sleep at night? What does that dude believe in? Who is his god, just, to what moral authority is our man Joe London holding himself accountable? Do Not Trust Joe London. Another of the songwriters worked with a band called Confederate Railroad. Country music is the coolest. I'm so proud to like this genre.

66) "Still Got Time," by ZAYN ft./PARTYNEXTDOOR

First of all, we need to take a minute to discuss the sheer disrespect for the concept of caps lock expressed by ZAYN and PARTYNEXTDOOR. This is a mumblecore pop song, and I must insist these dudes cease using all capital letters until they prove they're capable of expressing excitement. Other than that gripe, though, I dunno, I didn't have a bad time! I enjoyed it about as much as I did "Running Back" a few weeks ago, it didn't light this Tuesday evening on fire, but it was a chill groove, and I appreciated the B+ to which all involved contributed. Also, new favorite Wikipedia line: "Shane Lindstrom, professionally known as Murda Beatz." One, professionally known. Two, imagine ever asking someone to call you Murda. Gosh, what a stupid fucking stage name. (Stage name? Backstage name? Why do you need an alias bro you're a fucking producer, you don't get to have a fake name, the fuck makes you think you can have a fake name. Even Swizz Beatz rapped sometimes, what is your goddamned problem Murda Beatz.)

2017′s Top 20! I lowered “Run Up” again. I miss it dearly but I can’t pretend I liked it more than “Green Light.” 20) "Swalla," by Jason Derulo ft./Nicki Minaj & Ty Dolla $ign (4.8) 19) "Light," by Big Sean ft./Jeremih (2.25) 18) "Everyday," by Ariana Grande ft./Future (3.4) 17) "Draco," by Future (3.11) 16) "Guys My Age," by Hey Violet (2.11) 15) "Good Drank," by 2 Chainz ft./Gucci Mane & Quavo (2.11) 14) "Yeah Boy," Kelsea Ballerini (3.4) 13) "Selfish," by Future ft./Rihanna (3.18) 12) "Slide," by Calvin Harris ft./Frank Ocean & Migos (3.18) 11) "It Ain't Me," by Kygo x Selena Gomez (3.4) 10) "Now & Later," by Sage the Gemini (2.25) 9) "Shape of You," by Ed Sheeran (1.28) 8) "That's What I Like," by Bruno Mars (3.4) 7) "The Heart Part 4," by Kendrick Lamar (4.15) 6) "Chanel," by Frank Ocean ft./A$AP Rocky (4.1) 5) "Run Up," by Major Lazer ft./PARTYNEXTDOOR & Nicki Minaj (2.18) 4) "Green Light," by Lorde (3.18) 3) "Despacito," by Luis Fonsi ft./Daddy Yankee (2.4) 2) "Issues," by Julia Michaels (2.11) 1) "iSpy," by KYLE ft./Lil Yachty (1.14) how the fuck did “swalla” make it two weeks Also, I know there was a new Iggy Azalea song, and I’m just gonna say, if having to listen to 21 Drake songs was the price I paid to not have to hear 1 Iggy Azalea song, I will have been glad to have paid the toll. That is a reasonable trade, one I would never say no to. Boy I hope it doesn’t debut next week! Also: “iSpy” in the for-real top five! That’s so dope! I’m happy for that song!

Who won the week?

2007 had the stronger showing this week, and let’s be real, I think it’s out-paced 2017 at this point. 2007′s at the point where “Get It Shawty” is hanging on by a thread while “Grace Kelly” and “Outside Looking In” are outside looking in. 2017 needs to step its game up. We’re two weeks from “Umbrella.” Is that so much to ask, is for just one instant classic era-defining monster jam that shatters the world? Come on, 2017! 2007: 2 2017: 1

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captaincravatthecapricious · 3 years

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Feverish and Teary & How Long Has it Been Since You’ve Eaten- Prompt Fill

@thatonekidellis Jon, Tim, and Martin have a rough time after the Unknowing. Especially Jon. I hope this is kind of what you were asking for?

@janekfan you get a ping because this is your au!

CWs: nausea, vomiting, fainting, fever, food mention, alcohol mention, canon typical mentions of Tim's pre-unknowing mindset, canon typical Jon not taking care of himself.

I am still accepting bingo prompts, so let me know which character, which prompt, and if you want a drawing of a fic! Bingo card by the wonderful @celosiaa! This one is twice my usual length because it is two prompts and I did not want to cheat!

The Unknowing blows up.

As simple as that.

All according to plan.

It really is as simple as that.

Jon, Tim, Daisy, Basira. Piled back in Daisy's car. Ears ringing. Soot slowly settling. Trying to drive away before the actually police get there.

It hasn't been Jon's problem how to avoid arrest.

He is even more glad it isn't his problem now, as he slides down the beat up seat in the back of Daisy's car. Ash streaks the window, mixing with the light rains that is starting to fall.

Jon tries not to vomit the nothing he's eaten in the last couple days. Nothing in him but frayed nerves and statements. Hadn't even managed to stomach dramamine before their trip.

Jon just wants to sleep.

They still have their hotel reservation for another couple hours, so Daisy drives them back there to clean up before heading back to London. Yes they have to go back today, it's less suspicious. Jon isn't sure if that is actually true, but he doesn't have the energy to argue.

Tim showers. Jon sends a text to Martin. 'Alive.'

He doesn't answer Martin's near-immediate call because just then he's dry-heaving into the small bin in the corner. Stiff and shaking and sweaty and miserable.

Jon showers. Too dizzy to stand, he sits on the shower floor. He hates that. The tub feels filthy. He feels filthy. He scrubs his skin raw. He stands. He throws up more nothing. He scrubs himself again, leaning heavily on the wall.

He wants to talk to Tim. He wants to tuck himself into Tim's arms and never move again. Christ, he's running an impressive fever. Probably. It's hard to tell. And his brain is swimming too much to even think about asking the Eye.

He's cold. He shivers in his threadbare joggers and stolen jumper (Martin's).

He wants to join Tim on the bed by the window, but Tim ...looks too deep in a melancholy thought to even notice. Somewhere between losing his drive for anything, adrenaline crash, and losing the last hope of a last glimpse of Danny, if Jon were to guess.

Jon could say something. He knows he could. But, hasn't he caused enough of a fuss? Made Tim and Martin trail after him after the ...the.... with Daisy and... that. If he'd have just stayed quiet and stayed still... well Tim would still hate him... and might not be alive... but ....but he's caused so much worry with that. And then with... his other kidnapping No. He can't think about what that... what... not without puking again which... the point is not to worry Tim. Which means he should try some medicine again.... if he can keep it in him half an hour he'll survive the drive back. Probably.

Christ, when is the last time he bothered to drink anything?

He lays there in a daze until Daisy bangs on the door telling them it's time to leave.

Tim sleeps on the drive back. Finally giving into the last few sleepless nights. Jon is jealous.

Last night had been spent tangled together, shaking, awake, and silent. Anxiety too thick to slice with words. Not even nothing to turn off the lights, because the fear is a little easier to manage in the light. Jon couldn't stop thinking about Nikola. He couldn't stop thinking about plastic hands on him. Couldn't stop thinking about how many things could go wrong and how he could lose Tim and Martin when he only just got Tim back.

Jon was pretty sure Tim hadn't been sleeping the last few nights. Jon knows he hasn't. Not that he has slept well in a long time.

In any case, Tim sleeps. Jon doesn't.

Daisy glares at him through the review mirror. Jon isn't sure if she is still waiting for him to prove himself monstrous so she can attack, or if she is making sure he isn't ill in her car... again. (He really wishes he could forget his first ride in her car. Really really really wishes. It was not a pleasant experience for anyone, and Daisy had made him pay the cleaning bill.)

It doesn't matter, he slides down further in his seat and closes his eyes tightly.

His head hurts.

Thankfully the medicine knocks him out soon enough.

Martin greets them at the institute door. Melanie by his side.

Jon hazily wakes up to Martin gently touching his shoulder.

"You actually made it! I'm so glad you're safe... I was so worried, Jon why didn't you answer your phone, I've been so worried, I mean I know you would have said something if something had happened, but Christ I've been so worried about you, come here."

Jon starts mumbling some apologies, but is interrupted by Martin gently gathering him in a hug. Jon sinks into it, fervently hoping Martin doesn't notice the heat rolling off of him.

Thankfully Martin is too distracted, gathering Tim in a crushing embrace. Likely very relieved that Tim didn't die, and knowing Tim is harder to break than Jon with his delicate bones and fragility following many incidents.

Jon... doesn't really know what he's trying to accomplish. Just... get out? Or go in? Or get to the cot? Or just curl up on the cold tile of the basement toilets? Get away from people he will inevitably worry?

Just go somewhere where he can fall apart without taking anyone else down with him.

It looks like Martin has been crying. Jon hopes it isn't over him.

Tim needs to recover from the emotional toll of the last few days without having to pick up the pieces after Jon Again.

Jon slowly backs away.

His head is swimming, but that's okay. If he can just reach the Archives. The cot. Anywhere. Anywhere away from this moment. This breath.

His vision swims violently, and there is no doubt in his mind that he is going to be very well acquainted with the pavement in a matter of seconds. Either that or he's going to be ill? No. Sidewalk. He's going to eat the sidewalk. Heh... first thing he'll have eaten in days.

He isn't sure if he loses consciousness or not. It's hard to tell in the blur of motion and sounds and his spinning head. Sound is almost gooey in this state of almost unconsciousness, but he thinks someone might be shouting. Or several someones. He should maybe worry about this? But in actuality, he is praying he properly passes out to save himself any more embarrassment and save himself from his unsteady insides.

His face hurts.

Someone is holding him.

Jon fights to open his eyes. They don't seem to want to look in the same direction, rolling in their sockets instead of doing what he wants them to. He blinks hard a few times, failing to bring things into focus. Glasses? Does he still have those? Did they break? No... still there. Skewed on his face. Just... too dizzy to see, then.

Daisy and Basira are glaring at him. Melanie is walking away. Possibly. Hard to tell when the world is tilting with unsteady regularity.

Jon closes his eyes again, pressing a groan against the nausea that threatens to overcome him, despite the medicine.

"Jon?"

"Burning up."

He's too hazy to put a name to a voice. The words dripping in the air around him, tightening around his chest, silly string sitting on his skin in fibrous heaps that jiggle uncomfortably, cold and clammy.

Shit, thinking in gibberish. That can't be good.

“Does anyone know how long he’s been ill?”

Someone grunts.

Footsteps. Two sets? I’m asking away. Leaving him.

“I.... I don’t know. I don’t think he was feverish last night? But... I haven’t exactly been... It’s. It’s been hard.”

“Jon?”

He’s being jostled. He whines. Stomach flopping dangerously.

"Jon? Are you awake? Can you open your eyes for me?"

"Oh shit, he's gonna puke."

He's being lifted, shifted on his side, bin shoved in his hands. Where he throws up more nothing.

He's crying now, feeling like utter shit, and unfortunately more awake.

He isn't sure if eyes swimming with tears is better or worse than the unsteady world tipping around him and making him feel worse.

"Christ, Jon!"

He finally pries his eyes open. Martin and Tim solidify above him. More or less. Still fuzzing in and out of focus.

Now that he's crying, he just... can't stop. Fistfuls of Martin's sweater.

"Oh Jon..." Martin's arms circle him, carefully. Gentle not to jostle him more.

"Buddy. Think we can get you off the sidewalk?" Tim. Cupping his face. Smoothing back sweat and tear soaked hair, long since escaped his bun, still not dried from his earlier shower. "My flat isn't far, you know? Didn't bring my car here, though. Still... wasn't..."

Tim cuts himself off, but even addled as he is, Jon can fill in the rest of the sentence.

So can Martin apparently, because Martin frowns. It's never been more apparent that he's been crying quite recently. "Still weren't sure you were coming home... Tim..." And his eyes start looking damp.

Tim is tearing up now. "Martin... let's not in the street... I can carry Jon back to mine, it isn't far. You can come too. We'll get some take out. Drink some whiskey. Get Mr. Smoking hot cooled off. We can talk then. It's.... it's been a rough week."

"Jon? Can I carry you? I think that might be less rough than a cab ride? Do you need a few minutes?"

Martin's voice is soft, and Jon thinks he could sleep right there. In fact, he might. So he nods.

Martin lifts him carefully. His head swims again. This all is feeling rather familiar. Jon takes a deep breath and closes his eyes. He tries to relax despite the lingering anxieties about heights. Martin feels safe. Tim is also safe now. He lets himself drift.

He wakes briefly on the trip.

"Hey bud, how are you feeling?" Tim. Tim seems off. Too many things crossing his face to parse out, probably even for someone with a better sense than Jon of what those subtle face changes mean. But Jon is too hazy to think.

Jon's mouth feels gummed up. His eyes feel gummed up.

He's thankful his mouth doesn't taste like something died in it, though. Although he is very aware how unhealthy it was that he's spent a good portion of the day with his body trying to turn itself inside out, and he couldn't so much as produce bile.

Jon feels sick thinking about it, so stops. He drifts again.

He wakes to a damp rag on his forehead, no memory of anything past the explosion.

How did he get here?

"Sorry, that looked like a nice sleep, but you'll feel better with some medicine in you, and some water. We can try some tea later, once the meds work. And some food hopefully."

Martin helping him sit up. Just enough to get a few sips and some pills into Jon. Which, Jon thought was probably optimistic, but he'd try it for Martin.

"When was the last time you ate?" Martin again.

Jon blinks at him in confusion. "Is it over?"

"Is what over?" Still Martin.

Where's Tim? Where's Daisy? Where's Basira? Where's Melanie?

His breathing picks up, and that makes his head spin again, and makes him wonder just how long he can keep the medicine down.

"Is it over, what happened?" He's panting now, halfway to a panic attack.

"Jon? Jon! Calm down. Can you take a breath for me?"

How did he get here? Where is he? This looks like Tim's flat, but there is Tim? Did he survive.

Jon reaches for anything. But comes up blank.

"Where's Tim? What happened?" He gasps out. It feels like his ribcage is shrinking, being laced up the front. fighter than the corset he had worn in acting class in uni.

"Tim's... taking a moment. As soon as we got you here... he.... it's been rough on him, you know? He did all this for... and I know he said he wanted to live. He wants to live... but he's... not been in a good place and it's helped that you two are talking again... and that he's had company more... but he saw an old picture with.... with his brother.... and that polaroid with ... with Sasha. Well, he keeps going between you know tearful and sorry and cackling about how everything blew up. It's... probably a lot to have three revenge schemes going at once for the same.... not a person really... but ... Her. And then... having it sorted. But... Listen Jon I don't know. What don't you remember... or what's the last thing you remember?" Martin edges on histerical near the middle, but takes a turn for the sad near the end.

"I remember the... the world was all wrong. Then... then it blew up. Is it over? Martin are you real. Is everyone alive? What happened to you?" He's desperate. Desperate breaths too shallow. Words interrupted by jagged pulling of too thin oxygen. He's going to pass out.

He does.

He wakes feeling... clearer. The last period of wakefulness a distant and flighty thing, dancing just out of his reach. The rest of the embarrassing day back in vivid detail. Tim's sitting over him. Or rather, curled around him. Jon's hair is being played with. A stray curl looped around Tim's finger as he laughs softly to himself. Muttering that he's alive. That Jon's alive. That Martin is alive. he didn't lose anyone else. That that clown is finally dead. Finally.

Gentle and warm hand on his face, refreshing the cloth. Checking his temperature.

"I..." Tim chokes on a sob. And Jon tries to remember how his arms work so he can let Tim know he's there.

"Tim?"

"Hey bud... sorry." Tim wipes his eyes on his sleeve. "It's been a hell of a week. I... don't know how to feel about it. Fuck I need a drink.... And to check in with Martin. I... he hasn't told me what happened, but he's upset. And. Fuck I should have noticed you were ill, why didn't you say anything?" Tim's voice starts to rise, and Jon tenses. All the times Tim yelled at him still too fresh in his mind. He trusts Tim. he does... but Christ he is still afraid. Afraid that it can't last, that it isn't real. Where it be a trick of his mind, or some manipulation tactic to an end Jon can't see, he doesn't know.

"Hey. Hey. Buddy... Jon. I'm sorry. didn't mean to yell. It's just... been a day. I'm not mad at you. I just... I'm worried about you and Martin and I...I don't know how to feel about everything that happened. I'm sorry you feel like shit."

Jon feels... like shit. Marginally less nauseous, however. A little less like he's going to pass out again. Probably been given plenty of pills by Martin.

"Sorry." He croaks. Voice probably shredded with smoke. And fever.

"He, bud, don't apologize. I'm sorry I didn't notice you weren't well. I... I thought I knew better than to be that preoccupied. I mean... I guess I didn't make it worse this time, but..." Tim sighs. "I'm disappointed in myself because I don't want to fuck this up again. And no don't apologize again part of that was on me and yes part of that was on you and we've done apologies to death. All we can do now is keep going. I just wanted to protect you and I couldn't see you were fading in front of my eyes. Again. I know you haven't been eating or sleeping, but I haven't been either so I didn't want to call you on it, and I didn't want you to call me on it, but I should have noticed. I know I couldn't have done much, but I didn't do anything but shut you out again. I could have told someone to stop to get you medicine, or food or even a bit more rest. I know that would have done fuck-all, but I still could have offered you a little comfort and warmth and had us brought straight back here."

Tim's crying properly now. Jon is too. Not sure if it is the fever, or just... everything. There is so much to feel and think and worry about and yes they saved the world but that the fuck comes next.

What comes next is that Martin enters with tea for Jon and a bottle of whiskey.

Jon scrubs at his eyes. "Martin what happened?" Jon can see he's been crying again. That is starting to scare him. It's a goddamn miracle he hasn't pulled an answer out of anyone yet today.

"It's... well it isn't fine. I... well our plan worked here too. Just... you know... Elias. He can.... He can do things. It's fine. It's worth it." Martin swipes at his eyes furiously.

Jon pushes himself up, ignoring the room tilting around him, and hugs Martin. Jon's still crying. Martin sniffling. Tim also crying. It's... a very damp hug. And Jon knows he's too warm to be comfortable to hold, and he's shivering hard enough to rattle Tim and Martin.

"I'm... I'm so sorry Martin." Jon chokes out.

"It's alright. It was worth it. And you both. Christ I am so glad to see you again... I thought... I thought.... I didn't..." Martin is fully sobbing now. Tea set down on Tim's bedside table, the whiskey being pried from his hands by TIm.

Late that night the bottle is empty (and so are a couple more), Tim and Martin have killer headaches, and Jon is still feverish, but less so. A lot of tears have been shed. And Jon has been plied with enough liquids that he feels a little less like a crumbling husk.

By the time that Tim and Martin are ready to think about food, Jon is finally feeling like he can maybe stomach something. They order takeout. Jon... has some broth.

By morning Jon manages a few bites of leftovers.

By afternoon, Elias Bushard is arrested.

#the magnus archives #tma #magnuspod #fic #sickfic #cw nausea #cw vomit #cw vomiting #cw emeto #cw fainting #cw food #cw fever #fever #cw alcohol #my writing #my words #my art #my fic

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captaincravatthecapricious · 3 years

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Things You Said When You Thought I Was Asleep- Prompt Fill

Three eras of Jon/Tim. Fluff at the top, angst in the middle, and a hopeful ending. (Jonmartim is kind of implied Martin is, sadly only mentioned).

cw alcohol, suicidal ideation, canon typical season three Tim, hospitals. Yes Tim dyes Jon's hair green during the coma. This is in the same universe as No Way To Get Help- Prompt Fill

Research

It’s new. This thing. This thing where Jon comes over. Comes over. Eats over. Sleeps over.

Started by accident. Asking the prickly researcher for drinks, and being pleasantly surprised that he agreed. Then again, Tim was rather prickly too. Evenly matched. He's been working on that, though. He knows he hasn't really processed it, not really. But he has a goal. Which. Is better. Better than directionless anger and fear and hopelessness. Even if it doesn't come to anything, it's better than nothing.

But... he makes a friend. And another.

And eventually, he finds himself smiling. He forgot he could do that.

But a few drinks leads to, an apparently clingy and tipsy Jon. It's... it's adorable. And Jon doesn't want to leave, and Tim isn't sure he trusts tipsy Jon alone... so Jon comes over. And Tim tries to sleep on the couch like a gentleman. He doesn't know Jon's boundaries, they are only work friends, and work friends don't define which physical edges can be pressed flush and which are given breathing room. But Jon is Clingy. So Tim tries to at least give him room on the bed, but wakes up with Jon the octopus wrapped around him and completely dead to the world.

And Tim is done for.

And Jon keeps coming back.

Usually Tim's place, because it's bigger, and gives him the motivation to start to clear the months of anguish away. Not packing the good memories away, just making sure they don't spread out far enough to turn bitter with anger and regret. Putting up all the photos he turned face-down. Making a shelf memorial. Even if he can't face Danny's room yet... it's a start.

And Jon is on his couch, in his bed, in his shower, in his kitchen. Looking sleepy, grumpy, happy, ...if Tim might be so bold... hot.

It starts as an accident and continues with languid kisses and holding hands and watching movies and ordering takeout and and and.

And quiet nights when Tim can't sleep. Too full of memories to close his eyes. Tracing the lax shape of Jon next to him. Whispering one sided conversation about regret and trust and happiness and sorrow. And sometimes Jon will curl around him afterwards, and Tim is never sure if Jon was really asleep at all, or if asleep he can tell when Tim needs comfort.

And there are tense nights when Jon can't sleep. Contorted with a fear that Tim doesn't know and cannot name, but... understands. Because he has those nights too.

Nights where you twist away from the darkness and the memories it holds. When regret presses too close to take a breath.

But it's rare that those nights happen alone anymore. When there is often someone close enough to hold. Close enough to feel the heat of another person. The love of another person, even in sleep.

And it's better. It's... almost enough.

Or... or it was.

Because things couldn't last like that.

Jon gets promoted.

Season 3

Tim isn’t asleep. He’d like to be. But it’s the last night of his life. Of course he isn’t. He’s only pretending to be so Jon won’t talk to him. He’s heard enough apologies to make him want to die even more than he already does. Of course that won't stop Jon. Stupid, selfish, stubborn Jon. Jon who can't keep his mouth shut to save his life.

Jon who sits half a room away muttering his regrets to the darkened room. And a treacherous part of Tim wonders if it's because Jon is afraid of the dark and the quiet. A treacherous part of Tim worries about him. It's not as if Tim knows what happened. Not really. He doesn't want to. Doesn't want to hear excuses for absences, but Tim isn't blind. (Only deaf, har har.) He sees Jon jumping at shadows. Flinch away from him. From every loud noise. From sudden movement. He doesn't care.

He doesn't.

And he certainly doesn't care that Jon is now crying on the other side of the bed. He can't really hear it. He can almost hear it. But he knows. And he can't hear the words flowing from his mouth, but he can feel the choked sobs, the uneven breathing. But he can feel it.

There is only one bed, of course. Just feels like the inevitable, you know? Sharing a bed again after all the hurt?

He doesn't care.

It isn't his problem that Jon is crying. It isn't his fault. Jon is the one who fucked it up. It doesn't matter that Tim hasn't tried to fix it. It's not on him. It's all on Jon. And none of that matters because Tim is going to die in a few hours.

He treated himself the other day. You know. Had a proper last meal. Spent hours making lumpia and pancit, (trying not to think about making it with Jon). Set up a Polaroid he found of Sash. Pictures of Danny. Got out the good Gin he'd been saving for something or other. (Certainly not an engagement that would never happen. Nope.) Drank most of the bottle with his favorite playlist on. He knew his last night would be miserable, but his second to last was as good as he could make it. Try to forget everything for a while and enjoy himself for a few hours.

It's good. Was and is.

This is the way it's got to be. And it will all be worth it if he brings the Stranger down with him. Make them hurt, like they hurt him. And it doesn't matter if he's hurt Jon. Because he doesn't care. He doesn't care that Jon is trying to talk to him now. It won't matter in a few hours.

He doesn't care about the painfully quiet trip here. And he doesn't care about anything except revenge. If Jon happens to live, good for him. Tim's going to die in a few hours. And he refuses to regret. They had a good run. Until Jon fucked it up, and he hopes Jon has to live with it.

Season 4

Someone really ought to have told Tim that Jon was awake. Well. He’d been told Something happened. Some weird half formed text from Martin. And Tim had to put together the pieces himself.

It was weird enough not dying. Weird enough that he found himself still alive and still caring after the Unknowing blew up around him. Weird enough that he was in a coma for a month. Weird enough that he's living with Martin now. Nice... but weird.

But he can't really expect to have Martin forming complete sentences when Jon finally wakes up from a six month "coma."

Tim... doesn't know what he's going to say. He does't know what shape Jon's in. And he abandons work entirely, making his way to the hospital. The same room that he was in for a while. A little separated area for the spooky shit. Which.. is a bit of a thing that Tim really ought to process with his therapist, but like... what do you even say? I mean, the NHS took one look at his employment record and shooed him off to a specialist, so like... the therapist probably Knows things. But like... no. Never mind. Not important. Jon. Jon's important. And Tim finally realizes it.

Jon's asleep by the time Tim gets there. Martin had to rush off to appease Peter Lukas, catching Tim's wrist in the hallway letting him know that Jon's sleeping after the myriad of tests the doctors ran, but that he seems okay. Also telling Tim to take it easy, unsure how seeing Tim after... after everything is going to be for him. And tells him to not get angry, but Jon had needed a Statement after waking up, and how unsettling it was to see the difference the Statement made.

It's... disquieting to see Jon asleep after watching him "sleep" for months.

Just a little.

At least Jon is breathing now. Comforting, if annoying noises, emanating from all the machines that were silent for Months.

Tim sits down, and apologizes. (For everything except the green hair. Tim doesn't regret that, and looks forward to Jon discovering that.) He will have to give it another go when Jon's actually awake and able to talk back and make some amends of his own, but... it's good to give it a practice run.

He talks.

He cries.

It's... it's good.

It would only be better if Jon would talk back, but Jon probably needs the actual, non-spooky rest.

Tim is reaching into his pocket to pull out the much abused copy of The Princess Bride, but there's movement from the bed.

Not much. Just the slightest bit. An open hand. An invitation.

And Tim is no longer quite so sure that he hasn't been overheard.

Jon's hand, palm up on the bed, no change in breathing or heartbeat, so Tim has to assume that Jon has heard. Likely still half asleep... likely missing a lot, but he's heard. And that's a step.

And Tim holds his hand as he opens the book and reads.

#the magnus archives #tma #tma fic #tim stoker #timothy stoker #jonathan sims #cw suicidal ideation #cw hospital #fic #my fic #my art #my words

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